Dark Night - 2016

Since I was a child, the tune of the Russian song “Tyomnaja Notch” (which translates to “Dark Night”) has stayed with me. Whenever loneliness creeps in, its melody springs from the deepest chamber of my heart.

As an adolescent, my parents were persecuted during the Cultural Revolution and were both put into prison. My father eventually lost his life to this maelstrom. My family’s savings were frozen; my little brother had only started elementary school. Based on a recommendation from a high school peer, I began my apprenticeship at the train depot, filling in for the workers that had left to join the rebellion. Meals were provided for, and the daily salary of five cents could buy six bowls of noodles for my brother. At that point, every aspect of reality was mired in chaos. People were suspended in a state of frenzied delirium; very few showed up for work, so that many businesses were left short-staffed. Automobiles were abandoned and derelict, and many parts of the railway system were inoperative. I was barely as tall as my coal shovel, but nonetheless I was sent on the train as a stoker-training, while in truth I functioned as a formal employee.

The train I worked on was called PL002, a small PL9 model manufactured by the United States in 1929. I absolutely adored this gigantic, timeworn steam train that the workers nicknamed “The Old Nine.” I always liked to burnish all the pieces of bronze until they shined. On every journey, I had to dump all twelve tons of coal stored onboard into the furnace. I developed the skill to twirl the shovel with my right hand while performing all sorts of actions with the other hand. Coal and ash had to be distributed to the four corners of the furnace as well as the center so that all would be heated uniformly, and thus provide enough pressure to power the train. Along the way I learned the different hand signals: a thumbs-up meant to go straight, and a slanted thumb meant for the t rain to cross through. It was imperative for me to communicate with the drivers to confirm my observations. I often had to turn on the pump and add water to the boiler just to ensure that the boiler wouldn’t exhaust itself and explode. These are all experiences one cannot easily forget.

My clearest memory is of the night cars. Back then, most of the cities were underdeveloped; the majority of China was farmland and rural area, places that primarily relied on kerosene lighting. Once the stark darkness of night veiled the earth, it often seemed as if only the loud roaring engine of the train, the straight glare of the headlight on the tracks ahead, and the exchange of dirty jokes and conversation between the drivers existed. Time stretched into a dull eternity. I frequently stood on the links between the locomotive and the steam room, clinging to the iron chains and copper handles, and gazed into the dark fields. I let the relentless wind cool my cheeks that were scorched by the glaring furnace, and repeatedly sang my dear song, “Dark Night,” its Russian name being, “Тёмная ночь.” Sometimes a light would appear in the distance. It would flicker as we approached, and my heart would beat faster until it’s speed matched the blinking of the light. That little light represented a family, and I imagined their home to be very warm and dear. Maybe they had just started chatting beside a lamp, their dog or cat resting at their feet…

Light became my solace in those tumbling, never-ending nights. Each time we passed by a source of light, I would cling to the anticipation of another one appearing soon. My hopes were renewed each time, easing the sorrows and hardship of my life. And luckily, in such an environment, the private world of my imagination continued to exist freely. It was to the preserved memory of art in my life before the Cultural Revolution that I escaped to: the artwork of Repin, Surikov, and Bruegel Pieter, the poetry and prose I had the honor of reading by Gogol, Chekhov, Tolstoy, Hemingway, Neruda, Hugo, Balzac, Pushkin, Lermontov, Baron, Longfellow, Shelley, and Whitman, the lasting melodies of Chopin, Liszt, Mozart, and Beethoven. I was especially fond of Russian modernist Konstantin Paustovsky’s story about Hans Anderson, The Night Coach.

I was accompanied by these great artists, and comforted by the profound spirituality of their priceless work; so despite of those dark, sleepless nights I could momentarily forget the despair and helplessness I had felt after our property had been confiscated and my family was left staring helplessly at each other in a small cramped room. I could also leave behind the horrid memory of being pushed on a rocky road as I attempted to chase after the red guards who carried my father away with their crimson armbands and truncheons. It wasn’t until later, however, that I realized that although people now believed him to be culturally significant and therefore respected him, he was never to come home again. I could even wash away the humiliating memory of the day my brother and I went to visit my imprisoned mother and brought along with us, since neither of us knew how to cook, some food from the school cafeteria. The worker that was in charge, when checking the container, sneered disdainfully and said, “I don’t see how she deserves this quality of food!” But the food he objected to was just simple plain fried cabbage I had bought with the only few cents I had. It was nothing but a dry cheap meal.

O! The grandeur and greatness of art, a power that eclipses even the vast hollow loneliness of a long night. Perhaps these lights that had so often consoled me represent the warmth of humanity, while the great artists are the innumerable stars fixed in the firmament. Together, the light they shine feeds the flame of hope in our dreary hearts that are burdened by dark nights. Just like how the headlight of the train pierced the dark night with its sharp, powerful beam of light, art illuminates the road that leads to the ultimate destination.

--- Cen Long 2016