Courtyard House: Initial Donation of 50 Million

In early winter of 1958, Beijing was blanketed in a northerly wind that swirled fine coal dust under a hazy sky. Yet, outside the vermilion iron gates of the Red Star United Industrial Corporation, a vibrant spring tide was surging. Hundreds of workers, like iron filings drawn by a magnet, converged from all corners of the city. Their breath rose in the cold wind, mingling with the indigo-colored coarse cotton-padded coats to form a flowing sea. Clutching their housing allocation notices, their faces were etched with anticipation, anxiety, and elation—today was the day of the second phase of the housing allocation meeting for the Red Star family compound.

"Old Li! Building 19, Unit 3, 1602! Four bedrooms and two living rooms!" Zhang Tieshan's hands, calloused from years of grinding with a grinding wheel, gripped the notification tightly. His voice was hoarse, like sandpaper being ground, yet it couldn't conceal his volcanic excitement. This foundry workshop foreman had worked at the Hongxing Factory for ten years, and his family of five still crammed into a ten-square-meter shack in the Xuanwumen courtyard, drafty in winter and leaky in summer, with cockroaches breeding under the bed year-round. Beside him, the tall, thin Liu Changhe patted him on the shoulder, spittle flying everywhere: "I'm in the machining workshop! Building 22, Unit 1, 2001! 25th floor, top floor! Four bedrooms, two living rooms, with a terrace! We can grow scallions and garlic, build grape trellises, drink tea in the summer, and watch all of Beijing—that's what you call a heavenly life!"

The crowd buzzed like popping beans. A 25-story high-rise with elevators, unique in Beijing; three Siemens elevators from Germany, zipping up three apartments per floor; single dormitories of 90 square meters each (three bedrooms, one living room) on floors 1-15, and 135 square meters (four bedrooms, two living rooms) on floors 16-25, each with a separate kitchen, toilet, and balcony; underground and above-ground parking, a health station, a nursery, and a supply and marketing cooperative—all included; a gated community guarded by the security department—this wasn't just housing, it was a "pre-communist lifestyle experience ticket"! Technical expert He Daqing, supported by his son He Yuzhu and leaning on crutches, looked at the jubilant crowd with teary eyes: the factory not only provided generous work injury benefits but also gave him priority allocation to the "expert building" above the 20th floor; the blood of those coworkers who fell in the enemy attack hadn't been shed in vain!

In stark contrast to the sea of ​​joy outside the factory area, at the Yan Fugui family's home in the front yard of No. 95, only the embers of firewood in the stove glowed faintly red in the evening. On the kang table was a "sumptuous" dinner: half a bowl of clear cornmeal porridge in a rough porcelain bowl with a chipped rim, two hard, dark cornbread buns next to it that were pitted and bumpy like toad skin, and the most "luxurious" item was a few thin, almost hair-like strands of pickled mustard greens that Yan Fugui had cut from a shriveled mustard tuber with a shiny, oily knife.

Yan Jiecheng sat on the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed), mechanically poking at a cornbread. The cornbread was so hard it hurt his teeth; he bit down, struggling to move it, his throat feeling like it was blocked by rough burlap. His faded blue work clothes, with frayed cuffs and collar and conspicuous patches on the shoulders, mirrored his current dejected and heavy mood. At the afternoon's housing allocation meeting, he squeezed to the edge of the crowd, listening to the announcement of the lucky winners' names over the loudspeaker, his heart pounding in his chest. How he longed to hear his own name—even if it was just for a single dormitory! But until the end, his name was never heard again. Like a forgotten ghost, he watched his fellow workers cheer and embrace as they left, amidst the firecracker debris and the smell of gunpowder, only a deep-seated sense of loss and the loneliness of being left behind by the train of time remained.

"Eat!" A hoarse, harsh voice broke the silence. Yan Fugui entered from the outer room, fiddling with a brass abacus, the beads clicking like a death knell. In his fifties, his hair was thinning and graying, his eyes sunken, his triangular eyes constantly darting around, searching for an opportunity to take advantage. He walked to the kang table, his gaze scraping over the food like a knife, finally settling on Yan Jiecheng: "Standing there waiting for a free lunch? Hurry up and eat! After you finish, wash the dishes and clean the ashes in the stove! Don't get cocky after you get to the factory; here you're still just a freeloader!"

Yan Jiecheng stiffened, his grip on his chopsticks tightened, and he silently lowered his head, chewing faster. The already hard-to-swallow cornbread seemed even harder. Yan Fugui turned to his wife, Yang Ruihua, sitting on a small stool opposite him. She was thin and sallow, her entire life suppressed by her husband, devoid of any will to resist. She timidly looked up, her eyes darting away: "I heard... I heard Old Wang next door say... they got a lot of good houses..."

"You got a lot?" Yan Fugui sneered, his triangular eyes flashing with greed and calculation. "Do we get to enjoy such good things? Those are reserved for 'meritorious officials,' 'technical backbones,' and 'veteran revolutionaries'! We ordinary folks are lucky to even get a wage!" He tapped his fingers on the kang table. "Besides, Jie Cheng has only been in the factory for half a year! He hasn't even finished his apprenticeship! Why should he get housing? Because of that eighteen yuan a month salary? Or because of his mediocre skills?"

