Chapter One: Is Sugar Sweet?

The year was 1976, the year of the Fire Dragon according to the lunar calendar. In Chinese tradition, those born under the sign of the Dragon—whether by year, month, or day—are said to be marked by destiny’s caprice: the best or the worst. If fortune smiles upon you, it will lift you up; if not, it will drag you down. What rightfully belongs to you will benefit you, but what doesn’t will turn against you.

That year, both auspicious and calamitous events abounded, shaking both human society and the natural world. It was a time of storms and darkness, of tempests and upheaval, of waves so vast they seemed to shake the heavens. For those living in China at the time, 1976 became a year engraved in memory—a year of monumental events.

First, in January, Premier Zhou, who had dedicated his life to the new China, passed away. Before the nation could recover from its grief, Commander Zhu De died in July. Then, at the end of that same month, a mere twenty-three seconds of tremor shattered Tangshan, Hebei, claiming hundreds of thousands of lives—leaving not only China, but the entire world, stunned and unprepared.

Yet the blows did not cease. Less than two months later, the nation was struck by yet another tragedy: on September 9th, news arrived that the Chairman himself had died in Beijing. In a single year, the three pillars of the state—Chairman, Premier, and Commander—were gone. At the same time, China suffered the greatest natural disaster since its founding, as the earthquake leveled almost all of Tangshan. Truly, it was a time of national mourning, the entire country shrouded in an atmosphere of grief and gloom.

One day that September, Beijing was wrapped in a thick, oppressive mist, with a fine drizzle falling from the sky. On that day, many organizations and neighborhoods spontaneously organized groups to march through the city’s streets, mourning the recently departed Chairman. On Beixin Bridge Street in the Dongcheng District, one such procession made its way down the avenue. This group was unusual: it was made up entirely of kindergarten children, the oldest no more than five or six, the youngest just three or four.

Leading the group were two strikingly different boys. On the left was a chubby, fair-skinned child—his plumpness a rarity in these lean times. Beside him was a tall, slender boy, towering a head above his peers. The teachers made full use of their physiques: the chubby boy bore a floral wreath on his back—small in name, but large enough for a kindergartener. If not for his build, a gust of wind might have swept both boy and wreath away. The tall boy carried a small red flag, upon which was written: “Deeply Mourn the Great Leader—Xinkai Road Nursery.”

On the street, other processions marched as well, but all were adults. They knew the gravity of the moment, the expressions required. The children, though, could not quite grasp it. The teachers had tried to instill solemnity, scolding and cajoling before they set out, but before the group had even walked a single block, the serious looks had vanished. The boys began to play-fight, the girls’ eyes filled with tears as their new dresses and shoes became soaked, and the youngest simply burst into loud, unrestrained sobs.

Against this backdrop, the tall boy at the front stood out. He wore a look of utter bewilderment, his gaze unfocused, as if truly overwhelmed by grief. This gave the female teacher, teetering on the edge of exasperation, a small measure of comfort—at least one child seemed to understand the occasion; their education had not been in vain.

That tall, slender boy was our protagonist—the one who, while fishing, had been struck by lightning: Hong Tao.

When the lightning struck, Hong Tao felt nothing. He didn’t even know it had happened; the wind was tearing at the canopy he held, threatening to hurl it into the sky, and he was gripping the pole with all his might, wrestling with the storm. Suddenly, a flash of white engulfed his vision, and he found himself standing on this street, holding not the canopy pole, but a flag.

When he realized he had shrunk into a child’s body and was marching with other children through the rain, he thought he was dreaming. But it was a vivid dream—the chubby boy beside him even slipped him a piece of candy, sweet and flavorful, and the little girl behind shoved him hard when he faltered and accidentally stepped on her red floral shoes, smudging them.

Three impressions dominated his senses: old, dark, familiar. It felt like watching a black-and-white historical film—the low houses lining the street, the only tall building ahead was the Beixin Bridge Department Store, just two stories high. Most houses were made of blue bricks, the architecture echoing the Republic era. Pedestrians and marchers alike, apart from the red flags, wore only dark blue or white. Occasionally, a round-nosed bus or a boxy green jeep passed by, looking both comical and dear.

He recognized the two children in this “dream.” The chubby boy lived near the snack shop across from Yonghe Temple, called Zhang Dajiang. The little girl, as doll-like as a Barbie, lived upstairs from him—her name was Jin Yue, her father a retired officer.

Yet, this was no dream. After only fifty steps, the cold drizzle sobered him. He understood: he had traveled through time—back to his own childhood, to preschool. He remembered this day: the ink on the flag ran in the rain, staining his new white undershirt with black spots that wouldn’t wash out. His mother had scolded him, and his parents quarreled over it.

“Xiaoyue, check my back—did I get it dirty?” Hong Tao craned his neck to see his shoulder, but couldn’t, so he turned to ask Jin Yue.

“It’s all black spots. Serves you right! I’m telling your dad tonight—you stepped on my shoes and muddied them!” Jin Yue pouted, fussing about the muddy print on her floral shoes.

“Damn it, too slow again—this shirt is done for!” Hong Tao muttered, although he couldn’t recall why his mother lost her temper or why his parents quarreled, he vaguely knew their family’s finances weren’t good at the time. His mother must have been distressed about the shirt.

“Was the candy sweet? My grandpa gave me three…” Dajiang, the chubby boy, overheard Hong Tao’s mumbling and, thinking he was asking about the candy, responded eagerly.

“Sweet! Next time, I’ll treat you!” Hong Tao looked at the sniffling, round-faced boy two feet away, and a sudden warmth filled him. Dajiang, he remembered, was a tragic figure—slow-witted, picked on by teachers and classmates alike. Later, in elementary school, they were in the same class, and Hong Tao had been among those who bullied him, once throwing him into the sandpit and making him cry with sand in his hair. The candy in Hong Tao’s mouth now tasted bitter.

“My grandpa said whoever plays with me gets candy… Will you play with me? Horseback battles, but I don’t want to be the horse…” Dajiang was startled by Hong Tao’s adult tone, but his simple mind allowed him only to focus on his own concerns.

“Alright, I’ll carry you when we get back.” Hong Tao steeled himself and agreed—not out of stinginess, but because Dajiang was so heavy he doubted he could manage it.

The march ended quickly, or rather, the Xinkai Road Nursery’s march did. The children were hard to control, and though kids were tougher in those days, they still tired quickly and began to cry, forcing the teachers, arms already full, to retreat.

The nursery was in Xinkai Alley, east of Yonghe Temple. It still exists today, its layout little changed, though the yard serves a different purpose. As for where the nursery moved, Hong Tao didn’t know.

Children then were indeed hardy. After returning, teachers simply dried their hair with small towels, then, by class, organized games under the yard’s awning. Nurseries back then were nothing like modern kindergartens; their days consisted of three things: playing, lunch, and napping—no learning tasks.

The teachers’ only duty was to keep the children safe until their parents finished work. Scrapes or bumps were no cause for complaint; no parent blamed teachers for not imparting knowledge. By custom, nurseries were for childcare; education was the school’s job.

Nurseries were easy to enter, with no sponsorship or connections required. Many families with elders refused to waste the five-yuan annual fee, a substantial sum when apprentices earned eighteen yuan a month and regular workers thirty-four yuan and eighty cents. Five yuan was a burden.

Moreover, the one-child policy had not yet become national law—families with two or three children were common, four or five were everywhere, even seven or eight was not unheard of. The cost of nursery care multiplied. If grandparents could help, that five yuan was better saved.