The Tree
What a place, nothing but for some bare rocks. A stark mountain, literally.
The trees were nowhere to be found, the grass was traceless, too, and the flowers, no more than a memory. The cobbler, Bahati, said, “Since the rocks here are bare, the Bek (boys) should be bare, too. The Balang (boys), and the Han boys as well. There is no need for them to wear pants.” He peeked into our pants and laughed, which made us very much embarrassed. “Bahati” means happiness, an apt name for him because he was easily made happy by the mere teasing of the boys. He spoke Kazakh, Uyghur and Chinese, so we couldn’t figure out what ethnicity he was. We referred to him as “Lao Xiang,” an appellation we used to refer collectively to the many ethnic minorities living in Xinjiang.
Suddenly, the bell started to ring. With a “boom,” the students ran away from his shoe repair stall like a flock of scared sparrows. He said, “Faster, faster, so I’ll have more broken shoes to mend.” As we were running away from him, we could see from our mind’s eye his funny beard resembling the numeral eight fluttering in the air. His stall was in a shade near the wall of the school. We often mistook the ringing sound of his nailing for the bell at the end of class.
This is a mysterious mining area, deep in the Tianshan Mountains, so barren that not a single blade of grass grows. The two slopes of the Tianshan Mountains are drastically different. While the northern slopes are characterized by abundant precipitation and picturesque scenery, the southern slopes are arid with little rain, as featureless as the back of a painting. Here, there are no meadows on the hillside, no pines with huge canopies, no Kazakh yurts that look like mushrooms, no sheep or cattle grazing here and there. Virtually nothing except for the rocks, which are everywhere. The rocks baked by the scorching sun give off a smell of rust. It is a place unsuitable for human inhabitation, but, thanks to the discovery of a mysterious rock, suddenly nearly a thousand soldiers from three military regiments were summoned and assembled here. They didn’t bother to give the place a proper name, calling it simply Mine 506. What exactly was there in the mine? Except for a sense of mystery, one could gather no information from the number. A legend about Mine 506 started to take shape as people gossiped about it in the darkness of the night. One night, my younger brother sneaked up to me from the other end of the bed and asked, “You know what is in Mine 506?” I told him I had no idea. He then told me it was uranium. “What is uranium?” I asked. “It can be used to make atomic bombs,” my brother answered in a murmur.
Everybody knows what an atomic bomb is. The mere mention of it can scare the wits out of people. We felt we were no long ordinary kids because our lives were tethered with something mysterious. We did not mind that the spring water we drank here tasted bitter because our parents were helping make history.
That was how our parents were transferred to the mine. To cater to the children who came to the mine with their parents, a primitive classroom was built with rocks from the mountain. It had a roof of red willow branches and linoleum. Our parents, who were working in the mine, felt greatly reassured when they heard the school bell ringing. However, the ringing was often interrupted by the deafening cannon that never failed to terrify us. The classes were often accompanied by the rumbling of cannons. When the flying rocks hit the roof, it sounded like someone was beating a drum in heaven for a war. Mr. Hu, who taught us the Chinese language, was leading us to read the text of “The Battle of Ch’ang-Cho.” “The first drum of war is the most morale lifting, the second is diminished and the last is least effective. …” With our ears filled with the drum beats from the roof, we felt like in a real battle. The coincidental context amused us all. Mr. Hu burst into a laughter and looked at the roof. He said, “No worries, it is already the third.” We laughed, too. The laughter greatly enlivened the tedious class in the afternoon. We especially enjoyed the writing class because Mr. Hu always had some interesting stories to tell. He used to be a university professor. As a rightist, he was punished and sent to Xinjiang to teach in a primary school. It was perhaps a great shame for him to become a primary school teacher, but we were very fortunate to have him to teach us. We were the second generation of Xinjiang Production & Construction Corps. We were born and raised in the desert. We knew virtually nothing about the outside world. It was Mr. Hu who introduced the wide world to us. He insisted that we should write constantly, a piece a week at least. He explained to us that the Chinese language consisted of two things. One was its grammar and the other was literature. We should learn the grammar through reading the literature. He demanded that we learn ancient poetry by heart. As for literature, he insisted on the importance of writing. To help us write, he told us stories to give us some inspiration. Often, he looked out of the window and then gave us a topic that crossed his mind. The topics include, for example, “The Bitter Spring,” “The Gobi Desert,” “The Story of Someone I Know in the Mine,” “The story of Another Person I Know in the Mine.” One day, he looked again at the Gobi Desert and the rocks in the distance and asked us to write about trees. We protested we couldn’t write about trees because we could see no trace of green, let alone trees.
Some students said in a loud voice, “Mr. Hu, there isn’t any tree in the mountain. How can we write about trees?” Mr. Hu said, “If you can’t see a tree with your eyes, you can try to see a tree in your mind’s eyes. Go home and ask your parents.”
The next week when we had writing class again, Mr. Hu commented on our pieces about trees. There were so many different trees. There was the big banyan tree at the village entrance, the big acacia tree in front of the houses, and Ficus virens planted on the dam. I wrote about the trees my father described to me. It was a big mulberry tree in my hometown. My father’s mouth watered as he recalled the sweetness of the mulberries. The dark purple mulberries had greatly assuaged his hunger in childhood. Our parents had all left their hometowns all over the country to come to the border where they became either farmers or soldiers. Each of them could tell a story of a tree in their memories to vent their nostalgia. For example, Ficus virens was from Sichuan, the big acacia tree from Beijing, and the big banyan tree Fujian … As to the big mulberry tree of my father’s childhood, it was from his hometown Henan.
However, we were born and raised far away from our hometowns. Here, we couldn’t see any trees. When the teacher finished his comments on our pieces, we looked outside and saw nothing but rocks. We couldn’t help chanting together, “Trees, we’d like to see trees in the mountains.”
Mr. Hu looked at us and then looked out the window, too. He said, “Guys, you really should not live at a place without a tree, but you don’t have a choice, do you. You are the Corps’ children. You have to go where your parents go.” He then started to relate stories of the trees in Xinjiang. He said that during the Qing dynasty, Zuo Zongtang, an official in the court, was designated to reclaim Xinjiang. As he went, he carried a coffin with him to show his determination. Along the way, he planted willows on both sides of the road. These willows were later called “Mr. Zuo’s willows,” a namesake of the official. After he finished the story of the willows, he talked about the poplar tree, blablabla.
Our scant knowledge of trees was from the oasis at the foot of the mountain, where we used to live. These were graceful date palms, tall aspen trees, in addition to the fruit trees in the orchard where a sweet and fragrant smell often wafted. The poplar tree Mr. Hu mentioned was one of them. The most notable poplar tree was the one planted in the proximity of the Victory Canal. We passed it every time we fetched sweet water from the canal with water tankers. We used to congregate in its huge shade in summer to have swimming classes.
Year in and year out, the lush poplar tree stood there in solitude. In summer, we had classes in its huge shade; in autumn, the tree unfurled its golden leaves, illuminating the bleak prairies that surrounded it. Its sturdiness and loneliness rendered it a stunning beauty.
Back to the writing class about trees. As soon as Mr. Hu mentioned poplar trees, we were all reminded of that specific tree. We shouted in chorus, “Let’s move that poplar tree here and replant it on the mountain.”
Mr. Hu said, “The tree can’t survive in the mountains because there is no water here.”
We shouted, “We can’t survive, either, when there is no tree in the mountains.”
