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

The pool of snowmelt at the base of the courtyard wall has been flowing for three days and is still not completely dry.

He Yuzhu stood by the office window, watching Old Sun, who was sweeping, tear off the last few big-character posters, crumple them into a ball, and throw them into the tin bucket. Flames leaped up, and black smoke rose into the air before being dispersed by the wind. Old Sun coughed twice, leaned on his broom for a while, and then slowly walked away.

Ten years have passed. He didn't stop them when they were pasted on. Now, tearing them off doesn't feel easy either.

He walked back to the table and pulled the notebook from the bottom of the drawer. The kraft paper cover was worn smooth, the corners curled up and held together with a rubber band. He untied the rubber band and turned to the first page.

January 1964. Tank armor, composite structure, outer layer of high-hardness steel, middle layer of ceramic, inner layer of tough steel.

His handwriting was neat and precise, each stroke deliberate. He had just turned twenty at the time, and although his hands were calloused, his handwriting was still steady.

He flipped through the pages. 1965, high-speed steel rolling mill rolls, twice the lifespan of the Soviet Union's. 1966, lithography machine, 90 nanometers. 1967, Galaxy-1. 1968, anti-ship missile. His finger stopped on a page: March 1969, Zhenbao Island. A captured T-62, 580 horsepower engine, compared to ours 1500. Next to it, in red pen, were the words: Ma Yuejin cried.

He remembered that day. Ma Yuejin squatted on the test bench, holding that shell, tears streaming down his face. Back then, he was young and didn't hold back his tears. Now, half his hair was white, he smiled at everyone, and he hadn't cried since.

He Yuzhu closed his notebook and placed it on the table. The chimneys outside the window were still billowing smoke, white plumes rising into the air before slowly dissipating. Ten years. From twenty to thirty, from tanks to satellites, from fertilizer to semiconductors. Those things were moved from the iron cabinets in the archives to Daqing, Anshan Iron and Steel, the North China Pharmaceutical Factory, and the Shanghai Radio Factory. They became oil, steel, medicine, and circuits. They became rocket launchers in the snowy fields of northern Xinjiang, craters on the ice of Zhenbao Island, and explosive charges kicked up in Tiananmen Square.

The phone rang. He answered it, and it was Old Sun on the other end, his voice hoarse, as if his throat was stuffed with cotton.

"Old He, everything's settled at the research institute. The archives and data room are all cleaned up. The borrowing records are piled up in a cabinet; when are they going to be filed?"

He Yuzhu held the microphone. "Leave it for now. I'll check back in a few days."

Old Sun didn't ask any more questions and hung up.

He Yuzhu shoved the notebook into the drawer and locked it. He stood up, walked to the wall, and looked at the map that had been hanging there for ten years. Densely packed with red dots, it stretched from Beijing to Shanghai, from Shanghai to Guangzhou, from Guangzhou to Northeast China. Anshan Iron and Steel, Daqing, North China Pharmaceutical, Shanghai Radio Factory, Xi'an, Baotou. Each dot represented a factory, a project, a stack of blueprints, and a group of people who had stayed up all night.

He reached out and touched the location of Daqing on the map. Oil wells, pipelines, refinery towers. Zhao Deming, that dark-skinned, thin old man, his hands trembled while copying the data; later he called to say he'd been "spraying for three days and three nights." His voice trembled, sounding like he was both crying and laughing. I wonder how he is now.

He Yuzhu turned around and walked out of the office. All the lights in the corridor had been replaced; they were blindingly bright, making his eyes ache. He walked past the document room and stopped. The door was closed and securely locked. The key was in his pocket, heavy with weight. He felt around for it but didn't take it out, and continued walking.

He pushed open the gate, and a cool breeze blew in, carrying the scent of earth and grass. No more gunpowder smoke, no more gunpowder. He stood on the steps, looking at the gray houses beyond the courtyard wall. In the distance, chimneys billowed smoke, white plumes rising and being dispersed by the wind.

He took a deep breath and walked home.

He Nianhua was hunched over his desk doing his homework, the pen nib scratching on the paper. He was in junior high now, and almost as tall as Qin Huairu. When He Yuzhu came in, he looked up, called out "Dad," and then lowered his head to continue writing. Qin Huairu was busy at the stove, the spatula clanging against the iron pot.

"You're back?" She didn't turn around.

He Yuzhu sat down in the chair. "Hmm."

Qin Huairu brought the dishes to the table. Scrambled eggs, stewed cabbage, and a bowl of soup. Just like ten years ago. As she put down the plate, her hand paused, and the bottom of the bowl hit the table with a dull thud. She didn't say anything, and turned to pick up the other dishes.

