Life and Death in Shanghai

by Cheng Nien

  In the evening there was a sudden drop in temperature. By nightfall a strong wind was blowing. The window of the cell was so badly fitted that it rattled. Cold air came through the gaps in sharp gusts. I folded sheets of toilet paper into strips and pushed them into the gaps to stop the wind. By then the web of my small spider friend was already torn. Instead of making a new web promptly as it always had done in the past, the spider descended from the corner of the ceiling on a long silken thread. When it reached the floor, it crawled across the room very slowly and with difficulty. I crouched down to watch it closely, wondering what it was going to do. My small friend seemed rather weak. It stumbled and stopped every few steps. Could a spider get sick, or was it merely cold? Watching anxiously, I saw it go from corner to corner, probably looking for a sheltered place away from the wind. Finally it disappeared into the corner where the cement toilet was joined to the wall. There, in the crevice, it made a tiny web, not as well done or beautiful as the ones before, but the layered threads were thicker, forming something rather like a cocoon. I thought my small friend was well protected. When I had to use the toilet, I carefully sat well to one side so that I did not disturb it.

  Next morning, I wrote my autobiography rather quickly on a few sheets of paper and finished it in the afternoon. Then I went to the window and called, “Report!”

  The same guard who had been on duty the day before came to the window. I handed her what I had written, together with the remaining blank sheets of paper.

  “You have finished writing already?” she asked doubtfully, eyes fixed on the five sheets of paper covered with my handwriting.

  “Yes, I have finished,” I answered.

  “It seems so short. Have you put everything down?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why is it so short?”

  “Oh, is it too short? In any case, I did put everything in.”

  She said nothing more and walked away. I half expected some sort of immediate reaction. When nothing happened, I became rather lighthearted. For the whole evening I watched the small spider, for it had abandoned its newly made home and was again crawling with difficulty across the room, stumbling and stopping frequently. Finally it headed straight in my direction. When it came close to my feet, I wondered if it intended to climb up my leg for warmth. But it continued past my feet and disappeared under the bed. I waited for it to come out again, but hours passed and nothing happened. Perhaps the most sheltered place in the cell was under the bed and my little friend had decided to remain there for the winter.

  Next morning, when the guard called me to get up, I looked carefully on the floor to make sure the small spider was not there before putting my feet on the ground. In fact, while I ate my watery breakfast my eyes strayed continuously to the area of the cement floor next to the bed, where I hoped to see the spider emerging with renewed vigor. But again nothing happened. Looking up at the ceiling, I found the torn web gone. No trace was left of the life of the small spider at all; I might have imagined the whole thing. Yet while it was there, it had worked and lived with such serious effort, making and remaking its web. The small spider had obeyed its natural instinct for survival. I should do the same. As long as I was in the No. 1 Detention House, I would fight on resolutely and seriously to the best of my ability.

  My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the cell door being unlocked. A male guard shouted, “Come out!”

  I picked up Mao’s book of quotations and followed him, bracing myself for a stormy session with the interrogator, who I guessed would probably share the woman guard’s view and consider my autobiography not up to expectations.

  I was led to the door of another interrogation room, identical with the previous one. The same two men were seated just as before, except that their uniforms bulged with sweaters that were peeping out over their collars and cuffs. The room was icy and damp. Outside, the strong northwest wind from Siberia lashed the city relentlessly, rattling the window and whistling through the gaps. The interrogator looked at me with knitted brows. When he told me to read the quotation by Mao, he spoke sharply and stared at me sternly to register displeasure. I knew he was deliberately putting on an act to impress and frighten me.

  I ignored the attitude of the interrogator, which I thought rather childish and amusing, but read the quotation in a clear and firm voice just as I had the day before. “ ‘The imperialists and their running dog, the reactionary clique, will not readily accept their defeat in China. They will continue to conspire and use every available means to oppose the Chinese people. For instance, they will send agents into China to make trouble. This is a certainty. They will not forget this kind of work,’ ” I read from the Little Red Book of Mao’s quotations.

  He did not tell me to sit down but asked, “Do you understand the meaning of this quotation?”

  “It seems quite clear to me.”

  “Explain what you understand it to mean.”

  “This is a quotation familiar to all Chinese people, taken from a speech made by Chairman Mao at the preparatory meeting of the New Political Consultative Conference held on June 15, 1949, in Beijing. He warned the Chinese people to be vigilant because he believed the imperialists and the Kuomintang would not accept their failure in China but would send agents into the country to make trouble.”

  “Quite right! Events of the past seventeen years have proven that the warning of our Great Leader was both timely and correct.” He stared at me for a moment and asked, “What do you think?”

  Obviously I could not very well say Mao was paranoid and oversuspicious. At the same time, I could not agree with what he said without implying some knowledge of such activities by the regime’s enemies. So I answered diplomatically, “Oh, I believe every word of our Great Leader Chairman Mao, whatever it is. He’s always correct, isn’t he?”

  The interrogator glared at me. After a moment he said, “Sit down!”

