Meindert DeJong had a way of writing that felt like a punch to the gut, but in a way that makes you want to keep reading. If you grew up in the 50s, 60s, or 70s, there is a very high chance you encountered a slim, unassuming book with a striking cover. The House of Sixty Fathers isn't just a "kids' book" about a boy and his pig. Honestly, it’s one of the most harrowing, realistic depictions of the Second Sino-Japanese War ever written for a younger audience.
It won a Newbery Honor in 1957. It won the Josette Frank Award. But awards don't really tell the story of why people still track down old copies of this book at used bookstores. They do it because Tien Pao is a character who stays with you.
The story is simple on the surface. During the Japanese invasion of China, a young boy named Tien Pao is separated from his parents when their sampan—a small boat—breaks loose and drifts into Japanese-occupied territory. He has nothing but his pet pig, Glory-of-the-Republic. What follows is a brutal, lonely, and deeply moving trek across a war-torn landscape to find his family.
What Most People Get Wrong About the History
A lot of readers assume the "Sixty Fathers" are just a metaphor for a village or a kind group of Chinese farmers. That’s not it at all. The title refers to a specific unit of American airmen—likely based on the real-life 14th Air Force, famously known as the Flying Tigers.
DeJong didn't just pull this story out of thin air. He was there. During World War II, Meindert DeJong served as an official historian for the American Air Force in China. He saw the refugees. He saw the children who had been orphaned by the bombing of Hengyang. He actually met a young boy who inspired the character of Tien Pao. This isn't some sanitized, "safe" version of history. It’s a narrative born from the dirt and the noise of the actual conflict.
You’ve got to remember the context of 1956 when this was published. Most American children's literature at the time was pretty sanitized. You had Dick and Jane. You had wholesome stories about the suburbs. Then comes DeJong, writing about a child watching his village burn and nearly starving to death while clutching a pig. It was revolutionary. It didn't talk down to kids. It assumed they could handle the truth about how scary the world can be.
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The Reality of the Journey
Tien Pao’s journey is basically a masterclass in tension. He has to navigate through mountains, hide from Japanese patrols, and deal with the crushing weight of hunger. The prose is sparse. DeJong uses short, rhythmic sentences that mirror the exhaustion of a small boy walking until his feet bleed.
There's a specific scene where Tien Pao has to cross a bridge. It sounds mundane. It’s not. The way DeJong describes the physical sensation of fear—the "coldness" in the stomach—is something every person who has ever felt truly lost can relate to. He isn't a superhero. He’s a kid who is terrified but keeps moving because the alternative is unthinkable.
- The Pig: Glory-of-the-Republic isn't just a cute sidekick. In the context of the 1940s Chinese countryside, a pig was wealth. It was survival. The fact that Tien Pao refuses to eat or sell the pig, even when he's starving, tells you everything you need to know about his integrity.
- The Guerrillas: He meets Chinese underground fighters. These aren't polished soldiers; they are desperate people doing desperate things.
- The Airmen: When he finally finds the American base, he is adopted by sixty men. This is the "House of Sixty Fathers." They feed him, clothe him, and eventually help him find what he's looking for.
Why the Book Faces Criticism Today
If you read The House of Sixty Fathers through a 2026 lens, you’re going to notice some things that feel dated. Some critics point out the "White Savior" trope—the idea that the American soldiers have to swoop in to save the Chinese boy. It’s a valid discussion to have.
However, looking at it purely through that lens misses the historical nuance. At the time, the alliance between the U.S. and China against Japanese occupation was a massive, complex geopolitical reality. DeJong was writing from his own perspective as an American soldier who saw the genuine bond that formed between these airmen and the local population. It wasn't about politics for him; it was about the individual faces he saw in the mud.
Also, Tien Pao does a lot of the heavy lifting himself. He survives the majority of the book through his own wits and sheer stubbornness. The soldiers provide the ending, but Tien Pao provides the soul.
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Maurice Sendak’s Contribution
You can't talk about this book without talking about the illustrations. Before he was the king of Where the Wild Things Are, Maurice Sendak illustrated DeJong’s work.
Sendak’s drawings for The House of Sixty Fathers are haunting. They are scratchy, dark, and full of shadows. They don't look like "fun" illustrations. They look like sketches made in a war zone. The way Sendak draws Tien Pao’s eyes—huge, sunken, and alert—does half the work of the storytelling. It’s a perfect pairing of text and art. If you have a choice between an unillustrated version and the Sendak version, get the Sendak one. It changes the entire experience.
The Psychological Impact on Young Readers
There is a reason this book is often cited by Gen X and Boomers as the book that "woke them up" to the world. It deals with displacement.
Today, we see images of refugees on the news constantly. In 1956, those images weren't as accessible to children. DeJong made the "refugee crisis" personal. He took a massive, abstract war and shrunk it down to the size of one boy and one pig.
Kids who read this book often experience a weird kind of "vicarious trauma." You feel the hunger. You feel the fear of the "iron birds" (planes) overhead. But more importantly, you feel the empathy. You start to realize that a kid on the other side of the planet, speaking a different language, feels exactly the same way you do when you’re scared.
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Technical Mastery: DeJong’s Writing Style
DeJong was a master of the "sensory detail." He doesn't just say it was cold. He describes the way the wind feels like a "wet knife." He describes the smell of the charcoal fires and the sound of the river.
He also uses a technique called "limited third person" better than almost anyone in children's fiction. We only know what Tien Pao knows. We don't get the "big picture" of the war. We don't get maps of troop movements. We just get the immediate, terrifying reality of the next hundred yards of road. That’s how a child experiences a disaster. It’s visceral.
How to Approach the Book Now
If you’re a parent or a teacher thinking about introducing this to a kid, do it. But maybe read it with them. It’s a heavy lift.
It’s a great jumping-off point for talking about:
- The Second Sino-Japanese War: A part of WWII history that is often glossed over in Western schools.
- Refugees: What it means to lose your home and your "safety net."
- Resilience: How people keep going when everything is lost.
The House of Sixty Fathers remains a foundational text because it doesn't offer easy answers. Yes, there is a "happy" ending in the sense that Tien Pao is reunited with his family, but the world he returns to is forever changed. The trauma isn't just erased because the book ends.
Actionable Steps for Readers and Educators
If you want to truly engage with the themes of this book or the history behind it, don't just stop at the final page.
- Compare Historical Accounts: Research the Hengyang Airfield and the real-life evacuation of 1944. Understanding the scale of the retreat helps put Tien Pao’s journey in perspective.
- Analyze the Illustrations: Sit down with a copy of the Sendak-illustrated version. Look at the use of cross-hatching to create a sense of confinement and danger. It's a great lesson in visual storytelling.
- Discuss the "Sixty Fathers" Concept: Ask why the soldiers felt the need to take the boy in. It opens up conversations about the "humanity" that persists even in combat zones.
- Seek Out Diverse Perspectives: Pair this book with a modern Chinese perspective on the war, such as Little Leap Forward by Guo Yue and Clare Farrow, to give a broader cultural context to the era.
This isn't a book meant to be read once and forgotten. It’s a book meant to make you uncomfortable enough to remember that for millions of people throughout history—and today—Tien Pao’s story isn't fiction. It’s Tuesday.