CDJMM – Volume 1 – Funeral (Part 2)

Lightning streaked through the rolling storm clouds, the rumble of thunder drawing ever closer. An autumn wind swept across the desolate crossroads, adding yet another layer of bleakness to the scene.

Li Shuran stood at the front, clutching the spirit tablet in her arms. Before her was a tight chain of police officers, their formation forming an impenetrable blockade that barred the funeral procession from moving forward.

The drums and gongs of the funeral band fell silent. The musicians, uncertain and fearful, set down their instruments, and a restless unease rippled through the air.

Tightening her grip on the spirit tablet as if drawing strength from it, Li Shuran asked slowly, each word deliberate: “What crime did my brother commit?”

The fat police officer smirked carelessly. “Writing seditious books isn’t a crime? We’ve already shown mercy by not arresting him. And yet you think a criminal deserves such a grand funeral?”

Expressionless, Li Shuran fixed her gaze on the officer who arrogantly recited her brother’s so-called crimes. All she felt was overwhelming absurdity—and rage.

“Lies! You’re lying!” the girl’s sharp, grief-stricken voice rang out. “My brother was the most righteous person in the world! Every book he wrote was good! They weren’t seditious at all! You’re villains—liars—monsters!”

Those who had come to send Li Jingran off trembled with fury. Outcries burst forth, voices rising in furious denunciation of the fat officer.

Zheng Yiliang, hot-tempered as always, shoved the man hard. “Bullshit! Can’t you speak like a human being, you bastard?!”

The officer’s face twisted. His beady mung-bean eyes flashed viciously. With a kick, he knocked Zheng Yiliang to the ground. “Motherfucker! You dare mouth off?!” He yanked out the pistol at his waist and leveled it arrogantly at Zheng Yiliang. “All of you—step back! Or I’ll shoot!”

As if on cue, the dozens of policemen behind him all raised their rifles at the funeral procession. The onlookers, who had gathered to watch, scattered like startled sparrows, leaving the street eerily empty.

The air was so still that the faint clatter of teeth could be heard. Then—thud!—a dull sound broke the standoff. The pallbearers, terrified, dropped the coffin, raised their hands, and shouted: “Sir, sir, don’t shoot! We were only paid to do this!”

“You…” Li Shuran’s face drained white, then flushed crimson. Her eyes blazed like fire as she glared at them.

“You dare abandon him?!”

The fat officer chuckled smugly, jerking his chin. “Well? Get lost.”

Under Li Shuran’s searing gaze, the pallbearers scrambled away, fleeing in a panic.

Zheng Yiliang leapt up, grabbed the barrel of the pistol, and pressed it against his own chest.  “Come on! Pull the trigger! If I so much as blink, I’ll take your damn surname!”

Zhou Dezhang glared, spat at the officer, and growled: “If you’ve got guts, kill us all right here!”

The fat officer sneered. “You think I wouldn’t dare?”

Just as the standoff threatened to explode, a white-clad mourning procession appeared, approaching slowly from the front. Against the empty street, they were strikingly conspicuous, instantly drawing every gaze.

The officer spat, scowling. “Who the hell has the nerve to come hold a funeral at a time like this?”

But as the procession drew nearer, their peculiarity became clear—it was made up entirely of women. Beautiful, alluring women, all clad in white mourning garb, weeping bitterly as if their hearts were being torn apart.

The fat officer swung his gun toward them. “Stop! What are you doing here?”

The woman at the front ceased her crying, and answered calmly, neither humble nor overbearing: “We are the three thousand courtesans of the Eight Alleys. Upon hearing that Sir was to be buried today, we came to see him off.”

The officer choked on his words, clearly not expecting that reply.

The woman bowed gracefully. “Sir was the only one in this world who understood us, who cared for us. Now that he is gone, we must send him on his way. We beg you, Officer, grant us this courtesy.”

Behind her, thousands of courtesans bowed in unison, their voices rising together: “We beg you, grant us this courtesy!”

The officer stood stunned, speechless.

And more surprises awaited him.

From another direction at the crossroads, yet another procession appeared—this one made up of an endless line of children.

