秦佩卿老師是我小學一年級和二年級的女班主任。盧鴻根是男老師，是我三年級到五年級的班主任。我是1964年到1969年在普陀區中心小學讀的書。據說後來中心小學與曹楊一小合併成為曹春小學，盧老師當過校長。
奇怪的是，時隔40多年後，兩位老師居然先後兩次進入了我的夢鄉。
2009年3月30日夢：夢見小學老師盧鴻根或秦佩卿其中一位正在離開人世。
2011年9月29日夢：惦記著給秦佩卿老師寄點兒禮物，但不知道她的住處。秦老師是我小學的啟蒙老師。
電視裡正好在播放條信息，說如果要寄東西給秦老師請寄地址…… (沒記住)看到秦老師在電視裡的照片還很年輕的樣子。我問在屋子裡的人，那個地址在什麼地方，哪個省份，回答說是在四川。便想到寄一個大哈密瓜去，又擔心路途太遠瓜太大太重。
試著寫秦佩卿老師的名字，但是佩字只寫出一半，卿字怎麼也寫不出。好像是有個月字邊……醒了。
以下是一些對秦老師的記憶片段：
入學第一天班主任秦佩卿老師將我們全班48位同學帶到葡萄園邊上的小操場上集合，列隊，兩人一排從矮到高，女生在前男生在後。然後秦老師叫我出列，讓我到隊伍的前面向全班喊口令。我猶猶豫豫地走過去喊道：「立正～」那聲音只比蚊子叫響一點兒。然後就站在那兒不知所措了。秦老師叫我歸隊，又點了樂琴的名字。只見她大踏步走向前，響亮地發出一連串不帶停頓的指令：「立正、稍息、向右看齊、向前看、向右轉、起步走！」所有小朋友都齊刷刷聽從了她的指揮。自此，老師們就注重培養了她，後來她當了大隊長，我當小隊長，第二年升為中隊學習委員。唯一能引以自豪的是，我的數學成績好，被條理清晰沉著寡言嚴謹治學的高個子數學老師，袁老師選為了他的課程代表。
這是上海市普陀區中心小學第一屆活學活用毛澤東思想積極分子代表大會代表證，紅四連一排（也就是小學四年級一班）。
順便提一下我六哥與樂琴的二哥是同學，秦老師當了兩年他們班的班主任後，直接來我們班當班主任了。秦老師負責低年級的教學工作。
一年級的某一天，秦老師要我帶第四小隊去市少年宮搞活動。我舉著小隊旗帶著12個同學去的。
在草坪上的劉胡蘭塑像前，說好了分散活動下午4點還在這裡集合。進了這座宮殿式的建築立刻被美輪美奐的大廳，華麗的吊燈以及各室內有趣的活動所吸引。
像這樣華麗的宮殿我三、四歲時見過，是跟父母去中蘇友好大廈看展覽。被高大宏偉的柱廊，石雕震撼過。
在展廳裡還看到了小火車在一個大玻璃箱裡、在縮小了的「群山峻嶺」裡行駛，我被深深的迷住。
在少年宮轉了一圈兒，來了到旋轉樓梯口，那裡有一塊寫著「閒人止步」的牌子，正要轉身退去。一曲夢幻般的音樂從邊上那沒完全合上的門縫兒裡傳來。被好奇心驅使，我輕輕地走到那高大的門邊，扒著門縫往裡一瞅。哇！好大的廳裡面有很多衣著漂亮的孩子正圍成一圈兒，隨著美妙的音樂翩翩起舞，邊上也有不少歇著的孩子們。幾個老師在指點他們如何優雅地伸手抬足。我下意識地走了進去，看得如痴如醉。時間靜止了，時間過去了我全然不知。
「芬我們大家在草坪上等你很久了，少年宮早就關門了。」兩個女同學終於找到我。我恍恍惚惚地跟著她們走出來，很遺憾，遺憾我怎麼不屬於那個跳舞的群體。很後悔，後悔沒帶好自己的隊伍。第二天同學們就匯報給了秦老師。
2015年我跟一個美國朋友提起這事兒，那天她帶著20多人在一條落葉滿徑的溪谷邊遠足。
她問：「你當時幾歲？」
「八、九歲。」我答。
「那要是在美國，」她說「學生的家長們一定會去控告校方的。」
「嗯？」我不理解。
「未成年的孩子是一定要有人監護的。」她說。
被她說的還真有點後怕。可是，我們那個時候，老師的目的是培養鍛鍊我們班幹部的獨立執行能力。
那時下課放學，都是秦老師將我們排好的隊伍送到校門口，然後分兩隊，一對去曹楊一村，一隊回曹楊四村。隊伍進了村，在「解散！」的一聲令下，孩子們才飛鳥投林般跑回家。校門口從來沒有人等待接孩子的家長，除非下雨天，有人來送傘。我們家孩子多，母親從來沒給我們送過傘，她分不開身。家裡也只有一、兩把傘。
教學樓下有個露天的洗手池，那天我路過，秦老師剛好在洗床單，她便招呼我給她搭把手。秦老師將床單弄成一長溜讓我抓住一頭，她在另一頭使勁兒扭絞濕漉漉的床單，那勁兒迅速傳到了我手上，越來越大。我呲牙裂嘴，努力攥緊這一頭。結果「啪嗒」我這頭沒拽住，床單脫手掉了。好尷尬呀，但秦老師沒責怪我。
