看到AI蒸蒸日上，尤其是用了ChatGPT一段時間後，前些日子，心血來潮地想，好像可以用AI來翻譯我的文章。這樣，可以讓只能讀懂英文的孩子們，了解一下媽媽筆下的大千世界。跟先生一講，人家嘻嘻一笑，曰：“我已經試了ChatGPT和Grok，感覺中譯英，尤其是文學作品，Grok翻譯得更佳。”

我是喜歡探索新鮮的事物的人。昨天乾脆把《憶海拾貝》中的一篇文章，直接扔給了兩位AI大咖，出的結果果然不同。不過，我很難說哪一個譯文占絕對的優勢。今天乾脆把原文和譯文都貼在這裡，讓大家評頭論足。我有一個感覺，那就是，兩位AI都沒有翻譯出，原文裡咱中國大雜院當年的味道。

原文：

大雜院的芸芸眾生

  我的部分童年和少年是在姑姑家的大院裡度過的。

  瀋陽，在五六十年代有許多小平房，尤其在瀋陽的大西邊門和小西邊門一帶。姑姑家是在瀋陽當年的天光電影院附近，從我家可以在南市場坐有軌道的電車，咣噹咣噹地晃到姑姑家。

  姑姑家的房子是那種紅磚小平房。這趟平房裡住着幾戶人家。

  我的大伯家就在姑姑家的後院，不過大伯家是那種有小院子的舊式三間窗明几淨的青磚大瓦房。長大以後我才知道，大伯家的房子和跟他家一個大院裡的其他房子都是我家的祖產，是爺爺給他的後代留下的，新中國成立後，這些祖產都交公，變成了政府的產業。

  姑姑家房子正門對着的前院兒，也是大伯家那種有小套院的舊式大瓦房。小時候，我一直沒明白，為什麼就姑姑家那趟房子比較小、比較簡陋。

  現在回頭想想，忽然領悟。姑姑家前後的房子都是新中國成立前的大院，間距很大，房子蓋的比較考究，而姑姑家的這一趟房子，是新中國成立後，政府在兩趟老房子中間，又加蓋的一條簡易小平房。

  這趟小平房，住了五、六戶人家，它和前面對着的青磚瓦房，合在一起，有那麼一個孩子們可以玩的寬一點的過道。

  小平房的五、六戶人家，再加上青磚房的兩、三戶人家，這八、九戶人家就成了低頭不見抬頭見的鄰居。

  緊挨着姑姑家的是老侯家，現在想想這家的媽媽是一個非常認真仔細的人。對侯家的爸爸沒有什麼印象，而深深印在我腦海里的，是這家哥兒三個中的老二。這老二應該與我差不多大小，也許小那麼一歲。二小子是侯家哥兒三個最聰明的一個，也是侯媽媽的驕傲。在侯家三個小子中，二小子眉眼長得最順。二小子比老實木訥的老大活潑，會說話。又比猴精、淘氣的小三兒懂禮貌，在大院裡挺招人喜歡的。

   一年夏天，二小子不知道擱哪兒掏弄來了一把二胡，從此，這左鄰右舍包括我，都領教了二胡的厲害。不知道您聽沒聽過，無師自學二胡的人拉二胡，那聲音，咋形容呢？文明點說吧，像發出顫音的琴弦，在你的心尖上抖動。那聲音讓人聽的，一晚上一晚上直起雞皮疙瘩。有一段時間，這二小子一拉琴，連最寵他的侯媽媽，見了大家都低頭走路不好意思。可這二小子還真有一股子韌勁兒，練琴那是一天都不拉。夏去秋來，前後整整練了有那麼大半年。後來還真是功夫不負有心人，這二胡硬生生地讓二小子給拉得是模是調了。而那侯媽媽，也開始得意地在院子裡挺着胸膛、揚着笑臉走來走去。前兩年，看見現在住的美國中部小城，居然有個學生民樂隊，裡面有一排孩子拉二胡，當時就悄悄地出了一口氣，噓，還好，我跟他們都不是鄰居。

