RBI1960 Chapter 18

Jiang Dahai and his wife came back from working in the fields, their rubber boots caked in mud. They stomped their feet outside the main hall before stepping inside.

“Dad, Mom,” called out Dani, the eldest daughter, from the kitchen. She came out carrying two steaming bowls of tea, the surface still floating with bits of crushed tea leaves.

The Jiangs loved their tea. Most of what they drank came from old tea trees up on the mountain, picked and roasted by the family themselves, then stored in a large iron canister. They made two harvests a year, enough to supply the household until the next season. During the cold months, they’d simply toss a handful of tea leaves into a thermos filled with boiling water. Whenever anyone wanted a drink, they just poured from the thermos. On his son’s advice, Jiang Dahai had even rigged a filter into the spout so the leaves wouldn’t spill out. The same batch of leaves could often be steeped twice before losing their flavor.

Tea didn’t normally grow well in the northeast—something about the soil and water here just didn’t suit it. No one knew who first planted that patch of tea trees up on Daqingshan. They’d been there longer than anyone in Qingshan Village could remember, even before the villagers settled in. The tea from those old trees wasn’t anything fancy—bitter and astringent, if we’re being honest—but in these times, there weren’t exactly many beverages to choose from. However bitter it was, Qingshan tea still had that distinct aroma, making it a decent enough drink.

Every tea-picking season, the women and children of every household would climb the mountain to gather leaves. Folks from nearby villages had all grown up drinking Qingshan tea—they were used to that taste. Even Jiang Yiliu, who had been away from home for years and tried all sorts of modern drinks, still missed that familiar flavor deep down.

In recent years, though, regulations had tightened. Hunting and tea-picking on the mountain were officially banned. Everything on Daqingshan now belonged to the collective. Anyone caught foraging up there was accused of stealing from the people and dragged out for a public shaming. Luckily for Qingshan Village, its isolated location behind the mountain road kept most outsiders away. If someone did sneak up the mountain to pick a little tea for home use, the locals just turned a blind eye. After all, every family needed tea.

“Xiaobao, why are you out here dressed so lightly?” Jiang Dahai said, noticing his youngest son sitting obediently on a chair. “Dani, heat a bottle so your brother can warm his hands.”

Jiang Dahai downed the tea in a few gulps and exhaled contentedly. His beloved son was sitting there, looking up at him so sweetly, it filled his heart with joy. He wanted nothing more than to scoop the boy into his arms, but then glanced at his muddy hands and filthy coat and held back.

Dani responded at once, coming out of the kitchen with two small glass bottles wrapped in cloth sleeves. They were warm to the touch, but not hot enough to burn.

She handed one to her little brother and the other to her younger sister.

Just then, Grandma Miao returned from the backyard vegetable plot, holding a freshly pulled white radish. She happened to run into Grandpa Jiang coming back from chatting with the neighbors. His face was grim and overcast.

“Grandpa!”

“Dad!”

Everyone greeted him in unison.

His mood seemed to lighten slightly when he saw his little grandson, and a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. But it didn’t last. Soon his expression soured again, as if he’d remembered something troubling. He sighed deeply, the wrinkles on his forehead so tight they looked like they could crush a fly.

“What now, old man? Who’d you argue with this time?” Grandma Miao called out as she took the radish into the kitchen. From the look on his face, she figured he’d probably gotten into another spat.

Gu Dongmei wasn’t idle either. After washing her hands, she poured a basin of hot water for Jiang Dahai to wash up, then joined her eldest daughter in the kitchen to help cook dinner.

“What’s the world come to, huh…” Grandpa Jiang muttered, pounding the table with his palm. This was more than a petty quarrel.

Sitting nearby, Jiang Yiliu’s eyes narrowed. Did something happen in the village?

“Dad, what’s going on? Just tell us,” Jiang Dahai said as he dried his hands and casually wiped his face with a cloth. Then he scooped up his youngest son and gave his daughter a gentle pat on the head.

Yiliu shifted awkwardly in his father’s arms. Even though he had been reborn five years ago and had grown used to his younger body, he still wasn’t completely comfortable with these kinds of fatherly affections. But his attention was focused on his grandfather, so he didn’t resist.

Jiang Dahai was over the moon. His son was smart, obedient, and handsome, but rarely affectionate with his parents, always clinging to his sisters instead. A hug like this was rare and precious.

In his heart, Jiang Dahai took it as a good sign. He used to think his son didn’t like him. Now it seemed the boy was just shy. From now on, he thought, I’ll take the initiative—maybe I can become his favorite parent.

Little did he know, Jiang Yiliu’s temporary tolerance had him imagining all sorts of things. Even if Yiliu had realized it, he likely wouldn’t have cared—because his grandfather’s next words completely stunned him.

“The old commander sent a telegram,” Grandpa Jiang said with a heavy sigh.

