Sha Zhu's Rebirth in the Courtyard: Starting with Hitting Someone in the Head

Chapter 81 The Great Steelmaking Campaign

In September 1958, the nationwide steelmaking campaign began.

As soon as the Beidaihe Conference ended, loudspeakers at the entrance of the alleyway began shouting slogans like "Take steel as the key link" and "Surpass Britain and catch up with the United States" all day long, and new slogans were painted all over the walls.

A small blast furnace was also erected in the supply and marketing cooperative's courtyard, made of red bricks and yellow mud, with its chimney piercing the sky. Director Zhou ordered the basketball hoops in the courtyard to be dismantled to make room for the Great Leap Forward's steel production campaign. Several young workers rubbed their hands and wondered if this furnace could actually produce steel.

Director Zhou glared at him. "We have to refine it even if we can't. It's a political task."

To make steel, you first need scrap iron. The supply and marketing cooperative assigned tasks to each person, requiring each person to hand in ten kilograms of scrap iron; those who couldn't hand in any would have it deducted from their wages.

He Yuzhu came out of the office, holding a sick leave slip in his hand. This was something he had spread the word a few years ago: his back injury wouldn't heal, and he had recently gotten a certificate from the hospital.

He placed his sick leave certificate on Director Zhou's desk. Director Zhou glanced at it and said, "Alright. You can stay home and rest, but you have to finish the scrap metal task."

"Don't worry, Director. I've handed over 100 jin (50 kg) of it." He Yuzhu said with a smile as he left.

Back in the compound, the neighborhood committee was also mobilizing resources.

Director Zhang stood personally in the front yard, a large scale at his feet. Each household was to hand over scrap metal according to the number of people, five jin per person; those who handed over more were praised, those who handed over less were smashed.

Yan Bugui limped over, carrying a broken enamel basin containing a rusty stove hook, rotten iron nails, and a broken tin box. He placed it on the scale, and the scale wobbled; it weighed six jin and seven liang.

Director Zhang glanced at it and said it wasn't enough. Five jin per person, so for your family of four, it's twenty jin.

Yan Bugui muttered, "I've searched through everything I could in my house." Director Zhang pointed to the broken basin on the scale and said that it wasn't enough, far from sufficient.

Yan Bugui didn't say anything more, turned around and went back, bringing out the large six-inch iron pot, a spatula, and a broken kitchen knife.

Yang Ruihua stood at the door, clutching the last intact kitchen knife in her hand. The handle gleamed from her grip, and freshly chopped vegetable leaves still clung to the blade. She hesitated for a long time before handing it over. "This one still works."

Yan Bugui took the knife and looked at it: "Hand it over. You can't keep it." He put the knife on the pile of scrap metal, turned around and went into the house.

The front yard became increasingly lively. People came and went from house to house, some carrying broken pots, others holding rusty iron sheets, and children jumping and throwing fire tongs and chopsticks onto the scrap metal pile, making a clanging sound.

A teenager, taking advantage of the adults' inattention, stuffed two pebbles into the scrap metal pile to make up the numbers. Someone nearby grabbed his wrist: "Are your stones made of iron?" The boy ran away with a grin.

A woman stood in front of the scale, holding an iron pot, and stared blankly: "I've used this pot for over ten years, and my husband says the dishes cooked in it are delicious."

The people in line behind her urged her to hurry up and put it on, saying she'd get scolded if she didn't hand in enough. She gritted her teeth, slammed the pot down on the scrap metal pile with a clatter, and turned to walk away quickly.

In the backyard, Liu Haizhong squatted by the doorway, a pile of scrap he had brought back from the factory in front of him. Broken bolts, old files, and half a chain were piled up in a small heap. Wang Caifeng squatted beside him, helping him gather them up and tying them up with straw rope.

Liu Haizhong gestured with his signature hand gesture, brought out the large iron pot from his home, put the bundled scrap iron into the pot, and carried it to the front yard to weigh it.

Wang Caifeng's eyes twitched as she looked at it. This was her proper dowry pot, with more regular workmanship, even wall thickness, and was even more solid than ordinary pots.

