Chapter Six: Difficult Times

As expected, Lu Kun simply greeted Stone to borrow his bicycle, and Stone handed him a spare key to his house. Lu Kun planned to set up a night market stall, so the bicycle would be of little use during the day; the bike was left with Stone for now. However, Lu Kun did take all the river mussel shells from the corner of Stone’s house, stuffing them into a large woven bag.

“A thief never leaves empty-handed, huh!” Stone laughed and cursed.

“Er Ya, let’s go. Your mother must be worried.” Lu Kun called to his second daughter, hefted the heavy bag of shells onto his shoulder, and left.

“If I need the bike, I’ll come for it!” Even as Lu Kun walked far from Stone’s house, his voice lingered in the air.

“That kid!”

…

When Lu Kun returned home with his daughter, he found that his wife and eldest girl had already set the table, waiting for them to eat together.

“Go wash your hands, both of you. Dinner’s ready,” Liu Liping called out as she bustled about.

“Dad, so many mussel shells! Can I have one to play with?” The elder girl asked, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

“Uh…” Lu Kun was at a loss for words, about to agree when his wife interjected, “Of course not, those shells are useful.”

The elder girl looked at Lu Kun, her big, pleading eyes watery with hope.

“This afternoon, you three can wash all the shells clean. If you spot any broken ones, you can pick out a few to play with,” Lu Kun replied after a moment’s thought.

“Yes!” The elder girl jumped with joy.

Liu Liping said nothing more. On one hand, it was a solution that satisfied everyone; on the other, before the children, a mother naturally upheld her husband’s authority.

“Papa, I want one too,” the little one said, sucking on her fingers, her voice soft and sweet.

“All right, you’ll get one too. But let’s eat first,” Liu Liping agreed readily this time.

The meal was simple: coarse rice and vegetables. The rice, poorly milled, was often broken and littered with husks. Liu Liping, thrifty by habit, was reluctant to wash it too thoroughly, so the cooked rice retained a yellowish tint. Neither the adults nor the children showed any sign of complaint.

After all, in times like these, being able to eat one’s fill was a luxury. In earlier years, the public grain levy was low, and almost every household had surplus food; what couldn’t be eaten could be fed to livestock or sold for some change. But beginning last year, the public grain quota had risen dramatically. Lu Kun knew well that the hardest times for the countryside were about to arrive; if he couldn’t break free, there would be plenty of suffering left for those huddled in remote valleys.

Before, farmers scrambled to contribute public grain, gladly making sacrifices for the country. But the coming years would see rural families wailing in despair. Not only had the quotas doubled, but countless new levies were invented under all sorts of pretexts. After a year’s toil in the fields, once the public grain was paid, there was nothing left but tears. For those with poor harvests, sometimes not a single grain was left for themselves; everything was taken, and they even ended up owing the village a huge amount.

Then there were the endless rounds of compulsory labor. Just for canal repairs, twice a year, each stretch lasting three or four days. Road building, school construction, dam building, hydroelectric stations—more than a month’s worth of “voluntary” labor every year. Everyone brought their own dry rations, stripped to the waist, and worked through gritted teeth.

The era of endless taxes and levies had begun. If you didn’t escape soon, who knew when you’d ever get another chance? Working outside the village wasn’t an option—the policies weren’t open enough. People didn’t even have national ID cards yet; if you wanted to work out of province, you’d better have a letter of introduction from the village.

Even if you did go out, it was tough. Wages were settled once a year, and often you wouldn’t get your full pay even by New Year’s. That was the norm. Unless it was urgent, the boss wouldn’t pay you in advance; even at year’s end, two or three months of wages could be held back. That was the best-case scenario. If you had the misfortune to run into a scoundrel, they’d disappear at year’s end, and all your work for nothing.

Trying to save capital from labor at this time was nearly impossible.

Lu Kun admitted, his thoughts were not lofty. His world was his wife, his daughters, and a warm bed; he could not shoulder the weight of the nation’s woes.

He remembered all too clearly the Chen family in the village: too many children, too little land. For two years straight, they failed to meet their grain quota. The village committee came, men in tow, to seize their food. Their baby girl, not yet weaned, starved to death.

No one could say how much public grain was enough. Every year, the quota rose; every hand reaching in was a greedy one.

“Perhaps this is the price that must be paid for industrialization. Behind each step forward is the blood and tears of nine hundred million peasants.”

Lu Kun’s eyes grew moist.

“Forget it. I’m just a nobody. No point worrying about things beyond my reach.”

…

The rice was dry.

Perhaps the firewood had gotten damp, for the rice had a smoky flavor, but everyone ate heartily. There was just one dish of water spinach, light on oil but heavy on salt.

The younger girl rummaged through her plate and found a single peanut, delighted with her treasure. With no oil at home, every time they stir-fried vegetables, a few peanuts were tossed into the wok to release a few drops of oil before adding the greens.

The Chinese are the most resilient people in the world; nothing can break them. The poorest may beg, but as long as they live, they will one day rise again.

In the hardest days, only by holding firm to faith and finding joy in hardship could one persevere.

The two children were happy simply because they got a bowl of rice—a rare treat these days. Simple, but happiness nonetheless.

The loaches they’d caught today would be saved for dinner. The children, understanding for their age, didn’t fuss. The idea of “saving meat for dinner” was deeply ingrained in this era. Unless there were guests, meat was never eaten at lunch. Even leftovers from the previous night would be kept for tomorrow evening.

Of course, the New Year was an exception. No matter how poor a family was, they’d find a way to get some meat for the holiday, to satisfy everyone’s craving. Even the usually fierce butchers would show mercy, letting struggling families buy on credit.

…

The two girls attacked their meal as if waging war, cheeks bulging and unable to swallow, nearly crying in frustration. Liu Liping hurried to bring a big bowl of water, pouring half each for them and telling them to eat slowly.

The dish was salty, but flavorful. Most rural folk ate salty food because there was little oil; if it was too bland, it was like chewing grass, hard to get down.

After the meal, Liu Liping bustled about cleaning up. With nothing to do, the children shrieked in the yard until Lu Kun sent them inside for homework. Not yet old enough for school, their homework was set by Lu Kun: simple arithmetic problems.

Lu Kun needed to go out to find other ingredients for his spiced snails and couldn’t afford to delay.

“Lu Kun, you can do it!” he told himself, clenching his fist, and stepped quickly out the door.