Chapter 132: New Blood

After completing the full "Purification" process, the children were housed in quarantine station dormitories—gender-segregated, with over twenty beds each. The double-bunked arrangement was a novelty; those assigned to top bunks had to climb up. But each child had their own bed with a clean straw mattress and a thin felt blanket. For children who had been sleeping rough for months, it was practically heaven.

They were also issued large ceramic cups and washcloths—actual towels would have required knitting machines that could not yet be produced. Toothbrushes, however, had entered production surprisingly quickly: wooden-handled with horse-hair bristles, hand-drilled and hand-bundled. The Industrial Department had been amazed when local women, working from nothing but drawings and specifications, using only the simplest hand tools, managed to produce functional toothbrushes. Output remained low—only twenty per day. As for rinse cups and eating bowls, supplies were limited, so fragile glazed ceramics had to suffice. Without stainless steel, wooden-turned spoons would have to do. Even these simplest daily goods could not be fully self-supplied due to material shortages.

The fierce maidservant assigned beds—younger children below, older ones above—and laid down a litany of rules. They could go outside, but only to the doorway clearing. No visiting neighboring dormitories. Bowls and cups were personal and not to be shared. Everything had to be placed on shelves in proper order. Everyone felt stifled by the endless regulations. For those who violated the rules, the most effective punishment was simple: skipped meals.

"Mealtime!" someone announced as bells clanged outside. Large lidded tin buckets arrived bearing steaming food. The first meal was a thick fish cake congee—minced fish cakes with vegetables, nutritionally complete. Everyone ate their fill, but there were no seconds; Wu Nanhai feared overeating would upset their weakened stomachs. Still, three meals daily were provided from the start to boost their nutrition. The Medical Group understood well that many epidemic diseases correlated directly with malnutrition.

During the forty-day quarantine observation period, the children could not remain idle—the transmigrators were not running a charity. Salt Field Village's night school sent two of its star graduates to teach literacy and Mandarin. Everyone received slate boards and chalk. Mornings were devoted to study, afternoons to work. Bopu's rattan and wood factory sent simple handwork: processing rattan, weaving rattan ware, splitting bamboo, sanding wood boards. Children who showed particular dexterity were recorded, their aptitudes noted for future training decisions. Before dinner came free time for games; after dinner came cleaning, bathing, then mandatory sleep. The transmigrators did not provide dormitory lighting, but every nightfall, many children gathered at the chain-link fences to watch the flickering lights in the red buildings by the harbor.

For most of the children—Tian Liang among them—life had become satisfactory. There was food and clothing, clean rooms without fleas. His scabies healed after several applications of ointment. The daily lessons and discipline were tolerable prices to pay.

Some of the older children, however—those grown wild from years of wandering—had zero interest in literacy and refused to learn what they called the short-hairs' awkward neither-donkey-nor-horse Mandarin. Others simply could not tolerate the discipline at all. After several failed attempts at hunger punishments, the most stubborn were transferred to production team apprentice squads.

Tian Liang often wanted to check on Guo Fu in the girls' dormitory, but high bamboo fences separated them and the connecting gate was always locked. Even when he peered through the fence at the crowds on the opposite side, distinguishing her among all those faces proved nearly impossible. Eventually, he gave up trying.

Ma Peng pushed a small wheelbarrow along the field paths, its wooden wheels creaking beneath the weight. On the cart sat his family's sole possessions—and his elderly mother.

"Peng'er, just going like this—will the short-hair masters actually accept us?"

"Ma, I've told you many times: family members are accepted, however many come. Chief Wu said so personally."

"Ai, ai—you really... Why did you quit Mr. Fu's job? Mr. Fu treated us well."

"He treated us okay—but aren't the short-hairs better?" Ma Peng pushed the cart with renewed energy. "Working for short-hairs, every meal has rice—plus fish! Can Fu Buer match that? During busy season he only gives sweet potato rice, and eat too much and his wife starts grumbling."

As they talked, a carrying-pole team came up behind them—baskets full of unhulled rice—hurrying toward Bairren Fortress.