At the front was a young man in mourning clothes. His face was solemn, his eyes heavy with grief. He addressed the armed police in a low, steady voice: “I am Fu Kemao, head of the Wheatfield Orphanage. Today I lead 458 orphans of our home and 852 street children of Beiping, to send the Watchman on his final journey. Now, get out of our way!”

Behind him, the children’s cries rose in a deafening wave.

As if prearranged, from the right came yet another great procession, dust rising, wails echoing.

At its head, a middle-aged man declared: “I am Wei Chenxi, village head of Xiàhé Township. I bring all the villagers of Xiàhé to send Mr. Lin Zhongqi on his way. I ask that you step aside.”

Then, from Fu Kemao’s side, another procession advanced.

A vigorous old man stepped forward. “I, Yang Jusi, bring over two hundred faculty and students of Beida to honor a fallen patriot.”

“I am Qian Huángguang, president of the student council at Enlightenment High School. We, the entire student body, have come to see off our distinguished alumnus, Li Jingran.”

…

Perhaps it was courage sparked by the growing crowd, or perhaps the flame of justice had never truly died in people’s hearts. More and more joined the funeral procession, each announcing themselves to the police blocking the way.

At last, it seemed the whole of Beiping had arrived to attend Li Jingran’s funeral.

Merchants, scholars, students, farmers, street children, courtesans, journalists—people from every walk of life.

They came only to send off a 17-year-old boy.

Many of them had never even met Li Jingran. And yet, they still came.

When one is moved by righteousness, who still speaks of worldly fame?

The fat officer’s pistol slipped from his hand.

He stood there, at a loss, his bloated figure suddenly small and insignificant in the vast sea of people.

“Do you all have a death wish?!” the fat policeman screeched.

Someone let out a hearty laugh and shouted: “If one lives like a dog, what joy is there in life? If one dies upholding righteousness, what suffering is there in death?”

Zhou Dezhang laughed triumphantly: “Come then! Come kill us! No matter how many you slay, justice itself cannot be killed!”

The fat policeman’s face went pale, his legs trembling. He could not comprehend the courage of these people, just as he could not comprehend why so many would stand unafraid of death to escort a criminal on his final journey.

In the end, all he could do was lead his men away in disgrace, leaving behind feeble threats:  “You’ll see! Just you wait!”

“Good!” someone shouted with a laugh. “We’ll be waiting right here!”

“Get lost! Go scurry to your master for reinforcements!”

“Bring as many rifles and cannons as you like—nothing will shake us!”

Under the overwhelming tide of the people’s cries, the police finally retreated in humiliation.

This legendary funeral would be spoken of in Beiping for decades to come.

Prostitutes, street children, teachers, students, and farmers lifted the coffin of the seventeen-year-old youth who had met his heroic end drenched in blood, and step by step carried him outside the city.

Wherever the coffin passed, the only sound was weeping.

A torrential downpour broke out, as though even Heaven itself wept to see the boy off.

The old woman’s story came to an end.

Mu Liang’s mind was still immersed in the tale she had just told. For a fleeting moment, he felt as though he had traveled back across more than eighty years, parting the mists of time to witness with his own eyes that great event of decades past.

In the pouring rain, the black coffin moved slowly through the surging streets. Wherever it went, the crowd parted silently, like the Red Sea before Moses.

Bathed in the deep gaze of countless eyes, the coffin drifted farther and farther away, a sea of people following in its wake.

All the prostitutes of Beiping’s Eight Great Hutongs came clad in white mourning clothes to send him off. Hundreds, thousands of orphaned children wept to the heavens. Even illiterate peasants wiped away tears in secret…

The coffin moved further and further away, and the crowd behind it grew larger and larger, until it seemed the entire city of Beiping had come out to bid the youth farewell.

Mu Liang knew the boy’s name—Li Jingran.

But he preferred to call him the Watchman.

The brightest star among the constellation of the Republic of China.

Mu Liang first learned of this funeral back in his first year of high school, in a Chinese textbook. It was a two-thousand-character essay, written from the recollections of the esteemed scholar Zhou Dezhang in his later years. The essay bore a deeply meaningful title: The Funeral That Shook a City.

He remembered clearly—it was the very last text of the first-year Chinese curriculum.

While teaching that essay, his Chinese teacher’s face was grave. The classroom was silent, the only sound the teacher’s clear, solemn voice echoing in the stillness.

