Chapter 153: The Wei Family

Wei Ming took Old Wei to an open area with no cover, ensuring no one could eavesdrop.

“What’s going on?”

Wei Ming said seriously to his father: “Prepare yourself mentally first. Calm down. I promise you won’t lose control when you hear what I’m about to say.”

“You’re being mysterious. I lost my father as a child—I’ve long had a heart of stone. Just speak!”

Since he said that, Wei Ming no longer held back: “My grandfather—your father—is still alive.”

“What?”

Those words left Old Wei momentarily stunned.

Wei Ming repeated it with firm expression.

Old Wei knew his son would never joke about something like this—he stared wide-eyed, breath quickening, legs stiffening, on the verge of fainting.

Wei Ming quickly steadied him: “Breathe deep, breathe deep. Didn’t you say you had a heart of stone?”

“That was before I lost my father!” Old Wei caught his breath, sat on the nearby bench, and gripped Wei Ming’s arm tightly. “Tell me—what really happened?”

Wei Ming: “The letter you received last time was from Grandfather. He wants to reconnect with us.”

“Impossible. Your grandfather didn’t write like that.” Old Wei was certain—he still had many letters his father had written to his mother during the War of Resistance, which he and his mother often read.

“Is it written like this?” Wei Ming pulled out the letter from “Old Ghost.”

Old Wei stared at the handwriting—his eyes suddenly welled up. The script was far too familiar.

“Then what about the previous letter?”

Wei Ming: “He feared someone in the village might recognize his handwriting, so he had someone else write it.”

People like the old village head and his uncle’s generation had once been young comrades of Wei Senhao—they could all recognize his handwriting. Old Old Wei had always been cautious; he’d never risk exposing himself by writing directly to the village.

“Then how is he still alive? We still hang the ‘Glory Family’ plaque at home!” Wei Jiefang’s voice sounded wounded—he’d lost his father as a teenager and felt he’d suffered more than Anping; having a father who later died was worse than never having one at all.

But if he wasn’t dead, why didn’t he come back?

“He has his reasons. Read the letter yourself.” Wei Ming stood up, turning his back to Old Wei.

Old Wei wiped away a tear—damn, embarrassing.

He opened the letter. The first line: “My dearest grandson, seeing your words is like seeing you.”

Old Wei’s heart trembled—it was exactly the same format Old Old Wei used when writing to his mother, just as overly sentimental as ever.

“You’re a clever child—you must already know who I am. Keep it to yourself. Tell only your father. After all, I am someone whose identity cannot be made public. This letter must be handled with care after reading.”

“It’s been nearly thirty years. I think of returning to you every moment, but circumstances force me to stay away. If I return to the mainland, many will suffer because of me.”

“I am not a deserter, nor am I afraid of death—but I cannot let you or others suffer because of me. So I’ve endured in silence until recently, when reform and opening-up gave me hope. After much thought, I dared to write that last letter, choosing every word carefully, terrified of making a mistake.”

“Receiving your reply, I realized how much the world has changed—all those I knew are gone, yet many new people tied to my bloodline have been born. I long to see you, your sister, and your uncle’s twin children.”

“I don’t know when we’ll truly meet—but as long as I live, there is hope. So I will take care of my health. I will live to see our family reunited.”

“You said you’re writing something—send it to me. Living in Hong Kong, it’s hard to get mainland works…”

As Old Wei read, Wei Ming recalled his past life—he knew his grandfather had omitted many painful truths in the letter, but he himself understood: as a steadfast warrior, for thirty years his grandfather had done nothing to betray his country or his people; instead, the fake death had tormented him for years.

Though he never got to see his grandfather one last time, he had learned his grandfather’s story clearly through his father’s half-sister—his own aunt.

At that moment, Old Wei finished reading the letter.

“What the hell is this? Vague, unclear, confusing!”

Wei Ming took the letter back: “Grandfather’s still cautious—he feared someone might open the letter, so he wrote vaguely. He didn’t mention a single name or explain what really happened back then.”

“Then what actually happened back then?” Old Wei desperately wanted the truth—he’d never sleep tonight otherwise.

In the mid-90s, several years after Old Wei’s death, his mother suddenly called, asking Wei Ming in Beijing to return home—someone had arrived from Taiwan.

The appearance of that beautiful woman, only a few years older than Wei Ming, shocked Gouzi Village. Though she publicly claimed to be Wei Senhao’s niece from Taiwan, behind closed doors she told Wei Ming she was his real aunt—and explained everything about Old Old Wei’s past.

So Wei Ming relayed what he knew to his father, framing it as speculation.

“Back then, Grandfather was captured, right?”

Old Wei: “Yes—but he was captured after being severely wounded. According to surviving comrades, your grandfather held off the enemy alone to cover his unit’s retreat, took heavy injuries, and lost mobility. They assumed he was dead. Later, when clearing the battlefield, they couldn’t find his body, so they guessed he’d been captured.”

