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The Great Report — Volume 1

Li Bingyin ed.

The Great Report

China's Reform and Opening 40 Years

A Selection of Reportage Literature

Vol. I/V

Li Bingyin (Hg.):

The Great Report. China's Reform and Opening 40 Years. A Selection of Reportage Literature. Vol. I ; Bochum : Europ. Univ.-vlg. 2025

  ISBN 978-3-86515-230-5

ISBN: 978-3-869966-230-5, EAN: *9783865152305*

This is volume no. I. ISBN of all volumes: I: 978-3-86515-230-5, II: 978-3-86515-607-5, III: 978-3-86515-608-2, IV: 978-3-86515-609-9, V: 978-3-86515-610-5.

Chinese Original: 《大记录——中国改革开放四十年报告文学选》李炳银 主编

Copyright © 2018.10 安徽文艺出版社 Anhui Literature and Art Press

Translation: Martin Woesler 吴漠汀 (Hunan Normal Universität 湖南师范大学), Xiaoyu (Emily) Wang

English Edition Copyright © European University Press, published December 2025

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as expressly permitted by law, without the prior written permission of the Publisher.

Bibliographic Information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek: The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data is available online at http://dnb.d-nb.de.

Translation and book were realized with Chinese state support. The content of the book does not express the opinion of European University Press or the translators. The book is a contemporary historical document of Chinese propaganda. It is made available for scholarly reception.

This edition was published in 2025 by European University Press

Europäischer Universitätsverlag GmbH Berlin · Bochum · Dülmen · London · Paris 2025

Prologue

Li Bingyin

2018 marked forty years since China initiated its reform and opening-up policy in 1978, a program that combined domestic economic restructuring with greater international engagement. Throughout these four decades, China has pursued this path with consistency, transforming its social and economic landscape while redefining its place in the global order. Indeed, in his report to the 19th National Congress of the Communist Party of China on October 18, 2017, General Secretary Xi Jinping observed that “after long-term efforts, socialism with Chinese characteristics has entered a new era, marking a new historic stage in the country's development.”

In the vast river of history, this period of reform and opening may appear only as a brief moment, yet it has left deep and lasting traces across the nation. The imagery of “dragons soaring across the provinces and phoenixes dancing upon the land” captures the dynamism and vitality of these four transformative decades. Amid far-reaching transformations in every sphere of life and China's expanding role in the world, those living through this era have witnessed not only material progress but also a profound reconfiguration of social structures and collective aspirations, as the nation has moved from recovery to modernization and toward global influence.

Throughout China's reform era, reportage literature has played an active role: it has not only voiced a passionate call for reform and opening but also documented its unfolding and achievements with distinctive intensity. Among all literary forms, it is the one most closely integrated with, and most powerfully interactive with, China's historical course since 1978. In his speech at the Third Plenary Session of the 12th Central Committee of the Communist Party of China on October 12, 1983, Deng Xiaoping observed: “In recent years, there have been more literary works depicting the new life of socialist construction. However, works capable of inspiring the revolutionary spirit of the people and the youth—encouraging them to dedicate themselves courageously to building and striving in various fields of the motherland—remain relatively few. Among these, reportage literature contains comparatively more such works, though they are still not numerous overall.” (See Selected Works of Deng Xiaoping, Volume III, People's Publishing House, 1993 edition, “Urgent Tasks of the Party on the Organizational and Ideological Fronts.”)

Readers will also recall that when Xu Chi's reportage “Goldbach’s Conjecture” was published in the first issue of People's Literature in 1978, it attracted tremendous attention. Written during a restrictive era, the work combined a subtle yet unmistakable critique of the Cultural Revolution with an impassioned celebration of Chen Jingrun's courage, perseverance, and single-minded dedication to scientific research. Its reception was so overwhelming that it gave rise to what became known as the phenomenon of “Luoyang paper becoming expensive”—an idiom denoting a literary sensation that drives demand to extraordinary heights.

This was followed by Xu Chi's “The Tree of Life Grows Green,” Huang Zongying's “Wild Goose Affection,” and Li You's “Infatuation,” along with many other works of the same genre. Collectively, these pieces stood in sharp contrast to the earlier social currents that had devalued knowledge and disparaged science and art, helping to reorient public consciousness toward intellectual pursuit and cultural renewal. In doing so, reportage literature gave voice to the people's aspirations for change—it became a literary expression that anticipated the coming reform era. Like a spring breeze sweeping across the land, these works revitalized the public spirit and reawakened social awareness.

After Chinese society endured the catastrophe of the Cultural Revolution—when underground fires were about to erupt and the resentment long held in people's hearts demanded release—works such as Zhang Shengshu's “Song of Righteousness,” written in defense of the martyr Zhang Zhixin; Wang Chen and Zhang Tianlai's “Meteor Piercing the Night,” lamenting the brief and tragic life of Yu Luoke; Tao Siliang's sorrowful letter on her father Tao Zhu's wrongful fate in “A Letter Finally Sent”; Hu Ping's protest for Li Jiulian in “China's Eyes”; Li You's account of a Shanghai youth's heartbreak in “Falling in the Rosy Dawn”; and Meng Xiaoyun's mourning of young Qian Zongren's painful life in “Tears of the Populus Euphratica”—together with many other emotionally charged writings about past suffering—struck a powerful chord.

These works provoked significant resonance and powerfully supported the emerging currents of social reflection and ideological liberation. At a moment when Chinese society stood at a major turning point—moving forward and undergoing profound transformation—reportage literature played a crucial role in articulating public emotion, hope, and collective aspiration. It met the expectations placed upon it and lived up to the weight of its historical responsibility. Even today, when readers recall the influence and impact of reportage literature during that period, they remain deeply moved.

History inevitably advances through both setbacks and progression, yet it unfolds according to its own internal logic. As reflection and reform deepened, tremendous changes began to take shape in the countryside. Wan Li's initiatives as Party Secretary in Anhui opened new paths for China's development. Works such as Wang Lixin's “Years After Mao Zedong,” Li Yanguo's “The Great Trend of Chinese Farmers,” Qiao Mai's “Anecdotes of Sanmen Li,” and Wang Zhaojun's “The Wilderness Calls,” among many others, faithfully chronicled new developments in rural life and the fervor of reform. China's vast countryside burst with renewed vitality, its spontaneous energy giving rise to scenes of remarkable dynamism. Yet these new social conditions brought not only revitalization but also fresh challenges.

In response, a wave of reportage works emerged: Liu Binyan's “Between Man and Monster,” Zhang Min's “A Record of Sacred Sorrows,” Zhao Yu's “Dreams of a Strong Nation,” Hu Ping and Zhang Shengyou's “World Grand Connection,” Xu Gang's “Wake Up, Lumberjacks!,” Lu Yuegang's “Yangtze Three Gorges: China's Epic,” Yang Xiaosheng's “Only One Child,” Guo Dong's “Difficult Homecoming,” and many others that engaged in observing, questioning, and exploring contemporary society. These works, which left readers both reassured and uneasy in the face of rapid change, demonstrated reportage literature's role in closely accompanying the forward movement of China's reform era. They also marked reportage's active engagement in examining the nation's social development and transformation.

When heartfelt enthusiasm was joined with a sober reckoning with reality, reportage literature's engagement with society entered a new stage—one that evolved in tandem with the nation's ongoing transformation. Through these truthful depictions rooted in Chinese life, the contours of social change became increasingly distinct, and the texture of society grew richer and more complex than ever before.

After the shackles on thought were broken and the country's closed doors opened, China's national agenda gradually shifted from restoring order to prioritizing economic modernization. Reportage literature proved to be the genre most attuned, most self-aware, and most intimately connected with this new orientation—and it performed most vividly and convincingly on this stage. Such achievements have continued to the present day.

Earlier works such as Ke Yan's “The Captain,” Chen Zufen's “Theory Fanatic,” Zhou Jiajun's “Reflections on the Bu Xinsheng Phenomenon,” Li Shifei's “Hot-Blooded Men,” Wang Hongjia's “Wisdom Storm,” Jia Hongtu's “Thaw,” Yang Shousong's “The Kunshan Road,” and Wang Hongjia and Liu Jian's “The Revolution of Rest”—together with later pieces like Li Chunlei's “Kapok Blossoms,” Chen Xitian's “Spring Arrives on the Eastern Wind,” Zhang Yawen's “The Concern Between 40,000 and 4 Million,” Zhu Xiaojun and Li Ying's “Let the People Be Masters,” and Jiang Yonghong's “When Good Dreams Come True”—all focused on the social transformations and economic dynamism of the new era. These works offered readers powerful inspiration at the time and left enduring, profound impressions upon society.

These works addressed national policy adjustments, portrayed the wisdom and bravery of figures during this era, explored ways to overcome restrictive obstacles, sought paths to connect internal reform with external development, and praised all forces that contributed to China's progress toward prosperity and strength. They shone as beams of light piercing reality, and through reportage literature's unique narrative power, they made the drums of reform echo ever louder. The very existence of reportage literature came to stand as an unmistakable symbol of China's reform era.

Accompanying the great strides China took since 1978, reportage literature demonstrated its value by recording remarkable achievements, becoming a precious chronicle of national transformation. Reportage writers served as witnesses and spokespersons for many major historical events, and their works became an integral part of forty years of China's social history.

Further examples include Chang Jiang's “Hong Kong’s Return to the Motherland: A 10-Year Retrospective”; He Jianming's “Nation,” a passionate account of China's large-scale evacuation of citizens from Libya and other war-torn regions in 2011; Jiang Wei's “A Career Accompanied by Tears,” a moving depiction of China's high-speed rail development from its beginnings to global leadership; Xu Chen's “The Dragon Explores the Sea,” on the achievements of deep-sea submersible research and testing; Lan Ningyuan's “The ‘Shenzhou’ Highway to Heaven,” recording the people's dream and practice of spaceflight; Chen Qiwen's “Yuan Longping's World,” an affectionate portrayal of the scientist's creation of hybrid rice and other high-yield varieties; and Li Qingsong's “Wings of Wisdom,” a concise account of the development and achievements of unmanned aircraft. Together with many others, these works stand as historical chronicles of the extraordinary accomplishments China has achieved.

The works collected in this volume capture the remarkable transformations China experienced during the reform era, preserving them as part of the nation's collective memory and its contribution to global progress.

In 1982, the poet and literary theorist Zhang Guangnian—then Vice Chairman of the Chinese Writers Association—remarked that reportage literature had “grown from dependency to become a great power,” emerging as an independent and influential genre within modern Chinese writing. Over the past four decades, it has evolved in step with the times, riding the winds of change while simultaneously upholding its national perspective and cultural ideals. Through its deep observation, critical reflection, and artistic rendering of society and everyday life, reportage literature has developed a distinctive aesthetic and a profound level of social responsibility.

As a genre that unites journalism's commitment to truth with the imaginative depth of fiction, reportage literature opened new ground, creating a distinct space of intersection between factual narrative and artistic expression. In today's media-saturated world—where readers continue to seek authentic representations of social reality—reportage retains a unique and enduring power. “Truth is art's greatest source of raw material”: it provides both the foundation and the possibility of meaningful creation. Conversely, those who, clinging to conservative literary hierarchies, maintain that only fiction can achieve artistic merit, expose a narrow understanding of art and its capacities. Works that reflect China's historical transformation since the late 1970s serve as both observation and record, capturing the realities of social development and becoming an integral part of the nation's modern history. The constructive role that reportage literature has played in this process has been widely acknowledged. Looking back on the past four decades, the genre can take justifiable pride in its contributions, grounded in a strong sense of social responsibility and artistic purpose. Although it still faces limitations and room for further growth, in commemorating these decades of profound change, reportage literature may rightfully affirm its enduring relevance and worth to this transformative era!

February 18, 2018, Beijing

Table of Contents

Volume I

Preface, Li Bingyin 1

Goldbach’s Conjecture, Xu Chi 9

The Captain, Ke Yan 36

Infatuation, Li You 60

Chinese Girls, Lu Guang 119

Anecdotes of Sanmen Li, Qiao Mai 181

Tears of the Populus Euphratica, Meng Xiaoyun 195

The Wilderness Calls, Wang Zhaojun 212

Hot-Blooded Men, Li Shifei 233

Volume II

The Great Trend of Chinese Farmers, Li Yanguo 3

Theory Fanatic, Chen Zufen 57

A Record of Sacred Sorrows, Zhang Min 84

Dreams of a Strong Nation, Zhao Yu 124

Wake Up, Lumberjacks!, Xu Gang 179

Reflections on the Bu Xinsheng Phenomenon, Zhou Jiajun 227

Volume III

The Kunshan Path, Yang Shousong 3

Flying to the Space Port, Li Mingsheng 52

Spring Arrives on the Eastern Wind, Chen Xitian 123

When Good Dreams Come True, Jiang Yonghong 171

Wisdom Storm, Wang Hongjia 3

Volume IV

The Concern Between 40,000 and 4 Million, Zhang Yawen 3

Hong Kong’s Return to the Motherland: A 10-Year Retrospective, Chang Jiang 58

Kapok Blossoms, Li Chunlei 85

The Revolution of Rest, Wang Hongjia and Liu Jian 111

A Career Accompanied by Tears, Jiang Wei 162

Difficult Homecoming, Guo Dong 187

Volume V

Nation, He Jianming 3

The Dragon Explores the Sea, Xu Chen 86

Yuan Longping’s World, Chen Qiwen 135

The “Shenzhou” Highway to Heaven, Lan Ningyuan 211

Wings of Wisdom, Li Qingsong 254

Appendix: Outstanding Reportage Literature from Forty Years of Reform and Opening-Up 272

Goldbach's Conjecture

Xu Chi

“Those who study technology with revolutionary dedication are clearly both red and expert, yet they are criticized for following the so-called ‘white expert’ path.”

— New Year’s editorial “Bright China,” Two Papers and One Journal, 1978

[Here, “red and expert” (you hong you zhuan) was a Mao-era slogan meaning both politically loyal and technically skilled; “white expert” (bai zhuan) was a derogatory label for those seen as valuing technical expertise while neglecting political commitment.]

I

Let P₁(1, 2) be the number of primes p satisfying the following conditions:

x - p = p₁ or x - p =p₂p₃

where p₁, p₂, p₃ are all primes. [This passage may be challenging to understand; if necessary, you may omit these lines on a first reading.]

Let x be a sufficiently large even number where the following can be defined:

For any given even number h and sufficiently large X, let φ(1,2) represent the number of primes p satisfying the following conditions:

p ≤ x, p + h = p₁ or h + p = P₂P₃, where P₁, P₂, P₃ are all primes.

The purpose of this paper is to prove and improve all the results mentioned by the author in reference [10], now detailed as follows.

II

The passage quoted above is drawn from a paper in analytic number theory. It appears in Section (1), “Introduction,” where the central problem is outlined. The paper then proceeds to Section (2), “Several Lemmas,” which develops the necessary formulas and intermediate results, and concludes with Section (3), “Results,” where the main theorem is proved. The work is exceptionally challenging to understand; even accomplished mathematicians outside this specialization may find it difficult to follow. Nevertheless, it soon gained international recognition and became widely celebrated. The theorem it established has since become known worldwide as Chen's theorem, named after its author, Chen Jingrun, currently a researcher at the Institute of Mathematics, Chinese Academy of Sciences.

Chen Jingrun was born in Fujian in 1933. From the outset, his family circumstances offered none of life’s rose-colored radiance. His father, a postal clerk constantly on the move, refused to join the Kuomintang, a decision some colleagues mocked as a failure to adapt to the times. His mother, a gentle woman worn down by labor, gave birth to twelve children, of whom only six survived. Chen Jingrun was the third-born, with an elder brother and sister. In such a crowded household, children could not be cherished sons and daughters. Rather, they became burdens, surplus mouths and surplus lives. From the day he entered the world, Chen seemed fated to be unwelcome in it.

Chen Jingrun’s childhood held little joy. His mother worked from dawn to dusk, with no time left to show her children affection. By the time he was old enough to understand the world, war had erupted. Japanese forces had invaded Fujian Province, and he lived in a constant state of fear. His father was then serving as the director of a small postal branch in Sanming City, Sanyuan County, housed in an old temple deep in the mountains. The area had once been a revolutionary base, but by then the surrounding forests had grown desolate. Kuomintang bandits had massacred all the local men. None survived, not even the elderly. Only women remained, struggling to endure.

Cloth was prohibitively expensive, and even grown girls often went bare-chested. After Fuzhou fell to enemy forces, waves of refugees fled into the mountains. Because aircraft rarely bombed the region, life there gradually regained a fragile calm, until a concentration camp was relocated nearby. At night, the crack of whips echoed through the darkness, punctuated by sporadic gunfire from executions. By morning, prisoners were marched out in shackles to perform forced labor, their figures gaunt and broken.

Given his upbringing during a troubled time in history, Chen Jingrun's young heart suffered profound trauma. He was often overwhelmed by panic and confusion. There was no joy at home, and at elementary school, he was constantly bullied. He felt like an ugly duckling, yet somewhere within, he believed he possessed worth. It was only that his thin and frail body, his pitiful appearance, failed to win affection. He grew accustomed to being beaten, never pleading for mercy—only to be struck all the harder for his silence. Over time, he became increasingly resilient, his endurance quietly hardening into strength. Yet at the same time, Chen was overly sensitive, acutely aware of the cruel, predatory nature of the old society. This shaped him into an introverted person with a withdrawn nature. He devoted himself entirely to mathematics—not from compulsion, but from a deep and abiding passion. Much of his life was spent immersed in the pursuit of problems.

When Chen Jingrun entered junior high school, Jiangsu College relocated from a distant occupied area to the nearby mountains, and some of its professors began teaching part-time at the local school to support themselves as refugees. These teachers were highly educated. The Chinese language teacher was regarded as the most accomplished, and everyone admired him. Chen, however, had little interest in Chinese. He preferred his two mathematics and science teachers, who also took a liking to him and often spoke of “saving the country through science.”

Although Chen did not believe that science alone could save the nation, he was convinced that it would be impossible to save the country without it—and especially without mathematics, which he considered indispensable to all matters. The discrimination he endured, the blows and kicks from peers, only deepened his devotion to mathematics. Algebraic equations, dry and tedious to the average eye, became a source of solace for Chen—his only joy.

At the age of thirteen, his mother died of tuberculosis. From then on, he missed his dear mother in dreams, even after his father remarried. His stepmother treated him even more coldly than his birth mother had.

After the victory in the War of Resistance against Japanese Aggression, the family returned to Fuzhou. Chen Jingrun enrolled at Sanyi Middle School, and after graduating, attended Yinghua Academy for high school. By chance, one of his mathematics teachers there had previously served as the director of the Department of Aeronautics at Tsinghua University.

III

The teacher was highly knowledgeable and tireless in his instruction. In class, he introduced students to many fascinating mathematical ideas. Even those who had little interest in the subject found themselves drawn in by his teaching, let alone those who already loved mathematics.

Mathematics is generally divided into two main branches: pure mathematics and applied mathematics. Pure mathematics focuses on numerical relationships and spatial forms, and within the study of numerical relationships, an important field that examines the properties of integers is called number theory. The 17th-century French mathematician Fermat is considered the founder of Western number theory, yet long before that, ancient China had already made significant contributions. The Zhoubi Suanjing, for instance, is the oldest surviving classical mathematical text, and the Sunzi Suanjing introduced a remainder theorem that later spread to the West and became known as Sun Zi's Theorem. Up until the Ming dynasty, China made substantial contributions to mathematics: in the 5th century, Zu Chongzhi calculated the value of pi more than a thousand years before the German mathematician Ludolph van Ceulen. In recognition, Soviet scientists later named a valley on the moon “Zu Chongzhi.” The second half of the 13th century marked the peak of ancient Chinese mathematics, when Qin Jiushao of the Southern Song dynasty wrote Mathematical Treatise in Nine Sections, describing methods for solving systems of linear equations—five hundred years before Euler. Around the same time, Zhu Shijie of the Yuan dynasty composed Jade Mirror of the Four Unknowns, which presented techniques for solving higher-order multivariable equations—four centuries before Bézout. After the Ming and Qing dynasties, however, China gradually fell behind. Yet the Chinese people have long demonstrated a natural aptitude for mathematics, and the nation retains its fertile ground for the cultivation of great mathematicians.

One day, this teacher decided to tell his high school students about a famous unsolved problem in number theory. He explained that when Peter the Great was building St. Petersburg, he brought together many leading European scientists, among them the Swiss mathematician Euler, who authored more than eight hundred works, and a German secondary school teacher named Goldbach, who was also a mathematician. In 1742, Goldbach observed that every large even number could be written as the sum of two prime numbers. He tested many even numbers and found the statement always to be true, but it still required proof. Since he could not prove it himself, he wrote to the renowned mathematician Euler to ask for assistance. Yet even Euler, until his death, could not solve it. Since then, this question has become one of the great challenges in the field of mathematics, drawing the efforts of thousands of mathematicians. For more than two hundred years, countless attempts have been made to prove the conjecture, but none has succeeded.

The classroom erupted with excitement. The students, like flowers newly in bloom, came alive, chatting and debating with enthusiasm. The teacher went on, “Mathematics is the queen of the natural sciences. Number theory forms her crown, and Goldbach’s conjecture is the pearl set within it.”

All the students stared wide-eyed in amazement.

The teacher said, “You all know even and odd numbers, and you all know prime and composite numbers. We learned those back in third grade, didn't we? Easy, right? No—this problem is the hardest of all. If anyone could solve it, it would be incredible!”

The students immediately burst into chatter. 

“What's so incredible about that?” one shouted. “We'll solve it! We can solve it!” they boasted, laughing and jostling each other.

The teacher chuckled. “Really? Why, just last night I dreamed that one of you miraculously proved Goldbach's conjecture!”

The classroom burst into laughter.

But Chen Jingrun didn't laugh. He, too, was shaken by the teacher's words, yet he couldn't bring himself to join in. If he did, the others would mock him with contempt. Since entering high school, he had become increasingly withdrawn. His classmates found him strange, unkempt, sickly-looking; thus, they ignored him. Some mocked him outright and shut him out. He became a solitary figure who was both isolated and introspective, a lone wolf without a pack.

The next day, class resumed. Several eager students excitedly handed the teacher sheets of paper. They claimed they had already solved it, that they could prove Goldbach's conjecture, and in several different ways at that. “It's not that hard! We’ve worked it out!” they insisted.

“I don’t believe you!” the teacher said, with a grin. “Just forget it!”

“But we calculated everything—we have the answer!”

“Come on, why waste your energy? You can give it up,” the teacher replied in amusement, still smiling. “I won't even look at those papers. Do you think it's that easy? You might as well try to ride a bicycle to the moon!”

The classroom roared boisterously again.

Those students who hadn't handed in papers jeered at the few who had, stamping their feet and laughing until their sides hurt. Only Chen Jingrun didn't laugh. He knitted his brows tightly, excluded from all this joy.

The following year, the teacher returned to Tsinghua. His name was Shen Yuan, vice president of the Beijing Aeronautical Institute and chairman of the National Aeronautical Society. He had likely long forgotten those two mathematics classes, never realizing how deeply he was etched in the memory of his student, Chen Jingrun. Teachers, having taught many pupils, forget easily, but students often remember the teachers who shaped their youth.

IV

Fuzhou was liberated! At the time, Chen Jingrun was in his third year of high school. Unable to afford tuition, he stayed home and studied on his own during the first half of 1950. Although he never formally graduated, he was admitted to Xiamen University on the strength of equivalent academic credentials. That year, the university had only a Department of Mathematics and Physics. By his second year, a small mathematics group was formed with just four students, and by his third year, the group had grown into a full Mathematics Department—though it still consisted of the same four. Not only because of their outstanding academic performance but also because the country urgently needed trained specialists, the four graduated early and were immediately assigned jobs, receiving preferential treatment that others envied.

In the autumn of 1953, Chen Jingrun was sent to Beijing to teach mathematics at No. X Middle School. It should have been a moment of great fulfillment, but it was not so.

At Xiamen University, his days had been good ones. In his group and department, there were only four students, but also four professors and an assistant instructor to guide them. He absorbed knowledge hungrily, as though gathering nectar from a hundred blossoms to distill the honey of mathematics, fragrant and rich. His learning was remarkably fruitful. He roamed freely through the abstract realm, where everyone spoke the shared language of dx and dy, where heart spoke to heart and soul to soul.

For three years, no one discriminated against him; no one scolded or struck him. Though he kept little contact with others, he lived golden years—wholly immersed in the ocean of mathematics. He had never imagined graduation would come so soon. At the thought of standing at a teacher's podium, facing dozens of sharp and curious—sometimes mischievous—eyes, he could not help but tremble with fear.

His conjecture was immediately proven correct. He was completely unsuited to teaching. While he was thin and weak, his students were all tall and robust. He was unskilled at speaking; even after only a few sentences, his throat would hurt. How he envied those sage and eloquent teachers. After class, returning to his room, he called himself an idiot, cursing himself more harshly than others ever did. He had never learned to care for himself and paid little attention to nutrition. Anxiety and strain took their toll, manifesting in illness. His fever climbed to 38 degrees Celsius. When he was sent to the hospital, several doctors diagnosed him with both pulmonary and peritoneal tuberculosis.

That year, he was hospitalized six times and underwent three surgeries. Consequently, he couldn't teach well under these circumstances. Yet he didn't abandon his specialty. The Chinese Academy of Sciences had recently published Hua Luogeng's famous work, Additive Theory of Prime Numbers. As soon as it appeared on bookstore shelves, Chen Jingrun bought it. He dove right in. This was a profound work, proving difficult to master. Nevertheless, he studied it intensively. Even when hospitalized, he studied it secretly, avoiding the critical eyes of doctors and nurses, who advised him to focus on recovery. He thought then that, given his poor health, the school had little reason to welcome him.

He thought he might lose his job. What could he do about it? Fortunately, he lived frugally—so frugally that he didn't even buy a toothbrush. He never spent a penny carelessly and had saved nearly all his income. He steeled himself: if he were dismissed, he would simply return home and continue his mathematical research. Those few saved coins were his guarantee—his lifeline—for pursuing mathematics, which for him was life itself.

As for what would happen when the savings ran out, he didn't know. That too was a hard problem—one without an answer. And later events confirmed it: his illness did not improve, and the middle school could no longer keep him.

Around that time, the president of Xiamen University traveled to Beijing for a meeting at the Ministry of Education. During the visit, a leader from the middle school where Chen Jingrun taught voiced strong dissatisfaction, complaining bitterly: “This is the quality of an outstanding student from your institution?”

Wang Yanan—the president of Xiamen University and translator of Marx's Capital—was taken aback. He had always regarded Chen Jingrun as one of the university's finest students and firmly rejected the criticism. To him, the problem lay not with Chen but with the inappropriate assignment of his work. He promptly decided to bring Chen Jingrun back to Xiamen University.

When Chen Jingrun learned that he could return to the Mathematics Department at Xiamen University, his illness, curiously enough, began to improve. Wang Yanan, however, arranged for him to work at the university library—not to manage books, but to give him the freedom to devote himself entirely to mathematical research. True to his reputation as a critic of political economy, Wang Yanan understood not only the theory of value but also the value of human potential.

Chen did not disappoint the president. He studied diligently, mastering Hua Luogeng's Additive Theory of Prime Numbers as well as the formidable Introduction to Number Theory.

Yet this kind of story was not without precedent.

The senior mathematician and educator Xiong Qinglai—known as the pioneer who introduced modern mathematics to China—had once taught at Tsinghua University in Beijing. In the early 1930s, a young man who had completed only junior high school and could no longer afford to continue his studies began teaching himself mathematics. He sent a paper on the solutions of algebraic equations to Xiong Qinglai, who immediately recognized the author's extraordinary talent.

Xiong invited the young man—Hua Luogeng—to join Tsinghua, arranging for him to work as a clerk in the Mathematics Department while allowing him to study independently and attend lectures. Later, Xiong sent Hua to the University of Cambridge in England. After completing his studies and returning to China, Xiong—then president of Yunnan University in Kunming—recommended Hua as a professor at the Southwest Associated University. Hua would later go abroad again, teaching at Princeton University and the University of Illinois. After the founding of the People's Republic of China, he returned home without hesitation and assumed leadership of the Institute of Mathematics at the Chinese Academy of Sciences.

At Xiamen University Library, Chen Jingrun soon began writing specialized papers on number theory and sending them to the Institute of Mathematics at the Chinese Academy of Sciences. After reading them, Hua Luogeng immediately noticed Chen Jingrun's exceptional talent and recommended that he be appointed as a research intern at the institute. Just as Xiong Qinglai had once recognized Hua Luogeng's promise, Hua now discerned the same bright potential in Chen Jingrun.

At the end of 1956, Chen Jingrun once again journeyed from the southern coast to the capital, Beijing.

In the summer of 1957, the great mathematician Xiong Qinglai also returned to the capital from abroad. At that time, the young and the old gathered together—masters and rising stars alike assembled in one place. Among the renowned mathematicians were Xiong Qinglai, Hua Luogeng, Zhang Zongsui, Min Sihe, and Wu Wenjun, along with many other brilliant figures. A new generation of talents was also emerging—Lu Qikeng, Wan Zhexian, Wang Yuan, Yue Minyi, Wu Fang, and others—shining like the first light of dawn. And there were promising newcomers as well, such as Lu Ruling, Yang Le, and Zhang Guanghou, who had just entered Peking University to pursue their studies.

In fields such as analytic number theory, algebraic number theory, function theory, functional analysis, and geometric topology, talent flourished in abundance—and now Chen Jingrun had joined their ranks. Every scholar shone with the brilliance of jade, each mind a polished gem. Winds gathered and clouds rose—the atmosphere was charged with vitality and purpose.

The conditions were ripe. Hua Luogeng made his plan: to strengthen applied mathematics, but also to advance toward that pearl in the crown—Goldbach's conjecture.

V

To understand Goldbach's conjecture, one needs only to recall the mathematics learned as early as third grade. The numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, 5—ones, tens, hundreds, thousands, ten-thousands—are called positive integers. Numbers that can be divided evenly by 2 are called even numbers; those that cannot are called odd numbers. Another type of number—2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, and so on—can be divided only by 1 and itself; these are called prime numbers. Numbers that can also be divided by other integers besides 1 and themselves—such as 4, 6, 8, 9, 10, and 12—are called composite numbers. If an integer can be divided by a prime number, that prime is called a prime factor of the integer. For example, 6 has two prime factors, 2 and 3, while 30 has three: 2, 3, and 5. For now, this much is enough.

In 1742, Goldbach wrote to Euler and proposed that every even number not less than 6 could be expressed as the sum of two primes. For instance, 6 = 3 + 3, and 24 = 11 + 13, and so on. Mathematicians have verified this for even numbers up to 330 million, all of which satisfy the conjecture. But what about numbers far greater still? By conjecture, the statement should hold for them as well. Yet conjectures demand proof. This one, in particular, has proven extraordinarily difficult.

Throughout the eighteenth century, no one could prove it.

Nor could anyone in the nineteenth century.

It was not until the 1920s, in the twentieth century, that real progress began. For a long time, mathematicians sought to show that every large even number could be written as the sum of two numbers with “not too many prime factors.” The idea was to create an ever-tighter encirclement—narrowing the range step by step—until one could finally prove Goldbach's claim: that every even number is the sum of two primes (1 + 1).

In 1920, the Norwegian mathematician Brun, using an ancient technique known as the sieve method (a classical tool in number theory), proved that every sufficiently large even number can be expressed as the sum of two numbers, each having no more than nine prime factors. In other words, any large even number could be written as the sum of two numbers that were each the product of at most nine primes (9 + 9). This was an important milestone achieved through the sieve method. Still, the encirclement was far too wide and needed further tightening, and gradually, it was.

In 1924, the mathematician Rademacher proved (7+7); in 1932, Estermann proved (6+6); in 1938, Buchstab proved (5+5); and in 1940, he also proved (4+4). In 1956, Vinogradov established (3+3), and in 1958, the Chinese mathematician Wang Yuan proved (2+3). Step by step, the encirclement grew tighter, moving ever closer to (1+1). Yet all of these results shared a weakness: in none of them could either number be confirmed as prime.

As early as 1948, the Hungarian mathematician Rényi proposed another line of attack. He opened a new front, attempting to prove that every large even number can be written as the sum of one prime and another number with no more than six prime factors. He succeeded in proving (1+6).

But after that, there was no progress for the next ten years.

In 1962, the Chinese mathematician Pan Chengdong, a lecturer at Shandong University, proved (1+5), moving the problem forward by one step; later that same year, Wang Yuan and Pan together established (1+4). In 1965, Buchstab, Vinogradov, and Bombieri all proved (1+3).

Then, in May 1966, a brilliant signal flare lit up the mathematical sky—Chen Jingrun announced in Issue 17 of the Chinese Academy of Sciences journal Science Bulletin that he had proved (1+2).

Since joining the Institute of Mathematics, the buds of Chen Jingrun's talent had begun to blossom in full. On problems such as lattice points in circles, lattice points in spheres, Waring's problem, and the three-dimensional divisor problem, he advanced and refined the work of both Chinese and foreign mathematicians. These achievements alone constituted a highly significant contribution.

Once he had built a solid foundation, he turned to Goldbach's conjecture with astonishing perseverance. He forgot to eat or sleep, working day and night, lost in thought, probing deep mysteries, performing endless calculations. So completely absorbed in mathematics, he often seemed dazed. Once, he even walked into a tree and asked who had bumped into him.

He poured all his intelligence and reason into this problem and paid dearly for it. His eyes grew sunken, his cheeks flushed with tuberculosis, his throat ravaged by laryngitis that left him coughing incessantly. Swelling and pain in his abdomen became unbearable. Even when half-conscious, his mind still circled around numbers and symbols.

Step by step, he climbed the rugged paths of mathematics, each ascent laborious. On the high plateau of abstraction, he scaled sheer cliffs, falling and climbing again. Misunderstandings clouded his vision, and ignorant mockery rang in his ears. Yet he paid no attention, wasting no breath on argument and enduring humiliation in silence. Eating frost and drinking snow, every step forward exacted a heavy price.

He gasped for breath, sweat pouring like rain, often feeling he could go no further—yet still he climbed, with his hands, with his fingernails. The struggle was grueling. Time and again, he climbed only to fall, until even iron shoes would have been worn through. People mocked his tattered footwear, so full of holes, they joked, they must at least keep him safe from athlete's foot.

He could no longer count how many times he had slipped, how many times he had nearly been crushed. Yet he never gave up. Each failure became a lesson; each setback was forged into the nylon ropes and iron ladders of his ascent. Failure became the mother of success; success itself was born from failure.

He crossed snow lines, reached icy peaks and modern glaciers, struggling ever more against the thin air. Again and again, avalanches buried his progress, ice blocked the mountain, yet he pressed on like a mountaineer conquering Everest—climbing, climbing, climbing.

Malicious slander and ridicule struck like storm winds and dark clouds, but warm encouragement cleared the skies, and the sun of goodwill gave him strength. Toward his goal, he persevered unyieldingly. He climbed past the first steep step only to face an even more forbidding precipice ahead. He thought only of climbing above thousand-foot abysses, through breathtaking vistas.

Sheets of calculation paper piled up like drifting snow—formulas, symbols, and proofs covering the floor three feet deep, rising like mountains at his knees, blooming into ten thousand snow lotuses.

At last, he reached the path to the summit: the step of (1 + 2).

He proved this proposition, writing a lengthy paper over two hundred pages thick.

Professor Min Sihe carefully read the original manuscript of Chen Jingrun's paper, checking and rechecking, verifying again and again. At last, he confirmed that Chen Jingrun's proof was correct and reliable. He told Chen that the previous year others had proved (1+3) using powerful electronic computers, but Chen had proven (1+2) relying solely on his own calculations. No wonder the paper was so long. Accordingly, he suggested that it be simplified.

The “reference [10]” cited at the end of the first section of this account refers to Chen Jingrun's brief announcement in Science Bulletin, which presented only the result, without the complete proof. At that time, he was still revising the full manuscript. But just then, Chen Jingrun was suddenly swept into the vast, tumultuous waves of political revolution. The surging tide struck at all ideologies of the exploiting class. The unprecedented Cultural Revolution, like a series of spiritual atomic and hydrogen bomb tests, detonated again and again across the land of China.

VI

The “Cultural Revolution” launched by the proletarian class was also a great political revolution; it was unprecedented in scope and passion. Never before in human history had there been such a vast mass movement. A full quarter of humanity, regardless of gender or age, was mobilized. This magnificent upheaval swept together workers, peasants, soldiers, the laboring masses, and intellectuals—saints and devils alike. Accusing and being accused, exposing and being exposed, criticizing and being criticized: China entered a state of “civil war.”

Everywhere there was organized fervor, directed combat, and orderly chaos. The proletarian revolution was relentless in its self-criticism—victory followed by reversal, reversal followed by new victory. It took seemingly completed tasks and redid them again and again, each time striving for greater perfection. It sought out its own weaknesses, shortcomings, and errors without mercy.

As Marx suggested, revolution drives the enemy back until there is no ground left to yield. Then, like the fabled leap on Rhodes, it acts in the present with decisive force, crushing its foe and rejoicing in the rose garden.

Scenes flashed by like wind and lightning, shaking the earth. Drama after drama unfolded—filled with joy, anger, sorrow, and ecstasy; partings and reunions that stirred hearts and souls. Character after character took the stage: some broke their halberds and fell in the sand, meeting the fate they deserved; the “four great families” vanished like a dream of the Red Chamber; some bloomed like epiphyllums, withering as swiftly as they appeared. Yet there were also pines and cypresses, evergreen even in death, whose spirits stood higher than Mount Tai, their noble essence enduring.

Some were heroes, forged in struggle and spirit like the twin swords of Ganjiang and Moye, tempered by a thousand blows, silent as a bell when struck, yet sharp enough to cut iron as if it were clay.

Page after page of history was written, and in time, the great rights and wrongs received their due judgment. Affirmation—negation—negation of the negation. Makeup fades; it must peel away. The falsely accused, in the end, will be vindicated. Seeds once planted will bear fruit: what is sown will one day be reaped.

Then came the reckoning. Astronomy and geography had to be tested; physics and chemistry had to be tested; biology had to be tested—and mathematics, too, had to be tested.

Chen Jingrun endured the harshest trials of the proletarian Cultural Revolution. Veteran mathematicians were struck down; even the middle-aged and young mathematicians could not escape. The once-solemn Academy of Sciences fell into chaos, its bustling laboratories turned cold and silent. Days and nights alike were filled with endless debate and fierce struggle. Words gave way to blows; fists replaced tongues.

The Cultural Revolution was like a great sieve—everything had to be shaken through it. The Academy, too, was subjected to this sieve: what was meant to be sifted out would be removed; what was not could never be forced through.

In earlier years, some had argued that scientific workers should be allowed to settle down to their work with peace of mind—immersing themselves in scholarship and devoting themselves wholly to their profession. But during the Cultural Revolution, this view was condemned as a bourgeois line of scientific research: “focus, immerse, absorb.” Chen Jingrun was singled out as a typical example. Indeed, he spent his days wholly absorbed in study. He cared little for politics, though he had taken part in every political movement. To him, the simple truth that the Communist Party was good and the Kuomintang bad was self-evident. A mathematician's logic is hard as steel, and his convictions were firm. He had committed no political errors. In understanding and belief, Chen Jingrun remained unsullied, pure as a crane. A crane's white feathers cannot be stained; though its crown is bright red, its eyes, too, are red, perhaps from long nights without sleep. Chen had gone to factories to labor and had also applied mathematics to practical production, even while pursuing number theory, the most abstract of theoretical sciences. Yet if he himself paid little attention to politics, politics inevitably turned its attention to him and subjected him to harsh criticism. Light criticism would not move him; only by shaking him, it was believed, could he be made to “care about the political line.” In this logic, criticism must not fear excess, for to straighten what is bent, one must first overcorrect. But could a single act of criticism turn a loyal scholar into an enemy of the people?

Well-intentioned misunderstandings can be clarified, and ignorant mockery can be forgiven. But to pass judgment on a mathematician, one should at least have some understanding of mathematics itself; otherwise, one merely spreads confusion without realizing it.

Chen Jingrun soon became a target of denunciation. He was branded with cruel nicknames from the “label factory,” described as a revisionist seedling, focus-delve-absorb type, typical of the white-expert path, idiot, parasite, exploiter.

Some even made remarks so absurd they bordered on the ridiculous: “This man studies the (1+2) problem. He's doing a kind of mathematics that nobody can understand. Let Goldbach's conjecture go to hell! What's so great about (1+2)? Doesn't 1+2 equal 3? This man snuck into the Mathematics Institute, lives off the state's salary, eats the people's grain, and spends his time on some 1+2=3 nonsense. What rubbish! Pseudo-science!”

The person who said this was little more than a fool.

From those who did not understand mathematics, such words were perhaps excusable. But among those making these remarks were some who clearly did know mathematics—and who knew perfectly well that Goldbach's conjecture was a world-famous problem. From them, it was nothing less than deliberate slander. Power had clouded judgment, and factionalism had driven people mad.

Understanding a person is difficult; understanding a mathematician is no easier. But understanding a malicious slanderer—that is all too simple. By then, Chen Jingrun had fallen gravely ill. Even the steel factory came to “visit.” He listened as they hurled their vile insults, words spattered with flying spittle and incoherent rage. His gaze went blank; darkness clouded his eyes until he could see nothing. His body trembled as if struck by fever and chills. Piercing waves of doubt surged through his mind. Red streaks flared across his pale face, blotched with blue and black. Then the illness struck in full—he grew dizzy, his thoughts blurred, and he collapsed headfirst to the ground.

As Marx wrote in Chapter 12 of The Eighteenth Brumaire, what the bourgeoisie considers the most revolutionary event is actually the most counter-revolutionary event. The fruit fell at the bourgeoisie's feet, but it did not fall from the tree of life—it fell from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

VII

The center of a typhoon is quiet.

After some time, no one could say how many days or months, life under the control of the so-called “dictatorship team,” a group tasked with enforcing proletarian authority over intellectuals, settled into an uneasy calm. Outside, the storm still raged: people plotted and shouted, fought and accused, neglecting food and sleep as they feverishly defended their factions and attacked others. But those confined under the “dictatorship team” were gradually forgotten. The energy of factional struggle left no one with time or will to notice them.

Amid this atmosphere of neglect and turmoil, an old Red Army veteran volunteered to guard the scientists. In truth, he was a quiet sympathizer who protected them, even allowing them to read in secret.

When the worker propaganda teams later entered the institutes of the Academy of Sciences, Chen Jingrun had been released and permitted to return to his small room. There, he could not only read but also begin to calculate again. Yet peace never lasted long. Each day, someone would come knocking, checking household registrations, asking questions, keeping him perpetually on edge.

Once, they arrived with wire cutters. Determined to stop him from reading, they cut the wire to the light in his room and carried the fixture away. Still unsatisfied, they went further and severed the switch cord itself.

Darkness fell, not only upon his room, but upon his heart.

But he still had to live on in the darkness. He bought a kerosene lamp, and, afraid its light would show through, he pasted newspapers over the windows. He struggled on in wretched conditions. Those who worked had their wages docked, while those who took part in smashing and looting were given subsidies. After living in constant fear for so long, walking on eggshells, his nerves grew fragile. He could not work and dared not even read.

Then the worker propaganda team came to question him: “Why are you engaged in 1+1=2 and 1+2=3?”

He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Flustered and confused, he stammered, unable to explain himself clearly to his inquisitors. The workers found him strange. At last, he managed to clarify: the “(1+1)” and “(1+2)” were merely shorthand expressions, not the 1+1 or 1+2 of everyday arithmetic. Just as calling someone a “paper tiger” doesn't mean an actual tiger, his formulas were metaphorical, not literal. Once they understood, the workers grew indignant at those who had spread such nonsense about him, and from then on, they supported and protected him with genuine warmth.

After the “September 13 Incident,” when Lin Biao, Mao Zedong's once-designated successor, died in a plane crash while allegedly fleeing after a failed coup attempt, the political tide began to shift. The atmosphere of the Cultural Revolution slowly began to ease. When the news first broke, Chen Jingrun was so stunned that he could not speak. Though the situation gradually improved, he remained nervous and watchful, like a bird startled by the twang of a bow. The relentless years of class struggle had left him bewildered. His only refuge had always been mathematics, and now he was once again permitted to retreat into the boundless plateau of number theory.

The librarian at the Institute of Mathematics, himself a former researcher, became one of Chen Jingrun's strongest supporters. In fact, there were several such allies who quietly looked out for him. Hidden away in a small corner of the institute's library stacks, he could finally read in peace. Thanks to the persistence of these researchers, the Mathematics Institute continued ordering foreign journals and academic publications year after year, a small but vital act of dedication. He read, calculated, and reflected; gradually, his spirits lifted. Yet his health continued to decline. He never mentioned it, never complained, but once again threw himself into his work. By day he labored in a quiet corner of the library, and at night, under the dim glow of a kerosene lamp, he climbed and climbed again, always searching for the mathematical path most direct, most certain, and least prone to error.

Premier Zhou Enlai had long cared deeply about the work of the Academy of Sciences and made every effort to reduce factional interference. About half a month earlier, a woman surnamed Zhou had been appointed the director of the Institute of Mathematics' Political Department. The institute's five academic divisions, including analytic and algebraic number theory, soon resumed regular operations. A new Party branch secretary was also appointed, a veteran grassroots cadre from a worker-peasant background who had previously served as a political officer in the Second Field Army of the People's Liberation Army.

After assuming his post, the secretary searched everywhere for Chen Jingrun. Sister Zhou had already briefed him on the situation, but Chen was nowhere to be found. He had no office, not even a desk. It seemed he had been completely forgotten. Finally, the secretary found him, in a quiet corner of the institute's small library repository.

Just after National Day, with October sunshine shining everywhere, Secretary Li wore only a light shirt, while the frail Chen Jingrun was already wrapped in a padded jacket.

“Thank you, Secretary Li,” Chen Jingrun said, his voice trembling. He repeated his gratitude again and again, unable to hide his relief at meeting someone so approachable.

Secretary Li asked, “After work, around five-thirty, would that be convenient? I'll come by your room to see you.”

Chen Jingrun thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, that's good. I'll wait for you at the dormitory entrance this afternoon, otherwise you might not find it.”

“There's no need to wait,” Secretary Li replied. “Of course I'll find it. Don't worry.”

But Chen Jingrun insisted, “I'll wait for you at the entrance. If you can't find me, that would be bad.”

Indeed, that afternoon Chen Jingrun was waiting at the dormitory entrance. When Secretary Li arrived, he led him up to the third floor and into his small room. The space was tiny, barely six square meters, and even that area was cut away at one corner. Directly below, the second floor housed a boiler room, and its large rectangular chimney rose straight through Chen's quarters, taking up nearly a sixth of the room and leaving the space shaped like a knife handle. Though he had clearly cleaned and tidied before the visit, it still looked far from neat. Three windows, tightly pasted over with newspaper, let in little light, so despite the bright autumn sunshine outside, the room remained dim. The screen windows had gauze rolled up above them like small sheep tails, and wire was looped around the frames, which couldn't close properly, letting insects come and go. Secretary Li had not imagined his living conditions were so poor.

Sitting down on the bed, he remarked, “At least your bed is quite clean!”

“New bed sheets. I just bought them,” Chen Jingrun said. “You were coming to see me, so I went out and bought them specially.” Pointing to the snow-white fabric with its blue checkered pattern, he added, his voice trembling, “Thank you, Secretary Li. I'm very happy. It's been a very long time, no one has come to visit me.”

There were tears in his voice. Secretary Li was deeply moved, his heart burning with anger. In all his years as a Party worker, he had never felt such indignation. Outrageous, too outrageous! The six-square-meter room was starker than a mausoleum. In the corner, two hemp sacks overflowed with bundles of manuscript paper. A single four-leaf radiator held a lunch box, a few medicine bottles, and two thermos flasks. There wasn't even a stool. And then he noticed the kerosene lamp. Why was it still there? Looking around, he realized the room had no electric light at all.

“What?” he asked. “There's no electric light?”

“I don't need a light,” Chen Jingrun answered. “Having a light is no good. It only causes trouble. In this building, many families use electric stoves, the load is too heavy, and the circuits are checked constantly, house by house. But they never check me. I have no light, no wiring at all. Having a light only brings trouble.” He smiled sadly as he said this.

“But you need to work,” Secretary Li pressed. “Without a light, how do you work? I've heard your work is very good.”

“Well, I work under the kerosene lamp. It's the same there.”

“What about a desk? Why don't you have a desk?”

Chen Jingrun lifted the new bed sheet along with the mattress, exposing the bare bedboard. Pointing to it, he said, “Isn't this just like a desk? I can work on this.”

Secretary Li frowned, gritting his teeth. Things like this, here, in Zhongguancun, at the Academy of Sciences! Wasting talent, squandering science, how could it have come to this?

Pointing to the rolled-up gauze on the window, he asked, “You don't use a mosquito net? Aren't you afraid of mosquito bites?”

“If I don't turn on the light at night, the mosquitoes don't come in,” Chen replied softly. “In summer, I try not to stay in the room. Now there are fewer mosquitoes.”

“I'll see that you get a light,” Secretary Li said firmly. “We'll fix the wiring and get you a table, some bookshelves, how about that?”

“No, no, that won't do,” Chen protested, shaking his head. “I don't want it… no, no…”

Secretary Li left the dormitory and went straight to Director Zhang, who had taken up his post only a week earlier. When Li told him what he had seen, the director could hardly believe it. “Impossible! Absurd! How could there be no light?”

Secretary Li described the bleak little room in detail. The Academy of Sciences had fallen into chaos, its once-proud halls overrun by petty tyrants and bureaucratic neglect. Without hesitation, Director Zhang called for an electrician. The man arrived immediately and installed a lamp, reconnecting the switch cord. With a single pull, the room was flooded with light.

Chen Jingrun was already bent over the table, writing. Illumination returned not only to the room, but to his heart.

VIII

He wrote on and on...

From equation (22) and the above equation, when x is very large, there is:

From Lemma 1, this lemma is proved.

Lemma 8. Let x be a large even number, then

[Lemma 8's statement reads: “Let x be a large even number, then Omega is less than or equal to 3 point 9404 times x times Cx, divided by log x squared in parentheses.” Please note, this formula is the main key to solving the (1+2) proof of Goldbach's conjecture.]

Proof: when x is very large, from Lemmas 5 to 7, we have

(23)

As well as:

What moving pages upon pages! They were flowers of human thought, orchids blooming in hidden valleys, alpine azaleas clinging to sheer cliffs, ginseng rooted deep in ancient forests, snow lotuses opening on icy peaks, reishi mushrooms rising on mountaintops, peonies of pure abstraction.