We said in tandem that we could drink the bitter spring water available in the mountains so that we could save the sweet water hauled from the foot of the mountain. Mr. Hu seemed to be touched by our desperation. His eyes became red-rimmed. As soon as the class was over, he left hurriedly, without saying bye to us, which was quite unusual. We grimaced to each other, guilt-stricken, for we realized we had made a grave mistake. How could we demand Mr. Hu plant a tree in the mountains where nothing can survive.
Little did we expect what happened next. On the next Wednesday, we learned that we were going to have the tree. It was already early spring, though we could hardly see any trace of it. We could sense the arrival of the spring because it had turned warm enough to cast off our cotton-padded jackets. On that day, the director of the mine sent a Dong Fang Hong tractor with a crawler, in addition to a water tanker, to go fetch the poplar tree.
On that day, we were supposed to have P.E. class taught by Mr. Hu as a substitute teacher. Instead of having the class, Mr. Hu arranged us to stand on the water tanker to go down the mountain. We were going to witness the transplantation of the tree so that we could come back to write about it. Sometimes we felt confused about what Mr. Hu taught us. Did he teach us P.E. or Chinese? He somehow combined the two in one class. Anyway, P.E or Chinese, we loved the class as long as Mr. taught us. We felt elated to have the tree with us, even though we couldn’t swim in the canal as we used to. The tree would be replanted in the mountains. It would become a tree connecting us to our hometown, a tree of our nostalgia. It would be planted in our hearts, too. It would always be with us wherever we went. It would lead us back to our hometown no matter how far away we would have drifted away from it.
Riding down the mountain in the water tanker was not easy since we had to stand on the side of the tanker and grab the steel bars welded to the tank. Mr. Hu had not planned to let the girls go with the boys, but the girls protested, saying that Mr. Hu should not discriminate against girls. It was such a severe charge that Mr. Hu had to agree to let them go, too. In order to ensure the girls’ safety, Mr. Hu asked the girls to stand inside the tank while the boys were asked to stand outside. The boys joked that the girls were turned temporarily into sweet water when they stayed inside the tank intended for sweet water. One boy said that women were not sweet water, they were bitter water. His father told him that the more beautiful a woman was, the more bitter water she was, and that his father had been living in bitter water all his life. Other boys did not understand him. They asked him why. The boy said that his father washed his mother’s feet every night. What a bitter life he had. Everyone laughed.
While the boys stood outside the water tank, the girls crouched inside. A naughty boy knocked on the tank with a pebble. The girls shouted from inside, “Please, Mr. Hu, stop them. It is deafening!” Mr. Hu soon identified the boy who had knocked and made him stay inside the water tank to keep the girls’ company. This intimidated the other boys so much that none of them dared any further knocking on the tank. After a while, the girls shouted again, “Mr. Hu, somebody farted. It stinks.” The boys outside the tank cackled. Mr. Hu also laughed and said, “Hold on, we’ll soon arrive at the place.” The girls asked, “How much farther is it?” At this juncture of time, the boys shouted, “The tree, the poplar tree.”
When we disembarked the water tanker, we asked the boy who stayed together with the girls what the smell was inside the water tank. The boy said there was no air circulation and it stank. “At first it was the scent of face oil. Then I couldn’t hold it any longer, so I let out a fart. The smell became so mixed that I don’t know how to describe it.” This caused another peal of laughter.
Here was the poplar tree without any leaves, except for a few ambivalent sprouts. In contrast to the sprawling tree in summer, or the fabulous tree in autumn, it appeared pathetically lonely. But no matter. We knew it would flourish when its time came. The workers first dug a large circle around the poplar tree, and then deepened the circle until a huge hole took shape. When the roots of the tree became perceivable, the workers used some straw ropes to wrap up the roots as well as some soil like a big ball. Next, they used a crowbar and a tractor to pull the big ball onto a big plough.
Meanwhile, we went to the Victory Canal to drink water. We, like herds of sheep, lay prone almost vertically at the edge of the canal to drink water, while Mr. Hu stood there like a shepherd. In spring the water in the canal was biting cold, so swimming was simply out of the question. But we needed desperately to drink water from the canal. In winter, the canal was almost dry in most portions and most families had run out of ice cubes stored as drinking water. For a long while, we could only drink bitter spring water.
After we had drunk our fill at the canal and filled our water bottles, Mr. Hu blew his whistle for the class. We soon assembled in front of him. We started with the routine running. We ran around the workers digging the tree in the rhythm of Mr. Hu’s whistle. From time to time, he led us to sing in chorus. “Gritting our teeth, we are not afraid of sacrifices, or difficulties. We are bound to achieve successes.” As we were running, the workers had successful laid down the tree. Running around them, we looked like a cheering team. It was a warm spring day. Soon after, we all became sweat drenched. Mr. Hu told us to have a break. He made the boys stand on the left and the girls on the right to pee. Next, he asked us to drink from our jugs and then fill the jugs with the water from the canal. All done, we started to run again. Mr. Hu explained to the workers that he wanted to help us speed up our metabolism. The bitter water we had drunk in winter had filled our intestines. He hoped this way they could be thoroughly cleansed.
When we finished the third round of drinking, running and peeing, the tree had been securely placed on the plow. It was such a big tree that workers could only tie the ball of roots and the trunk to the plow. Half of its branches were untethered, dragging along on the ground. The plow was hauled by a tractor, which puffed heavy fumes of black smoke, very much like an exhausted man. The water tanker filled with sweet water followed behind. The whole procession began to move up the mountain, looking like a bridal procession from afar. The workers walked on foot so that they could adjust the tree whenever it was needed. We rode the water tanker again. Since the water tank was filled with sweet water this time, both the boys and girls had to stand around the tank. To be on the safe side, the girls were tied to the water tank with straw ropes around their waists, in the fashion of safety belts. The road was bumpy. From time to time, water spilled out of the round opening on the top and landed on us. It was chilling. The boys tried as hard as possible to avoid it. The girls, however, could hardly avoid the water because they were tied to the tank and could not move freely. Heroically, the girls lifted their heads and stuck out their tongues to suck in the water. The boys were dazed by their heroism but they felt too embarrassed to do likewise. They considered it to be very girlish to follow the girls. How could they follow the girls? It was so humiliating. They shook their heads constantly to avoid the splash of water, as a way to show their disdain.
After it had been transported back to the school, the poplar tree was erected in the center of the playground. The playground was an ideal place because the tree was always in sight when people were approaching the mountain, whether one was on foot or boarding a tractor hauling rocks. It was like a conspicuous signpost. Sitting in the classroom we could catch glimpses of the tree from the window. The sight of its sprawling and sturdy branches pacified us and prickled our fantasies. Located in the center of the playground, it gave us a lot of conveniences to run around it to take some exercise or sit in its shade to have a rest. When the tree was planted, all the people working in the mine came. It was like a festival. They watched with bated breath and licked their parched lips as sweet water was poured to the tree from the water tanker.
A sip of water can only quench a momentary thirst, but a tree can bring eternal green shade.
To save sweet water for the tree, everyone felt obliged to drink one less sip of sweet water. The children, however, grinned and giggled because they had already drunk enough water a bit earlier. They did not have to scrimp on sweet water to enjoy the tree’s shade. They were so delighted that they sang and danced around the tree, one tugging the tail of another child’s shirt. The songs they sang were not the ones they had been taught or the revolutionary songs. They sounded like very ancient songs, sprung spontaneously from their minds. We never knew who started them and which song was which. The lyrics that I could still remember were: “We dressed like tigers and sang operas in front of Granny’s house; The stage is ready for opera, guess who have not come to watch it.” We sang the lyrics spontaneously, even though the lyrics did not make much sense to us.
