If there were no Red Guards and no hunger, the farm would actually be quite beautiful.
Of course, this was the Hexi Corridor.
It was the battlefield where Huo Qubing once rode his horse into the frontier, the granary during Emperor Wu of Han’s southern and northern campaigns.
Looking up, the Qilian Mountains were covered in white snow; looking down, the flat fertile fields stretched out with flourishing corn and sorghum.
Zhao Lingcheng had to catch tonight’s train back to the Base, time was short.
He crouched with Lin Yan among a patch of cornfields, sitting on a hoe handle.
He cleaned a handful of oats and handed it to him, saying, “I’m trying to reopen the investigation into your case.”
Lin Yan took the oats, popped them into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, and said, “This is military rations, really tasty.”
In wartime forced marches, there was no time to light fires and cook meals; oats were the main dry rations.
As a high-yield coarse grain, oats were rich in oil and very filling, leaving a fragrant aftertaste.
With some wild vegetables, that bag could last Lin Yan two months.
He chewed particularly carefully and slowly, savoring the sweetness, his voice unusually light: “Reopen what? I’ve accepted my fate. I only have one wish—to see your mother’s child. I’m even helping her think of a name. Besides, with things so tense now, if you get implicated, wouldn’t that be troublesome?”
Zhao Lingcheng said, “But the real spy is still out there, hidden. Once the Battle of Zhenbao Island begins, once war flares in the Northeast, he will reconnect with the other side. If America ignores the United Nations’ opposition, nuclear war is still possible.”
He added, “And you know that enemy spy is hidden in the Northwest, still inside the military industrial system.”
In these times, spies really did exist—those who passed military coordinates to the other side.
Lin Yan was labeled the spy ringleader because shortly after the Liberation, he was slated for transfer to the Northwest, to the arms manufacturing factory in Tingcheng.
But after the spy case broke, the Special Task Force found a code book in his dorm.
It was a major espionage crackdown, led by the veteran Lao Gong’an who had once helped Chen Mianmian.
His name was Lei Ming, an old revolutionary and an excellent investigator.
In the end, even Old Master Zhao nodded and agreed Lin Yan was a spy.
Many people implicated in that case had already died.
But Zhao Lingcheng knew Lin Yan was framed, and so probably were many others.
The real spy had of course framed them all, but he hid and went underground.
Now that the situation was too tense, he dared not show himself—but once war breaks out in the Northeast?
Lin Yan stopped chewing, muttering, “If that happens, your mother died for nothing.”
He had betrayed his own sister to stop a devastating war.
But if nuclear war still breaks out and this fertile land turns to scorched earth, wouldn’t his sister’s death have been in vain?
At this moment, Chen Mianmian was angrily berating two militia members: “Damn your fathers, you two idiots, sooner or later you’ll get shot.”
She kicked the large water jar, then poked one of them in the forehead: “Lazy cowards, cleaning the sauerkraut?”
Ma Jiye, bullying by position, also cursed: “Damn it! If those old men were your fathers, would you just watch them starve?”
He was actually wise in a simple way: “Revolution is revolution, but as people, we must have conscience.”
The labor reform farm had water cellars and large jars to store water.
Chen Mianmian was now escorting several militia members, scrubbing that large jar.
She still had her pregnant belly and paced around, looking at this room and that, not sure what she was up to.
A group of old men pressed their heads against the dorm window—seven or eight heads, staring eagerly.
One old man recognized Chen Mianmian after staring for a long time: “Isn’t that the famous Red Flag Commune’s Third Brigade’s wild girl who couldn’t get married? Her skin’s gotten whiter and prettier, but why would she want to save us?”
Locals never dared come near the labor reform farm for fear of trouble.
Chen Mianmian’s sudden arrival puzzled everyone.
Qi Jiali, who understood the inside story best, said, “Zhao Lingcheng married her just to get close to his spy uncle.”
Chen Mianmian was already 22 at marriage, considered an old maid at the time.
With her shaved head and a shotgun slung on her back, she was so fierce that no local young man dared provoke her.
When the commune leaders heard that a soldier actually tried to rape her, they laughed joyfully.
A new old man, unfamiliar with the situation, asked, “Lingcheng is the grandson of Zhao Jun, the old Zhao, how could he marry a country girl?”
Qi Jiali snorted coldly: “If not for Zhao Jun’s strong background, Lingcheng would have been sent down for reform too, humph!”
