They were not just hungry—they suffered.
But if they cooked a pot of hot sauerkraut soup and soaked dry buns into it, the buns would absorb the broth.
One bite—just thinking of it made the old men drool.
Suddenly, Qi Jiali coughed loudly, and the old men stood at attention because Chen Mianmian was walking toward him.
They struggled to stand firm but looked resolute.
Strangely, Chen Mianmian ignored them, grabbed two militia men by the ears, and marched out.
She didn’t plead for Lin Yan or try to get close—why?
The old men looked at each other suspiciously, tiptoed closer to eavesdrop.
In the cornfield, Chen Mianmian scolded the two militia men, pointing at their noses: “Know why everyone else was transferred to other farms but you two dumbbells stayed? Because if Rightists died, the higher-ups would investigate and execute militia members.”
She made a gun gesture with her hand: “You two would get shot.”
One scratched his head: “Commander Xu said they were heinous criminals; no one cares if they die.”
Chen Mianmian grabbed his ear: “Your beloved Commander Xu is already in prison for mistreating Rightists.”
The two militia men were behind on news and scared: “What about us? Will we be okay?”
One said, “There are Red Guards too, they beat people for no reason. What do we do?”
Chen Mianmian said, “That’s none of your concern. I have my ways. If you dare whip people again…”
The two militia men declared, “We’re damn idiots.”
Chen Mianmian raised her foot: “The grass in the fields is that tall; why aren’t you weeding?”
The two men complained, “We’re militia. Weeding is Rightists’ work.”
Chen Mianmian kicked again: “Damn your father’s kidneys! Those are old men older than your dads. If you don’t help, they’ll work themselves to death. Aren’t you afraid your fathers will get revenge and you’ll get kicked out the door?”
In the waist-high cornfield, bitter lettuce, purslane, and foxtail grass grew thick and dense.
The militia men ran off like lightning, and the old men scattered like birds and beasts.
Chen Mianmian stood with hands on hips, taking a breath.
Not far off, Lin Yan sat on the same hoe handle, watching Zhao Lingcheng with worried eyes.
Zhao Lingcheng stared into space, looking like he’d been struck by lightning.
After a long pause, Lin Yan said, “Have Zhao Hui retire, then come help you with the child.”
He pointed toward Chen Mianmian’s direction: “She gave me food, and I’m grateful, but Lingcheng, we can’t let her educate the next generation. She’s like…like my ex-wife…”
Zhao Lingcheng interrupted, “Don’t compare that kind of woman to my wife.”
He hadn’t heard Chen Mianmian curse before because she dared not curse at the Base.
Lin Yan had been at the labor reform farm for years and knew well: that woman had mixed in with the male militia, and her language was dirtier and cruder than any of them—in four words: wild and vulgar!
No children were fine. They had divorced recently.
Lin Yan had once had a wife, a socialite from the old society, but she had an affair with his superior.
She even took two children, not knowing if they were his or his superior’s, and went to the other side.
Lin Yan was about to mention her, but Zhao Lingcheng understood and stopped him.
He was angry at the comparison between Chen Mianmian and a socialite.
Lin Yan continued, “You heard what she just said…”
Zhao Lingcheng still didn’t fully understand all Chen Mianmian had endured.
But having lived with her, he knew better: “If she wasn’t wild and coarse, her mother would have sold her or…worse.”
There were plenty of monsters like Xu Dagang in the militia; without being tough, Chen Mianmian would have been abused.
Every abandoned water cellar in the Northwest held a woman who wasn’t wild and fierce enough.
In Lin Yan’s shocked eyes, Zhao Lingcheng said again, “A little cursing is fine.”
He was raised abroad and had a higher education, yet thought his wife’s crude language was a good thing?
Lin Yan thought his nephew was a little abnormal.
As they spoke, a voice called out from afar: “Lingcheng, Lingcheng?”
Cutting the long story short, Zhao Lingcheng took out a notebook: “American firearms are your specialty, researching them isn’t illegal. Keep working during your breaks. If one day you’re exonerated, you’ll still have a chance to take on the Americans.”
He knew how to persuade people; Lin Yan shook as he took the notebook: “Okay!”
Elsewhere, Chen Mianmian was instructing the Ma brothers, “If anything happens, write to me or send a telegram. We must have conscience. Those old men can’t die because they’re all good friends of your Zhao brother’s grandfather.”
The Ma brothers immediately perked up: “Sister, why didn’t you say so earlier?”
Chen Mianmian added, “Work hard. After the baby’s born, I’ll treat you to mutton. Work well, and you’ll have mutton every meal.”
The Ma brothers joked, “Then won’t we be your brothers, Chen Jinhui?”
Although Chen Jinhui was born poor, he almost always had mutton growing up—a little master’s life.
