作者：黄维克

编辑：胡丽莉 校对：熊辩 翻译：戈冰

资本家算“干部”吗，这是我小时候一直纠结的问题，到今天还没有答案。

我是家里这一代唯一的男孙，也就是我可以把姓氏传下去，但爷爷并不喜欢我，听说我出生那一年，他就被“公私合营”给开除了。

相信他感觉解放后受骗上当，自己创业开办的生意被政府公私合营后，人家学会了经营之道，就把相对高薪的他赶走。

因为在同一个时间发生，我就成了“扫帚星”，上海人说的“触霉头”。

那个年代每人要填写很多表格，每个表格上都有“家庭成分”，每次这个时候家里都要争论一番，叔叔们认为爷爷算是“干部”，除了投资还要管理。

但实际上应该填写“资本家”，或者“资产阶级”，那时候听起来像“艾滋病””强奸犯”一样，而且往往空位不够。只能两个字，“工人”、“农民”、“职员”…….

他一个人干的“缺德事”，接下来的几代人都要受磨难，当年的“荣华富贵”我没份，遭人嫌弃时却轮到我了。

爷孙一堂本来是件好事，他不喜欢我，我也不喜欢他，每天就这样僵持。

原来爷爷整天闷闷不乐，还有其他的原因，随着时间推移我知道的越来越多。

1950年上海才有围城的枪炮声，他早已经买了去新加坡的船票，但他的母亲听说他要去外国，发誓当场撞墙死在他面前。

曾祖母在孤儿院，把爷爷领回家里抚养成人，他靠努力或者幸运发了“小财”，岂能众叛亲离？再加上当时政府全力宣传“剥削有功”，爷爷就决定留在大陆继续敬他的孝心。

噩梦远远不止“剥削”，很快他就发现自己“罪孽”深重。原来上海的资本家里也有“合法”和“不合法”之分，他是属于后者。

那个动乱年代，为了保护家人，爷爷想买一把手枪回家。那时候买枪要加入一个团体，他就填了一张表格。由于祖母反对，那把枪在家里只呆了一晚上。

就这样，爷爷莫名其妙地加入了“反动组织”(大概是“三青团”吧)，他面临发配新疆。那时候的宣传说“新疆是个好地方”，“肥肉吃进去吐出来”，上海人始终对此半信半疑。

全家男女老少出动在火车站送行，孩子们在月台下跪哭声一片，爷爷清楚接下来的日子——凶多吉少，不断地对家人挥手，感觉像是“英勇就义”。

这时候出现了一位认识的里弄干部，他说： “你怎么会来的？” 爷爷回答：“我是不法资本家”。由于他平时对人很好，这位来往两地的“官员”，坚定地对他说：“你不够格，你不能去！”

