The daily worker. [volume] (Chicago, Ill.) 1924-1958, 1933-12-20
Night OF Death Dawn Of Freedom
| A SHORT STORY

Ting Ling, the author of this
short story, was arrested in Shang-
hal last summer, and murdered by
Chinese police. She was the best
known woman writer of China,
member of the Executive OF the
China League of Left Writers and
a leader in the Left Cultural Fed
Grafton. Her husband, HUI Yeh-ping,
was also a well-known writer, lead
er of the wOrker-sold-er correspond
ence section of the League Of Left
Writers. He was executed in Shang
hal in February, 1881. The follow
ing story by Ting Ling is translated
from the Chinese.l
cLISH = SLOSH - slish slish--slosh
From out of the greenish lamp
hight of the hall an indistinguishable
mass of human shadows was moving
in the direction Of the open field.
Boots and shoes stamped heavily
through the deep snow that covered
the ground. The furious blasts Of a
winter night met them full in the
face, assaulting them with the fine
sleet and heavy snow that had fallen
for half q month. The sudden attack
Of the icy wind drew involuntary
shivers, but the shadows proceeded
on. Sash. slosh--slish, slosh!
A second gust. roaring heavily,
swept pitilessly over them, cruelty
lasning the faces and bodies of the
group. In the interior of the group
surrounded, guarded, driven on
walked q delicate youth, handsome
in spite of his haggard face. He
seemed to remember something with
sudden start. The past-an that
had just appened-seemed to come,
if somewhat distantly, yet clearly be-
fore ham. He saw q crafty face, filled
with malice and greed-a full, round
face, with the hated imperialistic
mustaches. There was depressed glee
in the evil, arrogant voice as the man
had spoken, looking arrogantly at
hem from his high platform.
Have you anything further to say?
Sentence has been passed on you and
1t will be carried out immediately"
Remembering, the youth felt al
most consumed by the fire that
burned in his soul. He wanted to
tear that face to pieces, to destroy
it, to extinguiSh that voice! For one
mad moment he thought he must
force his way through the group,
and he quickened his step. A short
time ago, when he had suddenly been
condemned to death without trial, he
had been unable to preserve his COM
posure as his other comrades had
done, but had lost consciousness In a
wave Of fury and anguish.
He was a young poet, emotional,
sincere, passionate.
"Pun-g." A rifle butt crashed heaY-
lily on his chest. Tnin-chested always
he had grown more emaciated from
20 days Of half-staryation In the
dark and sunless prison. His memo
ries were interrupted by the curses
Of the soldier who struck him vi
ciously.
Rape your motherl What's your
hurry? The devil can wait to take
you'll"
Rattle of Chains
ClankI Clank! The hateful rattle
Of iron shackles on his hands and
feet, and on the hands and feet of
his comrades. About him was con-
fusion of sounds-hob- nailed boots
stamping heavily over deep snow.
Slish, sloShi Slish, sloshl
Something else became clear. He
realized that he was walking some
where. A strange thought came to
him. He seemed to see another pair
of eyes before him, a pair of lovely,
unforgetable eyes that gazed eter-
.ually into his soul. Something in the
Intimate labyrinth OF his heart pain
fully tore at him, stabbed him.
The sky was black - illimitable
hlackness! Out from the blackness
the sleet and snow whipped about
them, carried by the roaring north