Yan Jiecheng suddenly looked up, his lips moving as if to retort—he wanted to say that he was studying hard to get a permanent position and earn a higher salary so his family could have a better life… But seeing his father's cold, calculating eyes, and the thick ledger tied with rubber bands hanging on the wall behind him, all the words stuck in his throat. That ledger was Yan Fugui's "lifeline," used to record every expense in tiny characters since Yan Jiecheng was born: milk powder, diapers, medicine, broken bowls, torn clothes, accurate to the millimeter, like an invisible shackle binding his life, reminding him that here he was merely an "asset" that needed to calculate the input-output ratio.

"Father..." Yan Jiecheng's voice was dry and hoarse, suppressing his grievances and anger. "There are conditions for housing allocation... five years, housing difficulties, skilled workers and model workers... I've only been here for half a year... I haven't even finished my apprenticeship..." The deliberate suppression of disappointment and despair in his tone finally leaked out.

Yan Fugui paid no attention to his son's tone; his mind was already far away. His triangular eyes darted around, calculating: "Five years...housing difficulties...skilled technicians..." he muttered to himself, fiddling with the abacus beads, "The college graduates and master craftsmen in the factory's technical department will definitely be the first to benefit...humph, they're getting a good deal..."

A few days later, residents moved into the second phase of the Hongxing Family Compound. Trucks loaded with furniture drove into the heavily guarded, gated community, where security guards in brand-new uniforms saluted at the ready. Poplar and holly trees lined the cement roads, and fitness equipment was installed in the central square, where children curiously examined the new slides and swings. Yan Jiecheng was not among the crowd; he was helping a coworker he knew move furniture, and also wanted to see what the new house was like. He silently carried boxes like a shadow, moving through the bright, spacious new homes that smelled of paint and wood, smelling the happiness and seeing the joyful faces of the residents, while his stomach churned.

He saw a young couple moving a double bed. The wife touched the headboard, tears streaming down her face: "Jianguo, this bed is so sturdy! It won't creak anymore!" The husband chuckled and patted the bed frame: "Sturdy! Better than a wooden plank! We can live a peaceful life from now on!" He saw an elderly worker with white hair being helped into the house by his children. His trembling hands touched the snow-white walls, smooth floor, and bright windows. Cloudy tears streamed down his wrinkles: "Good...so good...a lifetime worthwhile..." He saw teenagers chasing each other like little birds in the hallway, their clear laughter echoing. Each scene was like salt rubbed into a bleeding wound.

He finally understood that what separated him from them was not just a threshold, but an insurmountable chasm—called "qualification," "background," and "connections," also known as "scheming." He, Yan Jiecheng, was the son of a small business owner with no background, no support, only brute force and grievances, destined to only look up at the golden sky of others. Meanwhile, his father, Yan Fugui, carried account books and moved between the leaders' offices, weaving a golden path with his silver tongue and a few worthless "gifts."

Yan Jiecheng didn't know if his father would succeed, nor did he want to know. All he knew was that when he dragged his weary body back to the musty shack, he would continue to gnaw on the unpalatable cornbread, listen to the clattering of his father's abacus, look at the account book on the wall symbolizing "life's value," and then silently tell himself: one day, he would tear that account book to shreds with his own hands; one day, he would carve out a sky that truly belonged to him—even if it was small, dark, and full of thorns, it would be brighter than this prison.

A waning moon hangs on withered branches outside the window, coldly watching over the sleeping city and the myriad facets of life—a tapestry of laughter and tears, hope and despair. Meanwhile, in Northeast China, Jia Dongxu, having finished his holiday, takes the train back to his mechanical engineering vocational school. He stretches his slightly disabled right hand; three years of study in the Northeast have etched their marks, yet his eyes shine brightly. He is unaware of the desolation of Courtyard No. 95 in Beijing at this moment, only knowing that he carries the hope given to him by Wang Huanbo and will continue to write his future as a technician with his intact left hand—just as Yan Jiecheng uses silence to resist his father's scheming, they are both quietly accumulating the strength to break free from their cocoons within their respective cages.

Yan Fugui's secondhand bicycle still leans against the corner of the wall, rattling everywhere except for the bell. He polishes it until it shines every day, like a family heirloom. Yesterday, a neighbor wanted to borrow it to carry some coal, but he didn't even raise an eyebrow: "Fifty cents a day, damage will be charged at cost." The neighbor left sheepishly, but he noted "potential income of fifty cents" on his abacus. Yang Ruihua huddled by the stove, cooking thin porridge, the grains of rice barely visible. She dared not add too much, afraid Yan Fugui would scold her for "wasteful." Yan Jiecheng stared at his reflection in the porridge and suddenly thought of Jia Dongxu—the older brother in the courtyard who was disabled in a work injury but entered vocational school through self-study. His right arm was crippled, but he lived with more resilience than anyone else.

The night deepened. Yan Fugui finished the last calculation on the abacus and closed the account book with satisfaction. Yang Ruihua extinguished the fire in the stove, and the room became completely dark. Yan Jiecheng lay on the kang (a heated brick bed), listening to his father's soft snoring. In the dark, he pulled half a hard cornbread from under his pillow—he had secretly hidden it at noon, intending to eat it if he got hungry. The cornbread hurt his palm, but he felt more at ease than ever before. He knew that as long as he had this little bit of strength, as long as he had this little bit of unwillingness, one day he would be able to leave this north-facing room, leave Yan Fugui's schemes, and leave the shadow of that account book.

The wind was still blowing outside the window, but Yan Jiecheng suddenly felt that there seemed to be a hint of spring in the wind.