Siheyuan (traditional courtyard house): Starting with the Korean War, returning home to take charge

The steel rolling mill's gate was an old-fashioned iron gate, gray-painted, with a rusted ring around the bottom. He Yuzhu stood at the gate, looking up at the words on the gate tower—Red Star Steel Rolling Mill—painted with cement, the red paint peeling off, revealing the gray-white base underneath.

The gatekeeper was an old man who leaned out of the window.

"Who should I look for?"

He Yuzhu handed over his work ID. The old man took it, took off his reading glasses and put them on, looked at them for a while, then looked up at him again.

"The new deputy factory manager?"

"Um."

The old man trotted out of the house, opened the door, and smiled broadly.

"Oh, Deputy Factory Director He, you should have said so sooner! Factory Director Yang instructed us that you should report for duty in the next couple of days. Please come in."

He Yuzhu stepped into the factory area. It was larger than he had imagined, with rows of red brick factory buildings, chimneys belching white smoke, and the air filled with the smell of coke, making one's throat dry. Workers in blue overalls pushed material carts back and forth, the wheels clanging and clattering on the cement ground.

The office building was located at the very back of the factory area. It was a three-story red brick building with wooden handrails that creaked when stepped on. Director Yang's office was on the second floor at the far east end. The door was open, and someone inside was on the phone.

He Yuzhu knocked on the door frame.

The person on the phone looked up, waved at him, said a few more words into the receiver, and hung up. He was in his fifties, with a dark complexion, gray hair, and wearing a faded military uniform with frayed cuffs. He walked over and extended his hand.

"Comrade He Yuzhu? Yang Deming."

He Yuzhu grasped his hand. The hand was rough, covered in calluses.

"Director Yang."

Yang Deming nodded, gesturing for him to sit, and then returned to the rattan chair. The armrests of the rattan chair were worn smooth, and it creaked as he sat down.

"Your situation has been explained from above." He spoke slowly, as if weighing the weight of each word. "Your public identity is deputy factory director, in charge of technology. As for your actual work, Lao Sun will handle that."

He Yuzhu did not respond.

Yang Deming looked at him, his gaze lingering on his face for a moment.

"Do people who have been to war understand industry?"

He Yuzhu thought for a moment.

"Studying now."

Yang Deming's lips twitched, but the smile was faint and vanished in the blink of an eye.

"Okay. Let's go check out the workshop first."

The workshop is much noisier than outside.

The roar of the machines was deafening; you had to shout into someone's ear to speak. Yang Deming walked ahead, occasionally turning back to yell at him, but He Yuzhu only caught half of what he heard. He saw the machines; they were all old-fashioned Soviet equipment, some with belt drives that trembled as if they were about to break. The workers' faces were covered in sweat, streaks of oil and coal dust smeared on their skin, their work clothes soaked through and clinging to their bodies.

Walking to the middle of the workshop, Yang Deming stopped and pointed to the largest rolling mill.

"This equipment was imported from the Soviet Union in 53 and is the best in the entire factory."

He Yuzhu stared at the machine. Soviet, from 53—it sounded quite new. But the things he'd seen in the system flashed through his mind—in ten or twenty years, these things would be obsolete. He didn't speak.

They continued walking. As they passed a set of rollers, several workers stood by, watching them go. One of the tall, thin men whispered something, and someone next to him nudged him, causing the others to laugh.

He Yuzhu heard it.

"What do those who fight wars know about industry?"

The sound wasn't loud, but it was just right to get into my ears.

He didn't stop and continued walking. But after a few steps, he suddenly stopped and looked back at the tall, thin man. The smile on the tall, thin man's face froze for a moment.

He Yuzhu turned around and followed Yang Deming.

Yang Deming heard it too, turned around and glanced at it, then looked at He Yuzhu.

He Yuzhu's face remained expressionless. He simply clenched his fist at his side, then relaxed it.

At 7 p.m., He Yuzhu was organizing a pile of technical documents in his office. There was a knock on the door, two short knocks and one long knock.

He stood up and opened the door.

A middle-aged man in his forties stood in the doorway, wearing a blue Zhongshan suit and glasses. He was thin with high cheekbones. He came in, closed the door, and without speaking, went to the window, drew the curtains, and then pressed his ear against the door to listen for a few seconds.

Then he turned around.

"Deputy Factory Director He, this is Lao Sun."

He Yuzhu looked at him.

"From the Security Bureau?"

Old Sun nodded, sat down in the chair, and pulled a brown paper bag from his briefcase.

"Your first task."

He Yuzhu took it and opened it. Inside was a list, handwritten, with five names. The paper was yellowed and the edges were frayed.

Old Sun lowered his voice.

"These five people are all suspects. Some came from enemy-occupied areas, some have connections overseas, and some have suspicious behavior. You work normally in the factory, have normal contact with others, and observe carefully. If anything seems unusual, write it down and tell me. Don't alert them."

He Yuzhu glanced through the list. Five names, five people, none of whom he had ever seen before. He folded the list and put it in the drawer.

"That's all?"

Old Sun stood up, walked to the door, and turned back before opening it.

"That's all. We'll meet once a month from now on; I'll let you know the time and place. Use that phone number only in emergencies."

The door closed.

He Yuzhu sat there, looking at the list. The drawer wasn't closed properly, revealing a corner of yellowed paper.

Outside the window, the factory lights were on, casting long shadows of the chimneys. In the distance, the night shift lights of Workshop No. 3 shone brightly, and the occasional rumble of machinery could be heard, muffled, as if it were coming from underground.

He pushed the drawer shut, stood up, and walked to the window. A layer of dust covered the windowpane, blurring the lights outside. He suddenly remembered the look in the eyes of the tall, thin man in the workshop during the day—was there something else behind that disdain?

do not know.

But he will find out.