  在姑姑家這排房子裡，還有一家印象深刻的鄰居----賈家。賈家是姐兒三個，最小的小蘭與我同歲，也是我最要好的玩伴。

  當年，賈家的父親，應該是市里管服務行業的小頭目。記得表姐小碟，常常領我去浴池洗澡。那時人們家裡沒有浴室，洗澡都必須去澡堂子，而國家擁有的澡堂子好像還不太多，無論何時去哪個澡堂子，都會有很多人在排隊。我們每次去，只要小碟姐提一下賈伯伯，我們就不用排長隊。可見，走後門文革前就有，只是那時都是老百姓小打小鬧的事情而已。

   小時候，在小碟姐姐心裡，我一定是她可以隨便把玩的小妹，只要找到機會，她就會搞出各種稀奇古怪的事情來擺布我。一次，小碟和賈家的姐姐們商量，要給小蘭和我燙頭髮，記得當時我的心真地是猛烈的跳了幾下。那年代，燙頭可是比較奢侈的事，媽媽有一張照片，頭髮燙了，還做了一個漂亮的髮型，真是美麗無比，我那時會經常偷偷地看這張照片，心裡生出無限的遐想。

  過了沒幾日，賈伯伯從班上借來了燙頭的工具。那可是六十年代，雖然不用火鉗子燙頭髮了，但與那區別也不大。那個工具是一個圓的大圈，下面有許多小夾子，表姐和賈家二姐----小靜，先把我們的頭髮用小夾子一一卷好，再給那個大圈子通了電，幾十分鐘後，我和小蘭的頭髮都變成了捲毛獅子狗。最恐怖的是我的頭髮，由於先天比較柔軟，電燙後，基本呈小細麻卷狀態，就像現在大家看到的黑人頭髮差不多。唉，本來想美一把，沒美成，有那么半年，那些細卷頑強地站在我的頭上。過了好長一段時間，新的頭髮已經長得很長了，那些卷依然曲附在我的頭髮末端，姑姑只好把我的頭髮剪成短短的。

  玩完了我們的頭髮，安靜了不出幾天，小碟又開始出了新花樣，要領着我和小蘭去照相館照相。反正只要是領我和小蘭玩，姑姑和賈伯伯都會樂呵呵地給予經濟援助，誰讓我們倆都是家裡的老幺，是掌上明珠的人物呢！

   要說燙頭髮，我的確是很嚮往過，照相，我可不想玩。原因是小碟老是說我不如燕兒漂亮，在我小小的心裡，認為不漂亮就不應該去照相。於是小碟，為了她以前說過的話，開始了艱苦卓絕的遊說工作，終於，在她許諾了很多事情後，我和小蘭被幾個姐姐打扮好了，去照相館拍照。

  還能記得那天是穿了一條白底粉色斜條的泡泡紗連衣裙，左右肩各有一排白色的小紐扣，裙子是媽媽從上海給我買的，很素雅清亮。小蘭沒有這麼漂亮的連衣裙，但也穿了一件小花褂子，讓小靜姐給扎了兩條小辮子，一副活潑快樂的樣子。

  到了照相館，我又開始後悔，不想照相了，這可把幾個姐姐急壞了，一頓軟硬兼施，把我和小蘭推到了鏡頭前。攝影師按下了快門，鏡頭裡留下了小蘭天真燦爛的笑容，和一臉安靜的我。

