Taylor Sam - The house of Yan: a family at the heart of a century in Chinese history

A revolution is not a dinner party, or writing an essay, or painting a picture, or doing embroidery; it cannot be so refined, so leisurely and gentle, so temperate, kind, courteous, restrained and magnanimous. A revolution is an insurrection, an act of violence by which one class overthrows another.

Mao Zedong, the Little Red Book, 1966

There are seven or eight of them.

Seven or eight men, heels hammering up the three flights of stairs in Apartment Building 10 of the State Councils residence.

Their fists pound on the door.

Seven or eight caps, uniforms, armbands rush into the apartment.

Yan Baohang! the caps bark.

This is not the name of the woman in the kitchen, our ayi, who is making dinner, and who cries out in fear.

It is not the name of my grandmotherI shove my face into her soft fleece blouse, and her hands cover my ears to protect them from the shouting.

Yan Baohang, the name they are barking all over our apartment, is my grandfathers name. The name of the man I call Yeye.

I am crying because I am not used to all this yelling, all these staircase stampedes, all this banging on doors.

Despite my grandmothers hands, which tremble as they stroke my hair, despite the downy warmth of her blouse, where I have cocooned my fear, the barking of those seven or eight tense jaws terrifies me.

Yan Baohang!

My grandfathers name.

Yan Baohang does not hide. He has come out of his office. He stands there calmly. Yes, thats me. Who are you? What do you want?

One of the caps turns to me then and says, No need to cry, little girl. He is just coming with us so we can talk. Its very simple. The cap adds, He will come with us for a few hours. Or a few days. To talk with us. And when he has said everything he has to say, your grandfather will come home. So theres nothing to cry about!

My grandfather does not say: Thats right, Nan-nan, dont be scared! My grandfather Yan Baohang, who does not look angry or upset (have I ever seen Yeye angry or upset?), who does not even seem worried, merely serious, replies in the cool, composed voice that he always uses in solemn moments. In that case, gentlemen, in order for me to comply with your requestnamely, that I follow you so that we can talkI must see some official papers, an arrest warrant, something that proves...

Papers? But how could a few pieces of paper prevent my grandfather from eating dinner with us, as he does every evening? How could a few pieces of paper deprive me of my grandfathers palm placed ritually on my head as he says in his gentle, tender voice: Come on, Nan-nan, its time for bed now.

But as I peek sideways from my grandmothers blouse, just to check that such papers do not exist, I see them being taken from the pocket of a uniform jacket and held in front of my grandfathers face. With one hand he adjusts his glasses; with the other he signals the men to go through into his office. And he says: The only radio in the apartment is in there. Please, gentlemen, examine it to ensure that it is not, as you claim, a telegraph transceiver. You are still suspicious? Very well, gentlemen, then please take this radio, have it examined. Let us be done with this.

Forty minutes passed. The three of us did not move. Did not speak. The ayi stood in the kitchen doorway, while Nainai and I sat in the dining room. Other than the pounding of my grandmothers heart, which I could feel through the fabric of her blouse, other than my grandfathers dry cough, reaching us from his office where he was locked in with those soldiers, not a single sound was audible in the dark apartment building. The night held its breath.