“That was the last time I, and all of Beiping, ever saw my friend.
After that, he lay drenched in blood, resting forever beneath the earth.
My friend of seventeen remained in the autumn of the fifteenth year of the Republic.
I do not know what thoughts flashed through his mind as he hurled himself into the torrent of gunfire. I only know that, facing this damned world, he chose to rise and resist like a warrior.
The long nights ahead, the countless stars that would shine—none would ever be him, none would ever compare to him.”

This was the final passage of The Funeral That Shook a City.

Each time Mu Liang recalled it, his heart ached as if torn apart.

Time and again, he imagined the grand scene of that funeral in his mind, wishing with all his heart he had been born decades earlier, so he could have been there to see Mr. Li off.

This was the first time he had heard the complete story from someone who had actually been there.

And now, he finally knew who the old lady was.

She was none other than Mr. Li Jingran’s sister—Ms. Li Shuran.

Historical records held little about Li Shuran. Most sources barely mentioned her, portraying her with the utmost discretion. They merely noted that after completing her studies in America, she returned to the homeland after the founding of the People’s Republic, and then nothing more could be found online.

So many had mistaken her for an ordinary woman, with nothing remarkable about her.

But as the sister of Li Jingran, how could Li Shuran possibly be ordinary?

Mu Liang, as a cadre’s child, knew more than most. In recent years, with many archives being declassified and her security clearance lowered, he had come to learn what others did not.

He knew that Ms. Li Shuran, as a nuclear physicist, had worked in anonymity for thirty years in the remote northwest, conducting secret research.

Her face was classified.

Her deeds were classified.

Her entire life was classified.

That was why he had never seen her face in any news reports.

That was why she commanded the respect of so many politicians.

Just like her brother Li Jingran, she too was a pillar of the nation—worthy only of the title National Treasure.

Looking at the frail, silver-haired elder before him, Mu Liang’s eyes reddened. He bowed deeply and said with solemn respect: “Madam, thank you.”

Li Shuran accepted the bow with calm grace, smiling gently. “Thank me? For what?”

For dedicating your life to China.

In the end, Mu Liang only managed to say gratefully: “Thank you for telling me this story.”

Li Shuran chuckled softly. “As long as you don’t find this old lady too long-winded.”

Watching her slowly turn and walk away, Mu Liang felt both pride and sorrow.

Pride, that China had such unmatched patriots. Sorrow, that these patriots, nameless and hidden, were already nearing the end of their days.

Mu Liang saw Ms. Li Shuran again, this time on television—at the awarding ceremony for the nation’s highest science and technology honor.

The silver-haired old lady accepted the crimson certificate from the presenter and turned to the camera with a calm smile, one shaped by a lifetime of storms. Beside her, the host’s voice rang out passionately, listing achievement after achievement she had earned.

Mu Liang’s eyes filled with tears, his sobs uncontrollable.

At last, the nation remembered.

At last, the people remembered.

In her acceptance speech, the old lady spoke with a hint of wistfulness:

“My brother’s name was Li Jingran. He was a great and courageous man. He was my guiding star, my compass in life. All that I have achieved in my lifetime is nothing more than carrying on his legacy.

In the final Spring Festival of his life, he spoke of his dream—to be a free man. I do not know if death brought him freedom, but I will forever remember the words he told me then:

‘Shuran, you must live well.’

To live—is that easy? But what does it mean to live well?

My brother gave his life for Marxism. As his sister, I gave my entire life for the cause of building socialism.

I believe, in my ninety-some years, I have lived well. If there is indeed a world beyond death, I will be able to tell my brother with peace in my heart:

My life was not wasted. I have always lived well, for I devoted all of it to humanity’s most magnificent cause—to struggle for the liberation of mankind.”

Thunderous applause erupted as the old lady slowly stepped down from the stage, like the closing of a grand curtain.

The last time Mu Liang saw Ms. Li Shuran was again at a funeral.

But this time, it was her own.

On October 1st, 2008, the day the entire nation celebrated its National Day, the renowned nuclear physicist and recipient of the country’s highest scientific honor, Ms. Li Shuran, passed away at the age of ninety-six.

The prosperous era had come to be—just as she and her brother had wished.