He Yuzhu watched her retreating figure. She was slower than she had been ten years ago, her movements less agile. A small tuft of white hair peeked out from behind her ear, quite noticeable under the light.

"Mom, Dad's hair has turned white too." He Nianhua said without even looking up.

Qin Huairu brought over the soup and glanced at He Yuzhu's temples. "They've turned white long ago."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He picked up the bowl and took a sip of soup. It was too salty. He remained silent.

He Nianhua put down his pen and looked at He Yuzhu. "Dad, Grandma wrote a letter. The jujube tree in the yard has yielded a lot of jujubes again. She dried them and is saving them for us."

He Yuzhu picked up a piece of cabbage, put it in his mouth, and chewed for a long time. "After I'm done with this busy period."

He Nianhua didn't ask any more questions and lowered her head to continue writing. Qin Huairu sat beside her, not touching her chopsticks. He Yuzhu put 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 slept at the other end, no longer placing her little hand on his face. Moonlight streamed in through the window, bathing the room in a pale light. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. He remembered the notebook; the first page read 1964, the last page was blank. He hadn't written anything yet.

She turned over and closed her eyes.

The next morning, He Yuzhu went to the research institute. He went into the archives, took the stack of borrowing records out of the cabinet, and placed them on the table. It was a thick stack, the edges of the papers curled up, some were stained with oil, some had curled corners, and some had been rained on, so the writing was blurred, but the dates and signatures were still legible.

He flipped through the books one by one. Daqing Oilfield, Zhao Deming, March 1965, Tertiary Oil Recovery Technology. Anshan Iron and Steel, Wang Defa, July 1966, Tank Armor Formula. North China Pharmaceutical Factory, Sun Xiuying, September 1968, Penicillin Fermentation Process. Shanghai Radio Factory, Zhou Demao, November 1970, Integrated Circuit Production Line.

Those names, those dates, those technologies. Page after page, like an account book, or a family tree.

The door was pushed open. Ma Yuejin stood in the doorway, half of his hair white, his face deeply wrinkled, but his eyes still bright.

"Director, the reports from all the factories have arrived. They're ten-year summaries; please take a look."

He placed a stack of papers on the table. He Yuzhu took them and flipped through them page by page. Anshan Iron and Steel Group: steel production quadrupled, tank armor performance improved by 50%. Daqing: oil production tripled, tertiary oil recovery technology promoted nationwide. North China: penicillin production increased tenfold, exported to over thirty countries. Shanghai: integrated circuit production increased twentyfold, export earnings exceeded one hundred million US dollars. Xi'an: rocket engine thrust increased from 120 tons to 300 tons. Baotou: anti-tank missile penetration increased from 200 mm to 260 mm.

He Yuzhu put down the report and looked at Ma Yuejin. "This stuff is enough to write several books."

Ma Yuejin nodded. "Enough to write several books."

He Yuzhu stood up and walked to the window. The sky outside had cleared, and the sun was peeking out from behind the clouds, shining on the courtyard wall. He stood there for a while, then turned around.

"Ma Yuejin, let's go check out the factories. Ten years have passed, let's see how those things are doing."

Ma Yuejin was taken aback. "Now?"

He Yuzhu nodded. "Now. First we'll go to Daqing, then Anshan Iron and Steel, then North China, Shanghai, Xi'an, and Baotou. We'll see them one by one."

Ma Yuejin thought for a moment and nodded. "Okay. I'll arrange a car."

He turned to leave, then stopped. "Dean, things haven't been very peaceful in Daqing lately."

He Yuzhu looked at him. "What's wrong?"

Ma Yuejin shook his head. "It's hard to say. Zhao Deming has retired, and the new factory director isn't getting along. You'll find out the details when you get there."

He Yuzhu didn't ask any more questions. Ma Yuejin left. He Yuzhu walked back to the table and took the list out of the drawer. He turned to the last page, picked up a pen, and wrote a few lines: Spring 1974, ten-year summary completed. Tomorrow, going to Daqing for inspection. Zhao Deming retired; there are issues with the new factory director.

He finished writing, put the list back, and locked the drawer. He walked out of the office; the hallway lights were on, blindingly white. He passed the document room door and stopped. The door was closed and securely locked. The key was in his pocket, heavy. He didn't touch it, but continued walking and pushed open the door.

A cool breeze blew in from outside. He stood on the steps, looking at the hazy sky in the distance. He didn't know what had happened in Daqing. But Ma Yuejin had said it was "not peaceful," so he had to go and see.

I'm leaving tomorrow.