In 1942, my mother fell bedridden and passed away. My father, worn out from a lifetime of hard labor, had contracted cirrhosis and could no longer work. He could barely manage to drag himself up to cook a bite for me.
To survive, I picked up a shoulder pole with eight ropes and started selling vegetables. When things wouldn't sell in town, I would carry them over ten miles to the mines. Even though I only carried sixty or seventy catties each time, "a long road makes light loads heavy," and because my left shoulder was dead—incapable of bearing heavy weights—I had to use only my right shoulder.
It was constantly bruised purple, rubbed raw, and oozing blood. Whenever I ran into those vicious mine cops, petty gang bosses, labor officers, and other officials, they would just grab two piles and walk away without paying a single cent, while still being picky and choosing the best. I loathed those lackeys from the bottom of my heart!
Chapter 213