这时候火车已经开始移动，他的行李被一件件扔到月台上，也只好跳下了火车。就这样巧遇“救星”，爷爷没有了新疆的故事，后来他才有机会死在上海。

之前讲到爷爷因为他固执的妈妈，没有去成“新加坡”，后来又因为善心的干部没去“新疆”。虽然两个地方都是“新”字打头，但任何一个去成了，结果会是天壤之别。

从小都有一个好奇心，爷爷是个孤儿，在上海“十里洋场”，靠什么会赚得“盆满钵满”，这里面一定有一些“见不得人”的事。

我们那一代的教育都是这样，周扒皮半夜里学鸡叫，天不亮就让人下地干活；刘文彩在收租院里，如何用水银秤杆缺斤少两。

无论上一代给了我们多少爱，因为学校的教育，我们都带着一种怀疑的，甚至“敌视的”眼光看他们。

记得一次问婆婆，别的女人都戴金银首饰，你为什么从来不戴？她回答说，如果有那样的习惯，当年会被金银财宝压死(这么大的口气)。

家里真的那么有钱？是的。婆婆说以前家里在湖南路的老房子，楼梯拐弯可以放一桌酒席，后来家境不好了，就搬到了“大西路”小房子(今天的”延安路”)。

几年前我回上海，还特意去了我长大的房子，在那里拍了张照片(见图)。

那时候家里经济十分落魄，不时要变卖一些东西。在物质条件很艰苦的情况下，婆婆仍然把最好的东西留给我，爷爷则特别注重我的学习。

那时候上海有小学入学试，有一道题目是两张照片，一张是月亮，另一张是太阳，听说有小孩把那太阳，说成可以吃的“大饼”。

爷爷则连家长表格都让我自己填，我不仅会写父母的名字，还会写他们的工作单位，包括中间两个难字“師範”(那时中国还是繁体字)。

我慢慢地意识到爷爷是个好人，给我打的文化基础，今天看来是“钢筋混泥土的”，虽然是小学的前几年，也给我带了好多荣誉。

那时候我在心里想：爷爷为什么以前会去“剥削”他人呢？

爷爷对他的“剥削”历史，从来都是闭口不谈。

由于我的好奇心，加上家里人口众多，七拼八凑地找出了爷爷的“发家史”。

我感觉到“剥削”的成分几乎没有，或者是极少。如果真有的话，他更多的是剥削美国人，而不是中国人。

爷爷到上海之前都在和尚庙办的孤儿院里，幸运地被黄氏领养带到上海，没有任何钱，更没有任何人际关系做生意。

找到的第一份工作是美国人办的贸易公司，必须学习讲英语与上司交流。他为了供养母亲，就开始了鹦鹉学舌地讲英文。

爷爷倒是真有一样与众不同的特长，那就是他写得一手很好的毛笔字，简直像书店里卖的帖子一样，可能是和尚庙里修来的功夫。

他后来又喜欢上了京剧，不但能唱还会拉。

赚到一点钱后，逢年过节就搞“堂会”，把一帮京剧名角和票友请到家里。他作为东道主还能又拉又唱地表演一番，令他在上海滩的生意人里与众不同。

那时候他办的一个仓库，除了存放一些吃穿住用行的小商品外，还存放美国运来的剩余物资。精明的商人不愿意空船来上海办货，往往运一些没有买家的物品。

货仓存放的东西都有散货或者破损，也允许损耗一个百分比。家里人告诉我，从来都是仓库里有什么，家里就有什么，很多吃用的东西都不愁，

因为仓库租金都是随着时间递增，美国商人经常弃置存货，抵扣所欠的仓库租金，一次是一货仓的棉花，另一次是一货仓的煤炭。

爷爷做起了“无本买卖”，就这样“发了横财”。

像我爷爷这样的”成分”，必然是每一次政治运动的“运动员”。对他影响最大的当属人民公社运动和文化大革命。

“人民公社”是从农村到城市，“文化大革命”是从城市到农村。

当时在上海的人民公社运动，需要很多房产来办学校，他们对爷爷都是“好说好劝”。我一直在猜想，他们如何让他心甘情愿签字，“捐赠”部分房产。

“剥削”本来就是犯罪，应该坐牢的，现在无需你坐牢，只是把非法所得分一点出来，那就意味着明天十家陌生人会搬到你家来住。

我还记得家里住在二楼，原来的客厅和饭厅都消失了，甚至阳台也当房间来住。最奢侈的是我们家在楼下，有一个独立的厨房，别人家都要五六家分享。

那时候上海也是住房奇缺，家里的车房变成两层楼，上面一家人下面一家人，连锅炉房也住了一家人。

我长大住在二楼的阳台，每当拉小提琴打拍子，楼下阳台的“工人阶级”邻居就大喊大叫。

后来上海落实政策了，房子算是还给主人了，但是没有一分钱租金，因为这么多年的修缮费，房管处要房主负担，算起来房主还倒过来“欠钱”。

当年有个奇特的现象是，楼梯走廊厨房厕所非常昏暗、但是电灯却有很多盏，开灯的绳子也很多，我小时候最怕的是，错误地开了别人家的电灯。

那时候的邻居一个比一个善良，也是一个比一个穷，“斤斤计较”是实在没办法。

上个世纪中国最大的政治运动——十年浩劫的“文化大革命”终于开始了，那是1966年的一个夏天，感觉是风云突变，上海满街都是身穿军装，但没有领章和帽徽的红卫兵。

平时坐在外面乘凉的老头老太太和孩子们，都觉得那天不妙必有大事发生。

红卫兵们一边喊着“破四旧、立四新”的口号，一边呼吁所有的民众，把封建迷信和西洋文化的东西都拿出来，街上的人都忙于砸烂菩萨和钢琴。

我家搬出了所有的菩萨和观音，就连“万寿无疆”红绿黄的饭碗菜碟，都难以幸免，要搬到马路中间敲碎，直到今天我还记得那个刺耳的声音。

街上的男男女女都很恐慌，搞不清楚身上哪些东西是“四旧”，红卫兵们成了理所当然的法官。

金丝边眼镜的人会被红卫兵截停，眼镜强制拿下后被踩碎，很多人哀求留下“无罪的”镜片，这样高度近视的人，仍然可以举着两片玻璃回家。

男的女的裤腿也有很明确的要求，男的不能小于六寸，女的不能小于四寸，凡是裤腿尺寸不符合标准的都会被剪掉，街上男男女女都穿着开叉的裤子。

