I stared at this schedule, my eyes glazed over, my calves cramping, a chill running straight up my spine. How is anyone supposed to survive this? If this were in a Western country, you could definitely sue him for child abuse. But this is at home, and there’s never been a case of an apprentice suing their master. Besides, this master is someone I chose to apprentice under myself. I’d just finished the formal ceremony, and to back out now would really be hard to justify.

“小俊, can you stick with it?” Mr. Smith asked calmly.

Dad looked at me, a bit nervous and also a little reluctant.

Even though I was a thousand times unwilling in my heart, I couldn’t back out now. If you want to be a good kid and get the benefits, you have to pay the price. So I gritted my teeth and nodded, “I can!”

“Alright then, starting tomorrow, we’ll follow this schedule. If you slack off and don’t listen properly, be careful or you’ll get your palms smacked.” The so-called palm-smacking was a “disciplinary measure” commonly used by elementary school teachers at the time to maintain their authority—using a strip of bamboo to smack the palm. With a bit of force, just one hit was enough to make my delicate little hand swell up like a balloon.

I sucked in a cold breath, sweat breaking out on my forehead. Truly, “Heaven’s misfortunes can be avoided, but self-inflicted ones cannot.” At this point, I had no choice but to tough it out, just like the Cantonese say: “No matter how tough, just face it head-on.” The sky was getting dark, and it was almost time for the movie. Dad stood up to say goodbye and invited Mr. Smith and his wife to go see the film. I thought for sure Mr. Smith wouldn’t be interested in this kind of “high and mighty” propaganda movie, but to my surprise, he gladly accepted.

A thought flashed through my mind, and I understood his intention. He wanted to learn about the latest political trends from the movie. Back then, TVs were as rare as aliens, and in the vast countryside, movies and newspapers were the main sources of information.

Just as we were about to leave, I suddenly asked, “Dad, what’s today’s date?”

“September 6th.” My heart skipped a beat. September 6, 1976—three days later, an earth-shattering event was about to happen.

Chapter 7: Director Yan of the Commune

On September 9, 1976, after leading the people for twenty-seven years, the great leader, the great teacher, the great helmsman, the eternal red sun in the hearts of the people, passed away.

Across 9.6 million square kilometers of land, somber funeral music played everywhere, and countless honest workers and farmers wept like rain.

At that moment, I was studying English diligently with Mr. Smith, curling my tongue and muttering words, when suddenly the brigade’s loudspeaker began to play funeral music. Mr. Smith was instantly dumbfounded, then stomped his feet and beat his chest, overcome with grief.

I’d always known he was a man of deep feeling, but I hadn’t expected such an intense reaction. I couldn’t help but marvel—people of their generation truly had a profound attachment to the leader.

But the reaction of the teacher’s wife was even more unexpected.

She didn’t care about appearances at all, plopping down on the ground, slapping the yellow earth with both hands, wailing and chanting.

“What are we going to do now? The Chairman has passed away, what will we do? Old man, who’s going to take off your rightist label now?” So that was it.

Mr. Smith was taken aback, then immediately shouted, “Shut up! How dare you talk nonsense?”

“Why wouldn’t I dare? I don’t want to live like this for even one more day. It’d be better to be dead…” The teacher’s wife was a native of the Ma Tangwan brigade, and had never had much schooling. Mr. Smith’s mother had arranged their childhood betrothal. He was a man of integrity, insisting on never abandoning his wife.

I couldn’t help but shake my head inwardly. They say people become steady in middle age, but when faced with major events, few can truly remain calm. Even someone as learned and experienced as Mr. Smith was at a loss for a moment.

The teacher’s wife just kept crying and complaining, while Mr. Smith was both angry and anxious, unable to stop her, nervously glancing around—fortunately, no one else was nearby.

Seeing things weren’t going anywhere, I suddenly said, “Uncle, do you have a radio?” Not that I doubted the news—no one in the country would dare joke about something like this. But I knew my words carried no weight, and trying to reason with them directly wouldn’t work. At a time like this, who would listen to a little kid like me? The only way was to divert their attention.

“Yes, yes, there’s a radio…” Mr. Smith snapped out of it, nodding repeatedly, and rushed into the mud-brick house to get the radio.

As the saying goes, “A scholar can know the world without leaving home.” For intellectuals like him, even if there was no rice for dinner, they would never pawn their radio.

But in his panic, Mr. Smith had forgotten that his precious radio had been broken for quite some time. No matter how he fiddled with it, it wouldn’t make a sound.

Frustrated and angry, Mr. Smith was about to smash his precious radio.

I panicked and quickly shouted, “Uncle, don’t! Let me take a look.”

“You?” Mr. Smith stared at me in surprise.

“Yeah, I learned a bit from my dad. I know some of the basics.” I nodded confidently.

Mr. Smith was half-convinced, half-doubtful, but handed me the radio anyway.

“Auntie, do you have scissors?” I figured they wouldn’t have tools like screwdrivers or pliers, so I’d have to make do with scissors.