He Yuyang: The tough eldest brother of the courtyard house

The kerosene lamp in the tunnel flickered, casting He Yuyang's long shadow against the damp rock wall, like a wrinkled silhouette. He huddled in front of a makeshift desk made of ammunition boxes, breathed on his frozen pen tip, and wrote "January 23, 1951" on the edge of the letter.

This is the third letter since I entered North Korea. The first two were written hastily, containing nothing more than short phrases like "Be well and don't worry" and "Take care." They were all creased from the impact of artillery shells, and I wonder if the handwriting will still be clear when my family receives them. Today is a rare day of rest. The tunnel is filled with a strange smell of kerosene, sweat, and compressed biscuits, yet it is unusually quiet—most of the soldiers are dozing against the rock walls, with bits of beef from the American canned food they just received still hanging from their lips.

He Yuyang spread out the letter paper, the nib of his pen hovering over the paper, hesitant to write. He wanted to write about how thick the snow on Songgu Peak was, so thick it was above his knees, and stepping on it felt like stepping on shattered glass; he wanted to write about the American chocolates he had captured yesterday, so sweet they were cloying, reminding him of the fruit candies he ate during the Lunar New Year; he wanted to write about Xiao Chen calling for his mother in his sleep the night before last, crying like a child… But these words lingered on his tongue, then he swallowed them back.

Above the page were horizontal lines he had lightly drawn with a pencil—he had learned this from Xu Xiuli, who said, "Writing a letter should be like writing calligraphy; straight lines are what make it look good." At this moment, the blank spaces between the lines seemed to reflect her standing in front of the blackboard writing, sunlight streaming in through the window and falling on her hand holding the chalk, the chalk dust dancing like tiny snowflakes in the beam of light.

"Father, Mother, Raindrops, Rainwater: It is as if I am seeing you in person."

The letter began with the same sentence. He Yuyang wrote slowly, the pen tip scratching the rough paper, leaving deep marks. He dared not write about last week's ambush, where the Second Battalion suffered more than half its casualties, and they only managed to recapture the position by stepping on the shoulders of their comrades; he dared not write about the American incendiary bombs that burned the entire forest red-hot, and how he always dreamed of cries for help from the inferno at night; and he dared not write about the scar on his arm that had just healed, for fear that Liu Yan would see the bloodstains on the letter and burst into tears again.

"Everything is fine at the front. We've had a good haul lately, and we've been allocated some canned goods. They taste alright, but they're nowhere near as good as Wang's braised meat from the alleyway." He smiled, remembering how He Yuzhu always boasted that his braised pork hock was "so fragrant it could fill half the street." He'd have to ask him to send more braising spices next time he wrote back. "The soldiers are in high spirits. They learned new tactics yesterday, and they're sure to win more battles in the future."

He paused here, then took out the courtyard house painting that Yushui had drawn from his pocket. The edges of the painting were worn and frayed, and he had carefully glued them back together several times. Next to the little figure holding a spatula in the painting, he added a small stove with a red pen, and then drew a path under the little figure carrying a schoolbag, leading all the way to the courtyard gate—that was Yushui's way to school, which he used to lead him along; the moss on the stone path was very slippery.

"I've always carried the painting of rain with me. I also keep the amulet that was sent last time close to my body; I'm perfectly safe." He emphasized the word "safe" with extra emphasis, the tip of his pen almost piercing the paper. "I heard you got first place in your exam? Your older brother is keeping track of it. I'll buy you a new schoolbag when you get back, the kind with metal buckles."

Thinking of Yushui, his pen unconsciously softened. He could almost see the little girl carrying her faded schoolbag, skipping and hopping home, the red ribbon in her braid swinging high in the wind. He Yuzhu's letter said that Yushui was now learning calligraphy from Xu Xiuli, practicing in the yard every day after school until dark. If she didn't write well, she would cry, and after crying, she would continue writing.