Instead of an opera, close to the tree, a movie was put on in the open air to celebrate the arrival of the tree. The director of the mine had specifically selected the movie “Visitors from the Icy Mountains” The reason was that the poplar tree was an apt metaphor of the visitor to the mountain where we lived and worked. A boy climbed up the poplar tree to see the movie but was chased down with a branch by the angry director. The director said it took some time for the newly planted tree to adapt to the new soil and grow again. He made it a rule that no one was allowed to climb the tree in the next three years. Whoever violated the rule was going be smacked a hundred times. As soon as he finished, we all cast disdainful sights to the boy who had been chased down from the tree.
On the very night of the open-air movie, the cobbler, Bahati, also came. For the first time in his life, he, instead of repairing shoes, sold roast mutton to us. He set up a stall under the tree and used a fan to send more air to the fire. The smoke soon filled the air and a delicious smell of roasted mutton tickled our noses. He shouted in a most enticing tone, “Come to eat the most delicious roast mutton. You don’t have to pay if it is not delicious. As cheap as 10 cents a string. The most delicious food for hundreds of years and the most authentic delicacy in the world.”
We did not have the money to buy the roast mutton. We could only inhale avariciously the smell of the roast mutton as we watched Bahati’s greasy beard. Those who could afford the roast mutton were the bachelors, most of whom were Shanghai Youth. They could afford it because they earned salaries but did not have to feed a family. I was very much surprised that someone handed me a skewer of roast mutton during the movie. It was from the boy who had climbed the tree and had been smacked by the director. The smack was not a big deal to him but other people’s disdain made him uneasy. He stole some rice from his home to trade for some mutton skewers and then he gave the mutton skewers to all the other boys. When his father found out about the stealing, he beat his son severely. Although we accepted his skewers we decided not to forgive him too easily. The next day when we went to school, we all kicked him. What could he do? He forced a smile and said nothing. This way he was officially forgiven. He had paid dearly for having climbed the tree.
From then on, we kept a close track of the tree. We watched closely for its first sprout and expected to see the sprouts to grow into leaves and then a canopy. When autumn came, what a spectacular golden scene it would be, which would be, we secretly fretted, too much for the tiny playground.
However, nothing changed in the tree while almost everything else had already turned lush green. We could see no trace of new leaves on the tree. When it was warm enough for Mr. Hu to take us to swimming class at the Victory Canal again, we still could not see any trace of growth. We had swimming lessons in the same place where the poplar tree used to be. The tree was gone, only a huge pit remained. The students used to place their clothes around the tree, but now they had to place them around the pit. When we were running around the pit to warm up, we began to miss the green shade of the poplar tree. After all, we felt very differently running around a pit instead of a tree.
Mr. Hu’s swimming class was our holiday because we could play with water as much as we wanted. Since there was no water, let alone a swimming pool in the mountains, Mr. Hu took us to the Victory Canal to have swimming class on the tractors going downhill to haul rocks.
The swimming class was more that. Living in the mountains, we had nothing but bitter spring water to drink. However, when we were having swimming class, we could bathe in sweet water. What a luxury. The so-called sweet water was not literally sweet. Its sweetness was foregrounded only after we had drunk too much bitter spring water. The day before we had swimming class, we would stop drinking the sweet water allocated to the family, waiting impatiently for the swimming class. When we came to the Victory Canal, hardly had Mr. Hu given us the order than we jumped into the canal. With a loud splash, we were submerged in water. We were like desperate fish returning to water. We felt we were alive again. We stayed underwater for quite a while, drinking our fill of the sweet water before we had to resurface for fresh air. Since then, I had fallen into the habit of drinking water while swimming, which had often made me suffer from diarrhea. In retrospect, the sweet water we drank was top quality mineral water since it flew down as melted snow from the mountains. Drinking such uncontaminated water, we had no fear of diarrhea.
After the swimming class, we looked at the tree pit and asked the teacher, “How come the poplar tree does not grow any leaves?” Mr. Hu said, “As an old saying goes, ‘Transportation provides people more chances of prosperity but it will kill a tree.’ I guess the tree is going to die.” We were not convinced. How could a tree as sturdy as this die after only one move? Mr. Hu explained that the bigger a tree was, the less chances it had to survive after moves. We then begged Mr. Hu to think of a way to save the tree. To us, Mr. Hu was capable of anything.
Mr. Hu scowled and thought hard for a while, then he stretched his eyebrows. He asked all the boys to come and gather under the poplar tree at night. The girls were confused. They protested, “It is blatant sexism.” Mr. Hu was not daunted. He insisted that girls must not come, that it was crucial to the poplar tree. He said it with such severity, implying that it was a matter of life and death for the tree, that the girls were terrified.
It was a moonlit night, with the moon anchored in the branches of the poplar tree. The boys came quietly and congregated under the poplar tree, waiting patiently for Mr. Hu. A sense of mystery and responsibility hovered in the air. The poplar tree stood mutely beside us, leafless. The tree seemed to have died, breathless and with closed eyes.
Finally, Mr. Hu came, with two Kantoumans in his hands. He kept one of them and handed the other to the biggest boy. Together they started to plow a ditch around the poplar tree. We were perplexed and watched them silently. We were totally at a loss about the point of the ditch. Why did he fuss about summoning us all here? Soon after, a perfect ditch around the tree was accomplished. Mr. Hu stepped a little distance from us and instructed that we all stand around the tree, like he was giving us P.E. class. He looked solemn and said in a hushed voice, “All there, stand at attention, rest at ease, look forward, pull down your pants.”
We thought this was like one of the P.E. classes and followed his instruction automatically. We stopped abruptly when we heard that he was asking us to pull down our pants. Flickers of confusion flitted across our faces and some turned around in the direction of Mr. Hu, who looked just as solemn as he was a few moments ago. He insisted us following his instruction and forbade us to gossip among ourselves. We were all flummoxed. Even when we were having swimming class, he wouldn’t ask us to take off our pants; we usually changed our clothes and got ready for the class all by ourselves before class began. Besides, we were not going to have swimming class in the ditch. But it seemed that we did not have a choice. We pulled down our pants anyway. We were then exposed to Mr. Hu’s “blatant sexism.”
Mr. Hu shouted again, “Take it out.”
Take out what? Everyone was transfixed. Mr. Hu was shouting again, “Do as I said, take out your penis.” At his words, we all relaxed and burst into loud laughter. Though we did not know why, we understood that he wanted us to pee.
“Pee,” he said.
No sooner had he finished his word, we were already peeing at the ditch around the tree.
As we were peeing, Mr. Hu was whistling a pleasant tune, which reminded us the music in a famous film. “Come on, come on, come on, come on, come on, come on, come on, come on, come on, come on …”
The arcs of urine looked like a fountain spouting backwards, with the tree at its center. As time passed, some arcs started to wane and then stopped while some others persisted. Those who stopped peeing felt guilty because they could not pee as much urine as others; those who were about to stop peeing were protruding their bellies to make the last effort.
When the last student was finished, Mr. Hu shouted, “Dismissed.” He went back home and fetched a bucket of sweet water. Directing it at the tree, he poured all the water. We were all touched because he had watered the tree with all the allocated sweet water he had saved. With a splash, the sweet water mingled with our urine and soon filled the ditch around the tree. Mr. Hu said to us that we should not say anything to any girl in the class. We were amused. How can we tell such a thing to a girl? We’d keep it as a secret of the boys forever.
