Chapter 673: Cemetery Turbulence
Suddenly, applause broke out in the meeting hall. This time, it was much louder than before, and the poplar leaves were shaken and fell straight down. Uncle Wang stood up and knocked his cane on the stone floor:
"I believe what Director Song says! When he led everyone to repair the canal, he always jumped into the ditch first. If this brick factory succeeds, I will be the first to sign up to move bricks!"
Director Song smiled and waved his hand:
"Everyone, rest assured, this will work! When the day comes that the brick factory starts to smoke, we will set up two tables of buffets and celebrate!"
Director Song's words carried the heat of the threshing ground, stirring up waves of joy among the crowd. Young Zhao Xiaohu had already begun to gesture with his neighbor.
“How big should the windows be in a new brick house?”
Aunt Wang counted on her fingers how many work points she could earn after the brick factory started operating.
At this moment, a heavy cough suddenly sounded from the bamboo benches in the back row. The 84-year-old Mr. Huang stood up tremblingly with the help of a carved cane. The copper buttons on his navy blue double-breasted jacket shone warmly in the setting sun.
"Director Song, I, an old man, have something to ask you."
His voice was like the sound of old tree roots scraping against stone slabs, hoarse but clear, and the tip of his cane tapped the ground lightly.
"You said the brick factory will be built on the west slope?"
These words were like a stone thrown into a pond. The meeting place, which had been bustling just a moment ago, suddenly became so quiet that one could hear the screams of eagles above the threshing ground.
Director Song quickly stood up and wanted to move his wooden chair over, but Grandpa Huang waved his hand and looked with cloudy eyes toward the hillside at the west end of the village that was dyed dark blue by the twilight.
“You young people have never seen the hardship of those years.”
He pulled out a blue cloth bag from his bosom, and after opening it layer by layer, he revealed half a blackened cake with some grass debris on the hard crust.
"During the famine in 1958, 37 people who fled the famine collapsed on the dirt road at the entrance of our village. The youngest girl was only seven years old, clutching a frozen vegetable cake that she could not swallow."
"The old branch secretary led everyone to wrap the body in straw mats and bury it in a sunny spot on the west slope of the mountain. One person inserted a willow branch as a mark."
His fingers slid across the pancake, as if caressing the dusty past.
"Now those willow branches have grown into big trees, but the grave has been washed away by rain, and there is not even a tombstone."
Sighs were heard one after another in the conference hall.
Aunt Li, who was sitting in the front row, suddenly wiped her tears with her sleeve. She remembered that her little son who had died young was buried under the third crooked tree on the west slope of the mountain. Every Qingming Festival, she could only burn paper money and did not even dare to erect a proper tombstone.
Uncle Zhang in the back row held his pipe in his mouth and said in a muffled voice:
"When we were building the canal in 1960, Lao Chen from our team was buried by a landslide. Before he died, he said, 'Bury me on the west slope so I can see the canal we built.'"
"What's more important are the comrades in the reclamation team."
Uncle Huang raised his voice and banged his cane hard on the stone floor.
"In 1961, there was a flood. Captain Wang was swept away by a mountain torrent while trying to get the team's water pump. We searched downstream for three days and only fished up his straw hat and half a pocket watch."
He pulled out a rusty copper shell from his trouser pocket.
"This is the watch. 'Serve the People' is engraved on the inside of the watch cover. He had no children and was buried on the west slope of the mountain. He didn't even leave his surname."
The young people all lowered their heads. Zhao Xiaohu's face flushed red. He suddenly remembered that he and his friends went to the west hillside to hunt rabbits last week and had smashed an abandoned grave with stones.
Director Song's face became serious. He squatted in front of Mr. Huang and held his calloused hands:
"Master, you are right. We cannot and dare not forget those who shed blood for the Great Northern Wilderness."
"It's not that I'm superstitious."
Uncle Huang's tone softened.
"They have dedicated their entire lives to this black land. If a bulldozer runs over it, they won't even have a place to live..."
He turned to look at the elderly people in the audience. Uncle Li, Aunt Wang, and Uncle Zhang all nodded repeatedly. The wrinkles in the corners of their eyes revealed too many unspoken stories.
Old Mrs. Cheng stood up shakily with the help of a carved pear wood cane, her blue cloth apron still stained with flour from kneading the dough in the afternoon.
Her silver hair was carefully tied into a bun with a red hairband and pinned with a faded silver hairpin - that was her dowry when she married into the Cheng family.
The noise in the conference hall seemed to be suddenly paused, and only the copper bell hanging on her crutch could be heard, shaking gently with her movements, making a tiny sound.
"Building a nation,"
Her voice had the softness that is unique to old ladies from Northeast China, yet it also revealed a hint of stubbornness.
"My son Haizi can go to the supply and marketing cooperative to be the director. I am grateful to you from the bottom of my heart."
She looked at Wang Jianguo, who was sitting in the front row, and was rubbing his hands awkwardly.
"You want to build a brick factory so that everyone can live in houses that don't leak. This is a good deed. I understand."
The wind in the threshing yard lifted the corner of her apron, revealing the gray cloth pants underneath that were washed so much that they looked bleached.
She turned her head and looked towards the hillside at the west end of the village. In the twilight, the shadows of several crooked trees were swaying gently in the evening breeze:
"But look at the west hillside. Those buried there are all those who have suffered with us."
"In 1959, there was a famine. Sister Liu gave the last piece of cornmeal cake to my son Haizi, and she ate tree bark to swallow it. She didn't make it past the 23rd day of the twelfth lunar month..."
Her Adam's apple rolled as she took out an oil-paper bag from her pocket, which contained half a hard corn cake.
"She gave this to me before she died, saying, 'Aunt, save this for Haizi.'"
Wang Jianguo's face turned pale, and he suddenly remembered that when he went to Cheng's house to deliver food coupons last month, he saw the old lady staring at the old photos on the wall.
The photo shows a young woman in coarse clothes, holding a grinning baby boy in her arms.
Old Mrs. Cheng wiped her eyes and continued:
"And there's Old Zhou, who saved my Haizi's life when the canal was being repaired in 1962. The child was naughty and fell into the canal. Old Zhou jumped in to pull him out, but his legs were entangled by water plants..."
Her cane thumped on the flagstones.
"Now there's not even a mark on Old Zhou's grave. If you flatten the hillside, how can I visit his grave?"
There were gasps in the meeting room. Zhao Shuzhuo looked down at the torn tips of his shoes, thinking of the pair of insoles that Old Lady Cheng gave him last year, the stitches of which were so fine that you could see a person's reflection in them.
Director Song touched the new factory site report in his briefcase and suddenly felt that the stack of papers was as heavy as a stone.
Director Liu took out his pipe, but couldn't light it. The matchstick broke in his hand and turned into a pile of powder.
"The old woman can't read,"
Mrs. Cheng's voice suddenly became softer, as if she was coaxing her grandson who was taking a nap.
"But I know that people have to keep something in mind while they live. Those people buried their bones in the soil of our village. They are our relatives."
"If you touch them..."