"Letter from Home" - 1944
门开了。
我机械地回头一看。 一个高大底影子带着沉重底脚步声向着我移近，走到我旁边的一张凳子，便把他那庞大底身体抛上去。 我回过头来继续做我的功课， 毫无意味地说， “龙，回来了吗？”
后面有着移动的声音，他一面脱着鞋子，一面低着头说，
“在金叔处有一封给你的信。” “唔，给我的信。 ” 我没有一点表情地说， “你知道是什么信吗？” 我没有得到回答。 他那个疲倦地身体已经躺在床上，好像呼呼地入睡了。
“好像说是由中国寄来的。” 我突然听这样呻吟般的回答，不觉回头看那床上底身体，我想他大概已经熟睡了。 他张开了一个大口，呼呼地抽著空气，很有点呆相，我很想倒些水入他底口中。
“中国来的信” 这个完全占有我底思想。 下意识底就联想到“母亲的信” 来。 没有收到家中底信已经五个多月了，没有寄银回家也有这么久底时间。 近来我很怀疑他们是否生存。
现在有封中国来的信，是否家中的人还活着呢？ 我不能想像他们生存的方法。
忧郁的思潮渐渐占有我的一切了。 我突然发现桌上那些未做完的功课，我想集中精神把它完成，但是当我低下头去看的时候，在纸上，在书上， 都布满了“中国的来信”，“母亲的信”
这些想像幻影，渐渐向着我的眼睛迫进来。
我尽力挣扎了好几次，但是我不能克服它，时间早已把我的克服能力夺去了。 我知道没有希望了，便颓废底躺在椅上，好像一个力乏的挣扎者，已经完全大败地倒下去。
时钟的的地响着，夜是死般地沉静。我眼前摆着几个已经当兵去了的朋友的相，但是我的思想已经飞到遥遥的中国去了。
“呜！” 远处传来一声汽笛的声音把我警觉过来。 时钟还是低着头用心地做它的工作。 夜依然是死般地沈静。 我从架上取了一枝烟来，含在唇边，慢慢地抽着。
白的烟丝继续向空中升上，我仰起头来观看这断续的情绪，想从那白丝中追忆我的过去。
我觉得眼前的灯有点太亮，便顺手把它熄灭了，我立刻把自己堕入黑暗的包围中，除了那烟头上的一点火光，但是这也被我的身遮盖了。
两年半了，来这里已经有这么久，孩子的我已经被时光磨练为成人了。那颗破裂的心渐渐地被时间补合，泪的泉源早也枯了。 奴隶般的挣扎，已经做到现在独立的地步。
这十七年的小生命，已差不多享尽人间的一切痛苦和悲哀了。
我没有艺术地压熄了烟头，沉默了两分钟。
的的，的的，时钟不停地叩着，我渐渐地感到不安，思想也被它叩乱了。 我觉得这个估计生命的器具很讨厌，它妨碍我的思想。 我一手开着灯，同时一手拿起它，要把它抛上墙去。
电灯一亮，我的眼前一花，我没有抛去手上的时钟。
床上的那个身体把我呆着了，他依然张着大的口，在抽空气。 我不觉有点憎恨他，我妒忌他没有感觉的幸福。 我想把手上的钟掷向他的头上去，但是一转念，便嘘了一口气，慢慢地放下了时钟。
自言着，“他也有他自己的悲哀和痛苦吧”。
无聊得很，空气渐渐闷起来，我觉得呼吸也不自然。 站了起来，在这方丈的室中踱了几步，衣服也没加上一件就开门下楼到街上去了。
当我第一步踏出大门外的时候，一阵寒气向我的面上吹来。 打了一个寒颤，觉得很痛快，漫步地向着最静的地方走去。
朦胧的街灯无情地闪着，灯光努力地抵抗着侵袭的密雾，空中划成一个圆球。 夜的黑幕盖着大地，还有这浓浓的密雾散布四方。 在黑夜中，我们还有小小的星颗照耀着，
但是现在雾却把我们这小小的光明也拿去了，换上一片糊涂，糊涂的大地，糊涂的人生。
我无目的的走着，自己也不知道已经走了多少地方。 脑海中装满了许多忧郁，无聊，和悲哀，都联系著“中国的来信”， “母亲的信”。 假如不是从远处传来的几声船笛的呼呼声，我简直不知我还是在这世间行走着。
“铛，铛 。。。。” 远方教堂的钟声沉重地响了十二下，在黑暗和模糊中把它特有的声音来迎接新的一天，和送走过去的一天。 我被这钟声醒觉起来，时候已很迟了，明天还要上学读书，我便转身向家处走。
原来我站的地方是个码头，我的视线被无情的雾切断了，只看到几点红绿的灯和听到些水的流声。 回家的路上觉得很长。 微小的我站在广大的天空和黑夜中觉得更加空虚，而且还有点害怕。
