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“我们就要有法文老师了！” 我紧紧地抓住了芮茵的胳膊，边坐下边激动地轻声说。 那天正轮到她去图书馆抢仅有的几个座位。她身高体壮，一般都能挤过图书馆门口等著七点半开门的学生人群。一九七九年那个又湿又热的晚上, 我俩都是安徽师范大学外语系二年级的学生。
章显猷神父
巫一毛
“我们就要有法文老师了！”
我紧紧地抓住了芮茵的胳膊，边坐下边激动地轻声说。 那天正轮到她去图书馆抢仅有的几个座位。她身高体壮，一般都能挤过图书馆门口等著七点半开门的学生人群。一九七九年那个又湿又热的晚上, 我俩都是安徽师范大学外语系二年级的学生。
按照规定我们必须学第二外语才能毕业。芮茵和我一起选了法文。 但是一年多了， 学校还没能找到法文老师。
“真的?” 她尖叫起来。
“嘘，你得让别人把咱们赶走了。” 我瞥见坐在我们附近的人投来的不满眼光。我在笔记本上写道：“我回家吃晚饭。 正赶上林书记要求我爸爸明天给一位法文老师考试。 爸爸说, 他是英文老师。 她说, 那没有关系，因为他是唯一懂些法文的人。”
下一个星期二的上午， 我们渴望地等著上第一堂法文课。一个虚弱驼背满头白发的老人缓缓地走进了教室。 他静静地站到讲台前， 凝视地面。
同学们你看我, 我看你， 弄不明白新老师是怎么回事儿。 几分钟后, 他张了张嘴要说什么, 但话到嘴边又咽了回去。两串珍珠似的眼泪慢慢地滚下他布满皱纹的面颊。
“同 学 们, " 他结结巴巴地说。"请 原 谅 我 这 样 说 话。我 已经 快 三 十 年 没 跟 人 这 样 说 话 了。 我 姓 章。” 他用袖子抹去泪花， 低下了头。
教室里静极了。我听见一只孤独的蟋蟀在外面唧啾地叫。 一位同学怯怯地问 “章老师， 那您与谁说话呢?”
“ 天 主，” 他说。 同学们爆发出一阵大笑。 任何宗教，特别是天主教, 自从一九四九年共产党掌权以后就被整肃了。这是我们第一次听见有人用虔诚的口吻说“天主。”
“您在哪里与天主谈话呢?”另一位同学半讥讽地问。
“监 狱。” 又一个简短艰难的答复。
“啊，” 我们大吃一惊。那堂课剩下的时间里大家都默默无语。
后来我得知，章老师是因为他是天主教神父而蹲监狱的。 有许多年他被关在单人牢房里。 他的信仰使他活了下来。出狱后，被分配到我们大学来任教。
他大约四十年前学的法文，已经几乎全忘记了。 他会经常说半句话就停下来，试著记起一个字或词。即使这样，从没人抱怨过他的教学。
我对他产生了一种特殊的敬慕。 我母亲是她家八个孩子里最小的。 她三哥和二姐在四十年代引领她归依天主教。
三舅是一位著名的宗教研究历史学家。 他受尽折磨拷打， 被关在仅能坐著的小牢房里。
二姨为她的信仰进监狱时,是一个大有前途的二十六岁医科学生。 她在单人牢房里关了和章老师差不多长的时间。 在那孤独漫长的时日里, 她把白线袜拆掉，将线结成玫瑰经念珠，然后祷告。
二姨被捕后，外婆日夜啜泣，几乎哭瞎了双眼。后来外婆因癌症去世时，她们也没能见上最后一面。
母亲保持了她对天主的信仰。 当父亲在北京国际关系学院因言获罪而入狱时, 她告诉那些领导们，迫害父亲如同把耶稣钉死在十
字架上。
四舅不是天主教徒。 可他被诬控为秘密天主教神父。红卫兵为了逼他招供这无中生有的罪名而将他痛打。 他逃跑后跳入黄河自杀。 一位渔夫把他救上了岸。 红卫兵脑羞成怒。他们把他按在椅子上，用大铁钉钉穿他的手掌。他疯了。
章老师来了不久，父亲也得以全面平反并恢复了英语教授的职位。 母亲和弟弟与父亲一起搬回北京。 他们离开前，妈妈把我拉到一边。
“毛毛， 这个你留著。” 她将一串玫瑰经念珠塞在我的手里。我们从没讨论过宗教，但我知道她是天主教徒。那串念珠是在红卫兵多次抄家后她保存下来的唯一圣物。她把它藏在破扫帚把的竹节里。宗教活动都是在暗中进行的。在国内根本买不到圣经或其它圣物。
“妈妈， 您留著。”
她轻轻地拍了拍我的手, 什么也没说。 我把它小心地放入了口袋。
几个月后, 章老师被诊断得了癌症。 我与几个同学去医院看他。 那是一个温和晴朗的秋日。 落叶在风中翩翩起舞，然后掉到边路静待腐烂。
他面色苍白。稀疏的白发散乱在枕头上。 我们不知道该说什么, 只是在他的床边站了一阵子。 走出病房，芮茵和我都哭了。 我们知道, 这也许是最后一面了。
“我把本书忘在病房里了。 我跑回去把它拿来然后追上你们。” 刚走到街上我就说。 关上门之后我在他的床边跪下去。 我慢慢地拿出那串玫瑰经念珠塞在他的手里。
“章神父，” 我抑制不住夺眶而出的泪水。
“啊， ”他双眼里闪出兴奋的火花，泪水渗入枕头。
“你 是 天 主 教 徒 吗?” 他试著把头抬起来。
“我母亲是。 请您留著这个。”
“ 天 主 保 佑 你， 我 的 孩 子。” 他将颤抖的手背举向我的脸。他干枯的手像风中落叶般青筋暴起。
二十多年来, 章神父的形象时常萦回于我的脑际。我自问是什么力量使他和所有中国的天主教徒们忍受了那么多年的苦难。真有天主吗？
