From Snow Falling in Spring

In front of Baba’s eyes, they flung book after book onto the stone floor. One of them reached into a lower shelf for Baba’s rare books. Dragging them out by their silk strings, he yanked them open.

“Please,” Baba pleaded, trying to free himself from the hands of his guard. “Don’t touch those.”

The guard pulled Baba’s arms back and tied a rope around them.

Then the soldiers dumped all our books into large hemp sacks that they pulled from the back of the truck. “The paper factory will turn this trash into pulp in no time,” they announced. When Lao Lao tried to plead with them, a soldier just pushed her away. Dragging the sacks through our gate, they flung them, one after another, onto the open truck. Then, hurling Baba on top of the bulging bags, the soldiers drove away in a cloud of dust, leaving my grandmother filled with sorrow . . .

With our neighbors’ help, I cleared the rubble. After everyone had left, I closed the door and all the windows and sank to the cold stone floor, my face buried in my arms. The sun was setting, and darkness was creeping into the house.

Our bookshelves now stood naked in the shadows— like proud but defeated old warriors.

Excerpted from Snow Falling in Spring by Li, Moying Copyright © 2010 by Li, Moying. Excerpted by permission.
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