Original text published in the first issue of “Morning Glow” magazine in 1975, author: Duan Ruixia
This is one of the short stories I consider quite excellent
The factory’s working hours start at eight o’clock, but Gu Amin, the party branch secretary of Workshop Three, starts at seven. Rain or shine, cold winter or hot summer, every day without fail.
However, the factory is changing every day. Currently, the ten-year plan draft under discussion by the entire plant is, according to Deputy Party Secretary and Production Team Leader Zhou Changlin, a “change” draft for ten years. Take the main avenue leading to the factory gate, for example; in recent days, two rows of straight, tall small poplar trees have appeared. Yesterday morning, Gu Amin still saw the silver-gray trunks trembling in the cold wind, but today, the trunks have been tied tightly with grass ropes. Some thin and weak ones are supported by bamboo poles, forming a “person” shape with the trunks. Gu Amin, without asking, knew: this must be Zhou Changlin’s work. Last week, when the party committee mobilized all factory cadres to plant trees (greening the factory was also part of the plan), Gu Amin said, “Next spring, the factory will have two more rows of shade.” Zhou Changlin, however, said, “The seedlings are good, but they still need a helping hand in wind and rain.” Look, this helping hand is definitely his.
Today, when Gu Amin walks along the broad and peaceful factory avenue to the workshop entrance, a melodious motor sound surprises him. Who came so early to start the machine tool? He walks into the workshop and sees: the indicator light of Xiao Yang’s new precision lathe is flashing red, and in front of the lathe, two white-haired men are leaning together, studying something. The one in work clothes is the technical “Long Dragon Pillar” in the workshop, veteran Turner Lao Pan; the other, sturdy and wearing a People’s cotton-padded jacket, is Zhou Changlin. Zhou points at a shiny metal part in his hand and says something, then Lao Pan presses a button, and the lathe whirs to life.
Uh-oh! Zhou Changlin is inspecting the workshop’s product quality. Gu Amin is secretly surprised: Xiao Yang has only been on this lathe for a week, and the inspector reported that his scrap rate was high for just three days, yet Lao Zhou arrived at the “problem spot” so promptly—good catch. But luckily, yesterday it was decided that Xiao Yang would return to his original lathe. He secretly smiles with relief and turns to enter the party branch office.
Gu Amin leisurely lights a cigarette, spreads out the ten-year plan draft on his desk—today’s pre-shift meeting is to further discuss each item. He feels warm inside; in ten years, the contribution of Workshop Three will surpass that of the entire factory today! But there are also some headaches: the technical strength in the workshop is somewhat weak. At this moment, Gu Amin’s mind drifts back to a scene from the ten-year plan mobilization meeting a week ago:
After the workshop representatives finished speaking, the meeting entered a free discussion. The first to speak was Xiao Bai, secretary of the Youth League branch of Workshop Three. The young man’s words were fiery, and he quickly pointed at Gu Amin: “With the tight production in the fourth quarter, why are the three new precision lathes locked in the warehouse to rust?”
“Three little tigers!” Zhou Changlin, sitting on the stage, elbowed Gu Amin beside him.
“Today’s young people, given a ladder, dare to reach the sky,” Gu Amin said with a bitter smile.
“Ha, then let’s give it to them,” Zhou Changlin said excitedly, “and at critical moments, we must give them a helping hand.”
“Mm… give? Alright, let’s give,” Gu Amin considered briefly, immediately expressed his stance, and won applause from the audience. Whether for the youth or for himself, no one knew.
What was the result? The inspector had a report: the quality of parts processed by the young workers was poor, especially Xiao Yang. Lao Gu had no choice but to decide that Xiao Yang would return to his original job. It took some effort to persuade him, even more so to convince him.
While Gu Amin was thinking, Lao Pan, the eighth-level turner, came in with a somewhat mysterious smile, handing Lao Gu a “letter”—actually a greasy, discarded drawing. Seeing the large characters on the back of the drawing, Gu Amin couldn’t help but smile kindly. The note read:
Amin:
Please investigate how many workers in the entire workshop are due to retire within ten years.
Zhou Changlin, immediately
Gu Amin’s smile disappeared, and his thick eyebrows subtly touched in the middle. He felt a bit uncomfortable, shrugged off his old cotton-padded jacket, and looked at the note again, thinking: What a strange thing! Zhou Changlin is not the head of the personnel department or the union director—why is he concerned about workers’ retirement issues? Then he thought, Zhou is a very strict and highly planned person; it must be some issue in his own workshop that interests him, and—“more bad than good.”
At the end of the pre-shift meeting discussing the ten-year plan, Gu Amin raised the question that the deputy party secretary wanted to know:
“Comrades, please raise your hands if you will retire within ten years.” As he spoke, a trace of a bitter smile flickered across Gu Amin’s long face.
The workshop suddenly fell silent, nearly two hundred workers looked at each other in shock. Lao Pan, the eighth-level turner, was the first to raise his hand; he was due to retire next year. Then, fists as solid as hammers, and rough, chisel-like palms slowly raised, some young workers wanted to laugh but saw the solemn expressions of the old workers, and immediately stopped.