去年我终于决定要找到这些答案。加入了慕道班。除去学到许多东西之外，我明白了章神父那天是让我像行天主教仪式般，吻他的手背。然而他所得到的，只是我的滴滴泪珠。
我即将在复活节领洗。
当我们重逢时，我可以吻您的手吗，章神父？
***********************************************
二零零四年复活节前夕
***********************************************
英文版:
Meeting Father Zhang
Emily Wu
"We are going to have a French teacher!"
I grabbed Rui Yin's arm excitedly and whispered as I sat down. It had been her turn to wait and fight for the few precious library seats. She was sturdily built and could usually push through the crowd of students waiting for the library door to open at 7:30PM. On that humid and hot evening in 1979, we were sophomores majoring in English at Anhui Teachers University in Wuhu City, China.
We had to learn a second foreign language in order to graduate. Rui Yin and I had signed up for French, but for more than a year the university had not been able to find a teacher.
"Really?" she screamed.
"Shh. You are getting us kicked out." I caught the annoyed glances from those sitting around us and wrote on my notebook for her: "I went home for dinner. Party Secretary Ling was asking my father to test this French teacher tomorrow. My father said that he was an English professor. She said that it didn't matter because he was the only one who knew any French."
The next Tuesday morning, we waited anxiously for our first French lesson. A frail old hunchback with pure white hair walked slowly into the classroom. He stood quietly at the podium staring down at the ground.
The students looked at one another, not knowing what to make of the new teacher's behavior. After a few minutes, he opened his mouth to say something, but the words disappeared before they reached his throat. Two strings of tears rolled slowly down his wrinkled cheeks like pearls.
"Stu…dents…" he stuttered, "for…give… me… for…talking…like… this. I… have… not… talked… to… humans… for… almost…thirty… years. My… last… name…is… Zhang." He wiped off the tears with his sleeve and bowed.
The classroom was so quiet that I heard a lone cricket chirping outside. Someone asked timidly, "Teacher Zhang, who have you been talking to, then?"