We all thought that Mr. Hu would want us to pee again at the poplar tree the next day after the evening study. We all wanted to make the greatest contribution so we had drunk a lot of sweet water and tried very hard to hold the urine. We refused to drink bitter spring water because we assumed that bitter water would yield bitter urine, which would do harm to the poplar tree.
However, the next day, after the evening study, Mr. Hu did not ask us to pee at the tree again. We had a hard time holding back the urine and some of us peed in their pants when they could not hold the urine any longer. When we were ridiculed by the girls for peeing in our pants, we did not feel abashed at all because we thought we were in the course of implementing something sublime. We comforted ourselves by saying to ourselves, “Women will never understand what men are doing.”
Later, in a writing class, some students wrote that they, in the depth of night, went back secretly to pee at the poplar tree to make their contribution to save the poplar tree. That very day, Mr. Hu asked us boys to come to the tree at night again. He did not ask us to pee this time. He said to us that no one was allowed to pee at the tree any longer, because, he explained, it would never help the tree to grow. On the contrary, it would kill the tree, the urine.
Mr. Hu told us to stand around the poplar tree, and he taught us a poem that was not in the textbook, to exercise some spiritual charm on the tree. He led us to chant: “The poplars at the eastern gate are singing with their leaves. We agreed to meet there at dusk, but I waited until the stars came up in the east. The poplars at the eastern gate are glowing with their leaves. We agreed to meet there at dusk, but I waited until the stars are twinkling in the sky.”
After repeating the poem for several times, we could recite it, but we didn’t understand what the poem was trying to say. Mr. Hu explained, “The poplar tree at the eastern gate is just like the tree we have here. The tree used to have lush leaves and agreed to meet us at dusk. But when the sky is full of stars and long after dusk, the tree has not returned with its lush leaves.”
Later, we got to know that the poem was called “The Poplar Tree at the Eastern Gate” by an anonymous poet in the Qin Dynasty, taken from The Books of Poems. The more standard interpretation was that a man was dating a woman, who did not turn up and kept the man waiting. The tree mentioned in the poem did not necessarily refer to the specific species of poplar tree we had, but it did not matter. Since we were too young to understand the love between a man and a woman, Mr. Hu interpreted the poem as our date with the tree when he was trying to explain it to us. Such interpretation, in retrospect, seemed farfetched but we understood he meant well. Since then, every time we came to see the tree, we never failed to chant the poem.
While we all enjoyed the time when we could have companion with the tree, the shoemaker Bahati was an exception. As soon as the tree was moved to the school, he relocated his stall under the poplar tree for the benefits of its shade. Even without the leaves, its branches could always cast some shades to bring coolness to the customers. However, Bahati kept making terrible mistakes in his work, like driving the nails all the way through the sole. From time to time, some of his customers limped back to him to make complaints about the repaired shoes. Bahati sensed that there must be a vile aroma that had affected his work, but did not know exactly what it was. Often, he was found sniffing around under the tree, trying to figure out something. We knew of course what it was. We did not have the guts to tell him the truth. Instead, we snickered behind him.
Even though we no longer dared to come under the poplar tree and pee at night, Bahati did not stop circling it, searching for something. We asked him what he was searching for. He said he was searching for the first leaf sprouts on the tree. I asked him if he had seen any. He said yes.
We were all thrilled and went to have a look. He pointed to a place higher up in the tree and said he could see something like green buds. Tiptoeing and holding our heads high, we strained to look. Just as our eyes were about to blur, we finally saw something vaguely like green buds. Could it be that our urine had worked?
At sunset, we often saw Bahati praying under the poplar tree, not knowing, however, whether he was praying for the tree or for himself. Sometimes we would also stand under the poplar tree and pray with him: “The poplars at the eastern gate are singing with their leaves. We agreed to meet there at dusk, but I waited until the stars came up in the east. The poplars at the eastern gate are glowing with their leaves. We agreed to meet there at dusk, but I waited until the stars are twinkling in the sky.”
Bahati asked, “What are you reciting?”
We answered, “We are reciting a poem.”
“A poem of the Han ethnic?”
“Yes, a poem from The Books of Poems.”
“Does it have any use?”
“Sure. We use it as a prayer to help the tree grow leaves early.”
“Then, teach me the poem. Let’s pray together.”
Afterwards, Bahati recited a passage of his own sutra, and then, tilting his head in the direction of the leave sprouts, recited the poem, too.
When we had another writing class, Mr. Hu asked us to write about the poplar tree. He enlightened us that we should write beyond the triflings like the sprouts or the leaves. The poplar tree was a great tree, he quoted, that would live for a thousand years and stand for a thousand years after its death. It wouldn’t perish even after it fell down. Mr. Hu explained that it would continue to stand for a thousand years after death.
We were stunned by Mr. Hu’s remarks. Never did we know that it was such a great tree. When his words sank in, we were filled with excitement. Meanwhile, we felt so inspired that we became undaunted by any fears or difficulties in our lives. Suddenly, there sounded a blasting explosion. Some rocks fell on the roof, producing sounds like war drums. This was not new to us, so, after a burst of meaningful laughter, we recited in unison the text we had learned: “The first drum is the most morale lifting, the second is diminished and the last is the least effective. …”
When we counted the third drum and expected all was about to end, there sounded a fourth drum and a huge rock fell through the roof with a muffled “boom.” A cloud of dust rose from the podium. The girls were so freaked out that they screamed in fear. When the dust finally settled down, we found Mr. Hu lying on the ground, bleeding.
The rock was the size of a bowl. It had flown through the roof and struck Mr. Hu on the head. He died on the spot.
Mr. Hu was later buried in the huge poplar tree pit by the side of the Victory Canal. On the day of the burial, we walked around the pit again and again. We didn’t cry, because we didn’t believe that Mr. Hu had died. He had been transformed into a poplar tree seed. Once it was sowed, it would sprout, grow leaves, and finally become a towering tree.
After Mr. Hu’s death, we found that the suspicious leaf sprouts had completely withered. The poplar tree died soon after. We leaked no word about Mr. Hu’s asking us to pee to save the tree. We later learned that newly transplanted trees should never be fertilized, not with urine or any other fertilizer.
Years later, I returned to Xinjiang. I went to the abandoned mine again with my classmates. We learned that the mysterious rocks were not uranium ore after all. They were just ordinary limestone that could be used to produce lime and cement, as evidenced by the cement plants and lime kilns all over the place. Besides the limestones, there were also a lot of ordinary rocks. They were hauled by tractors from the mountains to every squad of the corps as building materials for houses.
We did not forget to have a look at the poplar tree that had died a long time ago. We would not be surprised to find that it was still there even though a thousand years had passed. It is a tree of our hometown and of our nostalgia. When we saw the tree from afar, it looked like a mysterious sculpture with its stout twigs; the smaller ones had long been stripped by wind.
Some said it resembled a woman who was trying to embrace the distant clouds with open arms.
Some said it resembled a heavenly horse leading people to a distant destination.
I said it was Mr. Hu. He was teaching us, against the smooth slope of the mountain; its rugged layer of rocks had already been ripped off and evacuated. The slope was like a huge blackboard. Mr. Hu was pointing to the blackboard and explaining to us the poem from The Book of Poems.
