PRIOR TO THE QIN DYNASTY, CHINA WAS DIVIDED into seven warring states that constantly fought one another. Emperor Qin conquered and unified China in eight years. But soon a new enemy emerged.
One day when I came home from gathering wood, I found my mother weeping and my father squatting next to the stove. When he saw me, Father led me into the courtyard, away from my mother.
"I have been drafted to work on the Emperor's Great Wall, Cháng Chéng, 长城. You are fourteen now. Promise me that you will take care of your mother."
My heart sank. For months, I had heard about the Great Wall being built to defend the northern border against the Mongols. Tales of the enemy pillaging supply caravans, causing the workers to starve to death, had been swirling through the village.
"The chances of my surviving the harsh working conditions-" My father swallowed the rest of his sentence when my mother came toward us.
A famous saying crept into Ming's mind: "The Great Wall was built on workers' bones."
Metallic crackling interrupted his thoughts. A man's voice spilled out from the loudspeakers scattered around the village. "Good morning, comrades! Time to work. Let your actions show your support for our glorious Revolution and make our benevolent leader, Chairman Mao, proud."
Ming sighed heavily and stood up. "Sorry. I have to go."
Shí's eyes darted around. "What's happening? Who's talking?"
"That's the Political Officer-he's the leader of our village. I'll explain later." Ming stuffed his books into his schoolbag and hurried toward the door.
"Really? Abandoning me already?" Shí sounded indignant.
Ming hesitated, turned, and looked at Shí, wringing his hands anxiously. "I can't be late for school. Last time, my teacher complained to my bā ba, and he was upset with me for days."
"All right. I will wait. It's not like I can wander off anyway." Shí arched an eyebrow at his broken parts.
Ming thought for a moment, then ran back to the desk and picked up the head. Carefully, he placed it in front of the radio.
"Here, this should keep you entertained. You might even learn something."
Switching on the heavy dial, Ming waited for the radio to flicker to life. Suddenly, a revolutionary song poured out of the cracked speaker.
The east is red, the sun rises.
From China arises Mao Zedong.
He strives for the people's happiness…
The head stared at the radio, mouth agape.
Ming grabbed his heavy cotton jacket and hurried out of the house.
The weak sun was feebly attempting to banish the dark clouds in the sky. A stiff wind brought the stale smell of burning coal and cooked rice. Tiny snowflakes sifted through the air. Ming locked the courtyard gate behind him and ran toward the west side of the village.
By the time he could see the red flags waving from the roof of the concrete schoolhouse, Ming was out of breath. He stumbled past the pride of Red Star, the tallest sculpture of Chairman Mao within nine miles, in the courtyard.
Inside the schoolhouse, children were singing at the top of their lungs.
March on, march forward, revolutionary youth!
March on, march forward, revolutionary successors!
Victory is calling,
The red flag is guiding…
Ming experienced a familiar sinking feeling in his stomach.
Along the great revolutionary path opened by our forefathers,
Push forth the wheel of history.
The morning's political singing had already started and he was late, again.
Mankind grows stronger in stormy wind and waves,
And revolution progresses in raging flames.
It was now or never. Ming stopped in front of a door with a wooden sign inscribed GRADE 7. He cracked the door open, hoping to slip unnoticed into his seat in a corner.
Facing the future,
Taking responsi-
A middle-aged woman in a baggy green Mao-style uniform standing in front of the class made a chopping motion with her arm, abruptly cutting off the singing.
"Ah! Look who has decided to join us!" she sneered.
The large bags under her eyes always reminded Ming of the pandas at the Xi'an zoo.
"Sorry, Teacher Pand-Zhu. I was… um… helping my father."
"I don't want to hear your excuses!" Teacher Panda waved her hand dismissively.
A few girls giggled softly. Ming slouched to his seat.
"Look at the holes in his shoes," a girl with red cheeks said to the boy sitting behind her, loud enough for the entire class to hear. "Where did they come from? It's not like he ever works in the fields!"
"Good observation, Hua!" Teacher Panda mocked. "He must have worn them out walking to the teahouse."
Everyone broke into laughter.
Head down, Ming dropped his bag onto the desk in front of him and pulled out his English textbook.
Teacher Panda waited for the commotion to die down before addressing the class. "That's enough singing for today. Let's review how to greet comrades in English. Hua, why don't you lead today's practice?"
The red-cheeked girl jumped up and skipped to the front of the class. Ming wondered why Teacher Panda always rewarded the students who were mean to him. Was it because he wasn't from a working-class family?
"Hello, Revolutionary Comrade. How do you do?" The red-cheeked girl's voice rose an octave, making her sound like a leaky balloon.
"Fine. How do you do, Revolutionary Comrade?" the class chorused back.