上海人的精明超出了想象，很多正在单位上班的人，都利用电话相互转告，提前把裤腿顺着逢线自行拆掉。

后来才知道，原来是毛泽东在北京已经失势，跑到上海来“发动群众闹革命”，之后还发表了“我的一张大字报”。

红卫兵们誓死“砸烂一个旧世界，创造一个新世界”，最后他老人家都受不了，不得不踩刹车地说“古为今用，洋为中用”。

满街砸碎的菩萨观音，燃烧的钢琴、唱片，活像一出“世界大战争”的场面。

爷爷的表情非常沉重，我感觉在他眼睛里看到了“世界的末日”，没想到最后成了“他的末日”。

“文化大革命”开始了，日子是越来越不好过，回到父母内地家中？他们是知识分子“臭老九”，还不如呆在上海。

这时候的爷爷也开始有活儿干了，他每天刻意的打扮像“老克勒”(上海话也叫“老狄克”)，扫大街的时候还哼着小曲儿。

我上学放学都要经过他，还记得他穿一身浅色的西装，还有那双镶有鳄鱼皮的三色尖头皮鞋。

下午的活就是写革命标语，里弄里不要红卫兵，偏要这个资本家，我就负责书写前的折叠和裁剪。

那时候粮店和煤店已经开始,停止向“黑五类”家庭送货，我那时候很小，居然学会用快木板和四个轴承做了一个拖板车运重物。

后来连用蜂窝煤(上海人叫”煤饼”)的资格都没有了，买煤炭回来砸成碎渣，再用黄色泥浆捏在一起做成煤球。

不到十岁的我手太小又没力气，做出来的煤球不经烧，上海的冬天又潮又冷，搞得手又红又肿长满了冻疮。……

那时候认为受苦是应该的，当年爷爷就是这样“剥削别人”的。

但小小年纪的我最受不了的是，除了附近的邻居以外，当我拉着米和煤走在路上，那些陌生人的冷眼和羞辱的语言。

那时候全国流行的一句话：“爹亲娘亲，没有毛主席亲”，我一直不肯定，是因为下面的两件事(令我不断思考)。

我家有个邻居也是资产阶级，我看到她郊游的时候带了大本的塑料“红宝书”(毛主席语录)，下雨后放在石头上一屁股坐在上面。

爷爷也指着毛主席的像说过“我是好人，他是坏人”，因为他们这些“反动言行”，我经常晚上无法入睡。

除了各地都有的武斗以外，上海“抄家”可能算是另一特色，今天的年轻人很难想象。

“抄家，就是有一批人到你家翻箱倒柜，把任何值钱的东西都拿走，无视国家的宪法：“私有财产神圣不可侵犯”。

有一批北京的高干子弟，叫什么“联合行动“简称“联动”，来上海随意抄任何名人的家，听说用皮带的铁扣打人也是他们发明的。

我们的小区垃圾桶在正中间，那时候会经常看到首饰盒和麻将盒，有的把金银财宝转移，有的则是扔到垃圾桶里。

十二号别墅是开染料厂的，住了一个老人和一个保姆。抄家的红卫兵发现这个叫菊花的保姆为东家匿藏金银财宝，命令她站在凳子上，把她打得哭天喊地，打她的竹竿都爆裂开来。

我们家也被抄了整整三天，红卫兵们来了都很客气，可能是不熟悉这位早就被解雇的“老板”，或许听说爷爷以前对员工很好。

但是红卫兵很利索地找到了爷爷藏的金银财宝，在晾衣服的竹竿里和晚上封炉子的煤灰里，原来这是当时最流行的匿藏地方。

婆婆也很快地交出了所有藏的首饰，红卫兵采取了有效的逼供法说: ”老头子都交代了，难道你为他坐牢，他可在外面找别的女人”。

抄家前我也被分派了一个任务，藏一颗火油钻石。我把它绕在剩余的毛线团里，每当红卫兵把毛线抽屉翻过来倒一地，我就去把毛线捡起来放好。

这成了我们家唯一幸存的财宝，后来通过乡下友人贱卖，让全家人又“发了一次财”，去苏州杭州旅游吃好的玩好的。

最后那一天的晚上记得他们围着一个大圆桌，用一把“金钱秤”称重量，清点着金银首饰，清单里列明了数量和重量，像是要上缴国库。

上海后来的抄家算是正规，由单位的职工红卫兵来完成，而不是早期的学生红卫兵。周恩来政府工作报告说，上海抄家物资不足以建一个飞机场，“抢了东西还嫌少”？

后来退还抄家物质，但必须变卖给国家，所规定价格是一个笑话。

我算是见证资本家“残酷”的第一证人。可以大胆地说，起码不是每一个人都那样。

爷爷素来对每个人都很好，素不相识的人和认识的人都如此。那时候上海有很多安徽来的逃荒难民，爷爷都会把家里剩下吃的用的给他们。

还有家门口有一个小皮匠，他长得一张娃娃脸，因生了很多小孩导致家里十分贫困，爷爷会叫我把家里小东西给他。

别说对人就连对动物爷爷从来都是这样，那时候上海人没有娱乐，喜欢玩斗蟋蟀(上海人叫“螊绩”)，他告诉我这个游戏太残酷。

那年头没人与爷爷交朋友，谁接近他都涉嫌政治立场，他居然交了几个野猫为朋友，晚上会带牠们来家里吃一些残汤剩饭。

现在我一把年龄，想到那几只野猫在黑暗中绿油油的眼睛，仍然十分害怕。

文革结束后，我与叔叔去浙江乡下看望以前家里的佣人。去那里要坐长途公共汽车，到了县城汽车站后，还有大半个小时路程需骑自行车。

叔叔见到了与他一起长大的“水牛”，当年水牛还是一个小孩，他的爸爸负责带着几个帮工，打理黄氏一家大小吃喝拉撒。

水牛在村口带我们回到他家里，我终于有机会见到最直接被剥削的人。

水牛的爸爸问叔叔说，“少爷最近怎么样？” 叔叔回答，他早已经去世了。他当场就从灶台倒在地上，痛苦地喊道：“他是好人啊！” 接下来他讲了很多爷爷的故事。

这是一个被剥削的人对剥削他的人的“总结”，我既不敢相信自己的眼睛，也不敢相信自己的耳朵。

文革时期上海流行一种“鸡血法”，就是把小公鸡血抽出来打到人体里面。

邻居们都纷纷开始养鸡，他们的厨房太挤地方不够，鸡笼子都搬到我们家的厨房里来。

我问婆婆为什么我们不可以打鸡血，她回答我们没有医务所。是的，我们全家是没有任何医疗。

爷爷因为长期高血压得不到治疗，中风后半身瘫痪，肚子饿了就拍打自己的大腿，喊叫：“三分洋厘只大饼”。