That life was thanks to the hard work of Chen Mianmian and Chen Huan Di.
Lin Yan did not meet Chen Mianmian or say goodbye.
His identity already implicated Zhao Lingcheng enough; he didn’t want to drag anyone else into trouble.
The old men were left disappointed; Chen Mianmian didn’t even talk to them.
Yet after her scolding, the militia men actually picked up hoes and went to the fields to weed.
The old men looked at each other and then at Qi Jiali: “Qi, what’s going on?”
Qi Jiali’s nephew was Qi Political Commissar, who used to do united front work at the military industrial Base and was the group’s pillar here.
He stared out the window for a long time, then suddenly shouted, “Xiaxia!”
The old men looked outside— a small, fluffy, audacious little mouse dashed past.
Xiaxia meat was a true delicacy, more fragrant than mutton, but young people couldn’t catch them, much less the old men.
Qi Jiali looked at the brick-walled bun storage and said, ignoring Chen Mianmian, “Eat those buns slowly.”
He paused, then said, “If the Red Guards come again, you hide, I’ll take the hit. And don’t beat Lin Yan anymore. We are Eighth Route Army; our discipline forbids mistreating prisoners.”
It was laughable—facing death, they still talked about discipline.
On his wedding day, Zhao Lingcheng asked Chen Mianmian where she wanted to go on their honeymoon.
With the new marriage leave, he wanted to travel and see the world.
But Chen Mianmian touched his clothes and said, “My mother said if I can get a set of clothes for my brother too, she’ll be the most glorious and respected woman in the entire commune. Comrade Zhao, can you give my brother your clothes?”
Zhao Lingcheng couldn’t understand her thought process, so he sent her to school to learn about social order.
He never understood why she was so loyal to her mother, but today, he began to.
At 1 p.m., Chen Mianmian pointed and told him to return to her mother’s home.
The courtyard gate was locked, but she found the key in the wall crack and entered.
Inside, she went straight to the main room, took down the calligraphy, paintings, and postcards from the walls, and packed the radio.
She also took the Russian Nesting Doll and a bottle of Maotai, all placed on the Eight Immortals table, and stuffed them into a woven bag.
Zhao Lingcheng was bewildered: “Is this necessary?”
His father’s calligraphy was unique, so it was good to take it back.
But he didn’t want the radio.
He could buy a new one; used ones felt dirty.
But Chen Mianmian had already entered the west room, which was Xu Xiaomei’s, where she was rolling thick Baolian wool.
The wool was bought by Zhao Lingcheng and brought back for Xu Xiaomei.
It was pure wool, repeatedly hammered and pressed firm.
Since 1961, when repaying the Soviet Union, production had ceased.
It had to be taken away.
Chen Mianmian searched but couldn’t find a women’s Dajie coat, so gave up for now.
Zhao Lingcheng was worried because Wang Ximei was no easy woman.
He dared not say a word or ask anything.
Chen Mianmian swept through like an invader, and he hurried to load the things on the motorcycle.
They didn’t greet anyone and sped straight to the Red Flag Commune.
The commune’s brigade leader, also named Chen, was napping in the office.
Chen Mianmian quietly took a cup of hot water and removed her Model Worker award certificate from the wall.
Just as she reached the door, the sleeping Chen Secretary woke up.
Rubbing his eyes, he smiled, “Isn’t this the most outstanding girl from Red Flag Commune, Mianmian?”
Following her out, he said, “Other girls forget their families after marriage, but you’re different. You care for your mother’s family, bring them benefits. When your family looks good, we share the glory. But what have you been doing these past six months? Why haven’t you come back?”
Chen Mianmian only nodded, saw Zhao Lingcheng finish packing, then elbowed him to get on the bike: “Let’s go!”
She was tired and in a hurry, not wanting to argue with Chen Secretary.
If a woman was a ‘fu di mo’—someone devoted to helping her brothers—in this case, everyone except her husband would be happy.
Because the Model Worker award was given only once by the central government, in gold print.
For the sake of her mother’s family’s face in the commune, Chen Mianmian gave it to the brigade.
At that time, all the leaders lined up to congratulate her family.
Wang Ximei was proud, like an auntie.
Her divorce was kept secret from the brigade; she had to marry Section Chief Wei, or her mother’s family’s glory would be gone.
But of course, that was the secondary female lead—
Chen Mianmian was selfish and self-centered.
Chen Secretary’s smile faded when he saw her rolling up the certificate and turned to snatch it—but a strong hand grabbed him: “Secretary Chen!”
Zhao Lingcheng hadn’t taken off his helmet or gotten off the bike.
His voice was hoarse and firm: “With this Model Worker award, you and your commune have had enough. Now please return it to my wife, thank you.”
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