Chapter Two: My Nursery

The games at the nursery could be summed up with the classic three: the one played most often was Drop the Handkerchief. A group of children would carry their little chairs and sit in a large circle facing inward, while one child stood up, holding a handkerchief, and ran around the outside of the circle. Everyone sang together:

“Drop it, drop it, drop the handkerchief! Gently place it behind a friend, don’t tell them! Hurry, hurry, catch him! Hurry, hurry, catch him!”

The running child had to secretly place the handkerchief behind someone before the song ended and quickly return to their own seat. If, before sitting down, the chosen child discovered the handkerchief and caught the runner, it would be their turn to run and drop the handkerchief.

In truth, this game was a test of popularity among the children. If the handkerchief landed behind you and you were well-liked, the child across from you would tip you off with a look. If you weren’t, no one would warn you; everyone would pretend not to see, and you’d be left running laps.

Then there was the classic Eagle Catches Chicks—a game that needs no introduction, as everyone has either played it or seen it. For someone like Zhang Dajiang, who was on the heavier side, he was the best choice for the mother hen. With his wall of flesh blocking the front, even the fiercest eagle would be stumped. But he couldn’t play the eagle—imagine an eagle that hefty trying to catch chicks! It would be the end of the eagle.

Another group game was split by gender. The boys played Horseback Battles, while the girls played Beanbag Toss. There’s no need to elaborate on Beanbag Toss, as Hongtao never played it as a child. Horseback Battles, however, is worth describing: one child played the horse, another the rider. The horses carried their riders into battle, colliding and tugging at each other, and as soon as a rider’s foot touched the ground, they lost.

Zhang Dajiang was the best horse in the entire nursery—even the older kids weren’t as sturdy as he was. But he was also the worst rider. If a horse had to carry such a rider, never mind the enemy’s attacks; making it to the battlefield on their own made the horse a champion steed.

Now, Hongtao was that champion steed. After returning to the nursery, the teacher, wanting to get the children sweating and drive off the chill, organized a Horseback Battle, a free-for-all with all but the youngest children from the different classes playing together.

“Dajiang, be my horse!”

“Dajiang, come here, it’s my turn to ride you!”

As soon as Horseback Battles were announced, several bold boys among the dozens immediately clamored for Dajiang to be their horse. The rest, though they wanted the best mount, were too timid and gave up their claim.

“Step aside! Today I’ll be Dajiang’s horse—anyone got a problem with that?” At this moment, Hongtao stepped out, walked over to Dajiang, who was grinning foolishly, bent over with his hands on his knees, and waited for Dajiang to climb on. The children were stunned, and even the teacher supervising the games was momentarily speechless.

Did Hongtao really have what it took to command the respect of the other children at the nursery? The answer was a resounding yes—he absolutely did! It wasn’t because he was someone who had traveled through time, but because he’d earned it through his own strength, you could call it his reputation. Could a four-year-old really have such authority? Surprisingly, Hongtao did, and the reason dated back to the day he first entered the nursery.

In that era, entering nursery school had strict requirements. The first was that your household registration had to be in the same neighborhood as the nursery. The second was that you had to be at least three years old; they wouldn’t accept younger children, as they couldn’t be looked after properly.

Hongtao’s household was registered in Beixinqiao Street. His home was just north of the nursery, just across a small alley—about two hundred meters away, only a few minutes’ walk. He was raised at his grandmother’s house, which was only a few dozen meters from his own; it was a large courtyard shared by many families. This wasn’t because his parents neglected him. First, both his parents worked full-time; second, their jobs were somewhat special.

Hongtao’s father was a university lecturer, teaching advanced mathematics at the Capital Steel Institute, which would later become the University of Science and Technology Beijing. His mother was a doctor at the Beijing Tuberculosis Research Institute. On the surface, Hongtao was from an intellectual family with respectable jobs. But judged by the standards of the 1970s, especially before 1976, his father would have been considered a classic “Stinking Intellectual.”

In fact, his father was exactly that. Teaching was out of the question; from as far back as Hongtao could remember, his father had been sent down to Shougang Steelworks for labor reform. Every day before dawn, he had to pedal his heavy bicycle from Dongcheng District to Shijingshan, a round trip of nearly fifty kilometers. Heaven forbid he was late—tardiness meant a poor attitude toward reform and could lead to a public struggle session, sitting on the “earth plane” for an hour.

