Training courage in the morgue, the veteran wasn’t afraid of enemy corpses

Why were the eggs green?

This question puzzled me for years until I later learned it was actually because his name had the character “Qing” (庆). In the custom of Shaanxi people, families with boys often affectionately add the suffix “dan” (蛋儿) to their names. The Qingdan siblings numbered four, and he was the only boy—so the nickname fit perfectly. As for whether it was “Qingdan” or “Greendan,” it didn’t matter anymore—I was used to it and had always silently called him “Brother Qingdan” in my heart.

Our factory was far from the city, supposedly due to the need for concealment. The state-owned factory had everything: a hospital, shops, and a school. The family housing area was scattered across the surrounding countryside—a few two-story Soviet-style small buildings with huge characters on the walls proclaiming, “Long live the great so-and-so!” A few poplar trees planted around, enclosed by a wall, made it blend in with yet stand apart from the rural surroundings.

Brother Qingdan graduated from high school in 1976. That year, great figures passed away one after another, there was an earthquake, and celestial bodies fell. The adults’ faces were mostly sorrowful, as gloomy as the sky. Only Brother Qingdan remained carefree, laughing and wandering without a care. When Shaanxi people fondly scold a clever but slightly mischievous boy, they often call him “guang” (逛), a term that’s both reproachful and affectionate. Brother Qingdan was very much a “guang.”

Every time I went home, I would cautiously scout out the area, making sure he wasn’t in the yard, before I let loose and ran straight home. I didn’t want to be caught by him. If I really couldn’t avoid him, I’d sneak along the wall, trying not to attract attention. But I often ended up running right into two posts, and when I looked up, there was Brother Qingdan with his hands on his hips, grinning with mischievous triumph. Then I’d be tossed into the air over and over again. No matter how I tried to escape, he was like an unclimbable mountain to me, just a four-year-old at the time.

He always threatened to lock me up in the pigeon coop made of blue bricks built on top of the honeycomb coal storage. I believed he’d actually do it. So he often gave me multiple-choice questions—like whether I liked Zhang San or Li Si. I started trying to guess what answer he wanted. I tentatively said “Zhang San,” but seeing him frown and let out a dissatisfied, drawn-out “Hmm?” I switched to Li Si. But then his face crumpled even more unhappily. I started seeking help from the adults around me, asking with my eyes for the right answer. Each adult just looked on amused, full of interest, but no one stepped in to help. I steeled myself and said I liked both—and his expression turned even worse. That drawn-out “Hmm?” was even stranger and longer this time, and I got it wrong again. Finally, I summoned up my courage and gave my last and only choice: I didn’t like either. Looking into Brother Qingdan’s wide eyes, I despaired—I had never once given the right answer. I felt like crying but didn’t quite dare, only tears welling up in my eyes. Then, in the blink of an eye, he burst into laughter, his upper body and legs shaking uncontrollably. The adults were also thoroughly amused, all chuckling happily. I felt relieved, casting a wary glance at the pigeon coop—thankfully, it was over. After many such incidents, I came to one conclusion: being cute as a kid isn’t necessarily a good thing.

In 1977, that batch of high school graduates was all sent to the countryside. The distance wasn’t far—the educated youth points were scattered across nearby production teams. For a while, I almost forgot about Brother Qingdan’s existence. I flew around the yard every day with no shadow overhead. Occasionally, the sound of bicycle bells would ring out in the yard, accompanied by noisy chatter. Needless to say, it was Brother Qingdan and his friends. Fortunately, they just came back to improve their meals, dropping by for a bite before hurrying off again.

One day, my mother and Aunt Jia (Brother Qingdan’s mother) and a few others were sitting in the yard chatting. The poplar leaves overhead rustled in the wind—it was a peaceful, leisurely afternoon. Brother Qingdan came cycling back like the wind, exchanged a few hurried words, went into the house, and then turned to leave again. Unfortunately for me, I couldn’t dodge him this time. He grabbed me while I was playing, told my mother he was taking me to visit where he was stationed for his rural assignment, and I looked helplessly at my mother, hoping she’d refuse for me. At that moment, no one could understand my reluctance. My mother simply reminded me to be obedient and not misbehave, and actually agreed. Even my own mother couldn’t help me—I seemed to have even less power to resist. And so, I was hoisted onto the crossbar of his bicycle, sandwiched among a group of friends waiting for him, and carried off into the distance. The rural roads were rough—I had to grip the handlebars tightly and stay alert to keep from being bounced off while going over ditches and climbing slopes. The educated youth cave dwellings were dim and old, with a single electric light bulb dim as if covered in dust. I couldn’t understand what they were talking about, just rolling around restlessly on the kang (heated bed). It was truly boring.

I finally got my revenge during my last close encounter with him in childhood—that night, I wet the bed.