1965年6月1日兒童節來臨，秦老師給了我一張在區少年宮放映的電影票。是剛上映的《苦菜花》。全班只有我一個人有票，有了上一次帶隊去市少年宮的失誤。看電影時，我心裡十分忐忑，生怕錯過了下午一點鐘全校舉行的一年一度的有莊嚴儀式的大隊會。心里越急，越覺得這電影太長。實在坐不住了看到一半就離開了。那銀幕上正放著大部隊衝下山的場景。我著急忙慌的趕到到家，結果時間還早。
1966年新年假期後開學的第一天，我穿了件母親給我新做的花布棉襖罩衫坐在教室裡，秦老師走進來時居然穿了跟我一模一樣的花布罩衫。我頓時覺得心猛地一跳，臉也發燙。秦老師也似乎有一絲的注意。當時沒有撞衫的概念，反而覺得跟秦老師親近了許多。
那是我媽第一次允許自己做主挑選的花布，那天在曹楊商店二樓賣布的貨架上，一匹匹眼花撩亂的布軸中，我一眼就挑中了這款清新淡雅的花布，我媽當時還提醒我說「色兒太淺容易髒」。以前母親給我買的布都挑顏色耐髒的，尤其是冬天的衣服顏色要深。
這塊布料在貨架上似乎要脫穎而出，白底子上用淺藍淺灰隨意地勾勒出幾條縱橫交錯疏密有致的藤架，上面攀掛著幾簇淡粉、淡紫由嫩嫩的綠葉襯托著的花兒。這罩衫穿在身上都覺著清新淡雅。
小學一年級下的一個溫暖的秋日，同學樂琴用手指頭按了按我的額頭像小大人一樣嚴肅地說：「芬，你的臉腫了！」「是嗎？」我心裡有些發慌。
這幾天我確實覺得看東西困難，眼皮重，上下眼皮之間只有一條縫兒了。母親說我是睡覺不老實沒枕枕頭。
到了她家，樂媽媽看了我一眼說：「芬，你最好讓你媽媽帶去醫院看看，不能大意的，曾經有個小女孩兒的臉腫得像你一樣，那是由腰子病引起的，後來那小女孩死了。」
剎那間我像觸了電一樣，心一沉，頭也大了。立刻以最快的速度跑回家，語無倫次地告訴了母親，我從樂媽媽那兒聽到的故事。
次日晌午，母親帶我去了普陀醫院，果然是腰子病！需要即刻住院治療。當我被帶進病房，一個護士問我：「午飯要喝粥還是吃飯？」我心想喝粥怎麼能擋飽呢，便答道：「吃飯。」中飯立刻就送來了，是一小碗兒白飯和一個皮蛋。不沾醬麻油的皮蛋很難下嚥。醫生說我不能吃鹹的一粒鹽也不能進。
後來知道要「喝粥」的話，一天有五頓食物送過來。這粥那粥的翻花樣還有牛奶喝。而「吃飯」的一天只有三頓飯。早知道我就回答「喝粥」了。
秦老师来医院看我，给我带来了一些课本还给我补了课，使我跟上了進度。當然，我自己也努力，考試成績優秀，沒有因病留級。
1967年那個濕冷的寒假我和同班同學小劉被校革委會叫去看管「牛鬼蛇神」楊慶芳老師。楊老師先前是曹楊三小的校長，被打倒後就被關押在我們學校。
我和小劉每天下午两點去接班，守在那個值班室直到晚上八點。期間給楊老師提供基本的生活照顧，最主要的是防止她畏罪自殺，上廁所時要跟著以防她逃跑。
教學樓是兩層的共有三排，西端由主樓道連接呈E字形。中間那排樓道東頭的樓梯下面，本來是開放的空間，現在用木板隔出一個五六平方米的小屋子。屋子裡面有一張桌子兩把椅子，還有一個用來取暖燒水的煤爐。樓梯下的三角空間也被隔起來，門上有個方孔可以遞水杯飯盒。小三角空間內窄小幽暗站不直，冰冷的水門汀地上鋪著被子，楊老師就靜靜地做在被褥上頭髮有些蓬亂。
楊老師有時問我們要水喝，我總是倒熱水給她。但小劉總是給冷水。連楊老師吃飯時往她饭盒裡倒的就是冷的自來水。楊老師曾溫和地說她的胃不好請幫她把飯熱一熱，但小劉不準。我雖然有惻隱之心同情「犯人」但由於生性懦弱，沒能執意去給楊老師熱個飯，當時就感到很內疚。
楊老師在那裡被關了大約三個月，我俩去看管過一個月左右。當小劉不在的時候楊老師跟我說，她有關節炎，進來後全身疼痛，還犯了胃病。白天她要把被子捲起來以便坐在上面寫交代，晚上要用水洗腳小劉只給她冷水。
我提醒小劉應該要給熱水，但她笑話我的立場不堅定。畢業後我和小劉被分到不同的中學讀書，沒幾年就聽說她去世了。中學都沒讀完，很漂亮的一個年輕生命，至今記得的是她那兩條拖到腰際的長辮子，和一雙炯炯有神的睜圓了的杏眼。每當人們說起積德行善可以延年，我會聯想到這事兒。如果小劉能夠善待落難的楊老師一點兒，也許她的命運會有些不同了吧？長大後我常用一句老話來提醒自己：「積善之家必有餘慶，积不善之家必有馀殃。」
很多年後在網络上看到楊慶芳老師後來也當過我母校普陀區中心小學的校長。
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The Twin Flower Smocks and the Unmailable Melon
The Teachers of My Youth and the Lost Era
