Chapter Two: Entering Fudan Without the College Entrance Exam

Xinghua brought the paper and pencil wrapped in cloth, and as she untied the string, a faint scent of grass and wood drifted out.

The straw paper was leftover from the production team’s work point records—yellowed and rough, but thick and sturdy.

The pencil was sent by her brother from the army, and its barrel still bore the words “Serve the People.”

In the brigade, these were considered luxuries!

But what delighted Xu Chengjun most was that Xinghua had also brought a palm-sized slate and a stub of chalk.

These were what the village children used to practice writing—far more durable than straw paper, perfect for jotting down sudden inspirations.

“My mother said you like to write,” Xinghua said, her face flushed as she stuffed the cloth bundle into his hands, the red ribbon at the end of her braid swaying.

“The slate can be reused—it saves paper.”

Xu Chengjun held the cool slate, warmth flooding his heart.

In his former life, he had witnessed countless exchanges of favors in the office mailroom, but this simple, genuine care felt more solid than any lavish gift.

He placed the slate by his feet and tucked the pencil behind his ear. “Thank your aunt for me. This is a precious gift.”

He would remember this kindness.

Outside the courtyard gate, Old Wang’s booming voice rang out: “Xu, the educated youth! Come get your sickle and gunny sack! The team just had new sickles sharpened by the blacksmith—if you’re late, only the dull ones will be left!”

Under the old locust tree by the warehouse, Captain Xu Laoshi was squatting on the millstone, smoking. When he saw Xu Chengjun approach, he tapped the pipe’s bowl against the sole of his shoe and pointed at the sacks in the corner.

“The sickles were newly sharpened by the team’s blacksmith—the edge is keen, so be careful during harvest and don’t cut your hand. And that canvas, lay it out on the threshing ground when you dry the wheat. Don’t let grains get mixed with soil.”

Xu Chengjun squatted down, rolling a few stalks of wheat between his fingers.

In the late seventies, agricultural reforms were just beginning, and improved seeds had started to spread.

Xu Laoshi pressed a handful of roasted soybeans into his palm, then turned to address the group.

“Last year, Xiaogang Village secretly tried out the ‘household contract system’—they planted new wheat, and everyone raced to reap and dry it. Yields doubled! Our team hasn’t said anything outright, but we must prepare well for the harvest. Keep the sickles sharp and the ground clean—don’t drop the ball when the time comes!”

Old Wang muttered beside him, “Contract system or not, as long as we can reap a few extra sacks of wheat, that’s what counts.” He packed some straw rope into the cloth bag.

The team distributed tools by headcount to prevent anyone from taking more than their share.

“Xu, you’re well-educated. I heard the county cultural center is hiring, looking for someone to write reports. Aren’t you going to try?”

Xu Chengjun’s heart skipped a beat.

That might actually be worth a shot.

This was the peak of the return of nearly ten million educated youths, and one of the toughest times in history to find work.

A job was not easy to come by!

Most crucially, the college entrance exam had just been reinstated last year. The original host’s foundation was weak, he hadn’t planned on taking it, and his household and academic records were a tangled mess.

And Xu himself hadn’t looked at entrance exam content for nearly twenty years—though it was simple, catching up this year seemed unlikely.

A job at the cultural center would be pretty relaxed in these days. Having a quiet place to write wasn’t a bad choice, was it?

“Uncle Wang, what are the requirements for being hired at the cultural center?” he asked casually.

“You need to be educated, able to write, and have a recommendation from the brigade,” Old Wang replied with a squinting smile. “If you can write an article that impresses the county leaders, you might even get into the district newspaper, not just the cultural center!”

“I see you’re always scribbling something—maybe you can do it!”

When the sun climbed overhead, the aroma of food drifted across the wheat fields.

Xu Chengjun and Xinghua squatted on the field ridge, taking a break. Steam rose from their enamel mugs filled with sweet potato porridge, which they enjoyed with pickled radish—delicious.

Don’t laugh!

It truly was delicious!

After a long day’s work and having only coarse grains the day before, anyone would find this meal appetizing!

In the distance, Zhao Gang and a few other commune members chased each other. Someone had brought fried peanuts from home, and they were playfully sharing them.

And again, don’t laugh—back then, fried peanuts in the commune were as much of a treat as sharing a bottle of cola in a primary school class in 2008.

Luxurious!

“Chengjun, do you think people in the city have white steamed buns at every meal?” Xinghua’s eyes sparkled.

She had only been to the county town twice in her life, both times accompanying her mother on errands.

The county town was big and crowded, but there was an indescribable sense of unease there.

“One day, there will be,” Xu Chengjun said, biting into a sweet potato, savoring its sweetness.

He knew this better than anyone.