These mathematical formulas formed a universal language: once mastered, they could be understood anywhere in the world. Flowing through them were the strictest logic and the most natural dialectic. They appeared in the search for the secrets of the solar system, the galaxy, and the vast universe beyond, as well as in the exploration of atoms, electrons, and particles. Yet few could ever climb to such heights of mathematics.

Let us glimpse that distant shore, that other world. There, white cranes wheel gracefully across the sky, their jade-like feathers untouched by dust, their crests and eyes a vivid red. They soar unhindered, spanning a thousand miles in a single flight. Birds of paradise sweep past, phoenixes sing in harmony—exquisite, ever-changing, infinitely beautiful. In this lofty mathematical realm, the soul dissolves, the eyes grow dazzled, and one becomes lost, not knowing where to turn.

Professor Min Sihe recognized the value of Chen Jingrun's work and admired its brilliance.

“Chen Jingrun's research has been remarkable lately,” he said at the time. “He's already written a paper on Goldbach's conjecture. I've read it, it's exceptionally well done.”

A military representative then asked Chen, “Since your paper is already written, why haven't you submitted it?”

“I'm still working on it,” Chen replied. “I'm refining it—it isn't finished yet.”

“I hope you complete it soon,” the representative said encouragingly.

Later, the office leader, Old Tian, said to Secretary Li, “We can encourage him to submit it, but there's no need to push. If he hasn't submitted it yet, he must have his reasons.”

When Secretary Li asked Chen directly, Chen explained, “Some people are still cursing me, saying I refuse to submit my paper because manuscript fees have been abolished. They claim that if the fees were restored, I'd submit it immediately.”

“Who's saying that about you?” Secretary Li demanded.

“Please don't ask,” Chen said quickly. “Thank you, but don't press me! If you ask, it'll only bring me more trouble. As for manuscript fees, thank heaven and earth they're gone. I don't want them. I've never even thought about them. I'm still working on my manuscript. I haven't finished.”

IX

“I haven't finished yet. My paper is both finished and unfinished. Since joining the Institute of Mathematics, under the guidance of rigorous mentors, renowned scholars, and with the support of the organization, I've devoted all my energy to my work. How could I have done otherwise? To be worthy of the Party's trust, I had to give everything I had. Out of more than thirty major problems in number theory worldwide, I've tackled six or seven, pushing each one a little further. That work has been my essential training and preparation. Only on that foundation could I begin to approach Goldbach's conjecture. For this, I have poured out my heart and blood.

“In 1965, I first succeeded in proving (1+2). But the proof was too complex—I wrote more than two hundred pages of manuscript. The requirements for a mathematical paper are twofold: first, accuracy; second, concision. For instance, if you travel from Beijing to the Summer Palace, there are many possible routes, but you must choose the most reliable—the shortest, most direct path. My long paper contained no errors, but it wandered, full of detours, stretching the journey across more than two hundred pages. So it has never been published. Abroad, it has neither been acknowledged nor refuted, simply because it has never been made public. From that year to now, seven years have already passed.

“This work is difficult for others to grasp or absorb. In middle school, I studied English; at university, Russian; and at the institute, I taught myself German and French. I can read them—and even write a little. On my own, I also studied Japanese, Italian, and Spanish, just enough to read scholarly texts. This allows me to consult foreign research directly, without waiting for translations, which is a crucial advantage. To tackle problems like (1+2), I must examine as much international work as possible and draw on the wisdom of my predecessors as fully as I can. Only on that foundation can real progress be made.

“My results must be presented in a formal paper. Although it is a specialized article, its language must be clear; although it must be rigorous, it must also be precise. Some sections touch on philosophical questions, so I have considered and reconsidered, calculated and recalculated, checked and rechecked, revised and revised again—endlessly. I have long lost count of how many times I've rewritten it. A scientific attitude must be uncompromisingly strict.

“I have long known that my illness is serious—terminal, in fact. Infection is eating away at my lungs and internal organs; my heart is failing. My body can hardly bear it. Only my mind remains unusually active, and so my work cannot stop. I cannot stop.”

X

In February 1973, as the Spring Festival approached, Sister Zhou from the Institute of Mathematics reminded everyone to take special care of the sick during the holiday.

“That spirit of the old Eighth Route Army, the spirit forged in the army years ago, we must never lose it,” she said. “Especially toward comrades like Chen Jingrun. We must care for him. He's so tenacious. Even when he's gravely ill, when he can barely stand, he forces himself to get up and keep working. Why does he do this? For himself? If it were only for himself, he would have stopped long ago. No, he works for the people, for the Party. We should visit him and bring him comfort. And we should do the same for all the sick in our unit.”

In truth, Sister Zhou herself, strong-looking and loud-voiced though she appeared, was also working through illness, struggling with heart disease, and equally deserving of care.

On the morning of New Year's Day, she and several secretaries, including Secretary Li, gathered together. They packed the apples and pears they had bought the day before into plastic mesh bags, each person carrying one. Then, as a group, they set out to visit the sick, stopping first at Chen Jingrun's place, since he lived the closest.

Chen Jingrun was just coming down the stairs when they greeted him. He was startled to see so many leading comrades gathered there.

“For the Spring Festival, we've come to see you,” Sister Zhou said warmly. “Is your illness any better?”

“Happy New Year,” Secretary Li added, “we wish you health and happiness in the year ahead.”

“Oh, today is New Year's Day?” Chen Jingrun said, surprised. “I'm very happy, thank you, thank you. Happy New Year to all of you, I hope you're well.”

“Let's go sit in your room,” Secretary Li suggested.

“No, no,” Chen said quickly. “You didn't give me advance notice, you can't come in.”

Sister Zhou thought for a moment, then nodded. “All right, we won't go in. Secretary Li, you take the fruit up to him. We'll visit the others, and you can catch up with us later.”

Secretary Li nodded. Sister Zhou shook Chen Jingrun's hand, wished him a speedy recovery, and turned to leave. Handing him the bag of fruit, Secretary Li said, “It's the Spring Festival, this is from the organization. We hope that in the new year you'll continue contributing your work to the Party.”

“No, thank you, I don't need any fruit,” Chen said, shaking his head. “I'm fine, really, not sick, nothing serious… this little illness, uh… uh… thank you, I'm very happy to accept it.”

Even as he spoke, he took the bag of fruit.

“Shall we come up to your room and chat for a bit?” Secretary Li asked.

Chen waved his hands quickly. “No, no, please don't come in, you didn't give me any notice.”

Secretary Li smiled, understanding. “All right then, I won't go up. If you need anything, just let me know. I'd better catch up with the others and continue the visits.”

They shook hands and parted. Secretary Li had taken only two steps when a voice called out behind him:

“Secretary Li! Secretary Li!”

Chen Jingrun had hurried after him, holding out the bag of fruit. “Please, give this to the children in your family,” he said. “Let them have it. I can't eat so much, I don't eat fruit.”

Secretary Li smiled kindly. “This is from the organization, a small token of care. We just want you to look after your health so you can keep working well. Please, keep it. If you can't eat it all at once, enjoy it slowly.”

Chen Jingrun accepted the gesture in silence. Tears welled in his eyes as he walked Secretary Li to the building entrance. Secretary Li waved goodbye and hurried off to catch up with Sister Zhou's group. Chen stood there for a long moment, watching him disappear into the distance, then turned his gaze toward Sister Zhou and the others as they vanished behind the noodle shop along Zhongguancun's tree-lined road.

Suddenly, emotion overtook him. Back upstairs, he told everyone he saw, and even when no one was there, he still spoke aloud:

“The institute leadership has never treated me as a sick person before. This is the first time. No one has ever brought anything to visit me during my illness. This is the first time.”

Lifting the plastic bag and studying it carefully, he murmured, “It's fruit. I've eaten fruit before, but this… this is the first time.”

Then he stepped quickly into his small room and locked the door behind him.

He did not come out again until after the Spring Festival had passed.

On the first day back at work, Chen Jingrun approached Secretary Li and handed him a stack of manuscripts. “This is my paper,” he said quietly. “I'm submitting it to the Party.”

Secretary Li looked at him for a moment, then asked softly, “Is this the (1+2)?”

“Yes,” Chen replied. “Professor Min has already reviewed it, there shouldn't be any errors.”

Soon after, the Institute of Mathematics convened a small academic meeting. More than ten experts attended, listening intently as Chen Jingrun presented his report. They all agreed, it was an exceptional achievement. Not long after, the institute's administrative office submitted his paper to the Academy headquarters.

XI

 Evidently, we have:

(28)

From equation (28), Lemma 8 and Lemma 9, we obtain the proof of Theorem 1:

A completely similar method can be used to obtain the proof of Theorem 2.

The passage above comes from Chen Jingrun's landmark paper, “On the Representation of a Large Even Integer as the Sum of a Prime and the Product of at Most Two Primes,” specifically from the section titled “(III) Results.” The central theorem it presented would later become known worldwide as Chen's theorem.

One day in mid-April, the Chinese Academy of Sciences convened a meeting of Party members and cadres at the Workers' Club in Sanlihe. During the meeting, Comrade Wu Heng delivered a report, noting that an intermediate-level researcher at the Institute of Mathematics had achieved a result of world-class significance. No name was mentioned, and at first, no one knew who he meant.

Sitting in the audience, Secretary Li nudged the colleague beside him.

“What?” the man whispered.

“Did you catch that?” Secretary Li asked.

“What's going on?” the colleague replied.

“This achievement—it's Chen Jingrun's!” Li said.

“Oh? Is it important?” the man asked, surprised.

“Yes—it solves a world-famous problem. Extraordinary!”

The next day, a reporter from Xinhua News Agency came to visit. He spoke with Chen Jingrun, looked around his small room, and upon returning immediately wrote a report that was circulated in an internal bulletin. The article described Chen's background, his tireless dedication to research, and his major scientific achievements, but it also emphasized the harsh reality of his situation: he was still living in a cramped, smoke-filled room, stifled by heat, suffering from poor living conditions and serious illness that threatened his life.

When Chairman Mao, the great leader and teacher, read the report, he issued instructions at once.

That very night, Comrade Wu Heng went straight to Chen Jingrun's small room. Chen was sent immediately to the hospital, where the chief of internal medicine at the Capital Hospital—together with a vice minister from the Ministry of Health—conducted a full examination. The results revealed multiple serious ailments. The doctors urged him to be admitted right away, but he initially refused—until Mao's instructions were conveyed to him.

In the end, Chen remained hospitalized for a year and a half.

During his stay, Premier Zhou personally coordinated with Vice Premier Hua Guofeng to secure Chen Jingrun's seat as a National People's Representative. At the Fourth National People's Congress, Chen met Premier Zhou in person and attended sessions in the same delegation. When he learned during the congress that the Premier had fallen ill, he wept openly and, for several nights afterward, could not sleep. After the session concluded, Chen quietly returned to the hospital to continue his treatment.

When he was finally discharged, the hospital's report read:

“After hospitalization and treatment, the patient's overall condition is relatively good. His mental state has improved, and his body temperature is normal. The patient's weight increased by ten pounds; his appetite and sleep have also improved. Abdominal pain and bloating have disappeared, with no active lesions found in either lung. Electrocardiogram normal; electroencephalogram normal. Liver and kidney functions are normal; blood sedimentation rate and blood count within normal range.”

Vice Premier Hua Guofeng continued to take a close interest in Chen's work and health, personally issuing several directives on his behalf.

As soon as Chen Jingrun's paper was published, Western journalists quickly took notice, and news of his breakthrough spread rapidly across the globe. The international response was immediate and overwhelming. At that time, British mathematician Halberstam and West German mathematician Richter were proofreading their forthcoming book, The Sieve Method. When they read Chen's paper, they immediately requested a delay in publication so they could add an entirely new section, Chapter Eleven, titled “Chen's Theorem.” They hailed it as the “brilliant pinnacle” of sieve theory thus far.

Soon after, foreign mathematical journals were filled with praise, describing Chen's result as an “outstanding achievement,” a “brilliant theorem,” and “a milestone in modern number theory.” One British mathematician even wrote to Chen personally: “You have moved mountains.”

The comparison was apt, for Chen's perseverance mirrored the spirit of the Foolish Old Man from the ancient fable, the man who resolved to dig away the mountains blocking his home, believing that even if he could not complete the task himself, his descendants would one day finish it.

But one might ask: what practical use does Chen's theorem have?

In general, scientific achievements fall into two categories. One kind has direct economic value—quantifiable in sums of hundreds of thousands or even billions of yuan—treasures with price. The other cannot be measured in numbers. These are discoveries that deepen humanity's understanding of both the vastness of the cosmos and the minuteness of the atom; they underpin economic development, national defense, the natural sciences, and even dialectical materialist philosophy. Their worth is beyond estimation, treasures beyond price. Chen's theorem firmly belongs to this second category.

Now, we stand just one step away from the jewel in the crown.

But that final step is also the hardest of all.

Let us wait and see in whose hands the pearl will one day rest.

XII

Chen Jingrun was a legendary figure. Around him, accounts multiplied and opinions diverged. Well-intentioned misunderstandings, ignorant ridicule, malicious slander, and fervent admiration, all could distort, diminish, or exaggerate Chen himself. To understand anyone is difficult; to understand this mathematician was harder still.

He was acutely sensitive, precociously brilliant, deeply neurotic, and intensely focused. Years of both external and self-inflicted physical and spiritual suffering drove him to withdraw from the world. He found refuge—though never complete escape—in the realm of pure mathematics. Yet even pure mathematics, for all its abstraction, reflects material reality. As Engels once wrote, “These materials appear in abstract form, which can only superficially mask the fact that they originate from the external world.”

Through mathematics, Chen Jingrun came to grasp the necessary laws of the objective world. In the course of his sincere and tireless inquiry, he gradually embraced the worldview of dialectical materialism. Without this inner transformation—and without the collective support of the Chinese Academy of Sciences and the Party—he could not have made his brilliant contribution to Goldbach's conjecture.

The man once cast out by the world was brought back to it by life's own vitality. The blows and persecutions of factional politics made the Party's warmth and care shine all the more clearly. What first appeared as tragedy became a crucible: through it, he was tempered and transformed. The sick regained health; the isolated found belonging; the upright became politically conscious; and the man once deemed superfluous brought honor to the nation.

His growth was remarkable. He resolutely resisted the threats and temptations of the “Gang of Four.” They tried every means to coerce him into framing Vice Premier Deng Xiaoping—he refused. They promised rank and riches to win his allegiance to their cause—he stood unmoved. Extraordinary—a mathematician's logic is as hard as steel.

In the years to come, one can trust that he will never cease refining his understanding of the world. When he was born, no roses bloomed for him—yet he rose to brilliance. But now that the roses smile, one must remember: beauty, too, demands vigilance.

(Originally published in People's Literature, Issue 1, 1978)

The Captain

Ke Yan

“Master”—literally translated—means captain or chief. But what would be the most fitting way to render this title for Bei Hanting?

I stood on the bridge deck of the Hanchuan, leaning against the rail and gazing into the distance, lost in thought. The sea wind rushed toward me, fresh and damp. The vast ocean stretched out in mystery and depth, while nearby, seagulls wheeled and dipped beneath my feet.

Just moments earlier, a conversation with the sailors had stirred something deep within me. I had left the cabin to hide my tears. Yet here, between the endless blue of sky and sea, I still could not find peace. Waves of thought followed the rolling waters, carrying me farther and farther away.

Suddenly, my mind wandered back to a poem I had written for young readers more than twenty years ago—about what it means to be a sailor.

I smiled through my tears. How young I was then, having scarcely weathered the storms of life—what did I understand of sailors? Those readers must now be in their thirties, perhaps with children of their own. After more than a decade of life's tempests, do they still yearn for the sea with the innocence of youth? Perhaps the innocence is gone, but the yearning must remain.

So let me tell them another sailor's story—the story of a seaman, a captain, a master…

A Change in Rhythm at the Port of Hamburg

The Port of Hamburg is a beautiful sight: red and yellow buildings line the shore, while blue-green waters roll gently in the harbor, tipped with silver-white waves.

It is also a place of constant activity. Each day, ships from around the world arrive and depart, cranes rise and fall, and cargo moves steadily along. Yet through all this motion, the workers' pace remains steady—indeed, Germans are renowned for their orderliness. For more than a century, the port has followed its own tempo: methodical, plain yet rich, varied yet precise—like a professional orchestra playing familiar music.

But once, Hamburg's port broke from its usual rhythm. The port authority, dockyards, loading companies, and service firms were in constant communication, their telephones ringing without pause. Cargo owners, agents, supervisors of every rank, tally clerks, and workers all bustled with excitement. Even a dozen or so dignified, self-assured veteran captains, usually unflappable, broke with convention: they chartered a small boat and went to sea together.

What could have caused such extraordinary commotion? A typhoon? Giant waves? No—this port had endured storms for over a century, none of which had ever broken its routine. What altered Hamburg's tempo on that day was something else entirely: a single ship—the ocean freighter Hanchuan, from the Shanghai branch of the China Ocean Shipping Company.

The dock was packed with people pointing and talking excitedly, with constant calls of “Hanchuan! Hanchuan!” echoing everywhere. Some had even brought their wives and children specifically to see it, wanting them to see the world. The bright sunshine, colorful dresses, and children's delighted laughter suddenly gave the century-old port a burst of youthful energy, transforming its familiar rhythm into something vibrant and new.

This was a Sunday in April 1978.

But the story must begin in March...

On March 21, while en route to Europe, the Hanchuan received a company telegram: on the return voyage, it was to load the complete set of equipment for the Tianjin Chemical Fiber Plant at the Port of Hamburg—an urgent shipment needed back home.

But when the ship arrived, the crew was only offered general cargo. The port agent assumed a Chinese vessel couldn't possibly handle such equipment: the pieces were irregular in size, many overlong, overhigh, or overweight, and all of immense value. If even one component were damaged or delayed, the consequences would be grave. By long-standing convention, such high-stakes cargo was always assigned to German ships, considered the most reliable. No one said this outright, of course. Instead, the spoken explanation was vague: “This equipment won't fit on any ship. The Hanchuan can just carry other cargo.”

But under Bei Hanting's command, the Hanchuan refused to back down, insisting that they could take the shipment. Their reasoning was clear: first, the equipment was urgently needed in China; second, transporting a complete set of equipment would bring in significant fees; and third, if foreign ships could handle it, then so could the Chinese—there was no reason for the crew to be underestimated.

The Chinese response, though polite, was firm: “Thank you for your concern, but we can load everything on one ship. We can handle it.”

Whether they could or couldn't was not a matter that could be settled like a political campaign back home, where mass criticism meetings and the denunciation of “capitalist roaders” decided everything. There, it was enough to put on an armband, grab a microphone, and shout slogans—the louder the cry, the bigger the victory. But this was an international port, where the Hanchuan was facing seasoned experts who could judge their capability with a single glance. Empty boasts only invited ridicule. And this was navigation, this was a science—the sea was no “capitalist roader” to be stripped of rights. The sea had its own voice, and if you ignored reality, it would punish you: your ship would capsize, your cargo would sink, and you'd end up in the belly of the fish. That was why saying “we can” carried such weight—it was a promise that could not be made lightly.

Since Bei Hanting was a well-known veteran captain, when he firmly declared that he and his crew could handle the job, the foreigners had to take him seriously.

One of them finally extended a hand and said, “All right—let's see it.”

“See what?”

“The loading plan.”

Bei Hanting smiled, unrolled the blueprints, and spread them out.

The experts leaned in, and at the first glance they were stunned, blurting out, “Excellent!”

It was an extraordinarily detailed plan. The diagrams were covered with dense symbols and figures: thousands upon thousands of components, each marked not only with its loading position but also with dimensions, weight, volume, and serial number.

Even then, doubts lingered. How could deck cargo taller than the ship's hold and even extending beyond its sides possibly be transported safely?

Bei Hanting was ready. With ease, he presented complete stability calculations for every stage of the voyage—departure, transit, and arrival—covering both optimal and worst-case conditions. He also offered a detailed weather forecast for April: the English Channel, the Strait of Gibraltar, the Bay of Biscay, the North Atlantic, and the Mediterranean had all passed through their storm seasons; the Indian Ocean might see force 6–7 winds over long stretches, but the southwest monsoon had not yet begun. It was, he explained, the golden season for navigation.

And even if the worst occurred—if the southwest monsoon arrived early in the Arabian Sea east of 60° longitude, bringing force 8–9 gales—the Hanchuan was prepared. The crew could alter course, adjust speed, reduce headwind resistance, and even slow steam if necessary.

What a captain Bei Hanting was! This was no mere loading plan with annotations—it was practically a scientific report. A German expert, impressed, reached out and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Congratulations on having such a capable first mate,” he said.

Bei Hanting bowed slightly and replied with humble politeness, “Thank you.”

The German could hardly have guessed that this loading plan had gone far beyond the duties of a first mate. It was the product of twenty-seven sleepless nights shared by the captain, the political commissar, the first mate, and the entire technical crew. While unloading their ship, they had rushed across the docks with rulers in hand, measuring each piece of cargo, taking into account the shapes, structures, and load-bearing limits of every hold and deck position. In the end, they recalculated and rearranged until they produced the most reasonable plan possible.

In those weeks, the entire ship felt like it was preparing for an international chess match. Cargo diagrams of the holds and decks, drawn to a 1:100 scale, were pasted on wooden boards. Scale models of the cargo, cut from cardboard, were shifted and recombined again and again—this special “game of chess” was played hundreds of times before the final arrangement was decided.

The port agent knew none of this. But faced with such scientific precision, he was convinced to trust the Chinese crew. Thus, loading began.

Foreman No. 1 Giat was an expert with decades of experience. Short and sharp, with a small mustache and a shrewd air, he was capable—but he looked down upon the Chinese crew. The first mate of the Hanchuan simply couldn't get him on their side.

When loading hold No. 3, Giat took it upon himself to place two large pieces of cargo contrary to the plan. When Bei Hanting was informed, he rushed to the scene to reason with him.

“I'm confident in this,” Giat answered casually, patting his chest.

Bei Hanting tried to dissuade him, “If you do it this way, you'll be stuck.”

“I've never been stuck,” Giat replied, stroking his mustache.

“If it doesn't fit in the end, you'll have to reload it, and any losses from delays will be your responsibility.”

“That's natural,” Giat said coolly.

One day passed, then two. On the third day, Giat came to Bei Hanting drenched in sweat. Sure enough, a 16-meter piece wouldn't fit. Forcing it in meant the hatch cover would not be able to close—and without closing the hatch, the ship would not be able to set sail. To make matters worse, other cargo had already been planned for the hatch cover. Bei Hanting had warned him from the start, and now the proud foreman was stuck.

The branch mobilized the ship's entire technical staff to revise the loading plan. Working together, the Chinese and German crews finally solved the problem: they sawed off a corner of the wooden crate and, using four forklifts, angled the piece in diagonally before closing the hatch cover securely.

The workers on site broke into applause, shouting, “Excellent!”

Giat, with his little mustache, spread his hands, shrugged, and exclaimed, “Remarkable! This cargo might as well have been custom-made for your ship's hold!”

From that day forward, his attitude completely changed. Whenever a worker's placement was even slightly off, he would immediately step in: “No, no—follow the loading plan!”

The cargo was finally loaded. Agents and others came aboard to offer congratulations, remarking unanimously: “Even our veteran German sailors couldn't have secured this cargo so well—yet most of your crew are novices. This equipment is delicate—if even one piece were damaged, the consequences would be serious! This shipment alone will make your company a fortune—freight fees exceed two million in foreign exchange. Spending a few thousand marks on lashing fees would have been well worth it.”

But the Hanchuan crew resolved to handle the lashing themselves for three reasons. First, fastening the cargo with their own hands meant they would know every detail, making inspections at sea far easier. Second, with China's ocean shipping industry developing rapidly, this was an invaluable opportunity to train young sailors. Third, hiring professionals would have cost tens of thousands of marks—money the crew was determined not to squander. And so, the great “lashing battle” began.

Some crew members dragged fifty-meter steel cables up the six-meter-high round boilers. Others crawled beneath the cargo, lying flat on their backs to fasten cleats. Some squeezed through gaps so narrow they could barely turn sideways, hauling lashing materials back and forth. Others snapped chalk lines across the cargo to mark positions and check for shifting in rough seas. Their hands swelled from the strain, yet not a single complaint was heard. Exhausted and growing thinner by the day, they still refused to rest. Young Xiao Pan even lost a front tooth in the process—yet never showed a hint of regret. All of it was for one purpose: to add precious foreign exchange to the “Four Modernizations” savings jar.

Before lashing began, the surveyor had warned them repeatedly: without meeting proper standards, no inspection certificate would be issued. On the first day, Captain Bei accompanied him on his rounds, and together they spotted several problems—the surveyor shook his head in disapproval. But from the second day onward, he found nothing more to criticize. By the third day, before the lashing was even finished, he issued the cargo inspection certificate and announced he wouldn't need to come back—Captain Bei's standards were stricter than his own.

“This kind of lashing will hold even if the ship rolls thirty or forty degrees at sea,” the surveyor said. “I trust my eyes.”

This was how the Hanchuan broke the cadence of the Port of Hamburg, winning honor for China's sailors and for the motherland.

That bright Sunday in April arrived at last. Amid the cheers of women and children, a passenger boat packed with people circled the Hanchuan, giving seasoned eyes the chance to study her deck load from every angle. Cries of admiration rose again and again, like an audience entranced at the theater, applauding their beloved performers.

And Bei Hanting, the captain at the center of this sensation, not only avoided taking curtain calls—he didn't even show his face. Dripping with sweat, he hid in the cabin with the political commissar and first mate, debating how to politely turn away the newspaper and television reporters who were insisting on boarding to take photographs.

“Thinking about it now, how foolish we were—turning down free publicity,” Bei Hanting later told me with a chuckle. “But at the time, our thinking just wasn't liberated! Of course, when we finally left port, they still photographed us from the radar station and published in the paper: 'This is something the Port of Hamburg hasn't seen in over a hundred years…'“

He waved his hand dismissively, absolutely refusing to repeat the words of praise.

The Child from Nanshi

People often say that those who sail the oceans are as deep and as profound as the sea itself—at once navigators, scientists, and artists.

Before meeting Bei Hanting, I often wondered what he would look like. When I finally met him, he was both exactly as I had imagined and nothing like it at all. He carried the air of a scientist—speaking with evidence and logic, precise as a computer yet quick and responsive as mercury. Yet in other ways, he was the opposite of what one might expect: small in stature, dressed in a worn shirt and shorts (which, I was told, he wore until the snow fell), and unfailingly polite—hardly the commanding, imposing figure usually associated with a captain.

I knew he had received a good education, had studied in the Navigation Department of the old Jiaotong University, had been one of the first captains of China's earliest ocean-going vessels, possessed deep navigational knowledge, and spoke fluent English. But I still wondered—how and why had he turned to the sea?

“I was born in Shanghai,” he told me, “and grew up in Nanshi. Do you know Nanshi?”

Nanshi? Yes, I knew it. Before the founding of the Republic, it had been one of Shanghai's poorer commercial districts—full of small merchants and street vendors, considered culturally backward. As he spoke, I pictured its muddy lanes, cramped shops, idle ruffians, and ragged, underfed rickshaw pullers and coolies.

“I was the youngest and my brothers and sisters had only gone to elementary school for a year or two. Later, when one of my elder brothers began working, he became determined that I should continue my studies—but my mother was strongly opposed. In Nanshi, even finishing elementary school was considered remarkable, and to want to go on to middle school was practically unheard of. Relatives and neighbors couldn't believe that I was considering continuing my education. But my brother insisted. By then he was working at a research institute, where he had seen scientists up close, and he believed that science and learning could bring light to people's lives. He urged me to take the middle school entrance exam—and not just for any school, but for the prestigious Shanghai Middle School.”

And so, this thin but clever boy from Nanshi stepped through the doors of the institution. Shanghai Middle School was famous at the time, with most of its students coming from scholarly or wealthy families. They had strong academic foundations and refined cultural upbringing. Young Bei Hanting was astonished to see classmates compose elegant essays so effortlessly that teachers would read them aloud to the entire class. He envied those who could effortlessly score 120 in mathematics and rank first year after year.

But Bei Hanting, though astonished, was never discouraged—envious, yes, but never resentful. His brother had told him that having people ahead of you is like seeing distant markers along the road: they call to you, reminding you that everyone has hidden potential—potential that can even surprise oneself. So little Bei Hanting kept chasing step by step, until before long he was practically running.

In high school, the school was divided into science, engineering, and commerce tracks. How Mother hoped her youngest son would study commerce! Shanghai Middle School's commerce track was sought after by all the major offices. For a child from Nanshi to sit in any office would be unimaginably happy! Because that meant food and clothing would be secure.

Once again, young Bei Hanting defied his mother's wishes, choosing the path of science with quiet resolve. He believed that the faster one moves forward, the wider the horizon becomes, and the vaster the world of knowledge appears. For him, knowledge was not just learning but a source of confidence, a wellspring of strength. Why do airplanes fly and trains run? Why did Watt pursue the steam engine, or Columbus sail in search of new continents? Why was Liszt's Revolutionary Dirge so tragic, Chekhov's Seagull so suffocatingly melancholy, and Gorky's Mother so powerful? He realized that beyond bosses and apprentices, plunderers and lackeys, there existed another kind of person—those who ceaselessly pursued enlightenment, who freed humanity from ignorance, who gave life colorful wings, and who created miracles for history.

The world was more beautiful because of such people; humanity had risen above the lower animals because of such creative laborers. How little Bei Hanting longed to become one of them! Believing life held a higher realm, he vowed to chase it with unyielding resolve—even if the pursuit demanded his very life.

And yes, to reach that higher realm, every step of the climb demanded blood, sweat, and tears. How young Bei Hanting loathed his English teacher then—who required him to memorize an entire lesson each week, not merely read but recite it aloud. By year's end he had committed fifty-two lessons to memory, until his head felt ready to burst. Yet after one, two, three years had passed, when he could open Shakespeare or Whitman's works and read them directly, life revealed a magnificent new world to him.

And now, with fluent English and French, he could give voice to the feelings of the Chinese people in distant ports—speaking of Goethe, Beethoven, and Schumann with Germans; of Chekhov, Tolstoy, and Tchaikovsky with Russians; of Byron and Shakespeare with Britons; of Paganini with Italians.

In those moments, he watched the faces of foreigners shift—from indifference, to solemn respect, and at last to admiration. And with that, the boy from Nanshi felt profound happiness and pride. He remembered his teachers with deep gratitude, and even found himself longing for those arduous years of relentless struggle during his fierce climb.

The Blood-Spitting Sailor

Russian General Suvorov once said: “A soldier who doesn't want to become a general is not a good soldier.” Captain Bei Hanting has a saying of his own that complements that truth: “A captain without sailors is not a captain.”

Bei Hanting both respects and understands sailors, for he himself began as one. During his internship on a small pump ship in Northeast China, he not only endured the bitter cold of minus forty degrees but also came to know the bone-deep poverty of our motherland.

As Shanghai neared liberation, the futures of more than a hundred navigation students split sharply. The wealthy and well-connected fled overseas, while the poorer ones, with artillery rumbling in the distance, cared about only one thing: sprinting to the Bund to see if any ships remained. The scene that greeted them was heartbreaking. The once-crowded waterfront, once bristling with a forest of masts, now stood in silence. The river, rolling under a vast blue sky, reflected only emptiness. The Nationalists had seized every seaworthy vessel for their retreat and blown up the rest. All that was left was ruin.

Some classmates abandoned the profession altogether, but Bei Hanting persevered on the path he chose. He boarded a small pump ship in the Northeast.

Why was it called a pump ship? Because it weighed less than a hundred tons, with a steam engine that chugged without rest. The vessel had only six men but leaked constantly. Meals were nothing more than pickled vegetables and sorghum rice, and day and night the crew took turns at the pump, fighting the seawater that poured in. The sea heaved violently. Bei Hanting retched up food, then foam, then bitter bile, and finally blood. Yet still, shoulder to shoulder with his comrades, he clung to the pump handle, keeping rhythm—clank, clank—enduring the endless cycle of vomiting and eating, eating and vomiting, giving his very life to keep the ship afloat.

“Are you Japanese?”

Spring had returned to the earth, though the cold still lingered in the air. As New China entered its great period of reconstruction, Bei Hanting began serving as acting second mate on a large vessel.

The captain was old-school—stern, stone-faced, and never smiling. He wore a crisp uniform and always carried a pair of spotless white gloves in his right hand. No matter how fierce the wind or snow, trainees were required to stand outside on the bridge, eyes fixed on the sea. Binoculars were forbidden; missing even a single target meant being cursed on the spot. Their posture had to be flawless, and hands were never allowed in pockets. Minus twenty degrees Celsius? No. Minus thirty? Still no.

One bitter winter day, shivering in thin trousers, Bei Hanting risked slipping his hands into his pockets. The response? A sudden kick from behind.

“Of course, hitting people is wrong,” he later laughed, “but I learned to be meticulous under that captain.”

As the saying goes, strict teachers produce outstanding students—and strict teachers often favor the outstanding. The old captain never once looked him in the eye, yet when the time came to choose a second mate, he called out one name: “Bei Hanting.”

Objections rose at once, but he stood firm. “Bei Hanting!”

No matter the protests, the captain's answer never changed. And so Bei was promoted.

He soon joined Guangyuan Company and began his career in ocean navigation. However, when he looks back now, the excitement of becoming a captain has faded; what he remembers most distinctly are the burdens that followed.

For instance, whenever he revealed his knowledge of culture or science abroad, the response was almost inevitable: “You must be Japanese, right?”

Once, in the Port of Rotterdam, a harbor pilot deliberately made things difficult because the helmsman was Chinese. He rattled off steering commands in English, quick and sharp. Bei stepped forward and answered in English. Then the pilot switched to French, so Bei replied in French. Bei continued to press further, tossing him questions in Italian and Spanish, to which the pilot had no reply.

Still, the rude pilot muttered, “Your helmsman is no good.”

Bei simply ignored him. Nevertheless, when the man repeated it a third time, he turned. “How do you know he's no good?”

“He reacts too slowly.”

“That's because you spoke too fast and gave unclear orders.”

“I demand you replace him.”

“He's the best sailor on my ship.”

“No Chinese can steer well.”

“Pilots everywhere say he's excellent. Only you claim otherwise.”

“I demand to leave the ship.”

“Fine. Third mate—escort him off. And you, bring it.”

“Bring what?”

“Your license. I'll note you're unqualified, that you cannot cooperate with ships, and that from today you are not welcome on any Chinese vessel. I'm sorry, but it seems this is the only way. License, please.”

The pilot went silent, and the ship entered port smoothly. When Bei signed his certificate, he left it devoid of criticism. The once-arrogant man departed quietly, almost gratefully.

The helmsman, moved by his captain's fierce defense, left with tears in his eyes and his jaw set—and from that day forward, he studied English relentlessly, day and night.

The Blue Dream

Just as China's sailors were beginning to earn respect in ports around the world, and the nation's shipping industry was finding its stride, the “Cultural Revolution” erupted. Lin Biao, Jiang Qing, and their faction—radicals who would later be remembered as the Gang of Four—conspired together. They cut a bloody path through literary circles, dismantled the legal system, and moved methodically to seize power on every front.

Bei Hanting, home on leave, was suddenly ordered to report to Guangzhou. He rushed there with a sailor's punctuality, expecting new assignments. Instead, he was placed in a “class.”

The classroom was full of familiar faces: veteran captains and first mates who had pioneered China's ocean shipping industry. At first, old friends reunited joyfully after a long separation, brimming with energy as if ready to launch some great new undertaking. But gradually the smiles froze and dropped.

What was this? They marched in formation, ate in formation, even had to request permission to send a letter. Every word was monitored. Soon the military propaganda team announced that the shipping companies were under complete control.

Had they somehow become prisoners of the Kuomintang again? Alas! What Bei could not have foreseen was the twisted logic of Lin Biao and the Gang of Four: the more one achieved, the more one was attacked; the greater the merit, the quicker the “revisionist” label was pinned. Instead of fighting old enemies, they turned their revolution against the very people who had made it possible.

Looking back now, it all seems more tangled than a tongue twister—superstition and ignorance so heavy they crushed the spirit. Yet at the time, Bei, like most Chinese revolutionaries, searched himself for fault, bowing his head in repentance.

Our Premier was the first to speak out in resistance. He asked: “If the entire backbone of our ocean shipping industry are 'revisionists,' then how did such great progress in ocean shipping come about?” The question was irrefutable, righteous in its indignation. But Lin Biao, Jiang Qing, and their allies refused to listen—for the Premier himself was their ultimate target.

So they read given excerpts and talked; then talked and read more excerpts. They were forced to give confessions, shut into isolation, then taken out of it. The charges mounted step by step—from “taking photographs,” to “passing intelligence,” and finally to “colluding with foreign countries.” But how could sailors engaged in international shipping possibly avoid contact with foreigners?

Strangely enough, the more absurd the accusations became, the calmer Bei grew. By the time they were interrogating him over supposed “foreign photographs,” he had already moved past dizziness and anxiety, sleeping soundly where once he had lain awake in torment.

The Premier, meanwhile, remained a wall they could not topple. Just as he had shielded writers and artists by sending them to military farms for “reform,” he likewise protected the backbone of China's shipping industry—sending them to the Navigation Bureau instead, where they could stare out at navigation markers and dredge river mud.

Shanghai people called it “scooping river mud.” Though their hearts still ached, Bei and his comrades were at least free from isolation, spending their days on small boats tasked with dredging and routine patrols. Bei threw himself into the work as third mate, managing provisions with the same discipline he had shown at sea—and, year after year, he continued to earn top marks.

He had never known such leisurely days. As his wife put it: in their twenty years of marriage, the total amount of time he had spent at home was less than two years. Now his routine was simple: processing documents, keeping accounts, then heading home. He could ride his bicycle, buy crabs and fish at roadside stalls, and spend evenings listening to music with his wife and children.

This was happiness beyond reach for many ordinary people. But it made Bei cry. A man who had never wept before—drowning in tears.

He did not cry at the neighbors' stares; as a child from Nanshi, he had grown up under every kind of cold and suspicious glance. He did not cry at the scorn of passersby; as a sailor who had brought honor to China in ports around the world, he knew how to face discrimination. He did not cry at the doubt in the eyes of his relatives, his wife and children, or even his brother—the very brother who had once supported him wholeheartedly—though their doubtful gazes weighed on him heavily.

No—Bei cried for his dream, his blue dream. He longed for the sea so desperately that even his dreams were blue in color. Sitting at the third mate's desk on that little dredger, thinking of the vast, turbulent ocean, he felt as though his heart were being cut by a knife.

During this time, he liked to lean alone against the railings at Huangpu Beach, lost in thought. Whenever he saw the Guilin, the Friendship, or the Jiujiang—all ships he had once captained—sailing past, his heart would pound wildly and tears would stream down his face. To him, they were dazzling—more magnificent than he had ever realized while commanding them. In those days, he had taken their strength for granted; now, torn away, watching them glide past in all their splendor, how could he not weep as though caught in a storm of rain?

In time, anger burned away his tears. He heard of crew members sent abroad under the Gang of Four who, in front of foreigners, could not even pronounce “twelve” properly—saying the individual digits “one-two” instead. Others stole socks from department stores overseas. Heroes who once prided themselves on discipline now rummaged through garbage cans in foreign ports.

Humiliation only fueled Bei's fury, but his blue dream never faltered. With an iron will and an unshakable resolve, he swore he would return to the sea. Gritting his teeth, he wrote four characters—”diligent pen, concentrated thought”—on the title page of his navigation notebook. Straightening his back once more, he lit the midnight lamp and set to work, grinding through Marine Insurance, International Maritime Commercial Law, Maritime Rescue, and stacks of international regulations and port manuals, night after night.

Friendship at the Port of London

“Who is the captain?”

“I am the master.”

He had finally returned to the sea—but this was a new Bei Hanting.

Once, he had merely been a skilled captain; now, he carried himself as a confident master. The word master had taken on new weight for him, its meaning reshaped by a decade of political storms. In him, the dual sense of mastery—both technical and personal—was fused into one.

I want to tell a short story here, a tale of friendship forged in the Port of London.

The Hanchuan once carried 200 tons of talc powder, heading to unload it in London. Mid-voyage, a company telegram arrived: the Port of London had just ruled that talc powder could no longer be unloaded there. Why? No one knew—only that it was a new regulation that had to be followed.

The company, thousands of miles away, might not yet have known. But on the Hanchuan, talc was piled across the refrigerated hatch covers, beneath which lay frozen goods also bound for London. If the talc couldn't be discharged, the cargo below would remain trapped, and the expense of rerouting and transshipping later would far outweigh the value of the goods themselves.

Bei Hanting decided to press on to London regardless. As soon as the Hanchuan docked, he made his rounds—agents, unloading supervisors, foremen, workers—asking politely but firmly why talc powder was suddenly banned. The answer soon emerged: a dockworker had come across a newspaper article by a chemist linking talc's structure to cancer risks. Alarmed, he told his team—cancer, how dreadful! The rumor spread, teams raised the issue with their union, and a ban was imposed. What's more, they especially refused to touch Chinese talc: the packaging was poor, the bags prone to bursting under pressure, releasing clouds of dust. The dock workers didn't even want to touch it, let alone unload it.

Ah—so that was the reason! At once, Bei Hanting invited the port agent aboard as a guest. Over drinks, they reminisced about old times, toasted their wives' health, spoke of new trends in British painting, recited Shakespeare, even joked about how twist dancing was reshaping youth culture. The mood was warm and amicable.

As the port agent prepared to leave, he said, “If you run into trouble at the port, just come to me.”

Bei sighed. “There is trouble—but it's not something I can say aloud.”

The agent gripped his hand firmly. “Nonsense. It can stay in this room between us.”

Bei lowered his voice. “It's the talc powder.”

“I know—two hundred tons, isn't it?”

“Yes. To protect it, I stowed it over the refrigerated hatch covers.”

The agent winced. “That's a serious dilemma… what would you propose?”

“I'd like to speak with the foreman.”

“Do you know him well? If not, let me try something first—I can speak to the union leader directly and ask him to see you.”

“I'll go myself.”

But when Bei visited, the union leader only shook his head like a rattle. “This is about workers' rights. The union stands firm.”

“Other ports don't have such a rule.”

“This port,” the leader replied, “takes labor protection very seriously.”

Bei Hanting nodded. He agreed, praising the union's many achievements and speaking with such extensive knowledge that the union leader softened to him. On the issue of unloading talc, he explained, the Hanchuan was ready to provide every safeguard—masks, face covers, whatever was needed.

The union leader hesitated. “Well… perhaps… we can try.”

Bei Hanting leaned in. “If you're willing to help, it will surely succeed. Do you know why London merchants buy talc powder all the way from China?”

“Why?”

“Because the talc from Qingdao is high quality and carefully packaged. I loaded it on the hatch covers myself—not a single bag was broken. And do you know what talc powder is used for? Cosmetics. Face powder, rouge, the finest products. Your women are so beautiful, and they've used powder since ancient times—yet how healthy they are!”

The union leader's stern face began to show a trace of a smile.

“When friends and relatives in your country greet one another, it's customary to kiss each other on the cheek. Think about how much face powder—how much talc—you come into contact with every single day. And yet, how healthy you all are!”

Everyone burst out laughing.

“Then, may I go speak with the workers?” Bei Hanting asked.

“No, let me,” the union leader said quickly. “It's better if I go.”

From the deck window, Bei watched anxiously as the leader moved among the workers, clapping shoulders and talking. Then, all at once, the sound of loud, unrestrained laughter rolled across the dock. The workers were doubled over, shaking with mirth. At last, Bei's heart settled.

The port agent gave him a thumbs-up. “Remarkable, Captain Bei!”

“It's thanks to old friends like you,” Bei replied.

“Then why don't you look happier?”

“We have many more ships carrying talc powder still to come.”

The agent threw up both hands. “This one ship of yours nearly split my head open!”

“But isn't the reasoning the same?”

“Why trouble yourself with other people's ships?”

“Because every one of them sails under the five-starred red flag!”

The agent scratched his head. “Well... I suppose I can try.”

“It will definitely succeed—British workers are the most reasonable.”

After repeated negotiations, they finally prevailed. From then on, every shipment of talc powder carried under the five-starred red flag—so long as the packaging was intact—would be unloaded at London without exception.

I won't linger on how much foreign exchange this saved the country with each voyage. Readers can calculate that for themselves—tens of thousands, even hundreds of thousands. What matters more is this: how a decade of political storms transformed Bei Hanting from merely a capable captain into a true master. He carried not only the responsibility for his ship but for his people. It was the hard lessons and deep reflection of those ten years—shared by countless “masters” across the nation—that kept pushing him forward, ever forward.

“A Deng Xiaoping-Style Captain”

The establishment of diplomatic ties between China and the United States, followed soon after by Comrade Deng Xiaoping's historic visit to America, created a tremendous stir. With the new China–US shipping route opening, the company chose to put its “finest steel to the sharpest edge”: Captain Bei Hanting was entrusted with the inaugural voyage and transferred to the Liulinhai.

Yet even after his departure, the Hanchuan's name was still linked with his. At nearly every port along its routes, people asked after him. Some sent greetings, others passed along messages from friends, many simply raised their thumbs in admiration: “If only all your Chinese captains were like him.”

Comrade Zhen Yongxiang, acting captain and chief officer of the Hanchuan, recalled that at the Port of Hamburg, tally supervisor Cook and Mr. Willy of the stevedoring company even called Bei Hanting a “Deng Xiaoping-style captain.”

Why such high praise? Surely not just because Deng Xiaoping's first visit to America happened to coincide with Bei Hanting's first voyage there. Of course not. The chief officer and sailors were eager to explain with stories of their own.

Once, they recalled, as the Hanchuan neared the Port of Alexandria to unload cargo, tension mounted. At the gateway to the Suez Canal, hundreds of ships from around the world often waited for berths, and a vessel could be stranded there for weeks. Anticipating this, Bei Hanting began phoning the port agent long before arrival, ensuring that the name Hanchuan would lodge firmly in the minds of every official who mattered. He also turned to what he called his “memory warehouse”—carefully kept notebooks recording names, ages, temperaments, quirks, and working styles of the very people he would soon have to deal with on shore.

After arriving, he went directly to the port authority to see the director. With a familiar greeting, he slipped past the gate guards and was soon speaking with the director as though they were old friends, chatting easily about family matters. Only then did he raise his request for expedited loading and unloading. The director chuckled and teased, “What's the hurry? You Chinese are never so concerned about schedules.”

“Says who?” Bei countered. “We're working toward the Four Modernizations now—every second counts!”

The director regarded him with the smile of a familiar friend. And so, step by step, Bei handled every official he needed to meet, completing procedures at lightning speed. The Hanchuan passed smoothly through the crowded berths of brightly painted ships from every nation and, as the old saying goes, “set sail for a distant voyage,” saving more than twenty days of travel. His maneuvering was swift and precise—not just the work of a captain, but the strategy of a seasoned general.

Together with the Hanchuan, they had purchased four ships from abroad. During the warranty period, condensation appeared in the refrigerated holds, dampening the cargo. Captain Bei documented everything with care: he photographed the damage, obtained signed certificates from surveyors at different ports, and even marked the condensation spots with paint—then demanded the ships be returned to the factory for repairs.

“Please, take a look at my ship,” Bei requested.

“Your ship's insulation is top-grade—world-class material,” the engineer replied.

“World-class material that somehow caused unprecedented condensation?”

“Theoretically, there's no error in the design.”

“Practically,” Bei shot back, “the condensation has already ruined the cargo.”

The engineer came armed with hundreds of pages of theory, while Bei Hanting countered with stack upon stack of photographs and signed reports from surveyors.

Frustrated, the engineer snapped: “Without theoretical evidence, we won't authorize repairs—this is international practice, spelled out in the contract.”

Bei Hanting's temper flared. “Put down those piles of paperwork! I'll stay up for nights on end if I have to, but I'll find the evidence. You won't intimidate me!”

The engineer was as deep and elusive as the sea, but Bei was as unyielding as a reef. In the end, the sea receded, leaving only Bei—and the discarded documents—standing firm.

So Bei Hanting, with nothing but persistence and intuition, set himself against the cold weight of technical data. This was, after all, a matter of highly specialized ship refrigeration—thermodynamics, mechanics, steel, insulation, and more than a dozen related fields. Yet human judgment still had one decisive advantage: initiative. Bei sifted through the figures, searching for a pattern, until he finally caught hold of the core contradiction.

Why was the insulation everywhere else in the freezer 180 millimeters thick, but at the beam sections only 90 millimeters thick? Half the thickness—how could that be reasonable? At once he sprang up, rushed down to the hold, and checked the spot himself. The painted marks lined up in rows, and sure enough, condensation appeared exactly where the beams were.

The engineer was called back. He examined the evidence, first nodding, then shaking his head in disbelief. “Never thought of it—never thought the problem was here!”

The solution was obvious: repairs. The shipyard workers worked several nights in a row, adding both a new layer of insulation and a fresh layer of decking. This ship was fixed, but what about the others? The engineer wouldn't listen; therefore, Bei Hanting went to see the general manager.

The general manager said, “Those two ships were already inspected and signed off by both parties—they're exempt from any further repairs.”

Bei Hanting said, “But isn't the reasoning the same for all the ships?”

The general manager said, “Do you know how many US dollars your one ship's repair cost me? Over 200,000!”

“I'm very sorry,” Bei Hanting said. “I know claiming repairs for four ships means great losses for the factory. But if they're not repaired properly, those three ships sailing around the world would be like doing live advertising for your factory. Wouldn't your losses be even greater then?”

The general manager first shook his head, then nodded, finally raising his head to size up this small Captain Bei, beginning to admire this capable master. A first-class mind matched with iron resolve—what an unyielding figure! In the end, the shipyard had to spend 720,000 U.S. dollars to repair the refrigerated holds of all four ships.

The sailors also admired Captain Bei for the way he handled the matter of the ship's heavy crane.

In Italy—at the Port of Genoa, it seems—the harbor had no shore cranes available at the time. By habit, the port simply relied on the ship's own large crane. Consequently, it had become routine: whenever a Chinese ship docked, its crane was used, free of charge.

But Bei Hanting had studied port regulations carefully and realized this was unreasonable. He raised the issue with the port agent:

“Shouldn't the cargo owner pay a fee? After all, when we bought this ship, the heavy crane alone cost one-tenth of the vessel's price. Using our crane, our manpower, wearing down our steel cables—how is it fair that we charge nothing?”

The agent replied, “But no one's ever paid before!”

“Just because it hasn't been done before doesn't make it right,” Bei countered.

The next day, the agent returned with the news: the cargo owner had agreed. If he refused to pay for the ship's crane, he would have been forced to hire a shore crane instead—which would cost money anyway and require a long wait.

The first crane fee was obtained—several tens of thousands in foreign exchange. After receiving it, Bei Hanting immediately demanded that it be put in writing and institutionalized as a system.

