Courtyard House: Rebirth of a Shopkeeper in 1937

The Hunan Provincial Land Tax Management Office was not officially established until August 1st this year. The higher authorities originally planned to start collecting land taxes on October 1st, but due to the bumper harvest of early rice, the start date for early-maturing counties was temporarily moved forward to September 15th. The new policy was implemented hastily with very little preparation time. Various details, verification procedures, and grassroots implementation standards were not refined and implemented at each level. The implementation of the policy was riddled with loopholes and disorganized. It was precisely because of this hasty and chaotic situation that many people had the opportunity to exploit loopholes and find ways to circumvent the rules.

The first land tax collection caused the village headman's waist to swell. Landlords' rent collection methods, such as "big measure," "top," and "kicking measure," were all used. In addition, various decrees on land tax collection were issued one after another. Under the righteous cause of the war of resistance, the villagers dared not disobey and could only swallow their anger.

Amidst the turmoil and constant turmoil of the times, a pleasant surprise emerged: the expansion of the mountainside cave in the backyard brought the Song family a rare and unexpected joy. Previously, everyone had rushed to dig the cave to a depth of eight zhang (approximately 33 meters) before the busy harvest season, then temporarily halted work. Later, when Father arrived to install wooden pillars and reinforce the roof beams, he discovered that the deepest part of the cave suffered from poor ventilation and severe moisture buildup, making it unbearably damp and humid. This not only easily led to the accumulation of moisture and moldy debris, but also posed numerous safety hazards for long-term storage. To improve ventilation, dehumidify, and optimize the overall layout, Father led his men to continue digging nearly another zhang (approximately 3.3 meters) deeper, directly into the solid, thick heart of the mountain.

During this final repair, the group unexpectedly discovered a clear spring slowly seeping out from a crevice in the rock wall, flowing continuously year-round. Unlike the icy water of underground rivers, this spring was warm and refreshing to the touch, crystal clear and free of impurities. It had a unique sweet aftertaste, characteristic of mountain springs, making it a rare and high-quality source of fresh water. The spring water seeped from the crevice, its flow not surging, but its stability year-round, unaffected by drought or flood, provided enough water for a hundred or so people's daily drinking needs, perfectly meeting their water requirements for shelter during wartime.

To solve the problem of dampness inside the cave and to make the most of the spring water, Dad found a complete bamboo pipe and carefully connected it to divert the water, steadily bringing the mountain spring water to the tofu workshop in the backyard. From then on, the family's daily water usage was reduced by more than half, eliminating the need to fetch water every day and greatly saving manpower and effort. After multiple renovations, including digging and widening, reinforcing with wooden pillars, improving ventilation and dehumidification, and diverting fresh water, the originally simple storage cellar was completely transformed. Now structurally stable, dry, safe, and with ample drinking water, it could be considered a qualified and reliable mountain air-raid shelter. The youngest son, Wei Bao, especially loved this cool and safe cave, constantly pestering Gui Xiang to take him there to play and rest; it had become his favorite place.

The peaceful little world was gradually perfecting itself, but the chaos and smoke of war in the outside world were drawing ever closer, leaving no room for complacency. The Second Battle of Changsha had begun in full swing, and the fighting on the front lines was intense. On the main rural roads, military vehicles traveled back and forth day and night, their roar never ceasing. The bombing range of Japanese warplanes gradually spread into Yongfeng, advancing towards Shaoyang. The shadow of artillery fire loomed ever closer, and the entire countryside was shrouded in the gloom of war.

The road running through the village, worn smooth by years of carts and the elements, was once paved with gravel, but now riddled with potholes and in terrible condition. On rainy days, it flooded and became muddy and difficult to traverse; on sunny days, the wind whipped up dust and caused the gravel to jostle, making travel extremely difficult for vehicles and pedestrians. The government, preoccupied with the front lines and procuring military supplies, had no time to care for rural road repairs, allowing the main road to fall into disrepair and decay. In these chaotic times, the transport of supplies and the circulation of military provisions depended entirely on unobstructed roads. While others focused on the mundane affairs of the village, he alone understood the critical importance of road transport to the war effort. Whenever he had free time, he would carry a hoe and a winnowing basket, painstakingly digging and filling potholes, leveling the roadbed, and meticulously repairing the damaged sections around the bamboo houses, silently facilitating the passage of pedestrians and military supply wagons.

The villagers, seeing him tirelessly repairing the road day after day without complaint, were filled with puzzlement. They would often stand by the roadside and tease him, saying, "Manager Song, you're always so diligent in repairing and mending the road. Is the village paying you extra money or giving you some benefits? You can't keep such good things to yourself; you have to include us!"

Father continued working, bending over to level the road. Hearing this, he straightened up and smiled, his tone simple yet insightful: "The villagers don't have time to deal with such trivial matters. With the war raging, the government is busy raising military rations and dealing with conscription; they wouldn't have time to allocate funds or send people to repair this rural dirt road."

He looked up at the endless stream of military vehicles shuttling back and forth in the distance, a solemnity unique to chaotic times set in his eyes. His tone was calm, yet every word was earnest as he continued slowly, "I repair this road not for any wages, nor for any personal gain. Now that war has broken out, the front lines rely entirely on this official road for transporting troops and supplies. If the road is full of potholes and obstructions, supplies cannot be delivered, and the soldiers fighting the hardest will suffer the most. If the front lines fall, the war will spread, and none of us civilians in the rear will escape unscathed. My repairs are, in essence, a matter of self-preservation. By filling in a pothole and straightening a section of the roadbed, the vehicles can move more smoothly, and military supplies can reach the front lines a little sooner. Ordinary people cannot go to the battlefield or carry guns and cannons, but to do this little bit of effort to protect the road and support the front lines is already my duty."

A few simple, unadorned words fell slowly to the ground, sincere and weighty. The villagers who had been teasing and joking around all stopped laughing and taunting, their playful smiles vanishing instantly, replaced by expressions of shame. They fell silent, speechless. Only then did everyone realize that Manager Song's tireless efforts in repairing the damaged road every day were never for a penny of money, but rather out of concern for the greater good of the chaotic world, using the most basic and simple way an ordinary person could to support the front lines and protect the safety of their homeland.

At first, one or two villagers, feeling guilty, stepped forward, picked up unused hoes and winnowing baskets from the roadside, and bent down to help fill potholes and level the road. Soon, more and more villagers joined in, spontaneously joining the ranks of road repairers. The once quiet and dilapidated rural road was suddenly transformed into a scene of everyone working together, each fulfilling their duties, quietly repairing the road. The usually relaxed and disorganized village was now filled with a rare sense of unity and warmth.

That afternoon, the sky was peaceful. Xingbao and Guixiang stood beside their master, listening attentively as he explained the essentials of medicine and analyzed pulse diagnosis and pharmacology, completely immersed in their study. Just as everyone was focused on the lecture, a faint yet piercing buzzing sound drifted from the eastern horizon, intermittently piercing the tranquility of the room.

The moment the sound reached his ears, Xingbao's heart tightened, and his face turned deathly pale. To others, it was just an unfamiliar sound, but to him it was all too familiar—it was the roar of warplanes etched deep in his memory, the sound he had heard countless times on screen in his previous life, a harbinger of an impending air raid.