Chapter 270: Huaihua's Birth

In 1962's New Year's Day, it arrived quietly amid a bleak cold. In past years, no matter how hard, the Siheyuan could at least smell a hint of festive air; this year even that superficial liveliness was omitted. As dawn just broke, the cold wind still cut like a small knife, making faces ache.

In the Central Courtyard, the Jia household stirred earlier than usual. It wasn't preparing for the New Year; Qin Huairu was going into labor.

Wave after wave of uncontainable painful cries came from the Jia house, keeping the neighbors from sleeping soundly. Jia Zhangshi paced anxiously inside, cursing: "A debt‑collecting ghost! Picking this day to come! Sangmen Star!"

Yi Zhonghai was also roused, throwing on a cotton coat to take a look, his brow furrowed. As the First Elder of the courtyard, he couldn't ignore it completely, and said in a low voice: "Old sister‑in‑law, don't just stand there—get her to the hospital! I'll go fetch a cart."

After a flurry of activity, Qin Huairu was lifted onto the cart by many hands, covered with the family's thickest yet patched‑cotton quilt, and pushed by Yi Zhonghai and the arriving Sha Zhu (who was strong), braving the severe cold toward the hospital.

Jia Zhangshi had her hands in her sleeves, trailing behind with uneven steps, her face showing little worry, only impatience.

Inside the hospital, the smell of disinfectant mixed with the cold, making it especially pungent. After several hours of ordeal, a weak cry like a kitten's meow finally came from the delivery room.

A nurse emerged holding the swaddled baby, her face professionally neutral: "It's a girl; mother and child are safe."

"A girl?" Jia Zhangshi lunged forward, lifted a corner of the swaddle, glanced once, and her wrinkled face instantly fell, as if all her vigor had been sucked out. A flicker of undisguised disappointment and disgust crossed her cloudy eyes, and she squeezed out three words from between her teeth:

"A money‑losing goods!"

Having said that, she didn't spare the newborn another glance, nor did she care for the just‑delivered, weak Qin Huairu; she turned and strode out of the hospital, muttering, "What a waste of the hospital fee! Truly a useless thing!"

Yi Zhonghai and Sha Zhu exchanged glances, each seeing helplessness and a hint of contempt in the other's eyes. Yi Zhonghai sighed, thanked the nurse, then went to handle the paperwork. Sha Zhu watched the pallid Qin Huairu being pushed out, feeling uneasy, and helped escort her back to the Siheyuan.

Back home, the icy house was hardly better than the hospital. Qin Huairu lay on the kang, gazing at the tiny, wrinkled baby beside her, tears streaming down. She recalled being pushed into the delivery room, and through the hospital corridor window she had seen the courtyard's old locust tree, its bare branches shivering in the cold wind.

"Huaihua…" she whispered, her weak hand lightly touching the baby's cheek, her voice hoarse, "From now on… you'll be called Huaihua." Like the locust flowers in the courtyard—unnoticeable, lowly—but at least… it counts as a name.

Having given birth, she ought to observe the month‑long confinement, but the Jia household had no spare grain to keep an "idle person." After only half a month, Jia Zhangshi began to beat and scold, pointing at the mulberry tree while cursing the locust.

"We can barely keep the pot boiling! Bang Geng is howling from hunger, and there's a suckling money‑losing goods! Do you think you're the young mistress? Lying in bed waiting to be served?"

"If you don't take that factory post soon, someone else will snatch it—then you'll be drinking northwest wind!"

Qin Huairu lay on the kang, listening to her mother‑in‑law's curses, watching the wailing, hungry Huaihua and Bang Geng staring up at her, her heart feeling as if soaked in ice water. She knew she had no choice.

Just after the New Year, still not fully recovered, Qin Huairu was pressed by Jia Zhangshi to go to the Steel Rolling Mill. She took over Jia Dongxu's post, naturally assigned to the fitting workshop. As a mentor and the First Elder of the courtyard, Yi Zhonghai had to look after her both publicly and privately.