"Yuzhu, don't overwork yourself at the martial arts school. It's okay if the apprentices are a little slow. When you were a kid, you always fell and got bruised and battered while learning to do horse stance, didn't you?" He remembered when He Yuzhu was seven years old, he was punished by his master to stand, and he fell asleep while standing, bumping his head on a wooden stake. A big bump swelled up on his forehead, but he stubbornly said, "It doesn't hurt." "Yan Jiecheng from Uncle Yan's family wants to join the army, which is a good thing. When he grows up for another two years, I'll reserve a place for him in the army."

Writing about "Uncle Yan" brings to mind Yan Bugui, who always clatters away on his abacus, yet secretly delivers coal to their house on winter nights; Liu Haizhong, who always puts on airs of a "leader," yet rushes to the rescue with a rolling pin when He Yuzhu is bullied by thugs; and the sweet fragrance that fills the alley when the locust blossoms bloom in the courtyard, with Yang calling Yushui to pick them, saying, "I'll save them for your older brother to make locust blossom cakes"... These trivial thoughts, like warm water, slowly wash over the cold memories.

"Teacher Xu... how have you been lately?" The words were written very lightly, almost blending into the paper. He Yuyang hesitated for a long time before adding, "I hope she can take good care of Yushui while she practices calligraphy. If she has time, I hope she can teach Yushui to paint a spring scene of Nanluoguxiang. I want to see if the pomegranate tree in the courtyard has sprouted yet."

He knew these words were inappropriate, but he couldn't help himself. The snow was still falling outside the tunnel, but he always felt that the spring described by Xu Xiuli could seep through the letter, carrying the fragrance of locust blossoms, the coolness of well water, and the clear sound of reading aloud from the school.

When the ink in his pen was almost gone, He Yuyang wrote at the end: "Don't worry, wait for good news. Respectfully yours, Yuyang." He carefully folded the letter into a square and stuffed it into an envelope—an envelope that Xiao Chen had made from American propaganda leaflets, with the Statue of Liberty printed on the back, which he had covered with ink.

"Deputy Brigade Commander, are you sending a letter? I'll have the communications soldier take it out." Xiao Chen rubbed his eyes and came closer, still clutching a half-eaten chocolate in his hand. "I just heard that this batch of letters can be shipped by air and will arrive in about two weeks."

"Okay." He Yuyang handed him the envelope, then remembered something and took out a smooth pebble she had picked up from her backpack. "Could you please put this in for me? It's for... for my little sister to play with."

He found the stone under the collapsed bridge arch; it was bluish-gray and looked exactly like the plum blossom petals embroidered on Xu Xiuli's amulet. He stroked the patterns on the stone, as if he could feel the warmth of her fingertips as she embroidered the plum blossoms.

Spring comes late to Nanluoguxiang. In March, when the grass at the base of the wall was just sprouting green shoots, Liu Yan moved a small stool and sat at the gate of the courtyard, clutching He Yuyang's letter in her hand. She would read it for a while, wipe away her tears, and then read it again.

The letter arrived yesterday, marked "urgent" in red by the post office staff. He Yuzhu eagerly opened it, and when he read "the canned food tastes alright," his eyes suddenly welled up with tears—he recognized the creases on the edge of the letter, marks left by artillery fire. His brother's words, "all is well," were probably just a facade.

"Mom, look, my brother said he wants some braising liquid! I'll go buy it right now!" He Yuzhu stuffed the letter into his pocket, turned around and was about to run out when Liu Yan stopped him.

"What's the rush? Let your dad see it; he knows a lot of characters." Liu Yan's voice was still a little hoarse. She smoothed out the letter and folded it again, the creases already turning white. He Daqing sat on the threshold, reading slowly in the sunlight. When he read "Rain Water gets first place," the corners of his mouth secretly curled up. When he read "Looking forward to spring," he sighed heavily.

"Well written, well written." He handed the letter back to Liu Yan, tapping his pipe against the sole of his shoe. "Knowing to report good news and not bad news, he's a real man." But no one saw him wipe his eye with his sleeve as he turned to go back into the house.

