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

When He Yuzhu first went to report to the Second Ministry of Machine Building, he almost went to the wrong door.

The gray brick building was tucked away in a hutong in the west of the city. There was no sign at the entrance, only a soldier on guard. He took out his identification and handed it to the soldier. The soldier took it, glanced at it, snapped to attention, and let him in.

Go up to the third floor, the second room on the left. There's a piece of white paper pasted on the door with the words "Technical Consultant's Office" written in pen.

He pushed open the door. The room was empty, with only a table, a chair, and a filing cabinet. On the table was a stack of materials, the top one titled "Introduction to Basic Nuclear Industry Knowledge (for Non-Technical Personnel)".

He sat in that chair all morning, flipping through the stack of documents from beginning to end.

I went to the cafeteria at noon. The cafeteria was in a row of bungalows behind the building, and you had to queue for food. The people in front of me glanced at him but didn't say anything or ask anything.

Someone knocked on the door in the afternoon. A young man wearing glasses came in, carrying a stack of books.

"Advisor He, I'm Wei Zhimin, the technical assistant assigned to you by the ministry. I graduated from Tsinghua University and just joined last year." He placed the books on the table. "These are Advanced Mathematics, General Physics, and Mechanical Drawing. Please take a look. Feel free to ask me anything you don't understand."

He Yuzhu looked at the stack of books; the thickest one was as thick as a brick.

"You are a teacher."

Wei Zhimin was stunned for a moment, then his face turned red.

"Advisor, please don't say that. I... I was just helping you familiarize yourself with the basics."

He Yuzhu nodded.

"Okay. Then I'll call you Teacher Wei."

Wei Zhimin's face turned even redder.

For the next three months, He Yuzhu worked from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. every day, even more regularly than when he was in the army.

He crammed on advanced mathematics in the morning, general physics in the afternoon, and mechanical drawing in the evening. The formulas and symbols were crammed together so densely that his mind would wander—he'd think of the snow at Changjin Lake, the scorched earth of Shangganling, and the rainy night in Jincheng. After his daze subsided, he'd return to his studies, line by line, and continue cramming.

Wei Zhimin came three times a week to answer his questions. At first, both of them were reserved; one spoke cautiously, and the other only half understood. As time went on and they became more familiar with each other, Wei Zhimin began to joke more freely.

One day after work, he closed his lecture notes and looked at He Yuzhu.

"Consultant He, what did you do before?"

He Yuzhu thought for a moment.

"Cook"

Wei Zhimin stood there, stunned, thinking he was joking. But looking at the expression on his face, it didn't seem like he was joking.

"Then... how did you get here?"

He Yuzhu did not answer.

He stood up and put the book "Advanced Mathematics" into the drawer.

"We'll continue with calculus tomorrow. You can go home now."

Wei Zhimin is gone.

He Yuzhu sat alone in his office, looking out at the gray sky. He wondered how he got here. He couldn't explain it himself. He only remembered what the system had said: "The inheritance of civilization requires people to stand in different positions."

March 1955.

One Saturday afternoon, He Yuzhu didn't work overtime. He sat in his office, locked the door, and brought up the system interface.

Available points: 60,000,000.

He flipped to the redemption list and looked at it page by page.

Industrial machine tool technical data, intermediate expansion pack, 200 million. Replacement.

Optimization plan for penicillin fermentation process, 120 million. (Change/Replacement needed.)

Basic Semiconductor Material Preparation Principles, 1955 Adapted Version, 180 million views. (Change/Replace)

Click once, then switch to another. Click once, then switch to another. After clicking three times, he glanced at the total consumption.

200 + 120 + 180 = 500 million.

[Redeem successful. Total points spent: 5,000,000.]

[Currently available points: 60,000,000 - 5,000,000 = 55,000,000 points.]

The system popped up another message:

[The total points consumed for the "Civilization Preservation" category activities: 8,300,000 + 5,000,000 = 13,300,000 points.]

[Distance to target condition two (20,000,000 points), remaining gap: 6,700,000 points.]

He closed the interface.

He retrieved the three thick stacks of documents from the system space, sealed in kraft paper with the words "Classified Technical Intelligence" printed on the cover. He picked them up and weighed them in his hand; they were quite heavy.