  後來我的父母接我回家上學，文革也開始了。有那麼幾年，家裡總是動動蕩蕩的，小蘭的父親也受到了衝擊，再去姑姑家，已經找不到小蘭，她家搬走了。

  又過了許多年，我已經上大學了，春節去給姑姑拜年。表哥忽然問我，“飛鴻，還記得老賈家嗎？”我說，“小蘭是我兒時的好友，當然是不會忘記的。”表哥說，他前些日子在街上碰到了賈家的大姐----娟子，嘮了半天嗑。娟子跟他說，她家文革走五七，去了農村。因為賈伯伯不是技術幹部，她家在農村待了許多年，最近才回城。又說，賈伯伯很糊塗，去了農村以後，很怕鄉里的人欺負他們，去了不久就逼着娟子嫁給隊長的兒子，娟子那時已經二十歲了，跟她父親頂着，堅決不干。賈伯伯又逼小靜嫁，小靜那時才十八，稀里糊塗聽了父親的話，現在孩子都有好幾個了，她們全家回城，把個眼淚汪汪的小靜留在鄉下。又說小蘭考上了中專，也在念書呢。

   在這個大雜院裡，還有一家很給我深刻印象的鄰居，是住在姑姑家對面的青磚房裡的蘇家。蘇家除了自己家有個小院子外，房子也很寬敞。蘇家是新中國成立前的資本家，其實房子本來就是人家的，只不過新中國成立後，政府給他們留了一部分，把他們其他的房產都分給了別人。

   蘇家大門基本是跟姑姑家門對着的，中間隔了有近十米。聽表姐講，蘇伯伯是以前工廠的老闆，廠子在新中國成立後給公私合營了，但好像還給他留了一個職位，收入也還可以。蘇伯伯每天晚上總是喝兩盅酒，每次見到他，臉膛都紅紅的，人非常的隨和。蘇伯母是家庭婦女，脾氣很好，平時很喜歡與我們這些小孩子們聚堆兒。

  蘇家的小兒子與我和小蘭同歲，但比我和小蘭都大幾個月，院子裡的大人都叫他蘇三兒，我和小蘭叫他蘇三哥。這蘇三哥小的時候常常是拖着鼻涕，說話還有一點磕巴，不過心眼兒很實在。我們一起玩，無論幹什麼他都會讓着小蘭和我。有的時候院子外面的孩子們欺負了我和小蘭，他也會挺身而出，給我們撐腰。

   蘇家給我留下深印象的，並不是蘇三兒，而是他的大哥，大家都叫他蘇大哥。這蘇大哥比蘇三兒至少大十幾歲，在我們還是混混沌沌的孩童時，他就已經參軍當解放軍了，所以，蘇家是光榮的軍屬。能記得以前日子的人，一定知道，那時候，一家子裡有軍人，可不得了，全家都跟着沾光。如果讓我形容，蹦進腦海的竟然是，“一人得道、雞犬升天”這句話。

  真正對蘇大哥有記憶，是在我少年時代。初見蘇大哥，留在腦海里幾個閃亮的字是，英氣逼人。從來就沒見過這麼濃眉大眼，高高大大，又十分剛陽帥氣的男子漢。當時蘇大哥正好與未來的蘇大嫂處對象，第一次見這個准蘇大嫂，我是震驚不小，世上真有這麼美麗的女子，秀美、婉約、文靜，他們站在一起真是天之絕配，讓我這顆少年之心，暗嘆和羨慕了很久很久。

  從童年到少年，我都在這個大院進進出出。這裡的每一家每一戶，是近鄰也是親人，那時大家的日子都是在一起過的。多年前回國去探親，正好表哥表姐來訪，說起以前的日子和那個大院，表哥和表姐告訴我，那個大院早已不復存在，現在那裡已經是一片高樓大廈了，言語之間流露着住高樓的快樂。我只有在心裡暗嘆，童年，那溫馨、純真、快樂的歲月，真的成了埋在心底里永遠的記憶了。

ChatGPT譯文：

The Many Lives of the Courtyard

A part of my childhood and teenage years was spent in my aunt’s courtyard.

In the 1950s and 60s, Shenyang had many small bungalows, especially around the areas of the Western Gate and Little Western Gate. My aunt’s home was near the old Tianguang Cinema in Shenyang. From my house, I could take a tram from the South Market and rattle my way to my aunt’s place.

My aunt’s house was a small red-brick bungalow, part of a row of similar houses that accommodated multiple families.

