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Night, the Sound of a Fiddle Floating from Beside the Cowshed (Part 1)
夜晚的提琴声
翻译：王天元
朗诵者：Buse Kurt
Original by Haonan | Haonan's Sky
April 8, 2025, 15:41 Guangdong
This article today is about a fellow farmer I knew during my time in the countryside. I simply want to tell readers that in the 1960s and 1970s, there was a young man with remarkable musical talent and a pure heart who lived this way on this land. In the article, I haven't used his real name because I haven't obtained his consent yet—I still haven't been able to find him. But I can guarantee that everything I write here is true. He must be around 75 or 76 years old this year. Let's temporarily call him Yaqiu here.
The Educated Youth Who Could Play the Fiddle
Half a year after going to the countryside, I was transferred to work at the brick factory in Lingtian Work Area. The living conditions were much better than those in the mountains. We lived in brick houses with electric lights. The toilet was no longer two circles surrounded by thatch without a roof. What's more gratifying was that when going home for holidays, I didn't need to spend over an hour going down the mountain—instead, I could directly ride a bicycle from the doorstep.
Our dormitory building stood on the east side of the main road, which ran from south to north as the only road connecting the headquarters to the deeper mountainous Shuikou Work Area. Although called a "main road," it only allowed two cars to pass each other narrowly, and there weren't many vehicles on it usually.
Behind our dormitory was Tianxin Village, where the local Hakka people lived in clusters. The village had about a hundred households. The adobe houses, as primitive as the earth, were scattered orderly at the foot of the gentler hills in this hilly area.
The dormitory had four rooms. The seven of us female educated youths lived in the largest room in the north. The room next door, separated by a wall, housed the male educated youths, and beyond that were the homes of veteran workers with families.
Our room had nothing except four bunk beds. We used the extra bed to store miscellaneous items. Therefore, all our after-work activities—chatting, reading, doing handicrafts, listening to the radio, and sewing—had to be done "on the bed." I still remember how overcautious the male educated youths from next door were when they occasionally came to talk, not ,daring to sit by our beds.
The dormitory was on the east side of the road, and on the west side was a small thicket where the team's cattle pen was located. In the dead of night, lying in bed, we could hear the "moo" "moo" sounds of cows chewing their cud from time to time.
One night shortly after arriving at the brick factory, around eight or nine o'clock, the seven of us sisters were each doing our own things on our beds. Suddenly, a gentle violin melody floated into the dormitory through the window, opening our young hearts and ears.
Standing on the doorstep, I followed the sound. The music drifted slowly from beyond the thicket, near the cattle pen. Due to the thicket blocking the view, I couldn't see the figure of the person playing the violin. The night was hazy, and the clear sky was deep and pure. In this beautiful space, the music was plaintive and desolate, as if telling a sorrowful story. Although we didn't understand music at that time and couldn't tell what piece was being played, we could all feel the player's sadness, the bitterness, and the melancholy in his heart. The music was like a cold wind, blowing a chill into the cool night. It was also like wisps of smoke carrying sorrow, floating over the adobe houses of Tianxin Village and toward the distant dark blue mountains.
"Is there someone here who can play the violin?" I asked in surprise.
"It's Yaqiu next door," my dormmate told me.
Yaqiu was a young man who came to the farm in 1965. Of medium to short stature and thin, he had quite regular features. Usually, he rarely spoke, let alone was seen smiling. Because of his silence, lack of smiles, and habit of always keeping his head down when meeting people, his originally handsome face seemed呆板. He always gave the impression of being listless and weak, even walking as if without energy. In a crowd, he was like a grass that hadn't yet grown tall, the easiest to be overlooked and forgotten.
In those days, ordinary people were not only materially poor but also had a monotonous cultural life—"eight plays for eight hundred million people." The violin was a very high-end instrument in our eyes. Except for playfully imitating the action of playing the violin with our heads tilted, we had never touched a real violin, let alone learned to play it. Therefore, when a violinist stood before us, I felt extremely envious.
One day after hearing the music, I met Yaqiu face to face.
"Qiu XX, can you play the violin?" I asked boldly, full of admiration.
Ordinarily, we would address older educated youths with "Brother" or "Sister" after their names, but I don't know why I blurted out his name directly that day.
"Yes," he replied in a low voice, and that was all.
