by Cheng Nien
The same guard who had accompanied me out walked back with me. When she opened the door of the cell, I showed her the wounds on my wrists. They were once more covered with blood and pus.
“Please look at these wounds. I need to bandage them up to prevent infection. Could you please help me to take down that pillowcase on the clothesline so that I can tear it up to make bandages?” I asked her.
Without a word she stepped into the cell, pulled the pillowcase down, and handed it to me.
The pillowcase was not new in 1966 when I first came to the detention house. Now it was paper-thin and fragile. I had no difficulty tearing it into strips. It made two sets of bandages.
The prison was very quiet. I did not hear the guards calling the prisoners upstairs to go for outdoor exercise after I came in. It seemed they had stopped the outdoor exercise—something that had never happened before. I thought probably the whole so-called outdoor exercise in which I had participated was arranged solely for the three military men to see the state I was in. It had not been a routine outdoor exercise at all.
When drinking water was given to me again, I washed the wounds and bandaged them up. Very quickly the blood and pus seeped through the cloth. It was out of the question to change the bandages immediately. In the cold and damp cell, a wet bandage would take a long time to dry. I simply had to find a way to dry the bandages more quickly. Perhaps, I thought, I could dry the bandages by wrapping them around my mug whenever boiling water was given to me. That would enable me to change the bandages at least twice a day. And if I washed the bandages just before going to sleep and left them to dry after rolling them in a towel to take out the excess moisture, they would probably be dry by morning. In this manner, I might manage to change the bandages three times during each twenty-four hours.
When hot drinking water was next given to me, I wound a strip of wet bandage firmly on the outside of the mug. It pleased me to see steam coming from the damp cloth, which quickly turned lighter in color as it dried.
For the next few months I devoted my whole attention to caring for the wounds and gave the newspaper only a cursory glance. But I had the impression that there were fewer articles of denunciation of a military nature and many articles demanding that Communist China take her rightful place at the United Nations. It also seemed that Lin Biao’s name was mentioned less frequently, while Premier Zhou Enlai seemed to have become more prominent than he had been for years.
Because of my poor physical condition, the wounds were slow to heal. It was many weeks before even the most superficial wounds formed scabs. At the same time, my old trouble of inflamed gums and hemorrhages persisted. It amused me to see the young doctor giving me treatment for these while stringently ignoring the wounds on my wrists.
To add insult to injury, several of the guards came to examine my wounds when they were on duty at the women’s prison. Though most of them made no comment, a few militant Maoist guards told me I deserved the punishment.
I did not expect to be called for interrogation, as everything about my simple life seemed to have been scoured with a fine-tooth comb. I thought probably the Maoists would come up with some other way to torment me. But I did not try to anticipate what it might be.
12
Release
WHILE I ATTENDED TO my numerous physical problems and waited for the next move by the Maoists in 1971, spring and summer came and went. The golden autumn days were upon us. The most important event of the year, the National Day of the People’s Republic of China, was celebrated in the autumn on October First. It was a national holiday. The celebration of the National Day had been observed by the People’s Government ever since its inception. Everyone received extra food rations, was given the opportunity to enjoy free shows in public parks, and was allowed to purchase scarce consumer goods in the state-owned shops.
The major event, organized by the authorities, was a parade held in each city. Colorful floats displayed diagrams, figures, and pictures of economic and cultural achievements of the previous year. Tens of thousands of workers, peasants, students, and even housewives marched in procession to pledge their loyal support for the People’s Government by shouting slogans specially composed by the Communist Party Propaganda Department for the occasion. The parades were carefully planned and reviewed by prominent Party and municipal officials in each locality.
In Beijing the parade was held at Tiananmen Square in front of the old Forbidden City and reviewed by Mao Zedong and other Politburo members and leading government officials from the balcony above the Tiananmen. Special stands on either side of the balcony were filled with foreign dignitaries and diplomats. At night there was an elaborate fireworks display.
The spectacle of hundreds of colorful floats with impressive displays and tens of thousands of men and women marching past the review stand waving red flags, shouting slogans, and holding aloft reproductions of Mao’s official portrait was an affirmation of Mao’s power and triumph. It must have been an intoxicating moment for the old man to see the adoring faces turn to gaze at him as the marchers passed and to hear their thundering voices wishing him a long life of ten thousand years (in the same words historically used for Chinese emperors). The smiling photograph of Mao splashed on the front pages of China’s newspapers all over the country on October 2 attested to his genuine happiness on this important occasion.
Everybody in China knew that for Mao Zedong, the peasant from Shaoshan, the National Day of the People’s Republic of China was a great day of personal satisfaction. Therefore it was most astonishing to find that on October First, 1971, there were no celebrations at all. When the morning broadcast did not mention anything, I was surprised. In the afternoon, I waited eagerly for the newspaper. When it came, I saw only Mao’s official portrait on its front page. The date, October First, and “Nation Day” were printed in red, but there was no mention of any activities by leading officials or any special events. While I was still puzzling over this extraordinary omission, a guard suddenly pushed open the shutter on the small window.