My eldest uncle’s house was in the backyard of my aunt’s home, but unlike my aunt’s, his was a traditional three-room house with blue bricks and a tiled roof, complete with a small courtyard. It wasn’t until I grew older that I learned these houses, along with others in the same courtyard, were part of my family’s ancestral property. They had been passed down by my grandfather, but after the founding of the People’s Republic of China, these properties were handed over to the government and became state-owned.

The house facing the front yard was another traditional blue-brick tiled house like my uncle’s. As a child, I never quite understood why my aunt’s house was smaller and more modest in comparison.

Looking back now, I suddenly realize that my aunt’s house was part of a newer addition. The original courtyard, with its spacious layout and well-built homes, had existed before the founding of the People’s Republic. My aunt’s row of small bungalows, however, had been built afterward, squeezed between two older buildings as a simple housing solution by the government.

This row of small bungalows housed five or six families, forming a community with the two or three families in the adjacent blue-brick houses. In total, eight or nine households became neighbors who saw each other daily.

Next door to my aunt’s house was the Hou family. Thinking back, I realize that Mrs. Hou was a meticulous woman. I don’t recall much about Mr. Hou, but what remains vivid in my memory is their second son. He was about my age, perhaps a year younger. Among the three Hou brothers, he was the smartest and the pride of his mother. He was also the most charming—more talkative than the reserved eldest brother, yet more polite than the mischievous youngest. He was well-liked in the courtyard.

One summer, this second son somehow got hold of an erhu, a traditional Chinese instrument. From then on, everyone in the neighborhood, myself included, had to endure his playing. If you’ve ever heard an amateur learning the erhu, you’d understand—it’s like a vibrating string scraping against your nerves, making your skin crawl. Even his doting mother was embarrassed whenever he played. But he was persistent. He practiced every single day for more than half a year. Eventually, his efforts paid off, and his playing became more tuneful. Mrs. Hou, once ashamed, began walking around the courtyard with pride. Years later, when I saw a group of students playing traditional Chinese music in the American Midwest, I secretly breathed a sigh of relief—thankfully, none of them were my neighbors.

Among our neighbors, I also remember the Jia family. They had three daughters, and the youngest, Xiaolan, was my age and my closest childhood friend.

Mr. Jia worked in municipal services. I recall that my cousin Xiaodie often took me to the public bathhouse. Back then, few homes had private bathrooms, and state-owned bathhouses were always crowded. But whenever Xiaodie mentioned Mr. Jia’s name, we were ushered in without waiting. Looking back, I realize that backdoor dealings existed even before the Cultural Revolution, though they were on a much smaller scale.

Xiaodie, being older, often treated me like a little doll to play with. One day, she and her sisters decided to curl my hair. I was thrilled—getting a perm was a luxury! My mother had a photo of herself with curled hair, looking absolutely stunning. I often admired that picture, imagining how beautiful I might look with curls.

A few days later, Mr. Jia borrowed a curling machine from work. In the 1960s, though curling irons had advanced beyond fire-heated tongs, they were still rudimentary. The device had a large circular frame with multiple small clips. My cousin and Jia’s second sister, Xiaojing, carefully wrapped my hair in the clips and turned on the heat. After what felt like an eternity, Xiaolan and I emerged with tightly curled locks—like fluffy poodles. My hair, naturally soft, turned into tiny springy coils, resembling an Afro. Instead of feeling beautiful, I was stuck with this look for months until my aunt finally had to cut my hair short.

Not long after, Xiaodie had another idea—she wanted to take me and Xiaolan to a photo studio. Since our families adored us as the youngest children, we easily secured funding for this venture.

While I had dreamed of curled hair, I wasn’t keen on having my picture taken. Xiaodie often said I wasn’t as pretty as another girl, Yaner, which made me believe I didn’t deserve to be in photos. After much persuasion and many promises, Xiaodie finally convinced me to go. I wore a white and pink-striped dress with little buttons on the shoulders—one my mother had brought from Shanghai. Xiaolan, not having such a fancy dress, wore a floral vest and had her hair tied into two braids, looking lively and cheerful.

