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back again. They did this over and over, like birds soaring through the endless sky. I was one of the people handling the wheat drill, which was what the peasants called a skill. That work was certainly not harder than writing a novel, and consisted of merely inserting the row of four drill bits two inches into the soil, then rotating the drum forward thirty degrees and, with the help of the people pulling the ropes, steadying the drill handle to deposit the seed into the row of holes. First the fields are drilled, then the wheat seeds are planted. After two trips back and forth, I became quite proficient at this task; and after four trips I was an expert. Watching the people pull the drill in front of me was like watching a blindfolded mule pull a grindstone in a mill house.
    The mule driver asked, “Are you all tired?”
    The criminals pulling the drill said, “That’s right. If fifty jin of seeds can yield two hundred jin of grain per mu , wouldn’t one hundred and fifty jin of seeds yield six hundred jin of grain?”
    The mule driver replied, “If you are thirsty, then go to the edge of the field to drink some water.”
    They said, “They’ve already taken away our books. Every night we just sit around and play cards.”
    The mule driver said, “The Child is a good person. He didn’t burn our books.”
    They said, “We hear . . . we hear that several days ago a professor from Re-Ed tried to run away, but was caught—they removed his pants and placed them on his head, and made him go out into the field with his pants like that and count the stars.”
    From the time that the sun was directly overhead, shining down on the plowed fields, to when it set in the west, everyone became as exhausted as withered grass. They stopped to rest, sitting in the middle of the field and emptying their shoes of dirt and bugs that had crawled in and gotten ground into paste. Others had blisters on their shoulders from pulling the rope, and used thorns to pop them—letting the blood and pus flow out, as their cries of pain echoed brightly over the horizon.
    The youngster who went in search of books on behalf of the Child was a technician and he had worked in the laboratory of some university. After the Technician’s advisor was designated as a target of re-education, he asked the Technician to attend on his behalf as he was too old to go to Re-Ed. Accordingly, the Technician tearfully went to speak to the higher-up, who asked, “Are you really willing to go in his place?” The Technician nodded and said, “A student must be loyal to his teacher just as a son must be loyal to his father, and this is the only way I can repay my teacher.” Therefore, he went to the ninety-ninth himself, and was assigned to our brigade. During the rest period, the Technician frequently retreated behind some thornbushes on the edge of the field to take a piss. He had to walk quite a distance to get there. This time, when he arrived, he froze in his tracks.
    He abruptly hid inside another thornbush.
    Just as suddenly, he popped back out, panting, running around the field like a deer. He returned and dragged me back to that thornbush about eight hundred meters away. I asked, “What’s wrong?” He explained, “There’s an interesting show to watch.” His face was as red as the setting sun. In order to run faster, he took off his shoes and carried them in his hands. When he stumbled and dropped one shoe, he then threw the other one into the field as well and continued hurtling forward, like the shoe he had just thrown away.
    Without realizing what exactly was happening, the people working the fields ran after him as though they were chasing a thief. The Technician suddenly stopped, as though he had suddenly thought of something, then he turned to me and asked,
    “If I inform on someone, wouldn’t my reward be that I can return home for a month?”
    I nodded and said, “Did someone run away?”
    He laughed and said, “Even more serious than