In April 1940, a dozen workers were contracted to build a primary school at the west end of Didao Street. Fortunately, the small crew leader had worked with my father many times before, and the two of them got along exceptionally well. One day, he came to visit our home. Seeing that we were utterly destitute, he said to my father: "Wenzhen! Have the boy come cook for us. He can live there, eat there, and even earn a full adult's daily wage. I figure... he can easily work for three months or so. Isn't that a lot better than just sitting around here eating idle rice?"
"Oh, Big Brother! I appreciate your kindness, but he's so tiny—only ten years old! It'll be a miracle if he knows how to eat, let alone cook anything!" My father said with a bitter smile.
"Don't let his age fool you. He's quite tall for ten, and looks sharp. It doesn't matter, anyway—it's just food for a dozen men, and it's all sorghum rice," Uncle Hao said earnestly. "I say sorghum rice, but actually half of it is just husked sorghum. You just strike a fire, add water, pour it in, and boil it until it's done. Even a master chef couldn't do anything fancy with it. As for vegetables, there's nothing to get. Just mix in some chopped chives with a couple of spoons of shrimp paste or a handful of salt, and you're done. There's nothing else, and even if there were, nobody could afford it. What's wrong with that?"
Chapter 212