At the studio, I hesitated again, regretting my decision. But my cousins were relentless, pushing Xiaolan and me in front of the camera. The photo captured Xiaolan’s radiant smile and my composed expression.

Later, my parents took me back home for school, and the Cultural Revolution began. Our family faced turmoil, and Mr. Jia was also affected. When I returned to my aunt’s house, the Jia family had already moved away.

Years later, while visiting my aunt for the New Year, my cousin asked, “Feihong, do you remember the Jia family?”

“Of course,” I said, “Xiaolan was my closest childhood friend.”

He told me he had recently run into their eldest daughter, Juanzi. During the Cultural Revolution, their family had been sent to the countryside. Since Mr. Jia wasn’t a technical worker, they stayed there for years. Juanzi had resisted an arranged marriage, but Xiaojing, only eighteen at the time, was forced to marry the brigade leader’s son. By the time their family returned to the city, Xiaojing had several children and was left behind in the village. Meanwhile, Xiaolan had managed to get into a technical school and was still studying.

Another unforgettable neighbor was the Su family, who lived in a blue-brick house across from my aunt’s. The Sus were former capitalists, and though much of their property was confiscated, they were allowed to keep part of their home.

The Su family had three sons. The youngest, Su San’er, was my age. He was a shy boy with a runny nose and a stutter, but he was kind and always protected Xiaolan and me from bullies.

However, the most striking member of the Su family was their eldest son, Su Dage. He had joined the army, making their family a “glorious military household.” In those days, having a soldier in the family was prestigious. I vividly remember Su Dage—tall, strong, and strikingly handsome. He was courting a beautiful, elegant woman at the time. Seeing them together was like witnessing a fairy tale, leaving a lasting impression on my young heart.

From childhood to adolescence, I wandered in and out of that courtyard, where neighbors were like family. Years later, when I returned to visit, my cousins told me the courtyard had been replaced by towering buildings. While they celebrated modern living, I silently mourned the loss of that warm, simple, and joyful era, now buried deep in my memories.

Grok的譯文：

The Multitude of Lives in the Courtyard

Part of my childhood and adolescence was spent in my aunt’s courtyard in Shenyang. In the 1950s and 60s, Shenyang was dotted with many small bungalows, especially around the areas of Daxibianmen and Xiaoxibianmen. My aunt’s home was near the Tianguang Cinema of that time. From my house, I could take the clanging tram from the South Market and sway my way to her place.

My aunt lived in a row of modest red-brick bungalows, shared by several families. My uncle’s family lived in the backyard behind my aunt’s place. Their home was an old-style, three-room house made of green bricks with a tiled roof, complete with a small courtyard and bright, clean windows. It wasn’t until I grew older that I learned this house, along with others in the same compound, was ancestral property—left by my grandfather to his descendants. After the founding of New China, these properties were handed over to the state and became government assets.

The front yard facing my aunt’s house also featured an old-style, green-brick house with a small courtyard, similar to my uncle’s. As a child, I never understood why my aunt’s row of houses was smaller and simpler compared to the others. Looking back now, it suddenly dawns on me: the houses in front and behind my aunt’s were part of a large pre-revolutionary compound, built with generous spacing and careful craftsmanship. My aunt’s row, however, was a simple addition constructed by the government after 1949, squeezed between the two older rows.

This row of bungalows housed five or six families. Together with the two or three families in the green-brick house across the way, they formed a small community of eight or nine households—neighbors who saw each other constantly. The space between the bungalows and the green-brick house created a slightly wider passageway where the children could play.

Next door to my aunt lived the Hou family. Thinking back, the mother of this household was an incredibly meticulous and earnest woman. I don’t have much memory of the father, but the second of their three sons left a deep impression on me. This second son, roughly my age or perhaps a year younger, was the brightest of the three brothers and the pride of Mrs. Hou. Among the trio, he had the most refined features. He was livelier and more talkative than the honest, reserved eldest, yet more polite and less mischievous than the third, a little rascal. He was quite popular in the courtyard.