“Hand over your book of quotations!” she demanded.
It seemed such a strange order that for a moment I thought I had inadvertently done something to damage the book and she was going to use it as an excuse to punish me. Hastily I picked up the book and, with a brief glance to make sure it looked all right, handed it to her. After she had closed the shutter, I heard her going upstairs to demand the book from other cells. Then I knew that she had been instructed to collect the book of quotations from all prisoners.
She did not give the book back to me until she called me to go to bed. I examined it to try to find out why she had demanded it in the first place and was greatly astonished to discover that she had torn out the preface. This book of Mao’s quotations was first compiled and published by the People’s Liberation Army for its semiliterate soldiers to use in studying Mao Zedong Thought, on the orders of Lin Biao after he became defense minister.
The preface had been written by Lin Biao himself. In it he praised Mao as “the greatest living Marxist of our time, who developed the doctrine of Marxist-Leninism and successfully applied it to the specific conditions of China.” He exhorted the Liberation Army soldiers to study the quotations of Mao contained in the book and apply them to their daily tasks so that they could “blend Mao Zedong Thought into their bloodstream” and become soldiers who “study Chairman Mao’s books, obey Chairman Mao’s orders, and become Chairman Mao’s good fighters.”
There was nothing in the wording of the preface that could be considered objectionable by Mao. In fact it was such blatant flattery that many people found it embarrassing to have to memorize and recite it, a practice made obligatory during the Cultural Revolution. I felt the only possible explanation for the removal of the preface was that its author was in disgrace, as it was the practice of the Communist Party to obliterate from all its records the name and writings of a disgraced official as if he had never existed. Obviously the guard was under orders to collect the
books from the prisoners and to deal with them. My realization that Lin Biao might be in disgrace was so stupendous that I stood there with the Little Red Book in my hand, lost in thought.
“Why are you not in bed?” the voice of the guard said outside the door.
Not wishing to give her the impression that I was interested in what had happened, I quickly arranged my bedding and lay down. But I did not get much sleep that night.
A few days after the guard had torn the preface out of my copy of the book of quotations, the newspaper came out with denunciations of someone “sleeping by our bedside.” No name was mentioned. To a Westerner, “sleeping by our bedside” would mean a spouse. To the Chinese, the expression meant someone very close. The same expression had been used for Liu Shaoqi when he was denounced. It implied that Mao did not know that very near him was an enemy who wished him ill. Other articles talked about the duplicity of a man Mao had trusted, who had voiced support for Mao while plotting Mao’s death. There were also frequent mentions of Party history and military engagements during the War of Resistance against Japan and the War of Liberation against the Kuomintang. The Chinese people, including myself, were familiar with Lin Biao’s personal history because it had been so frequently glorified when he was being built up as a suitable successor to Mao Zedong, just before the Ninth Party Congress. I now had no doubt that he had been ousted, though at the time I didn’t know any details of the struggle between him and Mao Zedong. Watching events closely and reading every word in the newspaper with meticulous attention, I noticed with relief that the name of Lin Biao’s man in charge of Military Control of the Public Security Bureau in Shanghai had disappeared. Since the No. 1 Detention House was a part of the network of prisons under the jurisdiction of the Shanghai Public Security Bureau, this man was also the highest officer of the detention house. If my assumption was correct that the motivating force behind my own persecution was the military representative of Lin Biao in Shanghai, then I had good reason to hope that the downfall of Lin Biao would benefit me. On the other hand, I warned myself to continue watching developments. I thought it was premature to rejoice, for I had no idea whether the power vacuum created by Lin Biao’s downfall would be filled by the radicals headed by Jiang Qing or by the old guard headed by Zhou Enlai.
One night late in October, the guards once again called the prisoners to sit quietly to listen to a special broadcast. The loudspeaker was switched on, and a man’s voice lectured the prisoners on “the excellent situation created by the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution.” The central theme of his speech was the announcement that President Nixon was to visit China in February of the following year. He told us that the Proletarian Cultural Revolution had so raised China’s importance in the world that the United States of America, which had hitherto adopted a policy of hostility towards the People’s Republic, was now on the point of realizing the futility of that policy.
“What is the significance of the forthcoming visit of Nixon, the head of the strongest capitalist country in the world? Would he have decided to come if China were weak and impotent? Of course not! Nixon has decided to come to China to pay his respects to our Great Leader because he has to face the fact that China, under the wise leadership of our Great Leader Chairman Mao, after being purified and strengthened by the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution, is invincible. Don’t forget that the United States is the most reactionary capitalist country in the world and our foremost enemy. The forthcoming visit of the president of the United States is a great victory for the Chinese proletarian class. It’s a reflection of the great achievement made by the Cultural Revolution. It bears out the fact that the decadent capitalist system is on the decline while our own socialist system is increasing in vigor and influence in the world.