After obtaining the written materials, Bei Hanting negotiated with the agent on behalf of the company, demanding that all Chinese ships be handled this way from then on.

The agent said, “For your ship, I guarantee it will be like this every time, but for other ships…”

Bei Hanting replied, “Isn't the logic the same?”

The negotiations ended with a written contract from the port authority. Bei Hanting immediately sent the document back to Shanghai, so the company could report to headquarters and push for the same policy at other ports worldwide.

How meticulous, how scientific—purely the logic of a scientist! Yet at the same time, how flexible, how resourceful—worthy of a seasoned diplomat.

Alas, I cannot set down here all the stories told to me by the political commissar, the chief officer, and the sailors. I can only record the admiration in their eyes and the praise in their voices:

At sea, Bei Hanting is like an immovable reef.

On shore, he is like steel, tempered a thousand times.

At the helm, he moves with grace.

In his hands, the Hanchuan is no mere ship, but a ballet dancer—elegant, poised, utterly captivating.

The sailors are used to it—no matter how fierce the wind or waves, no one bothers to report to him anymore. If someone were to say, “Force 9 winds, Captain!” he would simply glance at the sea and reply calmly, “Force 9? Still manageable.” “Force 8 waves, Captain!”—again, the same impassive look: “Force 8? Still manageable.” Bei Hanting knew well the importance of a captain's composure, so the crew stopped mentioning wind and wave conditions to him at all.

But I, as an outsider, a layman, couldn't resist asking again and again: “You always say it is 'still manageable'—but at what point would the ship actually sink?”

Bei Hanting thought for a moment before answering: “No wind or waves, however strong, can sink a ten-thousand-ton vessel. Only structural damage can sink a ship. And only a captain who understands neither ships nor the sea would let that happen.”

What a declaration: Only a captain who understands neither ships nor the sea will sink a ship!

And how fitting that in English the word master means not only a ship's captainsomebody highly skilled. Indeed, Bei Hanting is a master of his craft. In that sense, one could say Deng Xiaoping as a national leader and Bei Hanting as a captain both embodied this form of mastery—each supremely proficient in his field, each weathering storms with calm and resolve, each embodying the indomitable spirit of a true master. No wonder Bei Hanting was honored with the title of “a Deng Xiaoping–style captain.” Who could deny that Mr. Cook and the others were perceptive in saying so?

Seamanship  

“SOS! SOS! SOS!” The Cyprus merchant ship Irinoos Hop continuously sent emergency distress calls.

Captain Ikoios, watching over this old, 28-year-old ship—struck by a force 9 gale, its main engine disabled, the entire vessel out of control, the seabed valve cracked and damaged, seawater flooding the engine room up to neck level—decided to issue abandon-ship distress signals.

“SOS! SOS! SOS!”

All crew members, along with one family member, had boarded the lifeboats. The small craft was tossed straight up and down by enormous waves, completely without navigational ability. Through binoculars they glimpsed the shadow of a distant ship—sailors stared with their lives hanging on that sight—but the dark outline gradually disappeared. Perhaps the wind and waves were too fierce, and that ship too was in danger and unable to come closer.

Another dark shadow sailed away in the distance, then another… perhaps these were nothing more than mirages born of their own desperate hopes. The crew had lost all confidence in their rescue…

“Beep-beep-beep, dah-dah-dah, beep-beep-beep!” A young radio operator on the Hanchuan suddenly received “SOS” distress signals during the howling storm.

Bei Hanting leaped up immediately, went to the chart room to determine the distressed ship's position, and ordered: “All crew to stations for rescue preparation!”

“Hard rudder! Full speed ahead!”

The VHF radio continuously called: “Irinoos Hop! This is the Chinese ship Hanchuan! Coming to rescue, please respond, please respond!”

Complete silence. The distressed ship had long lost all ability to communicate.

When the Hanchuan neared the distressed vessel, they saw its hull already listing more than thirty degrees to starboard, the stern sinking. In extreme danger, the ship was silently going down, swallowed by the raging wind and snow.

When the Hanchuan drew close to the lifeboat, a massive wave hurled it back against the side of the sinking ship. Four times they tried to approach; four times they were driven away. Bei Hanting ordered them to circle and wait nearby. Only after more than an hour, on the fifth attempt, did veteran sailor Wang Jingyuan's thick nylon heaving line—held ready in his hand—fly like an arrow through wind and snow and land in the grip of the distressed sailors.

Only then did Bei Hanting have a moment to answer the calls coming in from across the eastern Mediterranean—Said Port, Malta, Athens, Cyprus radio stations, and nearby vessels: “This is the Chinese Hanchuan. The crew of the Irinoos Hop has safely boarded my ship. Please rest assured, thank you…”

However, Ikoios, the captain of the Irinoos Hop, was unwilling to board the Hanchuan. He and three crew members remained in their small boat, insisting again and again on returning to their distressed ship.

Bei Hanting shouted through the wind and waves: “It's dangerous! Dangerous!”

But seeing the captain's persistence—and recognizing that, seated in his own lifeboat, he was still the master of the Irinoos Hop with the right to make his own decision—Bei could only offer comfort: “As a captain, I understand your situation and your feelings very well. I will stand guard nearby! Stand guard nearby!”

The small boat rose and fell with the peaks and troughs of the waves, swaying as it drifted away. The Hanchuan kept patrolling and circling close at hand.

After 17:00, night was about to fall. A force 9 northwest wind swept waves and snow into the darkening sky; the gale whirled over the vast white sea, while the waves roared and howled. Bei Hanting began to worry, using the ship's whistle and loudspeaker to call out to that dutiful captain.

At 17:24, the small boat finally came alongside the Hanchuan again. Bei Hanting personally went onto the deck to welcome his unfortunate Greek colleague. When Ikoios learned that the Hanchuan was bound for London, he repeatedly requested: “Please continue to stay beside the distressed ship, because I must guard it until it sinks. After it sinks, please take me and my crew to land at Crete, Greece.”

Bei Hanting—a captain who had never missed a single day in his navigation log, who had never once paused at a port on a rest day in his race against schedules—now answered without hesitation. Realizing that a drifting, unlit ship near international shipping lanes posed a grave danger to passing vessels, he not only agreed to Ikoios's request but also immediately ordered every deck light switched on. Standing guard beside the wreck, he called out again and again:

“Vessels underway, this is the Chinese Hanchuan! Attention! Three nautical miles off your port side lies an unlit distressed ship. Please ensure safe passage—avoid collision!”

All throughout the night he kept watch, preventing any possible accident, until at last the distressed vessel sank. He did not close his eyes for two full days and nights.

Seamanship—literally translated from Chinese as “the art of the ship”—is often more freely understood by sailors as seamanlike bearing. Yes: people have their bearing, ships have their bearing, and nations have their bearing.

“Foreigners can't all come to our country to get to know our nation,” Bei Hanting often told his crew. “They come to understand China through each of us sailors. China is an ancient civilization of five thousand years, liberated for thirty years, with lofty prestige… We must firmly remember this, and remember it at every moment.”

He said this, and he lived it. So it was no surprise that after the crew of the Irinoos Hop was rescued, every one of them felt the bearing of China. Pakistani crew member Mohammed said: “When we were completely desperate, we saw a ship coming from afar—but only when we saw the five-pointed star on its hull did the fire of hope rekindle…” Three crew members who had once been to China said: “It had to be the Chinese who would rescue us! And yes, you came! In such a storm, you guarded us for two full days and nights—how dangerous that was!”

Sri Lankan crew member Bire said: “When I return, I will tell my family, relatives, and friends that the Chinese saved me! When you were circling and patrolling around us, we all knew we had nothing to fear. The Chinese were waiting and protecting us! I will never forget this as long as I live, and my children and grandchildren will never forget either.”

Greek chief engineer Athonidis Konno, the oldest crew member aboard, asked to use the ship's radio telephone to call home. When he heard his wife's voice, he wept so hard he could not speak. Only after more than ten minutes did he manage to say, haltingly: “You must have heard I was in distress… Don't worry… the Chinese saved us… and the captain, the political commissar, dined with us at the same table.”

Greek chief steward Freddy Benderis said: “You not only saved me, you also saved my wife. She will give birth in eight days. If it is a son, we will definitely name him Hanchuan—Hanchuan!”

Seamanship, seamanship—people have their bearing, ships have their bearing, nations have their bearing! May each of us remember this always, at every moment.

The Captain's Troubles

I looked at Bei Hanting's cheerful face—how happy he seemed! This expert who had mastered his profession, this captain of great prestige on the international shipping routes—could he too have troubles?

He pondered a moment, then sighed: “I'm 53 years old, in my prime, I should be having the best of times. But sometimes I have to keep one eye open and one eye closed…”

The comrades nearby—both crew members and work group colleagues—chimed in: “These days, who doesn't want to roll up their sleeves and get things done! But there are so many things holding us back!”

Plenty of examples came up at once. Some crew members are unqualified and refuse to follow instructions. If you are strict with them, they use factional connections to file complaints against you, while those in power remain their “buddies.” Didn't the XX ship have such a sailor? He went around thumping his chest, boasting: “Hmph! The captain criticized me and told me to leave the ship… but three days later it was the captain who was forced off instead. His words were just empty talk!”

Consider also the XX Province Maritime Bureau. They purchased two ships through the Hong Kong Merchants Bureau and, lacking sailors, had to hire foreign crews—at enormous cost in foreign exchange—to bring them back. When Bei Hanting and the Hanchuan happened to be in Hong Kong, he immediately suggested dividing off 28 of his own 62 crew members to handle the task. Yet the proposal was buried in endless rounds of reporting, repeated requests for instructions, and layers of “study.” By the time the paperwork crawled its way through, the deadline had already passed.

Think of the cargo we carry every day. Everyone knows it represents food saved from people's mouths, clothes saved from their backs. For that reason, the Hanchuan exhausted every means to earn and save foreign exchange for the nation—like young Yang, who knocked out his own front teeth but kept fighting. There are countless examples like this. But once the foreign exchange is brought home, is every coin used for the Four Modernizations? Why, then, is so much squandered so casually, so carelessly?

And these are only a few instances. Who among us has not run into situations where even after stamping seventeen or eighteen official seals, a single problem still cannot be solved? People long for fewer officials who shuffle responsibility aside, and more true masters who are willing to shoulder heavy burdens.

Therefore, I told this story. I told the story of a growing youth, but definitely not just for youth; I told a sailor's story, but definitely not just for sailors; I told a captain's story, but definitely not just for captains...

Then for whom did I tell it? For you, my motherland! Ah, my dear motherland that has experienced great joy and pain; my motherland advancing toward the Four Modernizations yet facing countless difficulties! I told it to you—did you hear? Did you hear? Ah, my motherland, the motherland that bore and raised me...

(Originally published in People’s Literature, Issue 11, 1979)

Infatuation

Li You

In our ancient and refined civilization, propriety dictated that women's bodies remain concealed. By contrast, Westerners embraced nudity—a practice that to us seemed at once erotic and uncivilized.

So picture this: a Chinese artist daring to take up his brush to paint several young women, fully nude—their flesh luminous, their breasts firm, their waists slender, their forms graceful. And picture this painting not hidden away in a studio or locked in a chest, but hung high on the wall of a bustling public hall, plainly visible to all.

Artist—have you considered what you've done? Some will shrink away, hiding their faces as if you had stripped them bare yourself. Others will glare in outrage, as though you had profaned their sisters. Wait and see—curses and protests will fly like snow. You may even find yourself hauled before a tribunal, as the Venetian painter Veronese once was in the sixteenth century, charged with heresy for placing secular figures in a sacred scene. Tell us—are you boldly inspired, or recklessly mad?

And yet—at this very moment, he was painting.

At that moment, he stood in a vast new hall, brush in hand, studying the unfinished canvas with stern, critical eyes. His clothes were rumpled, his bare chest stained with blotches of paint. His hair, long and heavy, surged upward like a dark tide before falling in a cascade, framing a face of hard lines and uncompromising resolve—like a statue carved in stone.

Who are you, artist? From what world have you come, and toward what vision do you strive?

The Southbound Train

Late winter, with a gentle wind and warm sun. Beijing Railway Station.

In those days, Beijing Station was not as crowded as it is now. The platform was clean, the walkways bright, the carriages seemed spacious. A young woman carrying a travel bag boarded the hard sleeper car and sat down by the window.

She immediately drew the attention of the passengers. She was strikingly beautiful—so young, so simple, yet radiantly charming. She wore a well-tailored cotton jacket beneath a light gray-and-blue checked coat. Tall and slender, with a fair complexion and soft, fluffy short hair, she carried herself with quiet elegance. Her eyes sparkled with flowing light like those of a delicate Jiangnan woman, yet her lips curved with a trace of stubbornness, carrying the unique charm of a northern daughter…

The train pulled out, heading south from Beijing. The journey to Pukou would take about a day and a half.

Passengers sank into their own sorrows—partings, homesickness, unspoken thoughts. The woman by the window also sat in silence, wondering how she might pass so many long hours.

From a corner of the carriage came bursts of laughter and lively discussion—a little island of language and cheer had formed there. Curious, the woman walked over and saw a group gathered around a young man with charcoal pencils and a sketch pad, capturing the portrait of a railway mechanic in uniform.

In his hands, an ordinary paintbrush became a wand of magic. With just a few strokes he captured the mechanic's features and expression, astonishingly lifelike. For most onlookers, likeness itself is the highest standard of painting, and those quick strokes were enough to win the admiration of half the carriage.

He has some skill, the woman thought silently. Her gaze shifted from the portrait to the young man himself and saw only a blur of black: a black cotton jacket, black cotton pants, black shoes, and a tangle of black, unkempt hair—blocks of heavy shadow, like lead, obscuring him from her view. Yet there was one exception. The buttons of his cotton jacket were not fastened properly, and from the gap protruded the collar of a burgundy undershirt, askew and strikingly conspicuous.

This woman naturally preferred elegant colors and most disliked black—especially when paired with something overly bright. The clash of two extreme tones on the young man made her recoil. A third-rate artist who can't even coordinate his own clothing colors—what business does he have learning to paint! Look at that slovenly appearance. Probably just a technical school student, growing a little mustache to look older. Ridiculous!

She turned away primly. A female conductor appeared in the carriage, helping passengers arrange their luggage and tidy the space. Spotting the woman seated by the window, the conductor walked over.

“Comrade, you didn't buy a sleeper ticket?”

The woman nodded.

“That's fine,” the conductor said warmly. “You look uncomfortable sitting here, and it's inconvenient for others passing by. This carriage still has empty berths—please come with me…”

The woman obediently followed the conductor to a corner of the carriage, set down her travel bag, and had only just sat when she frowned. That same irritating mass of black was blocking her view again.

Of course—the scruffy artist also hadn't bought a sleeper ticket and had been sent here by the conductor. Now he leaned against the opposite berth, sketch pad still in hand, watching the mountains, rivers, and fields flash past the window while he scribbled in his notebook.

The woman deliberately turned her head away. After a while, though, she could not resist glancing at the sketch pad. Her bearing remained dignified and composed. A grown woman facing a man who seemed younger than herself naturally carried a sense of condescension; the different rates of maturity between the sexes only heightened her feeling of superiority. She examined the young man's lines with the appraising gaze of an elder. Her eyes seemed to say: The train is running so fast—what could you possibly be drawing?

The young man closed his sketch pad, looked up, and smiled at her. “Which station are you getting off at?”

“Pukou,” the woman said.

“Business trip? Or visiting relatives?”

The woman shook her head. “No, I'm in school—Suzhou Medical College.”

He blinked. “Before departure, I saw at the station a boy and girl seeing you off—your younger brother and sister?”

The woman nodded.

“Why didn't any adults come to see you off?”

A trace of sadness crossed the woman's face. “They're no longer here…”

He asked gently, with concern, “How…?”

“My parents served in the army. Later, both gave their lives. My younger siblings are cared for as martyrs' children and were sent to Beijing to attend school. I used the winter break to visit them…”

“Ah!” he said with feeling. “No wonder you siblings have such a close relationship.”

The woman thought for a moment, suddenly realizing the other party had been observing her carefully from early on, watching quite closely, while she knew nothing about him, just answering one-sided questions—this was rather unfair.

She blurted out, “Where are you going?”

“Nantong, back to my hometown for a visit,” he said.

“You're a technical school student?”

“No.”

“University student?”

“No. Graduated long ago.”

“Which school did you graduate from?”

“Central Academy of Fine Arts.”

“Ah!” the woman seemed to understand. “No wonder you draw so well!”

He smiled. “Capturing a likeness isn't too difficult—what matters is the spirit. Spiritual resemblance surpasses physical resemblance. We emphasize expressing the spirit through form…”

“So I don't understand art…” she murmured.

“I guess you must like art.”

“Yes. I enjoy looking—looking at paintings and reading books.”

They began to talk about art, moving from aesthetics to literature, where they found even more to share. Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, Balzac's Old Goriot, Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre, Stendhal's The Red and the Black… one title followed another.

A speeding train, a long journey, two young people of the same generation—why must one have met before in order to be acquainted? In life, how many stories of joyful meetings and sorrowful partings are drawn together by the heavy thread that crisscrosses the earth!

The woman leaned on the little table by the window, resting her chin on her hand, listening intently, watching his expression. He no longer seemed a scruffy youth, but a strong, confident man—by age, he should in fact be several years older than she. Why had he seemed so different before? Ah, men's ages are difficult to guess…

Guided by her instinctive sensitivity, the woman suddenly felt shy, embarrassed, and a little uneasy. The condescending arrogance she had shown earlier was gone, replaced by a faint, hazy admiration. She looked again at his attire—the clashing black and red no longer seemed so offensive. His cotton jacket was still black, the undershirt collar still crooked, his hair still untidy; yet in her eyes, these had become the marks of a bachelor so devoted to art he had no time to care for himself. They stirred in her a tender sympathy. He looks like a man of ambition and talent!

He took out a drawing board, spread a sheet of paper, and said to her, “Please allow me to sketch you.”

The woman nodded. He worked slowly, cautiously—the more he wanted the drawing to succeed, the more nervous he grew, and the pencil seemed to betray him, awkward as if in the hands of a novice. At last, after a long while, he said apologetically, “Sorry, I didn't draw it well…”

She took the sketch and looked—her cheeks flushed with two rosy clouds. Compared to the mechanic's portrait, this was much weaker; the stiff lines were all missteps. Frankly, he had even made her look unattractive. Am I like this? she wondered, with good reason to protest.

But instead she forgave him with a sweet smile. In truth, she did not even want him to be too calm, too composed, as though sketching a studio model. She no longer cared so much about “physical resemblance.” What mattered now was that she “spiritually understood” his inspiration.

In the corner of the paper was a signature and date: Yuan Yunsheng, drawn in February 1964.

He offered, “Let me give this to you.”

The woman said, “Thank you, I'll keep it as a memento.”

“Look, I was so careless I forgot to ask your name,” he added. “Could you write down your address for correspondence?”

The woman smiled. “I'm Zhang Lanying.” She wrote her address in his sketch pad.

When the train reached Pukou, they were already like old friends. Between an artistic medical student and a dedicated artist, there were many shared qualities to be found. Fellow passengers assumed they had long known each other, treating them as a couple and referring to them as “you two” when bidding farewell.

He accompanied the woman to the bank of the Yangtze, where the damp wind blew off the river's surface. At last the moment of parting came—neither wished to leave. Lanying looked at Yuan Yunsheng with tender, lingering eyes—a gaze that said everything. As clear as the sky, as deep as the river…

Pretty girl, aren't you being too sentimental? Do you understand him? This love-at-first-sight story, spun along the Beijing–Pukou railway line and the winding Yangtze River, seems all too hasty.

The Goddess of the Luo River

One brilliantly bright day in the 1950s, a tender young hand gripped a paintbrush, carefully laying oil on linen canvas. On it appeared a serious little girl, imitating her sister's movements as she tied a bright red scarf around her neck.

This oil painting was sent from Nantong, Jiangsu, to Beijing as part of an application to the nation's highest art academy. It carried with it not only the young artist's shining artistic talent but also his crystal-clear heart. The work was titled When I Grow Up, I'll Be Like My Sister, by Yuan Yunsheng.

At first glance, one might think its author had a delicate, gentle, girlish temperament. In reality, it was quite the opposite—he was stubborn and unrestrained, like a spirited young horse. Yuan had loved painting since childhood, deeply influenced by his father, a middle school teacher in Nantong who devoted his spare time to collecting art. Every New Year's Eve, his father would hang a fresh selection of Chinese and foreign paintings on the wall, transforming their home into a miniature exhibition with the air of a literary salon. This family collection provided Yuan with his first artistic enlightenment.

As he grew older, he joined activities at the Nantong City Cultural Center, where he attended lectures, learned sketching, and created his first works—laying the foundation for his artistic journey.

When he applied to the Central Academy of Fine Arts, his father worried: “This child was born with a stubborn temperament—it's concerning.” But his brother, Yuan Yunfu, also an artist, kept encouraging him: “Go for it—artists need personality.”

In the summer of 1955, the Central Academy of Fine Arts announced its new admissions—Yuan Yunsheng ranked first.

If his application work could be placed within an artistic school, it would belong to the Soviet Peredvizhniki (Wanderers) movement. This progressive school emerged in 19th-century Russia, imitating life, emphasizing subject matter, and focusing on narrative—a painting like a novel or a drama. Artistically, it inherited Rembrandt's realist tradition while absorbing the Impressionists' achievements in light and color. After the October Revolution, it rose to supreme status in Soviet art and was reverently imported into China, like pilgrims carrying a sacred Buddha statue home.

Of course, at seventeen Yuan Yunsheng had no grasp of the deeper philosophies of Soviet Peredvizhniki painting—much less of the way artistic schools were bound to political schools.

He was more like a young deer running free in the wilderness of art, plunging headlong into the embrace of the Peredvizhniki.

The academy soon took notice of him. His background was good (a rarity at the time) and his exam results outstanding. Sitting in the first-year classroom, haloed by both political credentials and artistic promise, he was elected Youth League committee member—clearly a model of being both “red” and “expert.” Hardworking and relentless, he approached everything with stubborn determination. Under the Soviet teaching methods then in place, he underwent rigorous training.

He worked with H-type hard pencils, sharpened to the finest point, sketching from male and female models. The models—some nude, some clothed—were hired at high wages, posed under carefully arranged lighting, and held their positions with absolute patience. First came the outline, then the division of light and shadow. A full day's work might produce only half a head; the next day, under the same conditions, the process continued.

From time to time, a middle-aged man with a prominent nose and deep-set eyes, dressed in a Western suit, would stroll past—the hired expert. Whenever he stopped behind Yuan Yunsheng, his expression often showed quiet satisfaction. Yuan's sketches and oil painting assignments consistently received top marks, and were sometimes hung in classrooms or corridors for other students to study.

That same year, Beijing hosted a national conference on sketch and oil painting instruction, promoting the Soviet Chistiakov system. Yuan Yunsheng's half-length portrait of a Chinese woman was selected for exhibition, presented as a model example of the Soviet art “factory” transplanted onto Chinese soil.

The Soviet expert's favorite, the pride of the oil painting department—his path seemed smooth, his prospects bright. He buried himself in painting from morning to night, hands never still, like a devout believer prostrating before the idols of art, praying that his own soul might ascend to that temple, to sit on rose-wreathed thrones and wear crowns of pearl. For oil painting majors at that time, this was the highest ideal.

But naïve faith is fragile, like a mansion built on thin foundations—easily toppled, and once toppled, bringing endless anguish.

And anguish came—brought on by himself.

One morning, hearing of an art exhibition in the auditorium, he went to see it. Before frame after frame of reproduced oil paintings, he stopped, cast a calm glance—and felt as though an electric current had shot through him. His heart swayed, his blood boiled.

They were the works of the European Post-Impressionist painter Vincent van Gogh. Ordinary, simple scenes: fields, a haystack, evening bells ringing in the slanting sunset, sunflowers in pottery jars. Portraits, too, of common people: a postman, a miner, a farmer cutting grass, prisoners taking air. In these unpretentious scenes the artist had poured his strongest emotions—intense as wine, burning like flames.

Look—those irregular trees bristled with a rebellious, untamed spirit. The rolling earth seemed to whisper of suffering. Upon the faces of ordinary people, he had poured his deepest affection. Even the still life of sunflowers seemed alive, their chaotic petals stretching into frozen space like groping tentacles—grasping, swaying, relentlessly searching.

This was not mere painting—it was the cry of life, the embodiment of character. Every line, every block of color surged with force, coursing through unseen channels, seizing the viewer, overwhelming them, sweeping them into vast whirlpools of emotion.

Yuan Yunsheng left the auditorium, steps staggering like a drunk man, like someone wounded—his heart pierced by a sharp art arrow. Returning to his dormitory, he collapsed on his bed. The Soviet Chistiakov system honor student instantly became a Western European Post-Impressionist captive—ironically.

The dormitory door opened and his roommate came in. Seeing Yuan Yunsheng's pale face and weary expression, he asked in surprise, “Yunsheng, what's wrong?”

“I just saw the Van Gogh exhibition,” Yuan Yunsheng said, sitting up. “The works of the Soviet Peredvizhniki never stirred me like this…”

He poured out his thoughts. The strength of Soviet painting theory, he believed, lay in its insistence on placing objects under precise lighting, observing subtle gradations of color with meticulous care, and describing them faithfully. This was the foundation of all painting, and mastering it was essential. But beyond that foundation, the next step had to be breaking free, moving forward—not locking oneself in a prison of rules.

His words were true. Looking across the history of art, every school has passed through its cycle of emergence, growth, flourishing, decline, and renewal. The Soviet Peredvizhniki school had its rightful place—no one could deny it. But to elevate it to the heavens and enforce it through administrative decree produced the opposite effect, suffocating art and bringing disaster. In fact, during the 1950s artists everywhere—even in the Soviet Union—were running forward, exploring, innovating. And what were we doing?

Yuan Yunsheng burst out passionately: “We trail behind others, picking up what they've already thrown away!”

His close friends understood his character and sympathized with his views, but they worried for him. At a time when a society of hundreds of millions bowed before Soviet idols, his words bordered on blasphemy.

From then on, he grew restless—a tame Volga deer suddenly revealing the spirit of a wild colt. Beyond his routine assignments, he painted on impulse, with unruly techniques, as though chasing some distant, elusive vision.

And at last, he found his inspiration—astonishingly close at hand.

From the Central Academy's campus at Shuaifu Garden, it was only a short walk—about half a kilometer, through the traffic circle linking Wangfujing with Dongdan—to the East Gate of the Forbidden City. In those days, art students enjoyed special privileges: a student ID alone was enough to grant them free entry into that once-forbidden garden of China's ancient art.

Here, he saw Chen Hongshou's Bo Gu Ye Zi from the Ming dynasty, Zhang Zeduan's Along the River During Qingming Festival from the Northern Song, and originals by many masters of the Tang…

But what he loved most was Eastern Jin painter Gu Kaizhi's masterpiece The Goddess of the Luo River. The long scroll, with its romantic conception, was boundlessly imaginative! In the painted scenery, mountains and rivers appeared mysterious, the mood expansive; in the painted figures, lifelike forms seemed to soar through the air. Physical resemblance? Spiritual resemblance? Between likeness and abstraction, there leapt divine thought.

He pressed his gaze close to the scroll—those brushstrokes, enduring for over a thousand years, were like silkworms spinning silk: delicate, flowing, alive. He thought of Soviet oil painting theory, which denied the very existence of line. Yet in China's own painting tradition, concise and refined lines revealed a superior, incomparable charm.

Standing in that ancient, magnificently decorated hall, he felt a torrential river of art rushing before his eyes, his thoughts drifting outward like strands of gossamer. If fashionable Western art and ancient Eastern art were two distant poles, then something invisible seemed to connect them. Ah—now he understood. While we clung stubbornly to the past, chasing after distant models, the spirits and demons of modern Western art—abstract, fauvist, modernist, futurist—had quietly drawn marrow from the essence of Eastern art, absorbing its nourishment and growing stronger. That was the secret.

Motherland—motherland—your art is not water, not wine, not milk, but the nectar of the gods!

Tiger Hill

After parting from Yuan Yunsheng at Pukou, Lanying returned to Suzhou for school. Before long, a gentle March arrived. Spring breezes swept across the city, tender willows unfurled their first yellow-green shoots—the famed land of small bridges and flowing water lifted its light veil like a maiden, brimming with tenderness and infinite charm.

Her own mood, too, was as bright as the awakening spring.

A letter soon arrived from Nantong—his flowing handwriting, in her words, looked “quite sophisticated!” He recalled their unforgettable meeting on the train and confessed his longing for her. He added that his parents and brothers wished to meet her—and asked, if she had a photograph, would she please send one?

Lanying did not hesitate. She opened her photo album, chose a small portrait, slipped it into a brief reply, and mailed it to Nantong. Such a simple act carried uncommon weight—like the shortest wave sending the strongest signal, it made clear: she had given herself to him.

Her upbringing had taught her to make her own decisions. Born in Shandong and raised in Jiangnan, she lost her parents early and grew up following the army—wherever they went became her home, and she learned to be self-reliant. Over the years, she was surrounded by warmth from collectives and female companions, free from rigid constraints. Perhaps this constant care, even indulgence, also helped shape her stubborn character.

Now she felt a new sensation, brighter and sweeter than anything before, as though she were happier than everyone around her. A beloved now lived in her heart, and she secretly savored the unspoken joy of first love. She even pictured the surprise—and envy—of her companions once her secret came to light. In their eyes, her standards had always been impossibly high: with her family background and striking beauty, no male classmate had ever dared to pursue her. To win her affection was no simple thing.

And what a romantic story it was—no parents' orders, no matchmaker's words, but a chance meeting on a journey, love at first sight, sweeping in like a whirlwind. It filled her with longing for the beautiful life ahead.

She spun sweet visions of the future while anxiously awaiting a reply from Nantong. Had he received her letter? What would his parents think when they saw her photo? Would they find her too pretty, or perhaps not pleasing enough? It was impossible to know… Her heart was like Jiangnan's March weather—oscillating between warm and cool, sunny one moment, raining the next.

The school was busy preparing for the March 8th Women's Day celebrations. As the class entertainment committee member, Lanying shouldered major responsibilities—arranging programs, designing bulletin boards, decorating the venue. Time passed quickly.

On the day of the celebration, as the curtains rose and all eyes turned to the stage, someone suddenly called her name: the entertainment committee member was wanted on the phone. Lanying picked up the receiver, surprised and overjoyed—it was Yuan Yunsheng, calling from the school's reception office.

Trying to contain her excitement, she mumbled a few vague words to her classmates, then rushed to the school gate like the wind. He stood there, sketch pad in hand as always.

“When did you arrive?” she asked.

“Just off the train. My home leave ended, and I was passing through,” he replied.

“Please, come inside—will you sketch for our celebration?”

“No, I won't go in. I'd like to invite you out for a walk…”

Lanying hesitated. She longed to accept his invitation, yet unease tugged at her. Since reaching young womanhood, she had always spent this day with her female companions. To leave the collective now felt like saying goodbye to a whole stage of life. She thought of school discipline, of her classmates' opinions…

“Where to?” she asked shyly.

“Tiger Hill,” he replied, his expression steady and sure.

When they got off the bus and stood at Tiger Hill's foot, the girl's uneasy mood calmed and relaxed. Compared to Suzhou's narrow gardens, Tiger Hill was spacious and quiet.

Bai Juyi once wrote of Tiger Hill: “The fragrant temple seems not far; enter the garden, and the path winds deep.” Following the stone paths, they wandered into the garden—pines and cypresses rising like clouds, the Sword Pool clear as crystal, thick forests and bamboo groves sheltering terraces and pavilions on the slopes: the Flower Goddess Temple, the Three Smiles Pavilion… The deeper they went, the quieter it grew, as if they had stepped into a gentle dream.

At this moment, for Lanying, this was the first time she had ever been alone with a man. Mysterious ripples stirred in her heart. She felt she had so much to say to him yet could not find where to begin.

Breaking the silence at last, the girl asked, “Did you receive the photo?”

“Yes, I did. Everyone at home liked you after seeing it,” he replied.

But almost at once he changed the subject. He spoke of Suzhou's customs and introduced the modeling arts of Jiangnan. He seemed well acquainted with the region, recalling many historical anecdotes. The girl listened with fascination, deeply impressed by his broad knowledge.

Ahead rose the Tiger Hill Pagoda, its towering spire piercing the blue sky and drifting white clouds, magnificent and mysterious. Lanying and Yuan Yunsheng ran eagerly toward the summit. He extended his strong arms to help her up; pressed so close, they could feel each other's breath and heartbeat. Pines, cypresses, and bamboo swayed behind them, as if offering blessings to this beautiful pair.

Then suddenly, a surge of passion swept over them—they both stopped at the same instant.

Here, in the forest's embrace, all was quiet and deserted. Yuan Yunsheng fixed his gaze on the girl—frank and direct. Lanying blissfully closed her eyes, ready to receive what she believed would be an unforgettable baptism of love.

Golden sunlight filtered through the branches, casting shifting shadows across her face. Her cheeks flushed like roses, her lips like petals just beginning to bloom, more beautiful than ever. What a sincere girl, opening her heart as if it were spotless and clear. Though this was only her second meeting with him, she trusted him—trusted life itself—as she trusted her heart. One embrace, one kiss, and she would be his forever, from this moment until life's last breath…

“Lanying, I must tell you something.” At that moment, his calm voice broke the spell. “The first time, there wasn't time. The second time, it's not too late. When I was in university, I was labeled a 'rightist.' Yes—a 'rightist'!”

In an instant, the forest, the ancient pagoda, everything around them froze in deathly silence.

On the Island

Have you ever been to a small island at sea? Where sky meets water and water meets sky, where clouds drift and scatter, where tides rise and fall. Such an island is a poem—fresh, vivid, full of meaning.

In the spring of 1957, turning into summer, Yuan Yunsheng found himself in just such a poetic setting.

He went to the island for life experience and sketching practice. The Central Academy of Fine Arts required second-year students to spend two months in practical fieldwork; before summer vacation, his classmates had scattered across the country. Only he and one other student chose the island. Lying in the Yellow Sea, it held only a small garrison of soldiers and no residents, covering just a few square kilometers.

For Yuan, the island was a stroke of fortune—a place far removed from worldly noise and strife, an escape from the violent upheavals that were sweeping the mainland.

The islanders lived closest to nature. At dawn each day, he carried his paint box down to the beach, its pale yellow gravel glowing in the first rays of sunlight. Eighteen-year-old Yuan Yunsheng had already moved beyond the Soviet Peredvizhniki style, becoming a hazy blend of Chinese classical and Western modern schools, his heart thirsty for more. When the blue sea scattered ten thousand golden stars, when rose-colored clouds filled his chest with dazzling light—those were the moments when the young man's life seemed to catch fire. He would hurry to open his paint box, spread his canvas, and receive nature's generous gifts.

The island itself was simple. With so few people, politics barely entered daily life, and political talk was rare. About every ten days, a barge would arrive with newspapers and mail. He and his companion would steal a few minutes at mealtimes to flip through them, skimming quickly. The articles had a fresh, lively air: “Beijing is engaged in open debate… This idea is compelling. That opinion rings true. Such improvements would surely be beneficial…”

But as soon as he finished, he tossed the papers aside and forgot them almost at once. Beyond painting, nothing held his interest. His path seemed lit only by sunlight—no clouds, no cares. His entire world was made of light, color, and line.

Yuan Yunsheng's only brush with politics came through the local garrison. One day, the army's propaganda officer led him into a plain workshop, where he was met by a circle of trusting eyes.

“Little Yuan, you once asked to sketch on another island?”

“Yes, we hoped to go there.”

“The troops have discussed it. You may go—your classmate will stay.”

“Why?”

“That island is building permanent military installations—visitors need political screening. Your school submitted two sets of materials. Your record is straightforward. Your classmate can't go, mainly because of family issues…”

Yuan Yunsheng frowned. On the surface, this personal invitation was an honor. And since such rules existed, his going alone could hardly be questioned. Yet the matter brought him more unease than excitement. He knew his classmate well—also a Youth League member, also a backbone of the student body. Why draw a line between them? To Yuan, with his way of thinking, it became a question of conscience and friendship.

“Hey, I checked into it,” he told his companion afterwards. “That island is just a fortification site—blasting, dynamiting, smoke everywhere. Nothing worth painting. We've been out long enough—let's just head home!”

Soon, he and his classmate crossed the sea and landed in Dalian. Cool sea breezes swept through the beautiful city, stirring their wanderlust. They wandered the streets—struck by the unusual scenery, the foreign architecture, the heavy Russian atmosphere everywhere. Looking up at street signs marked with names like “Makarov,” Yuan Yunsheng couldn't help but complain: “Why should Chinese streets bear the names of Russian generals? It's irritating…”

A few days later, they stood by the blue harbor, casting one last look at the vast rolling waves before turning to begin the journey home.

Unexpectedly, this would be Yuan Yunsheng's farewell to the azure life.

Beijing had changed. A lightning-fast counterattack, irresistible waves of criticism, and petals drifting down through the campus air unsettled the returning wanderer. Most puzzling of all was the situation of Party Secretary Jiang Feng. Word spread that he had erred by pushing revolutionary themes too hard in the art schools, hindering the policy of “letting a hundred flowers bloom.” Yuan Yunsheng could not understand what connection there was between “art schools” and “rightists”…

He hid in his dormitory, sorting through his paintings. Perhaps he was safe. He had always advocated inheriting China's ancient traditions and drawing from Western modern art—surely this supported “letting a hundred flowers bloom”? Surely that should still be safe?

For days, he let his mind drift after white clouds, waves, and seagulls, immersed in memories of his island journey. Then one day he was suddenly summoned to the classroom—made to stand before a crowd like a tax-evading smuggler under interrogation.

Before him lay a heap of accusations: heretical artistic views, sympathy with “rightists,” spreading “poison” on the island and in Dalian. All of it converged into a single, terrible charge: “anti-Soviet.”

Who had reported him could have been solved with elementary arithmetic, but such calculations were meaningless. He had thought those things, he had said those things—no matter to whom, it was all the same: straightforward, honest. He searched his memory, repeating his words to himself. The meeting leader finally waved a hand. “Please wait outside.”

He stepped into the corridor, standing there with his heart strangely calm, at ease. Only a door separated him from the classroom, and through it he could hear the voices inside. Some said: “Enough…” Others insisted: “Not enough…” Some argued: “His attitude is still good…” His friends were speaking up for him; others pressed harder. The mix of voices almost sounded amusing. Then came a silence… and at last he was called back into the room.

“Little Yuan, after discussion, you've been classified as a 'rightist'!”

The paint box of political movements is unlike an artist's paint box—it holds only two colors: red and black. A stroke of vermillion, a splash of ink—one or the other. Fortune or misfortune is decided like the casting of lots. Though Yuan Yunsheng and Party Secretary Jiang Feng differed greatly in age, background, and opinion, both were brushed in black, arriving at the same fate by different paths—the painting reduced to its simplest form.

That evening, he rode his bicycle to Baijiazhuang, where his brother Yuan Yunfu lived.

Collapsing onto the sofa, he said, “I am one of them.”

His brother looked at him with a smile. “What are you?”

“I'm a 'rightist.'“

“Huh?” His brother was shocked. “What mistake did you make?”

“I made no mistake.”

“Then why were you classified as a 'rightist'?”

“They say I am, so I am.”

“Terrible! Terrible!” His brother trembled from head to toe.

“What's so terrible?” he said calmly. “I'll still paint, still attend school, still do art.”

His brother looked at the innocent face before him, at the soft downward shape on his lips, and his heart tightened—he wanted to weep but had no tears. He was only eighteen years old! Those who are trampled and feel pain are unfortunate; but those who are trampled and do not even understand pain—how pitiful they are! He was too young, his senses and limits not yet tested by life. Once his tender, sensitive nerves were touched by suffering, could he endure?

He did not yet understand hardship. Soon after, hundreds of thousands from the capital poured into the suburbs, moving mountains and carving lakes in the valleys of the Ming Tombs to build reservoirs—and his naïve heart was stirred. He thought: so many people working together on one task—what a beautiful sight it must be. Mounting his bicycle, paint box in tow, he rode more than fifty kilometers in a single breath to the construction headquarters, asking to work while painting. They refused, explaining that according to regulations, individuals could not be accepted.

Not long after, however, he joined the Central Academy's large contingent, marching in a mighty procession to the construction site, his spirits soaring. He threw himself into the labor, doing the work of several men—carrying six earth baskets on a single shoulder pole, running swiftly along the rugged mountain paths. At noon, while others rested, he pulled out his sketch pad and, under the blazing sun, drew in the mountains. By the time he staggered back to the work shed, utterly exhausted, he still felt no bitterness. For this was voluntary. Inspired by the bubbling vitality around him, he gave his strength without reserve—and found it all supremely joyful.

But the atmosphere in the work shed shifted. Classmates closed in around him, pointing fingers, accusing him of dishonesty, of refusing reform, of being unfit to create. He was stunned. He didn't realize this was a criticism session; he couldn't even grasp the meaning of their words. All he felt was the change: familiar gazes turning sharp, warm faces turning cold, gentle voices hardening into scolding, mouths moving, hands gesturing. And suddenly he understood—understood only one thing: he was no longer the same as the others.

He opened his bloodshot eyes wide, his cracked lips trembling. Clutching his head in both hands, he sank into despair. Physical exhaustion, compounded by the shock, brought on severe dysentery—an illness that lingered from summer through winter. Later, he was sent to a small, unheated room on campus.

The room was cold and damp, water freezing inside.

He burned with high fevers, his whole body aflame—and whether he lived or died no longer seemed to concern the school authorities. Only a year before, he had been the pride of the Central Academy. Now he was cast aside, like an orphan.

Only then did he feel suffering—the pain of artistic strangulation was greater than any physical torment, as if he had been thrust into a terrible hell. No! In art's spiritual realm there is only heaven, never hell. Others tried to force him to learn self-contempt, but it was something he could never master. In delirium, chaotic thoughts flickered—like following seagulls in flight, like dancing with the Goddess of the Luo River. He tossed and turned, groaning in long, broken strings, as if unwilling to sink into degradation, struggling to crawl out of the darkness of hell…

Light slipped through the door—a faint beam of white. He heard footsteps. Looking up, he saw his good friend standing at the bedside, eyes full of sympathy and concern.

He sat up abruptly. “Please, don't come to see me anymore. I understand that associating with me is a burden for others. I need friendship, but not pity. What I need now is solitude—solitude. Just leave me alone!”

New Moon

The setting sun cast a golden glow over Tiger Hill as it sank beyond the mountains. The wilderness shimmered with a clear, quiet brilliance that merged into the transparent dusk, while the solemn silhouette of the thousand-year-old pagoda rose like a contemplative elder, gazing down upon the young man and woman in the forest.

For Lanying, that moment was already long enough. Love stories handed down through the ages contain both tragedy and comedy, inviting readers to turn each page. But Lanying's story became more unbearable by the second. The boundless tenderness of a girl's first love—its happiness and freshness—was scattered in an instant, swept away as though by a cruel, unseen hand. Everything sank, everything dissolved, and in its place loomed a harsh reality: stern, cold, and unfeeling, turning a sweet tryst into a ruthless clash of interests.

In those years, on this land, the word “rightist” no longer signified a person. At its mention, people pictured only gray, lifeless shapes—like shadows or ghosts. They were imagined as criminals, as though guilty of murder, arson, or poisoning. They were branded with charges like “murderous,” “fanning flames,” “openly spreading poison.” Their souls were condemned to death, leaving only empty husks behind. These husks could breathe but not speak, could labor but never collect their own harvest. The only tolerance society allowed them was time—more time than death-row prisoners—to let their shells slowly crumble into dust.

Under such conditions, who would willingly marry ghosts and demons? Who would choose companionship with the living dead? Yet this was the choice that stood before Lanying.

In a world where marriage and politics were tightly intertwined—where a husband's honor could uplift his wife and his disgrace could drag her down—every girl had to measure the risks. On that same evening, countless young women elsewhere were asking themselves the same questions: What is his family background? His political standing? His education, his job, his salary, his rank? They calculated not only the obvious advantages but also everything that might be converted into value, then set it all on the scales of love. Love itself had been transformed, reduced to a transaction—an exchange carried out so often it seemed natural, even routine.

Under such pressures, Lanying had every reason to plan her future carefully. She was receiving a higher education—destined to become a white-coated healer, with a martyr's bloodline running through her veins. The organization was already considering her for Party membership. Proud as a noble daughter, as radiant as Snow White… At every crossroads in life, the lights would turn green for her. Distinguished young men would vie for her hand; wealth and honor would be hers to enjoy.

Yet life seemed to mock her. Beside her did not appear love's angel, but a black demon. To break off the relationship now was still possible, and it would carry no moral or ethical burden.

Lanying fell into painful reflection. Her circumstances had been privileged, her experience simple, her life rarely touched by worldly concerns. As a result, she did not yet understand the weight of interests. Political movements seemed to her like vague dreams. In 1957, she was still a naive, childish schoolgirl. She had taken part in the denunciations with her voice, her pen, and her righteous indignation. But before she could even glimpse the face of the enemy, the battle had ended—she saw only the prisoners' backs.

Later, when she grew a little older, whenever she heard someone labeled a “rightist element,” she could not help but cast curious glances. Among those “rightists” she saw many scholars, professors, artists, writers, professionals, even well-known public figures. And she often heard the same warning repeated:

Talented people often have sharp edges; and those with sharp edges are bound to be blunted.

This rule—and its reverse—was repeated in countless voices, reinforcing the impression in her mind.

Thus, abstract concepts of friend and enemy hardened into concrete judgments in the girl's heart—a tragic mockery of solemn political movements.

Yuan Yunsheng before her was another example. For opposing Soviet Peredvizhniki painting, he was said to have strayed onto a heretical path and was politically condemned to death. The girl could not understand: why should artistic problems become political ones? Why must a passionate Chinese youth be made a sacrificial lamb on foreign altars? Wasn't this almost absurd? Yet absurdities could be established as fact. Perhaps this only showed more clearly that he was no meek lamb but a fearless calf, arousing others' jealousy—and all the more proving his courage, his insight, his unyielding character, and his precious talent.

And what was talent? To the pure-hearted girl, it was the spiritual light of life, the garland crowning youth, ignorance transformed, knowledge sublimated. Talent made money and wealth look pale, and made reputation or disgrace drift past like passing clouds. It was like the horizon itself—dividing the clarity of heaven from the murk of earth. Foolish girls might adorn themselves with jewels; noble girls longed for the spirit. She was ready to pluck a blue star from the sky and place it in the heart of love.

Lanying broke the silence, speaking gravely to Yuan Yunsheng. “Don't mention those past things to me anymore. I don't think you made mistakes…”

He murmured, “But everyone else thinks so. Even if my hat is removed, it's limited forgiveness—everything remains the same as before. Associating with someone like me, you must consider the consequences.”

“I don't care about those consequences,” Lanying replied firmly. “Regardless of what others think, I trust my intuition.”

“What is your intuition?” he asked quietly.

“My intuition—” she declared with conviction, “you have talent!”

This was the highest praise one could give a “social enemy,” spoken with a tone of obvious favor that should have been enough to comfort him. But he stood there with a cold expression. His eyes, dulled by suffering, had lost their earlier brilliance. “There are many talented people in the world—glorious victors and tragic failures alike. Why choose me? You'll regret it later…”

No wonder he reacted so coldly. In an age when talent was discarded like rags, he had heard such words far too many times. Anyone could utter them—hollow flattery meant to mask contempt. The old saying, “A woman without talent is virtuous,” now seemed to apply to men as well. Even after being trampled, whipped, and left covered in wounds, he would be patted on the shoulder, told to rise, and sent back to work. Talent was no longer a flower that inspired intellectuals with lofty ideals; it had become a bitter medicine—one that cured nothing and brought only sorrow.

Lanying and Yuan Yunsheng's eyes met. His gaze was sharp and unflinching, lit with hidden flames of dignity and charged with expectation, piercing straight into the girl's heart. She could not withstand it—her heart began to tremble…

Lanying suddenly realized—this was only her second meeting with him! Here they were, in the quiet forest, in valleys far from the city. Wasn't today “March 8th” Women's Day? By all logic, he could have shown tenderness and charm, easily winning the girl's favor. Instead, he deliberately brought sorrow, shattering her peace. He laid bare his heart, dissected hidden pain, drew down ominous clouds—knowing it might have irreversible consequences, yet insisting on doing so. For what?

How upright, how open he was! Why should such a person be branded a terrible demon, a soul extinguished? Life was too unfair! Honesty brought disaster, cunning won promotion—how much right and wrong in this world had been turned upside down!

For a moment, Lanying felt that the ravines, valleys, and rivers before her had all been leveled flat. Through the misty twilight, she saw a sincere heart shining with the deep, translucent luster of agate.

Lanying exclaimed, “My mind is made up.”

Yuan Yunsheng wondered, “Do you like me?”

“Yes.”

“What about me is worth liking?”

“Because you're honest. Love requires honesty.”

His entire body trembled. He lunged forward, burying his face in the girl's embrace. The strong man collapsed into a shivering child, tears spilling from his eyes.

A crescent moon rose slowly. The ancient pagoda stood in solemn silence, the bamboo groves whispering. Bright silver light spilled over the girl—goddesslike in its radiance.

Yuan Yunsheng felt as if he were embracing a treasure he could never again lose. For so many years he had lived with honesty, upheld an honest character, and treated art with devotion. Yet never before had anyone judged him in this way. Today, the girl had given him a recognition of conscience, filling his lonely heart with light. He was content, comforted, as though years of suffering had at last found their greatest recompense…

Double Bridge

Modern artists all pursue their own styles with passion, but those who have endured misfortune often create work that is singular—shaped by suffering in ways no one else can imitate. Yet who would willingly relive such experiences—prison, exile, and the bitter taste of hardship?

Open Repin's album and look at The Volga Boatmen.

Now imagine that painting come to life. Under a scorching sun, the air itself seems to smolder. On the golden threshing ground, a young man strains against a stone roller, his posture echoing Repin's boatmen: back bent, head bowed, a rope cutting across his shoulders, his hands nearly scraping the earth. Sweat runs down his bare back, glistening like oil in the sunlight.

This was Shuangqiao Farm in Beijing, one of the country's earliest state farms, once celebrated for its mechanized production. Yet here, Yuan Yunsheng labored like a beast of burden. Among the twenty-odd workers, he was the youngest, but he volunteered for the hardest tasks, pulling the stone roller across the threshing ground from morning to night.

More than twenty people crowded into a single large room. The doors and windows were broken; flies and mosquitoes drifted in and out unhindered. Two rows of communal beds lined the space, with crude tables fashioned from wooden planks. Professors, deans, assistant instructors, and students all lived side by side under the same conditions. The political explosion that had erupted over their heads years before left each of them altered in different ways. Some fell silent, some repented endlessly, some carried themselves with composure, while others lived in constant fear. Like the blast of an explosion that can either destroy or clear the ground for rebuilding, their inner lives had been violently reshaped, polarized into opposite extremes.

