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

The letter was brought back from the division headquarters by messenger Xiao Zhang. It was a thick stack, wrapped in waterproof tarpaulin and tightly bound with hemp rope. The distant sound of artillery fire could be faintly heard, muffled like the earth snoring. Xiao Zhang handed over the letter with a smile: "Regimental Commander, your letter! The division clerk specifically instructed that it had to go through several transfers from within the country before arriving."

He Yuzhu took the oilcloth bag, his fingers tracing its rough surface, but he didn't rush to open it. After leading the team in nighttime infiltration training for several consecutive nights, his eyelids were heavy and sore, but he was now a bit more awake.

Back in the dilapidated dispatch room that served as the regimental headquarters, he placed the oilcloth bundle on the wooden table with a missing corner and slowly cut the hemp rope with a knife. Inside lay three letters, of different sizes and types of paper.

The first envelope was the thickest, its edges worn and frayed from the tan leather. He Yuzhu tore open the seal, pulled out the letter, and unfolded it.

It was written by rainwater.

The handwriting was neat and the pressure applied evenly to each stroke, showing that the author had taken great care. The first sentence read: "Brother, the candy you sent back last time, I shared it with Xiao Hu and the others in the yard, it was so sweet."

He Yuzhu's lips curled up slightly.

In her letter, Yu Shui said that she started fifth grade this spring, and ranked third in the class in arithmetic and received a little red flower in Chinese. The roof of the east wing of the courtyard house leaked last autumn, and Director Wang from the neighborhood office brought people to repair it, saying that "the organization should take care of military families." The old jujube tree in the backyard bore a lot of jujubes this year, and the deaf old lady dried them into jujubes and left him a jar.

The letter was four pages long. The last line was slightly crooked: "Brother, when are you coming back? Grandma said the war is almost over, is that true?"

He Yuzhu carefully folded the letter, put it back in the envelope, and then shook out a black and white photograph. It was about two inches in size, with yellowed edges. The photograph showed Yushui and the deaf old woman standing in front of the courtyard house. Yushui had two braids, wore a faded floral-patterned jacket, and smiled at the camera, missing a front tooth. The deaf old woman stood behind her, her hand on Yushui's shoulder, her wrinkled face beaming with joy.

He turned the photo over, and on the back was a line of small characters written in pencil: "Spring 1953, in a courtyard house."

He Yuzhu stared at the words for a long time, his fingertips gently tracing the toothless smile in the photo. The cool photograph paper seemed to absorb a touch of warmth from afar. He carefully tucked the photo into his inner pocket, pressing it close to his chest.

Just then, a distant, yet closer, cannon blast rang out, sending dust fluttering down from the windowpanes. He Yuzhu instinctively looked up, his hand pressing on the holster at his waist, then realized it was just a stray bullet falling from behind. He sat back down, but the sound of the cannon blast only intensified his longing to return home.

The second letter was thinner, with a white envelope made of better quality paper. It was written by He Daqing. The handwriting was messy, and there wasn't much to say, just two pages. It mentioned the situation at the factory, said that Yushui was being obedient, and that everything was fine at home, telling him not to worry. The last paragraph read: "You're fighting outside, bringing honor to our family. But weapons have no eyes, so be careful in everything you do. Finish the war soon and come back soon."

After reading the letter, He Yuzhu put it aside.

The third letter was the thinnest, its light blue envelope emitting a faint smell of ink. He paused for a moment on the envelope before tearing it open.

It is Qin Huairu.

The letter was on a single sheet of paper, with neat handwriting and concise writing. She said she had returned to China and was working as an editor at the People's Daily, mainly responsible for the military reporting section. Recently, she had been organizing battlefield diaries and photos sent back from the front lines, planning to publish a collection, "so that people in the rear can know how this war was fought and who was fighting it."

He paused midway through his writing, the ink spreading out in a small dot on the paper: "Yuzhu, sometimes when I'm editing at night, I get distracted. I think back to those days in the field hospital, to when you said you wanted to rebuild the courtyard house, and I said I wanted to write a true story. Looking back now, we were too lenient with our words."

As He Yuzhu read this, his gaze lingered on the ink dot, as if he could see her deep in thought, pen in hand late at night. His Adam's apple bobbed, and he continued reading.

"The war may be coming to an end soon. I've started to think about where this country is headed after the war, and what we can do about it. You're good at leading troops into battle, but building a nation requires something different."

"I've met some people here—people in industry, research, and education. They're all thinking about how to help this newly independent country move forward more steadily and quickly. I think maybe we can do something too."

The last line was written exceptionally neatly: "When you come back, we'll have a good talk. Not about the past, but about the future."

He Yuzhu read the letter three times. He leaned back in his chair, looking up at the dark rafters of the roof. The searchlight occasionally swept across the window, casting pale spots of light on the table before quickly moving away, reminding him that this was still a battlefield.

Footsteps sounded outside. Chen Dashan pushed open the door, bringing in a blast of cold air. Seeing the letter in He Yuzhu's hand, he paused, "Oh, a letter from home?"

"Hmm." He Yuzhu sat up straight, put away the letter, and said, "Old Chen, sit down."