The staff at the brick factory included local veteran workers, mainly Hakka people born and raised there, as well as educated youths from the classes of 1962, 1963, 1965, and our 1971 class. There were also fewer than ten "Five Categories "
Yaqiu came to the farm in 1965. Some veteran workers said he was the youngest at that time, only 15 years old. Calculating this way, by 1971, when we went to the countryside and got to know him, he was only 21 or 22 years old but had already spent six years braving the winds and rains of rural life.
Growing Up with the Sound of the Fiddle
Over time, we gradually noticed that Yaqiu didn't seem to have a regular schedule for playing the violin at night. Most of the time, he would play once every week or two, sometimes not for a long time, and occasionally he would play for three or four consecutive days. Each time he played for about two or three hours, usually stopping around 11 o'clock. The pieces he played were mostly sad; I don't remember ever hearing him play any cheerful or festive music.
One night, when I went out to pour water, I saw him carrying his violin back across the road from beside the cattle pen.
"Brother Qiu, you've been playing for so long. Aren't you tired?" I asked out of curiosity and with a touch of concern.
"Not tired!" He responded with a rare hint of a smile. "I started learning to play the violin when I was very young. This is nothing."
"Oh, so you've been playing for many years."
"Yeah," he replied in a low voice.
Gradually, I learned from the veteran workers that Yaqiu's parents were both labeled as "Rightists" in the 1950s and sent to a labor farm. At that time, Yaqiu was less than ten years old, and he grew up with his paternal aunt. His family was a literary and artistic family, with everyone having artistic talents. Influenced by the strong artistic atmosphere at home, Yaqiu started learning the violin at a young age and played quite well, showing some talent. Perhaps due to the family issue of his parents being Rightists, he not only couldn't go to an art unit but was also designated to go to the countryside.
After learning about Yaqiu's background, when I paid more attention to him, I found that he was indeed different from others in some ways. He never swore. Although usually taciturn, he was never rude to others. When not working and resting, he paid attention to the style of his clothes. I thought these might be due to the upbringing of an intellectual family and the edification of the family's artistic atmosphere.
Some fellow farmers also recalled that he had a foldable bicycle, which was very rare in those days, though he didn't use it often. This showed that his family's economic situation had once been quite good.
Haonan
The Fifth Day of the First Lunar Month, 2025
(精彩下期继续)
The Frustration of Innocence
Back then, in our spare time as educated youth (zhishi qingnian知识青年), we often read novels and literary magazines from before the Cultural Revolution—books that weren’t officially banned. Of course, we didn’t dare touch banned works like Dream of the Red Chamber, since there were political instructors in the production team overseeing ideological education.
We were fortunate that the farm allowed two days off every two weeks. Every time someone went back to the city, they’d bring back some books or magazines. Then, the boys’ and girls’ dormitories would share them, taking turns in line to read.
Once, I happened to exchange books with Yaqiu. I cautiously asked him, “Since you’ve played the violin for so many years, haven’t you ever thought of applying to an arts troupe or something similar?” I didn’t dare voice the second half—“Why did you come to the countryside?”
He sighed. A trace of frustration, regret, and sorrow passed through his eyes. Perhaps sensing my sympathy, he unexpectedly opened up to me about his story:“Of course I did,” he said. “I applied to the ✘✘ Performing Arts Troupe. I had already passed six rounds of auditions. I thought I might finally make it.”
He paused. “It was all my fault.”
“What happened?” I asked, anxious on his behalf.
“They gave me a form to fill out. Under ‘family background’…” He held out his hand and flipped it over, gesturing from front to back. “Originally, it was like this—but I wrote it like that. I was afraid if I wrote the truth, I wouldn’t pass. But when they ran a political background check, I failed even worse. It’s all my fault.”
By that point, I had roughly understood what happened. In those days, if you weren’t from a worker or peasant family, you were already starting from behind. You weren’t necessarily labeled a bad person, but it was very hard for people to accept that you were a good one. And if you lied on such a critical matter as your family background? Who would dare accept you? The fact they didn’t charge you with a crime was already lenient. But how could a fifteen-year-old possibly understand such complex and cruel social realities?
I realized I had touched the most painful part of his heart and didn’t dare continue the conversation.