Instead of buying braising spices, He Yuzhu posted the letter on the wall of the martial arts school. The apprentices gathered around to look, and he stood beside them, spitting as he talked about how "your Uncle He is so impressive on the front lines," but when he got to the part about "seizing canned goods," his face suddenly darkened: "See that? That's what it means to defend your country! You all need to train hard so you can be like him in the future, and not let anyone bully you!"

The letters on the wall became the martial arts school's "treasure." The wind blew through the window, making the letters rustle, as if He Yuyang was speaking. When a student was slacking off, he would look up and see the words on the letter, and immediately straighten his back.

Xu Xiuli received the news at the school. He Yushui rushed into the classroom, holding a letter, the red string on her braid coming undone: "Teacher Xu! My brother wrote! He wants you to teach me how to draw spring!"

The children swarmed around, bombarding her with questions like, "Does your brother have a gun on the front lines?" and "What do American devils look like?" Xu Xiuli took the letter, and when her fingertips touched the deep scratches on the pages, her heart clenched—she recognized these scratches; they were from the pen tip pressing too hard or her hand trembling while writing.

"Rain, we won't study arithmetic today, how about we study drawing instead?" She tucked the children back into their seats and drew a large courtyard on the blackboard. "Let's draw our Nanluoguxiang, draw locust trees, draw pomegranate trees, draw the gates of each house..."

The chalk moved across the blackboard, but her voice was a little unsteady. He Yuyang's letter didn't mention her, but she had heard from Old Wang at the neighborhood office that the American planes were bombing very hard, and nine out of ten letters from the front lines wouldn't get through. She remembered the military salute he gave when he left, and the light in his eyes when he said, "Wait for me to come back." Suddenly, she feared that this letter might be the last.

After school, Xu Xiuli carefully put away Yushui's paintings and took out a notebook with a blue cloth cover. On the first page of the notebook, she copied the contents of He Yuyang's first two letters, with neat handwriting and a small five-pointed star drawn next to them. She turned to a new page and copied down "hoping that she would teach Yushui to paint the spring scenery of Zhang Nanluoguxiang". She paused on the word "she" and added a small plum blossom.

"Teacher Xu, will my brother come back?" Yu Shui asked, holding the painting and looking up, her eyes shining just like He Yu Yang's.

"Yes, he will." Xu Xiuli squatted down and tied the loose red string for her. "Your brother is doing something great. After he wins the battle, he will come back in the spring sunshine to see the pomegranate tree you drew."

Under the locust tree at the alley entrance, several old women were sewing shoe soles, muttering, "The children on the front lines are suffering." In the distance, the shouts of a martial arts school echoed, their rhythmic and powerful cries startling the sparrows in the branches. Xu Xiuli gazed northward, the wind lifting the corner of her notebook to reveal the phrase "Seeing this letter is like seeing the person," which, in the March sunlight, resembled a small sail, heading towards a distant shore.

In the tunnel, He Yuyang was startled awake by a series of urgent whistles. He touched the amulet in his pocket and glanced at the unfinished reply on the table—he had just written "Wang's braised meat stall at the alley entrance should be open for business" when he was interrupted by an emergency assembly.

"Deputy Brigade Commander, the Americans have counterattacked!" Xiao Chen rushed in, his face covered in mud. "They have three more tanks than last time!"

He Yuyang crumpled the letter into a ball and stuffed it into his pocket, then grabbed his gun and rushed out. Snow began to fall again, landing on the rifle and instantly turning into water droplets, like someone's tears. He glanced back into the depths of the tunnel; the kerosene lamp was still lit, illuminating the unfinished letter and the unspoken words on it—

"Wait for me to come back, and I'll show you the springtime in Nanluoguxiang."

The wind whistled through the trenches, carrying news from afar and the anxieties of countless families, flowing silently through the smoke, the snow, and between the lines of the letter. This unfinished letter was eventually buried under an ammunition box and was not discovered until many years later when the battlefield was being cleared. The pages had long since yellowed, but the words blurred by the blast were still legible.