Not just white steamed buns—there would be bread and bicycles, too!

He thought of the “three-step” strategy in history. If he told Xinghua now, it would sound like a fairy tale.

He dared not speak of it,

And she probably wouldn’t believe it.

Gazing over the endless fields of wheat, he began to calculate his plans.

He must first finish “The Granary” and find an opportunity to submit it to the county cultural center or a regional publication.

With his background in Chinese literature and his grasp of the times, it wouldn’t be difficult to write something noteworthy.

As long as the article was noticed, he could secure the brigade’s recommendation and leave the fields for the cultural center.

Then, he would look for new opportunities.

Perhaps secure a recommendation to university—some schools still had recommendation quotas in 1979—or seek a transfer to the regional or provincial level.

This path was steadier than cramming for the entrance exam now, and suited his style.

“What are you grinning about, like you’ve stolen a chicken?” Zhao Gang came over and handed him a handful of fried peanuts.

“Want to catch eels tonight? If we sell them, I’ll treat you to lamb soup!”

“Not tonight. I need to write something.” Xu Chengjun pocketed the peanuts and waved at Zhao Gang.

“By the way, do you know what kind of temperament that Officer Liu at the county cultural center has?”

“Officer Liu?” Zhao Gang scratched his head. “He likes to drink. Last time he came to our village for interviews, he drank too much and arm-wrestled the captain—cried when he lost!”

Xu Chengjun couldn’t help laughing.

Cultural workers in these days were much more vivid than the stiff officials of later years.

On the way back from work, the setting sun stretched their shadows long.

Xinghua and he carried farm tools together, walking slowly along the grassy field ridge.

Waves of wheat rolled in the wind, smoke curled from distant chimneys, dogs barked here and there—the days were hard, but lively and comforting in their own way.

“Chengjun, are you really going to submit an article to the county?” Xinghua kicked at a small stone.

“My brother says the army has newspapers. If your article is published, I’ll ask him to send it all over the country for you!”

“I’ll let you read it first,” Xu Chengjun said with a smile, ruffling her hair.

Compared to the original host, he was two years older than Xinghua and had always treated her as a little sister.

Her words were innocent, but the sincerity behind them was unmistakable.

As they passed the fence of the educated youth’s quarters, Qian Ming was squatting at the gate tinkering with a radio.

Amid the crackling static, phrases like “ideological emancipation” and “pilot reform” could be faintly heard.

When he saw Xu Chengjun return, he quickly turned the volume down.

“I just heard on the news that Fudan University in Shanghai is recruiting ‘worker, peasant, and soldier students’—by recommendation, no exam!”

Xu Chengjun paused in his steps.

Fudan University?

Back then, things were different from later times. Tsinghua and Peking Universities were already prestigious, but they weren’t as unrivaled as they would be in the future.

If you asked which was the best university, eight out of ten would say Tsinghua or Peking, but the remaining two would have other opinions.

But for the best liberal arts university, it was certainly Peking, Fudan, and Renmin!

Getting into Fudan without the entrance exam—wasn’t that tempting?

Tempting, indeed!

“What are the requirements for recommendation?” he asked.

“You need an outstanding contribution and a certificate from your work unit,” Qian Ming replied, pushing up his glasses. “If you can write an article that shakes the whole province, maybe the brigade will recommend you!”

So, writing a good article? Another reason to make “The Granary” the best it could be.

The evening breeze swept over the wheat fields, bringing the scent of grain.

Xu Chengjun gazed at the sunset, his thoughts growing clearer.

Whether it was a job at the cultural center or a recommendation to Fudan, it all depended on the pen in his hand.

He took out the slate and, by the last light of day, scribbled down the inspiration swirling in his mind.

The chalk made a soft rasping sound as it moved across the slate.

That night, lying on the plank bed, Xu Chengjun wrote on the straw paper by the glow of a kerosene lamp.

He wrote of the protagonist, Xu Chunsheng, finding his father’s diary in the wheat field.

He wrote of yield figures hidden in the direction of the field ridges, weaving in his observations of the land, and a private yearning for “leaving.”

Zhao Gang’s snores rose, and Qian Ming mumbled “Fudan University” in his dreams.

Night at the educated youth’s quarters—it was time to sleep.

Once asleep, not a sound from anyone.

Xu Chengjun finished the last line, blew out the lamp.

At first, he couldn’t sleep for the noise.

But eventually, exhaustion overtook him, and he too joined in the chorus of snoring, teeth grinding, dream muttering...

Yes, farm work was truly tiring!

Outside, moonlight fell on the slate, casting a faint glow in the darkness.

Entering university without the entrance exam was never easy, no matter the era.

But in this era of great change, there was always a path for those who lived earnestly.