records and personal belongings. We can’t let the children near those things.’
Mrs Yang’s room was very small; one wall was almost completely covered with a photograph that had been so overenlarged that it looked like a painting in pixels of colour. It showed a young girl with lively eyes, lips parted as if about to speak.
Gazing at the picture, Mrs Yang said, ‘This is my daughter. The photo was taken when she graduated from primary school. It’s the only picture I have of her.’
‘She’s very pretty.’
‘Yes. Even in nursery school, she was always acting and making speeches.’
‘She must have been very clever.’
‘I think so – she was never top of the class, but she never gave me any cause for worry.’ Mrs Yang stroked the photograph as she spoke. ‘It’s been nearly twenty years since she left me. I know she didn’t want to go. She was fourteen. She knew about life and death: she didn’t want to die.’
‘I heard that she survived the earthquake?’
‘Yes, but it would have been better for her to have been crushed to death at once. She waited fourteen days – fourteen days and two hours, knowing death was approaching. And she was only fourteen . . .’ Mrs Yang broke down.
Unable to keep my own tears back, I said, ‘Auntie Yang, I’m sorry,’ and put my hand on her shoulder.
She sobbed for a few minutes. ‘I’m . . . I’m all right. Xinran, you can’t imagine what a wretched scene that was. I will never forget the expression on her face.’ She gazed at the photograph again with loving eyes. ‘Her mouth was slightly open, just like this . . .’
Distressed by her tears, I asked, ‘Auntie Yang, you’ve been busy all day, you’re tired, let’s talk next time, all right?’
Mrs Yang composed herself. ‘No, I’ve heard you’re very busy. You’ve come all this way just to hear our stories; I can’t let you leave with nothing.’
‘It doesn’t matter, I have time,’ I reassured her.
She was resolute. ‘No, no. I’ll tell you now.’ She took a deep breath. ‘My husband had died a year before, and my daughter and I lived in a fifth-floor flat allocated by the work unit. We had only one room, and shared a common kitchen and bathroom. It wasn’t a big room, but we didn’t find it cramped. Because I hate extremes of heat and cold, my half of the room was by the inner wall, and my daughter’s was by the outer wall. That morning, I was woken suddenly by rumbling, banging and a violent shaking. My daughter called out, and tried to get out of bed to come over to me. I tried to stand, but couldn’t stay upright. Everything was tilting, the wall was leaning towards me. Suddenly, the wall by my daughter disappeared, and we were exposed on the edge of the fifth floor. It was very warm, so we were only in our underclothes. My daughter screamed and wrapped her arms around her chest, but before she could react more fully, she was thrown over the edge by another falling wall.
‘I screamed her name as I held on to some clothes hooks on the wall. It was only after the swaying had stopped and I could stand still on the sloping floor that I realised this was an earthquake. I looked frantically for a way to get downstairs, and staggered off, shouting my daughter’s name.
‘I hadn’t realised that I wasn’t dressed. All the other survivors were wearing very little too. Some were even naked, but nobody thought about these things. We were all running around wildly in the half-light, weeping and shouting for our relatives.
‘In the cacophony, I screamed myself hoarse asking everyone in sight about my daughter. Some of the people I approached asked me if I had seen their relatives. Everyone was wild-eyed and yelling, nobody took anything in. As people gradually realised the full horror of the situation, a grieving silence fell. You could have heard a pin drop. I was afraid to move, in case I made the earth start shaking again. We stood surveying the scene before us:
Mrs Yang’s room was very small; one wall was almost completely covered with a photograph that had been so overenlarged that it looked like a painting in pixels of colour. It showed a young girl with lively eyes, lips parted as if about to speak.
Gazing at the picture, Mrs Yang said, ‘This is my daughter. The photo was taken when she graduated from primary school. It’s the only picture I have of her.’
‘She’s very pretty.’
‘Yes. Even in nursery school, she was always acting and making speeches.’
‘She must have been very clever.’
‘I think so – she was never top of the class, but she never gave me any cause for worry.’ Mrs Yang stroked the photograph as she spoke. ‘It’s been nearly twenty years since she left me. I know she didn’t want to go. She was fourteen. She knew about life and death: she didn’t want to die.’
‘I heard that she survived the earthquake?’
‘Yes, but it would have been better for her to have been crushed to death at once. She waited fourteen days – fourteen days and two hours, knowing death was approaching. And she was only fourteen . . .’ Mrs Yang broke down.
Unable to keep my own tears back, I said, ‘Auntie Yang, I’m sorry,’ and put my hand on her shoulder.
She sobbed for a few minutes. ‘I’m . . . I’m all right. Xinran, you can’t imagine what a wretched scene that was. I will never forget the expression on her face.’ She gazed at the photograph again with loving eyes. ‘Her mouth was slightly open, just like this . . .’
Distressed by her tears, I asked, ‘Auntie Yang, you’ve been busy all day, you’re tired, let’s talk next time, all right?’
Mrs Yang composed herself. ‘No, I’ve heard you’re very busy. You’ve come all this way just to hear our stories; I can’t let you leave with nothing.’
‘It doesn’t matter, I have time,’ I reassured her.
She was resolute. ‘No, no. I’ll tell you now.’ She took a deep breath. ‘My husband had died a year before, and my daughter and I lived in a fifth-floor flat allocated by the work unit. We had only one room, and shared a common kitchen and bathroom. It wasn’t a big room, but we didn’t find it cramped. Because I hate extremes of heat and cold, my half of the room was by the inner wall, and my daughter’s was by the outer wall. That morning, I was woken suddenly by rumbling, banging and a violent shaking. My daughter called out, and tried to get out of bed to come over to me. I tried to stand, but couldn’t stay upright. Everything was tilting, the wall was leaning towards me. Suddenly, the wall by my daughter disappeared, and we were exposed on the edge of the fifth floor. It was very warm, so we were only in our underclothes. My daughter screamed and wrapped her arms around her chest, but before she could react more fully, she was thrown over the edge by another falling wall.
‘I screamed her name as I held on to some clothes hooks on the wall. It was only after the swaying had stopped and I could stand still on the sloping floor that I realised this was an earthquake. I looked frantically for a way to get downstairs, and staggered off, shouting my daughter’s name.
‘I hadn’t realised that I wasn’t dressed. All the other survivors were wearing very little too. Some were even naked, but nobody thought about these things. We were all running around wildly in the half-light, weeping and shouting for our relatives.
‘In the cacophony, I screamed myself hoarse asking everyone in sight about my daughter. Some of the people I approached asked me if I had seen their relatives. Everyone was wild-eyed and yelling, nobody took anything in. As people gradually realised the full horror of the situation, a grieving silence fell. You could have heard a pin drop. I was afraid to move, in case I made the earth start shaking again. We stood surveying the scene before us:
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