When Yuan Yunsheng returned from the threshing ground to his room, his first instinct was to lunge for the drawing board at his bedside. In an instant, the beast of burden became an artist, his eyes alight—like witnessing a magician's transformation. With a drawing board in hand, he hunted for subjects everywhere; in the realm of images, he was the master of all he surveyed.

He pursued artistic innovation stubbornly—sometimes by choice, sometimes by necessity. Combining the discipline of labor reform with the demands of artistic creation, he could no longer paint leisurely like an oil painter at ease; he had to adapt to new conditions. What had once been a vague pursuit—applying the line work of Chinese painting to Western oil painting—now blazed before him like a bright flame, powerfully drawing him in.

Ask yourself: who in life has ever seen a “line” exist? Yet he saw them. He studied the layers of light as they fell, analyzed the illuminated surfaces of objects, and strove to seize the fleeting instant where one surface met another—that shifting, transitional, marvelous boundary. Clear lines appeared on his retina, then passed through the mind where they were processed, emphasized, exaggerated, and reshaped. His hands and brushes obeyed, setting down firm or delicate strokes on paper—lines as simple as in Chinese painting, yet as precise as in Western art.

It was like a Beijing opera performer on a bare stage, conjuring entire worlds with the slightest movements of hand, eye, body, and stance—creating a space alive with emotion. The outlines might have been sketchy, but they were never empty; the void itself was filled with substance. Such was his extraordinary language of painting.

His thoughts grew clear. Since no one would ever ask about his paintings, much less exhibit them, he could surrender to his brush, letting it move freely. During his farm days, he produced more than two thousand sketches—using steel pen, brush pen, and pencil—far surpassing the assignments demanded of art students. Heavy labor, solid foundations, and a fixed goal carried him forward. The towering stack of drafts beside his bed became his reservoir of faith, his ocean of spirit.

Among those who shared the crowded room was a stern elder who often watched the young man closely—former Party Secretary Jiang Feng. Jiang Feng's gaze was filled with surprise: he had not understood this student before, but now he was moved by Yuan Yunsheng's diligence and relentless enthusiasm.

“I don't understand why a student like you was labeled a 'rightist,'“ Jiang Feng once told him. “Paint—as long as you believe it is right, paint according to your own will!”

These were the words of a former Party Secretary, spoken not in grand lecture halls but in the midst of the harshest adversities. Yuan Yunsheng never forgot them.

One day, the roommates gathered for a life review meeting. Some offered routine confessions, but Jiang Feng spoke with passion: criticizing exaggerations in propaganda, criticizing economic policies detached from real foundations, condemning the harm of “leftist” opportunism. He sounded less like an accused man and more like a clear-headed statesman, showing no trace of guilt or self-abasement. He remained himself, preserving dignity, exercising his right to think and speak. Yuan Yunsheng listened, his heart filled with admiration.

Later that day, Jiang Feng bent over his desk, reading. Quietly, Yuan Yunsheng took up his drawing board and began to sketch him. Before his eyes sat a thin, weary, contemplative figure—but in his mind, he saw a beautiful soul, hard and transparent like diamond. With flowing brushstrokes, he captured a portrait that felt alive.

“I'm much thinner than before,” Jiang Feng said with feeling as he looked at the sketch. “Keep this drawing for me—our friendship is worth remembering.”

The portrait was later framed and hung in Jiang Feng's home for many years. A dismissed Party Secretary and a young man forced out of school—neither had their character warped by pressure. When personality triumphs over suffering, it becomes cast in bronze, forged in iron—whether others acknowledge it or not makes no difference.

Drizzling Rain

After Yuan Yunsheng and Lanying parted in Suzhou, he returned to Changchun. From time to time, letters passed between them. A year later, Lanying faced her graduation assignment.

To her, Northeast China was an unfamiliar land. In her imagination it was a distant frontier of ice and snow, a place so cold that noses, ears, and chins might freeze off. None of her classmates wanted to be sent there—they were used to the comforts of Jiangnan, with its fertile “land of fish and rice” and its gentle climate. At the very mention of the Northeast, they shuddered, as if it meant exile and misfortune.

But Lanying paid no heed. In her heart, wherever he was, there was spring, there was warmth. Just to be beside him, she would willingly endure hunger and cold. So when she submitted her placement request, the organization was startled:

“So you already have a boyfriend! How long have you known him? What work does he do?”

The girl answered frankly. She thought—why try to hide it? It will come out sooner or later.

Lanying's story spread quickly through the school. Amateur storytellers added their own embellishments, shaping it into something like a pastoral romance:

“Hey, did you hear? Lanying requested an assignment to Changchun.”

“So far! Why would she go there?”

“She met a boyfriend—Changchun's most handsome man.”

“What does he do?”

“He's an actor at Changchun Film Studio—starred in plenty of films.”

“Well, that makes sense! With an actor she can travel anywhere, transfer to whatever big city she wants in the future.”

Yet beneath the spreading rumors, in a small classroom, Lanying felt as though a thousand pounds pressed down on her head. She faced the furious, disappointed gazes of her peers and teachers:

“You're far too politically naive. Do you know what kind of man he is? A 'rightist element,' anti-Party, anti-socialist. And what kind of person are you? The daughter of revolutionary martyrs, a Youth League member, a candidate for Party cultivation. Are you worthy of your deceased parents? Worthy of the Party?”

Lanying tried to argue. “He's already had his hat removed…”

In those years, being labeled with a political stigma was called “wearing a hat”—and being officially cleared of that stigma was called “removing the hat.”

But the response was sharp. “Hat on or off—it makes no difference. A family with such a stain can never wash it away. You'd be picking up a black pot to carry for life—how foolish!”

“I'm willing…”

“Enough! You've already become his prisoner, standing on the edge of a cliff. You must break with him completely, never see him again. If he writes to you, you must hand the letters directly to the organization!”

Lanying sat in the corner of the small room, her face pale, her limbs numb, like a rebel awaiting judgment.

What could she say? A pure-hearted girl's first confession of love should have been met with warm congratulations. Instead, she was met with harsh scolding and heavy-handed interference. Arguing would be useless. She dragged her weary steps back to the dormitory.

Even harder to bear was the silent pressure. Classmates eyed her with contempt, whispering as though she had done something shameful. A pearl once held in careful palms had suddenly become an object of ridicule. For the first time, she tasted the world's coldness, the turns of fate—and a strong spirit of rebellion began to stir within her.

Unable to endure it any longer, she took up her pen and wrote a letter to an aunt in Hangzhou, her father's old wartime comrade. The aunt quickly replied with a telegram, urging her to come to Hangzhou at once. Lanying rushed there through a steady drizzle. Her aunt welcomed her warmly, treating her with kindness, offering smiles and companionship, searching for ways to lift her spirits. But Lanying remained troubled, her face clouded as heavily as the sky.

“Making yourself sick with worry—what good will that do?” the aunt said gently. “Come, I'll go with you for a walk.”

Seeking a brief respite, they took umbrellas and went to Liulang Wenying, Listening to Orioles in the Willows, one of West Lake's famous scenic spots. Before Lanying stretched the lake in silver-gray expanse: the sky was silver, the water was silver. The air was filled with a mist so fine it seemed like drifting silver powder—not quite rain, yet enough to dampen her clothes. At last, Lanying's brow softened. “The scenery here is beautiful!”

“This trip wasn't wasted, was it? And I have another bit of good news,” her aunt said with a smile. “I want to introduce you to a young man—he's a Party member, works in classified military research, the right age, and handsome too. Just meet him once. I promise you'll like him…”

Lanying stiffened at once. “So this is why you called me here?”

“I'm doing this for your own good,” the aunt insisted. “Feelings can be cultivated—if they don't exist at first, they can grow with time…”

The girl felt as if her chest were packed tight with tangled hemp. The beautiful West Lake scenery suddenly turned hateful, and the winding path beneath her feet seemed full of traps. A wave of betrayal swept through her.

She burst out angrily, “I don't want to see anyone. Here!”

She shoved the umbrella into her aunt's hands, turned, and ran headlong into the cold rain. Behind her, the water of the lake lapped against the shore with rhythmic sounds like quiet sighs.

Back at her lodging, Lanying began to pack, preparing to return to Suzhou. Her aunt approached and said calmly, “Lanying, I know your temperament—once you've made up your mind, no amount of persuasion will change it…”

“Then you know me well—and I'm grateful for that,” the girl replied coolly.

“I have only one request,” the aunt continued. “Since you've come all the way to Hangzhou, staying one more day won't matter. Tonight, let's have a proper talk…”

That evening, Lanying and her aunt sat face-to-face under the lamplight.

“Lanying, I trust your judgment—the person you've chosen can't be entirely wrong,” the aunt said evenly. “Our Party upholds policies of unity and reform toward intellectuals. People like him should still have a role to play.”

The girl nodded. “I think so too…”

“But let me be frank,” the aunt said. “Right now, we don't have a team of intellectuals of our own. If not them, who else can we rely on? And since we must rely on them, we have to give them certain benefits. It's like giving candy to coax a child—the sweetness is only temporary. Once our own contingent is trained and ready, no matter how talented those older intellectuals may be, they will no longer be needed. That's the reality you must keep in mind…”

After hearing this sharp analysis, the girl felt as though she had walked into fog. For the first time she realized that behind one policy lay another, that life contained infinite mysteries she would have to digest slowly.

That night, Lanying could not sleep. In the silence she thought of the distant man, and slowly awakened to the truth: between them stretched barriers more formidable than ice and snow, more daunting than storms, mountains, and rivers. One powerless girl could not resist the weight of social, traditional, and psychological pressure. The future looked infinitely dim.

Did she regret falling in love with him? No—she found no reason to reproach herself. Their love had been witnessed by green hills and testified to by the bright moon, untainted by even a speck of dust. Her only regret was her own privileged birth and favored status, which placed shackles even on love. For his sake, she would gladly be reborn.

At last she drifted into uneasy sleep, where a sweet dream came to her: she was a peasant girl, meeting Yuan Yunsheng amid white mountains and black waters, the whole world pure as silver and jade. But when she woke, she knew it had been a delusion. Fate was fixed, everything irreversible—the girl despaired. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks like pearls scattering from a broken string.

The next day, her aunt placed a magazine before her. “I found this in the library—read it, and you'll understand.”

That year's issue of Fine Arts magazine lay before her. With trembling hands, Lanying opened its pages and found an article. It condemned an oil painting by Yuan Yunsheng, with a small photograph of the work attached. What was pictured? Shrunk to a pitiful little block, hardly visible. At last the girl managed to find its title—

Memory of Water Towns

“All right, all right, fry it any longer and it'll burn!”

“Quieter—don't let anyone hear.”

“Let me taste—fragrant and crispy!”

“Eat your fill—it costs nothing anyway…”

Lying in bed, Yuan Yunsheng listened to the laughter from next door, the bubbling sizzle of oil in the pan, the greedy chewing—all carried on the fragrance of fried pancakes that tormented his senses and kept him awake.

This was in the production team's warehouse in a small town near Suzhou. After returning from Shuangqiao Farm to the Central Academy, Yuan Yunsheng went back to Professor Dong Xiwen's studio to continue his studies. At his teacher's suggestion, he chose a region rich in local character for fieldwork to collect material for his graduation project. That choice brought him to this Jiangnan town, where he lodged in a small room beside the production team's warehouse.

It was a time of national economic hardship. Even in Jiangnan—the land once praised as “heaven above, Suzhou and Hangzhou below”—hunger loomed. The once-popular slogans of fanatic propaganda had faded; physiological instinct now spoke louder. It showed itself first among the town cadres: filling their own bellies at the expense of the collective, tightening everyone else's belts. The late-night scene unfolding next door was their comedy of quietly seizing food for themselves.

Yuan Yunsheng turned in bed, jostling several rats that had crawled out from beside his pillow and leapt across his body.

“There's movement!” someone next door said.

“Should we invite the artist to join us?”

“Forget him!”

This was real life material! Paint it—since “art serves politics,” such glimpses of life could only enrich his work. Lying in bed, his heart was filled with concern for his country and its people. But fleeting night scenes left little lasting impression. He had his own understanding of art's purpose: he sought life's beauty, and no dust from daily struggles could cover a golden heart. By day, he found what he was looking for, and after several weeks he returned with his sketchbooks full.

Back in Beijing, one evening after dinner, he leaned against his bed, lost in thought. Suddenly, an irrepressible creative impulse seized him. He reached for his pencils and began sketching on draft paper. The lines flowed from his hand as naturally as drifting clouds and running water; by the end of a single night he had completed the rough draft of his graduation piece.

He carried the sketches to his teacher, Dong Xiwen. After looking them over, the professor said, “I can see real character here. It's ambitious—work hard and see it through.”

He moved his luggage, canvases, and oil paints into the school's large warehouse. The space was filled with cultural relics—towering stone camels, unearthed stone horses, and stone tigers from the tomb of Han Dynasty General Huo Qubing. Thick dust coated the floor, cobwebs clung to the walls; it felt like working inside a gloomy medieval castle. Yuan Yunsheng spread his bedroll on the ground and worked tirelessly, day and night. The stone tigers and horses seemed to stand guard, silently watching him labor with feverish intensity. After two months, with the help of assistants, he carried out a massive oil painting.

The work was titled Memory of Water Towns.

Memory of Water Towns quickly became the talk of the art world. Senior painters such as Dong Xiwen, Ye Qianyu, and Huang Yongyu praised it warmly, recommending it as “excellent” for his graduation grade. Others only shook their heads and frowned, unwilling even to grant a passing mark.

What memories had the water towns left in his mind? His canvas depicted a modest bridge, the kind often seen in Suzhou—built in traditional Ming style, finely proportioned, adorned with delicate carvings. On either side stretched rows of houses and streets, alive with the bustle of a Spring Festival market.

Look—there's an opera performance, Taohuawu prints for sale, grain and vegetable vendors calling out—the whole scene alive with bustle. A beautiful peasant girl spreads a newspaper at her feet, arranging bunches of fresh flowers as she waits for customers. A little girl, innocent and forlorn, has just sold a lamb. Perhaps because she raised it herself, she watches it being led away with a wistful expression…

Strong national character, honest regional customs—Yuan Yunsheng's brush captured hundreds of vivid figures gathered around the stone bridge, each telling its own story. Here, people exchanged the fruits of a year's hard labor and found comfort in the richness of folk life.

Beneath the bridge, clear water rippled with light. Black-canopied boats, small wooden skiffs, and barges loaded with New Year goods pressed close together, brushing side by side. The boatmen yielded, avoided, and made way for one another, keeping the waterways clear. At the bow of one boat, a young man lay back at ease, sunlight spilling across his face as he gazed upward, his thoughts turned to the future.

This small bridge, this river—were they not reflections of our national character? A nation that had endured hardship and faced extreme trials, yet whose spirit of perseverance was never destroyed. Strong and self-assured, courteous and optimistic, it carried itself with great dignity. With slow rhythm and steady steps, with unshakable tenacity, it walked toward tomorrow.

Who could have guessed that the first seed of this painting was planted in that small water-town room—a dark, rat-infested space pressed up against corruption on the other side of the wall? On one side, the diligence of the people and the purity of the painter; on the other, greed, selfishness, and exploitation. The contrast could not have been sharper.

Yet Yuan Yunsheng swept aside life's shadows. With his art, he transformed them into a vision of beauty, using the language of painting to express his deep love for the motherland and its people. This was nothing less than his own self-revelation, the analysis of his heart laid bare.

When Memory of Water Towns was displayed in the Central Academy's auditorium for public exhibition, the response was enthusiastic. Visitors left comments, took photographs, even made copies. Its stylistic innovations alone left people marveling.

He had broken away from the “three principles” of Western oil painting and from the strict rules of traditional perspective, instead drawing on the scattered perspective of Chinese painting to create multiple independent scenes that came together in harmony on the canvas. In depicting figures, he skillfully used the tools of Western oil painting while boldly applying line modeling, and he drew on the exaggeration techniques of ancient ceramics to portray lively groups of characters. The result blended the rich brilliance of oil painting, the fine coloring of Chinese painting, the rustic simplicity of New Year prints, and the decorative quality of murals.

To fuse ancient and modern, Chinese and foreign art into a single creative furnace had long been his dream—and with this work, had he not realized it?

But the fate of Memory of Water Towns suddenly reversed. It was torn down from the exhibition hall walls and tossed onto the waste heap. Later, a young ping-pong enthusiast, seeing no value in the painting itself, dragged it behind the tables to serve as a barrier for stray balls. Later still, an art history student, pained by the sight, secretly cut the canvas free with scissors, folded it up, and hid it under his dormitory bed.

When the school discovered this, they panicked. The matter was reported to the police, and public security officers came to investigate, as if they were looking for obscene contraband. In the end, the student was forced to hand the painting over. Immediately, the campus loudspeakers declared it “another victory in firmly grasping class struggle.”

It might seem strange, but it wasn't. The political climate had shifted. The three years of famine were over, rural markets were banned, and the hunger of yesterday was quickly forgotten. Politics now demanded new themes from art—and so Yuan Yunsheng had to be criticized. The creator of Memory of Water Towns was suddenly faced with a barrage of unanswerable questions: Why didn't you paint tractors? Why didn't you paint scenes of bumper harvests? Why didn't you paint…?

Yet among all the accusations, no one ever asked why he hadn't painted the late-night corruption he had seen next door—though everyone knew such things were real.

In those years, art criticism gave only one direction: the light was green only for a left turn. Any artist who stayed true to art itself and tried to go straight ahead was condemned for being too “rightist.”

Former Central Academy Party Secretary Jiang Feng later said with feeling: “If this painting had survived and been exhibited again, I believe the audience would have vindicated it and restored its reputation. Even in this experimental work, one can already see the author's artistic talent.”

Unfortunately, the painting itself could never be found again. Its only trace was a pitifully small photograph, tucked beside a righteously worded critique, printed in the corner of Fine Arts magazine. Yuan Yunsheng was supposed to feel honored—after all, this was the first time his work had been reproduced on a zinc plate and distributed worldwide. One of those copies now lay before Lanying.

On the Edge of the Platform

Lanying's second morning in Hangzhou was the most painful of all.

Her aunt stood beside her like a sentinel, pointing to the magazine as if it were irrefutable evidence. She warned that people like Yuan Yunsheng would never correct their “mistakes,” and that others would never forgive him. To join her life with his, she said, would mean ruin: no future, no success, and even her children would be implicated.

The magazine itself did not frighten Lanying out of her love, but it did force her to face the full gravity of the situation. It became clear that the barrier was not only her aunt or her school—it was the whole of society. Everywhere she turned, others were cursing him, pouring dirty water over his name. Was she brave enough to stand beside him? And what of their future children—innocent lives destined to be dragged through the same mud? At that thought, her heart wavered.

It was an overwhelming spiritual siege. Lanying collapsed on the table, weeping uncontrollably. Seeing her tears, the aunt knew her efforts were working. She pushed pen and paper toward her. “Write him a letter. Speak clearly, and your heart will feel lighter. If he loves you, he won't bring you more trouble…”

With trembling hands, Lanying took up the pen. But her words were firm. She wrote to sever their relationship, giving no explanation. She took all the responsibility herself, declaring her willingness to pay a lifelong price for that first reckless impulse of love—even vowing never to marry again. She ended with a blessing, hoping he might someday find another who would love him as deeply as she had.

When she finished the last character, the page was blurred with her tears.

Her aunt took it, read it through, and sighed. “Look—the tears have soaked the ink. If he sees this, he might think you weren't sincere about breaking up…”

“It was forced from the start!” Lanying snapped, her voice edged with irritation.

At last, the aunt had the written proof she wanted. Relieved, she sealed the letter herself, affixed the stamps, and sent it off at the post office.

Back in Suzhou, Lanying lived through days that felt like years, endlessly imagining Yuan Yunsheng's reaction. Surely he would rage, wouldn't he? She dreaded adding fresh wounds to a heart already scarred. Her letter had contained no harsh or provocative words, yet he would understand well enough the true reason for the change. Wasn't the letter itself already a kind of contempt, an insult? Would he tear it to pieces in fury, never contacting her again? Or resign himself to fate, sinking into depression from that moment on?

And yet—perhaps all her concerns were groundless. After all, men are men. Perhaps he would simply pick himself up, put it behind him, and wipe her from his memory as if she had never existed…

What Lanying feared most was not his anger, but the possibility that he might simply forget her.

Yuan Yunsheng's reply soon arrived. His words were sharp and final. He agreed to the breakup without a hint of pleading, but he set one last condition: Lanying had to come to Changchun and explain her reasons to his face.

The letter struck her like an echo rolling through a mountain valley. Clutching it, she hurried to the school office and laid it on the desk.

“Please allow me to go to Changchun, just once,” she said.

The staff read the letter in silence, then looked up. “This will be your final meeting?”

“Yes,” she replied, steady and certain. “We've both made up our minds.”

The school could find no grounds for refusal and finally gave its consent. Yet the day she departed, a long-distance call went out to Changchun, instructing Yuan Yunsheng's unit to keep the couple under close watch and to exert pressure on both sides until the relationship was broken for good.

The train sped north, vast fields streaming past the window in a blur of green and gold. Lanying sat taut, like an arrow drawn and waiting to be released. The northeastern landscape she had once dreamed of seeing barely registered with her now. What lingered in her mind was the moment the train reached Changchun: on the crowded platform, she immediately spotted the pale-faced man.

She stepped down from the carriage as he came toward her, sketchpad still in hand, trying to appear composed. Yet the exhaustion etched into his face—the shadowed look straining to conceal his pain—did not escape her eyes. And seeing it, this living proof of his suffering, sent an unexpected rush of joy through her heart.

Yuan Yunsheng stopped at the edge of the platform, leaving several steps between them. His voice came out low and rough, almost a growl.

“Answer me now. Why did you change your mind? Why did you give in to their will?”

Lanying nudged her travel bag forward. “Do you think I came all the way to Changchun just to argue with you?”

He froze, not grasping her meaning.

“Fool! If I meant to leave you, would I have traveled thousands of li to see you?” She smiled, her tone turning soft. “The days ahead are long—you'll be tested too.”

In that instant, sunlight seemed to return to his face. Overwhelmed, he forgot to take her bag, too elated to move or speak. Lanying stepped back, half-afraid he might lose all composure and, before the entire station, rush forward in defiance of custom. But the “Changchun negotiations” were behind them now—the persuasion, the scrutiny, the restrictions—all over. They had broken free.

That summer, after Lanying's graduation, she married Yuan Yunsheng. The ceremony took place in Changchun: no relatives to preside, no classmates to congratulate them. Their only gift was a jacket from Yuan Yunfu to his younger brother, and their only shared possession, a single printed bedsheet. In a borrowed room, they held their solemn ceremony of life together. Lanying spent her honeymoon dismantling and washing the bedding of a lifelong bachelor. Soon after, as her reporting date approached, the brief honeymoon came to an end.

In the old legend, the Queen Mother of Heaven refused to relent and laid a Silver River—the Milky Way—between the Cowherd and the Weaver Girl. So too was a river laid between Lanying and her husband.

Her work assignment was chosen from a map. At graduation, the school gave her unusually lenient terms—she could select any city except those in the three northeastern provinces. True to her honest nature, she traced her finger along the railway lines, looking for the place closest to the Northeast. Her finger passed Beijing, slid over Tianjin, and stopped at a small circle south of Shanhaiguan Pass: Tangshan. To her, this seemed like the earthly crossing point of the Silver River.

But soon after she arrived in Tangshan, an “unprecedented” storm broke out—parades, uprisings, two factions clashing with broadswords and spears, the entire city thrown into the chaos of tribal strife. With no relatives nearby, Lanying drifted helplessly in the turmoil. Occasional family visits gave her only the barest comfort.

Not long after, she became pregnant. Exhaustion and harsh living conditions left her with a lumbar injury—her back felt as if bound by an iron plate, so stiff she could not even turn over in bed. The room had no fire, its thin doors and windows no defense against the bitter wind. Immobilized by pain and unable to care for herself, she realized for the first time how deeply she needed her husband at her side.

Yuan Yunsheng pleaded everywhere for help until he finally secured her a position at a hospital in Changchun. Then he rushed to Tangshan, forcing his way through endless layers of bureaucracy to obtain the work transfer and residence permits she needed. By that time, the couple had already been forced to live apart for six long years.

Sitting on the train as Changchun's platform came into view once more, Lanying was overcome with emotion. Six years—in that time she had willingly given up so much: her privileged circumstances, her political future, her radiant youth. Worry lines had gathered around her once-bright eyes; her face was drawn, her fair cheeks turned sallow. She had paid an enormous price, only to exchange it all for the ordinary life of common people—and the title of “wife of a de-capped rightist.”

Before her stretched the vast Silver River. Heaven and earth alike, it seemed, were bound by the same stern moral laws.

Inscriptions in a Humble Room

On a battered wooden table lay a sheet of paper. A small hand gripped a paintbrush, smearing watercolors across the page. Under the brush appeared round, square, and irregular shapes—round for a washbasin, square for an old wooden box, irregular for diapers hanging on the clothesline. This was Yuan Yunsheng's son at work. Born in Changchun, he grew up in spite of the twists and hardships of his parents' lives, reaching the age when those small hands could finally hold a brush.

The family's room measured only fourteen square meters. With the arrival of a baby sister, four people were now crammed into the space. A row of communal beds took up two-thirds of the floor. The rickety table by the window served as the father's workbench by day and the son's bed by night. The little space left was used for cooking and washing, leaving barely enough room to set down a foot.

The scene before him was one his son had painted many times—his first real subject from life. This bright child of New China's third generation poured the most beautiful colors of his young heart into it, producing dozens of drawings. Whenever neighbors visited, he would proudly show off his work.

But the comments he overheard left him deeply disappointed: “Ah, Lanying, why does your precious son only paint slums?”

Lanying could only smile bitterly—what else could she say? The boy painted what he saw, and what he saw was all the family had.

After Lanying transferred to Changchun, she shouldered heavy household burdens, and the days grew hard. She had once been used to ready-made cafeteria meals and had never even stepped into a kitchen. Now she discovered, to her dismay, that steaming a cornmeal cake without it turning sour was harder than performing surgery in the hospital. For a long time, every corn cake, corn bun, and steamed bread that came out of her kitchen was sour and hard as stone. Yet the children devoured them all the same, as if such things were naturally meant to taste that way.

Money was always tight. Even with two university graduates working, their combined income couldn't keep up with a growing family and inflating prices. The son had been lucky—when he was small, his parents could still afford to occasionally buy him cake. By the time it was the daughter's turn, cake was out of reach; the best her parents could manage was a ten-cent roll as a special treat. Later, even that was replaced with leftover black bread from the discount counter. Still, the children were delighted, smiling so widely they could hardly close their mouths all day.

No matter how carefully they saved on food and clothing, their income never covered their expenses. At the end of each month, Lanying and Yuan Yunsheng would sit facing each other, emptying their pockets.

“Yunsheng, we still haven't bought this month's meat ration,” Lanying said.

“Then let's buy it,” he replied. “It's Sunday—time for a little improvement.”

But Lanying's purse was already empty. Yuan Yunsheng turned his own pockets inside out, scraping together just enough for a single pound of meat. Their son had already set out a little ice sled, waiting eagerly by the door. Grabbing the money, he dashed off, jumping and skipping all the way. A short while later, his voice rang out from the doorway: “Come quick! The meat's here!”

They hurried out to meet him, only to stop in shock. “Where's the meat?”

The boy glanced back—the sled was empty. Alas! In his excitement he had run too fast, and the precious pound of meat had bounced off and vanished without a trace…

The little “procurement officer” had never failed in his duty before, and now he was crushed with disappointment. Yuan Yunsheng and Lanying comforted their son, cupping his embarrassed little face and bursting into hearty laughter. Soon the boy was laughing too. Spiritual joy replaced the holiday feast.

In Changchun, the so-called “spiritual aristocrats” found all kinds of side paths. Some painted murals for restaurants and hotels, trading pictures for bottles of liquor or boxes of fish. Others took up small household businesses, hand-crafting modern furniture. Still others offered private art lessons—and if a student's family had the right connections, their own prospects quickly improved.

But Yuan Yunsheng earned no money from the side and sought no favors. He kept himself busy: working diligently by day, completing his assigned tasks, giving no one cause to criticize; then coming home at night to paint freely, studying the art he loved, while rarely attending to household matters.

During the family's hardest days, Lanying ventured to suggest, “Can't you think of some other way, like the others?”

“What way?” he asked, surprised.

“I don't ask for much,” his wife said. “I just mean—under whatever conditions are possible, to help the family at least get by…”

Her husband shook his head. “There are ways. But to follow them would mean burying my art.”

She knew the weight that single word—art—carried in his heart. The subject was dropped and never raised again.

Lanying fell ill from exhaustion, the pain of her lumbar strains often leaving her bedridden. Whenever this happened, the household fell into chaos. Meals were irregular, the children had no clean clothes to change into, and the bedsheets—splattered with oils—looked more like abstract canvases than bedding. As a medical worker, Lanying had at least a basic sense of hygiene, and she couldn't stand it anymore. Lying in bed, she gave instructions:

“Today, please wash the bedsheets and clothes.”

“Alright,” her husband replied obediently. He set down his paintbrush and rolled up his sleeves as though preparing for a major task.

He soaked the sheets and clothes in a full basin. But as he scrubbed against the washboard, his hands began to slow. His eyes drifted to the wall, where a new painting still glistened with wet oil. Sometimes he tilted his head, pleased with what he saw; other times he frowned, noticing flaws.

Suddenly he stood up, wiped his soapy hands on his shirtfront, grabbed a brush, climbed onto a stool, and began touching up the canvas.

From her bed, Lanying could only give a bitter smile.

A moment later, he hopped down again and returned to the washbasin. But before long, his eyes crept back toward the wall…

An entire day went by—he spent more than seven hours finishing just one basin of laundry, and by then no cooking had been done. The whole family went hungry. Lanying, half exasperated and half amused, teased him:

“Tell me, after all that jumping up and down from the stool, how many times did you go back and forth?”

He only shook his head blankly.

“You don't remember, do you?” Lanying said. “I counted for you—exactly twenty times! Sigh… there's just no changing you. When it comes to housework, lazier than anyone; but with a paintbrush in your hand, you're more diligent than anyone…”

Night fell. Outside, snow whirled through the air like cotton being torn, like threads of floss unraveling. Lanying lay awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling, unable to sleep. Their son, meanwhile, drifted into sweet dreams the moment his head touched the pillow. In the dim lamplight of the small room, Yuan Yunsheng sat in a corner, cradling his daughter against one arm and rocking her gently, while his free hand guided a brush across the canvas. He hummed an improvised lullaby, the tune drifting softly through the room.

So many winter nights the family passed this way.

Listening to her husband's humming, Lanying drifted into quiet reflection. She had first fallen in love with him for his integrity and his devotion to art. Now she had tasted both the sweetness and the bitterness of being married to such a man. He was content to live in poverty, willing to endure loneliness, resigned to a life without ordinary comforts, with no light at the end of the tunnel. He cared only for cultivation, never for harvest. And who, besides his wife, could understand him? Society not only failed to support him but had cast him into a separate category, as if an invisible club were always raised over his head.

When she thought of this, the daily hardships of a poor couple—petty quarrels, endless struggles—seemed to vanish like smoke. Her heart softened, becoming a pool of spring water, full of feminine tenderness.

She thought to herself: if both of them tried to manage the household, nothing would ever get done. She decided that tomorrow, no matter how much her back ached, she would grit her teeth and get up, taking the burden on herself.

Beneath Wheels

Yuan Yunsheng had worked late into the night. The next morning, when he rubbed his eyes awake, daylight was already streaming through the window.

“Terrible!” He scrambled to put on his clothes. “I'm late again…”

Lanying was already up, braving her back pain to make breakfast for the family.

“You got up?” he asked in surprise. “You're still not well!”

“It's nothing,” Lanying said. “I'm on sick leave anyway. Once you leave, I can lie down again.”

He wolfed down his breakfast, then grabbed his bicycle and rushed out the door.

In Changchun it was the season when water froze into beads and breath turned to frost. After a heavy snow, the north wind swept the streets, and thick sheets of ice covered the roads. Trees along the sidewalks sparkled with silver blossoms, while the buildings gleamed with dazzling light, like palaces carved from jade. But Yuan Yunsheng's heart was restless. For most people, morning marked the start of a day's work; for him, it was merely the continuation of an all-night struggle. Each shift from black night to white day brought another frantic rush. How much suffering life could contain—social, natural, accidental…

At one crossing, he came to a busy intersection, traffic streaming like a river. He edged forward carefully—when suddenly the roar of an engine split the air. A reckless truck barreled through, refusing to slow, as if the road belonged to it alone. High speed, a slick surface, no time to react—he couldn't dodge in time. With a violent crash, he and his bicycle were flung through the air and slammed to the ground. At that very instant, another truck came from the opposite direction, and his body was pitched into its path like a ball thrown under its wheels.

Pedestrians shrieked at the sight, frozen where they stood. The truck driver panicked, forgot the brake, and stamped the accelerator instead, surging forward.

The giant wheel crushed the bicycle first—the steel frame groaned, the seat collapsed into a mangled lump. Then the truck rolled straight toward Yuan Yunsheng.

It was a moment of agony, a brush with death. Finished—one wheel across his chest and it would be over. He had endured so many blows in life, never willing to bow to fate. But this time escape seemed impossible—leaving behind his beloved art, his wife, his children still so young. To die like this, so meaningless…

Goethe once wrote that humans can respond to suffering in only three ways: fear, terror, and sympathy—fear in anticipating disaster, terror at the sudden discovery of pain, and sympathy in witnessing suffering, past or present. Yet as Yuan Yunsheng lay beneath the truck, the flickering thoughts that passed through his fading consciousness held none of these. Even in that moment, his stubborn nature showed itself in a single thought: Resist!

What happened next seemed unbelievable to the horrified pedestrians on the roadside. The body pinned beneath the truck suddenly arched its back and thrust out both arms, clinging tightly to the front bumper. The truck roared and shuddered, as if determined to crush the obstacle. But the man beneath it fought back, sliding along the ground yet refusing to bow his head, even on the edge of death. On the icy streets of Changchun, people watched as flesh and blood battled a steel monster.

I must not fall, Yuan Yunsheng thought. If I fall, I'll never rise again…

The truck dragged him across the frozen pavement—five meters, ten meters—until at last the driver came to his senses, slammed on the brake, and the vehicle lurched to a halt.

His body was battered, his clothes torn to rags. He was rushed to the hospital.

At home, Lanying was still bedridden when the news reached her. Her head buzzed, the room spun, her legs gave out beneath her, and it was a long time before she regained her senses.

Lanying mounted her bicycle, summoning what little strength she had, and raced to the hospital. By the time she arrived, her energy was spent. She nearly couldn't bring herself to look toward the entrance; her hands shook so badly she could hardly fit the key into the lock.

The parking attendant recognized her. “You're Yunsheng's wife! Don't be afraid—when he came in just now, he was still able to walk on his own.”

Only then did Lanying feel a measure of relief.

She later brought her husband home to recover. But the shock of the accident had worsened her own illness. Husband and wife now lay bedridden, neither able to look after the children.

Lanying scraped together a few coins and sent the children to buy food. After a while, they returned, each clutching a packet of crackers, standing tearfully at their parents' bedside.

“Papa, eat these,” said the son.

“Papa, eat mine,” said the daughter.

Lanying gathered both children into her arms, wiping the tears from their small faces. They had grown too quickly, already tasting the desolation and fear of life. Her only regret was that she hadn't more money—to offer her husband and children some small comfort for both body and heart.

During Yuan Yunsheng's convalescence, the truck driver and representatives from his work unit came to the house to apologize and express sympathy. They left one hundred yuan as compensation for the losses—the ruined clothes, the crushed bicycle, and the hospital bills.

After the visitors left, Yuan Yunsheng sat on the bedside deep in thought. Lanying looked at the stack of bills and sighed heavily.

It was money her husband had earned in exchange for nearly losing his life—even to see it felt painful.

Suddenly he leapt from the bed and began pacing the small room.

“Yunsheng, are you crazy!” his wife scolded. “Your leg hasn't even healed—get back in bed!”

But he came to her side, his eyes flashing with excitement. “Look, I can walk! You know I haven't been able to paint outside for so long because I lacked the means. How I long for the northern Shaanxi plateau, the surging Yellow River, the people there—I want to use this money to go to Yan'an and sketch!”

It was the cry of someone who had just crawled out from under a truck's wheels, the highest aspiration of a man poor and unwell. His demand was so modest—trivial to some, yet impossibly distant for him, bought only at the price of risking his life.

Lanying felt as though her chest had been struck, her heart burning with pain. She wanted to reply but no words came. Looking into her husband's earnest face, she understood. If this could bring joy and peace to his restless heart, then let him go.

A few days later, Yuan Yunsheng set out on a snow-covered journey. His body had not yet recovered, but he shouldered heavy luggage and his painting supplies, leaving under his wife's loving, tearful gaze.

His trip to northern Shaanxi was full of hardship. After several months he returned, his face weathered by the plateau sun and scoured by wind and sand, his luggage stuffed with drawings.

Passing through Beijing, Yuan Yunsheng went to visit Jiang Feng. The city's atmosphere at the time was suffocating. Jiang Feng, now over sixty, was worse off than before—living alone in a chaotic courtyard compound, his every move monitored by the neighborhood committee.

Yuan Yunsheng sat before the former Party Secretary, bringing news from the old revolutionary base in Shaanxi. There was little to cheer in his report—more than twenty years after the founding of the People's Republic, along the very routes once fought over by the Red Army, the people still lived in poverty. The young man spoke with passion, denouncing present ills, until suddenly he remembered that walls have ears. He stopped mid-sentence, casting a worried glance at the old man.

But Jiang Feng remained calm, listening with quiet composure, giving no sign that he wanted Yuan to hold back. On the wall behind him hung a framed sketch—the very portrait Yuan Yunsheng had drawn of Jiang Feng at Shuangqiao Farm more than a decade earlier. The old man still carried himself with the same dignity as always—a man of iron. Once again, Yuan Yunsheng felt the steadying force of his spiritual strength.

Yuan Yunsheng opened his sketchbook and laid out a series of character studies from northern Shaanxi: weathered shepherds with deeply lined faces, young men whose cold, proud eyes seemed to take in everything, village girls with lowered heads lost in thought. These figures were genuine, simple, and unmistakably distinctive. Nowhere in them could one find the empty grins, the inexplicable smiles, the artificial expressions so common in conventional painting. He had captured instead the true temperament of the people of northern Shaanxi.

“Show these now and no one will publish them,” Jiang Feng remarked. “If you abandoned sincerity, perhaps you'd win praise. But I believe your path is the right one. Art cannot be made by catering to others.”

Next, Yuan Yunsheng unrolled a landscape scroll—sixty-eight centimeters wide and more than four meters long. The painting depicted the ancient pagodas of Jiaxian, the Yellow River crashing through broken ice, and the vast sweep of the plateau. He had stood in the bitter wind for two days, painting with hands stiffened by cold until they were nearly frozen solid. The brushwork was dense and exacting, yet the spirit of the piece was magnificent.

In one corner, he had inscribed a few lines: “Painted at the end of December 1974, after the Yellow River broke through the ice and flowed unending. Two days with the white cat. I returned fully satisfied.”

Jiang Feng gazed at the work with an affectionate reluctance to part with it. The familiar landscape of northern Shaanxi stirred the passion of the old Yan'an fighter. “Ah, the Yellow River!” he exclaimed. “Flowing for thousands of kilometers, surging with might, raising waves as high as mountains—I can almost hear its voice again…”

Spring waters breaking through solid ice, flames bursting from the earth's core—at last, that day had come.

Candid Painting

With the disappearance of the “Gang of Four” from political life, the art world began to show signs of new vitality.

Some upright figures in artistic circles deeply sympathized with Yuan Yunsheng, buried in silence for so many years, and hoped he might finally reemerge to display his talent. Zhang Ding, president of the Central Academy of Arts and Crafts, even wrote a special recommendation for him to receive painting commissions. Fei Zheng, now vice chairman of the Hebei Artists Association, also went out of his way to mediate on his behalf. Yet all their efforts met only with evasions and excuses. Yuan Yunsheng's name still carried an ominous weight, bringing him cold treatment and discrimination. This artist of rare skill could not even find work illustrating comic book pamphlets.

It was like spring warmth returning while the chill still lingered—the hardest time to endure.

In his modest room in Changchun, Yuan Yunsheng sat before a mirror with a paintbrush, working on a self-portrait. On the paper emerged a face full of worry: wrinkles carved like knife cuts, a beard sprouting like wild grass, hair grown long and unruly, hanging in tangled threads like ten thousand strands of trouble. He rarely had time for a haircut, and often simply neglected it altogether. From the standpoint of artistic individuality, this appearance perfectly reflected his troubled state of mind and his stubborn temperament.

He was nearly forty. Since the condemnation of Memory of Water Towns, he had not created a single work entirely according to his own wishes in more than ten years. For a man with such a powerful creative drive, the pain of suppression was almost unbearable—how could it not gnaw at him, wave after towering wave?

In irritation he tossed aside his paintbrush and picked up a novel to pass the time.

Every time Lanying came home, she would ask with quiet concern, “Yunsheng, any word yet?”

Her husband would shake his head, and she would sigh along with him.

By now, Lanying was a middle-aged woman. She had given birth to a third child and carried the weight of a five-person household on her shoulders. Yet what she cared about most, alongside the family, was her husband's art. Art could bring him joy, and his joy was her joy. She waited as anxiously as he did.

At last, in May 1978, the tireless efforts of several friends paid off—Yuan Yunsheng was given the chance to travel for sketching. His destination was the scenic Xishuangbanna Dai Autonomous Prefecture in Yunnan. When the telegram arrived from Yunnan People's Publishing House, he was overjoyed and immediately shared the wonderful news with his wife. The whole family celebrated as though it were a holiday.

“Papa, what's Xishuangbanna like?” his son asked curiously.

“Beautiful!” he said laughing. “I'll paint it back for you to see.”

His daughter tugged his sleeve. “Papa, what good things are in Xishuangbanna?”

“Lots of fruit,” he stroked his daughter's head. “I'll buy some and bring them back for you to eat.”

He busily packed his luggage and organized his art supplies, creating chaos, wishing he could set out immediately.

Lanying looked at the things spread all over the floor and asked in surprise, “Why bring so much?”

Her husband replied, “Opportunities like this are rare—better to stake everything on one throw!”

Indeed, this man who had endured years of cold neglect—remembering the time he dragged himself from under the wheels of fate to reach northern Shaanxi—was filled with fierce determination. He longed to plunge deeply into life, believing it more vital than life itself. Now that an official invitation had arrived from a publishing house, his pure heart blazed like fire on dry wood.

That night, under the lamplight, Lanying took an old piece of cloth and began sewing a backpack for her husband. Stitch by stitch, thread by thread, she worked until dawn broke over the horizon.

“How long will this trip be?” she asked.

“Perhaps three months,” Yuan Yunsheng said. “Can you manage the three children alone?”

His wife smiled. “The fact that you think of my difficulties already makes me content.”

In May, Yuan Yunsheng arrived in Jinghong, capital of Xishuangbanna, on the banks of the Lancang River. He was overwhelmed by the region's astonishing beauty. Looking up, he saw nothing but layers of green, a landscape begging to be painted. Forests gleamed like emerald, valleys lay open like velvet carpets of green, rivers glistened like streams of fresh cream, and the humid air itself seemed to shimmer with a crystal brightness. No wonder the Dai people compared Xishuangbanna to a brilliant gem—for here, mountains and rivers alike sparkled with the radiance of pearls and jade.

Who could feel life's beauty more than painters? His eyes couldn't take it all in, as if arriving at hoped-for paradise. Nature's creator seemed particularly fond of this land, spilling the world's incomparably romantic colors everywhere, letting him feast his eyes, heart wild with joy!

At the Jinghong Guest House, Yuan Yunsheng paused to rest before setting out into the heart of Xishuangbanna. The staff politely welcomed him and led him to a standard room.

“How much is this room per day?” he asked at once.

“Two yuan fifty,” the clerk replied.

“Anything cheaper?”

“There's one for seventy cents a day.”

“Good. I'll take the seventy-cent room.”

He was used to living frugally. Before leaving Changchun, he had borrowed only a small sum from his unit, most of which had already been consumed by the journey. Where the next bit of income would come from was still uncertain. Painters experience life in many ways—he was content to choose the lowest standard of living.

Fortunately, help arrived. Once again, Fei Zheng came to his aid, sending three hundred yuan from Hebei—three-fourths of his own discharge pay. That timely generosity gave Yuan Yunsheng the courage to press forward.

The Yunnan People's Publishing House assigned a young editor to accompany Yuan Yunsheng on his sketching trip. When the Dai youth arrived at the guest house to meet him, Yuan Yunsheng began hauling out all the luggage he had shipped from Changchun.

Good heavens! The massive wooden crate held eighteen panels of plywood, several thick bundles of drawing paper, and a backpack the size of a grain sack stuffed with paints, brushes, and daily necessities. Altogether, it weighed more than 140 jin. The young editor scratched his head, wondering how on earth Yuan Yunsheng had managed to drag it all off the train—let alone how he planned to haul it into the dense forests of Xishuangbanna.

With a grin, Yuan Yunsheng pulled out a shoulder pole. His look seemed to say he intended to carry all of Xishuangbanna's scenery home in his luggage. And so, a few days later, he was already trudging into the lush subtropical jungle, the pole bending under the weight across his shoulders.

Sonata

Look—there's a banyan tree! Its canopy billows like clouds, like a dignified and kindly grandmother.

And over there, a betel nut palm, tall and straight—local young men and women take it as a symbol of steadfast love.

That one there is a sandalwood fan tree, its branches and leaves fine as strands of hair, graceful as a long-haired poet in mid-chant.

Even the bamboo groves here were different—lush, emerald, and clustered thickly, like peacocks fanning their tails.

The plants of Xishuangbanna were unmatched in beauty. Abundant sunshine and the moist climate gave rise to dense, luxuriant growth, each community of plants bursting with dazzling vitality. The sight was almost overwhelming. Yuan Yunsheng had to suppress his excitement, rein in his emotions, and work slowly, carefully, in order to capture his impressions faithfully. He would stand before a single tree and paint it for an entire day.

“What tree is that?” he asked the young editor accompanying him.

“It's called a bay leaf tree,” the editor replied eagerly. “The Dai people use its leaves instead of paper—many of their ancient legends are recorded on bay leaf scriptures.”

At once, Yuan Yunsheng spread out his paper and began sketching the bay leaf tree's distinctive canopy, its leaves layered in orderly rows like a suit of chain mail. Each stroke was precise, capturing the tree's vibrant greenness in rich layers. Above him, the tropical sun blazed, scorching his head until sweat streamed down his face. From the grass, swarms of tiny insects rose, biting his legs until they swelled red. He could only shake his head helplessly, then ignore them, and go on painting.

At noon, the young man brought two glutinous rice dumplings, stuffing them in Yuan Yunsheng's hands. “Coming out with you, I feel it—that painting is hard work.”

He smiled. “Well, beauty and hardship always go together.”

They stayed throughout in traditional Dai bamboo houses, where Yuan Yunsheng gradually came to understand this warm and generous people through the rhythms of daily life.

Each evening after dinner, he would walk from the bamboo house to a clearing in the forest. This was Xishuangbanna's most enchanting hour. The sunset clouds turned the villages red, the treetops red, and the waters of the Lancang River red. Then, a group of Dai maidens would appear, moving gracefully with small spinning wheels on their shoulders and lanterns in their hands. Their fitted, trailing tube skirts swayed lightly in the breeze, their figures slender, their steps feather-light. They seemed like fairies descending from heaven.

“Too beautiful!” Yuan Yunsheng exclaimed to his companion. “Look at the girls' waistbands—gold and silver, as delicate as fine handicrafts. But I would never paint their waistbands. They divide the body, breaking its wholeness. I prefer their natural dress. Their short tops and long tube skirts leave a bare section of waist—such a refined aesthetic, making them appear taller, more slender, more erect in posture. And their hair! Gathered in a chignon, swept back and flowing to one side—so reminiscent of Tang style. Remarkable people—they understand beauty in every detail…”

The maidens drifted to the edges of the clearing. Groups of young men appeared, three or five at a time, circling them with easy laughter and playful talk. In the misty twilight, orange lanterns glowed, while the soft hum of spinning wheels filled the air. From childhood, Dai girls learned to prepare their dowries not with their parents' wealth but with the work of their own hands. And so they spun—not only thread, but also happiness and love.

The poetic atmosphere of this southern frontier knocked gently at the window of Yuan Yunsheng's imagination. In such moments he asked himself: what was the true essence of beauty in Xishuangbanna? Was it merely the brilliance of colors, the shimmer of ornaments? To capture only a face could never convey its singular charm; to bow before pomegranate-red skirts would reduce painting to mere servitude to naturalism.

The same scenes might pass before a hundred artists' eyes, yet each would respond with a different inner feeling. A hundred painters would give a hundred answers, each speaking its own artistic language. The value of art, he felt, lay in the self. He was seeking his Xishuangbanna.

From late summer into mid-autumn, his path wound through villages strung along the land like pearls, until he reached a remote settlement in Mengding. Here, strangers were nearly unheard of, and his arrival stirred quiet excitement. In the evening gatherings, villagers turned warm, curious eyes on him, laughing and talking as though his presence itself had brought honor to their home.

The editor accompanying him explained that this was known as the “Ghost Village.” Before the founding of the People's Republic, the Dai had no means to fight disease. When someone fell ill, it was said that “ghosts” had possessed them. Then, at the word of a few “highly respected” elders, the sick person—or someone suspected of being the ghost's incarnation—would be cast out. Over time, those expelled gathered together and formed a village, a home for the shunned and the unwanted.

The experiences of those living in the “Ghost Village” aroused Yuan Yunsheng's deep sympathy. He cast friendly glances at them, discovering these people were outstandingly beautiful. If Dai people were beautiful, here lay beauty's very essence. Flower-like maidens, charming women, robust young men—all were happy to accept his request to sketch their portraits. Later on, they simply came knocking on doors, standing gracefully before him, hoping to attract his attention and keeping his hands constantly moving. They naturally loved beauty, taking pride in theirs.

The small village life was peaceful and tranquil. Yuan Yunsheng lived there many days without hearing a single family quarrel. There, economic independence between men and women was absolute—labor income, daily necessities, and work tools clearly distinguished. When families had rifts, women were generally the ones who proposed to move away. Before leaving, the whole family would quietly dine together, then men would carry the bags, escorting women respectfully. Harmony reigned between young and old—juniors honored their elders with devoted care, while elders cherished the young without harsh restraint. Such simple bonds, unclouded by worldly concerns, flowed as clear and pure as mountain streams.