Ming rifled through his bag. He'd accidentally brought along his bā ba's notebook, which had the same black plastic cover as his. They had been gifts from Comrade Gu, the director of the Xi'an museum.
Hiding the notebook under his desk, Ming flipped through it and found some folded yellow pages.
Red Cheeks: "Revolutionary Comrade, how are you?"
Students: "Very well. How are you, Revolutionary Comrade?"
As Ming unfolded the pages, he noticed tiny holes along the crease lines. The pages appeared to have come from an old textbook. They were heavily worn, with dark smudges that obscured some of the words. The text on the upper half of one page was lost in brown stains. The ink on the lower half was smeared, but the words remained legible.
… who has studied his reign believes that Emperor Qin initially planned to have his ministers and army accompany him to the afterlife. However, his chief consul, Li Si, convinced him that clay soldiers would last much longer than their human counterparts and were thus superior alternatives.
Red Cheeks: "Wash face, Young Comrade!"
Students: "Have you face wash, Young Comrade?"
In the margin someone had scribbled, "Li Si was a hypocrite. He didn't want to leave his comfortable lifestyle." Ming chuckled.
For thirty-six years, Li Si oversaw the construction of eight thousand clay soldiers.
Eight thousand? There were only three hundred people in Red Star, but whenever Ming went to the village store, he always had to wait in a long line. He grinned, imagining eight thousand terra-cotta soldiers tearing apart the shelves, scattering ginger candy left and right as they fought over the eggs and meat.
Red Cheeks: "Homework!"
Students: "Have you homework finished, Young Comrade?"
Brave Qin soldiers were chosen as models. Sculptors were sent to the battlefront to take molds of soldiers' faces.
Red Cheeks: "Stir-fry!"
Students: "Have you eat stir-fry yet, Revolutionary Comrade?"
To speed up the process, the sculptors created eight basic designs. They used them to mass-produce arms, legs, and torsos. Initially, the parts were solid. However, the top-heavy statues couldn't be balanced upright, and so they were hollowed out.
Looking around, Ming pictured all of his classmates having the same bodies and different heads. The girls would look even less attractive with bony arms and flat chests.
The early batches of terra-cotta soldiers were baked whole. But when the temperature reached 1,000°C, they exploded. After many experiments, the sculptors learned to bake the soldiers in pieces before assembling them.
Red Cheeks: "Mumble mumble mumble."
Students: "Mumble."
"Do you think so, Ming?" A piece of chalk pelted Ming's forehead, snapping him back to reality.
Ming had no idea what the question was. He chuckled nervously. "Uh… I hope so."
The red-cheeked girl threw back her head in laughter.
"Lazy city parasite!" Teacher Panda shouted shrilly.
Stir-fry. Wasn't that the last phrase he had heard? Why should he care? He had no food to stir-fry.
Ming looked at the boy sitting next to him, who was about to whisper something when Teacher Panda called out, "Don't talk to him! Ming, go stand in the back!"
Ming's face burned with shame. He stuffed his notebook into his bag, hunched over, and shuffled to the back.
Leaning against the cold wall, Ming thought that he might have a few friends if Teacher Panda didn't always yell at anyone who spoke to him. Would she dislike him less if he hadn't challenged her?
Two years ago, the villagers had followed Mao's command: "Dig tunnels deep, store grain, and prepare for war." They had dug tunnels in the fields, in the village square, in the school's playground, and even inside their homes, crafting hiding places and storing food in preparation for the inevitable Soviet attack.
One day in class, Ming had asked Teacher Panda, "Why would the Soviets want to bomb this tiny village?"
"Why do you want to eat three meals a day?" she had asked icily. "Are you questioning our Great Leader's judgment?"
Since then, she often used Ming as an example of someone who was arrogant and lazy.
Despite Teacher Panda's steadfast belief in Chairman Mao, the Soviet attack never came. What did come were intriguing artifacts-ancient bronze swords and arrowheads-that popped out of the newly dug tunnels like bamboo shoots after a spring rain, prompting the government to establish an outpost for the Xi'an museum in Red Star to streamline the processing of relics between the village and the city. After three months of working in the fields, Ming's bā ba had convinced the museum to grant him the outpost's archaeologist position.
It was a long morning for Ming. He had to stand through all his classes: English, Communist Revolutionary History, Political Studies, and Math. He wished they taught something interesting at school, like ancient history or electronic circuitry. He was so relieved when the Political Officer's voice boomed over the loudspeaker, "Good afternoon, Revolutionary Comrades! Lunchtime!"
He snatched up his schoolbag and made for the door.
"Ming, turn in your homework!" Teacher Panda yelled after him.
Ming ignored her and raced out, brushing past his classmates.
