**Chapter 847: Aiding the Soviet Union (4)**

Bukharin was the theoretical soul within the CPSU. When he spoke of China's ideological challenge to the Soviet Union, his logic was clear and his details comprehensive. Beria was the practical executor; while Bukharin spoke, Beria appeared calm and expressionless, yet he was constantly monitoring Stalin's reactions.

Beria knew well that while the USSR needed Chinese aid, Stalin could not allow that aid to create new "line struggles" within the country. He noticed that even if Stalin didn't particularly like Bukharin, he maintained a silent support during the latter's presentation.

Having confirmed Stalin's stance, Beria asked after Bukharin finished the first stage of his report: "In which areas does Comrade Bukharin believe we need to be especially cautious?"

If it had been someone like Trotsky, he would have started lecturing Beria on his requirements. To Beria's surprise, Bukharin replied, "The specific work is for Comrade Beria to decide; I am merely stating my views."

This "passing the ball" tactic was indeed suited to the moment: Bukharin did the talking, Beria did the doing. Both were serving Stalin.

Knowing this, Beria stopped communicating with Bukharin and turned to Stalin. "General Secretary, do you have any further instructions?" No matter how much Bukharin talked, if Stalin didn't speak, Beria wouldn't adopt a single word of it.

Stalin was also calculating. As the war progressed, especially after the loss of Ukraine, Soviet coal and iron production had plummeted, and industrial and agricultural output had taken a massive hit. At such a time, Chinese aid would inevitably trigger domestic expectations and goodwill toward China. Stalin knew this was unavoidable; he simply wanted to prevent China from using the opportunity to interfere in internal Soviet affairs or stir up a new round of ideological strife.

Facing Beria's question, Stalin believed Beria understood the stakes and replied, "Comrade Beria, submit a proposal to me."

Beria returned to his office and convened a meeting. The KGB had already formulated a plan; now it just needed to reinforce the points Stalin cared about. The core staff quickly proposed specific methods: since the goal was to isolate the political influence of Chinese aid personnel from Soviet workers, the best way was not through hard restrictions on their movement, but by filling their non-working time with social events like dances and dinners.

Regarding potential issues in the workplace, the Party Committees of Soviet enterprises receiving aid were instructed to strengthen internal education, ensuring technical staff and workers focused entirely on accelerating production for the war effort. Production teams were to be rotated frequently while learning from Chinese engineers and technicians, preventing long-term exposure to the same individuals.

In selecting the core personnel for training, political screening was to be rigorous. Technical backbones loyal to Soviet socialism were to be chosen; these individuals would naturally favor the Soviet model and instinctively resist "invasion" by other ideologies.

Beria approved of the plan. While it might look flawed to "purge experts" who had risen through ideology, Beria knew the urgent need was Chinese aid and the rapid enhancement of Soviet strength.

If the Central Committee felt Chinese aid was harmful, they simply wouldn't accept it. Since they had invited Chinese experts, they couldn't project hostility that might lead to an interruption of that aid. This was the KGB's current bottom line.

Beria's plan was approved immediately, with no dissent. Thus, within a week, the aid personnel—including Yun Taeda—were enjoying the "Soviet lifestyle," attending two dances and a dinner every week.

For Yun Taeda, the Russian women were indeed attractive. The food provided was exotic and acceptable at first. But by the second week, he began to feel uncomfortable. There was more meat than in Korea, but the preparation was different, and the vegetables were even more distinct.

The bicycle factory was entering the stage of line adjustments. To shift the model from traditional labor-intensive production to assembly lines, they had to adjust both equipment and workflows, leading to a sharp increase in work intensity. Under these conditions, the unpalatable food left Yun feeling unwell. Even the dances and dinners couldn't alleviate his physical fatigue.

As a Korean employee of a Chinese company, Yun knew it wasn't his place to offer a differing opinion. When he was told to skip a dance to attend an internal activity for the aid personnel, he found himself able to resist the allure of the dance and went.

Arriving at the rendezvous point, Yun saw over a dozen "glass houses" erected in an open space within the factory grounds. Inside, he realized they weren't entirely glass; only the south-facing sides were glazed, while the shaded sides remained thick brick walls.

Inside these simple rooms, rows of racks were packed tight, divided into four tiers, each with a long water trough. Yun leaned in to look and saw rows of objects floating in the troughs—circular items, each with a tiny green plant in the center.