One evening after work, young men and women gathered to dance the Yilah on grass as soft and green as a carpet. Cheerful drums and the bright ring of small gongs wove together into a lively rhythm. The girls lined up, stepping with measured grace, their arms unfolding like soft branches. Their faces were reserved yet dignified, shaded with a solemn yearning. Yearning for what?

This was a dance often performed during the Water-Splashing Festival. The Dai editor accompanying Yuan Yunsheng explained its origins, preserved in ancient bay-leaf scriptures. Long ago, an ugly demon king sought to claim the most beautiful girl from every village. He had already seized six and still desired a seventh, arousing fierce hatred among the Dai people.

The girls devised a plan. They plied him with drink until he fell into a stupor. “What do you fear most?” they asked.

“I fear nothing,” the demon king boasted, “except my own hair—it can strangle me. But if my head touches the earth, it will grow anew.”

While he lay insensible, the girls used his own hair to strangle and behead him. To keep the severed head from touching the ground, they took turns holding it aloft. From that day on, the Water-Splashing Festival has commemorated this triumph over cruelty—splashing water to cleanse the land of the demon king's foul traces and to let the spring of freedom and joy flow unbroken through the hearts of the Dai people.

That night, after returning to the bamboo house, Yuan Yunsheng could not sleep. Moonlight spilled across the floor, pooling before the doorway like liquid silver, while the shadows of swaying trees shimmered softly upon it.

The myths he had heard that day lingered in his mind. For many, such legends are spiritual windows, and the stories of the Water-Splashing Festival had deepened his sense of this beauty-loving people. Since setting foot on Xishuangbanna's soil, everything he had seen—the mountains, the forests, the people, their customs—had glimmered like countless points of light, swirling and gathering in his thoughts until they burst like fireworks beneath the vast canopy of his imagination.

Xishuangbanna's true master of beauty—was it not the Dai people's spiritual power, their reverence for radiant futures and for great love? How clear their hearts remained, forever preserving the purity of their nature.

And so, in his eyes, the lush variety of plant life and the naturally simple, uniquely beautiful Dai women fused into a single image—his Xishuangbanna.

This was a world of lines—gentle, elastic lines; bold, flowing lines; upright, graceful lines; lingering, delicate lines like drifting gossamer. Simplicity and richness found a rare harmony here.

With his brush, he traced line after line, producing hundreds of white-drawing sketches. If heavy colors could be compared to symphonies, then white-drawing was the art of solo lines. Yuan Yunsheng's style, refined through years of discipline, revealed a strange and striking charm in these solitary performances. Each drawing was a passionate sonata, offered to the Dai people with the sincerity of his heart.

In Kunming, an exhibition was held for Yuan Yunsheng's works. His drawings were later submitted to Yunnan People's Publishing House for selection. There, editor Liu Shaohe composed a preface, quoting from the Dai folk epic Calabash Letter: “Princess! You are a brilliant gem, I wish I were a silversmith, to set this gem in my heart...”

He praised Yuan Yunsheng for setting Xishuangbanna, this “gem,” in his own heart.

It was the first affirmation of his art that Yuan Yunsheng had heard in more than twenty years.

During his time in Yunnan, he often received safe and steady letters from his wife, Lanying. In them, she wrote words that made him feel as if he were drinking from a cool spring—refreshing, soothing, and full of quiet joy. At the close of every letter, she would add: “Don't worry about things at home. Focus on your painting. If you cannot finish your work, there is no need to hurry back home.”

He would smile with relief. In the busy days of Xishuangbanna, his greatest worry was always the possibility of troubles flaring up at home. But Lanying's letters reassured him, easing his heart and clearing his mind for his art.

This was quite an eventful year: Changchun experienced earthquake warnings, leaving the whole city in panic. People busily built anti-earthquake shelters, moved belongings, and transferred to refuges. Yuan Yunsheng's friend in Changchun, thinking of his wife and children, rushed to their home to visit. He couldn't help being stunned.

This humble room remained the same—furniture and objects not yet organized, children playing with lowered heads. He saw Lanying bending over, sweating, dragging a heavy wooden box from the room—the box filled with Yuan Yunsheng's drawings—moving them toward nearby anti-earthquake shelters...

Obviously, this was what Lanying considered most precious. She best understood his hardships, understanding art's value through artistic hardships. The friend's heart trembled with emotion. Lanying still didn't tell her husband about this. If that friend hadn't later recounted what he personally witnessed, he would never have known.

Mural Dreams

At some unknown hour, a beam of hazy blue light pierced the frost-flowered windowpanes, like a fairy lifting gossamer veils with pale, outstretched arms. The room lay in half-shadow. The lamp cast a wan yellow halo, the air around it thick and turbid; the light trembled like wings fluttering in drifting smoke. He shook his head hard and rubbed his eyes. The drawings on the desk dissolved into a white mist, rising and spreading until everything blurred. He could no longer tell whether he was awake or still wandering inside a dream.

He had slept too little, smoked too much. In truth, he had not slept at all—only lain for a while among scattered drawings and ashtrays brimming with cigarette butts. When he finally looked up, dawn had already broken. Morning light brushed across the clustered buildings on the outskirts of Beijing. He pushed open the window, letting the cold breeze sweep away the exhaustion of a sleepless night, carrying him back from dreams into the world of day.

It was January 1979, in Baijiazhuang, Beijing.

Yuan Yunsheng had just completed his half-year journey through Yunnan and was passing through Beijing on his return. Yet something unexpected—and joyful—compelled him to stay.

At that time, the newly built Capital Airport terminal rose in the city's eastern suburbs like a crystal palace, gleaming with the most advanced technology of its day. Its vast waiting halls and restaurants were spacious and comfortable; doors opened automatically; luggage rolled along conveyor belts; electronic digital scales and quartz clocks promised precision; efficient air conditioning cooled the interior; and cutting-edge navigation and communication systems made it a gateway unlike any other in China. It stood as a proud symbol of modernization, unmatched anywhere else in the country.

Around the world, modern architectural design was increasingly paired with ambitious artistic decoration. In China, this revival of mural art was taking new forms, aligning ancient traditions with the possibilities of industrial technology. The leaders of Capital Airport, forward-thinking in their vision, invited more than fifty artists and craftsmen—led by Zhang Ding, president of the Central Academy of Arts and Crafts—to create a monumental series of modern murals for the terminal.

Among those invited was Yuan Yunsheng, recommended despite his long silence of over twenty years.

In early 1979, as the window of ideological liberation opened—if only a crack—the long-entrenched entanglement between literature and politics began to loosen. Some artists grew more measured, reconsidering the age-old yet elusive question of how the two should relate. They rejected the dogma that literature must remain subordinate to politics. Their position was neither confrontational nor radical: they did not seek to aim the arrow of art at sensitive political targets, knowing the risks of reproach from outside the artistic sphere. Rather, they hoped to free themselves from the shifting winds of political fashion, to preserve a degree of stability in their work, and not be tossed about like feathers in the air.

For Yuan Yunsheng, the matter was even simpler. As he put it: “Art is art, and art requires sincerity.”

Out of this simple conviction, shaped by the circumstances of the time, Yuan Yunsheng conceived his monumental mural design, Water Splashing Festival–A Hymn to Life.

The passenger restaurant of the terminal granted him an entire wall—twenty-seven meters wide and three and a half meters high, even curving around a corner—and before its pristine white surface he felt astonished and exhilarated, as though he might pour out every unspoken word of his heart upon it. For over twenty years, the artistic language and life experience he had carried within surged like a torrential river, and his vivid impressions from Xishuangbanna rose as their brilliant crest. At once, he knew the only subject could be the Water-Splashing Festival: the myth he had heard there, preserved in palm-leaf manuscripts, with its fiery emotions, unrestrained imagination, and clear, simple philosophy of a tropical people. Resolving to abandon folk motifs and narrative scenes, he turned instead to the expressive lines he had refined over decades to capture the people's yearning for freedom and a joyful future. “To paint a mural praising the spirit and character of the Dai people on such a vast wall,” he said, “is a dream beyond anything I could have imagined.”

Artists who believed in art serving politics could just as easily have framed this subject in political terms. Yet Yuan Yunsheng's vision moved beyond any specific political backdrop, reaching toward broader dimensions of time and space and embracing more profound themes. In earlier years, such an artistic conception would surely have faced political interference and been condemned as unorthodox. This time, its fate remained uncertain.

In Baijiazhuang, his elder brother Yuan Yunfu cleared a small chamber for him that served as both bedroom and studio. But the bed was rarely used. More often, Yuan spread out his sketches and slipped into a dreamworld woven from flowing lines and brilliant colors.

Even within that dreamworld, troubles abounded. Chief among them was the great door that cut through the center of the restaurant wall. By principle, mural art should harmonize with architectural form, yet this door fractured the surface and obstructed his conception. He wrestled with it through an entire night, chain-smoking, sketching draft after draft. From the opposite room, his brother saw the light burning without pause beneath the doorframe and smelled the smoke seeping through. In that pale blue haze, Yuan's energy, blood, and life seemed to drain away. When morning came and he finally opened his door, his face was ashen.

“How can your body endure this kind of work?” Yuan Yunfu exclaimed.

“It's all right,” his younger brother replied with a faint smile. “I'm used to it.”

To Yuan Yunfu, the man before him seemed utterly changed from the brother he had once known. More than twenty years earlier, in this very room, Yuan Yunsheng had recounted the process of being branded a “rightist.” His round face then had carried an almost innocent look, as though he were telling a lighthearted story. Now, that same face bore the marks of storms weathered and roads hard-traveled. The features had sharpened, the expression had grown stern, and within it shone a tenacious strength.

What a price he had paid to regain this chance to create again in Beijing. Yuan Yunfu understood the depth of his younger brother's feelings at that moment.

For an entire day, Yuan Yunsheng shut himself in the small room, lost in his mural dream. He drew inspiration from the arched bridges of Suzhou's suburbs, familiar forms from his youth, and imagined a way to span the troublesome doorway. “The two ends of an arch bridge are heavy and thick, supporting the high and slender top,” he reflected. “It is mechanically stable—and what beautiful curves this rainbow-like arc creates! To build a rainbow of human movement from the festival life of the Dai people—how enchanting that would be” (Yuan Yunsheng, “Mural Dreams,” Art Research, no. 1, 1980).

To realize such an enchanting vision was a monumental task. Before his eyes unfurled the brilliant, colorful scenes of the Water-Splashing Festival—people carrying and splashing water, dancing, racing boats, bathing at dusk, families resting in bamboo houses, young men and women lingering in the forest after nightfall. Under his brush appeared hundreds of figures, each vivid and lifelike, ready to spring into motion. The work was at once decorative, exaggerated, and full of character, yet rich in lyrical meaning. His sketch stretched longer and longer, the rainbow-like stream of people flowing endlessly across the page. Immersed in the fever of creation, he seemed to hear music rising with him. He gripped his brush as though it were the baton of a symphony conductor, his flowing lines transforming into melody and rhythm, until the solemn, passionate theme swelled higher and higher.

Another dawn broke. Across the hall, Yuan Yunfu stirred awake to see light still glowing beneath his brother's door. He, too, was exhausted; he was also at work on the Capital Airport mural project, drafting Mountains and Waters of Ba and Shu. Yet if he pursued his path with skill and discipline, his brother was hurling himself forward with sheer life force. Half a month had passed—fifteen days and nights with the light in that room burning without pause. Such willpower was astonishing, such devotion that even metal and stone might be moved to tears.

Pale blue smoke drifted from his room, carried by the sound of heavy, rasping coughs, each harsher than the last. Yet he kept painting, kept smoking. The coughing broke the silence before dawn, raw and wrenching to hear. He was building a spiritual mansion at the expense of his own body, and on the paper the flowing lines no longer seemed sketches, but the very blood vessels of life itself.

After daybreak, Yuan Yunfu said to his brother, “You've probably forgotten that the day after tomorrow is the lunar New Year's Eve. I advise you to rest well for a few days and go back to Changchun for the New Year.”

Yuan Yunsheng shook his head. “There's not enough time. Although the second draft is finished, I haven't had time to make copies yet.”

“Even if you don't care about your own body, you should consider Lanying,” his brother said. “You've been away from Changchun for over half a year. If you don't come back for the Spring Festival, it wouldn't be right.”

At the mention of Lanying, Yuan Yunsheng could no longer insist on staying away. On New Year's Eve, he hurried home to Changchun.

“How many days can you stay this time?” Lanying asked.

“Only until after the Spring Festival,” he admitted. “I still need to discuss the sketches. I haven't copied this draft yet, so I brought it back with me.”

Lanying sighed. “So you can't even rest properly during the holiday…”

“Copying isn't difficult,” he said, “but it takes a great deal of time.”

She thought for a moment. “Well then, can I help?”

He looked at his wife with deep affection and nodded.

It was the first time Lanying had directly taken part in her husband's artistic work. At night, they would light the desk lamp, set a glass board in place, spread out sheets of translucent tracing paper, and together copy the sketches for the Water Splashing Festival. This work, created in praise of the Dai people, also carried within it the quiet devotion of a Han Chinese woman.

From New Year's Day through the fourth of the month, they spent their nights like this, Lanying keeping vigil beside Yuan Yunsheng. Absorbed in his work, he scarcely noticed that her already thin face was growing more haggard, shadowed by the early signs of a grave illness.

Kraft Paper

No sooner had the Spring Festival ended than Yuan Yunsheng returned to Beijing, carrying with him the completed color design sketches.

Preparations for the mural advanced at a rapid pace. To ensure the best artistic effect, the Capital Airport had specially imported a batch of acrylic paints from Hong Kong—a new medium then gaining popularity in Europe, America, and Japan. With their bright yet soft tones, strong opacity, and adaptability to layered gradations and shading, the paints could retain stable color under varying conditions of moisture, dryness, and temperature for years to come.

The two collaborators participating in painting Water Splashing Festival – A Hymn to Life, Lian Weiyun and Fei Zheng, also arrived successively. They were both accomplished middle-aged artists who, after seeing Yuan Yunsheng's design sketches, were moved by the charm that combined traditional Chinese painting techniques with modern Western art, and were eager to try their hands at it.

The scaffolding was erected, the wall surface was covered with sturdy base cloth, and all preparations were complete by early summer.

One day in June, Lanying traveled from Changchun to Beijing. She came for medical treatment—a trip she could no longer postpone. Her condition had first been detected months earlier. During a gynecological exam before the Spring Festival, the doctor had found a distinct mass in her uterus. But with her husband away and the burden of caring for the children alone, she delayed seeking care. Now, as her symptoms worsened rapidly, she had no choice but to go to a major hospital in Beijing for treatment and further diagnosis.

While waiting for her appointment, she and her husband stayed at the newly built Capital Airport hotel for international flight crews. The rooms were modest but comfortable—spring beds, private bathrooms, even ceiling vents for air conditioning. Since their marriage, Lanying had never shared such accommodations with her husband. Yet the time together was painfully brief. Each morning, at the first trace of violet dawn through the curtains, Yuan Yunsheng would rise, wash in haste, and his hurried footsteps would echo down the corridor as he left for the day. At night he returned late, drenched in sweat and spattered with paint, more like a laborer descending from scaffolding than a painter of great murals.

At last, the day of diagnosis arrived. When Lanying stepped out of the hospital, results in hand, her weary body felt as if it were sinking into a bottomless abyss. The disease had advanced with shocking speed—what had once been a single growth had multiplied into a mass of tumors. As a surgeon herself, she understood all too clearly the meaning of this change. Malignant tumors often spread and deform the body; benign ones are comparatively stable. If she escaped cancer, it would be sheer luck.

She walked slowly, her thoughts empty, her mind drifting in a gray mist where sparks of consciousness flickered and vanished. Deep down she knew: years of relentless worry and household strain had worn down her body's defenses, until her strength had given way under the pressure. Did her husband, her children, her future still belong to her?

She returned to the airport. During the day, Yuan Yunsheng was never at their lodging, so she crossed the long stretch of asphalt, entered the departure terminal, and stopped at the edge of the scaffolding.

The hall was vast and solemn. Brand-new glass panes mirrored the blue sky; light poured in unrestrained, scattering soft reflections across the walls. In the heavy heat of June, construction was underway. Scaffolding rose in tiers toward the ceiling; on the floor below, brushes, palettes, and paint buckets lay strewn about in disarray, evidence of relentless work.

Lanying lifted her gaze and found her husband high above. Bent forward, brush in hand, he traced and outlined across the wall. Strands of his long black hair slipped over his brow, swaying with each movement, like a cellist absorbed in the sweep of his bow, lost in music only he could hear. For him, the world beyond that wall no longer existed.

She stood motionless, transfixed. Perhaps only she, in this moment, could grasp his state of mind. From the narrow confines of their humble room in Changchun to this soaring, light-filled hall, the talent, wisdom, and ambition he had carried in silence for more than twenty years now surged free. He seemed to pour his very life into the tip of his brush, releasing it with abandon, fusing himself into the painting before him.

Lines unfurled across the wall like images appearing in the developer's bath of a darkroom. Out of them emerged the dense forests of Xishuangbanna, alive with vitality. Slowly, the forms of Dai women took shape—slender waists, supple arms, bodies poised in dynamic, tilted motion that carried the rhythm of water splashing. In her ears, Lanying seemed to hear the bright clatter of gongs and the thunder of elephant-foot drums. The women's faces glimmered with a hazy, yearning expression.

The lifeless wall had come alive. It radiated with his passion, burning in brilliant lines and colors, recreating dreams of beauty. His finite life, she thought, was rising into the permanence of art.

And standing in the shadows of this artistic performance, Lanying felt how easily the act of watching art led one into reflections on life itself.

Lanying's mood relaxed somewhat, and the heavy feeling like blocked lead that she had when leaving the hospital lightened. Art had long ago entered her destiny, changing her from an outsider to an insider. She gained spiritual compensation from the breathing of artistic creation.

At this moment, Yuan Yunsheng climbed down from the scaffolding, spotted his wife at a glance, and walked quickly toward her. “Did the hospital examination yield results?”

Lanying said, “Go on with your work, we'll talk when we get back.”

His wife's peaceful expression relieved his concerns. He told her, “You should stay in the room and rest well.”

“I'm not tired,” Lanying smiled faintly, her tone light. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

He considered it seriously for a moment. “Actually, we do need you here. Please help us pose and demonstrate the character movements from the sketches.”

“All right,” his wife agreed. Under his direction, Lanying performed various body movements.

Fortunately, she had been an active participant in cultural activities twenty years ago and had some dance foundation, so her movements were natural, and her slender figure was also ideal. This task consumed considerable time, with Yuan Yunsheng looking left and right, directing Lanying's postures while examining the figures in the sketches. For Lanying, who was suffering from illness, this was an excessive burden. Yet she maintained dignified posture with great endurance, her pale, weary face showing a peaceful smile...

A few days later, Lanying boarded the northbound train and left Beijing. Her husband saw her off at the station, still unaware of her condition. Until the very moment of departure, she had chosen silence. Again and again she had weighed the pros and cons. As a surgeon, she knew exactly what her own treatment plan should be: immediate hospitalization, surgical removal. With tumors—benign or malignant—the first principle was never to delay. But she thought of her husband, and of a cause more beautiful than the man himself: his art.

If she entered the hospital to undergo major surgery, she knew he would never leave her side. With no close relatives to share the burden, he would unhesitatingly devote himself to her care. His work would be interrupted, perhaps even derailed. And so she resolved to give up her own chance at treatment—even though it meant surrendering her hope of life—in exchange for the continuation of his artistic struggle. It was a thought she had carried deep in her heart for many years, ever since the day she first fell in love with him.

A long whistle pierced the air as the train pulled away, carrying with it the heart of a woman both ordinary and great, fading into the mist.

Meanwhile, Yuan Yunsheng and his collaborators labored without rest. For four months they worked tirelessly, eating and sleeping irregularly, until at last the mural neared completion. Around the corner of the vast wall appeared the dusky scenery of Xishuangbanna. In pale blue light rose an egg-flower tree, its luxuriant branches forming a screen as lush as a cluster of embroidered balls. Beneath it, Dai maidens bathed in the evening glow, clay pots in hand, pouring clear spring water over their bodies. Their long, beautiful hair scattered in waves, cascading like mountain streams. They combed their dark tresses with cloud-like faces and gentle smiles, radiant with the quiet pride of youth.

Surrounding the maidens' figures were several elegant lines—outlines of clothing sketched during the preliminary draft stage, which Yuan Yunsheng was still undecided about how to handle. During the coloring process, observers who came and went in this great hall paid special attention to the evening-bathing maidens on the wall, wanting to see whether they would ultimately be clothed.

Bathing, unlike water-splashing, requires the removal of clothes—something so ordinary in life that it hardly needed explanation. Among the Dai, women in daily life appeared all the more natural. During his time in Xishuangbanna, Yuan Yunsheng had bathed many times at wells and in the Lancang River alongside both Dai men and women. They were open and unselfconscious, returning to a primal simplicity, regarding the naked body as nature's creation, without mystery or shame.

“I admit my feudal consciousness was greater than theirs,” Yuan Yunsheng said frankly. “This only deepened my respect for them.”

In the history of painting, the nude has long been one of the richest artistic languages of expression. From depictions of Aphrodite in Ancient Greece and onward, it developed into an independent aesthetic category. In the same spirit, Yuan believed that to use the nude here—to express reverence for women and a triumphant praise of life—was not only justified but necessary for this scene in the mural. What he depicted was, after all, a mythic legend, not a mere reproduction of custom.

Yet had he chosen wrongly?

For some, nude figures were nothing more than a “barbarous Western custom.” In their view, Western material abundance had produced only spiritual poverty, to the point where people could no longer even cover their shame. China, they believed, was the opposite. During the Cultural Revolution, a so-called “great revolution of the spirit” unfolded alongside the collapse of material life. For ten years, vision itself was forcibly “purified.” Women abandoned skirts, qipao, and fitted blouses, wrapping themselves in loose garments that erased every curve—lest they pollute the eyes of others or profane their own bodies. Yet treating aesthetic expression as a crime did not purify society. It diminished it, leaving behind not moral clarity but spiritual poverty and a narrowing of imagination. Clear springs were muddied, and art and crime were thrown together into the same stagnant pool.

In midsummer, when the “evening bathing” scene took shape on the wall, the figures of several young women—though decorative, symbolic, and simplified—nonetheless sparked a storm. That inconspicuous corner drew wave after wave of onlookers: the curious, the anxious, the stern, and those simply seeking excitement. Some gazed in wonder, some frowned in disapproval, others whispered vulgar remarks.

It was the first appearance of nudity in a modern Chinese mural in many years, and to many eyes Yuan Yunsheng had crossed a grave line. The solution seemed simple: he could take up his brush, add a few strokes, and clothe the women in short blouses and tube skirts. With that small concession, both he and his family would escape calamity, turning danger into safety. But he refused. His thoughts turned instead to an earlier struggle over nude art in China's history.

Sixty years earlier in Shanghai, a group of courageous painters had endured fierce attacks for introducing nudity into teaching and creation. Newspapers denounced them relentlessly: they were accused of “corrupting morals,” of “placing the women of the world in shameless positions,” of “destroying the great defense between Chinese men and women.” At the same time, opportunists on the margins—idle youths and petty profiteers—were circulating pornographic nude photographs for sale, giving critics further ammunition. The uproar swelled until the warlord Sun Chuanfang himself telegraphed an order to have the painters arrested.

But the artists did not retreat. They fought back with their pencils and brushes, declaring: “Scoundrels and market rogues produce obscene photographs for profit. I despise them. But what fault lies with the Shanghai Art School? What fault can be pinned on me? My determination to promote art cannot be taken away. Even if I must go through fire and water, I will have no complaints.”

In the end, it was the painters who prevailed, and the warlord who was defeated.

More than half a century had passed since the battles in Shanghai. Times had changed, yet this old controversy in the art world remained unresolved.

“What we're facing is no longer just the question of nudity,” Yuan Yunsheng told his companions. “This is about the liberation of artistic thought itself.” So they stood firm, refusing to alter the mural. For them, that disputed detail became a stone laid on the path toward an artistic springtime, the long-awaited thaw after the fall of the “Gang of Four.”

But the weight of public opinion was immense. While the mural was still unfinished, airport and construction officials, eager to give the artists a calmer working environment, intervened. Out of goodwill, they covered the hall's modern doors with thick sheets of brown paper. Beneath the dark yellow glow of this improvised screen, the vast mural painted in imported acrylics seemed to take on the aura of an antique fresco. Sheltered for the moment, the painters worked on in temporary peace, pressing forward with the task still before them. 

Not the End

On a day in late October, autumn winds swept yellow dust across the sky above Beijing's city streets. Yuan Yunsheng walked along the main road, striding quickly into the wind, his thick black hair streaming behind him.

The painting of the Capital Airport mural group was now complete. The artists and art workers led by Zhang Ding had achieved tremendous success. Newspapers and television stations competed to showcase the distinctive, modern murals: Nezha Conquers the Dragon King, Song of the Forest, Mountains and Waters of Ba and Shu, Spring of Science, and Water Splashing Festival–A Hymn to Life. The art world—and society at large—seemed caught up in a whirlwind of excitement, with reactions both strong and immediate.

On the eve of the Fourth National Literature and Art Congress, a group of prominent figures from the literary, theoretical, architectural, foreign trade, and publishing circles gathered at the Capital Airport to attend the unveiling ceremony, offering the artists their warm congratulations.

International praise soon followed. Foreign visitors standing in the terminal hall gazed appreciatively at the murals surrounding them on all four walls. “Beijing Airport will be famous throughout the world for its murals,” they said. “The moment one enters China, the impression is unforgettable—this kind of art is the symbol of a nation's strength.”

Famous Japanese painter Hirayama Ikuo also came to visit. He said Chinese culture had two peaks in history: the Han Dynasty and Tang Dynasty. However, he believed the third peak was arriving.

He smiled and said to Yuan Yunsheng, “After seeing your mural, I have learned just how beautiful Xishuangbanna is. I want to change my travel plans to go there to explore.”

These days, Yuan Yunsheng was incredibly busy—meeting foreign guests, accepting interviews, giving speeches—his daily schedule was packed. The days of solitude had become the past, replaced by honors, applause, and toasts. It was like stepping from rugged mountain footpaths onto flower-covered peaks... He walked on the main street, with gusts of wind and sand hitting him, his clothing swaying in the wind. At this moment, contrary to the joy brought by brilliant success, his expression was unusually sorrowful and pained, frozen like ice, cold as rock, with what seemed like an infinite mark of regret on his face... What is this for? Are you still not satisfied? Or are you still worried about changes in the political winds?

No. He wasn't worried about these things—he was confident. For over twenty years, with sincerity toward art, he had stubbornly explored toward a set goal, never becoming discouraged in the face of any setbacks. He loved his country's art. Because of his disagreement with Soviet painting theory, he had been labeled a “rightist,” but now, people taking the same stance he once pioneered were seen as logical and righteous.

He had once loved the water towns of Jiangnan. For painting the beauty of rural markets, he had been attacked—yet now markets across the country were more prosperous than ever. Life! Thirty years east of the river, thirty years west of the river. He no longer placed his faith in those hasty, short-lived verdicts. Both his character and his artistic spirit had been tempered by hardship, forged into independent forces beyond anyone's judgment.

Then why this sadness? Why this weight of dejection?

Only because his wife—his confidant, his support in work, his companion through every hardship—now lay weak and frail in a hospital bed. Just days earlier, he had learned the truth of the illness Lanying had hidden from him. After four months of torment, her health had collapsed. When she left Changchun, her body was already wasted, her figure emaciated. The women who came to see her off saw no trace of color in her face; they embraced her with bitter tears, treating the farewell as final, their sobs spilling into the long street.

Now she lay quietly in a Beijing hospital, as though exhausted, having finally set down the heavy burden she had carried for so long—silent, without resentment, without hope, waiting only for the verdict of surgery.

One life rises as another falls, and she had fallen for him. From the moment they met on that southbound train, when love struck at first sight, she had given too much. If she could never rise again, what meaning would today's success hold for him? She was a skilled doctor, a devoted wife, a loving mother, and, in her own way, a soul committed to art. Her sacrifices could never be repaid; no canon of art would record women such as her. What remained would be only the memory of her love and pain, etched forever in her husband's heart.

Yuan Yunsheng hurried down the street toward the hospital, his heart in turmoil. His eyes grew moist, misty tears welling and trembling in their sockets. He thought that in this vast world, two kinds of people stood closest to art: the first, honest artists; the second, those who, though they did not understand art, were pure and simple—like his beloved wife. Such people sought nothing but art itself. To acknowledge their devotion and their labor was the least tolerance art deserved. Yet they had borne too much suffering from forces outside the realm of art. Couldn't there be less of it?

He walked on through the streets of Beijing, his eyes wet with tears that seemed to emit rays of hopeful light.

Postscript: After this article was published, the female protagonist recovered through treatment. Some years later, the male protagonist traveled alone to America. The twists and turns of life cannot be fully told. 

 —Author (Originally published in October, June 1980)

Chinese Girls

Lu Guang

“In loyalty, be faithful to your own soil;

in pursuit, follow your own ideals.”

—From a friend’s poem

This is a stirring song of struggle, its central theme declaring that the honor of the motherland stands above all else. Sports are often seen as a showcase of a nation's spirit. So let us look through the small window of China's women's volleyball team to glimpse the spirit and vitality our nation should embody! 

The Dawn Lights of São Paulo

South America—São Paulo, Brazil. Late summer, 1977. Past midnight.

The strange neon lights still flickered wearily, but the crowded streets had fallen silent. On the corner of a bustling avenue stood Hotel A, its windows dark, its old shutters hanging still. Inside, young men and women from across the world, gathered for the First World Youth Volleyball Championship, were fast asleep.

In one room, the antique shutters and heavy red curtains sealed off the tall glass window. The overhead chandelier was dark; only a table lamp glowed faintly, casting its pale yellow light around the room. Two narrow single beds stood eight feet apart. Zhou Xiaolan and Han Xiaohua lay upon them, eyes closed as if asleep—but inside, their thoughts surged like restless tides.

Xiaolan stirred and turned onto her side.

At once, Xiaohua's eyes opened. “Xiaolan, can't you sleep?”

“Nope. What about you?”

The two girls shifted closer, face to face, close enough to feel each other's warm breath. Xiaolan, beautiful, calm, and composed, lifted her delicate brows and sighed.

“Tomorrow is the day we fight.”

Xiaohua let out a sigh of her own. “Yes,” she agreed, “maybe it's the only chance we'll ever have.”

“Let's sleep,” they reminded each other again.

They closed their eyes, sealed their lips, and tried to will themselves into rest. But reason could not withstand the surge of emotions crashing through them.

Xiaolan's bright eyes flickered open. Maybe if I keep them open, she thought, these restless thoughts will finally quiet.

The white ceiling above her became a giant screen, replaying scenes from the Hong Kong preliminaries: the packed Queen Elizabeth Stadium in Kowloon, the Korean girls embracing in wild triumph, Hong Kong and Macau spectators slipping away in silence, the Chinese team weeping in heartbreak—those swollen, tear-stained eyes.

Why recall such sorrow now? She squeezed her eyes shut. But when she opened them again, two merciless strings of numbers burned across the ceiling: 0:3, 0:3.

These statistics were evidence of their shameful record—two crushing defeats to Korea's youth women's team.

And yet, she remembered: she had not cried. Not for a lack of wanting to cry—she had longed to sob until her throat tore. The tears had risen, hot and bitter, but she bit her lip and forced them back. In that moment she swore to herself: Heroes may bleed, but they do not cry. Tears cannot win a match. She knew she would meet them once more—at the finals in São Paulo. It was that fierce flame of defiance, perhaps, that dried her tears before they fell.

Now she lay in this quiet hotel in downtown São Paulo. Just a few rooms away, their Korean rivals were also resting—or perhaps dreaming. Tomorrow evening—no, tonight, in barely twelve hours—the battle they had awaited through a hundred sleepless days and nights would finally begin.

“Do you think they can't sleep either?” Xiaolan finally broke the silence.

By they, she meant their three teammates: Zhou Junfen from Hubei, Wen Meiling from Guangxi, and Lin Hui from Zhejiang.

Xiaohua sat up. “Let's find out. If they're awake too, we can talk it over together.”

Before Xiaolan could reply, she had already lifted the phone and quietly dialed their number. “Hello? Still awake? Can't sleep? Then come to our room—quietly, don't wake the coaches…”

Zhou Junfen, Wen Meiling, and Lin Hui tiptoed down the quiet corridor to Xiaolan and Xiaohua's room. The two single beds had been pushed together, and soon all five girls were sprawled across this makeshift “big bed,” their heads huddled close. Coincidentally, they were all born in 1957—each just twenty years old. Xiaohua, from Shandong, was already a Party member; the other four were Youth League members. Twenty years old—the age when sleep should come easily.

But not that night.

“Korea's got good setters,” one said, “but we're taller and stronger at the net.”

“They beat us earlier this year and are probably overconfident now. We've got fire in our guts—they don't.”

“In pure strength, they may still have the edge. But once the match begins, it's hard to say.”

They dissected every strength and weakness, then reminded and encouraged each other in turn. Finally, they reached a secret pact: if they lost, not a single tear was allowed; if they won, they could cry as much as they liked.

The chatter flowed on, carrying them past 4 a.m. Only then did they realize the night was nearly gone. On the eve of a match, this was absolutely forbidden. If the coaches or team leaders found out, the scolding would be merciless.

But Han Xiaohua, always the steady one, had already thought ahead. “If word gets out, I'm the captain—I'll take the blame and write the self-criticism.”

Xiaolan quickly added, “The meeting was in our room. If anyone writes a self-criticism, it'll be the two of us.”

The other three protested at once. “No, if there's blame to share, we'll all write it together.”

Xiaohua only laughed and said softly, “Then let's just win. If we do, even writing a self-criticism will feel sweet.”

By then, dawn's first light had not yet touched the earth, and the girls could finally allow themselves a little rest. Xiaohua and Xiaolan didn't bother to separate the beds again. They switched off the lamp, curled up side by side, and soon drifted into a deep sleep. The world outside stirred, the streets beginning to fill with noise and movement, but none of it reached them. They were too exhausted. Let them sleep in peace, if only for a few precious minutes.

And while they slept, let us turn back the pages of time to revisit the past of this girl who could swallow her tears…

Spring of 1970, in the Taihang Mountains.

The morning star still gleamed with cold silver light, the countryside wrapped in a pale haze of moonlight. A tall, thin girl of twelve or thirteen, a grass-green schoolbag slung over her shoulder, hurried along the rugged mountain path. Every day she left her village under the starlight, crossed two barren ridges, and walked nearly ten kilometers to the commune's elementary school. In the evenings, she made the same long trek back, another ten kilometers through the fading dusk to her remote village. It was a time when people said that “studying is useless.” She was the only girl in the village still attending school. A few boys went too, but they walked quickly, leaving her far behind. This girl, who had only recently moved from the city, could never keep pace. Morning and evening alike, she made the long journey alone.

One snowy winter night, heavy drifts blanketed the countryside. After school she trudged through the snow, climbing the slope of a mountain. Darkness had already swallowed the land when, looking up, she suddenly saw two faint green lights flickering on the ridge ahead. What could they be?

In summer, she knew, fireflies floated above the fields, winking their dim green lights. Sometimes there were so many, they formed a sea of sparks. But these were not fireflies—the glow was far too large, and besides, it was winter. The villagers often spoke of “ghost fires”… but did ghosts really exist? She didn't believe in them, so she tried to push the thought aside. Still, the lights did not move. They only stared at her, twin points of green in the snowbound dark, and a shiver of fear coursed through her.

Her body trembled and she could hear her own heart pounding. Then she remembered what the villagers had said: there were wolves in these mountains. No doubt about it now—those had to be the eyes of a wolf.

Wolves devour people. In kindergarten, she had listened wide-eyed as the aunties told tales of the Big Bad Wolf. She had never imagined that, on a white winter night in these desolate hills, she would face one herself. Her legs nearly gave way. Pressing her body against the cliffside, she dared not even breathe. At last, she groped her way into a shallow cave where shepherds sometimes took shelter from the wind and rain.

That girl was Zhou Xiaolan. She had come to this mountain village with her parents. Her mother, a doctor trained at Shanghai Medical College, and her father, an engineer, had once worked at a factory in Taiyuan. But as “stinking intellectuals” of the despised ninth category, they had been sent down to the countryside to “remold themselves.” Even so, they insisted their daughter continue her education. And so she steeled herself to walk twenty kilometers a day across mountain roads, in sun and snow alike, to attend school.

The snow kept falling silently, muffling the world, the mountains sunk in eerie stillness. Xiaolan crouched in the cave, unsure how much time had passed. She knew she couldn't hide forever—her parents would be frantic. Gathering her courage, she peeked out. Only snowflakes danced in the darkness. The green lights were gone. Had the wolf left, or was it still lurking unseen? She couldn't tell. But she had to go home.

Carefully she edged from the cave, scanning the slope. Nothing stirred. She began to walk, each step trembling. Slowly at first, then faster—until at last she was stumbling forward in a panicked run, crashing through the drifts. Behind her, the crunching of snow seemed to follow like a predator's pursuit. It was only her own footsteps, but in her terror she could no longer tell. She just ran, and ran, and ran, until at last the village came into view.

From a distance she saw the dim yellow glow of their mud-brick house and heard faint voices within. Gasping for breath, she flung herself through the door, snow and cold rushing in with her. She collapsed into her mother's arms and broke into sobs—deep, ragged, uncontrollable. By then it was already past midnight.

“Xiaolan, what's wrong?” her mother asked, eyes full of worry.

Xiaolan hid what had really happened on the mountain road. Through her sobs she only whispered, “The snow was hard to walk through. Let's just sleep, Mom. I'm so tired.” She knew if she told the truth, her parents would forbid her from going to school.

A few days later, she finally confessed that she had seen the wolf's eyes in the dark. But she added with determination, “The villagers say wolves are afraid of a beating. From now on I'll carry a stick—then I won't be scared.”

Winter gave way to spring, the ice melted, flowers bloomed. Xiaolan still walked the mountain roads alone, a wooden stick always in her hand. Her courage had grown. If she met a wolf again, she swore she would fight. Yet from that night on, the gleaming green eyes never appeared again. Perhaps wolves, too, prey on the timid and avoid the strong—they seemed to sense this girl had grown fierce, and did not dare strike.

Years later, when Xiaolan joined the Shanxi provincial team, others also discovered her courage was extraordinary—startling, even.

One evening, she left a Taiyuan hospital after visiting her ailing mother. On the dark street, four hooligans blocked her path. They beckoned with mocking smiles, jeering: “Come here! Come here!”

Xiaolan's heart pounded, but her face was calm. She demanded loudly, “What do you want?”

They sneered again: “Come over and compare heights!”

She said nothing more, only stepped forward. Perhaps they had never encountered such a fearless girl; for a moment they froze. Then, in a sudden burst, Xiaolan shoved past them, slipped through the middle, and sprinted away.

The thugs shouted and gave chase. But Xiaolan did not look back. She thought, Chase me then—I'm an athlete. Do you really think you can catch me?

Just then, a bus rattled up. The doors swung open, and Xiaolan leapt aboard. With a roar, the bus pulled away, leaving the shameless scoundrels swallowed in the night.

Hard years, harsh living, and the solitude of the mountains had forged her character: quiet, introverted, yet fierce and unyielding. And when that character fused with the honor of her country, it blazed into brilliant light.

By now, dawn had broken. Xiaolan and her teammates still slept soundly. But on her face rested an expression of steely resolve, as if to declare: “Korean girls, just wait. Tonight, we will defeat you.”

The Rekindled Flame of Hope

In the morning the Chinese women's youth volleyball team did a pre-match warm-up. The bus left Hotel A and drove through the busy downtown streets toward the gym. The girls showed little interest in the dazzling foreign city outside—some rested with their eyes closed, some were lost in thought, and some actually fell asleep.

Their team leader, Que Yongwu, couldn't help asking, “Why are you all so sleepy this early?” At first the girls kept their “secret” tightly, but after repeated questioning someone finally confessed. The mood on the bus instantly grew tense. The girls braced themselves, expecting a scolding. Que Yongwu was a forty-five- or forty-six-year-old woman, not tall but thin and full of spirit. She glanced silently at coaches Deng Ruozeng and Qu Peilan sitting beside her; they exchanged looks. After a while the observant girls read the subtle expressions on their leaders' faces and realized: pleasure outweighed reprimand.

Sure enough, Que Yongwu said, “Make sure you sleep well during the break at noon!”

At noon the girls fell asleep as soon as they lay down. But Que Yongwu seemed energized—she showed no sign of sleepiness. Her thoughts drifted back to ten years prior, to Guangzhou, called the flower city of the motherland.

It was early 1967, on Ersha Island in the Pearl River. Even though it was the middle of winter, the island itself was still green—the bamboo stood tall, the trees shone with dew, and jasmine flowers gave off their scent. In her sports clothes, Que Yongwu sat on a stone bench by the river, staring at the muddy water flowing east. Tears filled her eyes. It was the first time she had cried since joining the revolution. Her tears dropped into the river.

The girls of the national women's volleyball team stood nearby, watching their coach in silence. She was thirty-six, still unmarried, and they were afraid she might suddenly throw herself into the river.

One of them blurted out, “Coach, are you going to jump in and kill yourself?”

Jump in? No—she would never let herself sink that low. But still, she felt a sorrow and anger unlike anything she had ever known.

In just a few days she was supposed to lead the team to Japan for the World Championship. With their strength, the Chinese team should have been among the best. But then, twelve urgent orders had arrived from Beijing, demanding she return immediately to “confess her problems.” The charge was simple: she had been branded a “royalist.” The words hit her like a bucket of ice water dumped onto a burning heart.

Now, on the eve of their departure, the coach who had lived beside them day and night was being torn away. The girls were shattered, like souls without bodies. Star players Dong Tianmei, Li Jieying, and Han Cuiqing rushed to the small house where she lived, burst through the door, and pleaded, “Coach, you can't leave us!”

Que Yongwu looked out the window at the tall kapok trees, tears streaming down her face, her heart hurting like it had been cut by a knife.

Dong Tianmei cried, “Coach, please think positively… Please take care of yourself.”

She could not say any more. A few days later, another order came, this time from Jiang Qing herself: the women's volleyball team was not to go abroad at all, but return to Beijing to take part in the “Cultural Revolution.” For Que Yongwu, this was a deadly blow. Was the career she had fought for half her life—the career she was willing to give everything for—going to die before it had even begun? Were generations of Chinese girls to give up halfway, to see their years of youth destroyed in a single day?

She stood by the river, silently questioning the waters, questioning the sky. No answer came. Her grief was so heavy it almost drove her mad.

The wild river wind blew her long hair loose, and the rushing waters churned the waters of her heart.

When she was eighteen, the nine girls who had started working alongside her all married one after another. She too had a suitor, introduced by a “matchmaker” who was actually one of her superiors. But she didn't want to marry so young. While the matchmaker was away on business, she quietly returned the man's photo along with a letter of apology. The truth was, she was already “in love” at the time—her lover was that white leather volleyball.

That year she went to Bucharest, the capital of Romania, to take part in the World Youth Festival. Chinese athletes were warmly welcomed abroad then, but the old stigma of the “sick man of East Asia” still lingered. Foreign visitors came to see the Chinese women's team and were curious whether the girls' feet were truly bound into “three-inch golden lotuses.” At that time, China's level in sports was still very backward. The women's volleyball team faced Bulgaria and was crushed—no points in the first set, two in the second, four in the third. Six points in total across three sets. The only bright moment of the Festival came from the swimmer Qi Chuanyu, who won the 100-meter backstroke and raised the very first five-star red flag of the People's Republic at an international competition. As the “March of the Volunteers” rang out and the red flag slowly climbed the pole, Que Yongwu wept. At that moment, a fire took root in her heart: she would dedicate her life to Chinese sport and fight to bring honor to her country!

In the early days of the People's Republic, there wasn't even a proper volleyball court. Thus, a corner of the football field at Tianjin Minyuan Stadium was marked off for training. Later, they put up a mat shed as a makeshift indoor court. The players rolled and fell on the dirt ground during practice, their sweat mixing with soil until they looked like mud monkeys. Athletes endured such harsh conditions for three years, and by 1956, when they went to Paris for the World Volleyball Championship, they finished at a proud sixth place.

Because of severe gastric ptosis, Que Yongwu had to retire as a player; however, she never left volleyball. In 1958, she returned to her hometown Chengdu to coach the Sichuan women's team, which, under her leadership, even defeated the national team several times. Vice Premier He Long personally called for her to come coach in Beijing. By 1963, she was thirty-one. At the time, she had a boyfriend who didn't want her to leave, and her aging mother, too, wished she would stay close by. Yet Que Yongwu firmly said that if the state needed her to coach the national team, she would obey.

So she went alone to the capital. Her devoted boyfriend wrote her letters every day or two, pressing her for marriage. In one, he declared, “If you agree, I'll fly to Beijing tomorrow and we'll marry right away.”

Marriage? No, impossible. She had only just taken up her post.

Vice Premier He Long had greeted her warmly upon her arrival, calling her by her nickname: “Monkey, I'm entrusting this team to you—you must lead them well!”

New players had just been gathered from all over the country, and she was training with them day and night. How could she possibly think about marriage? The team was her home. She barely even had time to answer letters.

In the end, she wrote him a blunt reply: If you love me, then wait—you'll have to wait several years. If you can wait, then wait; if you can't, then it's over.

Her boyfriend didn't hesitate. He couldn't wait. Understandable—how many men in their thirties would? And so, her second romance ended.

To part from someone you loved without pain—that would have been a lie. She was human too, a woman of flesh and blood. But her endless work schedule dulled the ache of a lost love.

On the eve of the Cultural Revolution, Que Yongwu was thirty-five and still unmarried. In a society bound by tradition, that meant gossip. Well-meaning colleagues at Xinhua introduced her to an honest, loyal man. But when they met, she gave him the same condition as before: he would have to wait several years.

Wait several years? Only heaven knew how many.

The mischievous female players often half-jokingly probed her for information: “Coach, when will we eat your wedding candy?” Her answer was always: “If you don't win championships, don't even think about my wedding candy.”

At that time, the Japanese women's volleyball team was known as the “Oriental Witches,” and they dominated the sport. The Chinese team's slogan was “fight a turnaround battle,” with Japan as their main target. But the gap in strength was huge. When Japan's national team, the Kaizuka women's team, visited China, the Chinese side managed to take only two sets and were completely outmatched. When Japan's other powerhouse, the National General Selection Team, came, Vice Premier He Long longed for a victory.

“If you win, I'll treat you,” he said with a smile, stroking his short, bristly beard.

Back at the dormitory, Que Yongwu teased her players: “If you win this match, I'll treat you to wedding candy.”

By chance, though the Chinese girls fought hard and seemed certain to lose in the beginning, they pulled off a comeback and won. Drenched in sweat, they swarmed around their coach like a flock of magpies, chattering, “Give us wedding candy! Give us wedding candy!”

Que Yongwu recalled Marshal He Long's solemn words: “If the three major ball sports don't turn around, I won't be able to close my eyes in death.”

Smiling, she told the girls, “Wait until after the World Championship.”

They protested: “You didn't keep your word!”

“I do keep my word,” she answered seriously. “This time I mean it. After the World Championship, I'll get married.”

By the winter of 1965, the Japanese women's team had become famous for their grueling training. In games, some players could dive, roll, and spring back up to save the ball more than 400 times in a row without stopping. Determined to outdo them, the Chinese team pushed themselves even harder, setting a new mark of 500 consecutive saves. The player chosen for this exhausting test was Qu Peilan—who, years later, would go on to coach the youth team.

When Que Yongwu gave her the assignment, Qu Peilan said nothing. She just nodded firmly. She knew exactly how brutal it would be. Only a few days earlier, her teammate Qian Shuwen had managed 250 consecutive rolling saves at Beijing Normal University. Watching Qian collapse in exhaustion, the other girls had broken down in tears. Even the team leader, too embarrassed to cry in public, had slipped into the restroom to weep in secret. And now, Que was asking Qu Peilan to double that number.

The training took place on the playground of Beijing 101 Middle School. Qu stepped onto the court in a brand-new purple-red tracksuit, looking bright and full of spirit. Two male coaches took turns spiking balls at her—when one tired, the other stepped in. After a hundred rolls, her rosy face turned pale. Sweat and mud covered her body. She lay on the ground gasping, unable to rise. But the balls kept coming, smashing toward her without mercy.

Around the court, thousands of teachers and students shouted in unison: “Go for it! Go for it!” Qu forced herself back to her feet and threw herself at the next ball.

“Three hundred…”

“Three hundred fifty…” the crowd counted together.

Again and again she fell, dragged herself up, fell, got up again. From her perspective, the world had shrunk until only the white volleyball existed. One thought and one thought only filled her heart: Surpass Japan! Surpass Japan! Even if I die on this court, I must beat Japan!

Her brand-new uniform was in tatters. The two thick layers of padding on her knees had been shredded, exposing raw, bleeding flesh.

The two male coaches faltered, unable to continue. Their hands went slack—they couldn't bring themselves to spike another ball. With tears streaming down her face, Que Yongwu stepped forward, seized the ball from one of them, and spiked it hard at Qu Peilan. One, two, three… Each strike carried the same voice ringing in her heart: Surpass Japan! Surpass Japan!

On that playground, the only sounds were Que's spikes, Qu's desperate dives, the thud of her body hitting the ground—and the crying, shouting, and counting of the crowd. Still, Qu dragged herself up again and again.

“Four hundred ninety-seven!”

“Four hundred ninety-eight!”

“Four hundred ninety-nine!”

“Five hundred!”

A thousand voices roared the number together, trembling with joy. At last Qu collapsed on the ground, unable to move. She looked as if she had crawled out of a swamp, hair dripping wet, body caked in sweat and mud. How she longed to stand and wave to the crowd in thanks. But her legs had turned to sponges, her hands too heavy to lift.

So she lay there, smiling through exhaustion. It was a faint, strained smile, but it was the smile of a victor.

Of course, looking back today, that kind of extreme training wasn't exactly healthy or advisable. But the grit and perseverance of that generation of Chinese girls were remarkable—and worthy of praise. Just as they were pushing themselves to catch up with the world's best, a political storm swept across China, tearing apart all their bright ideals like soap bubbles.

Back in Beijing, Que Yongwu sat alone in a cold, northern room. No volleyballs. No teammates she had lived and trained with day and night. On the desk before her lay only a stack of blank paper for self-criticisms and an old fountain pen. Her pain reached its peak. As an athlete, she had trained relentlessly, even mastering the diving saves usually done by men. As a coach, she had given herself completely to her team, sacrificing her own love life time after time. And now, with youth slipping away and crow's-feet already forming at the corners of her eyes—what crime had she really committed?