我就加快了脚步，一路见不到一个人或者是一件移动的物体。
宇宙间好像只有我存在，我就是宇宙的一切，还是死一般地沉静。
回到房间已经是十二时半了。 疲倦由脚跟渐渐升上了我整个身体，额上布了些微的汗珠，头部隐隐地有些发痛。
走到水槽边拿起面巾来想抹一下面，那条长方形的面巾已变了微黄色，上面穿了十几个洞，大的也有三寸直径，已经失去了它本来的形状。
幸而功用还是一样，虽然它是这样破烂， 但是我依然恋着它，像自己的爱人一般，我不忍因为无用而抛弃它，它是我每天不离的忠实伴侣，它和我的亲近已经有两年半的历史了。
它因为染了我的眼泪和汗珠而增高了价值，它是我唯一底生命纪念品，无形地刻着我两年多来奋斗底的·历史。 我不能抛弃它，我要把它用火来烧，使它化为青烟，永远地留在空间，给我时常追忆着。
一个观念溜进我底脑中，记得母亲给我买这三条面巾的时候，还戏言说 “用完了这三条毛巾就好回来了。” 我带着孩子气地回答， “这不过是两年间底时候吧了” 母亲接着微微一笑，我知道这笑是愉快的。
现在已经两年半了，我还用着第一条毛巾，而且好像想把它延长到三年底生命。 虽然，现在精神上受着一点痛苦，但是从前底灾患，恐怖，现在已经放在记忆上了。
但是在这变乱底世事中，回想起母亲别时凄惨底情形，现在却觉得临别时那句
“这或许是永远底离别了！” 的可能性来。 我对着镜子抚着面部高起底颧骨，苦笑了一下，两颗热泪不觉从眼中涌了出来。
爬上床后， 转了几次身， 脑海中还有着那封要取底中国来信。 但是睡魔用着甜蜜底手段， 把我引到另一个世界去了。
。。。。。。 模糊，混乱，好像几副影画机同时射在一个银幕上一样。 好像回到家中，见了母亲。 一切又混乱起来了，我突然握着一封信，是由中国寄来底。
我读着，但是不知道所写底是什么，只听到一个句在响着，“他们全都死了”。 。 。 。
我从梦中转了回来， “他们全都死了” 很清楚地刻在我底脑海中。 我尽力去追想那个梦，可是除了那话外，什么也记不起来。 这句话是我明年不幸消息底预兆吗？ 我并不曾为这一句话而受了过分底恐怖。
这样底梦，近来也不知做过多少了。
但是我的梦应验的却很多。 我想他们究竟能用什么方法来生存呢？简直没
有。 家里没有田地，连挖泥土充饥的权利也没有。 除了死，还会有别的出路吗？ 照宗教和道德观念说来，他们都没有做过什么亏心的事，为什么要受这罪罚呢？
假如真的都死了，那么我们两处的挂心从此可以消灭了，苦痛可以不必受了。
但是造物者又怎能这样忍心呢？
我张开了眼睛，看不见一点东西，我怀疑自己到底有没有眼睛。 我沉默着，夜漆般黑地压在我的身上，我渐渐地感到不安，空气也是沉重地压着我。 时钟的的地扣着，越扣越响，扣进我的心脏。
我的心跳动得很厉害，快要跳了出来。
我害怕这个黑暗，我想起来，但是我却不能动，好像有件沉重的东西压着我一样。 我辛苦地挣扎了几次，但是没有功效，已经着了魔似的。 我的额头涌出了汗珠。 我想叫，但咽喉也像被紧握着一样，总发不出声音来。
我颓唐地躺着，像等着死的降临。
渐渐地我又睡着了。
早晨醒来，昨夜的事也忘记了。 放学和做工之后，已经是夜间九时。 整天都想念着那封要去取的中国来信。
握着那封从金叔取来的信，我一路向着家里走。 进门后，就在靠窗的一张椅子上坐下。 从衣袋中取出那封信来，拿在手中，细心看着那个己被检查员闹过的陈旧信封，好像是没有勇气开似的。
一看那地址上的字迹，就认出是母亲所写的。
我不觉又定了一次神，终于把它开了。 手微微颤动地握着那张薄的信纸，连气看了三次， 无力地放下了手。 脑海中滚着信中的句子，他们没有死掉。 我像得了一点安慰，虽然不算是生活着，但是也还生存着。
生存着来挣扎，来受更大的痛苦，到终也是不免一样地毁灭。
窗外闪耀着光明的星颗。 这星颗闪亮了我的心，天上，心中都没有半片黑云。 呼！ 生命是多么宝贵的时候，今夜的宇宙格外可爱，世间到底也是值得留恋的地方，人类总不会没有点好处吧。
天空是多么美丽，都市的夜景也很动人，我的心有时也有天空般濶呀。
外面，又夜深了。
The door opens.