Ms. Qin Peiqing was my female headteacher during first and second grade. Mr. Lu Honggen was my male headteacher from third to fifth grade. I attended Putuo District Central Primary School from 1964 to 1969. It is said that the school later merged with Caoyang No. 1 Primary School to become Caochun Primary School, and Mr. Lu served as its principal.
Stratingly enough, after more than forty years, both teachers entered my dreams on two separate occasions.
Dream of March 30, 2009: I dreamed that either Mr. Lu Honggen or Ms. Qin Peiqing was departing from this world.
Dream of September 29, 2011: I was deeply anxious to mail a gift to my first enlightenment teacher, Ms. Qin Peiqing, but I had no idea where she lived.
Just then, a broadcast flashed across the television screen, listing an address to use if anyone wished to send items to Ms. Qin... (though I failed to memorize it). In the television display, Ms. Qin's photograph appeared remarkably youthful. I asked the other people in the room where that address was located, and they replied it was in Sichuan Province. I instantly thought of mailing her a massive Hami melon, but worried that the distance was too far and the melon would be far too large and heavy.
I tried to physically write out her name, "Qin Peiqing". However, I could only manage to draft half of the character "Pei", and the character "Qing" completely eluded me. I vaguely recalled it contained the "Moon" radical on the flank... and then I awoke.
Fragile Vignettes of My Childhood
On my very first day of school, Ms. Qin gathered our entire class of forty-eight students on the small playground near the edge of the vineyard. She lined us up in pairs from shortest to tallest, girls in the front and boys in the back. Then, Ms. Qin called my name, ordering me to step out of the ranks to command the class from the front.
