It was inconceivable why a beautiful and tranquil little garden, from which I had derived enormous pleasure, be converted to a public killing field. Executions at an interval of eight or ten days so terrified residents that they dared not walk along the surrounding streets at night, or even in broad daylight.
I was too young to comprehended or even know the words on the billboard erected inside the garden, such as 'identity verification,' 'bound and conveyed to the execution field' and 'summary execution,' but the big ticks in red on the billboard evoked terror. When later we played a childrens game called 'execution' in two groups, a 'secret agent' captured was bound to be executed, accompanied by the loud yelling out of a few clichés on the billboard, since a 'secret agent' was considered equivalent to 'counter-revolutionary'. If the fake execution of the 'agent' did not look real enough, the shots would be repeated. In hindsight, the games are implausible. Shall I attribute this to our childish state of mind or to something else?
It was on a very cold day in late autumn that I witnessed an execution for the first time in my life. Four or five of the condemned, all trussed up, were walking in front of the procession. Two of the elderly even exchanged some whispers. One of them wore a robe, another one an expensive overcoat with a fox-fur collar. A young man, whom I guessed to be in his twenties, was walking close to the side of the street. His gait resembled that of university students, wearing a student cap with the emblem of a technology university and a black cotton-padded Soviet-style jacket.
Members of the death squad were walking behind, each having a shining pistol in hand. Blindly I followed the youth for a few dozen meters along the footpath. I stared at his eyes set in a pale face, blank and expressionless, which seemed to me to be querying where he was heading for. And he seemed to have no idea what was happening to him, neither did I know that he was on his way to execution, or was to be shot dead in a moment. But another young man, of similar age, was following him. The only difference was that the former was heavily bound while the latter was holding a shiny gun. Behind each of the tightly bound prisoners was an indignant and angry man. Why they were so angry was beyond me. Would they really kill these tightly bound people?
Further back was the masses shouting slogans and waving paper flags. Their chief was so energetic that his voice reached almost to a yelling pitch and he held the flag higher. His action was simulated by those surrounding him. However, the people who lagged behind were far less resonant in shouting every time they waved the flags. Some faked a posture while actually lowering their heads momentarily when raising flags and had only weak voices. Apart from the organized procession, there were many residents around – children and adults alike – to watch the execution for fun.
As I scurried along, I heard a burst of gunshots from inside the Garden. On hearing this, men and older boys rushed to the scene to be the first to see the dead. When I edged my way inside, my eyes were greeted by corpses. The youth resembling a university student was lying near the entrance of the Garden, facing down; a large pool of blood was oozing from his head, his cap gone.
I found among the watchers the only son of my landlord, nicknamed 'fatty', who was three or four years my senior, as well as our thirty plus year old night watchman. Always a single man, he scratched a living by watching over thirty households in our compound in return for a small wage that we managed to collect for him. To his credit, he never failed to open the compound gate for later-comers in the midst of a winter night, in defiance of rain, snow or freezing temperatures. In addition, as tap water was unavailable at that time, he was hired to deliver water to many households, particularly those living upstairs unable to access water. The demand was heavy in severe winter season.
The execution field was swarming with onlookers, as if they were having fun in a fair, except for the ghastly atmosphere and the expressions people wore. A few minutes later, an elderly woman arrived, a big gourd in her left hand and a small one in the other. With both hands stained with fresh blood, she solicited the bystanders in a hoarse voice:” Anyone can help to turn it (a dead body) around?” For sure, a brave man volunteered to meet her request. It was the night watchman, I found, and wondered why he should poke his nose into this business and whether anyone dared to hire him in the future. Then I caught sight of a big hole in the right eye socket of the dead 'university student' and the scalp and flesh in that part were gone – probably under the watchers’ feet at that moment. The woman then began to scoop the brains with the small gourd and poured it into the big one, in a way like spraying spice into a bowl of noddle. When questioned why, she answered:” my son was frightened into madness when he watched a gun execution last time. I learnt there was a cure for this by drinking soups made of dried human brain powder.” Her words were so impressed on me that I would never forget them in my life.