Now, as I tap on my phone screen to write this piece, I finally understand why I had found him so withdrawn when we first met. If a person’s childhood and adolescence are like a growing seedling, then when he was still just a sprout, the harsh wind and freezing rain of his parents being labeled “rightists” had already drenched him. When he struggled to grow a bit stronger and poked his head above the ground, he was again struck down—branded as a “rightist’s son,” and “dishonest.” That fragile hope he had nearly touched was cruelly snatched away. The blow cut deep—into his bones and into his soul.
That he could still quietly hold onto his dreams and stay alive with hope—he had already withstood more than most.
But who could truly feel the warmth he lacked?
The Violin He Couldn’t Let Go
At the time, whenever we had our mid-month and end-of-month farm holidays, those of us whose homes were in Guangzhou would jump on our bikes like birds flapping our wings and fly home. Yaqiu would just stand there quietly watching us leave, a wooden expression on his face, eyes full of melancholy. His parents were in a labor camp; he had no home to return to. He rarely visited his aunt’s home. Every time we left for home in high spirits, it was a new wound for him.He never spoke of his family, and after a while, no one asked.
In truth, I felt deeply sorry for his fate. Imagine growing up without your parents, living with an aunt—though family, still a life of dependence. What bitter days those must have been. When he finally grew older and played the violin beautifully, he should have had a bright future. But because of youthful naivety, he lost his chance. Can we blame him? What does a teenager really know? Life was indeed cruel to him.
Look at kids today—fifteen or sixteen-year-olds still acting spoiled or rebellious in front of their parents. But in those days, he already had to bear full responsibility for his actions.
Over time, we came to understand why there were days when Yaqiu didn’t play the violin at all—it was because he was exhausted. And why sometimes he would play nonstop for days—because he realized his fingers were losing their touch, and he feared losing the skill. Even though, like all of us, he felt his future was shrouded in uncertainty, deep in his heart he still hoped that one day he could stand on stage as a professional violinist.
Life… is never easy.
I left the farm in 1974. That year, many Guangzhou-based companies and schools directly recruited from city-run farms. But the older generation of educated youth were often too old to meet enrollment criteria. By 1975, recruitment standards in construction, commerce, and other sectors were relaxed. Most of the old zhiqing from the ’62, ’63, and ’65 batches returned to the city then.
Yaqiu likely left the farm during that time too. But because he had always wrapped himself in solitude and never formed deep bonds with anyone, no one knew where he went.
The Echo
Ever since leaving the farm, whenever someone mentions a concert, what floats into my ears is the faint, sorrowful sound of a violin drifting from the cowshed on those lonely nights.
Even now, as I write this article, what I see before me is still Yaqiu’s melancholic gaze.
Yaqiu, do you know? The fellow farmmates who shared their youth and sweat with you back then now gather again with white hair. When we recall you, it’s always your mournful violin that we remember. We still want to hear you play—only this time, we hope the music won’t be filled with sadness.
We’ve been looking for you. We all want to know: in all these years since you left, have you been well?
And we wonder, when the wave of reform and opening up came—so full of unexpected opportunities—did you manage to join an arts troupe and finally stand on stage, fulfilling your dream of becoming a professional violinist?
Though decades have passed, the sound of your violin on those nights still echoes clearly in our ears. It lingers, it flows, it never fades.
Life often only reveals its true flavor after it’s long gone and slowly savored.
Yaqiu, your music was the cry of your soul, the blood and tears of your heart. That blood and those tears have long since blended into our shared youth. Intertwined so deeply—how could they ever be separated? How could they ever be forgotten?
Yaqiu, we miss you!