One summer, this second son somehow got his hands on an erhu (a two-stringed Chinese instrument). From then on, everyone in the neighborhood—including me—experienced the full force of his self-taught erhu playing. Have you ever heard someone play the erhu without any formal training? How can I describe that sound politely? It was like trembling strings quivering right at the tip of your heart. It gave you goosebumps night after night. For a while, whenever he played, even Mrs. Hou, who adored him, would walk around the courtyard with her head down, too embarrassed to meet anyone’s gaze. But this boy had real grit. He practiced every single day without fail. From summer to autumn, he kept at it for a good six months. And in the end, his persistence paid off—the erhu began to sound like actual music. Mrs. Hou started walking around the courtyard again, chest puffed out, a proud smile on her face. A couple of years ago, I noticed a student folk music band in the small Midwestern American town where I now live. Among them was a row of kids playing the erhu. I quietly let out a sigh of relief—phew, at least I’m not their neighbor.

Another family that left a strong impression in my aunt’s row was the Jia family. They had three sisters, the youngest of whom, Xiaolan, was my age and my best playmate. Back then, Mr. Jia, the father, seemed to be a minor official overseeing the service industry in the city. I remember my cousin Xiaodie often taking me to the public bathhouse. In those days, homes didn’t have bathrooms, so everyone went to bathhouses to wash. State-owned bathhouses were scarce, and no matter which one you went to or when, there were always long lines. But whenever Xiaodie mentioned Mr. Jia’s name, we’d skip the queue. It’s clear that pulling strings existed even before the Cultural Revolution—it was just small-scale, everyday stuff for ordinary folks back then.

In Xiaodie’s eyes, I must have been a little sister she could toy with at will. Whenever she got the chance, she’d come up with all sorts of bizarre ideas to mess with me. One time, she and the older Jia sisters decided to give Xiaolan and me perms. I remember my heart pounding wildly at the thought. In those days, getting a perm was a luxury. My mom had a photo where her hair was permed into a stunning style—she looked absolutely beautiful. I’d often sneak peeks at that picture, my mind drifting into endless daydreams.

A few days later, Mr. Jia borrowed some perming tools from his workplace. This was the 1960s—though they no longer used heated tongs, the equipment wasn’t much different. It was a big round contraption with lots of little clips dangling from it. Xiaodie and Xiaojing (the second Jia sister) rolled our hair into the clips, plugged in the device, and after a few dozen minutes, Xiaolan and I emerged with hair like curly poodle dogs. The worst part was my hair—naturally soft to begin with, it turned into tight, frizzy coils after the perm, almost like the hair you see on Black people today. Sigh. I’d hoped to look pretty, but it was a disaster. For half a year, those stubborn curls perched defiantly atop my head. Even after new hair grew out long enough, the curls clung to the ends, forcing my aunt to chop my hair short.

After playing with our hair, Xiaodie quieted down for a few days—only to come up with a new scheme: taking Xiaolan and me to a photo studio. As long as it involved dragging us along, my aunt and Mr. Jia would happily chip in some money. After all, Xiaolan and I were the youngest in our families, the little darlings everyone doted on.

I’d always dreamed of getting a perm, but photos? I wasn’t keen. Xiaodie often said I wasn’t as pretty as Yan’er, another girl, and in my young mind, I figured if I wasn’t pretty, I shouldn’t bother with pictures. So Xiaodie, to make up for her past comments, launched a relentless campaign to convince me. After a barrage of promises, she and the older sisters dressed Xiaolan and me up and dragged us to the studio.

