He Yuyang: The tough eldest brother of the courtyard house

The December wind was like a knife, howling as it lashed against the brick walls of Nanluoguxiang. The Spring Festival couplets at the He family's door hadn't been put up yet, and the rightful splash of red was made all the more jarring by a telegram stamped with a red seal.

"...Comrade He Yuyang went missing during the surprise attack. Despite extensive searches, he was not found and has been treated as a fallen soldier..." Old Wang from the neighborhood office read the telegram in a lower and lower voice. The last few words struck Liu Yanxin like frozen ice shards. She was still clutching the shoe sole she had just finished sewing. The needle and awl hadn't been pulled out yet, and they were deeply embedded in her palm. Blood dripped from between her fingers onto the cotton thread, forming a small red stain.

"Impossible..." Liu Yan murmured, then suddenly everything went black and she collapsed to the ground. He Yushui screamed in fright and rushed over to hug her mother, her braids coming undone, her cries echoing through the empty courtyard.

He Yuzhu was teaching his students "cross stance" at the martial arts school when he heard the commotion in the courtyard and rushed back. He saw Old Wang and the neighbors surrounding his mother, who was lying on the ground. He pushed through the crowd, reached for Liu Yan's breath, and felt her pulse. His trembling fingertips almost prevented him from suppressing the faint beating.

"Zhu Zi, your mother is suffering from a sudden heart attack..." Yan Bugui squatted down beside her, still holding the medicine he had just bought from the pharmacy. The words "Angelica" and "Astragalus" on the paper package were curled up by the wind. "Hurry up and carry it up to the kang. I'll ask your Aunt Yang to make some rice porridge."

That day, Nanluoguxiang seemed to have lost all its warmth. A large crowd had gathered in front of the He family's house, but no one dared to speak loudly. Only He Yushui's suppressed sobs, mingled with the howling north wind, sent chills down one's spine. Yi Zhonghai stood in the courtyard with his hands behind his back, his brows furrowed like an unyielding knot, muttering, "What a pity, such a good kid." Liu Haizhong whispered to Zhang Guifen beside him, his voice low but still reaching He Yuzhu's ears—"What did I tell you? No one survives on the battlefield. Now the He family is truly..."

He Yuzhu suddenly raised his head, his eyes like icy knives. Liu Haizhong wisely shut his mouth, pulled Zhang Guifen home, and their cotton shoes crunched on the snow, as if they were chewing something they shouldn't be chewing.

Liu Yan was sick for half a month. She lay on the kang (a heated brick bed), refusing to eat or drink, her eyes fixed on the roof beams. Occasionally, she would mutter, "Why hasn't Yu Yang come home yet?" Tears would stream down her face, staining the pillow with a dark sheen. He Daqing was so anxious that his mouth was covered in blisters. He went to the pharmacy every day to change the prescription. When he ran out of money for medicine, he pawned his beloved fur coat. He Yushui dropped out of school and stayed by the kang to wipe his mother's hands, comforting her like a little adult, "Mom, brother will come back. He said he'd wait for me to wear my red scarf."

The martial arts school suspended classes, and He Yuzhu locked himself in his room, staring blankly at his brother's letters and certificates of merit on the wall. He couldn't understand how his brother, who always said "come home alive," had become the cold, hard word "killed in action" on the telegram. He even began to regret not joining the army with his brother—if he had, at least he would have known what had happened.

"Zhu Zi, open the door." Yang's voice came from outside the door, with a hint of cautious probing.

He Yuzhu opened the door and saw Yang holding a rough porcelain bowl filled with steaming millet porridge, with two red dates floating on top. Behind her was Yan Jiefang, clutching a piece of candy, probably intending to give it to Yushui.

"Your mother hasn't eaten yet, has she?" Madam Yang handed over the bowl, her hands red with cold. "I cooked some millet porridge with some brown sugar; it'll help her eat. You should persuade her to eat something, otherwise her body won't be able to handle it."

This is the tenth day that Yang has brought porridge. Ever since Liu Yan fell ill, she has been getting up before dawn every day to cook porridge, sometimes millet porridge, sometimes corn porridge, always finding a way to make something warm. The Yan family is already struggling financially, and the millet was given to them by He Yuzhu last month, but Yang hasn't hesitated to spend it.

"Aunt Yan, thank you." He Yuzhu took the bowl, the steam from the porridge hitting his face and making his eyes sting.

"No need to thank me, we're all neighbors." Mrs. Yang patted his arm. "Yu Yang died fighting for the country, he's a hero, we should all respect him. Your mother has had a hard life, you have to hang in there, the family is counting on you."

He Yuzhu nodded and brought the porridge into the inner room. He sat on the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed) and fed Liu Yan spoonful by spoonful, just like his mother fed him when he was a child. Liu Yan kept his mouth closed at first, but then, probably smelling the aroma, he slowly opened his mouth. As he ate, tears fell again, splashing into the bowl and creating small ripples.

"Mother, only after eating the porridge will my brother feel at ease." He Yuzhu's voice was also hoarse. "If he knew you were like this, he wouldn't be at peace over there either."

Liu Yan then slowly began to swallow. Although she didn't eat much, she had at least eaten something. He Yuzhu breathed a sigh of relief and put the bowl on the table. He saw Yan Jiefang holding Yu Shui's hand outside the window, giving her a piece of candy. The two children were laughing in the snow, revealing their gap teeth.

