The Secret Piano: From Mao's Labor Camps to Bach's Goldberg Variations (7 page)

In reality, Mao—whom the disaster of the Great Leap Forward had forced, in his own words, “to withdraw from the front”—was waiting in the wings, and took advantage of the economy’s relative recovery to attempt to regain power. To do so, he understood that he had to isolate his political enemies and dismantle the Chinese state apparatus. He did so by calling directly on the people, in particular on the young, for whom he was a living god.

In the midst of these political struggles, I was only a tiny pawn, easily manipulated. Why me? Because of my bad family background, or because I had been arbitrarily chosen—something characteristic of all totalitarian regimes? Whatever the case, I had little idea of the consequences.

The trucks into which the professors and students had been packed rolled along the dusty highway. All we could see were fields stretching to the horizon.

It was the beginning of the
Shang shan xia xiang
movement. Its goal was to send students into the countryside in order to radically change their way of thinking.

“Over this summer vacation, we will have the chance to help the peasants with their work, and to practice our art in their service,” announced the Conservatory’s director.

As we bounced along the road, everyone was enthusiastic, especially me. I saw this as a way to redeem myself, to reclaim my place in the group, to win back people’s trust…I promised myself that I would behave in an exemplary manner. I couldn’t stand being an outsider anymore.

Finally we arrived at the little village where we would live. We drove past a large drawing of Mao, next to a blackboard on which a maxim from the Great Helmsman had been written in chalk. The portrait, which had to have been done by one of the locals, was not particularly skillful—its subject was barely recognizable. Then the trucks turned onto the village’s main street, which consisted of a large group of
siheyuan
. The peasants were dressed in rags, and their children went unclothed. Chickens cackled everywhere. I had never seen such filth and misery.

For most of us, this was our first experience in the fields, and the shock was enormous. And yet, compared with other intellectuals who had been sent to the countryside to follow the rule of
san tong
—i.e., the “three withs,” to “eat with, live with, and work with the peasants”—we received special treatment. Starting at dawn, we helped the peasants in the fields all day, and we slept in their houses on huge, flea-infested straw mattresses, but we took our meals separately. The work was hard. The more time passed, the more my admiration grew for these people who had devoted their entire lives to the earth.

At night, among ourselves, during our sessions of denunciation and self-criticism, we drew on these experiences. We commented on “Talks at the Yenan Forum on Literature and Art,” a famous text by Mao from 1942, and on one passage in particular, in which he declared:

Inspired by these lines that we knew by heart, we discussed the best way to definitively join the proletariat, and to create an art that truly served workers, peasants, and soldiers.

Towards the end of our stay, a session of
Yi ku si tian
was organized for us: a peasant joined us in order to “remember the sufferings of the past and to evoke today’s happiness.” This meeting, which was followed by many others, would remain forever imprinted on my memory.

There were about sixty of us, gathered around a rickety table in a small room lit by dirty neon bulbs. An old woman came in. Her face was deeply lined, her hands calloused, and she had tiny feet. She smiled at us—she had lost nearly all of her teeth. One by one, we greeted her. She had a kind word for each of us, and a smile that was full of humanity. She was curious about all the new things that we had brought with us. “What do you have there?” she asked me, pointing to my little transistor radio.

And then we sat down to eat. While we shared her meal—a completely inedible gruel—she told us her story.

She had been born seventy years ago. From a very young age, she worked for a landowner from morning to night for no wages. He gave her a bit of bran for food. In winter, to keep warm, she had no choice but to plunge her hands and feet in cow dung. One day, her mother fell ill; nevertheless, the landowner demanded that she continue to work in the fields. She saw her mother collapse: she ran over—her mother was dead. One of her little brothers starved to death before the age of ten. She was married at sixteen, and lived with her husband in such poverty that they had to sell off one of their daughters as a domestic servant.

At this point in her story, the old woman began to weep. She could not go on. No one dared say a word. We were moved to tears. How could such things have happened? How could they have existed? We did what we could to comfort her. Had her situation improved? Yes, she said, thanks to Chairman Mao, her life was better today. She was no longer exploited; she had recovered her dignity. She owed everything to the Great Helmsman and the Communist Party. She stopped crying and stood up, proclaiming in a voice that quivered with emotion:

“Long live Mao!”

The next day, we discussed at length the lessons we could glean from the previous evening. The old woman’s story had touched us deeply. It was unacceptable that a human being could be so exploited; no one could deny that her condition had improved.

As the date of our departure drew near, we prepared a little concert for our hosts. The news spread, and spontaneously, processions of peasants came from dozens of miles around to hear us. The village was crowded with people, and the audience, hungry for music, applauded wildly.

As we took our leave, we were all convinced that we had been transformed by our stay. The peasants cried when they saw us climbing onto the trucks that would take us back to Beijing. We were also in tears, convinced that what we had just experienced would help change the world and make it a better place.

In the truck on the way back, I thought about what I had learned in the course of this month of
Shang shan xia xiang
, and during the evening of
Yi ku si tian
. I thought about how hard it was to work the fields, and how essential it was for feeding China. About the generosity of the peasants. I was overwhelmed. I told myself that I was not living in the real world. I only thought about playing classical music, but it meant nothing to these peasants. The proof? During our farewell concert, the only classical work we played was a short piece by Grieg. The rest of the program consisted of popular works.

A few weeks later, the school year started, and I resumed my studies at the Conservatory. Thankfully, the memory of my errors had begun to fade. The summer holidays and our stay in the countryside helped; no new catastrophe had occurred. Also, I had behaved in an exemplary manner.

But the start of this school year was not like those in the past. Individual classes were replaced by group courses in which all students, regardless of level, had to study the same works. My new professor, a Party member chosen by the Conservatory’s administration, gave us mostly Chinese music to practice.

During the sessions of denunciation and self-criticism, the discussions became increasingly animated. We were preoccupied—even obsessed—by two main questions. Should we perform music that really served the masses, or class-oriented music? Should we try to educate people by bringing them classical music or play music that they spontaneously enjoyed?

Over time, my outlook changed and altered. I understood better what was expected of us, and I was becoming a better revolutionary. I could feel it.

And the more I felt it, the more ill at ease I was with my family. I clearly saw that my parents could never become good revolutionaries. And I hated them for it. I hated them for their bad family backgrounds, which were the source of all my troubles. My father became increasingly self-effacing, saying nothing. After my self-criticism, his only reaction was to forbid me to read, on the recommendation of the Conservatory’s director. I couldn’t keep from expressing my hostility, even my contempt. When I came home on Sundays, I never smiled. My mother cooked my favorite dishes; I never thanked her. One day she came to the Conservatory to invite me to go to the theater with her. I refused. And yet, as I watched her walk away, I felt a pang. What had I done? How could I cause her such sorrow? But I was doing just what was expected of me. The new China would never be built unless the children of bad family backgrounds disowned their parents.

In 1964, everything changed.

We returned from our winter holidays. This time, we had spent them with workers in a steel mill, and it had reinforced our belief that we were serving the wrong cause with our music. We resumed our discussions about our role in society with a vengeance. Yes, Western classical music was for the elite. And what was more, who among the peasants, workers, and soldiers really liked it? A tiny minority. Yes, we had to play music, popular songs, ones that the people appreciated and understood. This would be our contribution to serving the revolutionary ideal. Our talks became impassioned. We took turns speaking:

“Classical music is bourgeois. It was not written for the people!”

“Beethoven was an egoist.”