In the kitchen, Grandma Miao rushed out, her hands still dusted with cornmeal. “The commander sent a telegram? What’d he say? Is he raising your benefits again?”

The “old commander” was the senior officer Grandpa Jiang had once saved on the battlefield—now a big name in the capital. Out of gratitude, he’d made sure Grandpa’s military pension was raised to a proper regimental level and sent gifts every year.

That’s why Grandma Miao got so excited whenever his name came up.

Over the years, Jiang Yiliu had heard countless stories about the old commander. But in his previous life, he didn’t remember ever actually seeing this person. Could it be that something had happened to him during the turmoil of that decade? From the look on Grandpa Jiang’s face, it didn’t seem like good news.

“Don’t bring it up. The old commander’s having a tough time himself these days,” Grandpa sighed again, then turned to his son. “I’ve already talked to Captain Mo. This afternoon, you’re going to the Revolutionary Committee to bring back the counterrevolutionary assigned to our village.”

“Counterrevolutionary?” both Jiang Dahai and Yiliu exclaimed at once.

Jiang Dahai thought his son didn’t know what that meant, so he didn’t dwell on it. “Didn’t the Revolutionary Committee say they didn’t want to assign anyone here? Said it was too much trouble to organize criticism sessions. Why are they sending someone now?”

It was 1968. The Cultural Revolution had already swept across the country, and even this remote village at the foot of Daqingshan had begun to feel the ripple effects. Every home now hung a portrait of the Chairman in the main room, and everyone owned a copy of the Little Red Book. Even the illiterate old farmers could recite half of it thanks to the educated youth sent to the countryside. In town, you couldn’t even buy groceries if you didn’t know a few quotations.

What shocked Jiang Yiliu was that, in his previous life, no counterrevolutionaries had been sent to their village in 1968. Not until 1974 did a few university professors from Haicheng arrive for reeducation. They were rehabilitated and sent back home just a few years later.

The villagers respected educated elders and never made them do hard labor. The Red Guards and committee members couldn’t be bothered to trek out here to supervise a few “stinking intellectuals.” The villagers just sent in monthly confessions for them, and that was it—for two or three years, the arrangement flew under the radar.

So why the change now? Had his rebirth triggered a butterfly effect? If so, was the future he knew still the same?

“They were my old war buddies,” Grandpa Jiang said firmly. “Men, I went through hell with. They’re your uncles, in a way. You’d better treat them with respect. Don’t you dare look down on them just because they’re in a bad spot now. If I catch you acting like those maniacs outside, I won’t let it slide.”

“War buddies?” Grandma Miao echoed, suddenly understanding. “So the old commander’s telegram was about this?”

She looked a little worried. “This won’t drag us into trouble, will it?”

She didn’t mind taking care of a few of Grandpa’s old comrades, but if it endangered her son or grandson’s future, that was a different story.

“Nonsense. The commander’s already made all the arrangements. My friend’s just down on his luck. His family used to have a little money, and now he’s being labeled a capitalist. Those ungrateful wretches he calls relatives cut ties with him and even stabbed him in the back—they made up a bunch of fake charges to pin him down. Capitalist? Counterrevolutionary? What a joke. When I was fighting the Japanese with him, those kids weren’t even born yet!”

He slammed the table in anger, startling the fourth daughter nearby.

Grandma Miao sighed. The situation reminded her of their ungrateful second son and his family. Compared to that, this poor man had it even worse. Her resentment softened.

“Grandpa… what should I call him?” Jiang Yiliu asked carefully. In his last life, none of Grandpa’s old friends had ever shown up. What had happened to them?

“That man was something special,” Grandpa Jiang said, his tone full of pride. “He even studied in Russia when he was young—spoke foreign languages fluently. Everyone admired him back then. Now look at us… Studying abroad is a crime. His surname is Ruan. You can call him Grandpa Ruan.”

Ruan? Studied in Russia?

Jiang Yiliu’s heart skipped a beat. “Where’s Grandpa Ruan from?” he asked.

“He’s from Haicheng,” Grandpa said, patting his grandson’s head. “His family’s roots are in Sucheng. He’s the gentlest man you’ll ever meet. If there’s anything you don’t understand, you can always go ask him.”

Grandpa Jiang harbored his hopes. He believed the chaos couldn’t last forever. The Chairman wouldn’t let things go on like this. The intellectuals being persecuted now wouldn’t be silenced forever. The future of China would belong to those with real knowledge.

Jiang Yiliu’s heart surged with excitement.

Ruan wasn’t a common surname. The age, background, and education all matched. He couldn’t believe it—Ruan Jingguo, one of the economic titans of the future, was his grandfather’s war buddy.

And now… he was about to meet him face-to-face.

He didn’t even know how to calm the storm raging in his heart.