The commune’s fields were clean, but the reform farm’s were overrun with weeds.
The militia scratched their heads, “Commander, that’s not our business…”
Zhao Lingcheng had a bad feeling but couldn’t say why.
He gunned the motorcycle straight for the reform farm.
The militia jumped onto a tractor and followed quickly.
The farm dormitories were at the foot of the Qilian Mountains; behind them were cliffs, with snow on the peaks.
Next to them was a train track—a coal transport line, a slow train—the same one Lin Yan lay on.
Usually, guards were posted, but today no one was around inside or outside.
As soon as the motorcycle stopped, rustling came from a cornfield.
An old voice barked, “Damn it, come fight! If you want a fight, fight me! I’m not afraid!”
An old man with white hair came out wielding a stick.
To protect Chen Mianmian, Zhao Lingcheng lowered his head to meet the stick.
The old man rapped his steel helmet with the stick, cursing, “Damn it, come on, try to take my life!”
He pulled off his helmet, and Zhao Lingcheng recognized him, “Grandpa Qi?”
The old man stopped, squinted, and recognized the familiar short buzzcut and fair skin.
He dropped the stick, “Lingcheng? Is that you?”
He tried to say more but suddenly spat out a mouthful of biscuits.
This old man was a relative of Commissar Qi, named Qi Jiali, once a formidable member of the Sichuan Army.
Because of his landlord background and fighting the Red Guards, he had been sent here.
Zhao Lingcheng suspected he spat out Lin Yan’s biscuits because he always hated Lin Yan.
Qi Jiali grabbed Zhao Lingcheng’s hand and said, “You’re here to see your spy uncle? He’s fine. Ugh.”
He quickly explained, “I didn’t snatch his biscuits. I asked for them. You don’t know—I’m starving, starving! I’m forever sworn against him, but I didn’t snatch—really asked for them. Ugh…”
Lin Yan brought a pack of biscuits yesterday.
The old men didn’t snatch them, just demanded some, then ruined their own stomachs.
But something was off—
Qi Jiali was swollen, and as an old revolutionary, where was his ration?
Just then, the militia arrived, and Zhao Lingcheng asked, “Why is Grandpa Qi so hungry? Where’s their rations?”
Veterans understood the situation.
Qi Jiali waved them off, “Don’t blame those two.”
He searched his clothes and pulled out a small handful of grains.
“This is our grain for the month. Look, can we eat this?”
There was millet, grain, and sorghum, but mostly chaff, almost no kernels.
The militia noticed and stood at attention, “Commander, our grain is about the same.”
Qi Jiali opened his mouth again and spat, “Damn, my biscuits! The ones I begged from the spy. Why am I spitting again?”
More spitting noises came from the cornfield.
Several old men stood up, shocked, “What’s happening? Why are we spitting again?”
Qi Jiali clutched his stomach, yelling, “Pain, pain, pain!”
Chen Mianmian helped him, “Don’t move. Lie down quickly.”
Seeing more old men standing in the cornfield, she shouted, “Lie down now! Right here!”
She called over another militia, “Get the big stove going and boil water.”
This militia was local and knew Chen Mianmian.
He whispered, “Sister Mianmian, those old men overate after starving—they’re probably done for.”
Chen Mianmian said, “I have experience. I can save them. Hurry, boil the water!”
Xu Dagang wasn’t just targeting Lin Yan but a whole group of old revolutionaries with bad backgrounds.
He didn’t use complicated methods—he was starving them to death.
Since May, there was grain in the fields.
Those guarding the fields and picking wild rodents wouldn’t starve, but now there was nothing edible except blind rodents.
Half a month ago, when the government delivered grain, Xu Dagang gave the Red Flag Reform Farm mostly chaff.
With wild vegetables like Wild Vegetable Soup and Kuqu, they managed to survive half a month, but no grain remained for the second half.
During the lean season, the government had no grain to send, and even begging didn’t work.
Seeing Qi Jiali’s reaction, the Red Guards must have harassed them frequently—wasn’t that forcing people to die?
Zhao Lingcheng also made a mistake—he shouldn’t have given Lin Yan so many biscuits.
After starving for so long, sudden overeating would cause vomiting, stomach pains, and even death.
Other militia, fearing trouble, transferred away, leaving only two local simpletons.
They likely feared responsibility and didn’t supervise work but went out hunting blind rodents instead.