Hesitantly, I walked out and cried, "Attention~". My voice was barely louder than the buzz of a mosquito. I stood there, utterly at a loss for what to do next. Ms. Qin told me to rejoin the ranks and called upon a girl named Le Qin. Le Qin strode forward with sweeping steps and boomed out a flawless, rapid-fire succession of commands: "Attention, at ease, right dress, eyes front, right face, forward march!" Every single child moved in perfect unison under her command. From that day on, the school focused heavily on cultivating her leadership; she later became the School Brigade Captain, while I served as a Squadron Captain, eventually rising to become the Squadron Study Commissioner in our second year. The only achievement that brought me immense pride was my mathematics; my tall math teacher, Mr. Yuan—a man of profound clarity, few words, and rigorous scholarship—personally selected me to be his Course Representative.
(As a side note, my sixth older brother was classmates with Le Qin's second older brother. Ms. Qin had served as their headteacher for two years before moving directly down to take over our class. She was primarily responsible for early childhood education.)
The Secret Ballroom in the Palace
One day during first grade, Ms. Qin tasked me with leading the Fourth Squadron to the Municipal Children's Palace for an afternoon activity. I proudly hoisted our small squadron flag and marched off with twelve of my classmates.
Standing before the statue of the young martyr Liu Hulan on the lawn, we agreed to disperse for activities and gather back at this exact spot at 4:00 PM. The moment I stepped inside that palace-like building, I was utterly captivated by the breathtakingly beautiful grand hall, the magnificent chandeliers, and the fascinating activities tucked into every room.
I had seen a palace this grand only once before, when I was three or four years old, when my parents took me to the Sino-Soviet Friendship Building to see an exhibition. Even back then, I was deeply awed by the soaring, monumental colonnades and stone reliefs. In the exhibition halls, I had seen a model train winding through a miniature mountain landscape; I was profoundly enchanted.
After wandering around the Children's Palace, I arrived at a grand spiral staircase where a sign stood reading, "Staff Only". Just as I was about to turn back, a strain of dreamlike music drifted through a slightly ajar doorway nearby. Driven by pure curiosity, I crept toward the towering door and peeked through the narrow crack.
Wow! Inside a colossal hall, dozens of beautifully dressed children were formed in a grand circle, dancing elegantly to the marvelous music. Around the perimeter, other children were resting, while a few instructors guided them on how to gracefully extend their arms and lift their feet. Subconsciously, I slipped inside the room, completely entranced. Time stood still; I lost all track of the passing hours.
"Fen! We've all been waiting for you on the lawn for ages! The Children's Palace closed a long time ago!" Two female classmates finally discovered me.
I walked out in a complete daze. I felt a deep, lingering ache of regret—wondering why I didn't belong to that beautiful world of dance. I felt immense guilt for failing to watch over my squadron. The next day, the students reported my disappearance to Ms. Qin.
The Leaf-Strewn Valley and the Wringing of the Sheets
In 2015, I recounted this childhood story to an American friend while she was leading a hiking group of over twenty people along a creek bed blanketed in autumn leaves.
"How old were you back then?" she asked.
"About eight or nine," I replied.
"Well, if that happened in America," she remarked, "the parents would have absolutely sued the school district."
"Oh?" I didn't quite understand.
"A minor child must always be under direct supervision," she explained.
Hearing her words actually brought a retrospective chill to my spine. But back in our era, the teachers' explicit goal was to cultivate the independent executive abilities of us student leaders.
In those days, when the final bell rang, Ms. Qin would escort our neatly formed columns all the way to the school gates. There, we split into two directions: one group headed toward Caoyang No. 1 Village, and the other toward Caoyang No. 4 Village. Only after our column marched deep into the village, and the command "Dismissed!" echoed through the air, would the children scatter like wild birds returning to the forest, racing back to their homes. No parents ever waited at the school gate to pick up their children—unless it was a torrential downpour, and someone came to deliver an umbrella. We had many children in our household, and my mother could never split herself away to bring us an umbrella; she simply couldn't leave her duties. Besides, we only owned one or two umbrellas in the whole house.
