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

Negotiations resumed on the third day. Commander Ruan seemed more energetic than before; the sallow complexion had faded considerably, and he no longer rushed to finish his sentence as before. He pulled a list from his briefcase, placed it on the table, and pressed his fingers against it, not letting go.

He Yuzhu waited.

Commander Ruan lowered his head, looking at his fingers pressing on the paper. After a few seconds, he released his grip and pushed the list in front of He Yuzhu. It listed rubber, grain, timber, and minerals, followed by numbers and units. He Yuzhu picked it up and looked at it. Two thousand tons of rubber, three thousand tons of rice, five thousand cubic meters of timber, and five hundred tons each of tin and tungsten ore. He put the list down without saying a word.

Commander Ruan began to speak, his pace much slower than before, as if he were carefully choosing his words. The translator translated sentence by sentence beside him. "The rubber was tapped last year and stored for more than half a year. The rice was just harvested and hasn't been put into storage yet. The timber is piled up in the mountains and can be loaded onto trucks at any time. Tin and tungsten..." He paused, "...need to be dug fresh. Give me some time."

He Yuzhu picked up the list again and looked it over. Two thousand tons of rubber—he knew exactly how many tires and seals that would be enough. Three thousand tons of rice—enough to feed the parched land and the starving people. Timber, tin, and tungsten—all essential for weapons manufacturing; they couldn't mine enough themselves. He put the list down and walked to the window. The sky outside was overcast, threatening snow. The large-character posters on the courtyard wall had been replaced with new ones; the edges of the paper curled up, rustling in the wind.

Commander Ruan spoke again from behind, his voice even lower than before. The translator's voice also lowered. "Commander Ruan said the front lines are waiting for them; could we send out a batch first? We can replenish the supplies when they arrive."

He Yuzhu turned around and looked at Commander Ruan. The man sat in a chair, his hands clenched on his knees, not letting go. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were fixed on He Yuzhu. He Yuzhu walked back to the table and sat down.

"Fifty anti-aircraft guns to be fired initially. Three radars. Half of the ammunition, according to your list."

Commander Ruan's shoulders relaxed, and his clenched fist loosened. He stood up, walked to He Yuzhu, extended his hand, and shook it. His hand was still the same—rough, with large knuckles and calluses on the base of his thumb. "Thank you," he said. This time it was much smoother than last time, as if he had practiced.

He Yuzhu patted the back of his hand. "Go back and make arrangements. The sooner the better."

Commander Ruan nodded, released his grip, and turned to leave. The footsteps in the corridor were lighter and less hurried than when he came.

When the first batch of rubber arrived, Beijing had its first snowfall. He Yuzhu stood at the warehouse entrance, watching the trucks drive in one by one. The snow fell on the truck beds, on the tarpaulins, and on the ground, melting and leaving dark patches. After almost an hour, the last truck finally drove in. Yang Xiaobing jumped off the truck, his face red from the cold, his breath steaming in the air.

"Commander, two thousand tons, all arrived."

He Yuzhu walked into the warehouse. The light shone on the neatly stacked rubber sheets, dark and gleaming, stretching from the floor to the ceiling. He reached out and touched them; they were cool and springy. He pressed his fingers down, released them, and they slowly bounced back. Ma Yuejin squeezed in from behind and also reached out to touch them. He didn't say anything, but withdrew his hand and wiped it on his trousers.

He Yuzhu turned around and walked out of the warehouse. Snow was still falling, landing on his shoulders and melting quickly. Yang Xiaobing followed behind, locked the warehouse door, hung the key on his waist, and patted it.

"Commander, these things should last us a while."

He Yuzhu didn't turn around. He stood in the yard, watching the trucks drive away one by one. The wheels rolled over the snow, leaving two deep ruts, which were quickly covered by fresh snow.

Old Sun stood at the office door, a cigarette between his fingers, unlit. "Old He, with a brain like yours, it's a shame you're not a businessman."

He Yuzhu walked into the office and sat down in a chair. "I'm not a businessman. The Soviets aren't supplying us anymore, and we don't have enough ourselves. The Vietnamese want weapons, and we want rubber. If we trade, neither side will lose out."

Old Sun lit his cigarette and took a puff. "Not bad. Two thousand tons of rubber is enough for several years."

He Yuzhu didn't reply. He remembered when Commander Ruan left, he held his hand tightly. The man was thin, with high cheekbones, a sallow complexion, and calloused hands. The rubber trees were harvested from the forest, cut by cut, piece by piece. The rice was harvested from the fields, sickle by sickle, harvested. The ore was dug out of the ground, basket by basket, by the same source.

"Old Sun, when will the rice arrive?"