Mechanically I turn my head and look. A tall, big shadow in heavy footsteps moves towards me and throws his enormous body onto a chair next to me. I turn my head back, continuing with my homework and ask nonchalantly, “Lung, you’ve returned?” There are sounds of movement at the back. While taking off his shoes, he lowers his head and says, “There‘s a letter for you at Uncle Gum’s place.” “Um. A letter for me.” I ask without any facial expression, “Do you know what kind of letter?” I get no reply. His exhausted body has already lain down in bed and is seemingly sound asleep.
“Sounds like it is from China.” I suddenly hear such a groaning reply. I turn back with spontaneity and look at that body in bed. I think he probably has fallen into a deep sleep. His mouth is wide-opened, sucking in air, wheezing and looking a bit dumb. I really want to pour some water into his mouth.
The thought of “a letter from China” completely occupies my mind, and subconsciously I think of “mother’s letter.” I haven’t received letters from home for over five months, and I haven’t sent money home for just as long a time. Lately I doubt whether they still exist. Now there is a letter coming from China. Are they or are they not still living? I cannot imagine their means of survival. Waves of melancholic thoughts slowly occupy the whole of me. I suddenly realize the incomplete homework on the desk. I try to concentrate to finish it, but when I lower my head, all I see on the paper and in the book are filled with illusory images of “letter from China” and “mother’s letter” gradually forcing into my eyes. I exert in struggling against them several times, but fail to overcome them. Time has long robbed away my enduring ability. I know it is hopeless, so I dispiritedly slump into the chair like a listless fighter fallen in a complete defeat.
The clock ticks away as the night is deathlike silence. I see in front of me a few pictures of my friends who were drafted into the army, but my thoughts have flown to the distant China.
“Whooo!” The sound of a far away steam whistle wakes me up. The clock is still lowering its head earnestly doing its work. The night is deathlike silence as before. I take a cigarette from a bookshelf, holding it in my lips and smoking it slowly. As the white smoke continues to rise into the air, I lift my head and watch the intermittent movement of these sentiments, yearning to recollect my past from these white silky threads. I find the light in front of me being a bit too bright, so I put it out in passing. Instantly I throw myself into the surround of darkness. Even that little flare on the cigarette end is also being veiled by my body.
Two and a half years now – I have been here for this long. The child in me has been tempered by time and has become an adult. That broken heart has gradually been mended by time, and the springhead of tears has also been dried up. Struggled like a slave before, I have reached this state of independence. This little life of a seventeen year old has experienced almost all kinds of pain and sorrow in life.
Ineptly I press to extinguish the cigarette and remain silent for a couple of minutes.
Tick. Tock. The clock keeps on ticktocking. I gradually feel restless as the knocking messes up my thoughts. I find this device of time measurement to be very annoying. It is obstructing my thinking. I turn on the light with one hand and pick up the clock on the other. I want to throw it against the wall. When the light is lit and glaring my eyes, I have not thrown out the clock in my hand as I am stunned by that body in bed. He still has his mouth wide-opened, pumping in air. Unintentionally I feel a bit of hate towards him. I am jealous of him being blessed with a lack of emotion. I want to throw the clock in my hand to his head, but on second thought, I sigh and slowly put down the clock. I say to myself, “He, too, probably has his own sorrow and pain.”
It’s so boresome, and the air turns stifling. I find breathing uneasy. I stand up and pace a few steps within this ten-by-ten feet room. I open the door and go downstairs and onto the street without adding another piece of clothing.
A gust of chilly wind blows at my face when I step out of the front door. I shiver and feel refreshed and slowly stroll towards the most quiet location.
The hazy signal lights flash heartlessly. The street light strives to resist the invasive thick fog, delineating a circle of light in the air. The black curtain of night covers the earth, and this densely thick fog spreads over all directions. In the dark night we usually still have a few small stars shining, yet now the fog has taken away even our bit of lightness, as it transforms the night into a muddled mess. A muddled world and a muddled life.
I wander aimlessly, not knowing how many places I have been. My mind is full of melancholy, annoyance, and sorrow – all are related to “letter from China” and “mother’s letter”. If it was not for the few tooting of steam whistles coming from distant ships, I simply don’t know I am still walking in this world.
“Dong! Dong!” The church bell in the distance strikes twelve heavy notes, delivering to this darkness and muddled mess a unique sound that welcomes a new day and sends away the old one. I am awakened by the sound of this bell and realize it is very late now. I have to go to school tomorrow, so I turn around and head home. It turns out that where I am standing is a wharf. My vision is cut off by the unfeeling fog. I can see only a few dots of red and green lights and hear slight sounds of flowing water. The road to home feels like a long distance, and the insignificant me standing under the vast sky and in the dark night is feeling emptier and also a little frightened. I accelerate my footsteps, seeing not a single person or a moving object on the way. I seem to be the only one existing in this universe, and I am the whole of the universe. The night is still deathlike silence.