One day, as I was passing beneath the outdoor washbasins below the classroom building, Ms. Qin happened to be washing bedsheets. She called out, asking me to give her a hand. Ms. Qin gathered the massive wet sheet into a long rope and had me grip one end, while she stood at the opposing side, fiercely wringing the soaking fabric. The immense twisting force traveled rapidly down the cloth into my small hands, growing tighter and tighter. I bared my teeth, straining with all my might to maintain my grip on the end. Suddenly—snap!—my fingers slipped, and the heavy sheet tore out of my hands, crashing directly onto the ground. I was filled with absolute embarrassment, but Ms. Qin never uttered a single word of blame.
The Twin Flower Smocks and the Cold Bitter Egg
As Children's Day approached on June 1, 1965, Ms. Qin gave me a special gift: a single movie ticket to a screening at the District Children's Palace. The movie was the newly released The Bitter Herb. I was the only student in the entire class to receive a ticket. Traumatized by my previous mistake at the Municipal Children's Palace, my heart was knotted with immense anxiety throughout the screening. I was terrified of missing the annual, solemn School Brigade Assembly scheduled for 1:00 PM. The more anxious I grew, the longer the movie seemed to drag. Finally, unable to sit still any longer, I walked out halfway through the film, right as the army was charging down the mountain on screen. I dashed back home in a frantic panic, only to realize that it was still quite early.
On the first day of school after the 1966 New Year holiday, I sat in the classroom wearing a brand-new flower-patterned cotton smock my mother had sewn for me. When Ms. Qin walked through the door, she was wearing a flower smock that was completely identical to mine! My heart skipped a violent beat, and my face flushed scalding hot. Ms. Qin also seemed to notice the coincidence. Back then, we had no concept of "twinning outfits" or "clashing clothes"; instead, I simply felt an overwhelming sense of profound closeness to her.
That fabric was the very first time my mother had allowed me to choose the pattern myself. I remembered standing on the second floor of the Caoyang Department Store, staring at the dizzying rolls of fabric bolts lining the shelves, when my eyes instantly locked onto this fresh, elegant print. My mother had warned me at the time, "The color is too light; it will get dirty easily." Before then, my mother always purchased dark, utilitarian colors that wouldn't show stains, especially for winter garments.
But that specific bolt seemed to leap off the shelf: a crisp white background across which light-blue and pale-gray lines casually traced a loose, elegant trellis. Hanging from the vines were clusters of soft pink and pale purple blossoms, cradled by tender green leaves. Just wearing that smock made me feel entirely fresh and graceful.
One warm autumn day near the end of first grade, my classmate Le Qin pressed her index finger against my forehead, looking at me with the solemn severity of a little adult. "Fen, your face is swollen!" she declared.
"Is it?" A wave of panic rose in my chest.
Over the past few days, I had indeed found it difficult to see; my eyelids felt incredibly heavy, leaving only a narrow slit between the upper and lower lids. My mother had assumed I was simply restless in my sleep and falling off my pillow.
When we arrived at her house, Le Qin's mother took one look at me and said, "Fen, you had better tell your mother to take you to the hospital immediately. You cannot ignore this. There was a little girl whose face swelled up exactly like yours; it was caused by a kidney illness, and that little girl died."
In an instant, it felt as though an electric shock coursed through my body. My heart plummeted, and my head spun. I raced home at the absolute maximum speed my legs could carry me, incoherently babbling the terrifying story I had just heard to my mother.
The very next afternoon, my mother took me to Putuo Hospital. Sure enough, it was a severe kidney illness! I required immediate hospitalization. As I was led into the ward, a nurse asked me, "Do you want congee or rice for lunch?" Thinking to myself that congee could never keep me full, I replied, "Rice."
Lunch was delivered immediately: a small bowl of plain white rice and a single century egg. A century egg served without a single drop of soy sauce or sesame oil is incredibly difficult to swallow. The doctor informed me that I was strictly forbidden from consuming a single grain of salt.
Only later did I discover that if I had chosen "congee," five separate meals would be delivered throughout the day, featuring various styles of beautifully varied porridges and fresh milk. But by choosing "rice," I was restricted to only three dry meals a day. If only I had known, I would have chosen the congee!
