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

More than ten seconds have passed since the explosion, and my ears are still ringing.

He Yuzhu opened his mouth, wanting to speak, but his throat felt like it was blocked by something. He took a step forward, his legs went weak, and he grabbed the iron railing beside him. The railing was hot to the touch—whether from the sun or from the fire, he didn't know.

The fireball was still tumbling upwards.

The orange-red hue, tinged with black, surged outwards layer by layer, illuminating half the sky. The ground beneath my feet trembled—not a shock, but a tremor that traveled from my feet to my calves and then to my heart. There was a smell in the air—burnt, hot, and with an indescribable pungent odor.

Someone nearby was crying.

He was a young technician, in his early twenties, squatting on the ground, his head in his hands. His shoulders were sobbing, but he didn't make a sound. A woman next to him patted his back, wiping away tears herself; her eyes were terribly red, and her lips were bitten until they turned white.

Mr. Qian was still standing there, motionless.

He hadn't noticed when he spilled the wine in his hand, soaking his pants. He just stared at the cloud, his facial muscles tense, something swirling under his eyes.

After a long time, he turned his head and looked at He Yuzhu.

His lips moved, but he didn't say anything.

He Yuzhu didn't say anything either.

Old Qian reached out and grasped his wrist. The hand was cold and trembling.

"Three years..." Old Qian's voice was hoarse, like sandpaper rubbing against wood, "It's been three years."

After he finished speaking, he let go of her hand, turned around, and looked at the people who were both crying and laughing.

He Yuzhu stood there, the warmth of his hand still lingering on his wrist.

The radio inside the tent was on, crackling with static.

When He Yuzhu went in, there was a crowd gathered inside, all staring at the small box. No one spoke. The announcer's voice came from inside, trembling with excitement.

"...my country successfully detonated its first atomic bomb..."

Some people started to applaud. The applause was sparse, as if they couldn't believe it.

"...This is a victory for the Chinese people..."

The applause grew louder. Some people stood up, and others moved forward.

"...Now please listen to 'The East Is Red'..."

The tune came from the radio. It was melodious and soothing, floating in the tent.

Those people stopped moving.

Some people crouched down, burying their heads in their knees. Some leaned against the wall, staring at the ceiling. Some stood motionless, their shoulders shaking.

He Yuzhu stood at the door without moving.

He recalled the Battle of Chosin Reservoir that year. Lying in the snow waiting for the bugle call to charge, he wondered what would happen if he could make it back alive.

The music on the radio finished playing, and no one spoke.

Old Sun came in from outside and walked to his side.

"There's an uproar outside."

He Yuzhu looked at him.

Old Sun took out a cigarette, lit it, and took a puff.

"The Americans were furious, the Soviets were silent. The brotherly African countries were overjoyed and said they wanted to send us congratulatory telegrams."

He paused.

"Your daughter just called."

He Yuzhu was stunned for a moment.

"Nianhua?"

Old Sun nodded.

"Your wife called. She said Nianhua called out 'Dad' into the radio several times."

He patted He Yuzhu on the shoulder and left.

The telephone booth was a small room partitioned off with wooden boards next to the command center.

When He Yuzhu went in, his hands were trembling slightly. He dialed the number and listened to the beeping sound from the receiver.

It rang three times before the other end answered.

"Feed?"

It was Qin Huairu's voice.

He Yuzhu held the microphone but didn't speak.

The other end waited for two seconds.

"Pillar?"

He Yuzhu hummed in agreement.

"it's me."

There was a rustling sound coming from the other end. There were footsteps, the sound of a door opening, and then the babbling of a small child.

"Nianhua just now..." Qin Huairu paused, "She just called out 'Dad' into the radio. She called it several times."

He Yuzhu didn't say anything.

A giggling sound came from over there; it was Nianhua making a fuss.

When are you coming back?

The question came as a surprise. He Yuzhu was taken aback.

Qin Huairu chuckled briefly on the other end of the phone.

"It's nothing, I was just asking. You go about your business."

He Yuzhu held the microphone, wanting to say something, but not knowing what to say.

There was a few seconds of silence.

"Nianhua said..." Qin Huairu paused, "She said you are a hero."

He Yuzhu opened his mouth.

She's only a little over a year old.

"I spoke for her."

The phone hangs up.

He Yuzhu stood in that small room, listening to the busy tone on the microphone. The cheers outside continued in waves.

The victory celebration banquet was held in the canteen.

Dozens of tables were pushed together, with peanuts, melon seeds, and several bottles of baijiu (Chinese liquor) on them. The place was packed with people, some sitting, some standing, and some raising their glasses to toast others. Old Qian was surrounded in the middle, his face flushed from drinking, and he kept waving his hands, saying, "I can't take it anymore, I can't take it anymore." But the people around him wouldn't listen and kept pouring more into his glass.

He Yuzhu was seated on the side, and as soon as he sat down, Lao Sun pulled him up.

"Let's go, let's go offer a toast."

He carried his wine glass, going from table to table offering toasts. Some of the people were people he knew, some were strangers, but they all smiled at him. Some patted him on the shoulder, some pulled him aside to talk, and some insisted on toasting with him.

When we reached the last table, our former boss arrived.

He was wearing a Zhongshan suit, his hair was gray, and he squeezed through the crowd. When he got to He Yuzhu, he didn't say anything, but first pulled him to a corner, a few steps away from the people drinking at the other tables.

He took out a cigarette from his pocket and handed one to He Yuzhu. He lit it himself, took a puff, and said nothing.

He Yuzhu waited.

The old leader flicked off his cigarette ash and glanced around.

"About the satellite."

He lowered his voice so low that only two people could hear him.

"It's been approved from above."

He Yuzhu rubbed his hand against the seam of his trousers. His palms were sweaty.

The old leader looked at him for several seconds.

"Get ready over there."

He stubbed out his cigarette on the windowsill and left.

He Yuzhu stood there, watching his figure disappear into the crowd.