That Mr. Hu was killed by a flying rock was esteemed as a severe incident for which the director was disciplined. To repair the classroom, the director made use of a dozen of used oil drums rolled down from the mechanic platoon. He had them broken open and spread into huge tin tiles, with which he covered the roof of the classroom. We were finally safe studying in the classroom till one day we went away to high school. We went farther away when we passed the college entrance exams and then went to universities.
Of course, we didn’t forget to go to the Victory Canal and pay a visit to Mr. Hu. To our surprise, a poplar tree was growing just next to the lonely grave. We sat in a circle under the tree, reminiscing about Mr. Hu and reciting the poem from The Books of Songs.
“The poplars at the eastern gate are singing with their leaves. We agreed to meet there at dusk, but I waited until the stars came up in the east. The poplars at the eastern gate are glowing with their leaves. We agreed to meet there at dusk, but I waited until the stars are twinkling in the sky.”
山前该有一棵树
这是个啥地方嘛，都是光秃秃的石头，裸山。
树不知道跑哪去了，草也难觅踪迹，花儿那些娇惯的美丽都躲在人们的记忆里了。补鞋匠巴哈提说，这个地方连石头都不穿裤子嘛，别克（男孩）也不需要穿裤子，巴郎（男孩）也不需要穿裤子，汉族的小子也不需要穿裤子嘛。他说着还向我们裤裆里张望，然后哈哈大笑，这弄得我们十分难堪。“巴哈提”是幸福的意思，他每次逗你玩都会找到幸福的感觉。他一会说哈萨克语，一会说维吾尔语，还会说汉语，我们都搞不清楚他是什么民族。新疆少数民族多，我们统称他们为“老乡”。
这时,上课铃声突然响了，同学们 “轰”地一下从他的补鞋摊撒丫子跑了，就像一群被惊飞的麻雀。巴哈提老乡在我们身后嘿嘿笑，说，跑快点嘛，快点跑嘛，鞋子坏了,我来补嘛。我们跑着完全能想象到他那八字胡诙谐地左右抖动的样子。巴哈提老乡的补鞋摊就在我们的小学校墙边的阴凉处，那叮叮当当的钉鞋声，让我们经常误认为是下课的铃声。
这是一个矿区，属于天山深处的神秘所在，一个荒山秃岭寸草不生的地方。天山南坡和北坡完全不同，北坡降水丰沛，风景如画，而南坡干旱少雨，就如一幅画的背面。南坡没有山坡草地，没有如盖的塔松，也没有蘑菇般的毡房和满坡的牛羊，只有满山的砾石。那些石头在西部烈日的灼烤下，散发出铁锈的气味。那里属于不适合人类居住的地方，可是，由于找到了一种神秘的石头，兵团突然从三个建制团中抽调了近千人，集结到了这里。人们也懒得给它起一个像样的名字，只用了一个编号，叫506矿。506矿到底有什么矿？从这个编号中你只能读出神秘的气息却读不出实际的内容。关于506矿的传说只能在黑夜里进行。我第一次听到它的传说是在晚上熄灯后，我那刚上一年级的弟弟从被窝那边爬到我这头，然后对我耳语道：“你知道506矿是什么矿吗？”我问什么矿？他神秘地说：“是铀矿。”铀矿是什么矿呢？弟弟又降低声音回答：“铀矿是造原子弹的。”
原子弹的赫赫威名谁不知道，它不用爆炸，就能把人震得昏头转向。于是，我们生活的地方就有了一种神秘色彩，哪怕是喝着苦泉水也不觉得苦了，因为我们的父母正干着一件天大的事情。
父母被调入矿山后，我们这些孩子属于家属，就跟随着父母上了山，这样，一个简陋的学校就在山前用石头搭建了起来，屋顶用的是红柳枝和油毡。每天的上课铃声让正在开矿的父母们十分安心，只是他们开山的炮声却让我们十分惊恐。在炮声隆隆中上课，飞石砸在房顶上，如天神的战鼓。教语文的胡老师正领读课文《曹刿论战》：“一鼓作气，再而衰，三而竭……”听到房顶的咚咚声，我们有一种身临其境的感觉，大家就会心一笑。胡老师也笑，望望房顶说，三而竭了，没事。同学们就哄堂大笑，疲惫的午后课堂突然就活泼了一下。相比来说，我们更喜欢作文课，因为胡老师有满肚子的故事。他是一个大学教授，右派，发配到新疆就成了我们的小学老师。让一个大学教授当小学老师，这对于他来说也许是一种惩罚，对我们来说却是最大的福分。我们这些在绿洲出生的新疆兵团人的二代，通过胡老师了解到外面的大千世界。他坚持让我们每周写一篇作文，他说什么叫语文？一是语，二是文。“语”就是通过课文学习语法，语言，古诗文都要背下来；“文”就是文学，就是要学会写文章。每周写一篇作文。他在命题作文前常常给我们讲故事，启发我们，然后望着窗外随意给我们出作文题目。比方：《苦泉水》《戈壁滩》《矿山人物之一》《矿山人物之二》等等。当他望着远方的戈壁和漫山遍野的石头让我们写《树》时，我们不干了，因为我们的眼前根本没有绿色，更别说树了。
有同学就喊，胡老师，我们山上连一棵树都没有，怎么写？胡老师就说，眼前没树，心中难道没有树吗？回家问问父母吧。
于是，在第二周的作文讲评中，同学们就写了很多不一样的树。有村口的大榕树，有门前的大槐树，有坝子上的黄桷树。我爹给我讲了老家的大桑树。他边讲边咽着口水，说起了小时候吃桑葚的故事，那些黑紫的甜蜜安慰了他童年的饥饿和贫困。父母们都是有故乡的人，他们来自五湖四海，为了屯垦戍边来到了新疆。他们每一个人心中都有一棵树，而每一种树都寄托着他们的乡愁。比方：写黄桷树的父亲是四川人，写大槐树的父母是北京人，写大榕树的老家是福建人……我爹是河南人，他给我讲了门前大桑树的故事。
可是，我们这些土生土长的“兵二代”，眼前连一棵树都没有。在一次作文讲评课后，我们望着窗外所有的石头，喊：
“山前该有一棵树！”
