Big Breasts & Wipe Hips: A Novel

in the cause of victory. Just how much is one little cart worth? Our frontline troops are waiting for these provisions, and I don’t want to hear any protests from you.”
    “You and I are from different districts, sir,” Wang Chao said. “And different counties. So what authority do you have to commandeer my cart?”
    “Who cares about county or district,” the one-armed man said. “This is support for the front lines.”
    “No,” Wang Chao, “I can’t let you do that.”
    The one-armed man knelt down on one knee, took out a pen, and removed its cap with his teeth. Then he laid a slip of paper across his knee and scribbled something on it. “What’s your name?” he asked. “And which county and district are you from?”
    Wang Chao told him.
    “Your county head, Lu Liren, and I are old comrades-in-arms. So here’s what we’ll do. After the battle’s over, you give this to him, and he’ll see that you get a new cart.”
    Wang Chao pointed to us and said, “That’s Lu Liren’s mother-in-law, sir. That’s his family.”
    “Madam,” the one-armed man said, “you’ll be my witness. Just tell him that the situation was critical, and that Guo Mofu, political instructor of the Eighth Militia Company of the Bohai District, borrowed a pushcart belonging to the villager Wang Chao, and ask him to take care of it for me.”
    Then he turned back to Wang Chao. “That’ll do it,” he said as he pressed the slip of paper into Wang’s hand. Then he turned and said angrily to Wang Jin, “What are you standing around for? If we don’t get these provisions there in time, you and your son will taste the whip, and me, Guo Mofu, I’ll taste the bullet!” He turned to Wang Chao. “Unload your cart, and be quick about it!”
    “What am I supposed to do, sir?” Wang Chao said.
    “If you’re worried about your cart, you can come along with us. Our porter company has enough food for one more man. Once the battle’s over, you can take your cart with you.”
    “But, sir, I just escaped from there,” Wang Chao said tearfully.
    “Are you going to make me take out my pistol and put a bullet in you?” the enraged political instructor demanded. “We’re not afraid to spill blood and make sacrifices for the revolution. I can’t believe you’re making such a fuss over a little cart.”
    “Aunt,” Wang Chao said pathetically. “You’re my witness.”
    Mother nodded.
    Wang Jin and his son gleefully walked off with Wang Chao’s rubber-tired cart, as the one-armed man nodded politely to Mother, before turning and running off to catch up with his men.
    Wang Chao sat down on his quilt, a pained look on his face, mumbling to himself. “Talk about bad luck! Why does everything happen to me? Who did I offend?” Tears slid down his fat cheeks.
    We finally made it to the foot of the mountain, where the gravel road spoked off into ten or more narrow paths that wound their way up the mountainside. That evening, the refugees gathered in groups where all sorts of dialects were spoken, to pass on conflicting reports. We suffered through the night huddled amid the underbrush at the foot of the mountain. Dull explosions, like peals of thunder, sounded both to the north and the south, as artillery shells tore through the darkness in sweeping arcs. The air turned cold and damp as the night deepened, and bitter winds snaked out of mountain crevasses, violently shaking the leaves and branches of our shelter and setting fallen leaves rustling. Foxes in their dens cried mournfully. Sick children moaned like unhappy cats; the coughs from old folks sounded like gongs being struck. It was a terrible night, and when dawn broke, we would find dozens of frozen corpses lining the mountain hollows — children, old folks, even young men and women. Our family owed its survival to the unusual low trees, with their golden leaves, that protected us. They were the only trees whose leaves had not fallen. We lay together on the thick, dry grass beneath the trees, huddled under the one quilt we’d brought. My goat lay up against my back and shielded me from the wind. The hours after midnight were the worst. The rumble of artillery fire to the south only increased the stillness of the night; people’s moans cut deeply into our hearts and made us tremble. A melody much like the familiar “cat’s meow,” our local drama, sounded in our ears. It was a woman’s sobs. Amid the overwhelming silence, the sounds sliced into the rocks, cold