In the workshop machines roared and oil slicked the floor. Qin Huairu wore an oversized, patched work uniform, standing before those cold steel fixtures, feeling out of place and at a loss.

She hadn't finished elementary school, knew few characters, let alone could comprehend those complex part drawings. Yi Zhonghai patiently taught her to identify tools and explained the simplest operating procedure.

"This is a caliper for measuring dimensions… this is a file for deburring…" Yi Zhonghai said, his mouth dry.

Qin Huairu listened hard, but the jargon was like heavenly script—going in one ear and out the other. Looking at the curving lines and numbers on the drawings, she only felt dizzy and blurred.

Moreover, fitting is both technical and physical labor. Moving heavy blanks and operating tools that require arm strength made it nearly impossible for Qin Huairu, whose body had not fully recovered and who was naturally weak.

Often, while others had finished several parts, she was still struggling with the first, drenched in sweat, her arms sore and unable to lift.

The workshop supervisor walked over with his hands behind his back, saw her clumsiness and the barely‑moved workstation, his face darkened: "Master Yi, how are you training this apprentice? The efficiency is far too low—who will be responsible for delaying the production task?"

Yi Zhonghai could only smile and smooth things over: "Director, she's just arrived, her body isn't fully recovered—take it slow, take it slow…"

Qin Huairu kept her head down, her face burning. She could sense the gazes of her coworkers—sympathy, contempt, or schadenfreude—raining down on her. Resentment, helplessness, fatigue flooded over her like a tide.

Once or twice, Yi Zhonghai could still help cover for her, but as the incidents piled up Qin Huairu grew numb. Unable to learn or work, yet still scolded, she began to slack off, feigning diligence.

Whatever Yi Zhonghai assigned, she did it slowly, doing as much as she could and pushing the rest onto him. She knew that, for the sake of his adoptive‑father tie and the courtyard's reputation, he would always end up cleaning up after her.

That day after work, Qin Huairu dragged her lead‑heavy legs out of the courtyard, just bumping into Xu Damao returning from a countryside film screening.

Xu Damao pushed his bicycle, two strings of dried mushrooms hanging from the handlebars; seeing Qin Huairu's wan, frail, pitiful appearance, his small eyes lit up at once. He had long harbored a notion for Qin Huairu—while Jia Dongxu was alive he dared not show it openly, but now…

"Sister Qin, off work?" Xu Damao stepped forward, putting on an enthusiastic smile, "Oh, look at your complexion—you must be worn out from the workshop? You say you're a female comrade doing that rough fitting work—it's really tough on you."

Qin Huairu forced a smile and said nothing.

Xu Damao lowered his voice: "What do I say? There's no future in grinding away in the workshop—it's exhausting and you can't learn. Why not think of another path?" He gave a meaningful wink, "If you have any trouble, tell me, Brother Damao—I'll definitely help."

Qin Huairu was no fool; she naturally sensed the ulterior motive in Xu Damao's words. In the past she would have firmly refused, but now she was exhausted and desperately needed an easy way out.

She gave no reply, merely lowered her head and quickened her steps, but Xu Damao's calculating, desirous gaze fell like a seed onto her nearly barren heart.

Returning to the cold, oppressive Jia household, seeing her mother‑in‑law's sour face, hearing the faint cries of her children from hunger, and recalling the endless toil and humiliation in the workshop, Qin Huairu leaned against the doorframe, feeling only darkness ahead.

Learn technique? She lacks the ability. Exert strength? She lacks the means. Yi Zhonghai's protection is limited and costly. Xu Damao's "goodwill" is nothing but a sugar‑coated poison.

Or… must she drift like rootless duckweed in this freezing workshop and scheming courtyard, going with the flow until she sinks? Gazing out the window at the still‑bare old locust tree, she felt for the first time a clear, icy despair about the future.