It is twelfth thirty when I return to my room. Fatigue gradually rises from the heels of my feet to the entirety of my body. My forehead is covered with sweat while my head is aching slightly. I go over to the side of the wash basin and pick up a washcloth to wipe my face. This rectangular washcloth has turned yellowish. On it, there are more than ten holes, with the big one three inches in diameter. It has lost its original shape, but fortunately it is still functional. Although it is so ragged, I am still fond of it as my lover. I can’t bear to throw it away due to its uselessness. It is my daily, inseparable faithful companion. This washcloth and I have been close for a record of two and a half years. Its saturation of my tears and sweat has increased its value. It is the only souvenir of my life that has intangibly marked the history of my struggle in the last two years. I cannot throw it away. I will burn it into clear smoke, letting it forever remain in space and allowing me to frequently recollect memories. A thought slips into my mind. I remember when mother bought me these three pieces of washcloth, she jokingly said, “When you finish using these three towels, it is time to return.” In a child’s manner I replied, “It’s only about a period of two years.” Mother just smiled, and I knew this smile is a happy one.
Now, two and a half years have passed, and I am still using the first towel. It seems like I want to extend its life to three years. Although I am painful in spirit at the present, I have nevertheless set into my memory the calamity and horror of the past. Yet in this world of turmoil, when I recall mother's miserable situation at the time of our parting, now I feel the possibility of her saying, “this perhaps is the eternal farewell.” Facing the mirror, I touch my high cheekbone and smile bitterly, while two warm tears unknowingly gushing out of my eyes.
After I climb into bed, tossing around a few times with my mind still occupied with that letter from China to be picked up, the sleep devil with pleasing tactics lures me into another world.
……faintness, chaos. There seems to be several projectors simultaneously projecting on the same screen. I seem to have returned home and have seen my mother. Everything is in chaos again. Suddenly I am holding a letter from China. I am reading the letter, but I don’t know what was written. I only hear the sound of one sentence: “They are all dead . . . ."
I return from my dream and the line “they are all dead” is clearly inscribed in my mind. I try my best to recall and search for the dream, but other than this line I cannot remember anything else. Is this sentence the omen of the tragic news for me next year? I have not been overly frightened by this saying. I don’t know just how many of such dreams I have had recently.
Yet many of my dreams have come true. I wonder in what exact way can they rely on for survival? There is really none. Our family has no farmland – they don’t even have the right to dig up soil to allay their hunger. What other way out do they have besides death? Speaking in terms of concepts of religion and morality, they have not done any deeds that trouble their consciences. Why do they receive such punishment? If they are indeed all dead, then our suspended hearts on both sides will vanish hereafter, and we will no longer need to bear suffering. But how can the heart of the Creator bear so?
I open my eyes, seeing nothing, and I wonder whether I really have eyes. I remain silent, while the pitch-dark night pressing down on my body. Gradually I feel disturbed, as the air is also heavily pressing down on me. The clock keeps ticking and knocking away, louder and louder, striking on my heart. My heart beats rapidly and is about to hop out. I am afraid of this darkness. I want to get up, but I cannot move, as if a heavy object is pressing down on me. I struggle a few times in exhaustion and with no effect, like I have been possessed by a demon. My forehead gushes out sweat. I want to scream, but my throat is like being gripped and I can’t utter a sound. Dejectedly I remain lying, as if waiting for the arrival of death. Slowly I fall back into sleep.
Waking up in the morning, I have forgotten the events of last night. When I am done with school and work, it is already nine o’clock at night. For the whole day I have been thinking about going to pick up that letter from China.
Grasping the letter that I picked up from Uncle Gum, I go straight home. Upon entering the room, I sit on a chair next to the window and take out the letter in my pocket. Holding it in my hand, I carefully look at the worn envelope that had been meddled by the censor. I seem to lack the courage to open it. Once I see the handwriting of the address, I instantly recognize it as mother's. Unmindfully I recompose myself for a moment and finally open it. With slightly shaken hands holding on the thin letter paper, I read it three times straight without a pause. I put down my limp hands. My brain rolls out the saying from the letter: they are not dead. It seems to have given me some comfort. Even though it is not considered living, they still exist nevertheless – exist to struggle, exist to bear greater pains. In the end, all will unavoidably perish just the same.
Outside the window stars are shining brightly. These stars glisten my heart. There is not a single dark cloud in the sky nor in my heart. Oh! How precious is life. The universe is especially lovely tonight. The world is after all a place worthy of our nostalgic fondness. Wouldn’t humanity have something good to offer after all? How beautiful is the sky. The night scenery of the city is so moving as well. Oh! My heart sometimes is also as vast as the sky.
Outside, the night deepens once more.