Because of his father, Hongtao’s mother was also dispatched to the countryside as a barefoot doctor, serving the farmers in Beijing’s rural outskirts. Transportation was primitive; to get from Miyun’s countryside back to the city, she had to catch a horse cart bringing vegetables to town at dawn, then transfer to a long-distance bus, and finally switch to a public bus before arriving home. As a result, she could only come back once or twice a week, leaving no one to look after Hongtao except his grandmother. As for his paternal grandparents—they had both died young; Hongtao had never met them.

His grandmother was an old lady with bound feet, illiterate, unable to teach Hongtao anything academic. She had several children; Hongtao had two aunts and two uncles, the youngest of whom was only eight years older than Hongtao. So, the old lady couldn’t watch him all day—he was basically left to run wild. From an early age, he played with his youngest uncle, a notorious troublemaker and the ringleader among the children in their alleyways. Naturally, Hongtao picked up his wild ways.

His parents were well aware of all this and worried, but there was nothing they could do. They could barely keep up with their own lives—how could they carry their son to struggle sessions or take him up mountains and down to the countryside every day?

But as soon as Hongtao turned three, his father was determined to send him to the nursery. This became a source of contention; he argued with Hongtao’s maternal grandparents several times. In their eyes, a child was safest at home, and they feared Hongtao would be bullied at the nursery. But in the end, his parents weren’t swayed, and he was sent to the nursery.

Hongtao, however, did his grandparents proud. On his first day, he refused to go no matter what, clinging to the bed leg and refusing to let go, crying so loudly that neighbors came out to plead with his father, thinking he was beating the child early in the morning.

That day, his mother wasn’t home, and his father, about to be late for work, imagined sitting on the “earth plane” at the struggle session and lost all patience for gentle persuasion. He simply tied Hongtao up, loaded him onto his bicycle, and delivered him to the nursery.

The teachers probably had never seen a child brought in tied up before, but they said nothing—people then generally knew each other’s circumstances. They coaxed, threatened, and cajoled Hongtao into the courtyard, but none of it worked. When they loosened his ropes, Hongtao dashed for the gate, intent on escaping.

The teachers were at their wits’ end and had to lock him in the inner room of the classroom to reflect, while they took the other children outside to play. The longer Hongtao stayed, the more anxious he became. Summoning the fearless stubbornness he’d learned from his uncle, he grabbed a little chair and smashed it against the door.

Doors then were wooden frames with crossbeams, covered with fiberboard, which wasn’t very sturdy. With one blow, Hongtao punched a hole right through it, startling the teachers and making many children cry. Seeing the door damaged, the teachers hurried to open it, intending to scold Hongtao, but as soon as it opened, a small chair flew out, followed by a tiny figure.

The chair hit the teacher squarely on the leg. Hongtao clearly remembered that teacher, a woman in her twenties with a long braid down to her waist, being knocked over by the blow. He seized the moment, dashed through the courtyard, flung open the gate, and ran.

Hongtao never knew what chaos he left behind at the nursery. He ran all the way back to his grandmother’s, but didn’t dare go inside—he knew he’d gotten into serious trouble, injuring a teacher. So he hid in the coal shed.

It wasn’t long before nursery staff arrived, but his grandmother truly didn’t know where he’d gone. When she heard the nursery had lost him, she wailed for compensation and called out all the old neighbors, refusing to let the staff leave.

After a long commotion, Hongtao’s father rushed home from work. Just as everyone was about to report the missing child to the police, Hongtao crawled out of the coal shed and turned himself in—mainly because he was afraid of the police, a fear instilled by his mischievous uncle and his gang.

That day, Hongtao was beaten for the first time, and quite severely. His father, being a teacher, had always advocated for reasoning with children, not corporal punishment. His grandfather doted on him and had a strong preference for boys over girls; at his grandmother’s, Hongtao always got the best food, with his youngest uncle looking on. Punishment of any kind was not permitted—not by family, nor by outsiders. No matter how naughty, a child could not be beaten or even threatened, or his grandfather would come to your house and make a scene. The whole alley knew that Hongtao’s grandfather was fiercely protective.