Hunger was terrible, but overeating and ruining the stomach was just as bad.
What to do?
Zhao Lingcheng searched around and finally found Lin Yan.
He was hoeing weeds in a vast cornfield under the blazing sun.
Unlike the old revolutionaries, who were hot-tempered, Lin Yan’s mindset was calm after long suffering.
As long as Zhao Lingcheng supplied oats, he could survive.
But what about the old revolutionaries?
Zhao Lingcheng felt everything was spiraling out of control.
He could precisely calculate U2 flight paths and distinguish subtle radar differences, but outside the military base, this land drove him crazy and helpless.
Just then, Chen Mianmian called from afar, “Lingcheng! Where are you? Lingcheng!”
Oh right, there was a pregnant woman too—hope nothing happened.
Zhao Lingcheng turned back, weaving through corn, sorghum, and wheat fields toward the farm entrance.
He saw a group of old men, each holding a bowl of wheat flour sweet soup.
It had been a long time since he’d drunk it, but the old men were blowing on their bowls, sipping slowly.
The militia said, “Wheat sweet soup—this is lifesaving soup.”
The old men, weak after vomiting, sipped the soup and thanked her, “Girl, thank you.”
Just one handful of wheat flour could make a large pot of soup.
It wouldn’t fill people up but soothed the stomach.
Back in the capital, Zhao’s army would always make wheat sweet soup for Zhao Lingcheng.
He loved bread and raw food, which upset his stomach, but a bowl of sweet soup would make him feel better.
However, they had just vomited; with an empty stomach, only drinking soup wouldn’t work.
Chen Mianmian had food to eat alongside the soup.
But there was a problem: she wanted to fetch food but didn’t want to bring those two dull militia with her.
What to do?
She was thinking when the tractor noise returned—trrr trrr trrr.
The militia looked at the old men, “This time it must be the Red Guards. You either pretend sick lying down or get to work.”
The Red Guards went around fighting landlords and smashing the Four Olds, targeting old folks like these.
Seven or eight old men had just taken a few sips of soup, recovering, when the Red Guards arrived.
Could they withstand the beating?
Chen Mianmian was already thinking about how to deal with them.
But from afar, she saw the tractor and brightened, “Jiguang! Jiye, over here!”
Ma Jiguang and Ma Jiye were hauling a full load of manure.
Jumping down, they grinned foolishly, “Brother!”
These two loved Zhao Lingcheng—they would never forget the feast of lamb he gave them.
But they didn’t dare get too close since Zhao Lingcheng’s clothes were so bright and his skin so fair.
No time to chat. Chen Mianmian told them to drive the farm’s tractor and follow her to get grain.
Zhao Lingcheng wrote off 500 yuan for the grain, which was said to be poor quality.
But given that even Yan General dared not approve grain for the farm, that grain might save the old revolutionaries’ lives.
His motorcycle led, with the Ma brothers driving the tractor, heading to fetch grain.
Zhao Lingcheng had only been to Red Flag Commune twice.
Once, when Chen Mianmian stole his clothes, and he chased her for five li in just his underwear.
That was the first time he saw a girl run so fast—she was like a Tibetan antelope—no, even faster.
He almost died chasing her.
The second time was for their wedding.
He remembered her house was just three small tiled rooms.
Was her grain hidden in that small house?
How did she hide so much?
Actually, no, it wasn’t her house.
Chen Mianmian led Zhao Lingcheng down to the mountain foot.
This whole area was basin soil—land that wouldn’t grow grain—but along the mountain there were roads and brick kilns.
Ma Jiguang stopped the tractor, “This is an abandoned brick kiln from the militia.”
Ma Jiye asked, “Mianmian, did you take over a special kiln as a warehouse?”
Chen Mianmian said nothing, went to a door that was locked, and was about to find a stone to break it.
Zhao Lingcheng took out his pistol and with a bang smashed the lock, entering.
The militia had fired bricks to build houses and after finishing, handed the kilns to the commune. Some people just used them to store stuff.
In the middle of the kiln was a small round brick storage.
Zhao Lingcheng was looking for grain, intuitively feeling it was inside.
He removed some bricks and saw woven straw baskets.
He dug into the baskets and found black, dry stuff he didn’t recognize.
Ma Jiye recognized it: “Jiao Mian Bie Bie.”
Zhao Lingcheng picked up another piece.
Ma Jiguang said, “Gaoliang Gu Duo.”