我父母不断来信催促，要我尽快离开上海回到内地，爸爸被铺天盖地的大字报搞得实在吃不消。

他的罪名是“将儿子放在资产阶级的家庭里培养剥削阶级的狗崽子”。

等了好几个月，终于有人答应，带我坐火车回四川。当时火车会经过西安停一晚，我这样的年龄不可能一个人上路。

爷爷的病情不见好转，他仍然一瘸一拐地把身子移到弄堂口送我，爷孙两人都知道这是“最后一面” ……

回到内地后不久的一天，我放学回到家里吃午饭，桌子上放了一张简短的电报，全家人一言不发。

我看着爸爸，心里这样说：你哭我就哭(我的眼泪早就准备好了)。爸爸居然“没有哭”。

绝不是！他只是眼泪朝心里流(那时候的人居然有这样的本事)。对不起了，我只能做到没有声音。

我决定放上一张爷爷的照片，相信天堂没有隐私。

爷爷，无论你是资本家也好，是干部也好，我都怀念你！

Are Capitalists Considered “Cadres”?

Author: Huang Weike

Editor: Hu Lili Proofreader: Xiong Bian Translator: Ge Bing

Abstract: This is a true story. The author’s grandfather, a self-made businessman in old Shanghai, was labeled a “capitalist” after the founding of the People’s Republic of China. He suffered persecution, had his home ransacked, and faced social discrimination during the public-private partnership campaign and the Cultural Revolution. The author’s own fate was also affected as a result.

“Are capitalists considered ‘cadres’?” This was a question that plagued me throughout my childhood, and to this day, I still have no answer.

I was the only male grandson in my family’s generation, meaning I was the one who could carry on the family name. But my grandfather didn’t like me. I heard that the year I was born, he was dismissed from his position due to the “public-private partnership” campaign.

I believe he felt he’d been deceived after liberation. After the business he’d built from scratch was taken over by the government through public-private partnership, the new owners learned the ropes of running it and eventually pushed him out—despite his relatively high salary.

Because this happened around the same time I was born, I became a “harbinger of bad luck”—what Shanghainese call “bringing bad luck.”

Back then, everyone had to fill out countless forms, and every form had a section for “family background.” Every time this came up, there would be a heated argument at home. My uncles argued that my grandfather should be classified as a “cadre,” since he not only invested in the business but also managed it.

But in reality, he should have been listed as a “capitalist” or “bourgeoisie”—terms that sounded as taboo back then as “AIDS” or “rapist,” and often there wasn’t even enough space to write them out. We were limited to two-character categories: “worker,” “peasant,” “clerk”… .