Wei Ming: “After the war, the Americans released a list of deceased POWs. My grandfather’s name was on it, right?”

“Yes. Back then we thought your grandfather must’ve died from his wounds—otherwise, why would the Americans say he was dead?” Old Wei suddenly realized. “You mean the Americans faked it?”

“Who had the power to make the Americans help fake it?”

Old Wei understood: “Your uncle!” Wei Ming snapped his fingers: “I checked records—there were Chiang Kai-shek’s men helping strategize on the Korean battlefield. Your uncle had extensive experience fighting our side—he could’ve been invited as a consultant. He likely knew Grandfather’s unit number, found him wounded, brought him to Taiwan for treatment. That makes perfect sense.”

“Then why say he was dead?” Old Wei complained bitterly—he’d suffered so much back then.

Wei Ming: “Dad, are you stupid? If they said he was dead, he became a martyr. If they said he was alive and went to Taiwan, what would he become? How would you and Grandma live afterward?”

Old Wei understood: “So your uncle was actually doing us a favor!”

Though those two brothers had fought for years, blood was thicker than water—their great-grandfather had stressed brotherly bonds above all.

Besides, your uncle’s two sons had both died in battle. The Wei family had only Grandfather’s branch left. To preserve the Wei bloodline, your uncle had no choice.

Old Wei deduced: “So Grandfather didn’t dare contact us before because of this?”

Wei Ming nodded. After all, overseas connections had only become desirable in recent years—before, everyone feared them. Xue’s family had suffered because they were suspected of having overseas ties.

Wei Ming added: “He might’ve also feared implicating your uncle. Bringing a dangerous figure like Grandfather to Taiwan was risky—if Grandfather returned to the mainland, your uncle, as his guarantor, would’ve been ruined too. Grandfather’s move to Hong Kong probably took enormous effort.”

After Wei Ming’s “analysis,” Wei Jiefang finally understood—he felt a sudden clarity.

!

Then he thought of another question: “You said your uncle is a big shot in Taiwan—so Grandfather must be pretty powerful too?”

Wei Ming: “Quite the opposite. After arriving in Hong Kong, Grandfather, embarrassed by his status, refused your uncle’s help. Like me, he became a gatekeeper, living like a monk. He entrusted his wife and daughter to your uncle in Taiwan—after all, that new wife was your uncle’s forced arrangement.”

Though Grandfather wasn’t a wealthy man in Hong Kong, his letter did include money.

Wei Ming pulled out a handful of currency Old Wei had never seen.

“This is 1,000 Hong Kong dollars—from Grandfather.”

“Wow, so much! Foreign currency must be valuable, right!”

Wei Ming shook his head: “At the official exchange rate, it’s only worth about 300 yuan.”

“Ah, only three hundred?”

Old Wei had gotten carried away—he hadn’t earned that much in years. Now, the train fare for six of them from Chengdu to Beijing was more than this.

Wei Ming smiled: “But it’s foreign currency—you can exchange it for overseas remittance vouchers to buy scarce goods at overseas Chinese stores. But you don’t need it. I’ll keep it. I’ll give you back three hundred later.”

Old Wei waved his hand: “Father and son don’t talk about money. I’m not short on cash—you gave me more than I can spend. What I’m thinking now is whether to tell Anping.”

Wei Ming: “Better not. Grandfather’s letter said to tell only you. And your uncle’s a Party member, a veteran—telling him this isn’t testing his Party loyalty and humanity?”

“True, true. Don’t tell him. Tonight at dinner, watch my mouth—I’m afraid I’ll blurt it out after drinking.”

Old Wei thought of having a father again. Though the shock was great, he was ultimately happy—his father’s image had grown hazy.

“When will we go to Hong Kong?” Old Wei asked eagerly.

Wei Ming smiled: “You won’t be going anytime soon. But I might go soon.”

“Huh? Why you?”

Wei Ming: “Because I’m a writer. And a screenwriter.”

Wei Ming has already finished the script for “The Book of Heaven.” Next, he must rush into “Heroes Born in Youth.” If he can arrange a mainland-Hong Kong co-production, he’ll have a chance to go to Hong Kong and find Grandfather.

Old Wei looked gloomy. Wei Ming asked: “Is there anything you want to say to your father? I can write it in the letter—or you can write your own and send it together?”

Old Wei: “I need to think. Come on—let’s take your grandma to see the doctor.”

That afternoon, they went only to Xiehe Hospital, consulted a rheumatology specialist, chose a gentler treatment plan, and picked up some medicine.

By the time they returned, it was dark. They had dinner with Anping’s family at Changzheng Canteen.

The next day, Wei Ming continued accompanying his grandmother and others to visit Beijing’s famous sights. He and Old Wei lagged behind, whispering: “Dad, think of anything to say to Grandfather?”

Old Wei said bluntly: “Tell him a thousand isn’t enough.”

“Be serious.”

Old Wei sighed: “Ask him how bad his injuries were. Did he suffer lasting damage?”

…

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(End of chapter)