Old Li from the middle courtyard carried a pile of scrap iron out of the east wing room. There was a broken spatula, a rusted iron pot with a palm-sized piece missing from the bottom, scrapped furnace bars, and sheet metal from a coal stove.

He moved the items to the front yard and put them on the scale one by one. Tian Xinghua stood beside him, holding her child, and said, "Why is there so much waste?"

Old Li wiped his sweat and whispered in his wife's ear, "Zhuzi already told me to save it."

He Yuzhu lay on a recliner under the pomegranate tree in the courtyard. The afternoon sun in September was still very hot. He fanned himself with a palm leaf fan, a teacup was placed on the stool, and a radio was playing Peking Opera next to him.

After handing over the scrap metal, Old Li sat down with his enamel mug in his hand and said, "Zhu Zi, you really put on a convincing act with that back injury."

He Yuzhu fanned himself with a palm-leaf fan: "It was a real injury to begin with. I strained myself while hunting the year before last. The sick leave certificate is the real deal. You've paid off all your scrap metal?"

"Thanks to you, it was a close call." Old Li blew on the tea foam. "I stopped Xinghua from using her good pot. She almost handed it over, and we would have to cook in earthenware pots at home."

From scrap metal recycling points to open streets, the air in Beijing was thick with the smell of smoke from makeshift blast furnaces. Flames leaped from the furnace openings, bellows roared, and black and yellow smoke rose alternately, turning the sky above the alleyways a hazy gray.

Next to the earthen blast furnace was a pile of newly collected scrap iron, with broken pots, shovels, rusted nails, and iron door knockers stacked into a small mountain. Several street activists took turns operating the bellows, their faces red from the furnace fire, and sweat dripping down, leaving white streaks on their faces.

Many of the steel produced were honeycomb-shaped black lumps, which could not be called steel at all, not even iron; at best, they were sintered lumps. But no one dared to call them scrap. The cadres sent down from above took one look and said, "Comrades, you've done a good job, keep up the good work!" So the bellows kept pumping, the fire kept burning, and the black lumps piled up higher and higher.

Every household in the courtyard contributed manpower and labor, and they even had to take turns guarding the small blast furnace at night.

He Yuzhu lay in the courtyard every day, turning up the volume of the radio so that the sounds of Peking Opera gongs and drums drowned out the noise outside.

The space contained hundreds of tons of grain, over fifty tons of pork and mutton, and mountains of dried seafood—enough to feed his family for a lifetime.

He only needed to watch this spectacle; compared to steelmaking, he was more concerned about how tight the food supply would become.

In the countryside, people are already eating in communal canteens, and they can't eat as much as they want for long. When the rations in the city are reduced again and again, that's when the grain he's stockpiled will come in handy.

He picked up his enamel mug, took a sip of tea, watched the gray smoke drift away over the courtyard wall, and slowly closed his eyes.

The peak of steelmaking activity had passed by the end of October, and the lingering smell of coking coal in the air was gradually dissipated by the autumn wind.

He Yuzhu sat with his legs crossed in the courtyard, plotting his next move. The steelmaking was finished, and it was time for Jia Zhangshi to be sent back.

I can marry Xiao'e before the New Year. She gets bored at home all the time, so I need someone to keep her company and help her with chores.

My good disciple Ma Hua should be brought back next year. He's been my disciple all my life, I should take him back home and raise him properly for a few years.

That guy with the twisted hair, he'll probably teach a few different cuisines in his lifetime. Should he go to the steel mill or the supply and marketing cooperative in '61? Let him choose for himself. Where does this apprentice live? I can't remember.

He closed his eyes, and memories of his past life slowly surfaced. In 1961, he was a foreman in the canteen of a steel rolling mill. Ma Hua, that silly boy, was assigned to his work. He was not tall and was afraid of the big pot on the stove. When he picked up the pot, his hands trembled like a leaf, and soup spilled all over his apron.

He cursed a couple of times, and Ma Hua chuckled. The next day, he arrived earlier than anyone else and polished the stove until it gleamed. This kid was simple-minded and stubborn; he treated everything his master said as gospel.

Where do his parents live again? I think it's near the flower market, but I can't remember which alley. Oh well, I'll go to that area next year; I'll find them eventually if they have names.