Chapter 8: Far Too Simple

“Mother, if he gets hungry later, please try to soothe him first,” the woman whispered.

“That won’t do. When the child is hungry, he cries fiercely. At that time, I’ll come find you, and you must come out to nurse him, then go back in to continue the exam,” the grandmother replied, displeased.

The woman nodded helplessly, silently praying that the child would behave during the exam so she could focus and finish it.

Inside the teaching building of the County No. 1 High School, a staff member hurried out of the office carrying a clock. Seeing that the time had come, he quickly struck the semi-cylindrical iron plate hanging on the wall with a metal cone. This was the school’s “bell”; the clanging sound signaled the beginning and end of classes.

Now, it was the signal to enter the examination hall. Upon hearing it, the militia opened the main gate.

“Students, comrades, you may enter the exam hall. I wish you all to be admitted to university and to contribute to the Four Modernizations of our motherland. The teachers and I await your good news!” a teacher at the door said excitedly, and the dense crowd surged toward the school.

“Next year, on this day, I’ll soar to the clouds, laughing at the busy scholars below!” shouted a thin, dark-skinned boy who squeezed to the front of the crowd, waving his satchel excitedly. Sweat beaded on his forehead and back, showing he had hurried from afar—the dampness still clung to him.

Judging by his attire and accent, he was likely an educated youth from Yanjing.

With a sharp sound, his satchel arced through the air, and his stationery crashed heavily onto the ground. The boy’s face turned a deep shade of red as he wailed, “My fountain pen! Oh no, how can I take the exam with a broken pen?”

Ink seeped from the broken satchel, staining the yellow earth at the gate black.

“If everyone tossed their things like that, our country would soon have more black soil. So careless at your age—come with me to the office. Use my fountain pen and ink for now,” an elderly teacher said angrily, approaching.

Seeing the boy still stunned, the teacher grabbed him and rushed to the office. Despite his silver hair, the teacher ran without the slightest breathlessness.

Passing the “black soil,” candidates laughed and shook their heads, then hastily secured their own satchels, as if taking a lesson from this mishap. After confirming which classroom he was assigned to, Liu Yimin immediately headed upstairs; he could find this classroom even with his eyes closed.

The arrangement for the 1978 college entrance examination differed from the first year. On the morning of July 20, the politics exam was held; in the afternoon, history (or physics). On the 21st, mathematics in the morning, geography (or chemistry) in the afternoon. On the 22nd, Chinese in the morning, foreign languages in the afternoon. Candidates for foreign language colleges or majors had an additional oral exam on the 23rd.

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There were more than forty examinees in the exam hall; Liu Yimin sat in the second-to-last row, not the coveted front seat.

Two proctors, both from other schools, oversaw the room. It was clear the proctors were even more excited than the test-takers. Participating in invigilation was a great honor. To be involved in grading was an even higher honor.

Unfortunately, each school could send no more than five teachers to participate in grading, and the selection wasn’t public—only seasoned, skilled teachers were directly chosen.

Liu Yimin shook his desk; one leg was slightly short, but it wasn’t a problem. The desktop was uneven, the paint chipped in patches resembling Southeast Asian islands. In the upper left corner, several lines of tiny script were carved—clearly, many were disciples of Mr. Lu Xun.

Sadly, the desk lacked the customary “early” character. Just as Jerusalem is indispensable to the West, a Chinese student's desk must bear carved words.

“Students, first I congratulate you—you have arrived at a fortunate era. Though you take the exam in Ru County, you come from all over the nation. Some are recent graduates, some have graduated years ago; some are locals, others from Yanjing and Shanghai. This is the long-awaited college entrance exam, a major decision by the Party and the country. Do not let down the opportunity given to you.

Among you, some are already fathers and mothers, others are young. I hope you abide by exam rules: no whispering, no passing answers. Any violation will be treated seriously. Your future is not to be trifled with. Don’t let a moment’s temptation ruin your bright prospects.”

The proctor spoke warmly from the podium.

Receiving his exam paper, Liu Yimin quickly scanned it. The politics questions were similar in structure to last year’s language exam in Henan Province, though lacking composition and term explanations—all were specialized terms from the political textbook.

The first question required definitions of four terms: productivity, class, practice, and the universality of contradictions—each worth four points, totaling sixteen.

This posed a strong challenge for most candidates, testing their mastery of the textbook. Liu Yimin frowned; several short-answer questions he hadn’t memorized, such as one critiquing a metaphysical fallacy promoted by the “Gang of Four.”

However, most questions were straightforward. As a liberal arts student, he had previously memorized philosophical theory well for the exam, and had also focused on political review these past months. Writing the answers was not difficult.

He strictly followed a technique often emphasized by future liberal arts teachers: even if you don’t know the answer, write as much as you can—if any part is correct, you might earn points.

By the end, Liu Yimin’s hand felt numb; he shook it vigorously twice and continued writing.

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His answer sheet was filled to the brim. Just as he was about to breathe a sigh of relief, the staff outside struck the iron plate—signaling the end of the politics exam.

The afternoon history exam was much simpler, with questions including fill-in-the-blanks, short answers, and term explanations. The fill-in-the-blank section covered historical events, requiring the addition of important names, such as wars, revolutionary figures, and slogans.

For him, the difficulty was minimal. He had reviewed all these topics and was sure to score well.

After finishing the first day, he felt particularly relaxed.

The second day’s mathematics and geography were also easy for him. After the exam, he found a noodle shop and rewarded himself with a hearty meal.

This noodle shop was one of the best state-run establishments in Ru County. The chef, surnamed Yang, was said to have worked in a provincial city restaurant before liberation. He had mastered his craft young, often serving as a private chef for officers and officials.

During the liberation, the restaurant was unfortunately bombed, and his leg was injured by mortar shrapnel. The injury was minor, but he walked with a slight limp.

A few years ago, when Liu Yimin was in high school, the school’s revolutionary committee invited Chef Yang to give a speech.

On stage, he angrily tore off his white chef’s hat, tears streaming as he proclaimed to the students, “Comrades, classmates! My leg was wounded by the shells of the evil old society. It was the People’s Liberation Army who pulled me out from under the rubble.

Comrades, classmates! Never forget the bitterness of class struggle, always remember our blood and tears. Never forget our roots, generation after generation, always follow the Party on the path of revolution!”