胡老师望着我们，然后又望望窗外说，同学们，真不该让你们在没有树的地方成长。可是，没有办法，你们是兵团人的孩子，父母走到哪里，就要跟到哪里。然后，胡老师给我们讲了一些关于新疆树的故事。老师讲到一个叫左宗棠的清朝人，抬着棺材收复新疆，沿途栽下了柳树，叫左公柳。老师还讲到了胡杨树……
我们是从山下绿洲来的，那里就有树。有婀娜多姿的沙枣树，还有高高的白杨树。果园里的树就更不用说了，不但有花香还有甜蜜。老师所说的胡杨树也有，有一棵最茁壮的胡杨树就生长在胜利渠边上。水罐车从胜利渠给我们拉淡水，会从那棵孤独的胡杨树边路过。我们夏季上游泳课，就把胜利渠当游泳池，那棵胡杨树下巨大的荫凉就成了我们的集合地。
那棵茂密的胡杨树孤独地生长着，在夏季它给我们带来一片巨大的绿荫，成了我们的课堂；到了秋天，它会很隆重地展示自己，金黄的叶子展开来照亮了荒原。它是那么茁壮，又是那么孤独，美得却让人震撼。
那次关于树的作文课，让我们想起了那棵胡杨树，大家就齐声喊，把那棵胡杨树移到我们山前吧，让我们回家能找到路。
胡老师说：“山上没有水，树不能活。”
同学们喊：“山上没有树，人不能活。”
大家七嘴八舌地说，我们可以喝山上的苦泉水，用山下拉来的甜水浇灌。胡老师被我们打动了，眼眶有些红，下课时他没有和我们告别，就独自走了。同学们面面相觑，都有些内疚，也许我们的要求有些过分，在这寸草不生的地方非要一棵树，这不是给老师出难题嘛。
没想到，我们的无理要求在第二周的星期三就有了结果。那应该是春天，虽然大家见不到春暖花开，棉袄却已经穿不住了，凭借着身体的感受，知道春天来了。矿长派出了东方红拖拉机，拉着爬犁子，还派了一辆水罐车，要去为我们移那棵胡杨树了。
星期三是体育课，也由胡老师代课。胡老师让同学们坐上了水罐车，下山去看移树的过程，让同学们好好观察，要写作文。这样说来，我们的语文是体育老师教的，或者说体育是语文老师教的。胡老师把语文课和体育课混搭了。无论是语文课还是体育课只要是胡老师上，我们都喜欢。虽然春季不能游泳，但是我们觉得移一棵树比游泳重要。那棵美丽的胡杨树将移到我们的山前，成为我们的消息树，成为我们的故乡树。从此，我们的心里也有一棵大树了，无论将来走到哪里，那棵树都会存在。无论我们走多远，那棵树都会在山前指引着我们回家。
搭乘水罐车下山是有风险的，只能站在水罐车的边上，抓住水罐车上焊接的钢筋。胡老师本来不想让女生去，可是女生提出了抗议，说胡老师不能重男轻女。在女生的强烈要求下，胡老师只能同意。为了保证女生的安全，胡老师让女生钻进水罐内，男生站在水罐外。站在外面的男生就笑，说女生都变成水了，还是甜水。有男生就说女人才不是甜水呢，是苦水。他爸爸讲的，越漂亮的女人越是男人的苦水，他爸爸就是在苦水中泡大的。大家不懂，就问为什么呀？男生说他爸爸每天晚上都要给他妈妈洗脚，还不苦嘛。大家都笑了。
女生蹲在水罐内，男生站在水罐外。调皮的男生就用鹅卵石敲水罐，女生就喊，胡老师，你管不管，震耳欲聋呀！女生一喊，胡老师就追查谁敲的，老师就把查到的男生塞进水罐车内，陪女生。这一招非常奏效，其他男生再也不敢敲了。不久，女生在水罐车内又喊，胡老师，谁放屁了，臭气熏天呀！站在水罐车边上的男生就“轰”的一声笑了。胡老师也笑了，说先忍忍吧，马上就到。女生问，还有多远呀?大家就喊，能看到那棵胡杨树了。
下车后，我们问那个男生水罐车内什么味道？男生说里面空气不流通，有味，开始是搽脸油的香味，后来，我实在憋不住了，就放了一个屁，就不知道是啥味了。大家一听大笑。
那棵胡杨树还没有生叶，只有一些似是而非的萌芽。它孤零零地站在那里，没有夏天的雄壮和秋天的美丽。我们知道它会有枝繁叶茂的那一天。大人们沿着胡杨树四周挖了一个大圆圈，然后那圆圈越挖越深，挖了一个很大的坑。树根终于露了出来，大人们就用稻草绳把带土的根部绑成了一个大圆球，再然后用撬杠和拖拉机拉动大圆球，让它滚上大爬犁。
在大人们挖树的时候，同学们就到胜利渠边喝水。大家成群结队地趴在渠边，尻子撅到了天上，就像一群羊，而牧羊人是胡老师。春季的胜利渠水冰冷刺骨，肯定是不能游泳的，但是，喝水对我们来说同样重要。胜利渠冬天是枯水期，各家各户储存的冰也没有了，我们已经喝了很长时间苦泉水了。
我们在渠边喝饱了肚子，装满了随身的水壶，胡老师就吹响了哨子把整个班集合起来上课。上课的内容没有什么新鲜的，就是跑步。同学们围绕着正在挖树的大人跑步，踏着胡老师的哨子，一二一，一二三四……其间，胡老师还带领我们唱歌：“下定决心，不怕牺牲，排除万难，去争取胜利……”大家围着那已经躺倒的胡杨树一圈又一圈地跑，就像给大人们加油。春天的阳光暖洋洋的，不一会我们就满头大汗了。胡老师让我们休息，男左女右，撒尿。然后，喝壶里的水，灌满水壶后又开始跑步。胡老师对挖树的大人说，这叫新陈代谢，这些苦孩子整个冬天喝的都是苦水，要好好洗洗肠子。
当大伙喝了三次水后，那棵大树已经老老实实地躺在爬犁之上了。它实在太高大了，树根那个大圆球和树干被捆在爬犁子上，有一半树枝还拖在地上。拖拉机拉着爬犁在前，累得直冒黑烟。装满了甜水的水罐车跟在后面，整个队伍开始向山上移动，远远望去像一个送亲的队伍。大人们在地下走，跟随着五花大绑的胡杨树。由于是拖着走的，它随时会歪，要调整树的姿态。孩子们继续乘水罐车。水罐车里灌满了水，男女同学们只能围着水罐车站立。女生们的腰里都绑了稻草绳，和水罐车拴在一起，算是安全带。山路颠簸，水从水罐车的圆口荡漾出来，洒在大家的身上，很凉。男生可以躲，女生被拴住了就无法躲避了。她们显得很英勇，当荡漾的水花洒过来时，她们昂着头，伸出舌头，去迎接那水花，这让男生目瞪口呆。男生不好意思伸出舌头，女里女气地去接水，学女生是很没有面子的事。男生就摇头晃脑地躲避那荡出的水花，作得意状。
胡杨树被运上山后，就栽在我们小学校操场中央。那是个好地方，如果你上山，无论是步行还是坐拉石头的拖拉机，很远就能看见它。它高高地耸立着，成了上山者的路标。坐在教室里依窗而望，也能看到它伟岸而又粗壮的树干，这让我们安心，给我们带来希望。树栽在操场中央，既不耽误我们围绕着大树跑步，也可以给我们带来休息的荫凉。栽树的时候全矿的人都来了，那简直就是一个节日。人们眼巴巴地望着从水罐车内放的甜水浇灌它，用舌头舔着自己干裂的嘴唇。
一口水只能解一时之渴，一棵树却能带来永远的绿荫。
为了那棵树，大家觉得少喝一口甜水也值了。孩子们却张着嘴傻笑，因为移树时已经喝饱了水。没少喝一口甜水，却能享受树的荫凉，当然偷着乐了。当大树栽好的时候，我们欢快地一个拉着一个的后衣襟，围绕着大树哼哼唧唧唱了不少儿歌。那些儿歌谁也没有教过，也不是革命歌曲，都是很古老的好歌，是从内心中突然冒出来的。那些儿歌也不知道谁带头唱的，词有点乱，现在依稀还记得几句：扯虎皮，做花衣，姥姥门前唱大戏；唱大戏，搭戏台，谁家孩子还没来……都是奇奇怪怪、自自然然的句子。