Gaoliang Gu Duo and Jiao Mian Bie Bie were local names for coarse grain steamed buns.
The Northwest had the advantage of dry climate; food dried but didn’t spoil.
It wasn’t good grain, and Zhao Lingcheng wasn’t sure if it was edible—it was coarse, dry, and hard—he couldn’t even break it.
How eat it?
He also wondered how Chen Mianmian got so many dried breads and when.
Ma Jiguang knew, “Mianmian, you got these by washing dishes and cleaning when you were at Red Specialized School, right?”
Ma Jiye knew too, “You served your female classmates, they gave you leftover bread. You helped cook in the canteen, they gave you leftovers. You stashed them here.”
Ma Jiguang even knew her deeper motive, “I heard from my sister that your mother sometimes let your eldest sister eat well, but never you. Because, she said, when you’re hungry you’re especially good at catching blind rodents.”
Chen Mianmian smiled, “Yes. But actually, even when I’m full, I can catch blind rodents.”
The Ma brothers sincerely admired her, “No wonder you’re like a living Lei Feng. You’re amazing.”
Being rural, they understood, “This bread looks plain but if famine comes, it could save your family’s lives.”
Extraordinary talents were always forced out by circumstances, like the female supporting character’s ability to catch blind rodents.
She helped classmates wash dishes for free because she saw them throw away leftover bread and thought it was a waste.
Fearing famine, she quietly collected the leftover breads each week, taking them home.
This place was a brick kiln—dead soil—that wouldn’t get wet, so ants and mice wouldn’t enter.
Hunger gave her strength but also a lifelong trauma.
She feared hunger so much she hoarded food by any means.
Chen Mianmian didn’t know where the supporting character had gone but hoped it was somewhere she could heal her inner demons.
Left unattended, the breads would be eaten by ants and mice.
She waved her hand, “Jiguang, Jiye, load them up.”
Though they smelled of manure, the brothers were truly kind.
Without prompting, they said, “Let’s give these breads to those rightist old men.”
Exchanging glances, they agreed, “Keep it from the Red Guards. Let’s give it secretly.”
Carrying the bread carefully as if it were treasure.
Zhao Lingcheng held a piece of bread and walked to his wife.
Suppressing his emotions, his voice choked, “Your mother deliberately starved you?”
Chen Mianmian didn’t have to answer; he knew the truth.
His great-grandmother only fed her son enough to be full and eventually sold off the daughter.
If Chen Mianmian hadn’t been good at catching blind rodents, Wang Ximei might have sold her off too.
Even staying with the family, she wouldn’t be fed well—only survival rations.
Wang Ximei was clever.
Whether domestic animals or wild beasts, hunger made them especially alert and skilled at hunting.
Zhao Lingcheng always suspected his wife had a primal beast’s nature.
He had thought lower-class women were naturally ignorant, uneducated, and wild.
Now he finally understood: Chen Mianmian had never been raised like a human being from birth.
But maybe because of Niuniu, the little life in her belly, she was changing.
Zhao Lingcheng followed closely behind, wanting answers.
But she couldn’t talk much—she still had to feed the old men.
Taking the bread, they hurried back to the farm.
The old revolutionaries, having finished the soup, lay weakly on the ground.
Half a pot of wheat sweet soup remained.
Soaking the dry breads in it softened them and made them tasty.
The Ma brothers were good workers, needing only Chen Mianmian’s instructions.
Sweet soup soaking bread was a heavenly Northwest delicacy.
The Ma brothers carried the soup into the dormitory and served the old men.
One old man trembled as he picked up a piece of bread, gulped it down, and shouted, “So fragrant!”
Lin Yan was the youngest prisoner in the reform farm, not yet fifty.
He did most of the farm work and kept to himself to avoid trouble.
Because the farm was far, he didn’t know what happened inside and didn’t care about biscuits.
Zhao Lingcheng told him yesterday he’d supply grain.
Though no notice was given, it was noon, and according to rules, he could leave work.
Seeing Zhao Lingcheng’s motorcycle from afar, he quickened his pace.
Zhao Lingcheng stood outside the farm, watching the cart full of black, dry breads.
Lin Yan noticed his expression was off and he didn’t greet him, so he called out, “Lingcheng?”
Looking at the black pile, he asked, “What’s in that cart? Black stuff? Rocks?”
Zhao Lingcheng said, “A miracle. She made it.”
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