Because of the “immoral deeds” he committed alone, the generations that followed had to suffer. I had no share in the “glory and wealth” of those days, yet it fell to me to bear the stigma.

Having grandfather and grandson under one roof should have been a good thing, but he disliked me, and I disliked him—and so we remained at an impasse every day.

It turned out there were other reasons why Grandfather was so gloomy all the time; as time went on, I learned more and more.

It wasn’t until 1950 that the sounds of gunfire from the siege of Shanghai reached us, but he had already bought a ticket to Singapore. When his mother heard he was going abroad, she swore she would throw herself against the wall and die right in front of him.

My great-grandmother had taken him in from an orphanage and raised him to adulthood. He had amassed a “small fortune” through hard work or luck—how could he possibly abandon his family and friends? Compounded by the government’s all-out propaganda campaign promoting “the merits of exploitation,” Grandpa decided to stay on the mainland to continue fulfilling his filial duty.

The nightmare went far beyond “exploitation”; he soon discovered his “sins” were far more grave. It turned out that even among Shanghai’s capitalists, there was a distinction between “legal” and “illegal”—and he belonged to the latter category.

In those turbulent times, to protect his family, Grandpa wanted to buy a handgun to keep at home. Back then, buying a gun required joining an organization, so he filled out a form. Because Grandma objected, the gun stayed at home for only one night.

And just like that, Grandpa found himself inexplicably enrolled in a “reactionary organization” (probably the “Three Youth Corps”), facing exile to Xinjiang. The propaganda at the time claimed “Xinjiang is a wonderful place,” where “you can eat as much as you want,” but the people of Shanghai remained skeptical.

The whole family—young and old, men and women—turned out at the train station to see him off. The children knelt on the platform, their cries filling the air. Grandfather knew what lay ahead—the odds were stacked against him—and as he waved to his family, it felt as though he were “marching bravely to his death.”

Just then, a neighborhood cadre he knew appeared and asked, “How did you end up here?” Grandpa replied, “I’m an illegal capitalist.” Because he was generally a kind man, this “official”—who frequently traveled between the two places—told him firmly, “You don’t qualify; you can’t go!”

By then, the train had already begun to move. His luggage was being tossed piece by piece onto the platform, so he had no choice but to jump off the train. Thanks to this serendipitous encounter with his “savior,” Grandpa’s story of Xinjiang never came to pass, and he later had the chance to die in Shanghai.

As mentioned earlier, Grandpa didn’t end up going to “Singapore” because of his stubborn mother, and later he didn’t go to “Xinjiang” because of a kind-hearted cadre. Although both places start with the character for “new,” had he gone to either one, the outcome would have been worlds apart.

Ever since I was a child, I’ve been curious: Grandpa was an orphan. How did he manage to amass such a fortune in Shanghai’s “International Settlement”? There must have been some “shady” dealings involved.

That’s how our generation was raised: Zhou Bapi would mimic a rooster’s crow in the dead of night, sending people out to work in the fields before dawn; Liu Wencai would use a mercury-tipped scale to shortchange tenants in his rent-collection courtyard.

No matter how much love the previous generation gave us, because of what we learned in school, we viewed them with a skeptical, even “hostile” gaze.

I remember once asking my mother-in-law, “Why don’t you ever wear gold or silver jewelry, when other women do?” She replied, “If I’d had that habit back then, I would have been crushed under the weight of all that gold and silver” (she said it with such conviction).

Was the family really that wealthy? Yes. My mother-in-law said that in their old house on Hunan Road, the landing of the staircase was large enough to set up a banquet table. Later, when their financial situation deteriorated, they moved to a smaller house on “Daxi Road” (today’s “Yan’an Road”) .

A few years ago, when I returned to Shanghai, I made a point of visiting the house where I grew up and took a photo there (see picture).

Back then, our family was in dire financial straits, and we often had to sell off some of our belongings. Even under such harsh material conditions, my grandmother still saved the best things for me, while my grandfather placed particular emphasis on my studies.

Back then, Shanghai had entrance exams for elementary school. One question featured two photos: one of the moon and the other of the sun. I heard that some children mistook the sun for an edible “flatbread.”

My grandfather even had me fill out the parent information form myself. I could not only write my parents’ names but also their workplace addresses, including the two difficult characters “師範” (China still used traditional Chinese characters at the time).

I gradually realized that Grandpa was a good man. The cultural foundation he laid for me—which, looking back today, feels as solid as “reinforced concrete”—brought me many honors, even though it was only during my early elementary school years.

Back then, I wondered to myself: Why did Grandpa used to “exploit” others?