Chen Dashan dragged a chair over and sat down, pulling a pipe from his pocket: "Judging by your appearance, is everything alright at home?"

"Everything is fine," He Yuzhu said. "My daughter has grown up and can write letters now. The house has also been repaired."

"That's good." Chen Dashan lit a cigarette, took a puff, and said, "Those of us fighting away from home are most afraid of trouble at home. If things are peaceful at home, we feel at ease, and we have more energy to fight." He paused, "The Second Battalion just got back from an ambush exercise, and several of them caught a chill. This awful weather... My wife wrote to me last time saying that a cooperative has been established in the village, and she's become the women's team leader, busy as a bee. I asked her what she's busy with, and she said, 'National construction, everyone has a part to play.'"

He Yuzhu listened quietly. The sentence from Qin Huairu's letter—"Building a nation may require something different"—resurfaced in his mind. He put down the letter, his right hand unconsciously clenching and unclenching. His palm could feel the weight of a steel gun, and also simulate the sensation of holding tools and books. A strange, burning anticipation quietly began to grow.

"Old Chen," he suddenly spoke, "tell me, if this war is really over, what will we do when we get back?"

Chen Dashan choked on his smoke and coughed twice. "What can I do? I'll farm if I'm supposed to, or work in a factory if I'm supposed to. I've already made up my mind. I'll go back to my family and stay on those few acres of land. My wife, kids, and warm bed are better than anything else." He looked at He Yuzhu. "But you're different. You're young, educated, and a combat hero. The organization will definitely have something for you. Maybe they'll let you train new recruits, or send you to military academy."

He Yuzhu smiled but didn't reply.

After Chen Dashan left, he spread out the letter paper again to prepare a reply. He wrote to Yushui first, telling her to study hard, listen to her grandmother, and bring back something for her brother when he returned; he then wrote a few lines to He Daqing to let him know he was safe.

Finally, there was his reply to Qin Huairu. He held the pen, the nib hovering over the paper for a long time before finally putting it down.

"Comrade Huairu: Your letter has been received. I am very pleased to learn that you have returned to work in China. It is very meaningful that you can continue to record this war with your pen."

He paused, his pen leaving a slight mark on the paper, and continued writing: "I'm also thinking about the future. War is like the cruelest ruler, measuring the weight of life and the gap between nations. This gap exists not only on the battlefield, but also in factory chimneys, school textbooks, and the rice bowls of ordinary people."

The pen suddenly ran out of ink. He shook it vigorously, leaving a few ink stains on the letter paper, like tiny branding marks left by the flames of war on this thin sheet. He refilled the inkwell and continued writing: "Rebuilding the courtyard house is my wish, but perhaps we can do something bigger together. The people you've met, the questions they've been pondering, are the same questions I've been thinking about. How can we make our country strong, so that our descendants will never have to fight this kind of war again?"

"Wait for me to come back. We'll talk it over."

When signing his name, he hesitated for a moment, but still wrote down the three characters "He Yuzhu".

After finishing writing the letters, he carefully packed the three letters into boxes and called over the messenger, Xiao Zhang: "When you deliver the weekly training report to the division headquarters tomorrow, please also take these letters to the military mail."

Xiao Zhang took the letter, responded, and turned to leave.

"Wait a minute," He Yuzhu called out to him, pulling open a drawer. Inside were several bottles of vitamins and protein powder, already prepared, the labels torn off, leaving only bare glass bottles and tin cans. He had obtained these through a special "method," paying a considerable "price" for it. But considering that Yushui was growing, the old lady needed nutrition, and He Daqing was expending a lot of energy working at the factory, he felt it was worth it.

"Send this back too. Write my home address." He wrapped it in a cloth bag. "It's a Soviet product I asked someone to buy in Heihe, to help my family recover."

Xiao Zhang took the cloth bag and squeezed it: "Commander, you're always thinking about home..."

"Go ahead," He Yuzhu waved his hand.

Xiao Zhang left. He Yuzhu leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. For a fleeting moment, the familiar feeling of "paying the price" had flashed through his consciousness, but he didn't dwell on it. The money was spent, but he felt a little more at ease.

It was getting dark outside. He Yuzhu got up and walked to the window. On the abandoned shelves in the mine, an unknown bird was chirping, its calls short and drawn-out, one after another.

He took out the photo from his pocket, and in the last bit of daylight, looked at the toothless smiling face reflected in the rain. Then he carefully put it away, pressing it close to his heart.

The war is almost over. What happens after it's over?

Qin Huairu is right; it's time to think about the future. Not just about ourselves, but also about this country, and those who died on this land. What kind of future should they have given their lives for?

The birdsong outside the window had ceased sometime earlier, and the night was as thick as ink. But He Yuzhu knew that on this land, repeatedly ravaged by gunfire, dawn was struggling to gather strength below the horizon. And what their generation had to do was lay the first brick for that approaching morning.

He turned and blew out the oil lamp.

The dispatch room was plunged into complete darkness, with only a few scattered lights in the distance, like the earth's last sighs before it fell asleep. He Yuzhu stood quietly in the darkness for a while before groping his way to the cot in the inner room.

The night is long, but dawn will always break.