Life had to go on. He Daqing asked someone to find him a job as a cook at the Hongxing Steel Rolling Mill. Although it was tiring, at least he could earn a wage. On the day he went to report for duty, he specially wore the new cloth shoes that He Yuzhu had bought for him. Before leaving, he said to Liu Yan, "Don't worry, Mom, I will definitely work hard and earn some food for the family."

Working in the steel rolling mill was tough, especially in the kitchen. He Daqing was skilled, but he couldn't withstand the sabotage from others. Yi Zhonghai was a senior fitter at the mill, a level six fitter. Initially, he confidently declared, "With me here, no one will dare to bully you." But then he turned around and told the kitchen manager, "He Daqing is a martyr's family member, he needs to be 'trained' more. Let him do more of the dirty and tiring work."

As a result, He Daqing had to chop firewood and fetch water before dawn every day (there was no running water at that time). After everyone else had gone home, he still had to clean the stove, and he was so tired that he could hardly straighten his back. Once, when he was chopping vegetables, he was not careful and cut his hand with the knife, and blood flowed all over the floor. The supervisor just told him to rinse it with water from the tap and didn't even give him a piece of gauze.

"Dad, why don't we quit?" He Yuzhu looked at the wound on his father's hand, his anger rising. "If we reopen our martial arts school, we can at least earn a living."

"Silly boy." He Daqing smiled, his hands wrapped in cloth. "What's a little hardship? I was much more tired than this when I was young. Getting a job in a factory is a respectable job, much better than running around like a vagrant. Besides, Master Yi didn't do it on purpose; he's just... straightforward."

He Yuzhu knew his father was afraid he would cause trouble. Yi Zhonghai had high prestige in the factory and was also a respected elder in the compound. If things really turned sour, it would be difficult for him to maintain his position in the compound in the future. He could only suppress his anger and massage his father's back every night, using extra force in his hands, as if he wanted to crush all those grievances in his palms.

The coldness and warmth of human relationships in the courtyard became increasingly apparent during these days. When Yi Zhonghai met the He family, he would always politely ask, "Is your mother feeling better?" but never mention anything about the factory. Liu Haizhong, on the other hand, would occasionally "remind" the neighbors in the courtyard that "the He family is now the family of a martyr and can receive a pension according to policy," his words always implying that he wanted to take advantage of them. He only stopped after being glared at a few times by Yan Bugui.

Xu Xiuli, on the other hand, came more frequently. She not only tutored Yu Shui, but also brought money and receipts collected by the school teachers, saying it was "for Aunt Liu to improve her health." Once, she overheard Yi Zhonghai telling someone, "He Yuzhu is young and impetuous; his martial arts school won't last long," and immediately retorted, "Brother Yuzhu is a hero's younger brother; he runs a martial arts school to teach people to do good, which is better than anyone else!"

When these words reached He Yuzhu's ears, he was cleaning his brother's gun. The smell of gun oil was familiar, reminding him of how his brother taught him to shoot when they were children. He suddenly realized that his brother was right; practicing martial arts wasn't just about fighting, but also about protecting—and now, it was his turn to protect this family.

On the first day of spring, Liu Yan was finally able to get out of bed. The first thing she did was to rummage through the red cloth bundle in the camphor wood chest, spreading out her brother's commendation for meritorious service and the anti-Japanese war receipts one by one, and drying them in the sun. The sunlight fell on her face, revealing new wrinkles and gray hairs, but her eyes were brighter than they had been a few days ago.

"These are all keepsakes, we have to keep them safe." Liu Yan repackaged the things and said to He Yuzhu, "Let's reopen the martial arts school, don't let your brother's hard work go to waste. He always said that you have a talent for martial arts and can become a great person."

He Yuzhu nodded and removed the door panels of the martial arts school that very day. Sunlight streamed into the empty school, illuminating the weapon racks and stone locks with a golden edge. Gou Sheng and Tie Niu arrived with several old apprentices, saying, "If Master doesn't open the school, we'll come and wait every day," which made He Yuzhu's eyes well up with tears again.

He picked up the gun again and practiced the first set of marksmanship his brother had taught him. The tassel on the gun fluttered in the wind like a dancing flame. Outside the courtyard came the laughter of children; it was Yu Shui and Yan Jiefang playing hopscotch, their voices as clear and crisp as tree branches sprouting in spring.

He Yuzhu suddenly felt that perhaps his brother hadn't gone far. He was right there in the sunlight, in the laughter, in the shadows of gunfire at the martial arts school, and in the hearts of everyone who cared about him. As long as they lived well, carrying his memory with them, he would live on forever.

In the evening, Mrs. Yang came to deliver porridge again, this time adding some freshly harvested mung beans. Seeing the martial arts school open, she happily said, "That's right, we have to look forward."

He Yuzhu escorted her to the door and saw Yan Bugui painting the door frame of the martial arts school, probably to prevent the wind and sun from damaging the wood. In the distance, Yi Zhonghai returned from the steel mill carrying his tool bag. Seeing this scene, he paused, but ultimately lowered his head and walked home.

The setting sun bathed the alley in an orange-red hue. The martial arts school doors were wide open, and the sounds of He Yuzhu instructing his disciples in horse stance echoed from within. Every move exuded an indomitable spirit. These sounds, mingled with the smoky aroma of neighbors cooking, slowly brewed in the early spring air, like a warm cup of wine—a toast to those who have passed away, and also to those who are still alive.