Grandpa never spoke a word about his “exploitative” past.

Driven by my curiosity, and with so many family members, I pieced together Grandpa’s “rise to wealth” story.

I sensed that there was almost no element of “exploitation,” or very little. If there was any, he exploited Americans more than he did Chinese people.

Before arriving in Shanghai, Grandpa had lived in an orphanage run by a Buddhist temple. He was fortunate enough to be adopted by the Huang family and brought to Shanghai, but he had no money and absolutely no business connections.

His first job was at a trading company run by Americans, which required him to learn English to communicate with his superiors. To support his mother, he began parroting English phrases.

Grandfather did, however, possess one truly unique talent: he had exquisite calligraphy skills, his brushwork as flawless as the calligraphy manuals sold in bookstores—a skill he likely honed during his time at the monastery.

Later, he developed a passion for Peking Opera; not only could he sing, but he could also play the erhu.

Once he had saved a little money, he would host “private performances” during festivals, inviting a group of Peking Opera stars and amateur enthusiasts to his home. As the host, he would perform both singing and playing the erhu, which set him apart from other businessmen in Shanghai.

Back then, he ran a warehouse that stored not only small daily necessities but also surplus goods shipped from the United States. Savvy merchants were reluctant to sail empty ships to Shanghai to restock, so they often shipped items with no immediate buyers.

The goods in the warehouse were often loose or damaged, and a certain percentage of loss was allowed. My family told me that whatever was in the warehouse was what we had at home; we never had to worry about food or daily necessities,

because warehouse rent increased over time. American merchants would often abandon their inventory to offset their overdue rent—once it was a warehouse full of cotton, another time a warehouse full of coal.

My grandfather thus engaged in “business without capital” and “struck it rich” in this way.

Someone of my grandfather’s “social background” was inevitably a “participant” in every political campaign. The events that affected him most were the People’s Commune movement and the Cultural Revolution.

The “People’s Commune” movement spread from the countryside to the cities, while the “Cultural Revolution” moved from the cities to the countryside.

During the People’s Commune movement in Shanghai at that time, they needed a lot of property to set up schools, and they always tried to “talk and persuade” my grandfather. I’ve always wondered how they managed to get him to willingly sign the papers and “donate” part of his property.

“Exploitation” is a crime in itself, one that should be punished by imprisonment. Now, instead of sending you to prison, they simply ask you to give up a portion of your ill-gotten gains—which means that tomorrow, ten strangers will move into your home.

I still remember living on the second floor; the original living room and dining room had disappeared, and even the balcony was used as a living space. The greatest luxury was that our family had a private kitchen downstairs, while other families had to share one among five or six households.

Back then, housing was extremely scarce in Shanghai. Our family’s garage was converted into a two-story unit, with one family living upstairs and another downstairs—even the boiler room was occupied by a family.

As a child, I lived on the second-floor balcony. Whenever I played the violin and kept time, the “working-class” neighbors on the balcony below would shout and yell.

Later, when Shanghai implemented its housing policies, the property was technically returned to its original owners, but not a single penny in rent was paid. Because the housing management office required the owners to cover all the repair costs accumulated over the years, the owners actually ended up “owing money.”

There was a peculiar phenomenon back then: the stairwells, hallways, kitchens, and bathrooms were very dim, yet there were many light switches and pull cords. When I was a child, my greatest fear was accidentally turning on someone else’s light.

The neighbors back then were one kinder than the next, but also one poorer than the next; being “petty and nitpicky” was simply a matter of necessity.

China’s largest political movement of the last century—the “Cultural Revolution,” a decade-long catastrophe—finally began. It was a summer in 1966; it felt like the sky had suddenly darkened. The streets of Shanghai were filled with Red Guards dressed in military uniforms, though without rank insignia or cap badges.

The elderly and children who usually sat outside to cool off all sensed that something ominous was in the air that day—that something major was about to happen.

Chanting the slogan “Destroy the Four Olds, Establish the Four News,” the Red Guards urged everyone to bring out anything associated with feudal superstition or Western culture. People on the streets were busy smashing statues of deities and pianos.

My family brought out all our statues of Bodhisattvas and Guanyin; even our red, green, and yellow “Long Live the Leader” rice bowls and plates were not spared. We had to carry them to the middle of the street and smash them to pieces. To this day, I still remember that piercing sound.

Men and women on the streets were in a panic, unsure which of their belongings constituted the “Four Olds”; the Red Guards had become the de facto judges.

People wearing gold-rimmed glasses were stopped by the Red Guards; their glasses were forcibly removed and stomped to pieces. Many begged to keep the “innocent” lenses, so that those with severe myopia could still hold two pieces of glass on their way home.