On Monday, when he went to work, he took the three stacks of documents to the intelligence office on the second floor.

The man from the intelligence agency was surnamed Sun, an old intelligence officer in his forties, wearing thick glasses. He took the three stacks of documents, flipped through them, and looked up.

"Where is the head of the household, this is...?"

"Classified technical intelligence. Distribute it to relevant research units," He Yuzhu said. "The source must be kept secret. The channels must be clean."

Comrade Sun glanced at him, asked no further questions, and wrote a few lines in the register.

"Okay. I'll take care of it."

He Yuzhu nodded, turned around and went upstairs.

As he reached the corner of the stairs, he glanced back. Comrade Sun had already gone into the inner room with the three stacks of documents, and the door was closed. He stood there for a moment, suddenly remembering how, years ago in the tunnels of Shangganling, when he handed the last portion of dry rations to a young soldier who was about to faint from hunger, the soldier had looked at him with the same eyes—no words, just a gaze. There were words in those eyes, but they were swallowed back.

He continued walking uphill.

January 24, 1955.

It's snowing heavily in Beijing.

He Yuzhu worked overtime until after 10 p.m. When he came out of the office building, the snow was already above his ankles. He stood at the door for a while without an umbrella. Snowflakes landed on his face, cool and refreshing, then melted and trickled down his cheeks.

The gatekeeper, wearing an overcoat, came out and glanced at him.

"Advisor He, why aren't you back yet?"

He Yuzhu nodded.

"Return."

He walked towards the bus stop through the snow. The streetlights illuminated the snow-covered ground, casting a long shadow as he moved forward step by step. Snowflakes landed on his shoulders, quickly melting, leaving a small damp patch on the shoulder of his old cotton-padded coat.

There was no one at the bus stop. He stood under the sign, waiting for the last bus.

After waiting for ten minutes, the bus arrived. He boarded and found a window seat. The carriage was almost empty, with only the driver and conductor talking at the front, but he couldn't hear what they were saying.

The car drove very slowly, the wheels crunching and squeaking through the snow.

He looked out the window at the streets, houses, and trees covered in snow, which seemed to fall backward one by one.

Beijing is great.

Snow falling in Beijing is different from snow falling on Changjin Lake.

The snow at Changjin Lake buried people. The snow in Beijing only covered the ground.

At the end of March, He Yuzhu received a letter.

The envelope was unsigned, only addressed to "To Mr. He Chu," the handwriting neat and neat, as if printed. He opened it, and inside was a newspaper clipping.

People's Daily, October 1951. Title: "Shangganling: They built a Great Wall with their blood and flesh."

Author: Qin Huairu.

He flipped the clipping over to look at the back. The back had other articles, GG, the weather forecast. He flipped it back to the original report. The newspaper was over three years old; the paper was yellowed, the edges were brittle, and it crumbled at the slightest touch.

The report was short, just over a thousand words. It described the defense of an unnamed hill during the Battle of Shangganling, how the soldiers endured more than ten days in the tunnels, how they drank their own urine when there was no water, and how they fought the enemy with bayonets and stones in the final moments.

After he finished reading it, he put the clipping back on the table.

There are fine, small pen marks in the blank corners.

"I'm writing my second book. The first chapter is your story. Would you be willing to tell me about the things that weren't written in the report?"

He Yuzhu stared at that line of text for a long time.

He stood up, walked to the cabinet, and opened the bottom drawer. Inside the drawer was an old wooden box containing his major general's uniform, neatly folded.

He folded the clippings neatly and gently placed them into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

That spot was right next to my heart.

He pushed the drawer back and stood there for a while.

Outside the window, the March sunlight streamed in, illuminating a corner of the tuxedo he rarely wore anymore. The light fell on the navy blue wool fabric, and on the medal he had never mentioned to anyone.

He suddenly remembered the question from earlier: the things that weren't written in the report.

Everything written in the report was necessary. But there are some things that shouldn't be written, yet shouldn't be forgotten.

For example, the note that the young soldier slipped to him before he died. For example, the handful of fried noodles he buried himself that rainy night. For example, in the snow at Changjin Lake, he sat holding a frozen comrade all night, without crying or saying a word.

Can I tell Qin Huairu about those things?

he does not know.