Old Sun stubbed out his cigarette. "Next month. Three thousand tons, entering from Guangxi, by train, directly to Beijing."

He Yuzhu stood up and walked to the window. The snow had stopped, and the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, shining on the courtyard wall. The ink on the big-character posters had bled and blurred, making it impossible to read what was written. He drew the curtains and sat back down at the table.

Three days after the Vietnamese delegation left, Head Nguyen returned. This time he brought neither a map nor a list. He only brought an envelope, made of kraft paper, sealed with glue, and bulging. He placed the envelope on He Yuzhu's table and said a few words in broken Chinese.

"Dean He, please take a look at this."

He Yuzhu picked up the envelope and opened it. Inside were several blurry black-and-white photographs. The first was of a warship anchored in the harbor, its cannons pointed skyward. The second was of a house on the shore, half-collapsed, with wooden beams sticking out like severed hands. The third was of a person lying on a stretcher, their face obscured, covered up to their chest, their exposed hands blackened as if burned. There was also a piece of paper with a few lines of writing in pen: "US destroyers are patrolling the Gulf of Tonkin, shelling coastal villages. We need something to shoot down ships."

He Yuzhu laid out the photos one by one on the table and looked at them for a long time. Commander Ruan sat opposite him without saying a word. His hands, which were resting on his knees, clenched into fists, his knuckles turning white. He Yuzhu put the photos away and returned them to the envelope.

"We have anti-ship missiles. But not many. They're slow to build, and materials are scarce."

Commander Ruan leaned forward, his lips moved, then he withdrew. He lowered his head, looking at his hands. After a long while, he spoke, his voice low, and the translator's voice followed suit. "Those warships are on the sea every day, shooting at fishing boats and bombing villages. The people dare not go to sea, dare not farm. Commander Ruan said... he knows we are in trouble, he is in trouble too."

The room fell silent. He Yuzhu sat there, staring at the envelope on the table, unmoving. He recalled the Korean War years ago, when American warships were also circling at sea, their cannons pointed at the shore, ready to fire at any moment. He stood up, walked to the window, and stood there for a long time. When he turned around, Commander Ruan was still sitting there, his hands clenched on his knees, not letting go.

"Here are five anti-ship missiles for you. The rest will be supplied once they are built."

Commander Ruan stood up, walked to He Yuzhu, reached out his hand, and grasped it firmly. His eyes reddened, and his lips moved, but he couldn't speak. He Yuzhu patted the back of his hand, and he released it, turning and leaving. The footsteps in the corridor were very light, and soon fell silent.

That evening, He Yuzhu returned home. He Nianhua was hunched over the table doing her homework, the pencil stub scratching on the paper. Qin Huairu was busy at the stove, the spatula clanging against the iron pot. He Yuzhu sat down in a chair, and He Nianhua put down her pencil, climbed off the stool, and ran to him.

"Dad, today the teacher taught us how to write the character '换' (huàn, change)."

He Yuzhu picked him up and placed him on his lap. "How do you write the character '换'?"

He Nianhua held out her finger and drew on his palm. "There's a handle radical on the left and a '奂' radical on the right. The teacher said '换' means to exchange, to trade things for other things." He looked up. "Dad, did we exchange things with others?"

He Yuzhu nodded. "They've changed it. They've traded cannons for rubber, and missiles for rice."

He Nianhua thought for a moment. "So, are we losing money?"

He Yuzhu shook his head. "It's not a loss. Others need our cannons, and we need their rubber. It's a mutual need, so it's not a loss."

He Nianhua slid off his lap and lay back down on the table to write. Qin Huairu brought out the dishes: a plate of scrambled eggs, a plate of stewed cabbage, and a bowl of soup. He Nianhua climbed onto the stool, picked up his chopsticks, grabbed a piece of egg, and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing until his mouth was full of oil.

"Dad, what can we do with that rubber?"

He Yuzhu picked up a piece of cabbage for him. "Making tires, making seals, making oil pipes. Lots of stuff."

He Nianhua nodded and lowered her head to continue eating. Qin Huairu sat beside them, watching them without touching her chopsticks. He Yuzhu placed a piece of food on her plate, and she lowered her head to eat slowly.

That night, He Yuzhu lay on the kang (a heated brick bed), listening to the wind outside. He Nianhua turned over, her small hand resting on his face—warm and soft. He opened his eyes, looking at the ceiling. Moonlight streamed in through the window, illuminating the room. He gently placed He Nianhua's small hand back under the covers and turned over as well. Two thousand tons of rubber were piled up in the warehouse, and three thousand tons of rice were still en route. Five missiles weren't much; enough to take down a few warships.