Ten years—what does ten years mean to each of us? Xiao Yang suddenly remembered something from yesterday after work, and his heart suddenly started pounding:
In the evening, Xiao Yang and Xiao Bai played table tennis for a while, then sat on a green bench beside the factory avenue chatting.
Xiao Yang said: “Forget it, I’m not cut out for precision lathe work; I’d better stick to the old trade, and avoid the 'Old Calendar’气.”
Xiao Bai said: “If you do that, you’ll become a ‘Old Calendar’ target. He’s already threatening: no ten years of radish and dried rice, no way to get on such a precision lathe? According to the ‘Old Calendar,’ if you produce defective parts, hum—light deductions from bonuses, heavy discipline!”
The “Old Calendar” is a person, formerly the factory’s process director before the Cultural Revolution, now demoted to inspector in the workshop. He is only about forty, but he always finds the new rules and regulations disagreeable, constantly reminiscing about the “Old Calendar” before, hence the nickname.
“Master Amin told me: ‘All things are about building socialism.’ What can we do?” Xiao Yang said a bit dejectedly.
“Don’t worry, go find him! Don’t forget the resolve from the meeting that day,” Xiao Bai said angrily.
Just as the two argued, a deep voice called out: “Xiao Yang, how old are you this year?”
The two turned around: oh no, their words were overheard by the deputy party secretary. Zhou Changlin, wearing a light gray wool sweater, was nearby, using grass ropes to tie up the trunks of the white poplar trees.
“Twenty.” Xiao Yang stood up and answered.
“During the early stage of the Cultural Revolution, you were a Red Guard, right?” Lao Zhou asked while tying.
“No, I was still a Red Little Soldier.”
“Uh—” Lao Zhou paused his work, wiped his sweat, and kindly smiled at the young man, with three clear wrinkles on his forehead. He thought for a moment and said: “In ten more years, you’ll be thirty. Have you thought about it? Each of you should have a ten-year plan too!”
… Xiao Yang suddenly remembered what Lao Zhou said yesterday, feeling shoulders heavy, and he suddenly wanted to say something. Seeing Gu Amin seriously counting, he sat down again.
Gu Amin was standing on a stool, carefully counting, his hand stopped in mid-air. Even he himself was exactly sixty. Looking at those hands, those familiar faces of old comrades, Lao Gu felt a wave of discomfort. These pioneers of class struggle, masters of technological innovation, all due to retire in ten years! Ah, the dialectics of life are ruthless.
“Meeting adjourned.” Gu Amin jumped down from the stool, waving his hand briskly, seemingly trying to shake off his unhappiness. Back in the office, looking again at the ten-year plan draft, he felt as if he had lost something—couldn’t quite figure out what. He decided to go talk with Zhou Changlin.
The factory was steaming in the fourth quarter. The production team’s office was as tense as usual. The sound of abacuses, phone rings, footsteps coming and going filled the room; on the wall, there were world maps, Chinese maps, production schedules, and a blackboard for leaving messages… truly a command center. Lao Zhou’s desk was empty, and on the glass cover of the desk, there was a shiny part. Gu Amin immediately recognized it as the scrap part Xiao Yang reported a few days ago; he thought: such good steel, a pity it was scrapped. Soon, he noticed that the part was pressed down by a book—the full ten-year plan draft of the entire factory, with a row of large pencil characters on the cover’s blank space that caught his eye:
Workers accidentally scrap steel, but we accidentally scrap talent. The plan is good, but think about it—can we rely solely on us old folks to realize it? In ten years, Workshop Three will have ?% of workers retiring, shouldn’t we treat the youth with the same care and responsibility as the eighth-level master craftsmen treat their products? Everyone has scrapped products before; master craftsmen all started as apprentices, right? We are all cadres who started by forging hammer handles; although our labor has decreased somewhat now, we are engaged in another kind of work that doesn’t allow for scrap. I suggest the party committee discuss this issue in conjunction with the ten-year plan.
Gu Amin’s eyes blurred, feeling as if the deputy party secretary was directly asking him these serious questions. He saw Zhou Changlin’s white hair at the temples, the wrinkles on his forehead, and the light in his eyes. Ah, Lao Zhou, how far are you thinking in this twenty-square-meter office! Gu Amin picked up a pencil from the desk, carefully filled in “30%” on Zhou Changlin’s suggestion. Just now, he felt like he had lost something—now he found a shining “person” character, laid across his heart. Person—that’s such an important factor! Every position in the revolutionary cause needs a successor!
“Where’s Lao Zhou?” Gu Amin asked the person opposite his desk, who mouth to the wall, on the message board, wrote Zhou Changlin, participating in the discussion of the ten-year plan draft.
Gu Amin once again walked along the factory avenue. He saw those rows of white poplar trees swaying in the wind, and couldn’t help but recall the scene from a few days ago when he and Lao Zhou planted trees together, “In the face of wind and rain, we must give them a helping hand.” How profound the meaning in those words. He also thought of the inspector “Old Calendar” borrowing Xiao Yang’s matter to boast about how good the “old rules” are, and couldn’t help clenched fists, quickening his steps. He made up his mind and decided to hold a study session in the workshop.
The sun shone on the broad factory avenue. In the distance, along the straight, tall white poplar trees, Xiao Yang was walking toward him. It was around eight or nine in the morning.