"Ma, see?" Ma Peng smacked his lips proudly. "They're all going to East Gate Market to sell grain. These short-hair chiefs have more money than there's water in the sea." Working for the short-hairs felt far more respectable than laboring for the village landlord Fu Buer.

The lead carrier turned around. "Young brother, also heading to East Gate? Taking your mother sightseeing?"

"I'm laboring for the short-hairs. Bringing my mother along to live with me."

The man laughed heartily. "Young brother has guts! Daring to work for them."

"Nothing to it—short-hairs aren't three-headed, six-armed, man-eating monsters. They're actually decent folk." Ma Peng rambled on about being captured along with Fu Buer, his experiences afterward, and various other tales. "The way I figure it, working for anyone's the same. At least short-hairs feed you well."

The man nodded. "Exactly so. Take our master—he was initially terrified of short-hairs. Then he heard they were buying grain at good prices and his thoughts stirred. Rushed to deliver grain. Official autumn taxes he delays and stalls over, but here? Sold once, and now this is already his second trip."

"Rich folks just chase money."

Talking along the way, they reached East Gate Market. In barely half a month, the place had become bustling. Among clusters of bamboo sheds, red-brick buildings stood prominent. Grain sellers' carts and carrying poles formed long queues. Opposite stood the famous countywide "Welfare Society" shop, crowded with customers. Besides commoners, even landlord types browsed inside, bargaining with the attractively blue-clothed women who staffed the counters. Ma Peng had left nearly a month ago, and now everything seemed fresh and new. He felt increasingly certain that returning had been the right decision—the short-hair chiefs were clearly not leaving.

He parted from the grain-selling team. Ma Peng's destination was the production team camp outside South Gate by the Wenlan River. Passing construction sites along the way, he saw many unfamiliar workers busy building—not with bamboo or rammed earth, but with bright-red bricks. Ma Peng could never have imagined that this would someday become their home.

The Bairren Production Team's return rate proved astonishing. Wu De had originally estimated that sixty to seventy percent would come back after the harvest. Instead, over ninety-five percent returned—and many brought their families. Some who had not even been part of the original team, hoping for better treatment, followed along uninvited. Combined, the numbers reached one hundred twenty percent of the original workforce. This exceeded even their most optimistic estimates. The Committee was overjoyed; they had previously been uncertain whether they could attract popular support. Apparently, they had done well.

The migrants from Damei Village—now officially designated as Wu De's "Bairren Production Team Two"—experienced the busiest harvest season of their lives. Men were sent logging, quarrying, digging, and firing bricks. Women spread, winnowed, and aired grain. The carrying teams delivering rice to the riverside mills flowed in an endless stream—Bairren Fortress now had over thirteen hundred mouths to feed, requiring one and a half tons of rice daily. Ma Qianzhu had instructed that rice milling should produce only brown rice, not polished, to preserve nutrients while increasing yield. Older women helped in the kitchens. Even half-grown children worked in the fields. From first cock crow to nightfall, the workday exceeded twelve hours.

But despite the exhaustion, no one complained. The short-hairs' provisions were excellent—no cooking was needed, as three hot meals were delivered directly to the worksites. Rice was unlimited, and lunch and dinner came with meat and fish, substantial and richly oiled. Such meals they had never seen, let alone eaten. And there were wages, too, though they came as colorful paper slips. Veterans from Production Team One had explained that these slips were valuable—they could be exchanged for rice, fish, and meat at the cafeterias. Those with elderly parents or children to support could feed their entire families on these work-point vouchers.

Ma Qianzhu had come from large state enterprises and felt nostalgic for the old SOE welfare model that extended benefits to workers' families. Noticing that many women could not work because they had young children to care for—wasted labor, in his view—he established the first nursery, freeing mothers for productive work. He recruited Fang Yijing for the role of nursery director; she had formerly been a childcare teacher and had managed the transmigrators' dormitories before becoming the residential area committee director. The first step was selecting women for basic childcare and hygiene training. Ma Qianzhu understood that changing long-term habits could not be forced, so he turned to economic incentives instead: families who enrolled their toddlers in the nursery would have their children's three daily meals provided by the cafeteria.

(End of Chapter)