  I heard the wooden cover of the small window behind me being opened. The interrogator looked at me to observe if I had noticed the slight noise. I simply looked straight ahead at the window behind him as if lost in thought. I did not want him to think I was watchful and alert to every sound. From the behavior of the interrogator, I realized that they did not want me to know that someone in the corridor was listening to my interrogation.

  The autobiography I had written was in front of him. The interrogator picked it up and said, “Do you call this a serious effort at self-examination?”

  Since there was nothing I could say, I remained silent.

  “You gave a statistical record of your life like someone writing down an account of daily expenditures. Do you call this writing your autobiography?” He waved the few sheets of paper in the air in my direction.

  “Is it no good? I’m afraid I have never written an autobiography before,” I said innocently.

  “You have never written an autobiography, but you have read many of them. On your bookshelves there were autobiographies by both Chinese and foreign writers,” the interrogator said.

  “Yes. It’s true I have read many autobiographies of important people. All of them have achieved a great deal in one sphere or another. I have done nothing worth speaking of. Except for the last nine years since my husband died, I was just a housewife.”

  “A housewife, were you?” the interrogator asked sarcastically. He snorted and went on. “Did you spend your time sewing, knitting, or cooking? No, you studied Marxism, read every sort of magazine and newspaper, copied down speeches by our Party and government leaders, and kept a file of resolutions passed at Party Central Committee meetings. When the Red Guards went to your house to take revolutionary action against you, they found your bookshelves full of political books and your desk drawers full of notes in your handwriting. You had a powerful shortwave radio in your bedroom. Your servants said you were in there regularly to listen to foreign broadcasts. What housewife did all that? A housewife’s concern is for her family and her home. Your concern was for politics. You were nev
er a simple housewife by any stretch of the imagination.”

  “I’m not ashamed that my interests went beyond the house and my family. I thought the People’s Government and the Communist Party encouraged women to study Marxism and to take an interest in political affairs. I merely did what I thought was the right thing to do, since women in China were liberated by the Communist Party,” I told him.

  “We encourage women to study Marxism under our guidance and direction. If you were so keen to study Marxism to raise your political consciousness, why did you not join an indoctrination class? We were told you never took part in any of the activities organized by the Residents’ Committee in your district for the indoctrination of women living there. If you were interested in politics because you wished to be a good citizen, why did you turn up two hours late to cast your vote in an election for the Shanghai People’s Congress? Was that the behavior of a woman conscious of her own liberation? Don’t smear gold paint on your face to make yourself look like a harmless Buddha. Why not admit that your interest in politics had an ulterior purpose?”

  “I did not take part in the indoctrination classes organized by the Residents’ Committee simply because I could study better by myself. Besides, they took place in the afternoons. It was not possible for me to join them after I started working for Shell. As for being late to cast my vote, I admit I simply forgot to go until someone called to remind me. I did not think my vote was important. I didn’t know that all Shell staff members had to vote together, so that by being late I was holding everybody up. In any case, there was only one candidate appointed by the Party. He would have been elected whether I voted or not,” I explained.

  “You dare despise the election process of the People’s Government! You did not think it was important! What was important to you was to do the dirty work of the imperialists!” the interrogator said heatedly.

  “That’s a wild accusation, and an irresponsible one too,” I said, shaking my head at his outburst.

  He picked up the five sheets of paper again.

  “I told you to write an autobiography. You produced this. Why? Because you have something to hide!”

  “Please tell me what you have in mind. I didn’t intend to hide anything. If there’s something about my life you want to know, whatever it is, I’ll be only too glad to tell you about it.”

  “That’s good. This is the first time since the interrogation began that you have shown sincerity. I hope you now realize the hopelessness of your situation and will make a full confession.”

  “You are again talking in riddles. I said I would be glad to tell you everything about my life because I believe facts are more eloquent than arguments. I believe when you are in full possession of all the facts you will know that I am innocent. I have never done anything to harm the People’s Government and the Communist Party.”

  “I want a full and frank answer to all my questions. If you want to earn lenient treatment, don’t try to hide anything,” he warned.

  “I promise you I have nothing to hide. I understand fully the power of the People’s Government and the ability of the interrogator to get at the truth. In fact, I count on you to clear me of the unwarranted accusation flung at me and to restore my reputation,” I told him.

  “I accept your declaration of sincerity. You may now go back to your cell. This afternoon you can tell me about your dealings with the British agents Scott and Austin, the truth about the company you worked for, and the person responsible for introducing the White Russian double agent to your general manager.”

  I could hardly believe my ears. I started to speak, but the interrogator silenced me with a gesture and stood up.

  “Don’t say anything now. We will give you ample opportunity to confess this afternoon.”

  A guard was already standing at the open doorway waiting to take me back to the cell.

  I was so stunned by what the interrogator had said that I did not remember how I got back to the women’s prison.