Ms. Qin Peiqing came to the hospital to visit me. She brought along my textbooks and personally tutored me by my bedside. Thanks to her care, I completely caught up with the class curriculum. Of course, I worked incredibly hard myself, earning excellent exam scores and successfully avoiding being held back due to my illness.
The Confined Principal and the Cold Tap Water: A Winter in 1967
During the damp, biting cold of the winter holidays in 1967, my classmate Xiao Liu and I were summoned by the School Revolutionary Committee. Our assignment was to stand guard over a designated "monster and demon", Teacher Yang Qingfang. Prior to this, Teacher Yang had served as the Principal of Caoyang No. 3 Primary School; after being overthrown, she was brought over and confined within our school walls.
Every single afternoon at 2:00 PM, Xiao Liu and I would arrive to clock in for our shift, remaining cooped up inside that duty room until 8:00 PM. Our primary instructions were to oversee her basic living arrangements and, most crucially, to ensure she did not commit suicide out of despair. We even had to shadow her to the restrooms to prevent any attempts at escape.
Our school building was a two-story structure consisting of three parallel wings, joined at the western end by a main corridor to form the shape of a grand letter "E".
Beneath the eastern staircase of the central wing—a space that had once been open and airy—wood paneling had been hastily hammered up to wall off a cramped little room of about five or six square meters. Inside this makeshift chamber sat a lone table, two chairs, and a small coal stove used for warmth and boiling water.
The sharp, triangular void directly beneath the steps had also been sealed shut. Cut into its wooden door was a small square hatch, just wide enough to pass a water cup or a tin tiffin box through. Inside this tiny triangular pocket, the air was narrow and shrouded in darkness; one couldn't even stand up straight. Resting upon the freezing, cold terrazzo floor was a lone bedding quilt, and there Teacher Yang would sit in total silence, her hair somewhat disheveled.
From time to time, Teacher Yang would ask us for a sip of water. I always made sure to pour her warm water from the kettle, but Xiao Liu would deliberately hand her freezing cold tap water instead. She would even pour cold, raw tap water straight into Teacher Yang's food container while she was trying to eat her meals.
Teacher Yang once murmured gently to us that her stomach was frail, asking if we could please warm her food up for her. But Xiao Liu strictly forbade it.
Though a deep wave of human empathy stirred within my chest for this "prisoner," I was timid by nature back then. I lacked the stubborn courage to defy Xiao Liu and warm that meal up for Teacher Yang—a failure that left me carrying a heavy knot of silent guilt for a long, long time.
Teacher Yang remained confined in that dark space for roughly three months; Xiao Liu and I stood guard over her for about a month of that time.
Whenever Xiao Liu stepped out of the room, Teacher Yang would softly confide in me. She told me that her arthritis caused her entire body to ache terribly in the damp cold, and that her chronic stomach issues had flared up again. During the day, she had to roll up her thin quilt just to have a raised cushion to sit on while she dutifully drafted her forced confessions. At night, she desperately needed warm water to wash her aching feet, but Xiao Liu would only ever offer her freezing tap water.
I quietly reminded Xiao Liu that we ought to give her warm water, but she merely scoffed at me, mocking my "unstable political stance" and lack of revolutionary resolve.
Upon graduation, Xiao Liu and I were funneled into entirely different junior high schools. Just a few short years later, word reached me that she had tragically passed away. She hadn't even survived to finish junior high. To this very day, I can still vividly picture that beautiful, fleeting young life—her twin long braids cascading all the way down to her waist, and a pair of brilliant, wide-set almond eyes.
Whenever people gather to speak of how cultivating good deeds and acting with kindness can prolong one's years on this earth, my mind instantly drifts back to that winter staircase. If only Xiao Liu had chosen to treat the fallen Teacher Yang with just a fraction more decency and grace, perhaps her own earthly destiny might have unfolded a little differently.
As I grew into adulthood, I frequently anchored myself with an ancient piece of ancestral wisdom: "A house that accumulates good deeds will inevitably overflow with boundless blessings; a house that accumulates unkindness will inevitably overflow with boundless ruin."
Many decades later, while searching through the vast digital spaces of the internet, I stumbled upon a historical record: Teacher Yang Qingfang had eventually gone on to serve as the Principal of my very own alma mater, Putuo District Central Primary School.
特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。
Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.
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