I still remember wearing a white dress with pink diagonal stripes, made of bubble gauze, with a row of small white buttons on each shoulder. It was a gift from my mom, bought in Shanghai—simple yet elegant. Xiaolan didn’t have a dress that fancy, but she wore a floral jacket, and Xiaojing braided her hair into two little pigtails, giving her a lively, cheerful look. At the studio, I started having second thoughts and didn’t want to pose. The sisters panicked, coaxing and prodding until they finally shoved Xiaolan and me in front of the camera. The photographer snapped the shot, capturing Xiaolan’s bright, innocent smile and my quiet, reluctant face.

Later, my parents took me back home to start school, and the Cultural Revolution began. For a few years, everything was chaotic. Xiaolan’s father was targeted, and when I visited my aunt’s again, Xiaolan was gone—her family had moved away.

Years later, I was in college and went to my aunt’s for the Spring Festival. Out of the blue, my cousin asked, “Feihong, do you still remember the Jia family?” I replied, “Xiaolan was my childhood best friend—how could I forget?” He said he’d recently run into Juanzi, the eldest Jia sister, on the street and chatted for a while. Juanzi told him their family had been sent to the countryside during the Cultural Revolution under the “May 7th” directive. Since Mr. Jia wasn’t a technical cadre, they stayed there for years, only recently returning to the city. She said Mr. Jia had been paranoid in the countryside, fearing the locals would bully them. Not long after arriving, he forced Juanzi, then 20, to marry the team leader’s son. Juanzi stood her ground and refused. So he pressured Xiaojing, who was only 18, and she reluctantly obeyed. Now Xiaojing had several kids and was left behind in the village, teary-eyed, when the family returned to the city. As for Xiaolan, she’d gotten into a technical school and was studying.

Another family that left a deep mark on me in this courtyard was the Su family, who lived in the green-brick house across from my aunt’s. Besides having their own little yard, their home was spacious. The Su family had been capitalists before 1949, and the house originally belonged to them. After the founding of New China, the government let them keep part of it, redistributing the rest to others.

Their front door faced my aunt’s, separated by about ten meters. My cousin told me Mr. Su had been a factory owner before the revolution. After 1949, his factory was merged into a public-private partnership, but he retained a decent position and income. Every evening, Mr. Su would have a couple of drinks, his face always flushed when I saw him. He was a warm, easygoing man. Mrs. Su was a housewife with a gentle temper, fond of hanging out with us kids.

Their youngest son, Su San’er (Third Brother Su), was the same age as Xiaolan and me, though a few months older. The adults in the courtyard called him Su San’er, while Xiaolan and I called him “Brother Su San.” As a kid, he often had a runny nose and a slight stutter, but he was kindhearted and always let Xiaolan and me have our way when we played. If kids from outside the courtyard bullied us, he’d step up and defend us.

But the one who truly stood out in the Su family wasn’t Su San’er—it was his eldest brother, known as Big Brother Su. He was at least a decade older than Su San’er. By the time we were still muddled little kids, he’d already joined the People’s Liberation Army, making the Su family a proud military household. Anyone who remembers those days knows how prestigious it was to have a soldier in the family—everyone basked in the glory. If I had to describe it, the phrase that pops into my mind is, “When one person attains the Way, even the chickens and dogs ascend to heaven.”

My real memory of Big Brother Su began in my teenage years. The first time I saw him, a few dazzling words flashed in my mind: heroic and striking. I’d never seen such a tall, broad-shouldered man with thick brows, big eyes, and a rugged, handsome air. At the time, he was courting his future wife, and when I first saw her, I was stunned. Could there really be such a beautiful woman in the world—graceful, refined, serene? Standing together, they were a match made in heaven, leaving my teenage heart quietly marveling and envious for a long, long time.

From childhood to adolescence, I came and went in this courtyard. Every family here was both a neighbor and kin—we lived our days together. Years ago, when I returned to China to visit relatives, my cousins dropped by. We reminisced about the old days and that courtyard. They told me it no longer exists—replaced by a sprawl of high-rise buildings. Their words carried the joy of living in modern towers. But in my heart, I could only sigh. Childhood—those warm, innocent, joyful years—has truly become a memory buried forever deep within me.