虽然栽树的那天晚上没有唱大戏，却围绕着胡杨树放了露天电影。为了纪念胡杨树的到来，矿长专门选了电影《冰山上的来客》。胡杨树不就是矿山上的来客嘛。在看电影的时候，有孩子爬上了胡杨树，被矿长用树枝狠狠地抽了下来。矿长说，新栽的树要扎根，三年内谁敢爬树，抽他一百下。挨抽的孩子是我们的同学，大家都向他投去鄙视的目光。
在放露天电影的那天晚上，补鞋匠巴哈提改行了。他破天荒地在树下摆起了一个烤羊肉摊。他用一把扇子让烟雾弥漫开来，把烤肉的香味送进我们的鼻子。他的喊声更是诱人：“羊白哩，羊白哩(烤羊肉)，不香不要钱，不甜不要钱，一毛钱一串，几百年前就有的好味道嘛，世界上最干净最老实的味道嘛！”
我们只能望望巴哈提老乡那油汪汪的胡子，贪婪地用鼻子嗅着肉香。这就够了，因为我们没钱买。吃烤羊肉的都是单干户，以上海知青居多。他们有工资却没结婚，没有人管，一人吃了全家饱。让人意外的是在看电影时有人递给了我一串烤羊肉，是那个爬树挨抽的同学。他爬树挨了矿长的抽并不觉得可怕，可怕的是他迎来了同学们的白眼。他觉得今后不好做人了，就偷了自己家的大米，用大米换了羊肉串，送给每一个男生吃。为此，他爸爸发现后又狠狠地揍了他一顿。我们虽然吃了他的羊肉串，在第二天上学时，每人还没忘记给他一脚。他都苦笑着接受了，因为这算大家原谅了他。他因为爬了一次树挨了三次打，代价沉重。
从此，我们开始每天关注着胡杨树的消息，我们盼望着它能发出嫩芽，长叶，然后一树绿荫，到了秋天一树金黄。我们担心那么壮观的金色，小操场会装不下的。
可是，都万物生长了，它那原本似是而非的萌芽还没一点变化，更不用说生叶了。一直到胡老师带领我们去胜利渠边上游泳课，胡杨树还不见绿荫。我们上游泳课还是在老地方，那是胡杨树的旧址。树没有了，只剩下一个巨大的树坑。同学们习惯把衣服围绕着树摆放，现在只能围绕树坑摆放了。在围绕着树坑跑步热身时，大家开始怀念那胡杨树曾经的绿荫，毕竟一个坑和一棵树有天壤之别的。
胡老师的游泳课，那简直就是我们的节日，其实那就是玩水。山上当然是没有水了，也没有游泳池。胡老师就让我们搭车，坐那些拉石头的拖拉机下山，到胜利渠里游泳。
在山上经常喝苦泉水，游泳课居然能跳进甜水中洗澡，这实在是太奢侈了。所谓甜水就是淡水，喝多了苦泉水才有了这种对水的区分。同学们往往会在上游泳课的前一天就不喝家里分配的甜水了，大家干耗着等待游泳课的到来。我们来到胜利渠边，胡老师一声令下，大伙扑进了渠水中。“轰”的一声，整个身体被水包围了，就像一群快干死的鱼，还魂了，活泛了。一下就找到了感觉。同学们长时间沉在水中，先尽情地喝饱肚子，然后再抬起头来喘气。几十年后的今天，我去游泳池游泳总习惯先痛痛快快地喝几口水，这种习惯经常让我拉肚子。几十年前的渠水却是好水，那是天山雪水融化下来的，是千年的矿泉，我们即便尽情地喝饱也不会拉肚子。
游泳后，我们望着树坑问老师，我们的胡杨树怎么就不生叶呢？胡老师说，人挪活，树挪死呀，可能挪死了。我们当然不敢相信，那么一棵粗壮的树怎么会挪死呢？胡老师说越是大的树越不容易挪活。大伙就闹着让胡老师想想办法，救活那棵树吧，同学们认为胡老师无所不能。
胡老师想了一下，然后眉毛舒展了。说今天晚上所有的男同学到胡杨树下集合。女生就叫唤，咋又重男轻女呢？胡老师这次十分坚定，说女生绝对不能来，这关系到能不能救活胡杨树。胡老师从来没有这么严肃过，还上纲上线。这关系到胡杨树的生死，把女生吓坏了。
那是一个月夜，有一轮很好的月亮挂在胡杨树枝上，所有的男生都悄悄地来了，在胡杨树下静静等待胡老师的出现。大家有些神秘，还庄重着，觉得肩上有天大的重任。胡杨树静静地立在那里，不生叶，不呼吸，不睁眼，没有一点生命的迹象。
胡老师来了，手里拿了两把坎土曼，一把自己用，另一把递给了个子最大的同学，然后围绕胡杨树刨沟。我们只能围在四周看着，不知道接下来干什么？刨一个小树沟，胡老师一个人就可以，完全不用把全班男同学都集合起来的。胡老师把那树沟刨完美了，然后站在不远处喊道，所有同学围绕胡杨树集合。我们知道用我们的时候到了，大家围绕胡杨树站成了一个圆。胡老师就像在给我们上体育课，非常严肃，压着嗓子喊：“都有了，立正，稍息，向前看，脱裤子。”
同学们经常上胡老师的体育课，习惯了这些口令，条件反射地跟随口令。突然听到老师喊脱裤子，就有些不解，有的就回头望望胡老师。胡老师还是那么严肃，听我口令，不要交头接耳，脱裤子。我们十分惶惑，在游泳课时胡老师都不会让同学们统一脱裤子的，换衣服都自行操作。面对胡杨树边的小树沟，游泳是不可能的，那么为什么让脱裤子呢？但既然胡老师让大家脱裤子，我们还是要执行口令的。反正是晚上，也没有女生在。我们恍然大悟了，胡老师不让女生来，就是为了让大家脱裤子方便。
胡老师又喊：“掏。”
啊，掏什么？大家都愣住了。胡老师又喊，听口令，掏出你们的小东西。大家“哈”地一下就笑了，胡老师让我们掏小鸡鸡。大伙虽然有些懵懵懂懂，但是，站着掏出小鸡鸡的条件反射就是撒尿。
“尿。”
几乎和胡老师的口令同步进行，大家开始对着树沟撒尿。
这时，胡老师吹起了悦耳的口哨声，那是电影《追捕》的插曲：“来呀来啊来呀来，来呀来啊来呀来，来呀来来呀来，来呀来呀来……”
所有的水管都对着胡杨树，形成了一个反向的圆弧喷泉。那喷泉渐渐弱了，水多的还在喷，水少的就有些内疚了，眼看人家还在来呀来，自己却来不了啦。有人怕贡献小，就挺起肚子狠命使力，把吃奶的力气都用上也来不了啦，强弩之末嘛。
当最后一个同学来完后，胡老师喊，解散。然后从家里提出了一桶甜水，对着树沟倒去。胡老师把分配给他的甜水都节省下来了，自己不喝，留给了树，这让我们很感动。那水“哗啦”一声欢快地倒进了树沟，甜水混合了我们的童子尿，一下就把树沟灌满了。胡老师说，今晚的事一定保密，不能告诉女同学。我们“哈”地一下都笑了，这事怎么能告诉女生呢，这是男人的秘密嘛。
第二天晚自习后，我们都以为胡老师还会在胡杨树下集合，都拚命喝甜水，憋住尿，想着为拯救胡杨树多做贡献。大伙都不喝苦泉水，怕尿出来的也是苦水，胡杨树不喜欢。
晚自习后，胡老师并没有再集合男同学，这憋得我们够呛。有好几个男生尿裤子了，还被女生嘲笑。男生尿裤子被女生嘲笑居然没觉得丢脸，因为心中有了崇高的使命。男生还在心里骂：“男人的事，你女人懂个球。”
后来，胡老师又让我们写作文，有同学就写为了拯救胡杨树，半夜三更悄悄到胡杨树边“来一下”，还说，自己尽力了。老师当天夜里就把男生集合起来了，这次没让大家来一下。老师宣布了纪律，严禁私下再给胡杨树来一下，经常来一下会适得其反，会把胡杨树烧死。
胡老师让我们围绕胡杨树站好，他教会了我们一首诗，是当时课本上没有的，说是给胡杨树精神鼓励。在他的引领下我们面对胡杨树诵咏：“东门之杨，其叶牂牂。昏以为期，明星煌煌。东门之杨，其叶肺肺。昏以为期，明星晢晢。”
我们会背了，也不懂含义。胡老师解释说，“东门之杨”就是指“胡杨”。胡杨呀，你曾经枝叶茂盛，郁郁葱葱。约好黄昏相见，都满天星斗了还不见你发芽长叶。