"God," he said. The students burst into laughter. Religion of any kind, especially Catholicism, had been purged since the communist takeover in 1949. It was the first time we heard anyone say the word God in a serious tone.
"Where have you been talking to God?" Someone else asked, somewhat mockingly.
"Pri...son" was his labored answer.
"Ah…" We were taken aback and remained silent for the rest of class.
I found out later that Teacher Zhang had gone to prison because he was a Catholic priest. He had been locked up in a single cell for almost all of those years. His belief in God kept him alive. He was assigned a teaching post at our university after he got out of prison.
His French, learned some forty years ago, was almost forgotten. He would often stop in midsentence, trying to remember a word or phrase. Nevertheless, nobody complained about his teaching.
I developed a special admiration for him. My mother was the youngest of eight children. Her brother and sister introduced her to Catholicism in 1946.
My third uncle was a famous historian who specialized in religious studies. In 1952 he was tortured and kept in a cell so small that he could only sit.
My second aunt was a promising twenty-six-year-old medical student when she went to prison in 1951 for her belief. She stayed in a single cell for about the same length of time as Teacher Zhang. In those solitary years, she took apart a knit white sock, knotted the threads into a rosary, and prayed.
After Second Aunt's arrest, my grandmother wept day and night until she nearly went blind. Even when she was dying of cancer in 1964, they didn't have a chance to meet for one last time.
My fourth uncle was not a Catholic. In 1966, the Red Guards accused him of being a secret Catholic priest, beating him terribly in an attempt to make him confess to a non-existent crime.
He escaped and tried to commit suicide by jumping into the Yellow River. A fisherman pulled him ashore. The Red Guards were furious. They forced my uncle to sit in a chair and hit big iron nails through his palms. Eventually, he went insane.
My mother maintained her belief in God. When my father was sent to prison for criticizing the regime at the Institute of International Relations in Beijing, she told the authorities that persecuting my father was like killing Jesus on the cross.
A few weeks after Teacher Zhang arrived, my father was fully rehabilitated as a professor of English. My mother and younger brother moved back to Beijing with him. The day before they left, Mom took me aside.
"Maomao, keep this." She pressed her string of rosary beads in my hands. We never talked about religion, but I knew she was Catholic. Her rosary was the only religious item she had been able to save after the Red Guards ransacked our apartment too many times. Religious activities took place only secretly in China, and it was not possible to buy the Bible or any other religious items. She hid the rosary in a section of a broken bamboo broom handle.
"Mom, you keep it."
She patted my hands without a word. I put it carefully in my pocket.
A few months later, Teacher Zhang was diagnosed with liver cancer. I went to see him in the hospital with several classmates. It was a warm and clear autumn day. Falling leaves danced in the wind and landed by the sidewalk to rot.
He looked pale. The little that remained of his white hair lay loosely on the pillow. We did not know what to say and just stood by his bedside for a while. As soon as we were out of the room, Rui Yin and I started to cry. We knew that it might be the last visit.
"I left my book in his room. I will run to fetch it and catch up with you," I said once we were on the street.
Back at his room, I closed the door behind me and knelt by his bedside. I took out the rosary beads and slowly pressed them into his hand.
"Father Zhang…" I couldn't hold back my tears.
"Oh…" There was a spark of excitement in his eyes, tears sinking into the pillow.
"Are… you… a… Catholic?"
"My mother is. Please keep this."
"God… bless… you, my… child." He lifted the back of his shaking hand toward my face. The distended veins on his hands looked like those on dry leaves.
For more than twenty years, I have been haunted by his image. I wonder what made him and all other Catholics in China endure those years of suffering. Is there a God?
I finally decided to find out last year. I started participating in the Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults. I learned, among other things, that Father Zhang had meant for me to kiss his hand that day, as in a Catholic ceremony. All he received then were drops of my tears.
I will be baptized this Easter.
May I kiss your hand when we meet again, Father Zhang?
注:本文已被选入《2005年最佳全球天主教作品选集》一书之中
(中文版原载 [圣城通讯]， 英文版原载 [America] 杂志)
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