有誰讀過這部感人的作品? 如果你是那個時代的同齡人，也許你會象我一樣含着淚將她讀完。我讀的是中文版。現在發現她被人用另一門語言掠為己有並獲了獎，感到憤憤不平，很想知道原作在哪兒，作者是誰，請朋友們幫個忙。

Undelivered Mail

By S. S.

As Ming pulled his bike into the small village, all that welcomed him was the silence in the air. The almost bare trees rustled in the wind, and the snow hitting the ground seemed like huge, thunderous bangs. The earth could almost be heard breathing.

This small village of northern China was so isolated that hardly anyone, other than those living there, knew of its existence. Ming was one of the few who knew. He was the mailman for that small village.

Ming was born and raised in a big city in southern China. Just a few months ago, he graduated from high school and was sent to a remote town thousands of miles away to be a mailman. It was the early 1970s, and the Cultural Revolution launched by Mao Tse-tung was at its peak. Millions of young people like Ming were sent away from home to be "re-educated." Actually, Ming was one of the lucky ones. His job was one of the most wanted among his peers, many of whom were sent to remote countrysides to perform hard labor. Nevertheless, being far away from home was an ordeal for Ming. He had very tough times adapting to life in the small town, the harsh winter weather and the loneliness.

The small village Ming was assigned to deliver mail to was so remote that it seemed to have been forgotten by everyone. Mail to that village was so scarce that it would take days, sometimes weeks, for Ming to accumulate enough mail to make the delivery worthwhile. He was more than happy that he didn't have to make the trip daily. He dreaded the treacherous route to the village, a long section of which was not passable to his bike and had to be traversed by foot, with Ming carrying the bike on his shoulders. During the winter, heavy snow made the treacherous route even more perilous.

Ming pedaled his bike on the snowy streets of the village, making his first appearance there in nearly two weeks. The frigid temperature kept everyone indoors, rendering the village almost lifeless. Through the falling snow he spotted the first sign of life, as he had anticipated. An elderly woman, probably in her 70s, was standing in his way on the otherwise empty street. To Ming, she was a permanent fixture on that spot. Every time Ming made his trip to the village, she would greet him on that spot, eagerly waiting for her mail. Ming slowed down.

"Anything for me, young man?" Her eyes were filled with hope, her fragile body trembling in the cold.

"No," Ming replied mechanically. He was ready to move on but then hesitated. He fumbled through his mailbag and took out a Manila envelope.

"Well, I do have a letter for you." Ming handed it to her.

Her eyes started glittering. She smiled heartily, adding more lines to her heavily wrinkled face, and cradled the letter with both hands. "Oh, young man, you know it's from my son, my only son! He's working in a big city down south. He's making a lot of money, and he must be coming home soon for New Year!" The excitement in her voice could almost melt the snow around her.

Ming was not in the mood to share her joy. He was anxious to finish his work and leave this seemingly desolate place. He poised to leave, but she grabbed his arm. "Young man, can you read the letter to me? You see, I can't read," she pleaded, smiling apologetically.

Ming sighed silently. He opened the letter and skimmed it. "Your son said he is very busy and can't come home for New Year," he read matter-of-factly. The glitter in her eyes dimmed, but Ming didn't even notice. "But he said he will send you some money and some goodies for New Year," Ming said, returning the letter to her.

The dimmed glitter in her eyes reappeared. She thanked Ming profusely and vanished in the heavy snow.

Ming quickly completed his deliveries and headed to the village's business office for his last stop. In the silence of cold air, he heard a loud and familiar voice coming from inside the office. "My son is sending me a lot of money and goodies. I'm going to have a big party on New Year's Eve in my house, and everyone is invited. Oh, actually, I have a lot of goodies of my own for New Year. I better get them ready . . . " This time, the excitement in her voice could almost burn down the office.

"That old boastful woman," Ming mumbled to himself. "She moved faster than my bike so she could brag to everyone!"

As New Year closed in, Ming's mind started slipping away from work. He began his countdown for the remaining days of the year so he could plan his homecoming vacation. He made scattered visits to that village. As usual, he was met by the elderly woman every single time on the same spot, anxiously inquiring about her mail. Ming was increasingly annoyed by her persistent inquiries. Her long-awaited money and goodies never came, he would tell her. "What happened? They should be here by now," she would murmur to herself, but the devastation in her voice became louder and louder.

Ten days before New Year, Ming was finally overwhelmed by homesickness and decided to grant himself an early vacation. He put away some undelivered letters and packages in his locker and headed home. Away from the harsh, snowy weather, the small village and the elderly woman, Ming immensely enjoyed the time with his family but had to tear himself away from home when the vacation ended.

Back in the small town, he sorted through the mail he had left, and his eyes zoomed in on a package. "Oh, no, that woman's goodies!" Ming shouted. He froze for a few seconds and then grabbed the package, jumped on his bike and raced to the small village.

The elderly woman was ominously missing from her usual spot, which all but confirmed Ming's worst fear. Ming met the village chief, who tearfully recounted the final days of that elderly woman.

She was seen standing on her spot every day until sunset. With each passing day, the light of her spirit seemed to dim, little by little. On New Year's Eve, the village hosted a big party, but she didn't attend. Fearful for her health in the dangerously cold temperature, the chief sent a few people over to persuade her to join the party. They found her stiff, frozen body on that spot, traces of hope remaining in her eyes.

Ming was overtaken by grief and guilt. He begged the woman's son, who had returned for his mother's funeral, to punish him. The son shook his head. "My mother lived the last moment of her life hoping for something good. Now, young man, you have a long life ahead of you. Don't give up hope that life may get better for you. Meanwhile, just do your best to make life better for everyone else," and he sighed, putting his hands on Ming's shoulders.

After the tragedy of that elderly woman, Ming developed a special attachment to the small village. The mail was as before, but his visits became more frequent. The treacherous route was no longer dreadful to him.

A few years later, with the end of the Cultural Revolution, Ming's career as a mailman ended. Before leaving to reunite with his family, Ming made his last trip to the village. He watered the flowers he had planted around the elderly woman's grave and bade her farewell. As the familiar streets and houses fell farther and farther behind him, he felt his bike heavier and heavier to pedal. The village, which he once shunned, would always be in his heart.