"Well—" Degui sighed, "Xiaoqiang's generation is different from my own, it's different from my father's. I never know what he's thinking! Back then I told him that out here, daddy was having a hard time; he's exhausted, he's lonely… And as for him, well he should've stayed at home and studied hard. But he wouldn't listen. With such fierce competition, what can you do without a decent education? Later on, I thought, now that he had left school and wanted to come to the city, I might as well help him out. Families should look after each other, for better or for worse. But he still wouldn't listen and insisted that he wanted to make his own way in the world. So now I just let him be; after all, I'm nearly fifty now, and have plans to go back after a few more years. Hong'an isn't a rich place, but I still have a house there as well as some land. And I still have Xiaoqiang's mother. After all these years I've realized that no matter how good Beijing is, it is not where we migrant workers belong. I want to open up a painting and decorating company back home with the money I've saved over the years. Now more people in Hong'an are building new houses, and there will start to be a higher demand for decorating services."
"I heard that your father is still in Beijing. Why is he still working at such an old age?" I asked.
Degui shook his head, "Each generation has its own stories. I believe my working life was much more difficult than Xiaoqiang's, and I don't mind if you laugh, but I think he doesn't know how lucky he is. But how does my father see me? He will be seventy-one this year. As the first batch of migrant workers, my father and his companions lived a much harder life than I did. He is still working as a warehouse keeper for an old friend. I often try to persuade him to stop working, especially because of his old age. But my father says he is content with the present, especially when comparing it with the old days. He said he could earn several hundred yuan a month, but if he went back, he would just idle time away. If you really want to write about migrant workers, then you should write about my father's generation."
The Grandfather: "I've left countless footprints on Chang'an Street."
I found Zhang Yuhe in a warehouse full of construction materials to the east of Lize Bridge.
Preparations for the building of Beijing's second Financial Street were in full swing. A vast construction site stretched out as far as the eye could see; cranes extended their mighty arms and mechanical excavators brandished their shiny teeth. Nowhere on the bustling street could you escape the endless rumbling of machinery.
Perhaps because he too had been in the army, Zhang Yuhe was very warm toward me when he saw me in uniform.
"You were enlisted in 1957, you're of the older generation. Were you by any chance at the military front in Fujian Province when you were a soldier? I was there too when I first entered the army." I said.
Yuhe hurried to ask me, "Which troop were you in?"
"I was in the naval coastal artillery on Huangqi Pennisular, in Lianjiang County."
"Oh, I know that troop. I was in an army motorcar company in Xiamen."
"So you must have joined the battle to bombard Jinmen Island in 1958?"
"Sure, sure. I wasn't even twenty years old at the time. I sent supplies to the artillery squadron, pulled artillery shells and transported the wounded. We lived in fear for an entire year, not even daring to take off our clothes at night."
Zhang Yuhe's recollection brought back many memories. In 1969, I was enlisted and sent to Huangqi Peninsular. Across the sea you could see the Matsu Islands, where Chiang Kai-shek's army was stationed. At that time, both sides of the Taiwan Strait were poised for battle, each ready to panic at the slightest move. Through high-power telescopes we could make out the enemy's artillery position, their cannon muzzles pointing to the sky. Every week, the garrison and the voluntary army would conduct anti-amphibious training operations, as well as anti-landing and counterattack simulations. Every now and then, both sides would fire 'propaganda bombs,' which instead of shrapnel, would shower the garrison with pamphlets. These projectiles were often fired during the night, and early the next morning, cadres and squadron leaders were organized to pick them up and hand them over to the battalion headquarters.
At that time, a loudspeaker was installed at our garrison to broadcast programs from the Fujian Front-line Radio of the People's Liberation Army, in the hope of it reaching Taiwan. Every morning shortly after our wake-up call, the loudspeaker began to broadcast, "To Taiwan. This is the Fujian Front-line Radio of the People's Liberation Army. The soldiers of Chiang Kai-shek's army…"
With the flick of a switch, forty years had passed. When I went to Huangqi Peninsular a couple of years ago, the old troops, together with the loudspeaker, had disappeared, and the garrison had become a tourist site. Now, both sides of the Taiwan Strait have established the "Three Linkages" and can be said to have embarked on a journey towards peace… it is amazing what great changes can take place with the simple passage of time. It was a rousing thought.
After staying at the Fujian front-line for four years, Zhang Yuhe went back to Hong'an, a place that could not escape poverty despite its revolutionary reputation. Because he was an army veteran and a party member, Yuhe was elected to be the commune's accountant.
Yuhe's hometown was situated by a river that either flooded or dried out every year, and there was always a shortage of grain. The villagers lived in mud-brick bungalows and some didn't even have enough chopsticks and bowls.