Haonan, completed in Foshan, March 2025
中文版
今天的这篇文章，写的是我下乡时的一位农友。我只是想告诉读者，在上世纪六、七十年代，有一位彼有音乐才华的很单纯的青年，曾在这片土地上这样生活。文中，我没有让他的真名实姓出现，因为我还没征得他的同意，我一直没能找到他。但我可以保证我写的这一切都是真实的。算起来他今年有七十五、六岁了。在这里我们暂且叫他 亚丘吧。
会拉提琴的青年
下乡半年，我被调到岭田作业区的砖瓦厂工作。生活条件比在山上时强多了。住的是砖瓦房，有了电灯。厕所也不再是茅草围着没有顶的两个圈圈了。更可喜的是，放假回家，不用花一个多小时下山，出门就可以直接蹬自行车赶路了。
我们的那幢宿舍座落在大路的东边，大路由南向北是从场部通向更深的山里水口作业区的仅有的一条路。说是大路，仅容得下两车相遇擦肩而过，平时车不多。
我们宿舍的背后是当地客家人聚集居住的田心村。村子大概有百来户人家。一座座土坯房象坭土那殷原始，错落有致地趴在这丘陵地带较平缓的山脚处。
宿舍有四个房间，我们七个女知青住最北边最大的房间，一墙之隔那间房住的是男知青，再过去就是拉家带口的老职工的家。
我们的房间里除了四张架子床什么都没有。多出来的那个床位大家用来放了杂物。所以我们工余的一切活动包括聊天、阅读、做手工、听收音机做针线都是要“上床”的。至今我都记得，隔壁男知青偶尔过来说说话，不敢往我们床边坐下的那个拘谨的样子。
宿舍在大路的东面，路的西面是一小片灌木林，那里有队里的牛圈。夜深人静时，躺在床上可以听到牛反刍嚼料时不时发出的“哞”“哞”声。
初到砖瓦厂的一天晚上，大概八、九点钟了，我们姐妹七人各自在自己的床上做自己的事。悠悠然，一阵柔和的小提琴声穿过窗户飘进宿舍，撩开了我们年轻的耳目心扉。
站在门前的台阶上，我循声寻找。琴声透过灌木林从牛棚那边缓缓地飘过来。因为灌木林的遮挡，我看不见拉琴人的身影。夜色朦胧，啨朗的夜空深邃而又洁净。在这净美的空间。琴声哀怨、凄凉，如诉如泣。我们那时候虽然说都不懂音乐，说不出拉的是什么曲子，却都能感受到拉琴人的悲凉，心中的苦涩和忧伤。琴声像冷冷的风，把凉凉的夜吹起了寒意。又像一缕缕扯着愁绪的云烟，飘过田心村那座座土坯房，飘向远处黛墨色的的山峦。
“这里有人会拉小提琴？”我有点惊讶。
“是隔壁的亚丘”。同宿舍的姐妹告诉我。
亚丘，一位1965年来农场的青年。中等偏矮的个子，瘦瘦的，五官倒是挺端正的。平时极少听见他说话，更别说看见他笑了。因为他的少言寡语，没有笑容，见到人还总喜欢低着头，以至于令他那张原本英俊的脸庞变得呆板了。他平时给人的感觉总是蔫蔫的，弱弱的连走路都像是没有力气。在人群中，他就像草丛中还没长大冒头的那棵草，最难被发现，最容易被忘记。
那个年代，普通老百姓不但物质上贫乏。文化生活也是”八亿人民八出戏”，非常的单调干涸。小提琴在我们眼里那是非常高档的乐器。除了玩耍时歪着脑袋模仿拉琴的动作，真正的小提琴我们根本没摸过，更别说学琴了。所以，当一位会拉琴的小提琴手站在我们面前，我是非常非常羡慕的。
听到琴声后的一天，我跟亚丘打了个照面。
“丘✘✘，你会拉小提琴啊？”我大着胆子，羡慕地问他。
平时，我们称呼老知青都会在名字后加个哥或姐，我也不知道那天为什么冲口而出对他直呼其名。
“是的。”他低声地应了一句，便再也无话。
砖瓦厂的人员除了有当地土生土长的以客家人为主的老职工。占比例最多的就是62、63、65届和我们71届的知青。还有不到十个“五类分子”。
亚丘是65年来农场的。有老职工说他是当年年龄最小的才15岁。这样算下来，到1971年我们下乡时认识他，他也就只有21～22岁，但已经在农村的风里雨里熬过了6个年头。