There were also strict requirements for the length of men’s and women’s pant legs: men’s must be no shorter than six inches, and women’s no shorter than four inches. Any pant legs that didn’t meet these standards were cut off, leaving men and women on the streets wearing split-legged pants.

The resourcefulness of the people of Shanghai was beyond imagination. Many who were at work at the time used the telephone to alert one another, allowing them to unpick the seams of their pant legs in advance.

I later learned that Mao Zedong had already lost power in Beijing and had come to Shanghai to “mobilize the masses for revolution.” He later published “My Big-Character Poster.”

The Red Guards vowed to “smash the old world to pieces and create a new one.” In the end, even the old man couldn’t take it anymore and was forced to hit the brakes, declaring, “Use the past for the present; use foreign things for China.”

The streets were littered with smashed statues of Guanyin and burning pianos and records—it looked just like a scene from “World War II.”

Grandpa’s expression was very somber; I felt I saw “the end of the world” in his eyes. Little did I know that in the end, it would become “his own end.”

The “Cultural Revolution” had begun, and life grew increasingly difficult. Should we return to our parents’ home in the mainland? They were intellectuals, the “stinking ninth category”—it was better to stay in Shanghai.

Around this time, Grandpa also found work. Every day, he would deliberately dress like a “Old-School Gentleman” (known in Shanghainese as “Lao Dik”), humming tunes as he swept the streets.

I passed him every day on my way to and from school. I still remember him in his light-colored suit and those three-tone pointed-toe leather shoes trimmed with crocodile skin.

My afternoon job was writing revolutionary slogans. The alley residents didn’t want the Red Guards, but they insisted on this capitalist—so I was in charge of folding and cutting the paper before writing.

By then, the grain and coal shops had already stopped delivering to “Five Black Categories” families. I was very young, but I actually figured out how to make a handcart out of a wooden plank and four bearings to haul heavy loads.

Later, we lost even the right to use honeycomb coal (which Shanghainese call “coal cakes”). We’d buy coal, crush it into fragments, and then mold it into coal balls using yellow mud.

I was not yet ten—my hands were too small and weak—so the coal balls I made didn’t burn long. Shanghai winters are damp and cold, and my hands became red and swollen, covered in frostbite.……

Back then, I believed suffering was inevitable; after all, that was how my grandfather had “exploited others” in his day.

But what I found most unbearable as a young child—aside from the neighbors—were the cold stares and humiliating remarks from strangers whenever I walked down the street carrying rice and coal.

There was a popular saying across the country at the time: “Father is dear, mother is dear, but none as dear as Chairman Mao.” I’ve never been entirely convinced by it, largely because of the following two incidents (which have kept me thinking).

One of our neighbors was also a member of the bourgeoisie. I saw her take a large plastic-bound “Little Red Book” (Quotations from Chairman Mao) on a picnic; after it rained, she placed it on a rock and sat right on top of it.

Grandpa also pointed at a portrait of Chairman Mao and said, “I’m a good person; he’s a bad person.” Because of these “reactionary words and deeds,” I often couldn’t sleep at night.

Apart from the violent clashes that occurred everywhere, “home raids” in Shanghai might be considered another distinctive feature—something today’s young people would find hard to imagine.

“Home raids” meant a group of people would come to your house, ransack your belongings, and take away anything of value, completely disregarding the national constitution’s principle that “private property is sacred and inviolable.”

A group of children of high-ranking officials from Beijing, known as the “Joint Action” (shortened to “Lian Dong”), came to Shanghai to raid the homes of any prominent figures at will. I heard that beating people with the metal buckles of belts was also their invention.

The trash bins in our neighborhood were right in the middle, and back then, we would often see jewelry boxes and mahjong sets there—some people had moved their gold and silver treasures to safety, while others had simply thrown them into the trash.

Villa No. 12 belonged to the owner of a dye factory and was occupied by an elderly man and a housekeeper. The Red Guards raiding the home discovered that the housekeeper, named Ju Hua, was hiding gold and silver treasures for her employer. They ordered her to stand on a stool and beat her until she was screaming in agony; the bamboo stick they used to beat her even split open.

Our home was ransacked for three full days. The Red Guards were quite polite when they arrived—perhaps because they weren’t familiar with this “boss” who had long since been fired, or maybe they’d heard that Grandpa had once treated his employees well.

But the Red Guards quickly found the gold and silver treasures Grandpa had hidden—inside the bamboo poles used for hanging laundry and in the coal ash from the stove at night. It turned out these were the most popular hiding spots back then.