The walls were covered with large handwritten posters denouncing people in bold slogans. The volleyball girls were completely bewildered. Wasn't bringing honor to the motherland supposed to be the sacred duty of athletes? How had it suddenly been twisted into “whitewashing revisionism”?

Even so, the flame of their ideals wasn't extinguished. They believed the storm would pass, and when it did, Coach Que would still lead them overseas to compete. So they kept gathering every day to train. Before long, Que herself was able to return to the court. She coached with the same focus and strictness as before.

Some players asked her anxiously: “Coach, aren't they calling you a 'female fascist' and a 'ghost monkey'?”

Que Yongwu answered steadily: “Let them call me whatever they want. As long as you need me, I'll be here to coach.”

But they had grossly misjudged the situation. The storm lasted not months but a full ten years. One by one, the players lost hope. They turned their attention to other things—to falling in love, getting married, raising children. At thirty-six, Que Yongwu too finally marked a milestone in her life, marrying Old Chen, who had quietly waited for her all those years. And so, a whole generation of volleyball stars vanished from the courts of China and the world.

When this “unprecedented” storm finally passed and spring returned to the country, people realized just how much damage had been done. China was on the verge of collapse, and its sports programs had suffered badly. Achievements had slipped far behind, and the gap with the world's best had widened dramatically. The older generation of national players still carried the will to fight, but their strength was nearly spent. A few veterans, like Dong Tianmei, held on, leading younger teammates and giving everything they had left. They knew that the real hope would now lie in the hands of a new generation of Chinese girls.

That afternoon, during the midday rest, Que Yongwu's mind was flooded with memories of the past. At the upcoming team meeting, the discussion would turn to the evening match. She resolved not to scold the girls, but to praise them. For she saw that the sense of duty and honor carried by her own generation of athletes had taken root in this younger one. In them she saw the hope of the Chinese women's volleyball team's revival. The flame of belief buried in her heart was rekindled by these girls. And when the team gathered, they heard not one word of reproach from their leader—only wholehearted encouragement.

That night's match was fierce. From the moment the athletes appeared, even before the first ball was served, the stands had already reached a fever pitch. Koreans blasted on bright brass trumpets, cheeks puffed red with effort; they clapped loudly with wooden clappers; and our compatriots roared thunderous cheers to lift the girls of the motherland. The chaos in the arena was so overwhelming that you couldn't even hear the person speaking next to you.

Who wouldn't be nervous seeing such a scene! The Chinese girls' hearts beat violently. Han Xiaohua, fearing her teammates might lose their composure, cupped her hands like a megaphone and shouted: “Don't forget what we said last night. Stay calm and play methodically!”

Zhou Xiaolan looked at the audience's stands and loudly added: “Let the stands go crazy—treat it like nothing's happening.”

The match opened with China narrowly losing the first set, 13–15. The sound of trumpets, clappers, and shouting merged into one deafening roar. Xiaolan clenched her fists and whispered into a teammate's ear: “Start over! There are still four sets—don't get discouraged!”

What followed was a true battle point for point. The Chinese girls fought with everything they had and pulled off three straight wins, each by the tight score of 17–15. Final score: 3–1. The Chinese women's volleyball team had triumphed at last.

Tears of joy burst forth. The girls cried—cried with all their hearts. The six main players clung to each other, sobbing uncontrollably. They wiped their faces, but the tears kept coming, flowing faster than they could dry them. Then they embraced their leader and coaches, crying all over again. Substitute players rushed forward too, patting their teammates so hard it made them ache, but no one cared. In their happiness, they had forgotten everything else.

Even after the others began to calm down, Zhou Xiaolan was still weeping. Her teammates asked anxiously, “What's wrong, Xiaolan?”

Still crying, she answered: “Didn't I hold back my tears in Hong Kong? Now I'm making up for all the tears I didn't shed in the first half of the year!”

That night, Zhou Xiaolan sat at the desk in Hotel A and wrote in her diary: “3:1 victory over Korea—this is the first time in our country's volleyball history. How can we not be happy, not cheer, not jump, not sing! Only now do I deeply understand what happiness means. This is the greatest happiness! When the motherland needs us, we can win honor for our homeland and our people—as athletes, this is our greatest source of happiness and joy!”

The next evening, in the finals against Japan, the Chinese women's team jumped ahead 2–0. One more set, and they would be standing at the top of the world. But their eagerness for “revenge,” coupled with a lack of mental preparation for actually seizing the championship, betrayed them. With the title within reach, they grew cautious—and Japan took advantage, storming back to win three straight sets. Victory slipped into defeat. How bitterly regrettable! Perhaps it would remain their lifelong regret.

And yet, after the loss, not a single girl cried. By the time they returned to the hotel, it was already midnight. In Xiaolan and Xiaohua's room, the lamp once again glowed until dawn. The two girls sat on their beds, facing each other in silence as they packed their luggage. Both knew the youth team would be disbanded when they returned home. Their chance for revenge against Japan was gone. But one thought remained firm: whoever made it to the national team in the future must carry that mission forward.

In Que Yongwu's room, the light also stayed on until dawn. She felt endless regret over the final misstep, yet her heart was strangely alive with excitement. At daybreak, she turned off the lamp and raised the blinds. Through the wide glass window, she saw a sky streaked with crimson dawn clouds. And in her heart, the flame of hope burned just as brightly, fierce and unyielding.

The Song Sung While Waving Yellow Handkerchiefs

That autumn, twilight settled over Osaka, Japan's bustling commercial city.

A large sedan carrying the Chinese women's volleyball team rolled slowly through the colorful streets, the glittering night scenery perfectly mirroring the girls' joyful mood.

That evening, the 1977 World Cup volleyball tournament would conclude with the award ceremony. And the Chinese women's team had every reason to celebrate.

Only three years earlier, at the 1974 World Championship, China had finished a disappointing fourteenth. But now, under coach Yuan Weimin, who had assembled the team in June 1976, the team had risen astonishingly fast. After barely a year of training and in their very first world competition together, they placed fourth—the best result the Chinese women's volleyball team had achieved since its founding in 1953. Even more inspiring, in the preliminaries they had defeated the mighty Japanese team, the so-called “Oriental Witches.” That victory, a spark of belief, might prove even more significant than their fourth-place finish. It showed that with determination and struggle, no opponent in the world was unbeatable!

By the window sat the tall figure of Cao Huiying, captain of the Chinese women's volleyball team. She looked serene and elegant, her oval face always carrying a faint smile. But on the court she was fierce—her motto was “ball first, life second,” and her teammates called her the “Iron Girl.”

In one hard-fought match against Korea, a dangerous ball flew past her. Cao lunged after it, saving the point but crashing to the floor with a torn muscle in her left thigh. Pain stabbed through her as she clutched the injury, sweat streaming down her face. The referee, already biased against the Chinese team, waved impatiently for her to leave the court. Seeing his gloating expression, Cao's anger flared. She forced herself to her feet, eyes blazing, and continued playing through the agony. The Chinese team ultimately lost the set by two points, but Cao Huiying's fearless spirit won the hearts of the entire crowd. “Number three!” “Cao Huiying!” the audience shouted, honoring her with thunderous cheers and applause.

When she finally came off the court, every step brought knife-like pain, and dark bruises spread across her thigh. The next day, China faced another trial: the world powerhouse Cuba. Foreign reporters speculated endlessly. Some predicted that if China's Number Three couldn't play, the balance of power would shift and the team's chances would collapse.

But when the whistle blew, to everyone's surprise, Cao Huiying marched onto the court, leading her teammates with heroic resolve. Her spikes were still sharp, her saves still fearless—it was impossible to tell she was injured. In truth, the injury was severe. Before the game, she had received a painkiller injection, and her thigh was tightly bound in thick layers of bandages. Yet she played like a warrior, refusing to surrender. In the end, the Chinese team went on to defeat Cuba 3–2.

At that moment, the village girl from Hebei who had loved singing since childhood was humming a joyful tune in her heart. It was a shining day in her athletic career—she would be walking away with three awards: Best Blocker, the Fighting Spirit Award, and Best Athlete.

She suddenly burst out laughing. Not because she had claimed three prizes alone, but because she remembered a funny story from her past.

By the time she was sixteen, Cao Huiying already stood at 1.77 meters. Whenever she visited relatives or went to the market, villagers couldn't help but stare at the long-limbed girl.

Her father, an honest and simple man, worried constantly. “A daughter with such long arms and big feet—if she keeps growing like this, what will become of her?” he thought.

At last, he came up with an “old remedy”: foot binding.

“Foot binding?” Cao laughed so hard she bent double. What would a tall, big-boned girl look like with dainty “three-inch golden lotus” feet? She teased her father: “Don't you know what times we live in? That's not fashionable anymore!”

Not long after, her mother visited her sister in Beijing. The sister asked, “How tall is the little one now?” The mother sighed, “Don't even ask—she's grown terribly tall. We're half tempted to find a pit for her to walk in, just to make her shorter.” She added with a shake of the head, “Such a big girl, and she doesn't even walk properly—she practically does the splits when she walks.”

Her brother-in-law, amused, saw an opportunity. “Why not have her take up sports?” he suggested. He happened to know a coach at the Sports Institute and wrote a letter of recommendation.

That's how Cao Huiying entered the Institute's youth volleyball program. By then, the other girls had already been training for eight months, while Cao had never even touched a volleyball. But her energy, courage, and straightforward spirit made her fall in love with the game at once. Within two months, she was already playing as a starter. Soon after, she joined the Bayi women's team as a starter too. And in 1976, when the national team was rebuilt, Coach Yuan Weimin chose her as a starter yet again. Her rise could only be described as smooth sailing.

Dad, oh Dad, she thought, thank goodness we didn't listen to you back then—how could “three-inch golden lotus” feet ever take the court and win glory for the country? She glanced down at her own big feet with indescribable affection.

Across from Cao Huiying sat Yang Xi, her classmate from the Beijing Sports Institute youth training program. Yang Xi came from a high-cadre family and had been well-educated from childhood. She was tall, and both the provincial team and the Sports Institute had wanted her to play volleyball. Her mother hesitated, worrying that though Yang Xi had the height, she was too thin to withstand the rigors of training. But her father was more open-minded: “Everyone says she has the build for sports, so let her try!”

When Yang Xi first joined the volleyball class, she had naively asked, “What's the hardest part of training?”

The other trainees told her it was the long-distance running. She immediately thought, Good—then that's what I'll do. At first, just one lap of the 400-meter track left her pale and dizzy, gasping for breath. But she persisted, adding a lap each week. On Sundays, while others slept in, she would rise early and run alone on the sports field. In time, she could run seventeen laps without stopping.

Like Cao Huiying, Yang Xi advanced from youth training to the Bayi team—the elite sports club of the People's Liberation Army—and was later promoted to the national team. Her skills grew steadily, and with them, her popularity. Who said nobody watched volleyball? In Japan, a wave of “Yang Xi fever” erupted, with thousands of fans adoring her. During matches, the moment she stepped up to serve, the stands rang with rhythmic chants of “Yang Xi! Yang Xi!” and every powerful spike brought thunderous cheers and applause.

Her fame followed her off the court. On the streets and in hotels, chants of “Yang Xi! Yang Xi!” would break out wherever she appeared. Crowds pressed forward to shake her hand; those who couldn't reach her seemed happy just to brush against her. Sheets of cardboard for autographs were constantly shoved into her hands, until she lost count of the hundreds—perhaps thousands—of signatures she scrawled. Some Japanese youths, wild with excitement, handed her thick ink pens and pointed to their brand-new clothes, begging her to sign directly on them. Startled, she reluctantly obliged, as they grabbed her hand to guide the pen. Many of them ran off laughing, proudly wearing shirts marked forever with Yang Xi's name.

Even more touching was that two little Japanese girls, accompanied by their mother, came from hundreds of miles away to Osaka with the sole purpose of asking this Chinese girl to sign her name. Many fans who couldn't meet this Chinese volleyball star sent audio recordings of praise and blessings for Yang Xi through intermediaries, including passionate love letters... It was said that Japan even formed a fifty-person “Yang Xi Reception Committee.” Letters from all over Japan filled a large sack.

Why did this “Yang Xi fever” break out in Japan? Coach Yuan Weimin once asked a Japanese newspaper reporter, who gave four reasons. First, Yang Xi was a powerful spiker whose game was exciting to watch. Second, she carried herself with grace and good sportsmanship—whether winning or losing, she always wore a smile. Third, her name sounded resonant in Japanese and could even be read as “popular.” And fourth, her looks bore a striking resemblance to beloved movie star Yamaguchi Momoe in Swan Song.

Her admirers followed her everywhere. When the Chinese women's team played in Tokyo, they filled the Tokyo stands; when the team moved on to Osaka, the fans gathered there too. Even now, as she rode in her car, they followed close behind. Each time the car stopped at a red light, fans leaned out of nearby windows, waving and calling to her.

And really, what athlete doesn't long for an audience, for admirers of their own? Yang Xi was happy.

By the time the Chinese team arrived at the sports hall, the square outside was jammed with thousands of cars. At the entrance, Japanese women in elegant kimonos waited gracefully for the ceremony to begin. The awards presentation was about to start.

The award ceremony should have been a moment of pride and celebration. Instead, for the Chinese women's volleyball team, it was a painful shock. The champions and runners-up stood high on specially built podiums, while the Chinese girls were left standing on the floor beside them. As the Japanese anthem played, the Rising Sun flag, along with the flags of the second- and third-place teams, slowly climbed the flagpoles. The athletes on the podiums lifted their trophies, basking in the cheers of the crowd. And what were the Chinese girls given? Nothing but yellow handkerchiefs—tokens they were required, by regulation, to wave in congratulations to the winners.

The Chinese girls suddenly fell from the heights of joy to the depths of humiliation. If the floor had opened with cracks, they would have gladly slipped inside to hide. The soft, cloud-like yellow handkerchiefs in their hands felt unbearably heavy, their arms scarcely able to lift them. The two bold characters—CHINA—on their jerseys, and the gleaming national emblem on their chests, seemed to burn like fire, scorching their bodies and making their faces flush with heat.

They had often heard the phrase: “You represent the people of the motherland abroad.” But until now, they had never truly grasped the weight of these words. Suddenly, they understood: they were not just a few volleyball players, but Chinese girls standing as representatives of their nation. And they felt painfully that their current performance was unworthy of their country's dignity.

China's athletes, they thought, should not be left standing on the floor, but on the highest podium. It should be the bright five-star red flag rising skyward, and the stirring notes of the Chinese national anthem filling the hall.

When it was time for Cao Huiying to receive her award, she stood frozen in place until her teammates nudged her forward. The joy she had once felt was gone—she hardly wanted to accept it. Even if I personally won a hundred awards, she thought, it would never compare to our team winning just one championship trophy. Yang Xi, for her part, only wanted to walk out immediately—no, to leave Japan altogether and return home. Whatever hardships training might bring, she would gladly endure them.

The ceremony itself lasted barely twenty minutes, yet for the Chinese girls it felt like an endless century. They could not even remember how they made their way back to the locker room. There they gathered together in silence. No one spoke. No one wept. The air itself felt frozen.

Then, from that heavy silence, a voice began to sing softly: “No tears, no sorrow…”

It was a song from the Red Guards of Honghu Lake, repeated again and again. Though no one conducted their voices, they still sang in unison; and though none of them were singers, it was sung with piercing emotion. That mournful melody, rarely heard even on the concert stage, was enough to draw tears.

As the song filled the room, an elder with graying hair quietly removed his glasses, turned away, and quickly left. It was Huang Zhong, leader of the Chinese volleyball delegation and Vice Director of the State Sports Commission. Later he admitted that if he had remained a moment longer, he would not have been able to hold back his tears.

The girls continued singing that sorrowful song as they walked out of the gymnasium and boarded the bus; they sang it as they passed through the busy streets, and still as they climbed the stairs of their hotel.

Even later, flying home across the vast Pacific and beneath the wide blue skies of their motherland, they carried that song in their hearts. It had become the expression of their spirit: their devotion to winning honor for their country, and their courage to keep climbing toward the highest peaks of world volleyball.

The Miraculous Medicine

It was an early spring evening in Beijing. Outside Chongwenmen, the forsythia in front of Taiyanggong Gymnasium were in full bloom. The branches, heavy with clusters of tiny yellow blossoms, seemed to stretch forward eagerly, as if ready to greet the women's volleyball players the moment they stepped out of the gym.

The twilight faded into darkness, and soon the gymnasium glowed brightly against the night. Practice had just ended. The girls' sweat-soaked shirts clung to their bodies as they bent down to gather the white volleyballs scattered across the floor.

“Who wants extra practice?” Coach Yuan Weimin called out to the exhausted players.

“I do!” A quick, lively voice was the first to answer.

A slender girl lifted her head, clutching nearly ten volleyballs in her arms like a circus performer balancing props. Her name was Chen Zhaodi, from Hangzhou by West Lake—a classmate of Cao Huiying and Yang Xi at the Beijing Sports Institute youth program and also their teammate on the Bayi women's volleyball team. On the street, you might not have guessed she was an athlete. But look closer, and beneath her Jiangnan delicacy flickered a streak of wildness—the unmistakable mark of a fighter.

She carried the balls to the thick iron-wire basket, then turned to Yuan Weimin, her eyes clearly indicating: Let's practice.

Without warning, Yuan grabbed a ball from the basket and hurled it at her. Chen sprang back several steps and bumped it cleanly into the air. Before she could steady herself, another ball came flying to her left with a crack. She dove to meet it, saved it, hit the floor hard, rolled, and scrambled back to her feet.

Her drill was simple but merciless: save fifteen balls in a row. Miss one, and another would be added. She lunged recklessly after every ball, rolling, diving, and springing up again. Soon her legs felt like lead, her face went pale, her breath grew ragged. But she kept throwing herself at the floor again and again. When she saved the ninth ball, she collapsed, unable to get up.

Still Yuan did not stop. He fired another ball at her, shouting: “Quick! Get up, quick!”

Chen lay on the floor, gasping, watching balls fly past her body and over her head. It wasn't that she didn't want to save them—she was simply too exhausted. Even if she stood up, she could never reach those tricky shots. By now she owed two more balls. She had asked for extra practice herself—couldn't she just stop after a little? Who could have guessed the intensity would be so punishing, the difficulty so high?

Grumbling, she muttered, “Coach Yuan, you're too harsh.”

But Yuan stayed impassive. As he threw, he counted calmly: “You owe three. Now you owe four…”

That was when Chen Zhaodi's temper flared. Once her stubborn streak rose, nothing else mattered. Fine, keep throwing the balls I owe! Keep throwing! she thought angrily.

Suddenly she sprang to her feet and shouted, “I'm done! I'm not practicing anymore!”

She stormed to the sideline, snatched up her clothes, and marched straight toward the door. But Yuan Weimin didn't flinch. He didn't raise his voice or lose his composure.

Instead, he said evenly, almost casually: “If you practice, you practice. If you don't, you don't. But that's not how this works. If you don't finish today, you'll start again tomorrow.”

Chen had only taken a few steps before she spun around, marched back to Yuan, hurled her clothes to the floor, and snapped furiously: “Fine then—practice it is!”

Please don't misunderstand—Zhaodi was never someone who couldn't endure hardship. She was naturally strong-willed, never willing to fall behind. Once, during her youth training days, she sprained her ankle so badly she couldn't walk. The dormitory and training hall were far apart, and snow covered the ground, yet she hobbled forward on crutches. By the time she arrived, her hands were covered with purple-red blisters. A venue worker, moved by her determination, helped her wrap the crutches in thick foam to ease her pain.

For a period, she even urinated blood every day. Doctors suspected nephritis and banned her from eating salt. But Zhaodi researched medical books herself and concluded it was caused by overexertion.

She calmly told the doctor, “It's nothing serious. I just need to be careful.” And still, she trained.

Her back injury was even more serious. Sometimes after a match, her spine felt as if it had snapped—she couldn't even straighten up. A doctor once urged her to quit altogether, warning that if she kept playing she might end up paralyzed.

But she pleaded through tears: “I've come this far without yet contributing to my country. I can't quit!” So, even while receiving treatment, she trained with fierce determination, pushing through the pain and ultimately prolonging her athletic career.

Yuan Weimin knew all of this. He also didn't mind her talking back or losing her temper—in fact, he admired her fiery spirit. In competition, she was fearless and reliable.

He often said: “A team should have twelve players, each with their own personality—that's what makes the game lively and colorful. If you file down their unique edges, there's no future for the team.”

But at that moment, he only fixed her with a stern gaze and asked quietly, “Ready to practice?”

Zhaodi went to the first-aid kit, tore off strips of tape, and wrapped them around her raw, split fingertips. Without the tape, every touch of the ball sent stabbing pain through her hands. By now, she had used so much tape since starting volleyball that it could probably have been stitched into a whole uniform. When she finished, she walked back to the court, crouched down, and wordlessly gave her reply: Let's practice.

Yuan began hurling balls again, one after another, smashing them down with force. Zhaodi flung herself at each one, diving, rolling, and scrambling across the floor. With tremendous effort, she managed to make up the missed saves. But when the count was tallied—still only nine. She needed six more to reach fifteen. Her movements slowed, her body felt like lead. At last, she collapsed once again and this time couldn't get back up.

The ball girl on the sideline hesitated, unsure whether to keep feeding balls. Yuan shot her a glare and barked, “Keep the balls coming!”

Then he turned back to Zhaodi, still lying on the ground, and shouted: “Ball! Watch the ball!”

One, two—she lost several more in a row. Feeling wronged to her core, she stood up without even glancing at her coach, grabbed her clothes, and walked straight for the door. She truly couldn't endure anymore. What kind of heartless coach was this? If there were such things as hearts of iron or stone, his must be harder than iron itself. Tears welled up and spilled down her face, falling onto the polished, sauce-colored hardwood floor.

“You can leave,” Yuan's voice called after her, calm but implacable, “but I'll still say the same thing—I'll train you first thing tomorrow morning.”

Normally, Yuan's Mandarin, laced with a Suzhou accent, sounded warm and melodic to this Hangzhou girl's ears. Sometimes she even mimicked him playfully, repeating a few lilting Suzhou phrases just to tease. But tonight, his voice was stripped of all warmth. Cold and cutting, each word seemed to echo straight from an icehouse.

She continued walking forward, though her steps clearly slowed, each one more hesitant than the last. When she almost reached the door, she stopped. Her mind, heated to confusion by extreme fatigue, began to clear as reason returned. She stood there like a piece of wood nailed in place, completely motionless.

Yuan Weimin also stood in place without moving, his gaze fixed on this willful girl. He was like a stone statue, still holding a ball in his hand, ready to throw it at any moment.

The other girls looked at him with worried eyes. Did they resent him? Yes! At times they wanted to rush over and sink their teeth into him. But later, once their tempers cooled, they admitted to themselves that he was right. Without such strictness, how could they ever hope to catch up with—and surpass—the strongest teams in the world? How else could they bring honor to the motherland?

1978, however, proved to be a year of misfortune for the Chinese women's volleyball team. Soon after returning from Japan, captain Cao Huiying suffered a severe injury—a torn meniscus—and was hospitalized. Before her leg had even healed, she was diagnosed with a lung disease and transferred to a tuberculosis hospital for treatment. On another trip abroad, the team was involved in a car accident, leaving several players injured. Worst of all, at the World Volleyball Championships in the Soviet Union, they slipped from their previous fourth-place finish down to sixth.

But the team did not collapse under these setbacks. They did not complain, nor did they lose heart. Instead, they carefully examined themselves—both their technique and their mentality—determined to learn and to improve.

They knew breaking out of Asia was no easy task, and stepping onto the world stage was harder still. The rise of the Chinese women's volleyball team could never depend on luck—it would take relentless, carefully planned training.

Watching Zhaodi's sweat-soaked figure, the girls felt a storm of emotions. They sympathized deeply with her, yet feared their strong-willed sister might really walk away from the court. Two of them even started forward, unable to hold back. But before they could reach her, Zhaodi moved first. She didn't head for the exit—she suddenly turned on her heel and strode back toward the court. Her steps were firm, her movements decisive. Why she came back needed no explanation.

Practice went on. Whether it was from catching her second wind or sheer defiance, Zhaodi threw herself into it with complete abandon. Watching her hurl herself recklessly after each ball, Yuan Weimin gave a half-smile and said, “Zhaodi, you can ease up a little!”

She glared at him through tear-filled eyes and shot back fiercely, “I don't need your mercy!”

Yuan's words had been deliberate—a provocation. He knew her character well. And in the end, with sheer willpower, she managed to save all fifteen balls.

After showering, the girls finally stepped out of the gym. The winter jasmine swayed in the cold spring breeze, its golden blossoms seeming to praise these late-returning warriors. But the players, dragging their heavy feet, hurried past without a glance. Perhaps they had never noticed when the flowers budded, or when they bloomed.

Back at the dormitory, five flights of stairs loomed. And the girls knew exactly how many steps that meant. They clung to the railing, grimacing as they hauled one leg after another upward, some even groaning “ow, ow” with every step. Up and stop, stop and up—by the dim yellow light, they caught each other's eyes. All were in the same pitiful state, which made them want to laugh and cry at the same time. Who would ever imagine that a group of young women in their prime, a group of athletes at the height of their strength, could find climbing stairs so difficult?

On the women's volleyball training court, scenes like Zhaodi's storming off and then coming back weren't very common. That came from her own blunt, stubborn personality. But training as hard as she did—or even harder—was nothing unusual for the rest of the team.

This was at the training base in Hengzhou, Hunan Province.

That same day, the gentle, soft-spoken Yang Xi was resting in her room with a thigh injury when a reporter came by for an interview. Jokingly, he said: “Yang Xi, I always see you smiling, but today I caught you crying.”

Yang Xi answered with disarming honesty: “I've cried plenty. You just don't come watch our training often, so you don't see it.” Then she added, “Which one of us hasn't shed tears? You don't know this, but our coach never says a single word of satisfaction. He's always dissatisfied. He wants us to aim higher, to catch up with and surpass the strongest teams in the world. We work hard every single day, but it's never enough. He wants us to fight every day, to win every day! But how can anyone win every single day?

“I struggle even just walking the twenty meters from the dormitory to the training hall. My body is exhausted, my injuries flare up, and I think, Maybe today I should swallow my pride and ask for one day off. But then I get to the court and see everyone else training so hard, and I can't say it. I just grit my teeth, endure the pain, and keep going. After a whole day of training, my body aches all over and I'm too tired even to eat. The most comfortable moment of the day is lying down at night. But then I start worrying again—how am I going to get through tomorrow's training?

“People say Communists have iron will—well, we really do! If you slack off even a little, he singles you out and makes you do extra work.”

Yang Xi had practiced rolling saves for forty minutes straight during an overseas trip. By the end, two pairs of pants were worn through, her thighs scraped raw, bright blood seeping out.

That night, as the team doctor dabbed medicine on the wounds, he muttered, “If your mother saw this, her heart would break.”

At those words, Yang Xi's tears began to flow uncontrollably.

She lifted her thin eyebrows, bit her lip, and told the reporter: “We never let our parents watch us train. If they saw their precious daughters practicing like this, they'd cry and drag us home. When we go back, we never tell them how hard it is. We just say training is tiring, but afterward it's fine. They've watched our matches, and when we fall a few times, they already worry so much. When we get home they always ask, 'Did it hurt when you fell?' We always say, 'No, it didn't hurt.' But honestly, we're flesh and blood—of course it hurts!

“In fact, compared to training, games are actually the most relaxing time for us. Once when I went home, my mom saw how thin I'd gotten and kept asking if training was too hard. I told her, 'Mom, athletes can't be fat. If we're fat, we can't jump or play ball.' She believed me. Later, when neighbors asked why I was so skinny, my mom even defended me!”

She paused, as if remembering something, then turned to the reporter with a wry smile: “Don't you think people are strange?”

She didn't wait for an answer. Laughing, she went on: “When training is grueling, you'd give anything for half a day's rest—you even think that a minor injury might be worth it, just for the break. But once you're actually injured and stuck in bed like this, it feels wrong. All you want is to get back on the court with everyone else. And when you do get that half-day rest, it suddenly feels so precious—you want to sleep, write a letter, watch a movie, read a novel… but you don't even know how to spend the time!”

Indeed, the pace of life for the Chinese women's volleyball team was relentless. At dawn, before the sun rose in the east, they drifted like morning fog from dormitory to training hall. In the evening, after sunset, they floated back again, like glowing evening clouds. They were often so busy they had no time to notice nature's beauty. Sometimes, suddenly, they would realize the bare branches along the road had turned into green umbrellas of shade, blossoms everywhere—and they would cry out in surprise, as if Columbus had just discovered a new world.

One evening, Chen Zhaodi sighed to a reporter: “Other people spend their youth in moonlight and flowers. Our youth is spent in sweat, exhaustion, and strain—in rhythms of intensity and passion.”

The reporter replied: “But your lives are so meaningful!”

Zhaodi nodded, smiling: “That's true. When we stand on the highest podium, when the national anthem resounds in our ears and the five-star red flag rises above our heads, we feel everything we've sacrificed is worthwhile. And one day, when we are gray-haired old women looking back, we'll be proud—that our youth was not wasted, that it once burned with light and heat for our motherland.”

The Heartless Have the Deepest Level of Care

If Yuan Weimin had been “excessively harsh” with Chen Zhaodi's extra practice, then his approach to this training session could only be described as cold and ruthless.

Up on the hillside, the restaurant was already brightly lit. On the dining tables, silver hot pots simmered over glowing charcoal fires, steam rising in thin wisps. In the kitchen, the chefs had prepared everything—vegetables sliced, condiments arranged, pans heated—waiting only for the lights in the training hall down the slope to go dark before they began cooking. But by seven in the evening, the gymnasium still blazed with light.

The administrator went down to check, then returned shaking his head: “It looks like they won't be done anytime soon. Better put out the fire for now.”

With nothing else to do, the chefs walked over to the gym to see the training for themselves.

Practice had started at two in the afternoon. Most of the girls had finished hours ago, but newcomer Wang Yajun was still stuck on her task. Sichuan's Zhu Ling and Shanghai's Zhou Lumin were feeding her sets and digs. Her assignment was simple in design but brutal in practice: she had to complete twenty sets of quick-attack spikes. Three solid spikes counted as one set. If even one was only average, the set didn't count. If two were poor or all three just average, she owed an extra set.

At first, little Wang thought nothing of it—she'd be done by the end of class. But the more she spiked, the more she fell behind. With so many people staying late to help her, guilt began to eat at her. Finally, bent over and exhausted, she muttered, “Coach, I'm too hungry. I can't keep going.”

Yuan Weimin put down the ball calmly: “Rest a while, then continue.”

The chefs longed to step in and urge everyone to eat first, but they knew better than to interfere on the training floor. They looked at Wang with pity and shook their heads helplessly.

After a sip of water, Wang picked up again. But before long she collapsed, lying on the court in tears: “I can't finish today's task…”

The sight broke the onlookers' hearts. Some of the chefs wept openly; others turned away, wiping their eyes as they left. Even the reporter on scene couldn't help shedding tears.

Trying another approach, Yuan told the teammates who were cheering from the side: “Anyone who wants to help Wang Yajun spike can step in.” Immediately, two girls volunteered—Zhang Rongfang from Sichuan and spiker Lang Ping.

But even with their help, progress was slow. By eight o'clock, several sets still remained.

Lang Ping finally raised her hand: “Coach, let's rest a while!” She stepped aside, quietly wiping away tears. Seeing this, Wang Yajun sobbed even harder, ashamed that she had dragged her teammates into her struggle.

By now, nearly the entire team was glaring at Yuan Weimin. No one dared curse aloud, but in their hearts, they surely hated him.

And Yuan? He simply stood at the serving line, ball in hand, still smiling as he called out: “Come on! Come on!”

But wasn't that encouragement also meant for himself? He had been standing there, feeding balls, for six or seven straight hours.

When the spiking resumed, something remarkable happened. All the players, channeling their anger at Yuan, dug with precision, set with sharp focus, and spiked with fury. They united as one, playing with desperate intensity and selfless dedication, producing rally after rally of rare, breathtaking quality.

By the time training ended, it was past nine o'clock. And this was not an isolated incident. It was sessions like these that left so many with the lasting impression that Yuan Weimin was, above all, cold and ruthless.

Yet this “heartless” man on the training court became someone else entirely once he stepped outside. Walking out of the gym with the girls, all of them drenched in sweat, he looked more like a big brother than a strict coach. One player still had tears on her cheeks and her lips stuck out in a pout, clearly still angry with him.

Yuan Weimin teased her with a grin: “Careful—pouting that high, you could hang two heavy oil bottles on your mouth.”

At first she turned her face away, ignoring him. Then suddenly she rushed over, pounded him playfully on the back, and burst out laughing through her tears: “You're so annoying!”

With that, all the resentment from practice melted away. In truth, the girls didn't hate him at all—if anything, they loved being close to him.

When Yuan Weimin moved into a new apartment, the mischievous players cornered him at once: “Coach Yuan, congratulations on the new place! How about treating us to dinner there?”

Yuan laughed. “Dinner? Tonight, you'll have to cook it yourselves!” Then, realizing he was hopeless in the kitchen, he quickly phoned his wife for help.

The new place was a freshly built high-rise—a modest two-room suite. Before the girls even stepped inside, their chatter echoed through the hallways. Once through the door, the apartment burst into life. They paraded through the rooms like a revolving lantern, offering comments on every detail of the layout and furnishings, before rolling up their sleeves and showing off their cooking skills. Chen Zhaodi, noticing that Yuan was of no use in the kitchen, dragged him into a chess match instead.

Yuan's wife, Zheng Huying, had been a volleyball player herself in the 1960s. Though now a mother, she still carried the traits of an athlete: warm, direct, and full of energy. She bustled about, helping the girls with one thing after another, all the while chatting and laughing with them.

By the time the players had talked their fill, laughed their fill, and eaten their fill, the apartment was a scene of cheerful destruction. The candy box was empty, sunflower seed shells littered the floor, and the thick glass plate on the table lay in pieces—apparently someone had tried to cut sausage on it a little too enthusiastically. A heap of unused meat filling sat to one side, bought in far greater quantity than anyone needed.

If anyone had the right to accuse Yuan Weimin of being “cold and ruthless,” it was his wife.

On the second day of the New Year, the streets outside were alive with firecrackers, and people in bright red and green bustled about, visiting family and friends. Inside, however, “volleyball wife” Zheng Huying lay in bed with a fever, too weak to move. She called her only relative nearby—her seven-year-old son.

“Yuan Li, I'm very sick. Go find the uncles from the men's team and ask them to bring medicine from the clinic.”

Usually mischievous and carefree, the boy suddenly grew solemn. He nodded, turned, and ran out at once.

By the next day, Zheng's fever had still not broken—and now the child was burning with fever too. Mother and son lay together in the same bed, both helpless. Luckily, Coach Deng Ruozeng's wife, Cai Xiqin, came by for a visit, saw the situation, and stayed to care for them through the day.

And Yuan Weimin? Just before the Spring Festival, he had gone south with Deng Ruozeng and the girls for winter training, even putting on holiday performances for the people of Hengyang.

All year long, when had he ever truly put his family first? When Zheng Huying was pregnant in Nanjing, struggling with severe morning sickness, he was too busy with work to come back and care for her. When she gave birth, he was still busy with work and didn't come to see her. When their child was babbling and learning his first words, the boy didn't even recognize his father. Later, when Zheng was finally transferred to Beijing, it should have meant he could look after her at last. But in those three years, not once did he spend a New Year's holiday at home.

Busy, busy, always busy! He left under the stars in the morning and returned under the same stars at night. When he left, their child was still asleep; when he came back, their child had long been in bed. Once in a while he accompanied his wife to a movie, but he was so absent-minded he often forgot the beginning by the time they reached the end. Yet he had once been a film enthusiast. He often forgot the errands his wife asked him to do, but could recite—backward if need be—the names, heights, and playing styles of the women on the world's strongest volleyball teams. He knew the dozen girls on his own team so intimately that he could mimic, with uncanny accuracy, each one's expressions and gestures when they were happy, angry, sad, or overjoyed.

Yes, Zheng Huying had every right to resent him. But strangely, she didn't. She herself had once shed sweat to help China's women's volleyball team catch up with the world's best. Now, though no longer playing, her heart still beat in rhythm with the players'. She placed her hopes for fulfilling those ideals on the younger generation—and her own husband was the coach guiding them. So she gave her full support to his work, quietly carrying the heavy burdens of home. Even when she and their son fell ill at the same time, she never wrote to tell him. And whenever he traveled abroad with the team, she worried not only for them but for him as well.

The girls who trained with Yuan Weimin day and night understood him. His devoted wife understood him. And perhaps no one understood him better than his longtime comrade, Deng Ruozeng. Though Deng only officially joined the women's national team as a coach in 1979, the two men had been bound together by volleyball since the early 1960s.

In 1962, when Yuan arrived from Jiangsu to join the national men's team, Deng was already its captain and a celebrated setter. Yuan also played setter. For the honor of their country, the two of them shared the same sweat and struggle, the sweetness of victory, and the bitterness of defeat.

At the 1966 World Championships in Prague, they vowed in the fiery language of the times: “We swear to bring down the Czechs!”—then the reigning world champions. At first it seemed possible: China's dazzling quick attacks stunned the Czech team, and they surged ahead 2–0. For a moment, the world crown looked within reach. But the tide turned. The Czechs adjusted, tightened their blocking, and slowed China's speed, taking the third set 15–11. The fourth and fifth sets were fought point for point, but in the end China lost.

The heaviest burden they carried was not the defeat itself but the fear of its consequences. How could they face the people back home? What “revolutionary action” might the fervent Red Guards take against them? The more they feared losing, the more tightly they played—and the more the game slipped away. Fate can be cruel that way.

This was not a loss for lack of effort. They had struggled for years, enduring punishing sacrifice. Spiker Ma Like's left arm dislocated so often it was forced back into place more than a hundred times. Spiker Zhu Jiaming's knee swelled with fluid so badly that doctors drained 20 milliliters at a time, only for the swelling to return as soon as he played again. Yuan himself once dove for a save so violently that he smashed two front teeth on the floor. And now, all that sweat and sacrifice had come to nothing.

These men, who rarely cried, hid in the shower room and wept. Scalding water poured down, mingling with bitter tears. They bathed in that unforgettable torrent of salt and sorrow.

They carried the crushing weight of fear into their match against Yugoslavia—and it showed. China fell miserably, with a final score of 1–3. Any hope of making the championship vanished, and even reaching the top eight was out of reach. The Yugoslav team celebrated their unexpected win by hugging each other and rolling across the floor in joy, while China's young players stood frozen on the court, stunned into numbness by defeat.

Later they remembered: “It felt as if we'd been struck by a terrible illness—our bodies were drained of all strength.”

Within that defeated team, Yuan Weimin stood out as the lone individual “victor.” For his exceptional play, he was named Best All-Around Player and awarded a famous Prague handicraft—an engraved glass cup. Yet he felt no joy. What meaning did an individual prize carry when the entire team had fallen short? Out of courtesy, he accepted the cup on stage, but inside he tasted only bitterness. To have the strength to win a world title yet fail to grasp it—few pains cut deeper. The World Championships come only once every four years, and an athlete's prime holds only so many cycles. What is a lifelong regret? This was surely an example of one. Years later, unable to bear the reminder, Yuan smashed the exquisite glass cup to pieces. He wanted no keepsake of failure.

But the flame of his ideals never went out. During the Cultural Revolution, when Premier Zhou Enlai ordered volleyball teams restored, Yuan resolutely took up the role of captain and setter of the men's national team, fighting on until the age of thirty-five before finally leaving the court.

Then came June 1, 1976—a day Yuan would never forget. That morning, the National Sports Commission placed in his care a new team of eighteen- and nineteen-year-old girls gathered from across the country. They reorganized the national women's team and appointed Yuan head coach. That night he could not sleep, his heart trembling with excitement. Silently he thought: The dreams I failed to achieve—I will entrust to them. They will carry our ideals forward.

From that moment, Yuan and his colleagues threw themselves into their work with unreserved dedication.

One evening, a knock came at Yuan's door. Standing there was his old comrade Deng Ruozeng, back from overseas. In the turbulent years before, Deng had nearly despaired, believing the ideals he had fought for all his life were gone. But when the volleyball teams were rebuilt, he saw hope again. His resolve returned: We may not do it ourselves, but we can train the next generation to fight and win. Someday, Chinese players will stand as world champions, he ruminated. 

Eager for any work, he had gone to grassroots sports schools to coach children and had led the youth women's team abroad. Now, learning that Yuan was taking up the national women's team, he had come knocking once more.

Upon seeing Yuan Weimin, he said frankly and sincerely: “Little Yuan, I'll be your assistant. Let's work together to build up the women's team.”

What sounded like such a simple, straightforward sentence had been brewing in his mind for a long time. Deng Ruozeng's wife Cai Xiqin was also a “volleyball wife,” a national women's team member in the 1960s. She understood her husband and understood Yuan Weimin.

She had told Deng Ruozeng: “You're strong-willed, and Yuan Weimin is strong-willed too. You're like two strong dragons. If two strong dragons combine their strength, our women's team will have hope. But if two strong dragons fight against each other, that could be terrible!”

Deng Ruozeng understood his wife's concern, but brushed it aside, replying: “Don't worry about that! I'll give Little Yuan everything I've got. I'm already past forty—I don't want anything for myself anymore. All I want is for the women's team to rise. When effort is needed, I'll step forward; when recognition comes, I'll step back.”

At that time, the national team's former coach Han Yunbo had transferred to the Bayi team, and Yuan Weimin was searching for a new partner. He had already thought of Deng, and now the old captain had come in person—how could Yuan not be overjoyed?

Of course, their partnership wasn't without its complications. Deng had more playing experience than Yuan, and during the Cultural Revolution they belonged to different factions. But they understood each other's character, and their ideals and goals were the same. Even at the height of factional strife, they had never clashed.

Yuan clasped Deng's thick, steady hands: “Let's work together!”

From then on, they shared hardship side by side. In winter training, the two coaches always stayed in the same room. After a full day of exhausting drills, the players collapsed into sleep, but Yuan and Deng—both already past forty, their bodies sore and tired—would sit up late, discussing tactics, sketching out plays, and refining the next day's training plan.

They complemented each other perfectly. Deng always shouldered the most physically demanding work—running drills with the players, assisting in strength training—so that Yuan could concentrate on observing technique and strategy. And whenever tensions flared between players and Coach Deng, Yuan would step in to protect him. More than once, in the middle of an argument, Yuan calmly took the ball from Deng's hands with a steady, “I'll take it from here.” By doing so, he absorbed the players' frustration himself.

That was the essence of their partnership: each shielding, supporting, and backing the other—never undermining, never working against one another.

In truth, their personalities couldn't have been more different. Yuan Weimin was quiet and introspective, fond of reading and thinking things through. Deng Ruozeng was practical, outgoing, with a love for fishing and singing. He even picked up many songs from the girls. After dinner, he would often sit at the table, slip on his black-rimmed glasses, and hum along to the record player:

“The harbor night is so quiet, the waves gently rock the warships, young sailors rest their heads on the waves, smiling sweetly in their dreams...”

His singing, to be honest, wasn't exactly perfect in pitch. He often wandered off-key—sometimes quite far off. The mischievous girls couldn't resist teasing him. They would place a tape recorder in front of him and say, “Coach Deng, give us one!”

“Give you one of what?” he asked earnestly.

“Your specialty, of course!”

“Alright then!” Deng would stand tall like a performer about to take the stage, first composing himself dramatically. Then, with great seriousness, he'd begin again: “The harbor night is so quiet...”

The girls, knowing the moment he'd slip off-key was coming, would hide behind him, stifling giggles. Sometimes they burst out laughing before he was even halfway through. But Deng, immersed in the song, carried on, utterly unfazed and full of feeling.

It's hard to imagine that the same Deng Ruozeng who loved to sing gentle, lyrical songs was also the meticulous Coach Deng who played the “enforcer” on the training court. His heavy, punishing spikes had brought the girls to tears more times than they could count.

In sheer “cold ruthlessness,” he was a match for Yuan Weimin. The two of them were known as “heartless men”—yet inside that so-called heartlessness lived the richest, most genuine human warmth.

Hong Kong’s Fresh Flowers

The bustling Kowloon Elizabeth Stadium suddenly fell silent. The finals between China's women's volleyball team and Korea had come down to the last ball of the last set. One more point, and the Chinese girls would seal a 3–0 victory and claim the 1979 Asian Volleyball Championship title.

Just the day before, China had stunned Japan with a 3–1 win. Since their world championship in 1962, the Japanese team—the “Oriental Witches”—had dominated both Asian and global volleyball. Even though China, after rebuilding its women's program in 1976, had managed to beat Japan in smaller matches, the Japanese still believed that when it came to major tournaments, they would always prevail. But this time, the Chinese girls stayed united, fought relentlessly, and remained undefeated. Lang Ping's thunderous spikes, Sun Jinfang's flawless setting, Zhang Rongfang and Chen Zhaodi's gritty determination, Zhou Xiaolan's sharp blocking—all dazzled the thousands of spectators. Foreign reporters remarked that China's rise signaled the end of the “Oriental Witches'“ reign over Asia.

The last rally was ferocious, the ball whipping back and forth across the net, every eye in the stadium locked on its arc. Then—bang! Lang Ping's spike hammered the floor, and the stadium erupted. Cheers rolled like crashing waves, like floods breaking through, like waterfalls thundering down. Spectators poured onto the court, thrusting armfuls of flowers into the hands of the coaches, team leaders, and players.

The Chinese girls embraced tightly, overwhelmed with emotion. Two years earlier, they had left Japan singing the lyrics “no tears, no sorrow.” Now, in Hong Kong, their tears flowed freely—tears of triumph. Fans gave them flowers, and they tossed those flowers back into the crowd. Wherever a blossom fell, a joyful whirlwind rose as people scrambled to catch it, eager to take it home, place it in a vase, and share in this unforgettable victory.

At last, when the flowers were gone, the Chinese girls lifted both arms high and saluted the roaring crowd.

“Yaqiong, give this bouquet to your father!” Team leader Zhang Yipei handed a bundle of flowers to a tall, slender girl. For a moment Chen Yaqiong looked startled, as if waking from a dream—then she remembered. Her father had come all the way from Hong Kong to watch her play tonight. He was somewhere in the crowd!

Clutching the bouquet, she ran toward the stands. Fans stretched out their hands, eager to take a flower, but Yaqiong smiled apologetically: “Sorry, sorry—these are for my father!”

And then she saw him. Her father, standing with her little nephew, eyes brimming with tears as they reached toward her through the crush of spectators. If the crowd hadn't been so thick, they would have rushed into her arms.

The young boy puffed out his chest and announced proudly to the people around him: “That's my aunt! She's my aunt!” To have an aunt as a main player on China's women's volleyball team filled him with joy.

“Father, are you happy?” Yaqiong asked softly as she handed him the flowers. “These are from our team leader.”

Her father's face lit up. “Well played—truly well played! Thank the team leader, thank everyone!” he said, his voice thick with pride. He gazed at his daughter through tear-filled eyes, her figure blurred like a dream. The last time he had left home, Yaqiong was only a pampered six-year-old. He never imagined that seventeen years later, she would stand before him, tall and accomplished, a national volleyball player carrying the hopes of her country.

“Father, I'm staying home tonight—just a few days before returning to Beijing!” she said, and with a wave, turned back toward the court.

By the time the team had left, night had fully settled in. Leaning against the car's soft cushions, Yaqiong closed her eyes and drew a long breath. The fierce competition was behind her. Tomorrow, her volleyball sisters would return triumphantly to the mainland, while she would remain in Hong Kong, reunited with relatives and tasting a life so different from the regimented days of the national team.

Her thoughts drifted back to four years prior. When her mother left the mainland to rejoin her father in Hong Kong, Yaqiong had been the only one to stay behind. Her mother urged, “Come with us!”

But Yaqiong was unyielding: “You go—I'm staying to play volleyball!” At that point, she had only been connected to the sport for two years.

It all began in late autumn of 1972. Sixteen-year-old Yaqiong was visiting relatives in Fuzhou from her overseas-Chinese hometown of Yongchun. A comrade from the Fujian Sports Commission spotted her and kept muttering, “Good, good.” Yaqiong had no idea what he meant and only looked at him in puzzlement. A little later, he handed her a brand-new set of athletic clothes and shoes and said, “Tomorrow, report to the provincial women's volleyball team!”

Startled, she blinked and asked innocently, “To do what?”

With a smile, the comrade replied, “Don't you like running? Just run alongside them!”

And so, the tall, lanky girl showed up at the tail of the Fujian women's team the next day. She never missed a session of practice—always on time, never leaving early. The team, charmed by her diligent honesty, entrusted her with a chore few others wanted: the storeroom key. Each day she unlocked the storage room, carried the balls out, and after practice, hauled them back, pumped up the deflated ones, and locked the door again. She kept that humble responsibility until 1978, when she finally joined the national team and passed the key on to another player.

According to common weight calculations at the time, a person's “standard weight” was determined by subtracting 100 from their height (in centimeters) and multiplying the remainder by two. By that formula, Yaqiong should have weighed 152 jin, but in reality, she weighed only 102. Far too thin and frail. Many doubted she could ever build up the necessary strength. But Yaqiong thought differently. I'm the youngest on the team, the tallest, and I'm still growing, she told herself. Why shouldn't I be able to develop? And with that, she steeled herself to prove them wrong.

She threw herself into training with fierce determination. After the veteran players finished, provincial coach Yao Zili always gave her “extra dishes to wash”—more drills, more defensive work. Her thin frame made the punishment obvious. Teammates nicknamed her “Iron General,” because during rolling saves the crack of her bones hitting the ground could be heard across the gym. The pain was unimaginable, yet she kept going. The skin on her hips was rubbed raw, bleeding from the repeated impacts. After a few days it would scab over, only to split open again. Break, heal, break, heal—this cycle became routine. Sometimes the pain was so sharp she switched to men's-style diving techniques to save balls. Little by little, through grit and persistence, her frail body hardened into that of a true athlete. Over time, her blocking form developed its own unique style: masculine stepping technique. But who knew how she acquired this special skill!

After joining the national team, Yaqiong's greatest frustration was always being half a beat late on her spikes. Even when setter Sun Jinfang sent her perfect passes, she often mistimed the hit. More than once she cried over it in frustration.

Sun, like a gentle older sister, always took the blame herself, reassuring her: “Yaqiong, don't worry, that ball was my fault.”

But the more Sun said this, the worse Yaqiong felt. Deep down, she knew the problem was in her own spiking form. Where exactly was it going wrong?