伴着琴声长大
时间久了，我们渐渐发现亚丘夜晚拉琴好像没有什么規律，大多时候一两个星期都会拉一次，有时候好长时间都不拉。偶而又会连续三四天连着拉。每次拉琴大概两三个小时。一般都会拉到快11点就收琴。他拉的曲子多是哀伤的，记忆中没听他拉过什么欢快喜庆的乐曲。
有天晚上，我出来倒水，见他提着琴从牛圈那边穿过大路回来。
“丘哥，拉了这么久，累不累啊？”我好奇而又带点关切的口吻问他。”
“不累！”他少有的，似乎有点微笑地回应我。”我很小就开始学琴了，这不算什么。”
“噢，那你拉琴拉了好多年了。”
“是啊。”回答的声音有点低沉。
渐渐地我从老职工嘴里得知：亚丘的父母亲在五十年代双双被打成了“YP”，去了劳改农场，那时候亚丘还不到十岁，他是跟着小姑长大的。他们家可以说是文艺世家，全家都有文艺特长。受家庭浓烈的艺术氛围影响。亚丘很小就开始学琴了，还拉得不错，应该是有些天分的。可能是受父母亲是右派这个家庭问题的影响吧，非但去不了艺术单位，还被指定要下乡。
在知道了亚丘的身世后，再去留意他，发现他还是有着一些跟别人的不一样。他从来都不会说粗话。平时虽然少言寡语却从不会对人无礼。在不用出工休息的时候他对衣着的款式还挺讲究。我想这些可能就是知识分子家庭的教养，和家里艺术氛围熏陶的原因吧。
还有农友回忆，记起他有一架在那个年代非常罕见的可折叠的自行车，他不常用。这说明他的家庭经济状况曾经是很不错的。
不谙世事的挫折
那个时候，我们知青的业余时间常常会阅读一些不被公开推荐的，文×前的小说和文艺书籍、杂志。当然不敢看《红楼梦》之类的禁书，因为队里有指导员管政治教育。
得天独厚的是农场每两周休息两天，每次返城休息，总有人带些书籍杂志回来。然后是男女宿舍互通有无，排着队轮着看。
有一次，好像是跟亚丘交换书籍。我小心翼翼地问他：“既然你拉琴拉了这么多年，怎么没想法去考个艺术团体之类的单位？”下半句“为什么来农村？”我没敢说出口。
“唉！”他叹了口气，眼里飘过一丝沮丧、懊悔和忧伤。可能是他感觉到了我的善意和同情，竟然破天荒跟我说起了自己的事：“怎么没呢？”“我曾报过✘✘文工团，都已经复试了六次了。我想着我可能成功了。”
他停顿了一下：“都怪我！”
“怎么了？”我很替他着急，急切地问道。
“他们叫我填表，家庭出身一栏…”他伸出一只手掌，做了个一反一正的动作。“…本来这样，我写成了这样。”“我就是怕按原来那样写会通不过，谁知道一政审，更通不过。都怪我自己。”
他说到这里，我已经大致明白了事情的缘由。在当时那个环境下，不是工农家庭出身你就已经比别人矮了一大截了，不说你是坏人，但要认可你是好人很不容易。在报告家庭出身这么重大的事情上你还不老实。谁敢用你？没给你定罪已经算是放过你了。但这些当时社会复杂而残酷的常识，对于一个十五岁的孩子，怎么可能理解？怎能明白？
我发现自己触动了他内心最痛苦的地方，就不敢继续跟他对话了。
今天，当我触点着手机屏写这篇文章，我明白了为什么我刚开始认识他的时候会觉得他蔫蔫的。如果把一个人的童年和少年比作正在成长的苗。他还是幼苗的时候，就遇上父母被打成YP的寒风冷雨而被浇了个透。当他挣扎着努力地生长刚强壮了一点点露了头。又被“YP的儿子，”“不老实”残忍地掠夺了他快要摸到的希望。这种打击是深入骨髓痛彻心扉的。他能蔫蔫地继续守着理想，活着盼着，可以说已经是经受住了。
可是，谁能体会到他缺少温暖呢？
放不下的提琴
那时侯，每逢农场月中和月底放假，我们这些家在广州的知青一个个跨上自行车，像鸟儿扑楞着翅膀往家飞去。亚丘只是静静地看着我们离去，脸上木木的，眼神是忧郁的。他父母亲在劳改农场，他没有家可回。小姑那里他并不常去。我们每一次的兴高采烈地回家，对他就是一次伤感的刺激。他从来不跟别人提家里的事，时间长了，大家也就不再问了。
