Free Falling Leaves: The True Story of an Unwanted Chinese Daughter by Adeline Yen Mah

as they gingerly picked their steps along puddle avoiding wooden planks into waiting cars and whispered among themselves that I boarded my own private ’number eleven tram’ daily to school, meaning that my legs carried me.
    Day after day, twice a day, morning and afternoon, walking to and from school, I chased my shadow in the sun and steadfastly avoided cracks in the pavement. I also made up fairytales and indulged in an imaginary wonderland. It was one way of passing the time. In my serialized stories which continued from one day to the next, I was really a little princess in disguise, thrust into this cruel Shanghai household by accident. If I was truly good and studied very hard, one day my own mother would come out of the sky to rescue me and take me to live in her enchanted castle. Eventually I became so absorbed in these fantasies that I actually began to look forward to my obligatory walks. I confided to my Aunt Baba that I held a key in my head which enabled me to enter a magic land. Nothing in Shanghai was so mysterious and exciting as this secret kingdom which I could visit at any time. High up in the mountains amidst the clouds, this place was full of tall bamboos, twisted pines, odd-shaped rocks, wild flowers and colourful birds. Best of all, my mother also lived there and every little child was wanted and welcomed. On evenings when I had no homework I used to scribble it all down on paper in my room. Back at school it thrilled me to show my stories to my giggling
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    classmates and watch them pass my attempts at creative writing illicitly from desk to desk.
    Once, one of the girls objected to my using her surname to portray a villain. She crossed it out and replaced it with my surname, Yen. When I indignantly reinserted her name back, she started to cry. Telling her it was only make-believe while writing down an entirely different name, I began to recognize the awesome power and responsibility of the pen.
    On my way home, I was always specially glad as I approached Do Yuen Gardens. In a large plaza outside the park, hawkers assembled on fine days to market their wares. Among the regulars was an elderly, scholarly-looking man who staked out his portable bookstall at the far end. His booth resembled a set of wooden shutters which could be unfolded, displaying rack upon rack of dogeared, tattered, paperback Kung Fu novels for sale or loan. For fifty fen, paid in advance by Aunt Baba, I was allowed to borrow up to five books per week. These were printed in black and white on cheap paper and much loved by Chinese schoolchildren. Each book related tales of heroes and heroines skilled in martial arts, fighting battles on behalf of the weak and oppressed. Many stories were based on fables as pivotal to Chinese culture as the legends of King Arthur and Robin Hood are to western culture. After desperate struggles, right would triumph over might, and victory invariably went to the champions of the underdog. These books gave me hope.
    Father’s austerity programme extended to every aspect of our daily existence. Lydia and I were not allowed to have long hair or perms, only sensible, clean, old-fashioned haircuts. For the three boys it was much worse. They were forced to have Then heads shaved completely bald. This was Father’s idea, to impress upon us that life was not a frivolous affair. My brothers became the laughing stock of their entire school, nicknamed (after each fresh head shave) ’the three light bulbs’ because of their shiny scalps.
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    Lunch was the cheapest canteen meal we could get at school. When America won the war against Japan in 1945, we at Sheng Xin were given US army surplus Crations for our noonday meal. We ate tinned ham, beef stew, hard biscuits, cheese and chocolate until the rations ran out. Before every meal we prayed and thanked our American allies for winning the war and giving us Crations.
    Dinner was our only decent meal, and was a formidable affair. Promptly at seven thirty the dinner