Terrible scenes
Somehow this episode became a subject at an old schoolmate get-together when I visited my hometown in 1993. I was very surprised to learn that Mr Li Huaiming also witnessed that terrible scene.“You were there as well?” I asked.
“Yes. Many in our compound went to see it, children as well.” He replied, adding:” the Garden of 20th Street had been turned into an execution ground at the time. People were so scared that few walked along that street even in daylight.”
That night-watchman, I was told, had blood on his fingers after turning the corpse around and was wondering where to clean them when 'Fatty', the son of the landlord, happened to put his head close. So the watchman simply scraped his fingers on Fatty’s face, leaving two scarlet bloody lines from under one of Fatty’s ears across to the chin. He surely meant a joke, but that went too far. Instantly the boy become very pale and ran home. I felt lucky that I was absent, otherwise I might have also got the clean-up on the face and burst into loud cries from fright. That was my first experience of watching brutal executions at the field. The subsequent fear would keep me awake in bed. Even if I fell asleep, I would wake up from frequent nightmares.
After watching numerous killings, I was numbed, feeling no more fear but an empty sympathy for the crying wife and children beside the dead husband or father whom they were collecting. “He has lost his father”, I would say to myself, at the sight of the child of a similar age with mine moaning at the side of a body. “What crime had his father committed?” I would wonder……. I was deeply struck by the horror that hang over the execution field in my young age, but that proved nothing compared to the atmosphere at the execution spot where Zhang Zhixin was shot dead during the Cultural Revolution.
Why should human compassion lose to numbness? It is a subject most worthy of studying. I would be grateful if some of the younger generation would undertake this theme for research. The last half century saw large-scale political movements rolling out every twenty years when massacres took place and intimidation of the population was rife.It was as if the devil had been let out to torture the good-natured folks.
It happened at the end of March or beginning of April, a season that was warm during the day but freezing at night, when a few of the executed dead came back to life. However, again … … Somehow, I had always been possessed with terrible images about these incidents, so much that I often woke up from nightmares. It was then, I saw a dead old man lying down at the side of a round 50 cm-deep cement pool about 20 to 30 metres further down from the entrance of the Garden. He had not been shot in the head and there was little sign of bleeding. After the executioners left the field, the watchers scrambled to break inside the Garden through a hole on the dilapidated wooden fence, which comprised wooden board measured roughly 10cm by 200cm at an interval of about 10cm. People could peep through the gap into the garden.
As the crowd closed in to look at the dead, a man in his thirties suddenly jumped out and walked directly to the corpse. With just a few strokes, he stripped the dead of his clothing. Apart from the first execution where the dead were lucky enough to be covered in clothing, I saw on late occasions men surging forward to the dead at the gunshots and then stripping the dead bare while kids were rushing to catch up. The dead were completely exposed, like undressed guests in public baths who however still hold a towel to conceal their private parts. On this occasion, the looter was thorough as usual, as he shamelessly pulled down the underpants and the socks as well as other clothes from an old dead man. Then, all of a sudden, the man, believed to have been dead, jerked and sat up, probably on account of severe coldness. The onlookers were terrified and unprepared.