长大后，我们知道这是《诗经•国风》中的《东门之杨》，先秦“佚名”著 。朱熹认为这是一首男女约会而久候不至的诗。“东门之杨”不一定是指“胡杨”，当然也不一定指的不是胡杨，无法考证。当年，我们还不懂男女之事。胡老师把诗的含义改了，变成了我们和树的约会。现在看来，胡老师对诗的解释有些牵强，可愿望却是那么美好。于是，这就成了我们每天面对胡杨时必须诵咏的诗。
那段时间，补鞋匠巴哈提老乡就受苦了。自从移栽了胡杨树，他就把补鞋摊挪到胡杨树下。胡杨树即便没有树叶，树枝也能形成荫凉，那一地荫凉也让人快乐，能吸引顾客。那几天他会时常把人家的鞋子修坏，把鞋钉钉透了鞋底，让人一瘸一拐地来找他算账。巴哈提老乡觉得有什么气味影响了他的补鞋技术。他经常嗅着鼻子在胡杨树下转圈，就像正寻找着什么。同学们见状也不明说，都偷偷地笑。
大家后来再也不敢在夜晚到胡杨树下来一下了，可巴哈提老乡还会围绕着胡杨树转圈。我们问他在胡杨树下寻找什么？他说寻找树芽，看看胡杨树的消息。我问他找到了吗？他说找到了。
这可是一个振奋人心的好消息，我们都去胡杨树下张望。他指给我们看，在树上，更高的树上，有绿芽。我们昂着头，踮着脚尖，使劲地看，当眼花缭乱时，仿佛看到树杈上有了绿芽，似是而非的。难道我们的童子尿起作用了？
在太阳落山时，我们还会看到他在胡杨树下祈祷，不知道是为了树还是为了自己。有时候我们也会站在胡杨树下念念有词：“东门之杨，其叶牂牂。昏以为期，明星煌煌。东门之杨，其叶肺肺。昏以为期，明星晢晢。”
巴哈提老乡问：“你们念什么？”
我们回答：“念经。”
“汉人的经？”
“是的，《诗经》。”
“管用吗？”
“当然管用，能鼓励胡杨树早点生叶。”
“教教我，我们一起鼓励、鼓励的。”
后来，巴哈提先念一段自己的经，然后，仰天望着树上他看到的树芽，吟诵那段《诗经》。
胡老师再一次给我们上作文课时，他让我们写一写眼前的胡杨树。他启发我们，不要再纠结胡杨树是否发芽、长叶的问题，因为胡杨树是一种伟大的树，它“活着一千年不死，死后一千年不倒，倒下一千年不朽”。胡老师还说，胡杨树即便死了，也会在我们山前耸立千年。
胡老师的这段话让我们震撼。特别是关于胡杨树的伟大让我们振奋，有一种激情在心中激荡，这让我们无所畏惧。这时候，开山的炮声又响了，有石头落在了我们的屋顶，犹如战鼓。听到房顶的咚咚声，大家都会心一笑，齐声背诵我们学过的课文：“一鼓作气，再而衰，三而竭 …… ”
就在大家认为“三而竭”时，只听“轰”的一声，第四下来了，声音巨大而又沉闷。我们眼前的讲台灰尘四起，有女生吓得尖叫。灰尘散去，我们发现胡老师躺在地上，鲜血从讲台上流了下来 ……
一块碗口大的飞石击穿教室的屋顶，直击胡老师的头部，老师死在讲台上。
胡老师后来埋在胜利渠边那个巨大的胡杨树坑里。下葬那天我们围着那个树坑走了一圈又一圈。我们没有哭，感觉胡老师也没有死，他变成了一枚巨大的胡杨树种子。那种子会发芽、长叶，成为一棵参天大树。
胡老师死后，我们发现那些似是而非的树芽完全枯萎了，胡杨树也死了。关于胡老师用童子尿拯救胡杨树的故事，同学们一直都守口如瓶，再也没人提起。其实，刚移植的树木是不能施肥的，这是后来我们才知道的。
多年以后，当我回到新疆时，我和同学们再次去了那个已经废弃的矿山。我们知道了当年那些神秘的石头根本不是铀矿，它们只是普通的石灰石。可以烧石灰，还可以生产水泥，这从后来建成的水泥厂和石灰窑可以证明。更多的是一般的石头。拖拉机把石头运下山，运到各个连队，成了盖房子的基石。
我们没有忘记那棵死去的胡杨树，我们坚信它死后一千年不倒。那是我们的故乡树，也留下了乡愁。我们远远地就看到了它的身影。它已死去几十年，细枝已经被风掳去，只剩下粗壮的枝干，像一尊神秘的树雕。
有人说它像一个女人，正张开双臂拥抱远方的云影。
有人说它像一匹天马，正带着我们向远方奔驰。
我则说它很像胡老师，他正在给我们上课，背景是那些被取走了一层石头的平滑如砥的山坡。那像一块巨大的黑板。胡老师正指着黑板给我们讲解那段《诗经》。
因开山的飞石击穿小学校的教室，砸死了老师，这是一个巨大的事故。矿长因此受到了处分。矿长后来从机务排让人滚来了十几个废旧的油桶，破开了，打造成硕大的铁皮瓦，盖在我们教室的屋顶上。我们终于可以安心读书了，一直到我们下山上中学。后来，我们通过高考飞向四面八方。
我们当然没忘记去胜利渠边看望胡老师。让我们惊喜的是，在胡老师的孤坟边真的长出了一棵胡杨树。我们围成一圈坐在树下，回忆胡老师，背诵那段《诗经》。
“东门之杨，其叶牂牂。昏以为期，明星煌煌。东门之杨，其叶肺肺。昏以为期，明星晢晢。”
ZHE ZHANG is a member of the Chinese Writers Association and the Vice Chairman of the Chongqing Writers Association. He has published novels as well as short stories. His works have been reprinted in various literary journals and have appeared on the annual national literary rankings multiple times. He won the 8th Lu Xun Literary Prize in 2022.
XIAOMING SHAN is a Chinese English teacher who writes stories in English in his spare time. His stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Writethis.com, Best Fiction, Red Lightbulbs, SNReview, Elohi Gadugi Journal, Blue Crow, Constellation (nominated for Pushcart Prize), The Chaffin Journal, Sagebrush Review (forthcoming), ellipsis… literature and art (forthcoming), and the anthology Rigorous Mortis. His translations of Chinese literature appeared in Nashville Review, Hunger Mountain Review and have won several honorable mentions from Glimmer Train. His MFA is from City University of Hong Kong, with distinction. He is one of the very few Chinese writers who write in English from within China.