The convener said to Yun and the others, "Comrades, this is our hydroponic room. Everyone will work here at least one day a week."

With that, the work was assigned. Yun was tasked with transplanting lettuce seedlings that had finished sprouting into cultivation baskets and placing them in the water. Though different from his experience in the Korean countryside, it was still farm work. Initially confused, he didn't dare speak up.

It wasn't until the Chinese personnel around him started talking that Yun understood they were also puzzled. Under the direction of the hydroponics technicians, they awkwardly set to work. Yun found his hands were quite skillful; though he was just learning, he could place the lettuce into the small plastic pots without damaging the roots.

After finishing a few, he looked around with some pride, only to see the Chinese personnel were all quite dextrous. Their initial awkwardness was simply because they hadn't done it before; with a little experience, the work proceeded smoothly.

The convener had prepared a four-speaker recorder in the greenhouse, and once everyone was familiar with the work, he started playing music. Against the background of the latest Chinese pop songs, the work became even more relaxed. Some worked meticulously as if with small toys; others were brisk and efficient, as if venting. They chatted as they worked, lighthearted and joyful. Before long, thousands of lettuce seedlings had been transferred to the growing ponds.

Yun didn't think much of it at first. After finishing the lettuce, he was led to see other greenhouses. These weren't all hydroponic; most were soil-based, with tomatoes, radishes, chives, garland chrysanthemum, and asparagus lettuce. Regardless of the method, the vegetables had at least sprouted, and some were already quite tall.

After the tour, the group lined up again. Only then did the convener say, "Whether we get to eat well in the future depends on your own efforts. The only thing we can be sure of is that the mainland won't be shipping vegetables to us. Self-reliance brings ample food and clothing (zi li geng sheng, feng yi zu shi)."

The thought of finally eating familiar vegetables cheered Yun up. But he had worried the Chinese engineers wouldn't want to do farm work. He was a technical school graduate, but in the company, he found all the Chinese engineers were university graduates, or at least had high school diplomas through adult education. Such people were "dignified" in Korea; how could they work the soil?

The reaction of the Chinese engineers and technicians surprised him; they were all excited, saying "No problem!"

One asked, "Is the soil in the greenhouse fertile enough? If we're to grow vegetables in the short term, it has to be rich!"

Before the convener could answer, an engineer with a Northeast accent spoke up: "Didn't you see? It's prime black soil; anything you plant will grow like lightning!"

Seeing the Chinese engineers so eager to farm, Yun felt a sense of both surprise and kinship.

Time flew into September, and the news from the front remained a string of disasters. The Wehrmacht continued to advance, the Red Army to retreat. If there was any good news, aside from the heavy defeat of a Soviet counter-offensive from Crimea into southern Ukraine, it was only that there hadn't been another catastrophic rout like in the early months.

Beria finished his work and stood by the window, looking at the clear Moscow sky. He couldn't help but hope for an early winter. According to the General Staff's plan, given the heavy early losses, a comprehensive counter-offensive could only begin in winter.

The Russian winter starts in November, and the counter-offensive was tentatively set for January '43—at least three months away. With the Germans drawing closer to Moscow, Beria couldn't be sure whether winter or the Wehrmacht would arrive first.

Moscow had begun digging defensive works around the city—not that the Kremlin feared the Germans would reach it *now*, but because after November, the ground would freeze. You couldn't hope to dig a trench then.

Most of the USSR lies on permafrost; in winter, once the soil is saturated with water, it freezes solid. Across the vast land, the earth becomes not just hard, but quite resilient. Shovels and spades are almost useless against it. To have defenses ready, they had to start now.

Even with his internal anxiety, Beria's expression remained cold and calm—the hallmark of the KGB.

He sat back down to process more files. The man responsible for monitoring the Chinese aid personnel entered and placed a file before him. As Beria read, his cold expression flickered. He looked up, his gaze sharp. The subordinate proactively explained.

Minutes later, Beria understood what had happened. Weeks ago, he had heard the Chinese technicians were building greenhouses so they could have their accustomed vegetables. The KGB hadn't taken it seriously then, only carefully inspecting the structures to ensure they were what they claimed to be.

As for what the Chinese said to one another inside, the KGB couldn't interfere. Their job was to ensure the aid personnel weren't here for sabotage, not to treat them like enemies.