The coaches recorded her movements, studying them frame by frame. Teammates tried to help diagnose the issue. Yaqiong herself obsessed over it day and night. One day, before practice, she threw a medicine ball against the wall over and over—dozens of times without stopping—then went onto the court. Somehow her spiking that day felt smoother, drawing praise from her teammates.

“What's different today?” she wondered aloud. Then it struck her: maybe it was the medicine ball throws.

From then on, after each training session, she stayed behind to throw heavy balls alone—dozens, then hundreds, until her arms ached and went numb, too tired to even lift them. Little by little, the motion of her spike grew more coordinated and natural.

That night, back at her father's comfortable home, after a late snack and a long chat with family, she finally lay down to rest. Days of fatigue, excitement, and tension pressed down on her body. Yet sleep didn't come quickly; her thoughts raced on. She thought about her career. Beating Japan and Korea, breaking out of Asia—that was only the starting point, the bare minimum of their long-held dream. The team's motto was clear: “Break out of Asia, march to the world.” She thought of her sisters. Surely, they too were lying awake at that very moment. Yes—the true goal was still ahead. They would not be intoxicated by cheers, flowers, or celebratory wine. They would keep climbing, keep fighting, until one day they raised the world championship crown for their motherland and their people.

Daimatsu Hirofumi

After recounting how the Chinese women's volleyball team defeated Japan, it is worth mentioning a Japanese man who once played a special role in China's volleyball rise.

On April 15, 1965, a stocky, bull-strong middle-aged man arrived in China. He was Daimatsu Hirofumi, the legendary coach who had led Japan's women's team—the “Oriental Witches”—to win Olympic gold. At Premier Zhou Enlai's invitation, Daimatsu came to China to coach for one month.

The year before, after Japan's triumph in Tokyo, Daimatsu had retired from volleyball entirely. When asked by a Japanese reporter what he planned to do, he answered bluntly: “I want to sleep well, then have a good meal with my wife.”

But when China's invitation arrived, he picked up the ball again, spending two weeks training himself in empty gyms before setting off for Shanghai.

His sessions at Shanghai's Nanshi Stadium were grueling, marathon-like ordeals. He ran the women through split shifts: first the provincial teams, then the combined squads. Practice began at noon and stretched past 10 p.m.—sometimes until midnight or even 1 a.m. He stood on court for twelve or thirteen hours straight, hammering hundreds upon hundreds of balls each day.

Strict? He was more than strict. Daimatsu earned the nickname “Devil Daimatsu.” He drilled the women relentlessly in rolling saves, forcing them to dive until their bodies were bruised black and blue, until they limped and could barely stand. Some collapsed outright, unable to move, while Daimatsu barked and sent more balls crashing at them. Even decades later, some still recalled the terror.

One Beijing player remembered: “By the end of practice, I was dizzy, my eyes blurred, the room was spinning. But I still had to dive for Daimatsu's balls. He wore green shorts, and when he jumped to spike, they bounced like two green lanterns. I stared desperately at those lanterns, chasing them as I ran and dove. In those moments, aside from the hazy green lanterns and the faint white ball, I could see nothing else—not even myself.”

A girl from Shandong finally snapped. Eyes blazing, she shouted, “Devil Daimatsu, I'll fight you to the death!” When Daimatsu asked the translator what she had said, the translator cleverly softened it: “She said, 'Coach Daimatsu, go ahead and train us—we're not afraid!'“

In truth, Daimatsu didn't need a translation. He knew the look in her eyes. In Japan, too, his own players had once cursed him the same way.

And yet, what struck him most in China was not their anger but their grit. The girls clenched their teeth, endured the unimaginable, and kept going. Tears streamed down their faces as they dove, but they wiped them away mid-play and even managed to smile through the pain. One Sichuan girl fainted on the floor, revived, and then—with teammates' help—returned to face Daimatsu's pounding serves.

They were just eighteen or nineteen, an age where girls often care about beauty. Yet they wrapped thick bandages around bruised hips and backs, strapped bulky pads to their knees until they looked misshapen. Daimatsu later wrote in his memoir: “Even in such a state, the Chinese girls would quickly wipe the tears and sweat from their faces with their hands and follow my drills closely. They had forgotten themselves completely, giving everything. It was a kind of solemn sorrow.”

This unexpected endurance—this stubborn refusal to quit—moved even the stern Japanese coach. His eyes reddened as he watched the tenacious girls.

That day, Shanghai held a grand mass demonstration, blocking all roads to the gymnasium. Daimatsu entered the gymnasium at 11 a.m. when the parade hadn't fully formed. But when the combined team prepared to depart after 3 p.m., vehicles could no longer pass.

The team called from the Shanghai Sports Commission to the gymnasium, telling Daimatsu about the situation, saying the team might be an hour and a half late. Daimatsu showed no understanding, stubbornly shouting: “I don't care if parade crowds block traffic or buses can't get through—the players must arrive on time. If cars can't move, then run here.”

“Fine, we'll run there. But even running at full speed, it'll take an hour,” the team responded.

“One hour is exactly enough time. If you say 4 o'clock, it must be 4 o'clock. Start running immediately!” Daimatsu said.

An hour later, the Chinese girls arrived at the gymnasium dripping with sweat to report to Daimatsu.

Daimatsu—rarely the type to show emotion—felt his eyes burn red. He quickly asked the players how they had managed to arrive. The girls explained that the streets were jammed with people, so they had squeezed through gaps in parade crowds and darted down side alleys to reach the stadium. Daimatsu looked them over: their hair was plastered to their faces, steam rose from their bodies, and their clothes dripped as if they had just stepped out of water. They were more drenched than after any training session.

Deeply moved, he immediately called hotel staff and ordered fifty apples to reward these resilient Chinese girls. “In Japan,” he said, “if players were told to run but found the roads blocked, they wouldn't run. In the end they'd just say, 'No choice but to be late.' But the Chinese players forced their way through parade crowds without stopping until they reached the court. Whatever they set their minds to, they achieve. This spirit is remarkable—it holds tremendous promise.”

Later, in one of his memoirs, Daimatsu reflected: “Chinese people have always possessed such unyielding characters. When that character is brought onto the court, it becomes an unshakable belief: that for the country, everything must be endured and overcome.”

He was equally struck by the passion of Chinese audiences. The thousand-seat gymnasium was packed every day, and many spectators stayed until midnight. When the girls reached the point of collapse, the crowd clapped and shouted in unison: “Keep going! Keep going!”

And slowly, the exhausted players would begin moving again. The louder the audience roared, the more strength seemed to return to the girls. The cheers rolled like thunder, lifting them back onto their feet. In those moments, the spectators were not simply watching—they seemed to be enduring the same trials themselves for the country as well.

With great feeling, Daimatsu said: “One person's fighting spirit can rouse the shouts of thousands, while the shouts of thousands can ignite the fighting spirit of one. Such scenes cannot be seen in any other country.”

And what impressed him most of all was Premier Zhou Enlai. Despite the countless demands on his time, Zhou showed extraordinary passion for developing Chinese volleyball. Daimatsu never forgot a long, personal conversation he shared with the premier.

On the evening of May 2, in the banquet hall of the Great Hall of the People, Premier Zhou Enlai sat between Daimatsu and his wife. The conversation that followed left such a deep impression on Daimatsu that he later recorded it in one of his books.

Premier Zhou began warmly: “During the Olympics, I watched on television as you won the championship. I could truly understand your feelings at that moment. Later, your wife cried, and your two daughters cried as they held her. Before the match began, everyone thought the Soviet team looked more likely to win. But once play started, your team triumphed overwhelmingly. Daimatsu, I genuinely admire the strength of your players.”

The Premier's words lifted the mood. Then, with equal directness, he asked: “I've heard that you sometimes scold players harshly, even striking them. Isn't that a problem? Could it be avoided?”

Daimatsu answered candidly: “Premier, I have no malice. I don't hate them. I discipline them as I would my own sisters or children. If I said, 'You look exhausted, rest a while,' then everyone would collapse on the spot. You understand this, Premier. To build willpower, I have to push them. I shout, 'What are you doing? Stop dawdling! Keep this up and I'll send you back to Shandong!' In that moment, players on the verge of collapse find a new burst of energy. If training stopped whenever they felt too tired to continue, we would never progress.”

Premier Zhou listened silently, his sharp eyes fixed on Daimatsu.

So Daimatsu pressed on: “If you pity athletes too much, training becomes impossible. Scolding is not an insult—it is a form of love. Without a slap to wake them, they would simply collapse motionless on the floor. Premier, perhaps you think this treats athletes like beasts of burden. But isn't it the same in nature? Lions push their cubs into ravines so they learn to climb. When sparrows are nearly grown, the parents withhold food so they learn to fly. It seems cruel, but it awakens their strength. That is how I train athletes. No matter what others say, as long as the players understand, it is enough.”

At last Premier Zhou spoke, calmly but firmly: “That approach will not do. The People's Liberation Army has its Three Main Rules and Eight Points of Attention, which forbid hitting or cursing people. There is also a rule forbidding the mistreatment of women. Female athletes must absolutely not be beaten or abused.”

The Premier brought up military discipline, but Daimatsu still couldn't accept it. He said: “Premier Zhou, you invited me as coach. I won't insult players entrusted to my training. I'm only giving my all to improve their technique, making them players with strong willpower, hoping China becomes volleyball world champion. Because I think this way, I do what you ask me not to do. I request the Premier not comment on my actions.”

Premier Zhou replied firmly: “That won't do. We uphold strict discipline, and yet the coach I invited to China breaks it while I remain silent? Daimatsu, think about it—how could that be acceptable? What if the players come to me, citing the Three Main Rules and Eight Points of Attention…?”

Daimatsu answered without hesitation: “Premier Zhou, when I scold players in front of you, please cover your ears. When I strike them, please close your eyes. Just pretend you didn't hear or see anything.”

Premier Zhou shifted in his seat, his tone sharpening: “Daimatsu, what are you saying? Explain yourself.”

So Daimatsu elaborated: “I've told Chinese coaches and doctors this before: men and women are not the same. Men use their full strength as soon as training begins. When they collapse, it means their energy is truly gone. Women are different. They begin with spirit, but after ten minutes they fall. Not because they're conserving strength, but because their bodies are different. Yet after two or three minutes of rest, they recover. Then they fall again, and recover again. If you believe that when they collapse they truly cannot continue, that's a mistake. You must push them to get back up. Without this, the training volume will never be enough. Outward appearances and actual capacity are not the same. Their spirits are weaker than men's, and their physical stamina is different.”

Premier Zhou leaned forward and asked pointedly: “But won't such extreme training harm women's bodies? Isn't there a danger here? Has any medical research been done on this?”

Daimatsu replied firmly: “Absolutely no problem—I'm not speaking carelessly. I've studied this thoroughly with a doctor who closely monitors the players' conditions. I know not only each woman's temperament but also her physical state—sometimes better than the players themselves. I can tell from their attitudes, their movements, even from the color of their cheeks and lips whether their condition is good or bad, whether they are truly exhausted or still able to push further. So, Premier Zhou, you needn't worry—they will never be trained to death or permanent injury.

“And as for the concerns people raise about women—let me reassure you. Over thirteen years I trained nearly eighty players. Every single one later married and had children. Some even gave birth to twins—and both mothers and children were perfectly healthy.”

At that, Premier Zhou burst into hearty laughter.

“The one with twins—are the mother and all three children well?” he asked.

“All well!” Daimatsu answered.

Premier Zhou laughed even louder.

Later Daimatsu recalled this unforgettable exchange: “Mr. Zhou Enlai was approachable and kind, but also extraordinarily perceptive. Even in light conversation, he grasped the core of the issue instantly. I have traveled the world and met presidents and premiers from many countries, but I never encountered a leader who cared about volleyball the way Premier Zhou did.”

The month in China passed quickly, and soon it was time for Daimatsu to return home. On the eve of his departure, he led one final training session. That night, at a farewell banquet, he spoke with deep emotion:

“China has so many tenacious, eager-to-learn young women, such enthusiastic audiences, and even a premier who cares about volleyball. For China not to win world championships in the future—it would be inexcusable.”

He gave each Chinese girl a towel, saying with meaning: “I give you these towels in the hope that you will sweat even more in the years to come.”

Years later, the world-famous coach died suddenly of a heart attack. At his grave in Okayama, Japan, stands a small tombstone sent by his former players, who by then were mothers. Its simple inscription reads: “Where there's a will, there's a way.”

The new generation of Chinese women's volleyball players never met Daimatsu. But they often heard coaches and older teammates speak of him with respect. He was indeed worth remembering.

Fifteen years earlier, Chinese girls once asked him, “How did you train your team to become world champions?”

Daimatsu had answered: “For human beings, nothing is harder than conquering oneself. My players and I sacrificed everything, dedicating ourselves completely to volleyball. For many years, except for a three-day New Year holiday, we never skipped a single day of practice. Before the Olympics, we trained twelve hours a day. We constantly pushed to imagine and do things no one else in the world had tried. The result was the world championship.”

What an enlightening answer!

Beware of Capsizing

On the night of May 14, 1980, a gentle spring rain fell over Shanghai. The match between China's and Japan's women's volleyball teams had just ended, and waves of spectators poured out of the grand Xujiahui Stadium. Yet even after the hall emptied, clusters of people remained outside, waiting in the drizzle. Some simply wanted a glimpse of the players, others longed to shake their hands in congratulations, and still others—family and friends—hoped to exchange a few warm words.

That evening, the Chinese women's team gave more than ten thousand fans quite a scare. In each of the three sets they fell behind early: 9–13 in the first, 9–12 in the second, and, in the third, first 1–8, then 9–14. At those moments, they stood just a point or two away from defeat. The crowd held its breath, hearts pounding in their throats. But then came the reversals: as soon as China reached nine points, the tide would shift dramatically. The girls surged forward, scoring six or seven points in a row, while the Japanese seemed frozen on the scoreboard. At last, China triumphed 3–0.

It was electrifying—like being tossed about in a small boat on stormy waves: terrifying at times, but unforgettable in its thrill.

The next day, letters of admiration poured in. One anonymous writer, signing as “An Admirer of Yours,” wrote:

“I am usually strict with others to the point of harshness, but watching your match I could not stop praising you. From you I see the precious qualities of the Chinese nation. Technical excellence is rare, but spiritual excellence is rarer still. Japan's women's team is known worldwide for their tenacity, yet they met opponents even more tenacious than themselves. Your fighting spirit convinces me that in your hearts, the honor of the motherland comes before everything. You played not only for team prestige but for national pride. You are great children of China!”

A group of workers wrote in too:

“For a person or a country, being poor and backward is not what is most frightening—what is truly frightening is losing direction and confidence. As long as one dares to face reality, aspires to catch up and surpass, and works hard one step at a time, no difficulty is insurmountable. Our Party and our country need doers like you—people who do not speak empty words, but work diligently and solidly!”

Everywhere, acquaintances and strangers alike were discussing the team.

“Maomao's playing is incredible!” said a young man in glasses.

“And her presence on the court—just as incredible!” agreed a sturdy youth.

“Maomao” was the name on everyone's lips.

Who was she? Number 12: Zhang Rongfang, a spirited girl from Sichuan. Since childhood she had been bold—climbing trees and rooftops with boys, plunging into icy rivers to battle the currents. That same spirit still marked her now: daring, resilient, full of vitality. As a child, she was called “Little Maomao,” meaning little cat. Grown into a young woman, the “Little” was dropped, but “Maomao” remained.

At first glance, though, you wouldn't notice her fire. When she stepped onto the court, she appeared almost subdued—slightly hunched, left hand tucked loosely behind her back, her narrowed eyes giving the impression she had just woken up. At 1.74 meters, like Chen Zhaodi, she was the shortest on the team, and her expression seemed unremarkable. But once the ball was in play, she transformed: alert, sharp, every movement quick and precise, like an experienced hunter locked onto its prey. Whether diving for a save or springing up for a spike, her actions were agile and fierce. Her spikes were cunning and unpredictable, often leaving opponents helpless. Sometimes she even toppled to the floor from playing too hard—yet if another ball came her way, she would leap back up in an instant, catching opponents off guard. She was nimble as a monkey, fierce as a tiger. On court, her sweat-soaked face glowed with vitality, radiating a special kind of beauty born of health and strength. As captain Sun Jinfang put it: “Maomao on the court is truly alive.”

Rain continued to fall softly. Under the floodlights, it looked like thousands of silver threads hanging from the sky, swaying gently in the night breeze. The Japanese guests had already left the stadium, heading back to their hotel by car, but the Chinese girls were still nowhere to be seen. The crowd outside grew restless. Some began to complain loudly: “It's so hard just to catch a glimpse of them—China's women's volleyball team is too arrogant!”

Just then, someone finally appeared at the stadium entrance. Excited spectators craned their necks, thinking the players were coming out at last. But no—it was only a staff member. He climbed the steps and called out to the crowd: “Comrades, please go home! The Chinese women's volleyball team is having a makeup class inside!”

“Makeup class?” the audience shouted back in disbelief.

“Yes,” the staff member explained. “They said tonight's match wasn't played well enough…”

“Wasn't played well?” the crowd cried out indignantly. “They played beautifully! They fought tenaciously!”

And indeed, by any fair measure, the match had been thrilling.

Yuan Weimin and Deng Ruozeng agreed it had been well played. But before beginning the makeup session, Yuan gathered the girls and told them: “In some ways, this match is even more valuable than winning easily from start to finish. Before, when we fell behind, we lacked the confidence to catch up; when we were ahead, we feared being caught. But now, you didn't panic while trailing, and you came back to win. That is precious—that is the sign of a maturing team.”

And mature they had become. Through years of setbacks, defeats, and victories, China's women's volleyball team had grown tougher, more confident, and more united. In this Nanjing International Women's Volleyball Invitational, they had already defeated the U.S. and Japan by scores of 3–1 and 3–0. In later friendlies, they repeated the feat with the same results. And tonight, for the third time, they beat Japan 3–0.

Yuan Weimin looked at the girls, somewhat reluctant about the makeup classes, and said calmly: “But we must think carefully—why did we trail at the beginning of all three sets? I think we were too complacent and arrogant! Though everyone discussed preventing arrogance in preparation meetings, when playing matches, we still couldn't get energized.” He paused momentarily, then continued meaningfully: “Today's makeup classes are to make everyone remember—we're beginning to mature, but we can't be arrogant. If we are arrogant, we'll eventually capsize in the gutter someday. The Olympics come once every four years—how many four-year periods does one's athletic life have? Please think carefully!”

Originally, some girls were mentally resistant to these makeup classes. They thought: better to lose ugly than win ugly—no matter what, we won! But hearing the coach's analysis, they stopped complaining and obediently dragged their exhausted bodies to practice again until after midnight. When they finished washing and returned to the Shanghai Sports Commission guesthouse, the Huangpu River customs clock tower chimed melodiously—already 2 a.m. After daybreak they would go their separate ways, some to Hangzhou, others to Nanjing, Suzhou, Wuxi...

Maomao would return to her hometown Chengdu. This homecoming was different from the other girls' feelings: she was neither visiting relatives and friends nor revisiting familiar places. Waiting for her there would be a solemn Party branch meeting where Communist Party members would discuss her Party membership confirmation. In a few days, she would become a full member of the Chinese Communist Party! Thinking of this, her heart was so excited it drove away all sleepiness.

At thirteen, she took the initiative to approach Chengdu Houzi Gate People's Stadium and ask to join as a volleyball player. From that moment on, her path was marked by mistakes and hard training, followed by progress—then more mistakes, more training, and more progress—each step pushing her closer to maturity.

When she first joined the Sichuan women's team, Maomao was the only newcomer, surrounded by five veterans. Four of them were already mothers, yet they still tumbled and rolled alongside this teenage girl. Maomao felt both moved and uneasy. She had only one thought: Train hard, and quickly be ready to take their place.

But in one match, the team played poorly—and Maomao was no exception. She failed to save balls she should have saved, and spiked casually when she should have finished decisively. Back at the lodgings, the coach asked her seriously:

“Maomao, what happened today? Why didn't you go for those balls?”

Maomao answered bluntly: “I figured we were losing anyway, so playing one ball well didn't matter.”

The coach shook his head. She hadn't yet grasped the meaning of fighting for every ball.

That realization came soon after. In the summer of 1976, shortly after joining the national team, Maomao played against Peru. She mis-set a ball to the main attacker at position four; it drifted weakly over the net and was ruthlessly killed by the Peruvian spiker. A year later, at the 1977 World University Games, China clashed with the United States. Intimidated by the tall American blockers, Maomao hesitated, and several of her spikes were stuffed back. China still scraped out a 3–2 win, but dropping two sets cost them the championship.

These painful lessons haunted Maomao. She thought bitterly: My height comes from my parents—no changing that. But my natural shortcomings can be made up for later. Yuan Weimin believed the same, holding especially high expectations for this spirited Sichuan girl. He wanted her to master not just creative attacks but also sharp defensive skills. Even when she trained hard on her own, he often gave her extra “courses.”

Passing was her biggest weakness, so Yuan targeted it mercilessly. He sent ball after ball—one forward, one backward, one to the left, one to the right. Maomao chased them breathlessly, rescuing each, while Yuan only made the placements trickier. Finally, her temper snapped. She caught a ball and hurled it off court.

“Pick it up!” Yuan barked.

Maomao stood her ground, refusing to move.

“Do you want to practice or not? If not, then step out. Come back when you've thought it through!”

But quitting wasn't in her nature. Unlike Chen Zhaodi, who sometimes stormed off mid-practice, Maomao refused to leave. If told to stop, she insisted on continuing—crying as she trained, but training all the same. Better to die on court practicing than to walk away, she thought.

That stubbornness became her greatest asset. Over time she developed quick eyes, quick hands, quick feet; deceptive shots, balanced spikes and drops, and relentless defensive digs. In the Nanjing International Women's Volleyball Invitational, even America's 1.96-meter Hyman was helpless against Maomao's clever shots. She no longer feared tall opponents—now tall opponents feared her.

Maomao had matured. Through countless battles and storms, she had steadied herself like a pillar braced against rushing currents. And on the train home the next day, she reflected quietly: When a team matures, it must guard against arrogance. As an individual matures, shouldn't I be just as cautious?

China's “Iron Hammer”

What greater happiness could there be than earning the people's trust?

Train 47 pulled out of Beijing, cutting through the vast night like a streak of lightning. In one sleeper car, a tall girl leaned against the window, gazing into the darkness. She was strong and striking, her slightly wavy black hair braided into two strands that hung gracefully behind her head. The deep red collar of her sports shirt peeked out from beneath a navy jacket, like red blossoms pushing through a wall. Even from behind, she radiated youth, vitality, and spirit.

Outside the window was only blackness, broken now and then by fleeting lights. Was Lang Ping admiring the night scenery of her homeland—or lost in thought? Perhaps those scattered lights carried her back to the evening before, when she stood on stage at the ceremony honoring the nation's top ten athletes.

For this Beijing girl, who had just turned twenty, it was an unforgettable night. The bouquets in her arms, the gleaming silver trophy in her hands, the thunderous applause filling the packed Capital Stadium—it was overwhelming. Not only the 18,000 in the arena were cheering, but it felt as though she could hear the applause of countless fans across the country, including those who had voted for her and those who had no chance to vote at all. She laughed through tears of excitement.

But she wasn't intoxicated by the moment. She knew the award wasn't hers alone—it belonged to the team. Volleyball is a team sport: every point depends on several pairs of hands, every win is forged by sweat and sacrifice. No matter how strong an individual's skills, nothing can be achieved without the whole. So even as she held the trophy, she thought of her sisters: the graceful big-sisterly Sun Jinfang, the calm and steady Zhang Rongfang, the bold Chen Zhaodi, the quiet yet decisive Zhou Xiaolan, the pure-hearted Chen Yaqiong, the diligent Cao Huiying, the gentle Yang Xi, the quick and nimble Zhang Jieyun, the clever Zhou Lumin, the powerful Liang Yan, the cheerful Zhu Ling—and, of course, the stern but caring coaches who bound them all together.

When the ceremony ended and she left the stadium with her mother, she wrapped herself in a camel-colored wool scarf, covering nearly her whole face and leaving only her bright eyes visible. The trophy was hidden in a large orange-yellow bag. She didn't show it off; instead she melted into the crowd, just another spectator heading home.

On the way, her thoughts surged like a rushing river.

Why was the silver cup so heavy? Because it was filled with the team's sweat.

Why was it so weighty? Because it carried the expectations of the nation.

That night at home, her parents couldn't stop circling around the trophy, staring at it as if they could never get enough. Her father, a lifelong sports fan, had been her quiet supporter from the start. Her mother, by contrast, had opposed volleyball at first. Seeing her daughter's thin frame, she had feared it would ruin her health. But after her father's patient persuasion, she reluctantly agreed. Over time, she too learned to watch her daughter's matches—though at first, she understood nothing of the techniques, only feeling joy when her daughter succeeded and regret when she faltered. Lang Ping often teased her father: “Dad, watching me makes you more nervous than me playing!”

Her mother's love took a different shape. Always worried that Lang wasn't eating enough, she sent food on every trip—anchovies, candy, whatever she could pack into bags. Once, when Lang Ping was playing in Sichuan and wrote home that she wasn't feeling well, her mother secretly sent two pounds of chocolate. By the time it arrived, it had melted into syrupy brown water, but Lang Ping's heart felt warmer than the summer sun.

Her mother also worried every time she saw her fall on court. “Why do you always fall so hard?” she asked once.

Lang Ping tried to explain: “Mom, it's part of the game—we fall on purpose.” But her mother waved it off, heartbroken: “Don't fall so hard in the future.”

Lang Ping could only smile and assure her: “Okay, Mom. We'll fall a little lighter.”

Since joining the national team, she had rarely been home for the New Year. Now the Spring Festival was just days away, and though she had caught a cold, her mother hoped she would stay longer this time. But Lang Ping's heart was already with her teammates. The team had left Beijing days earlier for winter training in Chenzhou, Hunan. She would follow them tomorrow. The warmth of that collective—the fighting spirit of her sisters—was a magnet that pulled her irresistibly.

As Train 47 roared south into the night, Lang Ping finally lay down, curling up on the narrow berth. Exhausted, she drifted into deep sleep. And while she rested, let us pause here to look back at the extraordinary path she had already traveled.

Since childhood, she had painted, loved music, dreamed of becoming a pilot, and even considered engineering. Then, at thirteen, her father took her to see an international volleyball match. To her amazement, the same volleyballs that dropped helplessly to the floor in her PE classes suddenly seemed alive in the hands of athletes—obedient, controlled, almost like art. She was hooked. A new dream took root: she wanted to become an athlete.

Though she would one day stand 1.84 meters tall, at that time she was barely 1.6 meters, thin as a reed, weighing only seventy-some pounds with a frail constitution. But she never doubted herself. Confident she could succeed, she ran to the Beijing Second Amateur Sports School to register herself. Coach Zhang Yuanqing hesitated—she was far too skinny—but in the end he took a chance on the determined girl.

Her first goal was simple: to wear a uniform with the word “Beijing” across the chest and represent her city. She trained through the summer heat and winter chills, swinging her long arms tens of thousands of times, repeating dull, basic skills until they became second nature. Once, after spraining her ankle, she refused to go home on Sundays, afraid her mother would forbid her from returning if she saw her injury. Whenever she did go home, she carried volleyballs with her, pounding them against walls until the plaster was marked all over.

Two years later, she became a starter on the Beijing women's volleyball team. But she wanted more—she dreamed of wearing the national emblem, competing against the world's strongest teams. That chance came sooner than expected. In 1978, not yet eighteen, she was chosen by Yuan Weimin to replace the renowned Yang Xi at position four for the Asian Games in Bangkok.

There, Lang Ping burst onto the scene like a rising star. Against Korea, her thunderous spikes and sharp blocks helped secure China's victories. Reporters hailed her as “China's new secret weapon.” But against Japan's “Oriental Witches,” the reigning champions, her inexperience showed. A foot injury slowed her, her attacks lacked variation, and Japan's tight defense neutralized her. Before the first set was over, Coach Yuan substituted her out. China went on to lose 0–3. Critics dismissed her as an “uncertain newcomer” and called Yuan's decision to field her a mistake.

For Lang Ping, who had always advanced smoothly, the sting was unforgettable. But instead of breaking her, it drove her. She studied the world's top attackers relentlessly and pushed herself to catch up. Within a year, her hard work paid off.

At the 1979 Asian Women's Volleyball Championships in Hong Kong, she was a force. Her dominance helped China win the championship, earning her the nickname that would define her career: The Iron Hammer. When CCTV broadcast the games, chants of “Lang Ping! Lang Ping!” echoed from arenas into living rooms across the country. Her powerful spikes won her recognition as one of the world's top three attackers, alongside America's 1.96-meter giant Flo Hyman and Cuba's Pomares.

Soon after, she boarded a train south to rejoin her team in Chenzhou. The journey lasted over thirty hours, but for Lang Ping, it felt like an eternity—just days apart from her teammates had seemed like years.

Chenzhou in spring was soaked under an endless drizzle, as if the sky itself were leaking. The training base, tucked inside Beihu Park, was picturesque with pavilions, fountains, monkeys, even groves of osmanthus trees. But Lang Ping had no time to notice any of it. Her tall figure could only be found inside the bamboo-roofed training hall, drenched in sweat.

For her, that evening's training was nothing unusual. After dusk, the other girls finished their drills and trudged back to the dorms, but Lang Ping stayed. Coach Yuan had given her one more assignment: three perfect sets of serves, three good balls per set. If two were only average or one was a mistake, the set didn't count and another had to be added.

Ball after ball smacked against the court—bang, bang—each followed by Yuan's clipped verdicts:

“This one's average.”

“Mistake.”

Instead of finishing, she was only racking up more sets. Her shoulder ached, her frustration mounted. Through the dark green netting, she glanced at Yuan. He stood with arms folded, his expression carved in stone, offering nothing. The message was unmistakable: If you can't finish, don't even think about leaving.

Lang Ping muttered under her breath, “Fine. I'll stick this out to the end.” She snatched up more balls and drove them hard across the net.

Bang. Bang.

“Stop!” Yuan Weimin strode over, face stern. “Don't serve easy balls! If you're tired, rest.”

Of course, Lang Ping knew exactly what he meant. An “easy ball” was a gift to the opponent—a harmless serve, a “peace ball” with no bite. In a real match, after fighting hard to win back the serve, giving away an easy ball was unforgivable. She scolded herself silently. How could she let that happen? No—never again. She paced a few steps, swung her arms to loosen them, planted her hands on her hips in thought, and then went back to serving.

Bang, bang! The sharp crack of serves echoed through the hall, punctuated by Yuan's calls: “Good ball. Good ball.” The sounds carried on late into the night.

When Lang Ping finally staggered out of the gym, a reporter teased her quietly: “Does the coach have it in for you?”

Wiping sweat from her brow, she laughed: “Hard to say.”

When Yuan later heard this, he joked: “Not today. But I've picked on her plenty before.”

As the Spring Festival neared, the dormitory corridors glowed with red lanterns, and branches dotted with paper plum blossoms brightened the windows. The women's team was given one day off to celebrate—setting off firecrackers, cracking peanuts, and munching sunflower seeds. Lang Ping had bought them herself with the prize money she'd won from Beijing's “Top Ten Athletes” award.

But the break was brief. On the second day of the new year, the team traveled to Hengyang for exhibition matches. Even after playing until past 10 p.m., the coaches insisted on makeup practice.

“Lang Ping, why aren't you moving?” they called.

She stood outside the court, pale and motionless.

“What's wrong?” the coaches pressed.

“Coach,” she said, “I feel sick. I want to throw up.”

The coaches nodded, but only said: “Then vomit. After that, get back on the court.”

Hard and unyielding. But Lang Ping didn't complain. If the coaches hadn't pushed her, she would have pushed herself. She remembered vividly the trip to the U.S. the previous spring: after a twenty-hour flight from Hong Kong to Colorado Springs—over 2,000 meters above sea level—the team had been crushed by fatigue and altitude sickness. During evening practice, eight girls vomited on the sidelines yet kept training. They had cursed the coaches for being so ruthless. But the next day, when they faced the American women's team, they felt sharp and unstoppable, winning 3–1. Across the U.S. tour, they recorded six wins and just one loss—even sweeping the Americans in San Francisco.

Only then did the players truly understand why the coaches pushed them so hard, even when they were sick and vomiting. It was preparation for war. That night, Lang Ping carried those thoughts with her as she endured the grueling makeup session.

This was Yuan Weimin's way of “picking on” her. To him, “picking on” meant deliberately creating obstacles—using every unexpected method to harden her.

And strangely, Lang Ping welcomed it. Even when the pressure left her in tears, feeling bitter and exhausted, afterward she always thanked the coaches and wished for more. She knew her role as the team's cornerstone. Which of the world's powerhouse teams wasn't studying her? They filmed her movements, analyzed her videos, searching for weaknesses. To keep her hammer striking true, she needed to be forged again and again. Every bit of “picking on” was just another strike of the smith's hammer, tempering her for battles to come.

Forged by a thousand blows, she became China's “Iron Hammer.” And one day, when her country needed her to strike the final blow, may that hammer fall heavy and resounding—proclaiming China's pride to the world.

Give Her Half the Applause

“Laypeople watch for excitement; experts watch for technique.”

To most spectators, the spotlight always falls on the spikers who deliver the final, decisive blows. But seasoned fans know that half the credit belongs to the true soul of the court—the setter.

For China's women's volleyball team, that soul was Captain Sun Jinfang. She had a balanced, athletic build—strong and graceful, though not especially tall among her teammates. Her eyes were naturally narrow, squinting even more when she was sweating. No wonder her teammates fondly called her Little Squint. Yet through those narrow eyes shone an alert, intelligent, and often playful gaze. Her calm composure gave her the bearing of a general.

Any observant spectator could see that nearly every ball passed through her hands before reaching the opponent's side. Her setting skills were remarkable. However chaotic the play, once the ball touched her fingers it seemed to steady, transformed into something smooth and purposeful. A sports reporter once wrote: “If the balls flying toward her were like clusters of blazing fire, then the balls leaving her hands were like wisps of curling smoke.” An exaggeration, perhaps—but watching her, one really did feel that way.

Sun was a native of Jiangsu, her voice carrying the melodic lilt of Suzhou dialect, as soft as music. As a child, she was so thin people joked a gust of wind could blow her away, her elbows so delicate they looked like they might snap. Who could have imagined this frail Suzhou girl would one day become a world-class athlete? It was her school's gym teacher who first spotted her potential and recommended her to the youth amateur sports school. From then on, volleyball became her destiny.

The grueling scenes of her training are too many to count, but one is especially memorable: her late-night practice in the narrow dormitory corridor at Xiaolingwei, Nanjing. Alongside her teammate Zhang Jieyun, she passed the ball back and forth. The low ceiling and cramped walls sent the ball bouncing astray again and again. But they simply picked it up and kept going. Nanjing's summer heat was stifling, yet they chose the corridor deliberately. Their reasoning was simple: if they could control the ball in such a confined space, then on the wide-open court their passing would be effortless. Sweat poured down their faces, soaking their hair and uniforms until they looked as if they had climbed straight out of water. Still, they counted on: one, two, three… until they had passed the ball more than five hundred times. In that moment, the corridor seemed to open into infinite space, the ball drawn magnetically to Sun's sure, delicate hands.

But fine hands alone don't make a great setter. A setter also needs a broad, generous heart. As the girls themselves said: “A setter's heart must be wide enough to hold a boat.”

Setters rarely get applause—glory usually goes to the spikers, while blame often falls squarely on them. Sun, however, was quick-tempered and proud, and sometimes the “sea of her heart” had hidden reefs that blocked the boats.

One such moment came in the summer of 1979, during the final match of China's tour of Japan. The team had taken the first two sets easily, but the third set turned difficult. Newcomer Lang Ping's spikes repeatedly failed. Sun called out: “Lang Ping, watch your angles!”

But Lang gave no response. A little later she snapped back: “Set the ball higher!”

Sun felt a flash of irritation. On court, the ball may seem an unfeeling object, flying back and forth, but it carries the players' emotions—joy, anger, frustration—all written in its flight. Yuan Weimin hadn't yet heard what words were exchanged, but from the tight line of Sun's lips he knew his captain was upset. He immediately called a timeout and substituted her. Unable to leave the bench himself, he asked assistant coach Deng Ruozeng to go and talk with her.

Deng Ruozeng was furious. He was the team's well-known nagger who hated iron for not becoming steel. His heart was indescribably kind, but his words would scold you thoroughly.

Deng Ruozeng pulled Sun Jinfang aside and spoke quietly: “No matter what conflicts arise on court, you must still play your best. Whatever the issue, resolve it afterward—this is about the honor of our motherland!”

When Little Sun returned to the court, she forced herself to stop pursing her lips and tried to turn the situation around. But the damage was already done, and the team ultimately lost the match.

Back home, leaders and coaches spoke with her one after another. The Party group also met to help her reflect. At first, Sun felt indignant. A newcomer ignoring a captain's reminders in the middle of a match? Speaking so harshly to veterans? Wasn't that going too far?

She and Lang Ping were roommates, but for several days they passed each other in silence. Finally, unable to hold it in, Sun confronted her one evening: “Lang Ping, that day on court—why did you ignore all my reminders?”

Lang Ping looked startled. “Reminders? What reminders? The court was so noisy—I didn't hear a thing!”

Sun froze. Terrible! She had completely misunderstood. Of course, Lang was still young and fiery, with a blunt personality. Her tone might have sounded sharp, but she hadn't meant to dismiss Sun at all. It was all a miscommunication. And even if Lang Ping had been critical, Sun knew she should have endured it for the sake of the team and the country's honor. The reasons for the loss were many, but poor coordination between setter and spiker was an unforgivable mistake. Between a setter and her main hitter, there can't be even the slightest crack. Ashamed of her narrowness, Sun resolved to toughen her heart and clear away the hidden reefs one by one.

And she did—tempering herself with iron will.

Even when her back ached, she kept pushing through training. Coaches often singled her out: “Little Sun, set the tone for the team!”

At times she felt wronged. I've been practicing well—why are they always picking on me?

The coaches explained: “You're the captain, the soul of the team. The standards for you must be different.”

Sometimes Yuan Weimin deliberately pushed her buttons just to toughen her.

One day, Sun was practicing defense alone. Her lips began to purse again. Yuan and Deng exchanged a look: today they'd test her temper.

“Everyone stop,” they told the team. “Come watch Little Sun practice.”

Sun's face burned. She had never been put on the spot like this before. I haven't failed my tasks—why are they humiliating me? But with her teammates all watching, she swallowed her anger and kept going.

Yuan declared: “We'll stop when Little Sun herself says she feels smooth.”

He fired ball after ball at her—front, back, left, right. Sun dove and lunged, while her teammates cheered her on. Her face stayed tense, unsmiling.

After the second rest, she finally said: “Coach, my mood is smooth now.”

But Yuan could see from her face it wasn't true. Still, he knew it had taken courage to say those words in front of everyone.

That evening, Yuan had a heart-to-heart with his fellow Jiangsu native. “The knot in your heart isn't untied yet, is it?”

Sun shot back: “I got this stubborn streak from you! Everyone says you were even worse than me when you were a player.”

Yuan chuckled. “There's good stubbornness and bad stubbornness. Don't copy my bad kind.”

At that, Sun finally cracked a smile.

Yuan went on, speaking seriously: “It's not that Coach Deng and I want you to bow down to us. No—it's what the court and the team need. You're the captain. Our instructions, our tactics, they all have to go through you. In a set, we can only call timeout twice, and only for thirty seconds. No matter how good our ideas are, if you don't carry them out, they're worthless. And remember: your emotions—your joy, anger, frustration—flow directly into your teammates and can decide the outcome of a match.”

These warm, sincere words blew into her heart like a gentle spring breeze. Her mood truly became smooth.

The boat had finally entered her heart's sea. She knew each teammate's personality, temperament, physical condition, and technique intimately, always tailoring her sets to match their rhythm during games.

Lang Ping was straightforward—when excited, she tended to jump too early, so the ball needed to be set higher. When tired, she couldn't get enough lift, so the ball had to be placed close to the net, not far from it.

Zhaodi was bold and relentless, a fierce general on the court, but also reckless. When she grew anxious, you couldn't just toss her the ball—you had to steady her with a reminder: “Zhaodi, don't rush! Don't rush!”

Maomao was strong and versatile, capable of hitting from anywhere, but even for her the sets had to be quick and precise: close rather than far, low rather than high, fast rather than slow.

Xiaolan was quiet and steady, the kind who never lost her composure.

Yaqiong struggled with confidence—she needed constant encouragement.

Liang Yan was the youngest, sharp-eyed and quick-handed; for her, the speed of the ball had to keep pace with her reactions.

With her detailed analysis of each teammate, and each teammate's understanding of and trust in her, the six starting players coordinated as perfectly as one person. Look—in the moment before serving, two or three spikers simultaneously put hands behind their backs, signaling what tactics to use. Her lightning gaze swept over them, her quick mind rapidly analyzed, and she immediately answered teammates with hand signals... Thus, sets of dazzling fast plays—flat pull-aparts, short quick attacks, crosses, back attacks—appeared before your eyes. Thrilling battle scenes were directed by her; pleasing musical pieces were conducted by her.

One spectator once praised her with a poetic line: “Watching you play is like hearing a symphony—under your baton as conductor, so many beautiful movements with different melodies come alive.”

By now, Sun Jinfang had become a world-class setter, a seasoned veteran of countless battles. But age was creeping up—she was twenty-six this year—and with age, injuries became more common. Her back pain was especially severe, constantly tormenting her. On the court she always appeared energetic and commanding, but off the court, she often could not straighten her back. At last year's Nanjing International Invitational, where China defeated both Japan and the United States, she had received pain-blocking injections before each match just to play. On the day of the award ceremony, when the Chinese girls held up the trophy to acknowledge the cheering crowd, Sun had to press a hand to her back for support.

If China's women's volleyball players were brilliant pearls, then Sun Jinfang was the golden thread that strung them together, binding them into a collective that shone with extraordinary brilliance. Half of the cheers and applause, it was said, belonged to her.

The Young Man in the Land of Women

If Sun Jinfang was the unsung hero on court, then he was the paving stone that helped the Chinese women take their first steps onto the world stage.

At an exhibition match in the small southern city of Hengzhou, the audience suddenly erupted in laughter. The girls, who were always quick to laugh, doubled over until tears streamed down their faces.

The reason? A young man in the team's purple-red uniform was out on court, playing volleyball alongside them. One of the women had been injured, so he had stepped in. From a distance, it was hard to tell whether he was a girl or a young man. He was taller than Zhaodi, Maomao, and Sun Jinfang, but shorter than Lang Ping, Xiaolan, and Yaqiong. At twenty-four, he was the same age as several veterans. With his balanced build, delicate features, straight nose, fair skin, and habit of blushing shyly, he carried a surprisingly feminine air.

Naturally, the question on everyone's lips was: How did a young man end up mixed into the women's team?

The story began in early autumn of 1979. Train 46 pulled out of Fuzhou, heading north toward Beijing. By the window sat a clean-cut young man. His tall frame and athletic clothes made it obvious he was an athlete, but he sat silently, eyes on the golden fields rushing by. From time to time, he shook his head, his cheeks turning red.

His hand kept straying to the letter of introduction in his pocket. He was a player for the Fujian men's volleyball team, but he was headed to Beijing to report to the national women's team. A men's player joining the women's squad—what could that possibly mean?

When he first received the order, he had wondered the same thing. But his provincial sports leaders explained: the women's team was preparing for the upcoming Asian Championships in Hong Kong and needed a male training partner.

So that was it—he was going as a sparring partner. Even so, the thought of living and training among a team of women made his heart pound with nerves. He was naturally shy, and the idea of being the only man among a group of lively girls felt unbearably awkward. But he carried with him his teammates' parting words: Work hard. Do your part to help the women's team break out of Asia and onto the world stage.

Whatever he thought, the train sped steadily northward, carrying him toward Beijing.

When he arrived at the training camp, the women sized him up with curious glances. They joked and teased naturally, unselfconscious, while his own face burned red and he could barely lift his head.

What should they call him? His name was Chen Zhonghe. To call him by his full name would sound stiff. To call him “Coach Chen” felt awkward—he was young, even younger than some of the veterans. But the women were clever. With a twinkle in their eyes, they solved the problem by adding one word.

From then on, he was affectionately called “Little Coach Chen.”

“Little Coach Chen! Little Coach Chen!” they chorused, whether or not he liked it. He felt even more embarrassed. He was only a provincial team player, while they were national stars. How could he deserve such a title?

“I'm just here as a training partner—just call me Little Chen,” he pleaded earnestly.

The girls burst out laughing. “Don't be so modest, Little Coach Chen! When the time comes, just go easy on us.”

So Chen Zhonghe began training with them according to the coaches' instructions. Off court, the women teased him as “Little Coach,” but on court, when they grew anxious under heavy workloads, they weren't always so agreeable. Once, while he was serving balls for them to receive, one player failed to meet her quota and blamed him: his serves were too hard, too fast. At first, whenever the women complained, he gave in—softening his serves, taking it easy.

But Yuan Weimin and Deng Ruozeng quickly corrected him: “Little Chen, be stricter with them!”

He was torn. If he went easy on them, the coaches were unhappy. If he was strict, some of the girls would glare at him with frosty looks. Stuck in the middle, he felt miserable.

At night, lying awake in bed, he wondered aloud: “Why did I come to the national team? To accommodate, or to train? I should be the host here, not the guest.”

The two coaches encouraged him again and again: “Little Chen, don't hold back. Demand more of them—we'll support you.”

One day, the women were practicing serves, and Chen stood on the other side of the net as a judge. Each player had to complete fifteen sets of serves, with three good ones making a set. Every ball's fate—good, bad, or mediocre—depended entirely on his call. If he went easy, they could finish quickly. If he was strict, the task stretched on and on.

By the end, most of the women had finished, leaving only two who hadn't met their quota. It was the final drill of the day, and everyone longed to finish early and rest. There was even a TV drama they wanted to catch that night. So as soon as their serves left their hands, the women shouted together: “Good ball! Good ball!”

Chen could see their arms were so sore they could hardly lift them. His heart ached for them—but he forced himself to stay firm, calling out calmly and precisely: “Mediocre.”

The girls got anxious and shouted at him: “Hey, that serve was still mediocre?”

Little Chen heard but didn't look up. Seeing he had no intention of changing his call, the serving girl could only swing her arms and restart serving.

Little Chen stood there silently, unhurriedly continuing to judge: “Good serve!” “Mediocre!” “Error!”... He understood that strict daily training would lay the foundation for solid performance in matches. Anyway, the girls couldn't do anything to him—they couldn't rush over the net to grab him! Moreover, behind him stood two even stricter coaches!

After training, some girls teasingly said: “Little Coach Chen, you've become tough too!” Though they said this, actually the girls all liked him being “strict” with them. The girls who had frowned and glared at him on the court apologized to him afterward.

He always blushed and smiled, saying earnestly: “I'm a training partner—my job is to help you train well. I must be responsible to you!”

He approached everything with remarkable conscientiousness. To help the team catch up with the world's strongest opponents, they needed “imaginary enemies”—and he became those enemies. Even though he had never seen some of the players he was asked to imitate, he patiently gathered information from the coaches and the women themselves, studied videotapes over and over, and practiced day and night, copying every movement until his imitations were uncannily accurate.

Because of this, the women not only called him “Little Coach Chen,” but also nicknamed him after the foreign stars he mimicked. On the court, his gestures and bearing looked strikingly like the real thing. Yet off the court, he was still the same honest, unassuming young man, his face often flushed with shy embarrassment.

And he was not alone. Young men like Little Coach Chen were not rare in the Chinese women's volleyball family. If one were to list every male training partner who had quietly served the team, the list would go on for hours. Add in the doctors who worked tirelessly in the background, and the roster of unsung heroes becomes even more impressive. These men built the stepping stones that allowed the Chinese women to climb toward the world's volleyball peaks.

You would not see them under the bright lights of competition courts, nor find their names inscribed on honor rolls, nor glimpse their faces on television. But they were there all the same—loyal citizens of this “land of women,” blending their own hopes and dreams into the larger ideals of the team.

Love, Please Come For Us Later

Human lifespans are lengthening, but athletes' “sporting lifespans” grow shorter as new talents emerge faster and faster. For athletes, the golden years for producing great results are brief. The women's volleyball players understood this keenly. They treasured time as if it were gold, pouring every ounce of energy into their beloved careers. But they did not live in a vacuum. Among the piles of letters sent by fans—arriving like snowflakes—some were love letters. Among millions of admirers, a few ardent suitors were inevitable. Even from abroad, warm affections sometimes arrived. Yet they knew: seeds planted at the wrong season cannot sprout. Facing love letters, sentimental gifts, and handsome photos, they prayed again and again: “Love, please come later.”

Still, as the years passed, love quietly found its way into the lives of several veterans.

At the time, society was fond of circulating “ten conditions” young women supposedly demanded of suitors—things like a full furniture set, parental subsidies, “three turns and one sound” (a bicycle, sewing machine, wristwatch, and radio), plus other absurd embellishments. But what conditions did these volleyball players set for friendship and love?

One girl once tested her “friend.” With a sigh, she told him: “I'm getting older, and my body's covered in injuries. I won't be able to play much longer. You'd better file your 'report' soon.” The young man frowned and replied: “How could I? The country still needs your effort right now.” The girl smiled—he had passed the test. Above all else, their partners had to support their careers wholeheartedly.

After Captain Cao Huiying recovered from illness, she was already twenty-four or twenty-five. In society, this was youthful prime; in athletics, she was considered “old.” She had already achieved everything: promoted to cadre, admitted to the Party, elected People's Congress representative. Some doctors even advised her to quit, warning that continuing could risk a lung puncture. By common logic, this was the moment to step down gracefully. But Cao Huiying chose the harder path.

She told her “friend”: “An athlete's career is short to begin with. My illness already stole precious time. I want to extend it as much as possible—even two or three more years would mean everything. Later, when I can no longer contribute, it will be too late. If that means enduring hardship, sweat, even risk—it's worth it. That way, when I look back, I won't regret anything. Do you support me?”

Her “friend” already understood her determination. He laughed and answered: “Huiying, keep playing. However many years you play, I'll wait. When you finally stop, we can marry.”

By the time Cao Huiying returned to the team, younger stars like Zhou Xiaolan, Lang Ping, and Chen Yaqiong had risen. She no longer made the starting lineup, but gladly accepted her role as substitute. “In key matches,” she thought, “just playing half a set is enough.” At twenty-seven, she was the true big sister of the squad. Injuries weighed on her, but her spirit had not dimmed—she still carried that “ball first, life second” resolve.