  Instead of sitting in her small room at the entrance, the female guard on duty was standing in the cold wind waiting for me to return. She had her hands in her pockets, and her shoulders were hunched as she shuffled her feet impatiently. From the moment I came in sight, all the way to the door of the cell, she was constantly throwing glances at me as if watching every expression on my face. After locking me in, she remained at the peephole to observe me. From her behavior, I understood that she had been instructed to observe my reaction to what the interrogator had said. That was why he had terminated the interview and sent me back to the cell. Although I was greatly shocked to hear the interrogator call two of my British friends “British agents” and refer to the White Russian secretary to the general manager of the Shell office in Shanghai as a “double agent,” I knew that it was vital that I behave normally. Any sign of agitation on my part would certainly be interpreted as a sign of guilt.

  I poured some water into the washbasin and refreshed myself by washing my face and hands. Then I picked up a volume of Mao’s works and sat down near the window, bending my head over it and turning its pages from time to time to give the impression of reading with absorption. After standing at the peephole for quite a long time, the guard went away. But a minute later another guard took her place. When it was time for the midday meal, I ate the rice and cabbage rather quickly because I was hungry. After the woman from the kitchen collected the container, I heard her say to the guard, “All eaten up.” After the prisoners had walked about in the cells for the usual ten minutes’ exercise, the guard went from cell to cell to tell everybody to sit down. She came to me last and took up her position at the peephole at once. Although she moved very quietly, I had been in the detention house long enough to identify every kind of noise and could easily sense her presence. But I pretended I did not know she was there. I lay against my rolled-up bedding, closed my eyes, and feigned sleep. Sleeping in daytime was strictly against regulations and usually incurred the wrath of the guards. I had often heard them scolding prisoners for the offense. So anxious was she that I should not know I was being watched that she did not shout for me to get up.

  After an hour or so, I was called again to the interrogation room. I had to read the same quotation I had read in the morning.

  “Let’s start with MI5 agent Scott. How did you meet him? Did you know him before he came to China? What information did you give him?” asked the interrogator.

  “Before I give you an account of how I met Scott, I think I should point out to you that I knew him only as a British diplomatic officer.”

  “You may point out anything you like. Whether we believe it or not is another matter. Proceed with your account.”

  “I first met Scott in September 1961 at someone’s dinner party. I no longer remember who the host and hostess were,” I said.

  “Your host was the Indian consul general. We have the guest list. But that’s not important. Did you know Scott before you met him at the Indian consul general’s dinner party?”

  “No.”

  “You went to Hong Kong shortly afterwards. And while you were in Hong Kong you were in contact with another MI5 agent who was a British air force officer during the Second World War. He was well known in Hong Kong as a British spy though he assumed the cover of a businessman. Did Scott send you to that man to receive instructions?”

  “I met many people socially in Hong Kong. I was not aware any one of them was an agent. My trip was arranged before I met Scott. I went to Hong Kong every two years. As you know, everyone needs a travel permit from the police to go to Hong Kong. I made my application to my police station long before I met Scott,” I said.

  “You want me to believe your meeting with Scott was accidental, but the facts tell a different story. Scott came to Shanghai just before you went to Hong Kong. He returned to Beijing as soon as you left. But he came back again before you returned and stayed several months. When the ship you traveled on was delayed on the river by a typhoon, he came on board to see you se
veral times. That is not the usual behavior of two people who have just met at a dinner party. Moreover, when he was in Shanghai you went out together a great deal. He always drove the car himself when he went out with you, but he used the chauffeur when he went out with others.

  “The gossip of the foreigners in Shanghai was that you were having a decadent love affair, but none of the people assigned to watch you reported anything to indicate that this was the case. We believe your relationship with Scott was a political one. You deliberately created the impression of a liaison to mislead those around you.

  “The British are racially arrogant. And the discipline of his organization would not have allowed its agent to form a sentimental attachment to a native woman of the country in which he was operating. In fact, we know that while he was in Shanghai he was having an illicit relationship with the wife of a British bank manager.

  “Now that you see how much we know about this odious business, do you still hope to avoid telling the truth? Confess what Scott asked you to do and what you actually did for him!” The interrogator concluded his accusation and sat there glaring at me.

  “You are making a perfectly ordinary situation sound suspicious,” I said. “I did see Scott rather frequently, mainly because he led an active social life and entertained a great deal. Often he showed British films after dinner. That’s always an attraction because we did not have the opportunity to see films like that. I remember on several occasions he invited officials from the Foreign Affairs Bureau to those film shows. It’s customary to return hospitality. I had a collection of porcelain. I would have a dinner party and invite several friends including Scott to see my newly acquired pieces. And he taped quite a number of my records. The Red Guards must have told you that I had a large collection of records. I think he did drive himself more than other Europeans in Shanghai, probably because he speaks Chinese and so was not afraid. As for the fact that he arrived in Shanghai just before I left for Hong Kong and came back again just before I returned, that was pure coincidence. When the typhoon delayed my ship, he came on board not to see me but to see the captain. There was another passenger from Shanghai. I think he was a Danish businessman. They drank and talked together. I did not join them. When foreign vessels are on the river, many soldiers and customs officials remain on board. Why don’t you ascertain from them whether he came on board to see the captain or me?” I said.