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

The office window faces the playground.

He Yuzhu sat in the chair he had used for half a year, watching the soldiers practice bayonet fighting under the sun. The shouts of battle came up from downstairs, muffled, as if through a thick veil. The electric fan on the table creaked and groaned, blowing out hot air that lifted the corners of the stack of papers in front of him.

He used an ashtray to weigh down the paper.

Around four o'clock in the afternoon, the sun began to slant westward, casting long shadows on the playground. He glanced at the calendar on the table—July 27th.

One year since the ceasefire.

There was no commemorative ceremony. Meetings were being held, documents were being issued, and people were leaving get off work. He was the only one sitting there, from afternoon until almost dusk.

Chen Dashan pushed open the door and came in, carrying two enamel mugs. He placed one on the corner of He Yuzhu's table, and then stood by the window looking down, carrying the other mug himself.

"They're still practicing," he said. "These kids, don't they feel the heat?"

He Yuzhu remained silent.

Chen Dashan glanced at him, then at the map spread out on the table—the battle map of the Battle of Jincheng, with a red line drawn from Yashenli to Erqingdong, a winding 12 kilometers. He didn't ask any questions, put down the jar, and turned to leave.

The door closed very quietly.

He Yuzhu picked up the mug and took a sip. The water was cold, but it still felt hot after drinking it.

He looked down at the map.

He had walked that red line. No, he had led his men across it. Seven hours, nineteen men, they infiltrated from behind enemy lines to the outskirts of Erqingdong. Along the way, they captured an artillery observation post and evaded three search parties. When they finally found the recruit in that abandoned mine, his leg was already mangled, but he was still alive.

Eleven of them returned alive.

He put down the jar and pressed his finger to the end of the red line on the map. Erqing Cave. White Tiger Regiment Headquarters. Of the soldiers who fell in the mine, he remembered some by name, and for others, only their faces; he couldn't recall their names.

He stared at the red line for a long time.

Time flies like an arrow.

Around 6 p.m., the sun had already set behind the building.

The playground was deserted, leaving only the earth, baked by the sun all day, still radiating heat. He Yuzhu put away the stack of documents, tidied them up, and prepared to lock them in the cabinet.

He paused for a moment when his hand touched the notebook in the drawer.

The system screen appeared at that moment. There was no notification sound, no flashing; it just appeared silently at the edge of his field of vision. He saw the line of numbers on it—[Current available points: 55,000,000].

Fifty-five million.

After deducting the 300,000 from Chapter 105 and the 500,000 from Chapter 108, we are left with exactly 55 million. We are still 45 million short of 100 million.

He had calculated before that during the three-year war, he earned an average of over 1.5 million per month. Now that there's no war, it would take 30 months—two and a half years—to save 45 million. And after two and a half years? 100 million will be reached, the "Rise of Yanhuang Plan" will be unlocked, and then what?

He turned off the screen.

He took the notebook out of the drawer, flipped to the last page, picked up a pen, and wrote a line: "Still 45 million short."

After finishing writing, he stared at the notebook for a few seconds, then closed it and put it back in the drawer.

It was completely dark.

The office lights were off, only the light from the streetlights outside shone in through the window, making everything inside appear blurry. He Yuzhu sat there, motionless.

He thought of the rain.

It's been over a year since I returned from North Korea, and I've only written home twice. One to let them know I'm safe, and the other to say I'm busy with work. Yushui replied, telling me to take care of myself, that Grandma is in good health, and that the jujube tree in the yard has yielded an unusually large number of jujubes this year; he's dried a jar of them for me.

He hasn't gone back to get that jar of dried dates yet.

He thought of Qin Huairu again.

The letter was still in his left breast pocket. He'd brought it back from North Korea, from Beijing to Shenyang, and then back to Beijing; he'd never opened it. In the letter, she wrote, "When I get back, we'll have a good talk." He'd been back for over a year, and they still hadn't talked.

It's not that I forgot.

I don't know where to begin.

What should we talk about? How did we get through those three years? The system? Points? The soldiers who died in the mines? Or why haven't they replied to our messages?

He took out the letter and looked at it in the darkness. He couldn't see it clearly, but he could feel the rough edges of the envelope and the hard, dried bloodstains.

He stuffed the letter back into his hand.

I pulled out some stationery from the drawer, unscrewed the pen, and wrote:

Rain Water: Work goes well, don't worry. It's hot, drink plenty of water, and take good care of Grandma. Brother.

After he finished writing, he held the paper and looked at it for a while.

He folded the letter, thought for a moment, and then decided not to put it in his notebook. Instead, he carefully tucked it into his left breast pocket, next to the unopened letter.

I didn't send it.

1954 October.

The order was delivered in the morning.

He Yuzhu opened the package and glanced at it. The heading read: Attending the Military Sub-item of an International Political Conference. Time: Late September. Location: Beijing Hotel. Attending Position: Military Technical Advisor.

He placed the order on the table and picked up the phone.

"Dashan, come here for a second."

When Chen Dashan came in, he was holding half a steamed bun in his hand. He took a bite and stood by the table watching him.

"What content?"

Chen Dashan swallowed the steamed bun and wiped his mouth: "The armistice agreement stipulated that a political conference would be held within three months to discuss issues such as the withdrawal of foreign troops from Korea—it's been dragged on for more than a year, and it's finally going to happen."

He Yuzhu looked at the order.

"Do you bring a translator?"

Chen Dashan nodded: "Yes, we will. I heard they bring them over there too."

He Yuzhu folded the order and put it in the drawer.

Chen Dashan stood there, not leaving.

"Director, are you good at English?"

He Yuzhu thought for a moment: "Probably not."

Chen Dashan chuckled: "Alright, I'll find you a good translator right away. Otherwise, you won't even be able to tell when someone's insulting you."

He turned and left.

He Yuzhu leaned back in his chair, looking out the window.

The September weather wasn't so hot anymore; a cool breeze seeped in through the cracks in the window. He thought of the map of Jincheng, the 12-kilometer red line, and those who had returned alive and those who hadn't.

Political meeting. Foreign troops withdraw from North Korea.

He took out the letter and squeezed it in his hand.

The discussion turned to withdrawing troops. Were those who died in Erqingdong considered to have never truly withdrawn?

He stuffed the letter back into his hand.

A leaf drifted past the window, swirling as it fell. He watched the leaf until it landed on the concrete ground beside the playground.

Then he stood up, walked to the window, and looked down.

The playground was empty except for that one leaf lying there.

He stood there for a long time.