Because Zhao Jun had lost five sons, his status was rock solid and unshakeable.
But Zhao Lingcheng not only refused to distance himself from his enemy spy uncle, he took advantage of his wife’s family connections to visit often.
If not for his grandfather’s unassailable position, he would have been sent down as well.
Qi Jiali was very suspicious of Zhao Lingcheng’s loyalty.
These old men often bullied Lin Yan and stole his food, feeling justified.
One old man pointed to a tractor and asked, “That cart of buns, is it for us?”
Qi Jiali recovered his temper: “Everyone needs to be alert. Lingcheng seems to want to corrupt us. Who would believe that during a nationwide grain shortage, someone brought a whole cart of buns? If the buns didn’t go bad, that cart could feed them until June, by which time the wheat would be ripe.”
These old revolutionaries were all in their fifties, mostly sent down from the May Seventh Cadre Schools.
If they could withstand the test, they were to become future leaders.
But it was a matter of endurance.
They labored in reform and stayed vigilant, still fighting enemy spies.
Because this revolution started to capture spies and purge decadent elements and Rightists within the party.
Lin Yan was convicted and known as the big spy leader.
An old man, starving, asked Qi Jiali, “Can I steal a few buns?”
Qi Jiali sighed, “You can, but if she gives us buns, we have to refuse. Buns go bad over time, right?”
The old men sighed one after another, “Hungry, so hungry.”
As they spoke, with a bang, the door was thrown open and Chen Mianmian entered.
The large room with a big kang bed smelled of the warm earth and the sweat of people who hadn’t bathed in days.
Some old men still sat; others quickly lay down and closed their eyes, playing dead.
But they heard Chen Mianmian say, “Everyone who can move, get off the kang and carry bricks, hurry up.”
She had once been a female militia member here, and carried herself with that momentum; the old men all got off the kang.
Storing buns was more troublesome than grain because it required absolute dryness and protection from pests.
After surveying the rooms, Chen Mianmian chose this one to store the buns.
The old men slept here at night, so if rats came to steal buns, they could chase them away immediately.
Ma Jiye and two other militia men had already brought bricks in.
Chen Mianmian started laying the foundation, another militia man was clumsy and didn’t know what to do, but Ma Jiye was skilled at hard work; soon the base was built.
The old men moved bricks while sneaking buns into their pockets.
Ma Jiguang came back carrying something and saw their sneaky behavior, laughing out loud.
What he carried was a Majiang, a woven container made of wheat stalks.
Put it inside the brick basket, put all the buns inside, and it would keep out moisture and pests.
Chen Mianmian still ignored the old men, only reminding the Ma brothers, “When the sun’s out, open the doors and windows, or the buns will absorb moisture and get moldy. After taking buns, clean up to prevent rats and ants.”
Seeing a militia man dazed by the water jar, she shouted, “Go dig bitter lettuce! Don’t pick the old Artemisia Capillaris anymore.”
Another militia man came carrying a basket: “Sister, I brought back bitter lettuce.”
Chen Mianmian kicked him: “Damn your father, don’t you wash and pick when you make sauerkraut? Ma Jiye, go boil water!”
The old men hated the militia—they either liked to beat people or were stupid.
But strangely, despite the curses and kicks, Chen Mianmian got them to obey and move quickly.
Seeing her cooking a big pot of noodle soup, Qi Jiali drooled: “She’s going to pickle sauerkraut.”
Another old man said, “Bitter lettuce pickled is fragrant. Sour soup soaked into buns—I can’t stand it, I want to surrender.”
Yet another old man said, “What revolution? I’m starving. Just want buns.”
Qi Jiali sighed again, “She must be here to plead for Lin Yan. She’s good to us, maybe she wants to get intelligence from us too. When she questions you, shut your mouths tight. Don’t tell her anything, got it?”
Future generations can’t understand this revolution’s madness or these people’s stubbornness.
But if hunger is terrifying, war is even worse—the great bombing.
The ripening wheat and grain burning in flames, plunging people into a new round of hunger.
So when Old Jiang said to ally with America and counterattack, people would suspect and inform on each other.
They’d even turn against their own kin.
The bitter cold of the Northwest was only understood after arrival.
In the fields, bitter lettuce was abundant; without pickling, it was inedible—but they didn’t know how to pickle.
Militia members could go home to eat, but didn’t help them.
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