Setter Sun Jinfang's “friend” had only a casual interest in sports before meeting her. But after, it was as if he had caught her passion. One day, laughing, she read a letter to her teammates: “Look at this—he used to hate television, but when Stars on the Net aired, he watched it from beginning to end.” In truth, he did far more than watch TV. He subscribed to Sports News, clipped every volleyball article he could find, and pasted them carefully into a scrapbook.

“You're the athlete,” he told her, “you should be collecting this material. Since you can't spare the time, I'll do it for you.”

On the plane before an overseas tour, one girl—new to love—stared out the window at the shrinking crowd of well-wishers and the receding city skyline. She thought to herself: Before, I was alone—wherever I went didn’t matter. Now it’s different. Now someone holds my heart. To achieve something, you must sacrifice something. Seeing less of each other—or not seeing each other at all for a while—that’s a small sacrifice. People need spirit. The young must strive for their ideals. If you let yourself sink into romance alone, you’ll lose your purpose, become empty, even ruin your life. Better to use love as a source of strength, a spark that drives you to work harder. That is the attitude young people of the 1980s should embrace. My friend, farewell! When our mission is fulfilled, it will bring even brighter colors to our reunion. Let us soar together into the vast sky.

The Deep Ocean

In the heat of summer, the women's volleyball team would spend ten days to two weeks at the seaside in Qinhuangdao for rest and recovery. Compared to the closed halls and echoing gymnasiums, the vast ocean felt like another world altogether. Where once white volleyballs constantly came flying toward them, now before their eyes stretched endless whitecaps. Where once their feet struck hard wooden floors, now they pressed into soft, damp sand stretching to the horizon. Where once their ears rang with the bang of spikes and serves, now they were filled with the roar of the waves. The girls loved the sea—its sunrises and sunsets, its crashing surf, its immensity and boldness.

The earth's rotation, tides, and winds make waves in the ocean. But what, the girls wondered, stirred the waves in their own hearts? The answer could be found in the letters they received from their fans.

A paralyzed young man from Damiao Mountain wrote:

“Today is my twenty-sixth birthday. In past years, it was always a day of pain and sorrow. I have rheumatic paralysis and have spent twelve years confined to bed. But today, hearing of your victory, I cried—tears of joy and excitement.”

A university student in Beijing wrote:

“Now we truly understand how sports can awaken patriotic pride. When the five-starred red flag rises and the national anthem plays, what Chinese person could fail to feel proud? We wanted to shout to the sky and earth: ‘I am proud to be Chinese!’ These achievements are born from your sweat in training, your perseverance in hardship, your unbreakable fighting spirit. Without question, you are the most lovable people of our time.”

A member of the Hebei Provincial Consultative Committee praised their indomitable spirit. In his letter, he suggested to the central government that this indomitable spirit be recognized as the national soul.

A young teacher wrote:

“The rise and fall of the nation is everyone's responsibility. Through your victories, you have not only won honor for our country, you have also awakened the patriotic spirit of millions, especially students. You've given me new faith in our nation's future—stirring the stagnant waters of my heart until they ripple again with waves of hope. I once wandered aimlessly, seeing no way forward. But now I see clearly: for our nation, for China's revival, our generation must not drift—we must struggle, struggle!”

These were just a few among the thousands—tens of thousands—of letters that poured in after the men's and women's teams won the World Cup preliminaries in Hong Kong. They came not only from cities but from every corner of the 9.6 million square kilometers of the country. While they offered congratulations, their words went far beyond volleyball. They spoke of spiritual sustenance, national soul, ideals, confidence, hope.

In Beijing, students invited the team to visit. At Peking University, the girls would never forget the throngs of young people shouting the resounding slogan: “Unite and revitalize China!”

From the west gate to the auditorium—barely one or two hundred meters—the team was swept forward in a wave of bodies for over an hour. In the crush, students lost more than a hundred shoes.

Each letter, each red scarf from the Young Pioneers—the children's patriotic organization—each few coins mailed by kindergarteners, each earnest blessing from Hong Kong and Macau—all merged like countless streams of patriotism into a surging ocean. In that ocean, the girls clearly heard the waves calling: “Bring glory to the country, revitalize China!”

By the time you, reader, encounter this page, the World Cup will already have ended. As I write, I cannot yet know the result. The players themselves are clear-eyed: the path to a world championship crown is anything but smooth. The courts ahead will see earth-shaking battles. Compared to four years ago, the Chinese women's team is stronger, more complete, more technically refined. They deserve to be called world-class. As one coach put it, they are “separated from the world title by only a sheet of paper.” But tearing through that paper will not be easy.

Still, whatever the outcome, their struggle deserves admiration. Four years ago, they returned from Japan singing “No tears, no sorrow.” What song will they sing this time? No one can predict the twists of international competition, with its powerful teams and unexpected turns. Yet one thing is certain: their thirty-year journey “to the world,” their devotion across generations to the honor of the motherland, is worthy of pride. And behind them, younger players are already growing rapidly, ready to continue the fight.

Is the world championship their goal? Yes—but not the only one. Their truest pursuit, passed from one generation to the next, is the great future of the motherland itself.

At the End of Words

The Spring Festival’s firecrackers were still echoing in the air when I hurried south to Hengzhou, a small city in Hunan, to catch up with the Chinese women's volleyball team.

Before leaving, I learned that Yuan Weimin's wife and child were unwell, so I went to visit them. His wife, Zheng Huying, urged me again and again: “Don't tell my husband about this. He's so busy—there's no need to distract him with family worries.”

Deng Ruozeng's wife, Cai Xiqin, handed me a small bag of peanuts for her husband, saying affectionately: “He loves these—please take them to him.” Their only son, already over ten years old but disabled, had not yet been able to attend school. With his father away, he often misbehaved, leaving Cai struggling to manage on her own. In a recent letter to Deng, she had let a few complaints slip out, and now regretted it. She told me: “Please assure him the child is fine now—nothing is wrong—so he won't worry.”

On the southbound train, their simple yet heartfelt words stayed with me. For the sake of volleyball, these husbands traveled constantly, with little chance to care for their families at home. Yet their wives voiced no resentment, only quietly shouldering heavy burdens, enduring hardships, and giving full support to their husbands' work. People often say that in China today, if one family member is to achieve something in their career, another must act as the “cushion,” making sacrifices for them. Were not these two “volleyball wives”—both former athletes themselves in the 1960s—precisely such cushions, supporting their husbands' struggles?

From them, my thoughts turned to the thousands of Chinese girls, along with their coaches and team leaders, who had poured sweat and dedication into pushing women's volleyball to world standards. Back in the 1960s, when I was a young sports reporter, I had witnessed their winter training. I can still picture it vividly: hundreds of girls diving and rolling across muddy courts, sweat mixing with the soil of China. They never reached the summit of world volleyball, but they were without doubt the shining paving stones on which Chinese women's volleyball climbed toward the world stage.

This time, however, I had the rare chance to live day and night with the team. Hengzhou greeted this northern visitor with its endless drizzle. In more than twenty days there, I saw only half a day of sun. The rain fell ceaselessly, quiet but unrelenting. Honestly, their training life was far less glamorous than their competitions. Yet it was in training that I witnessed the most moving scenes—things invisible in matches. The routine was monotonous, the work exhausting, but the girls endured it all without complaint.

At night, lying in bed, listening to the rain outside, I often thought: the women's volleyball program has existed for nearly thirty years. Its players have changed countless times, but one noble ethos has endured across every generation. And what was it? A great love—deep love for the motherland and its people. It was this devotion that made both veterans and newcomers so selfless, so committed.

That same great love inspired me too, igniting my passion for writing like a flame. That summer in Beijing was brutally hot, but the fire within me burned even hotter. After long days of work, I bent over my desk at night, sweating, writing. In just over a month of stolen hours, I pieced together these rough words.

Balzac once said: “Novelists have always been secretaries of their times.” Then surely a reportage writer must be an even more faithful secretary to his contemporaries. Finishing this work, I am left with regret. Out of the hundreds of women's volleyball players who deserve to be remembered, I was able to speak with only about twenty. The vast majority remain unrecorded here. Evidently, many moving stories are missing. If all their voices could be included, the canvas would be even broader, even more magnificent, even more moving.

(Originally published in Contemporary, No. 5, 1981)

Anecdotes of Sanmen Li

Qiao Mai

In the early spring of 1980, in one small corner of our nation's 9.6 million square kilometers, an incident took place—tiny yet immense, ordinary yet extraordinary. At first it sounded improbable, yet on reflection it seemed almost inevitable.

News of the incident spread quickly. Good news travels slowly, but bad news crosses a thousand kilometers in a heartbeat. This story sprouted wings, carried swiftly on the sharp spring wind across the land, stirring responses as varied as the people who heard it: furious table-pounding denunciations, sly and mocking laughter, solemn reflection, bitter sighs tinged with rueful smiles.

Against this swirl of rumor and reaction, a once-obscure village scattered across the alkaline flats on the left bank of the East Liao River—the Fourth Production Team of Sanmen Li, Shiwu Commune, Huaide County, Jilin Province—was thrust into sudden fame. This is the tale of five Communist Party members and the strange encounter that transformed their lives…

The Role of Our Communist Party Members Among the Masses

It was the Lunar Year of the Monkey, 1980—the Spring Festival was drawing near. As the holiday approached, farmers who had toiled through the year were busy with joyful preparations: slaughtering pigs, washing rice to steam bean buns, buying festive prints at the market, trading for vermicelli, picking out fish, and stocking up on liquor. Firecrackers from impatient children cracked early across the village, the faint scent of gunpowder hanging in the afternoon air and adding to the holiday atmosphere.

That year, one question preoccupied Sanmen Li's farmers even more than the New Year celebrations: how would they divide into new work groups under the policy of output-linked compensation? 

For days, it was all anyone talked about. In farmyards and at dinner tables, lying on the heated brick beds at night under the light of the moon or snow, the discussions never stopped. Village leaders, elderly farmers, fathers and sons, brothers, young couples—all debated the same thing. The policy was straightforward: work would be contracted to small groups, and their rewards would be tied to how much they produced. If everyone pulled together, they could harvest more grain, contribute more to the state, and grow richer faster. But how exactly should the groups be divided? Who would work with whom? No one knew yet, and the entire village waited anxiously for the answer.

At last, brigade secretary Shen Chun came in person to preside over the meeting. He first gathered the team's five Party members for a small session, reminding them of the Party Central Committee's instructions on production responsibility. He emphasized that members should not cluster together but spread out across the groups to strengthen leadership. The five nodded their agreement.

Then the bell rang, summoning the villagers. It was the largest meeting anyone could remember—attendance rivaled the great gatherings of the land reform era. The normally spacious “team room” suddenly felt cramped. Not only laborers and household heads, but also mischievous children and nursing mothers packed inside. The air grew thick with pipe smoke, clouding even the glare of a 200-watt bulb hastily installed overhead. But unlike ordinary meetings, there was no chatter or joking. The crowd was silent, intent.

Secretary Shen explained the county's directives and the brigade's recommendation: given the team's labor force, land, and livestock, the most suitable arrangement was to form two work groups. Too many small groups would lack balance and fail.

The farmers could barely contain themselves. As soon as Shen finished speaking, one man jumped up and shouted, “This policy is great! We're all for it! If it's voluntary, who wants to raise a banner and gather a team?”

His words lit a spark. In an instant the room erupted—brothers calling out to brothers, friends to friends, each declaring their own group.

Seeing the excitement, Shen Chun was pleased. He admired how deeply the central policy had captured people's hearts. Surely the groups would divide smoothly, and next year's harvest would be strong. He reminded them, however, to balance strong and weak labor so no group would be lopsided, and to maintain unity and mutual care.

Registration began.

“I'm Tian Fu's group leader!” one man shouted, rattling off names.

Another proclaimed, “We're under Wang Zhanhe's flag!” and read out more names.

Shen Chun was delighted. It seemed the people had already worked things out in advance. Their eagerness showed both coordination and support for Party policy. But in the noisy rush, he couldn't catch exactly who belonged where. He thought he heard that Tian Fu's group was mostly Leng family members, while Wang Zhanhe's group was almost all Wangs. A few people, he noticed, seemed left out entirely.

So he quickly spoke up: “Good—two groups already. Let's use these as foundations. Those who haven't joined yet, tell us: which group do you want to join? And which group will take you? Let's register quickly!”

At once, the lively room fell silent. Only the sound of pipes being sucked and a few coughs broke the air. Shen, puzzled, repeated the policy once more, then urged, “If anyone hasn't joined, raise your hands. Let's gather you first, then see which group you belong in. Where are you?” He scanned the room carefully.

The pipe smoke thickened, curling to the rafters before sinking low, almost brushing the tops of people's heads. Faces turned uneasy, gazes slid away. Then Shen noticed them: in the drifting haze, five people sat with their heads bowed so low their faces were barely visible. Even in the freezing room, where the windows were frosted white, beads of sweat glistened on their hair and foreheads.

Secretary Shen Chun felt his face flush hot, as if slapped by an unseen hand. He saw clearly now: the ones left out were not strangers but the five Communist Party members of the production team.

There was Wang Cai, the tall group leader in his fifties; the two young, handsome demobilized soldiers, Rong Fengchun and Liu Qingzhou; Wang Hanzhou, a middle-aged man from Hebei, with his wife beside him; and the short-haired Wang Shumei.

Yes—it was precisely these five who had not been welcomed into any group.

At that moment, Shen remembered the recent re-election for production team leader. Party member Rong Fengchun had been voted out and replaced by a non-Party man. Wasn't that already foreshadowing? Some warning? And yet he had failed to see it.

Trying to compose himself, Shen forced a smile and said carefully, “I see there are still a few households not yet placed. They're all commune members—surely we can't just leave them aside. Let's see which group is willing to take them in.”

Silence.

The seconds stretched. Shen felt the heat rising in his face again, as if his blood were swelling outward. He tried once more, but his voice grew weaker as he spoke.

“See... which group...”

Still silence. The room was so quiet even the sound of babies nursing stopped.

Finally, a low but firm voice broke the tension.

“Our group already has enough people,” said Wang Zhanhe, the man who had raised his flag earlier.

A moment later another farmer, his face red, shouted, “So do we! Didn't the secretary say it was voluntary? Well, we've already decided—these are our people.”

That sealed it. Not one of the three groups wanted to accept the five Party members.

That night, the excluded members gathered at the home of their leader, Wang Cai. He was the eldest, with nearly thirty years in the Party and over twenty as team leader. This veteran comrade had worked the fields since childhood, fought in the Korean War, even endured public humiliation during the Cultural Revolution. His temples were streaked with frost now—the hero had grown old.

But was he truly old? Looking around at his comrades, Wang Cai's heart ached. Some looked indignant, others defeated. Wang Shumei, the only woman among them, had red eyes, her breath catching with sobs. He wanted to console them but found no words.

It was the youngest, twenty-seven-year-old Rong Fengchun, who finally spoke. “Aren't they targeting us on purpose? How is it possible that not a single group wants us? Do they really think Party members are worthless? We should report this to the commune and the county.”

“Exactly!” said Wang Hanzhou, who had once been a Youth League secretary. He raised his voice, his Hebei accent thick. “The Communist Party leads everything. To divide groups without Party members—this is class struggle!”

Liu Qingzhou joined in quickly. “That's right! This is rejecting Party leadership, rejecting the Four Upholds! We should tell Secretary Shen—their groups are illegal and must be overturnedThe Great Trend of Chinese Farmers.”

But Wang Shumei shook her head. “I don't think it's about class struggle. Most likely they just don't trust us to work hard. Let's not force ourselves on them. We can form our own group. If we rise earlier and rest later, how could we not keep up?”

Liu Qingzhou grinned bitterly. “She's right. If we can't make atomic bombs or satellites, surely we can at least grow grain.”

The room fell into argument, each voice pulling in a different direction.

At last, Wang Cai raised his hand. “Comrades, let's be honest. Except for me, over fifty, the rest of you are in your prime. But how have we been working these past years? I know better than anyone. I can't speak for others, but look at me: I've relied on my two sons' city wages, enjoyed the harvests of my private plot, and stopped caring about the team's affairs. I haven't lived like a Party member. Today's humiliation is my responsibility—I've let the Party down.”

The others lowered their eyes.

Rong Fengchun couldn't bear it. “Old Wang, don't blame yourself. It's us young ones too. When I came back from the army, I didn't know farming, and I was arrogant as a leader. After my marriage, people complained I dressed too well, rode around on my bicycle, and skipped hard labor. When they voted me out, I was resentful. Now I see—I disgraced the Party.” His eyes filled with tears.

One by one, the others admitted their failings: avoiding the hardest work, settling into easy posts, placing personal benefit above collective duty.

At last, Wang Cai sighed. “When did we Party members become like this? Once, the Party was the people's heart and the people were the Party's life. Our comrades in earlier days would sacrifice everything for the people, and the people would shield them with their lives. Now look at us—abandoned by those we are meant to serve. Isn't that the bitterest lesson of all?”

And so it was: five Communist Party members, unwanted. Who could they blame but themselves?

That winter midnight, they sat huddled on the kang—the wide brick bed heated from beneath by fire, the warm heart of any northern farmhouse. In that small, earthen-walled home, the Party cell held its most solemn meeting yet: a reckoning with the question of their very standing among the masses.

The moon hung high, the stars burned sharp, and the flats outside shimmered white. Was it the bitter crust of alkali making the land look so harsh—or the moonlight making it appear so pure?

By the time the constellations had wheeled past midnight, the Fourth Team's Party group had reached its conclusion: it wasn't that the masses had grown cold. It was that they themselves had failed. It wasn't that the people had abandoned them, but that they had ceased to resemble true Communists.

What to do now? Lie down in defeat? Drift into decline? No—better to rise again, from the very place where they had fallen.

What Example Communists Should Set

At dawn the day after the groups were divided, startling news swept through the village: the Party members had raised their own flag and formed a group of their own.

The news immediately stirred talk in every corner. Some approved: “Good—this way nobody gets in anyone's way.”

But others were harsher: “About time they lived off their own labor.”

The older villagers, though, felt uneasy. They remembered how Party members had once been: fair in judgment, quick to help others, willing to take losses themselves, respectful to elders. Yes, in recent years there had been shortcomings, but who doesn't stumble now and then? Even the best horse can trip. To cast them off entirely? That seemed too cruel. They began grumbling against the ringleaders of the group division.

But not everyone was unhappy. One man in particular was secretly thrilled. His name was Dai Hongyuan, the poorest soul in the village—a chronic invalid with a body as thin as a hemp stalk and a face small and pale as an eggshell. He could tend the pigs but not till the fields.

At the meeting the night before, Dai had eagerly tried to join.

“I'll join Wang Zhanhe's group,” he volunteered.

“We already have enough people,” Wang's side replied quickly.

“Then I'll go with Tian Fu's group,” Dai said, trying to be agreeable.

“One more is too many,” they answered just as fast.

Dai had rolled his eyes in silence. Now, hearing that the Party members had created their own group, he rushed home, sent his child to fetch his wife back from the hayfields, and shut the door tight. His wife—his childhood sweetheart and partner in poverty—pulled grass stems from her hair while listening. Together they reached a solemn decision: he would apply to join the Party members' group.

Dai hurried off, his thin legs flying, his small face flushed with excitement, until he found Party group leader Wang Cai.

His life story was no secret. Sold to the Dai family at age three, he never knew his real parents. He grew up in poverty, and at twenty-five nearly died of intestinal obstruction, hospitalized for three months. For three weeks he survived only on glucose injections. When the bills—more than 1,600 yuan—were tallied, the collective had covered them all.

Dai often said, “I have no family. The Communist Party is my family. I had no mother—the Party is my mother.”

At the division meeting, Dai had assumed his connections—by adoption to the Wangs, by marriage to the Lengs—would secure him a place. But neither group wanted him.

“Who would take such a burden?” people muttered.

Now, standing before Wang Cai with tears in his eyes, Dai pleaded, “Third Uncle”—a kinship title, though not by blood—”I want to join your Party group. Others won't take me. But the Communist Party won't abandon me, will it?”

Wang Cai was deeply moved. To him, Dai's request felt like trust, encouragement, and support. He said at once, “If you're willing, come. We'll make sure you eat your fill—you won't go hungry with us.”

Dai hung his head, ashamed. “I can't match even half a skilled, capable worker. Taking me in will only mean less grain.”

“Don't worry,” Wang Cai answered. “We won't produce less than the others—we'll produce more. In past years, we wasted energy on talking, ordering others but not working ourselves. We wronged the villagers. This year we'll make it right. We've sworn to lead by example, to turn our group into the best in the commune. Even if we collapse in the fields, we'll fight to be the standouts. If you can endure the hardship, come join us.”

Before long, two more unwanted households joined them. The brigade Party branch approved their registration, designating them the Third Work Group alongside the Wang Group and Leng Group. But the villagers, in their own way, gave them a different name: the “Party Group.”

Was that meant as respect—or as mockery? Hard to say. But one thing was clear: the Party Group's flag was now flying. The youngest member, twenty-seven-year-old Rong Fengchun, took on the role of group leader, determined to prove their worth.

Others shook their heads in pity. On paper, the Party Group looked hopeless: barely a dozen workers in all, including three middle-aged members, one invalid, three old men, one half-laborer, and six teenage girls. At busy times they could call in five housewives, two of them elderly. Ages ranged from sixteen to seventy-four. By contrast, the Wang and Leng groups were filled with prime-age strong laborers. No wonder jokers in the village made up a rhyme:

The Wang Group is strong,

The Leng Group is mighty,

And the Party Group... is really struggling!

Sympathetic neighbors worried aloud: “Come autumn, how will the Party Group ever hold their ground?”

In fact, from the moment the Party Group was officially formed, the drama had already begun. Their very first act—taking in the disabled Dai Hongyuan and families without strong laborers—was itself a statement. It showed the broad-minded spirit of sacrifice that Communist Party members were meant to embody, and it won them respect from many kind-hearted villagers. Despite their weak labor force, they hauled manure and completed their necessary tasks on schedule—awkwardly, stumbling and sweating, but they got it done.

The true test came with spring planting.

Winter had passed. The spring wind brushed willow branches green. Across the vast alkaline flats, tiny shoots poked through, first scattered, then joined together in patches of jade. Ice melted on the East Liao River, and passing livestock would stop to drink the sweet water before raising their heads and bellowing skyward. Old villagers, cooped up all winter in clay houses, came out to stretch against willow fences and squint at the wild geese flying in formation. Spring had come—time for labor, time for hope. Sanmen Li's people were ready to throw themselves into the first planting season of the 1980s.

The three work groups spread out into the fragrant fields. Just as some had predicted the Party Group would fail at hauling manure, now others doubted they could manage planting.

At that moment, group leader Wang Cai, tall and weathered, strode into the fields. He grabbed a handful of damp earth, squeezed it in his palm, and declared like an oath, “I won't be a comfortable master anymore. These old bones will risk it all—I'll work.”

Wang Cai's stomach cramps sometimes struck so hard they left him doubled over in pain. Now he carried bottles of medicine in his pocket, swallowing pills in the fields when needed. But every day he rose before dawn, rousing comrades house by house, trudging through the frost to reach the plot. Unlike before, when corn was scattered loosely, this year he insisted on dense, single-plant spacing. With only a short stick, he paced out every pit, each footstep exactly forty-five centimeters apart—as if his stride carried its own tape measure. Day after day he walked the ridges, laying out more than 100 hectares of cornfields this way—covering about twenty kilometers each day, not on smooth paths but on loose, wind-blown soil. On the flat river plain, with no mountains or trees, the gales could knock a man off balance. But Wang Cai, steady in purpose, walked on—and the Party Group followed close behind.

Wang Hanzhou handled fertilizing. New to the region, he hadn't mastered local methods. Lacking skill, he made up for it in sweat, working until his clothes were soaked through. Rong Fengchun shed his stylish “groom's suit” and wore instead his old army uniform. By the season's end the fabric was sun-bleached and his once-handsome face tanned dark. His wife, worried, slaughtered a hen in secret and stewed it with oil she had saved from her parents' home. When the dish was ready, Rong only smiled.

“No need to kill chickens for me. I won't collapse. My strength comes from my heart—that won't run out.”

Liu Qingzhou, still young but already teased as “an old melon that won't ripen,” was the second earliest to rise after Wang Cai. A graduate of Huaide No. 18 Middle School, he liked using “proper vocabulary.” When greeted in the morning, he grinned.

“Brother Qingzhou, so early!”

“This is a dialectical reversal,” he replied with a smile. “Before, I was always late. Now I must be early to balance it out.”

As spring plowing reached its height, the Party Group's families joined in. Sons, wives, fathers, and schoolchildren all came to the fields. Even Wang Hanzhou's seventy-four-year-old father, bent nearly double, hobbled out to lend support. They rarely said it aloud, but their actions were clear: they intended to support their Party Group.

Other groups worked with one planter and one fertilizer spreader. The Party Group worked in long chains—two planters, two spreaders, sometimes whole families following behind the plow. To outsiders it looked less like farming than like a collective ritual, a sacred task shared by kin. This was not only about work points or harvests. Their spirits were focused, their emotions high, and when people labor with such intensity, they often achieve more than seems possible. Their fields were planted quickly, carefully, and neatly—no scattering of seed, no missed furrows.

The difference showed. The previous year, the whole production team had needed a month to finish planting. This year, with the new groups, the work was done in just fifteen days.

Then the heavens lent their hand. Good rains fell just after planting, and the seedlings sprang up green and strong. Secretary Shen Chun led a brigade-wide inspection tour with cadres and group leaders. Everywhere the crops were even, complete, and dark green. People could tell whose land it was.

“Look at the Party Group's fields,” some from the Wang and Leng groups admitted, half admiring, half begrudging. “From edge to edge—neat, not a seedling missing.”

Seeing the seedlings sprout brought joy all around, but especially to the Party Group, whose spirits rose even higher. The Wang Group and Leng Group, not wanting to be outdone, hurried to replant the empty patches in their own fields.

“Party Group is doing great—we're learning from you!” some admitted sincerely.

But others, just as sincerely, offered a different view: “Party Group's seedlings are too dense. Later they might not produce proper ears—just sweet stalks to chew on.”

Within days, the Party Group's lush green seedlings began to yellow. It was a clear case of nutrient deficiency, and the urgent solution was fertilizer. Chemical fertilizer would work fastest.

Group leader Rong Fengchun rushed to the commune office to ask for help. The whole office grew tense. They had been following the Party Group's fate closely.

“You five represent all the Party members in the commune,” said the Shiwu Commune Party Committee secretary.

It wasn't only the commune watching—county Party secretaries and even prefectural leaders were paying attention. They wanted to help, but the commune had no chemical fertilizer left. The secretary personally went to the neighboring Maochengzi Commune to request support. Hearing it was for Sanmen Li's Party Group, Maochengzi's leaders also became serious.

“Their Party Group represents all of us Party members,” said the Maochengzi Party Committee secretary.

They immediately allocated six tons of sodium nitrate from their own reserves.

When the fertilizer arrived back in Sanmen Li, the Wang Group and Leng Group looked on enviously. Fertilizer at such a critical moment was a lifesaver.

“So the Party Group really does get special treatment,” people muttered. “We ordinary folks' groups are like neglected stepchildren.”

But the Party Group members thought differently. Could Communist Party members take everything for themselves? Could they benefit while leaving others out? No. They decided to split the fertilizer equally: two tons for each group.

“This isn't a simple matter of merely dividing fertilizer,” they said. “It's dividing grain. And it isn't just grain—it's a symbol of the Party's tradition.”

The gesture moved the other farmers deeply. People in the countryside are tender-hearted: even a small act of kindness leaves a lasting mark. At such a critical time, receiving tons of fertilizer meant gratitude that words could not express. Their hearts warmed toward the members.

“Well,” the Shiwu secretary later remarked with a nod, “the Sanmen Li Party Group is finally looking like it should.”

The fertilizing itself was entrusted to the women. Wang Shumei gathered five housewives, including Wang Cai's wife and Rong Fengchun's mother. Unlike men, who usually dug quick holes with hoes and tossed handfuls of fertilizer in, the women worked with careful precision. They used small wooden sticks to make holes, measured each portion with spoons, and placed it bit by bit into the soil—like feeding a beloved child.

These women worked under heavy burdens. Rong Fengchun's mother still suffered shoulder pain from giving birth to twins in her youth. Wang Shumei's nephritis had flared, leaving her legs swollen and dented with every press. Yet they never complained, never spoke of pain or exhaustion. Their faces shone with quiet smiles—the kind found only on women who bear hardship for their families.

In the evenings, men could squat or sit, smoking and rubbing sore backs. The women, by contrast, had no such rest. They still had to tend fires, wash rice, and cook meals. Firelight glowed on their faces, smoke stung their eyes, while their husbands and sons, often careless, rarely noticed. But day after day, they persevered. By the time rain fell, the Party Group's land was fully fertilized.

Soon it was time for hoeing. Sanmen Li had vast land but few hands, so hoeing was done the northern way: with big flat-bladed hoes swung broadly, racing through fields, cutting weeds quickly but roughly.

For Wang Hanzhou, a transplant from Hebei, this was strange. In his hometown near Qinhuangdao, land was scarce and hoeing was done backward, step by step, with painstaking precision—like embroidery. Switching to the Sanmen Li method left him clumsy and slow. Worse, he often slipped back into old habits, unconsciously working backward again. People roared with laughter.

His thick Hebei accent made him stand out all the more. He would say “last night” when he meant yesterday, or “lying stomach” when he meant hungry stomach. Villagers found it hilarious—especially the mischievous young wives and playful girls, who laughed until tears rolled down their faces. Sometimes, when they spotted him from a distance, they would stop, cup their hands around their mouths, and call out in chorus, “Brother, did your stomach lie down last night?”

Over time, the teasing wore on him. Before long, Wang Hanzhou began to dread going out to the fields.

But he had his strengths. That year, the Party Group's hoeing wasn't about speed but about precision—protect every seedling, clear every weed. As the farmers liked to say, “If you plant ten, you must protect all ten.” And another saying followed close behind: “Without seedlings, there's no harvest—even in the best of years.” This was exactly the specialty of Hebei hoeing, and it gave Wang Hanzhou his chance to shine.

Although he still looked a little awkward moving forward instead of backward, his meticulous care, his steady work ethic, and his rule of “not harming a single seedling” soon won everyone's respect. Once dismissed as someone who “couldn't wield a hoe,” Wang Hanzhou became the group's model. Young people followed his lead, learning to be careful and thorough.

Thanks to him, Sanmen Li developed a new farming method. When Secretary Shen Chun later brought officials to inspect the summer cultivation, they stopped at the Party Group's fields and nodded in approval. The verdict was unanimous: this newfound technique was worth twice the effort of the old ways.

What Seeds Do Communists Plant?

Crops across the fields grew tall and strong, competing in height like runners in a tight race. The once-barren alkaline flats were now covered in green. And at the front of it all stood the Party Group, their crops flourishing, their harvest assured. People's attitudes began to shift. Still, the group stayed cautious, never daring to relax.

“Others may look down on us, but we can't look down on them,” Wang Cai often reminded his comrades, especially during hard times. “We all live in the same village. Groups may be divided, but our hearts are not. As Communist Party members, we must show the right spirit.”

And they lived by those words.

That summer, when the wheat ripened, every hand was needed in the fields. Chinese farmers had a saying: “Plant on ice, harvest on fire”—sowing in spring could afford to be done carefully and slowly, but the harvest had to be swift.

“Wheat waits for no one,” they warned. “Miss three good days and you lose the crop.” Under the burning sun, the heavy golden heads drooped lower with each passing hour, ready to fall if left uncut. With rain in the forecast, the urgency grew sharper. The harvest was not just a race against time—it was a race against the heavens themselves.

The Party Group, though short on strong laborers, made up for it in energy. While others rested twice a half-day, they rested only once. At midday they didn't even stop—just gulped food down in the fields and went back to work. By pushing themselves this way, they finished their harvest and transport quickly.

This threw the other groups into panic, especially the Leng Group. Their large fields of wheat still stood uncut, and collapse seemed near. In Sanmen Li, where people mostly ate coarse grains, wheat was precious—the flour for guests' noodles and New Year dumplings. The Leng Group grew frantic. They worked without pause, not eating, not drinking, not resting. But the more anxious they became, the harder the harvest seemed. Black clouds rolled across the sky, winds turned cool, and it felt like the heavens themselves were closing in.

Then, all at once, a crowd surged into the Leng Group's field, swinging sickles, raising dust, cutting fast. The Leng Group looked up—the Party Group had come to help.

They were stunned, then deeply moved, thanking them again and again. The Party Group simply answered, “This is mutual support.” And in that moment, hearts across the village drew closer together.

Even after dividing into three groups, they still shared one warehouse, each family keeping tools in its own corner without quarrels. Unlike other villages, they didn't wall off the warehouse or build separate entrances, cutting neighbors into strangers who could hear each other's chickens and dogs but never exchanged a word.

By autumn, willows had reddened, wild geese flew south, and the threshing grounds filled with grain. Here, the Party Group's leadership showed in solid numbers. Whether wheat, millet, beans, or sunflower seeds, their per capita yields exceeded the other groups—sometimes nearly doubled. In the four main crops—sorghum, millet, corn, and soybeans—they once again led. Altogether, the group harvested fifty-five tons. The Wang and Leng Groups also did well, and together all three teams produced forty tons more grain than the year before.

It was a major victory. But the story didn't stop there.

When Sanmen Li re-elected its production team leadership, Party member Liu Qingzhou was chosen unanimously by all three groups. The Wang and Leng Groups even called him “the general team leader,” meaning he was their leader too. To Secretary Shen Chun, this was a telling sign: the composition of Sanmen Li's three groups was bound to change. Already, the Wang and Leng Groups had spread word—they wanted to “move closer to the Party Group.” Some even approached members in private, urging, “After New Year, you must join us. How can we manage without Party leadership?”

The loudest voices came from the youth. Young men and women in the other groups complained openly: “This group division makes no sense. If all the Party members are separated, what about us? Who will mentor us? Who will introduce us to the Party? Can non-Party people do that?” Their parents and older brothers had no answer.

After a year of hardship and trial, the Party members of Sanmen Li's team, together with their fellow villagers, finally welcomed a bumper harvest. In this tiny village—so small it doesn't even appear on medium-scale maps of China's vast 9.6 million square kilometers—the Party's smallest cell had regained its prestige and won back the people's trust.

How had that prestige been lost—and how was it restored? Secretary Shen Chun pondered deeply. The members' shortcomings had been noticed before, and measures had been tried: criticism, private talks, study sessions, even memorizing the “Twelve Principles.” Yet none of it had taken root.

So what worked this time? Strikingly, nothing imposed from above. There had been no scolding, no punishment, no orders. Instead, the members themselves rose up and corrected their own failings. What force compelled such change? It was life itself—the people—the stern yet fair verdict of social reality.

“Our Party members are like seeds, and the people are the soil,” Party leaders had long said. Seeds cannot grow apart from soil, just as the Greek giant Antaeus lost all strength when lifted from the earth.

The lessons of these years, countless in detail, could be summed up in this one truth: we had separated ourselves from the people's soil.

However, when we faced that reality with courage, when we straightened our backs and relied not on slogans but on deeds, not on others but on ourselves—when we revived the Party's traditions and rebuilt our image with our own hands—we flourished again. We bore fruit again. Just as those five ordinary Party members did, farming the harsh yet fertile alkaline flats of Sanmen Li.

(Originally published in Spring Wind, Issue 6, 1981)

Tears of the Populus Euphratica

Meng Xiaoyun

In the world today, the ancient poplar Populus euphratica has grown rare.

On the edge of the vast Taklamakan Desert, I came upon this remarkable tree. Its tall, bent trunks resemble stooped old men—plain to look at, yet full of stubborn vitality. It resists drought, thrives in alkaline soil, endures wind and sand, and survives the extremes of burning summers, bitter winters, and rainfall of barely a few dozen millimeters a year.

Uyghur farmers say the Populus euphratica lives three thousand years: alive, it does not die for a thousand; dead, it does not fall for a thousand; fallen, it does not rot for a thousand.

Locals call it the “weeping tree.” The harsher its surroundings, the more water it hides within. Saw through its trunk, and yellow water shoots more than a meter into the air. Scratch the bark, and moisture seeps from the wound like sorrowful tears. For millennia, this tree—growing and dying in silence—has given generously: its trunk as timber, its tender branches and leaves as fodder for livestock, even its “tears” crystallized into alkali, once used in food and soap-making.

Oh, this weeping tree! As I laid my hand on its rough bark, I was deeply moved by its endurance and its quiet generosity.

And then I thought of a man I had met in Tarim—Qian Zongren, a teacher at an agricultural college. To any stranger, his rough hands and weathered, wrinkled face would suggest an old farmer, never a thirty-nine-year-old intellectual.

Over four long afternoons and evenings, Qian Zongren told me the story of his twenty years of arduous self-study. It was not a tale of triumph, but of near-failure. His words, too, seemed to fall like the tears of the Populus euphratica—quiet, bitter, and full of endurance.

A Song of Leaving Home

In August 1964, a slow train rattled from Lanzhou to Turpan. Among the crowded passengers sat a youth of about twenty—tall, thin, with an honest yet melancholy look. He carried no bag, no luggage. After buying his ticket, he was penniless. He was not visiting relatives, nor traveling for business, yet here he was, headed far from home. His name was Qian Zongren, from Shizhu Brigade, Xiangxiang County, Hunan.

The train clattered heavily, its iron wheels grinding over the rails, as if crushing the fragile dreams of his youth. Through the window, the desolate Gobi Desert sped past like the shadow of his vanished student days. Perhaps fate had decided that at twenty he must already wander far from home. Since boyhood, this diligent, pure-hearted youth had lived with a stone pressing on his chest, a shadow that never left him: he was the son of a “rich peasant.”

That single label had defined his life. Because of it, he could not join the Youth League. Because of it, he lost three chances at university. Because of it, he could not even remain in his hometown. Yet the label itself was born of a mistake. During the land reform, his family had first been classified as poor peasants, which was correct. But after a dispute angered the local agricultural association chairman, the family was reclassified as “tenant rich peasants.” In the stormy years of southern land reform, such small errors did not stop the larger movement—but for Qian Zongren, that error had shaped a personal tragedy.

A crackling announcement came over the train's loudspeaker: “Attention passengers: this train is very crowded. For order and hygiene, please choose representatives willing to serve everyone enthusiastically...”

“This young man will do,” an old man said, pointing at Qian.

“Yes, he looks honest and decent,” a mother with a child agreed.

The carriage filled with warmth. Dozens of strangers turned toward Qian with eyes full of trust.

And what could be more precious than trust? Qian could not bear to disappoint them. He threw himself into the role with energy. Back home, he had earned his school fees carrying bricks, hauling water, pushing carts—what was this little service by comparison? He swept and mopped, stacked luggage, tended to passengers. When babies needed to relieve themselves, he fetched the spittoon; when an old woman felt faint, he searched other cars for a doctor. Passengers wrote him letters of praise. Even the cook slipped him an extra ladle of vegetables at mealtime.

A tree long pressed beneath a stone, a blade of grass neglected in the cold—suddenly Qian felt sunlight, attention, trust, support. These strangers knew nothing of his family background, nothing of his branded past. They saw only the person in front of them: a warm-hearted young man.

The scene brought back another journey. A year earlier, northern floods had cut rail lines to Zhengzhou, forcing students admitted to Harbin Institute of Technology to detour through Jinan, then on to Yantai, and finally by ship to Dalian. In Jinan, the university organized a temporary reception committee. A young man leapt onto a platform with a megaphone: “Students, these are difficult circumstances, but do not be anxious. We should promote the spirit of mutual assistance. There is a new student, Qian, who volunteered to carry luggage for others and gave up his hotel bed to sleep on the street. We should learn from him...”

He was speaking about Qian Zongren—the same kind of trust he had been given now, on this train.

But who, in those days, could truly understand the complexity of Qian's feelings? The other freshmen, though delayed, still brimmed with joy, looking ahead to their university lives. Qian had been admitted too—but without the proper household registration, could he actually enroll? And even if he did, how long would he be allowed to stay? His future hung painfully in doubt.

Fate seemed to always toy with him. In 1962, during his first attempt at the university entrance exam, Qian Zongren's scores placed him among the top ten in all of Hunan Province. Tsinghua University was prepared to admit him. But then disaster struck. The deputy Party branch secretary of Xiangxiang No. 2 Middle School, feeding on a jealous student's resentment, stole Qian's diary and twisted a few private lines out of context. His political review was suddenly rewritten: “bad family background, reactionary thinking, unsuitable for admission.” With that stamp, his future collapsed.

Qian did not give up. The following year, he again excelled and was admitted to Harbin Institute of Technology's Department of Precision Instruments. He was overjoyed, so excited he could not sleep that night.

But at that very moment, Changfeng Commune was launching a pilot of the “Four Cleanups” campaign. Secretary S, the commune's stern work team leader, was reviewing “class status” in villages when he heard of Qian's acceptance. That evening, at a mass meeting in Qian's home village, Secretary S gave a report that made Qian's blood run cold:

“Comrades, do we see signs of class struggle here? It's been over twenty years since liberation, yet this brigade has produced only one regular college graduate. Now, a so-called 'rich peasant's' son—Qian Zongren—has been admitted to university, and not just any subject, but some strange secret field called 'precision instruments.' Why do so many children of poor and lower-middle peasants fail to get into university, yet he is admitted to such a fine institution? Someone approved this—tell me, isn't this class struggle? Should we allow him to attend university? I declare that whoever approved it bears responsibility, and whoever processes his papers bears responsibility!”

Qian's heart sank. After the meeting, he went to plead with Secretary S, who waved him off with cold official language: “This is a matter of principle—you cannot understand.”

Would his future be ruined yet again, so casually? Qian wept bitterly, but his tears could not move S. How could such a man understand the nights Qian had spent poring over books by lamplight, or the fire in his heart to pass through a university's gates?

At nineteen, Qian went home in despair and cried through another sleepless night. Brigade cadres refused to process his paperwork. Then something remarkable happened. More than ten university students from Xiangxiang No. 2 Middle School returned home for break. Outraged by the injustice, they confronted the commune cadres and together drafted a letter to the Ministry of Education reporting Qian's case. Encouraged, Qian placed his trust in Party policy. With nothing but his admission notice and a written appeal, he set off empty-handed for Harbin.

But his fate remained in the hands of Secretary S. Enraged and humiliated, S sent a letter demanding that Harbin Institute of Technology cancel Qian's admission. The university's Party Committee responded by dispatching Comrade Sun Jinglue to Xiangxiang to investigate. Sun reminded the work team of Party policy: “Class analysis is necessary, but not the only standard. Political performance matters most.” He urged them to allow Qian to enroll.

Secretary S resisted furiously. He organized the team to draft more than ten pages of accusations, claiming Qian had “poor political performance.” When Sun exposed the fabrications, S doubled down, shouting: “If our commune-level Party cannot control a single landlord-rich peasant's child, what authority do we have? Is your Harbin Institute a Party school or a Kuomintang school? Why do you support landlords' children instead of the sons and daughters of poor peasants?” Finally, he threatened outright: “If you insist on admitting Qian, we will withdraw the work team immediately and leave you to handle the Four Cleanups yourselves!”

The consultation collapsed. Harbin Institute of Technology, unwilling to escalate, advised Qian to withdraw.

Those days are like smoke now, but their sting remains.

“Farewell, farewell”—this time not to his hometown, but to his classmates of three short months. The entire class came to Harbin station to see him off. Tears flowed—his, and theirs.

“Zongren, we'll be waiting for your return.”

“If you can't come back, you can always write—you'll still have a future.”

“How could you not return? The school leaders said themselves they want you here, but they need to verify some things first.”

Naïve Zongren—how could he know these were only his classmates' hopes? How could he imagine this farewell was final, that he would never again walk through HIT's gates?

Farewell again—this time to the examination hall itself. For study, Qian had paid such a high price, yet he still refused to give up hope. When advised to withdraw the year before, he had asked through tears, “If I want to take the university exams again, will I be allowed?”

The HIT comrade escorting him had assured him warmly, “Of course—we hope you'll apply again. We welcome you.” The commune cadres had also agreed.

Qian believed them. But when the time came the following year, the work team blocked him again and again—nine times he went to register, nine times he was refused. Eventually, the exam period closed. That summer, as he watched older students file into the examination hall, he stood outside, unable to enter. The hall was so familiar, so dear—and now, forever closed to him. He turned away, ran to a small river, clutched a bitter tree, and wept. Through tears, he scribbled two lines of poetry:

Lofty ideals, eternal aspirations—

Each step compared to the Long March.

Farewell once more—this time, farewell to his hometown itself, perhaps forever. He set off for the barren, desolate Gobi Desert. If he could not study, he would still build, with his heart and hands, for the nation's future. His feelings were heavy, yet strangely fierce. On the westbound train he composed a “Song of Leaving Home”:

Looking back, emotions hard to speak,

Departures and returns alike unclear.

The whistle fades my homesickness,

The wheels announce the long road ahead.

Future deeds will rival past deeds,

Other lands may outshine my home.

Seeking ground for heroism,

I know flowers bloom everywhere.

Good Flowers Bloom Everywhere

The reading room of Aksu City Library often held the figure of a tall, thin young man with skin roughened by wind and sand. The man was Qian Zongren. At the time, he worked at the experimental tree farm for a monthly salary of just thirty-three yuan. With no money to buy books, he devised his own method: every Sunday, before dawn, he set out on foot. From the tree farm to Aksu was about fifteen kilometers. He would walk briskly into town, arriving early to wait at the library doors for the reading room to open.

The librarian knew him well. At noon she would see him still bent over his books, eating only a piece of corn-flour steamed bread. He devoured everything: Tempered into Steel, Forest Sea and Snowy Plains, Midnight, And Quiet Flows the Don, Toward New Shores, Les Misérables. Ancient and modern, Chinese and foreign—he read them all in that period.

His coworkers, mostly migrant laborers with little education, could not understand him. Sharing the same earthen bed, they would shake their heads.

“Fool. Idiot. He doesn't even know to rest on Sundays,” they scoffed.

After work they played cards or slept. How could they grasp the endless pleasure Qian found in books? From the day he arrived, he was nicknamed “the Fool.”

In truth, Qian could have found easier, better work. His fellow townsman Li Jinyun knew Director Chang of the Labor Bureau, and by pulling strings, Qian had been allowed to take the place of Li's brother in Xinjiang. When it came time to assign jobs, an official asked, “How are you related to Director Chang?”

Qian, unable to lie, told the truth.

“You have no household registration?” the official frowned.

“No. Probably not for the time being.”

“What special skills do you have?”

“None. I only know how to work.”

“Then would you go to the tree farm to clear wasteland and plant trees?”

“Yes.”

Later, when his coworkers heard the story, they mocked him again. “Stupid! You should've said you were Director Chang's relative. You'd be in a factory by now, with registration handled later. But you—you're too honest.”

Qian accepted the insult and was content. As long as he was no longer politically discriminated against, he felt he had risen from hell to heaven. He was willing to endure any hardship.

He had no proper winter clothing and no bedding, but he cared little for such things. What mattered was finding an ink bottle to fashion into an oil lamp so he could read and write at night. Under that tiny flame, he drafted essays for the Aksu Daily and short stories like “Girls of the Land-Opening Team and Understanding,” which appeared in Xinjiang Literature.

The tree farm leaders began to notice his talent. They organized an amateur literary propaganda team, and Qian wrote crosstalk sketches, clapper talks, and short plays. Later, he was promoted to storekeeper and lived with a measure of dignity. Time, like a silent doctor, dulled his pain. Aksu's soil was harsh, but it was fertile enough to grow red blossoms and green grass. Qian had taken root here.

By 1965, many workers abandoned the tree farm, unwilling to bear its low wages and hard labor. Only Qian and one other remained in the tent. One day, Team Leader He of the prefecture's “Four Cleanups” inspection team visited and noticed a poem Qian had posted by his bedside:

Who says beyond the passes all is desolate?

Wind and sand in tents, dusty beds.

Yet Chinese youth with ideals are here,

Sweating to change the face of the land.

How could one not miss one's kin?

Heartfelt words I write to my parents.

Roots planted deep, this place is home.

May I thrive like the trees—

As red willows, as white poplars.

This was praised again and again by the leader, in meetings and in public. That trust and admiration touched Qian's long-bruised heart. For once, the distance between himself and others seemed to shrink, and he confided his life story to Old He, who expressed sympathy and advised him to use the ongoing “Four Cleanups” campaign to request a re-examination of his family's class status.

Lacking money to return to Hunan, Qian instead poured out his history in a long letter to the Provincial Party Committee's “Four Cleanups” headquarters. But in those turbulent years, this was enough to brand him guilty of “attempting to overturn class designation.” His letter struck a nerve. Xiangxiang's Changfeng Commune sent nine consecutive letters to Aksu, demanding Qian's return for labor reform.

It was the beginning of a nightmare.

Better not recall those years too closely, when nearly every family in China endured its share of unspeakable pain. Qian Zongren was swept into the ranks of the “seven black categories.” His “crimes” were spelled out in blunt terms: sneaking into university and being expelled; persisting in a “reactionary stance” by questioning his class label; writing “reactionary poetry” and publishing “poisonous works”; deceiving cadres in order to “infiltrate revolutionary ranks.”

What followed were struggle sessions, forced self-criticisms, beatings, hard labor, flight, and years of wandering. Hung up day and night for torture in shifts, shackled and dragged into earthen dungeons—some rode him like a horse, whipping him into walls; others burned his face with cigarettes. Such torment was unendurable. One day, while the guards dozed, he pried open the dungeon window and escaped, fleeing to Urumqi and Kashgar, where he spent a long winter wandering among desert ruins.

Life had stripped Qian Zongren of everything, casting him out from the circle of ordinary people and branding him on a blacklist. Yet one flame in his heart refused to go out: his hunger to learn. Even in prison, he silently recited ancient texts and poetry, working through mathematical formulas in his head. During “study sessions,” he used the endless writing of self-criticisms as practice in grammar and rhetoric. He still dreamed that one day he might dedicate his knowledge to the motherland and his wisdom to the people. What resilience in the face of adversity! What tenacity in the barren desert of his fate!

But the years only widened the gulf between him and others—until the tree farm could no longer tolerate him and sent him back to his native place; until he was forced to part in tears from his fiancée, the devoted woman who had traveled thousands of miles to Xinjiang to be with him; until he had to bid farewell to Aksu, the place where he had struggled and endured for six years.

One day, walking alone down the bluestone streets of the county town, he suddenly saw a slender, refined woman coming toward him: Wen Huanan, his middle school classmate. He wanted to avoid her. Since returning home, he had not dared to visit old teachers or friends.

But Wen greeted him warmly. “Isn't this Zongren? Come by my house,” she said.

Hearing his story, she listened with sympathy, then added, “Didn't you learn carpentry? Come to No. 2 Middle School and repair doors and windows—I'm the administrator.”

These simple, kind words gave lonely Zongren a f