Beria took off his glasses, wiped them, and put them back on. "The report says the Chinese greenhouses have already produced vegetables. The Chinese have begun picking and eating them."

"Yes," the subordinate replied. The brevity was because he didn't know how to evaluate the matter. Eating a variety of fresh vegetables at this time of year in Russia was a luxury reserved for the high elite. But for the Chinese to be both the growers and the eaters was hard to judge—in Russia, such a thing simply never happened.

Neither the subordinate nor Beria knew how to view this. Finally, Beria said, "Continue to observe."

Meanwhile, Yun Taeda was participating in a banquet within the bicycle factory. Unlike the Soviet-hosted events, this was the Chinese aid personnel inviting their Soviet workmates. On the grill pans, sliced meat sizzled. Lettuce leaves picked by the Chinese were spread out, filled with grilled meat and various sauces, then rolled up and eaten in large bites. The vegetables crunched in their mouths. The combination of meat, spicy sauce, and vegetables felt exceptionally good. The Russians couldn't handle the heat and only used their favorite mild sauces, yet they too were eating happily.

The highlight of this meal was that the proportion of vegetables was finally high. As Yun ate, he felt his stomach become much more comfortable. The Chinese were equally happy. In contrast, the Soviet workers looked as if they were eating something miraculous.

From that day on, various Chinese vegetables began appearing regularly on the aid personnel's table. Their diet became fully sinicized. With the work being so hard, no one had much energy for elaborate meals; pork dumplings became the most common food. The vegetable filling was half chives and half yellow leek shoots—the "gut-brushing grass" (shua chang cao)—and the Chinese staff thoroughly said goodbye to constipation.

By late September, the Battle of Stalingrad had entered its final stage. In the headquarters of German Army Group South, every commander looked grim. Field Marshal von Reichenau still appeared full of vitality, but the fatigue in his eyes could no longer be hidden. With that look, he finally posed a question: "Did we underestimate the Soviet mobilization capability?"

No one answered. But the generals, including Colonel General Manstein, had to admit this might be the most difficult issue they faced. The Wehrmacht was certain they had thoroughly annihilated over three million elite Soviet troops.

If they were facing a giant like China with its population of nearly 700 million, three million might not be enough to shake the nation. The General Staff's pre-war assessment was that China's first wave could mobilize 12 million men, fully equip and train them, and follow that with a second wave of another 12 million.

The USSR only had 160 to 180 million people; there was no way they could do that. By German estimates, the Soviets should have had only 2 million mediocre troops left, plus some raw recruits with zero combat power. Numerically, that shouldn't have been enough to fight a 6-million-strong Wehrmacht.

Yet in reality, the Germans were like dwarves in a giant maze, attacking for four months, fighting almost daily, having advanced over 1,000 kilometers—some units over 2,000 kilometers from their jumping-off points. The war hadn't ended; it was raging as fiercely as ever. The Germans were no longer sure how many Red Army troops were before them, let alone how many they would have to fight in the future.

At least one thing was certain: although the Red Army had lost over three million elite troops, it had not lost its combat effectiveness. By German judgment, there were still 4 million Red Army soldiers on the lines continuously engaging the Wehrmacht.

Manstein, the Chief of Staff, tactfully remained silent, allowing the other generals to do the same.

Fortunately, Reichenau wasn't truly asking for an accurate judgment; his question was more a complaint born of genuine helplessness. When the original plans were made, the General Staff hadn't dared to imagine an encirclement as vast as the one at Kiev.

Even so, in the initial vision of the war, after defeating the Soviets at Kiev, the continued advance westward should not have encountered major obstacles. Even if the Red Army could still fight, the Wehrmacht should have been able to easily pierce their lines and drive on.

Because in Reichenau's view, the key to defeating the USSR was cutting off Chinese aid—especially destroying the Trans-Siberian Railway to prevent China from sending massive forces before June 1943.

Now, the German spearheads were still nearly 1,000 kilometers from Yekaterinburg and were held fast by the Soviets at Stalingrad. The Red Army resisted with startling will. With the Russian winter approaching, if the Wehrmacht couldn't resolve Stalingrad quickly and send units to thoroughly destroy at least several hundred kilometers of track before winter, Operation Barbarossa would have failed.

With this thought, Reichenau felt he had to make some unconventional military arrangements.