My grandmother-in-law quickly handed over all the jewelry she had hidden. The Red Guards employed an effective method of coercion, saying, “The old man has already confessed. Are you going to go to prison for him? He’ll just find other women out there.”

Before the raid, I was also assigned a task: to hide a “fire oil diamond.” I wrapped it around a leftover ball of yarn. Whenever the Red Guards turned the yarn drawer upside down and scattered it all over the floor, I would go pick up the yarn and put it back in place.

This became the only treasure our family managed to save. Later, we sold it at a bargain price through a friend in the countryside, which allowed the whole family to “strike it rich” once more—enough to travel to Suzhou and Hangzhou, where we ate well and enjoyed ourselves.

I remember that final evening: they gathered around a large round table, using a “money scale” to weigh and tally the gold and silver jewelry. The inventory listed the quantities and weights, as if they were being turned over to the state treasury.

The subsequent house raids in Shanghai were conducted in a more “official” manner, carried out by Red Guards from the work units rather than the student Red Guards of the early days. Zhou Enlai’s government work report stated that the goods seized in Shanghai were not enough to build an airport—so “they looted things and still thought it wasn’t enough”?

Later, the confiscated goods were returned, but they had to be sold to the state at prices that were a joke.

I suppose I was the first witness to the “cruelty” of the capitalists. I can say with confidence that at least not everyone was like that.

Grandpa had always been kind to everyone, whether they were strangers or acquaintances. Back then, there were many refugees from Anhui fleeing famine in Shanghai, and Grandpa would give them whatever food and supplies were left in our home.

There was also a young cobbler near our doorstep. He had a baby face, and his family was extremely poor because he had so many children. Grandfather would tell me to give him small items from our home.

Not only with people, but even with animals, Grandfather was always like this. Back then, people in Shanghai had no entertainment and enjoyed fighting crickets (Shanghainese call them “miji”). He told me this game was too cruel.

In those days, no one would befriend my grandfather; anyone who approached him was suspected of having the wrong political stance. Yet he actually befriended a few stray cats, bringing them home at night to eat our leftovers.

Now that I’m getting on in years, I still feel a deep sense of fear when I think of those stray cats’ glowing green eyes in the darkness.

After the Cultural Revolution ended, my uncle and I went to the countryside in Zhejiang to visit our family’s former servants. To get there, we had to take a long-distance bus; after arriving at the county bus station, we still had to ride a bicycle for over half an hour.

My uncle met “Water Buffalo,” who had grown up with him. Back then, Water Buffalo was just a child; his father was in charge of leading several laborers who took care of the Huang family’s every need.

Water Buffalo led us back to his home from the village entrance, and I finally had the chance to meet someone who had been directly exploited.

Shuiniu’s father asked my uncle, “How has the young master been lately?” My uncle replied that he had passed away long ago. On the spot, the man collapsed to the floor from the stove, crying out in anguish, “He was a good man!” After that, he told many stories about my grandfather.

This was an “assessment” of his exploiter by the exploited—I could hardly believe my eyes or my ears.

During the Cultural Revolution, a “chicken blood therapy” became popular in Shanghai, which involved drawing blood from young roosters and injecting it into people.

Neighbors began raising chickens one after another. Their kitchens were too cramped, so they moved the chicken coops into our kitchen.

I asked my mother-in-law why we couldn’t get the chicken blood injections, and she replied that we had no clinic. Yes, our entire family had no access to medical care whatsoever.

Grandfather, suffering from long-term untreated hypertension, was left paralyzed on one side after a stroke. When he was hungry, he would slap his thigh and cry out, “Three fen for a flatbread!”

My parents kept writing letters urging me to leave Shanghai and return to the mainland as soon as possible; my father simply couldn’t bear the overwhelming barrage of big-character posters.

His charge was “raising his son in a bourgeois family to nurture a scum of the exploiting class.”

After waiting for several months, someone finally agreed to take me by train back to Sichuan. At the time, the train would stop overnight in Xi’an, and a child of my age couldn’t possibly travel alone.

Grandpa’s condition showed no signs of improvement, yet he still hobbled his way to the entrance of the alley to see me off. Both grandfather and grandson knew this would be our “last farewell”…

One day shortly after returning to the mainland, I came home from school for lunch to find a brief telegram on the table. The whole family sat in silence.

I looked at my father and thought to myself: If you cry, I’ll cry too (my tears were already ready). To my surprise, my father “didn’t cry.”

Not at all! He was simply letting his tears flow inward (people back then actually had that ability). I’m sorry, but I could only manage to remain silent.

I’ve decided to post a photo of Grandpa here, believing that there is no privacy in heaven.

Grandpa, whether you were a capitalist or a cadre, I miss you!