其实，我内心很为他的命运唏嘘。想想，一个人在孩提时代父母就远离了，跟着小姑生活，虽是亲戚但也是寄人篱下，那该是多难熬的日子。好不容易长大了几岁，拉得一手好琴。本该可以有个好去处了，却因为年少不更事，丢失了机会。这能怪他吗？十几岁的孩子懂什么？命运对他确实残酷了。
看今天的孩子，往往十五六岁的初中生还在爸妈面前任性、撒娇、判逆。而那个年代的他却已经要为自己的行为负责了。
时间长了，我们渐渐明白亚丘为什么有时候好些天不拉琴，那是他累了。为什么有时候又连续拉好几天，那是他发现自己手生了，害怕丢了这份手艺。尽管当时知青们都觉得前路茫茫，但他的内心深处还在期望自己有一天能站在舞台上，当一个职业提琴手。
人啊……真不容易！
我是1974年离开农场的。那时候广州市许多企业和学校直接去市属农场招工招生，但老知青们因年龄偏大不符合招生条件。到了1975年有些建筑、商业等行业对招工的年龄放宽了许多，农场的大多数62、63、65届老知青都是在那个时候回城的。
亚丘应该也是在那个时候离开农场的。由于他多年来总是包裹着自己。没有跟谁有深度的交往，所以农友们没有人知道他的去向。
余音
自从离开农场后，每当有人提起音乐会。我耳边就会响起的那些夜晚从牛圈飘过来的带着缕缕愁绪的提琴声。
当我今天写这篇文章的时候，我眼前呈现的的还是丘哥那忧郁的眼神。
丘哥，你知道吗？当年同在农场抛洒青春和汗水的农友们白首相聚。忆起你想起的还是你那悲凉的琴声。还想听你拉琴，但希望那琴声不再只有悲伤。农友们一直在找你。大家很想知道，离开的这些年你过得还好吗？
还想知道，当改革开放的浪潮袭来，曾有那么多的意想不到，你是否有机会进了艺术团体，走上舞台实现了自己成为职业提琴手的梦想。
虽然几十年过去了，那些夜晚的琴声一直在我们的耳旁清晰地回响、流淌、没有消散。
生活往往过去了，慢慢咀嚼，才知道他真正的味道。
丘哥，你的琴声那是你心灵呐喊的啼血，是你心底哭泣的泪，这血和泪早已揉进了我们共同的青春，水乳交融如何分得开？如何能忘怀？
……
丘哥，大家想你！
浩 男
2025年正月初五 一稿于广州
2025年3月完稿于佛山
《读〈会拉提琴的青年〉有感》
王继红老师的作品《会拉提琴的青年》，以真挚的情感和细腻的笔触，为我们描绘了一位名叫亚丘的知青在特殊年代的坎坷命运，让我深受触动。
文中的亚丘，拥有音乐才华却命运多舛。他在年幼时父母便遭遇不幸，寄人篱下的成长经历让他的性格变得内向、忧郁。而在追求音乐梦想的道路上，仅仅因为年少时在家庭出身一栏的错误填写，便亲手断送了自己进入艺术团体的机会。这对于一个满怀希望与梦想的少年来说，无疑是沉重且残酷的打击。作者通过对亚丘的描写，让我深刻感受到了那个时代的无奈和悲哀。
作者以回忆的方式，将亚丘的故事娓娓道来，让我仿佛置身于那个年代的农场。文中对环境的描写，如宿舍周边的景象、夜晚的宁静，都为亚丘的故事增添了一份凄美。而对亚丘拉琴场景的刻画，更是充满了感染力，那哀怨、凄凉的琴声，仿佛穿透了文字，直抵我的内心，让我对亚丘的痛苦和忧伤感同身受。
这篇文章不仅让我看到了亚丘个人的悲剧，更让我思考了时代背景对个体命运的影响。在那个物质和精神生活都极度匮乏的年代，普通人想要实现梦想是如此艰难。同时，也让我更加珍惜当下的生活，我们生活在一个充满机遇和包容的时代，只要有才华和努力，便能有更多实现梦想的可能。
文章的结尾，作者表达了对亚丘的深深思念和牵挂，也让我感受到了那份跨越岁月的深厚情谊。尽管时光流逝，但曾经共同的青春岁月永远铭记在大家心中。
这是一篇感人至深的文章，它让我对过去的岁月有了更深刻的认识，也让我懂得了珍惜现在、把握未来的重要性。
总策划:腾团长
出品人:李淑林
