Chapter 229

The smoky air from the steelworks had not yet cleared, when a sharper chill quietly crept over the threshold of the Siheyuan.

In deep spring, the courtyard's crabapple blossoms were at their peak; pink‑white petals drooped listlessly in the ever‑hotter sun, losing vigor, as if also sensing some unease.

The first to feel this chill were the kitchens and bellies of every household.

The earthenware pots uniformly issued by the streets were already rough and fragile; under daily smoking and frequent use, their breakage rate was astonishing.

By the communal stove in the Central Courtyard, a sharp "pāchā" often rang out, followed immediately by the housewife's pained exclamation and helpless sigh.

Without an iron pot, stir‑frying became a luxury; most of the time they could only boil a pot of thin vegetable gruel or steam a few dry, hard steamed buns.

Even more worrying was the food supply: the rationed grain seemed to have shrunk invisibly; the coarse corn flour supplied by the grain store grew darker in colour, and the bran mixed in increased.

Fine grain had become a rarity; a month might pass without seeing it. On every family's table, the amount visible to the eye dwindled noticeably.

In Yan Bu Gui's front courtyard, the abacus no longer calculated the gains and losses of reciprocal courtesy, but how each day, each meal could stretch that limited grain into the greatest possible amount of food.

San Dama invented the "increase‑by‑water method": she dumped extra water and wild vegetables into the coarse corn flour, steaming the buns to puff up and soften, yet they were bland and tasteless; after eating them, hunger returned quickly.

"When will this life ever have an end?" Yan Bu Gui stared at the thin gruel in his bowl that could reflect a face, adjusted his glasses, and for the first time felt even the abacus could not tally this hardship.

In the Central Courtyard, the Jia family's contradictions grew sharper.

Jia Zhangshi treated the grain sack as more precious than life, locking it tight; each meal she doled out grains by the count, most of it going into her own and her grandson Bang Geng's bellies.

Qin Huairu's milk had long dried up; her child cried from hunger day and night, thin as a kitten. She herself was sallow and emaciated, staggering when she walked, yet still had to bear the heavy housework. Jia Zhangshi showed no sympathy, instead shouting ever more fiercely: "Sangmen Star! Since you entered this house, we have not had a single good day—you can't even earn a mouthful of food!"

Qin Huairu clung to her son, who had grown too weak to cry, hiding in the kitchen to wipe away tears secretly; looking at the thin broth in the pot whose bottom was visible, despair coiled around her heart like cold vines.

In the rear courtyard, Liu Haizhong's household—Er Da Ma, a capable woman, found it impossible to cook without rice; once she could still see a hint of oil in the meals, but now even that was gone, leaving only thin soup.

Liu Haizhong's usual "leadership talk" lost its audience before empty bellies; at the dinner table only silent chewing and sighs remained.

Even in the Xi Kua Yuan, Li Ping'an had to budget more carefully. Though he had some secret reserves, he dared not touch them lightly—they were his last‑ditch lifeline for emergencies. Daily expenses, too, were kept strictly to the allotted amounts.

When Li PingLe went to buy vegetables, his eyes lingered more on the cheap, storable radishes and cabbages; occasionally buying a block of tofu counted as an improvement in life.

Lin Xueqing needed nutrition during her pregnancy; Li Ping'an could only concentrate the limited fine grain and eggs on her, while he and Li PingLe often filled up on coarse grain.

"Ping'an, don't just look after me—eat something good yourself." Lin Xueqing gazed at his increasingly thin cheeks, her heart aching.

"I'm fine, my constitution is strong." Li Ping'an pushed the egg custard toward her, his tone unquestionable: "You're eating for two now—you can't shortchange yourself."

This pervasive sense of hunger was like a silent corrosive agent, wearing down people's energy and testing the limits of human nature.

That afternoon, Li PingLe returned from the street office with that month's grain coupon and subsidiary‑food booklet, his small face tense as he walked back to the Xi Kua Yuan.

"Brother, the grain coupon… seems a bit less than last month's." She whispered, a hint of unease in her voice, "And Director Wang said that from now on, having a coupon doesn't guarantee you can buy grain—you have to go early, or you'll find none left if you go late."

Li Ping'an took the stack of light‑as‑paper yet weighty coupons, his expression grave.

He knew this was not merely the predicament of the Siheyuan but a microcosm of a far wider world; the distant steel‑mill furnaces devoured far more than iron ore.

Just then, the Central Courtyard rang with Jia Zhangshi's sharp wails and Qin Huairu's stifled sobs.

It turned out that Jia Zhangshi had discovered a handful of rice missing from the grain sack, concluded that Qin Huairu had hidden it to supplement her natal family, and without further ado grabbed a broom and began beating her. Qin Huairu dared not resist, only curling up on the floor with her head in her hands, enduring the blows and curses.

The neighbours of the courtyard came out at the noise—some tried to mediate, others watched coldly.

Yi Zhonghai frowned, wanted to intervene but was powerless; he finally just let out a heavy sigh and went back inside.

Liu Haizhong put on an official tone: "Outrageous! Any problem can be reported to the organization—how can you resort to violence!" Yet no one paid him any heed.

Li Ping'an stood at the gate of the Xi Kua Yuan, watching the farce unfold in the Central Courtyard, but did not step forward.

A clean official cannot settle family affairs, let alone the evil magnified by hunger. He could protect the warmth under his own eaves, but could not illuminate every dark corner.

He returned to the house and, in a low voice, told Lin Xueqing and Li PingLe: "From now on, we must plan our household grain carefully. PingLe, when you go to buy grain, go early and pay close attention."

He then turned to his wife: "Xueqing, in these extraordinary times, I have imposed on you."

Lin Xueqing took his hand and shook her head: "We're a family—no need to say such things. As long as we are safe and sound."

Night fell, and the Siheyuan early sank into a fatigue and stillness born of hunger; only the lights of each household flickered stubbornly in the deepening darkness, as if resisting this all‑pervasive scarcity.

Li Ping'an lay on the bed, listening to his wife's even breathing beside him, yet felt no trace of sleepiness.

Outside the window, the crabapple shadows swayed in the moonlight, a faint fragrance drifting; this scent, now smelled, actually carried a hint of bitterness.

The weight of the grain coupons pressed on every heart, heavier than the fifty pounds of scrap iron that had to be turned in.

This invisible battle, though it produced no smoke, was a matter of survival.

Li Ping'an knew he must be more vigilant—not only to guard against open and covert attacks from the outside, but also to protect this family in the ever‑tightening test of survival, waiting for the day when the clouds would part and the mist would clear. And that day still seemed far off.