The looter still stood by with the booty on his shoulders when the old man, naked as if he was in a public baths, knelt down and entreated: ” spare me, spare me, please, please.” He grabbed his cream colored woollen trousers from the looter and repeated the words piteously. Did he just want the trousers or all of his clothes? Then the looter shot him an angry look, kicked him to the ground. When the old man loosened his grip, the looter ran away. In the commotion, I heard someone saying “this set of clothes could fetch a fortune.” At that time, the old man kept kowtowing and bowing with both hands folded to everyone around. This put all of us at a loss. I did not know what was in his mind. We were so close to him – less than five meters – we saw him clearly – very thin, a pale face, purple lips shivering. I guess fear and coldness caused him to tremble all the time. Then someone from the crowd said: ”He is doomed anyway. Don’t let him suffer any more.” Bricks and sticks were soon collected. The man, stoned and beaten, finally drew his last breath. I stood at a distance aghast, watching as I clinched my teeth hard trying to stop myself from shaking. Some older boys followed suit to hit his groin with clubs, bricks and stones. His testicles soon turned purple and were swollen to the size of a melon and would become as big as the old man’s head if this continued. Laughter broke out among some onlookers but most remained nervous and silent.
I was a timid boy, yet very keen to watch the process from the beginning to the end. I did not know why. It could be because I lacked the courage to go home alone, so were my other little friends. Why should I follow the procession of execution every time I saw it… … ? I would even regret missing a chance while attending school. Once I heard an account of how the counter-revolutionists Li Jiupeng and Yao Xijiu were treated. Before being shot dead, they were bound to a tree and whipped with leather strips until the executioners felt their anger had been vindicated. Why we were so keen to watch the scene even though remaining fearful? It was beyond me. Now in hindsight, I believe my psyche was abnormal at that time, and so were all the watchers. The bloodcurdling environment may serve as a start to nurture a mentality of hatred, which, reinforced by every political movement of revenge and violence, eventually caused people to lose the nature of human beings.
But I have never participated in any persecution. With my 'bad' family background, I worried all the time for troubles as light as a tree leave to befall on me. How could I venture to hurt anyone? Moreover, I was not empowered to act, since I was always a target myself in every political campaign. I remember these words I wrote in a letter to a friend:” My parents did not bequeath me any legacy, nor any assets that I might be proud of. But what they did leave me are a gold heart, a resilient temperament and a pair of able hands.” Thanks to God who has given me true love and immense strength, I was able to survive. God also teaches me to treat our fellow humans with love.
Who robbed the dead of their clothes? I heard that families could handle the rest after their beloved ones were shot dead. But if the executed had no family members, the authorities would dump corpses in the mass burying ground near the rubbish dump area known as 'area with no council admin' or 'jian ba wai', 'quan he' . The mass burying ground was the domain of wild dogs and ravens that fed on the corpses. Many a time, rag-pickers saw wild dogs fighting for human flesh with the winner running away with an arm or leg in its mouth.
According to the rumour, this was how the clothes-stripping began. Initially, the thieves were not as brazen and stole the clothes in the burying ground quietly. No one knew exactly who the thieves were – some identified the rag-pickers whereas some believe there were more involved. Why did no one dare to strip the dead on the execution field at the onset? It was hard to ascertain, but there could be several reasons. First, people would rather die in poverty than to resort to that kind of behaviour. Second, it would be a big shame to the thief if identified by those who knew the executed. Who would want to associate with such a name then? Third, the clothing on the corpse would worth much more than that of the rag collected after several days.
It is said rag-pickers had discussed it before they ventured to the burying ground in groups to embolden themselves. After all, it was too wild a place for any individual to visit, not to mention the ravenous wild dogs that were hunting around all the time. It took even more guts to pull clothes from stiff corpses. Further, such clothes were a great temptation, sometimes it made one’s heart ache to see dogs tear them apart. So better to go there earlier than late, as we often say “there is always someone earlier than you.”
The above considerations might have precipitated a rush to strip the dead at an earlier stage. Looting at the buryial ground ceased and the looters waited at the execution field instead. Moreover, it was easier to pull off clothes while the body was still warm. Someone even joked that it was better to strip the prisoners before the execution, if it was allowed. Indeed I heard a comment from a non-looter like “it is better to pull off the clothes first, to avoid blood spilling”. I believed that was exactly what was in the looters’ mind. I lamented the degeneration, my heart palpitating in pain. It must be a bad omen to buy the clothes at the fair and be dressed in them.
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