“At first, when he offered to come, many of our comrades thought we shouldn’t welcome a man who represents imperialism against Vietnam, exploitation of the workers in the United States, and long-standing hostility against the People’s Republic of China. But our Great Leader is magnanimous. He said, ‘Let him come. Let’s receive him with courtesy and hear what he has to say. If he admits past mistakes and sincerely wants to change, we’ll welcome it. We are Marxists. We give a man a chance if he is honestly repentant.’ Our Great Leader is so wise! He is right! We’ll receive Nixon. And for the next few months we will educate all our comrades about the new situation and help them to see that by accepting Nixon’s visit, we are not surrendering our principles but accepting the surrender of the wrong policy of the United States government. Nixon’s visit is a great victory for us!
“In this connection, I want to give a word of warning to many of the prisoners confined in the Number One Detention House. Many of you are here precisely because you worshiped the capitalist world of the imperialists and belittled socialist China. You placed your hope in the capitalist world and believed that one day capitalism would again prevail in China. Let the forthcoming visit of the American president be a lesson to you all. Think carefully. If the reactionary Kuomintang had not been thrown out of China, if the United States troops had not been defeated by the Chinese People’s Volunteer Army in Korea, if the United States army were not bogged down in Vietnam, and if we had not become stronger as a result of the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution, would Nixon have wanted to travel across the world to Beijing to pay homage to our Great Leader?”
The speech was long-drawn-out, gloating repeatedly over the proposed visit by the president of the United States. I have given the gist of it. After my release from the detention house, I learned that the same interpretation was given to the visit when it was announced to the general public. Discussions were held in every factory, commune, and Residents’ Committee meeting to “prepare” the people for the forthcoming visit and to use the occasion to create the impression that Mao Zedong was now the most important leader in the world.
I was elated by the new turn in China’s relations with the United States and believed that it could have a decisive effect on the power balance in the leadership of the Communist Party. At least, I thought, Zhou Enlai’s position would be strengthened for a considerable time to come. Perhaps the moderate forces in the Party leadership would gain the upper hand. If so, the end of my own ordeal might be approaching. However, I knew from experience that everything in China developed slowly. The effect of a major switch of policy in Beijing often took months, if not years, to be felt at the base level where I was. I also knew that the radical faction headed by Jiang Qing had a strong hold on Shanghai and that her longtime associate Zhang Chunqiao was the chief party secretary here.
After living for so many years without real hope, I became quietly excited by the new development. For weeks I watched the newspaper and waited. The guards appeared preoccupied, as they had been in the days after the Revolutionaries and the Red Guards took over the Shanghai municipal government in January 1967. I thought they were probably undergoing intensified political indoctrination about the downfall of Lin Biao.
Winter was again approaching. The holes at the elbows of my sweaters and at the knees of my knitted longjohns were beyond repair. The filling of my padded jacket and quilt had fallen to the bottom, leaving patches that were no more than two layers of cloth. The only shirt I had left was so patched that it was no longer possible to tell which piece of cloth was the original shirt. Obviously, if I was to survive another winter at the detention house, I desperately needed some additional clothing. Though my past requests for clothing had always fallen on deaf ears, I decided to try once more and see whether the changed circumstances might not bring forth a different response.
“Report!” I called at the door.
“What do you want?” A guard’s lethargic footsteps stopped outside my cell, and the shutter was pushed open.
I held my sweater out to show her the holes and said, “The weather is getting cold. My clothes and quilt are so worn that they are no longer warm. Please look at this. It’s full of holes. I also need a padded jacket and a
nother shirt. Please look at my clothes. You will see I do need warm clothes for the winter.”
“How long have you been here already? How many years altogether?”
“This will be the sixth winter I am here. I came in September 1966. The clothes and bedding given me by the Red Guards were not new then. After so many years without the padding being renewed, they are no longer warm,” I said.
Now that I could see a glimmer of light at the end of the dark tunnel in which I had been confined for so long, I was determined to survive to the day when that glimmer might guide me out into daylight. Probably my voice showed my anxiety. This seemed to annoy her. She closed the shutter and walked away.
Undaunted by her cold indifference, I repeated my request for warm clothing and bedding to each guard who came on duty for several successive days. Finally one of them said impatiently, “All right! All right! You need warm clothing. We know about it already. Your request is being considered.”
A week passed, and then another. The weather got colder and colder. I decided to try once more.
“Report!” I called.
“What do you want?” a guard asked through the closed door.
“May I see the interrogator?”
“What for?”
“I want to make a request for warm clothes.”
“Haven’t you got warm clothes already?” The guard opened the shutter, and I saw through the opening that it was the older woman who had urged me to eat when I was manacled. I had not seen her since that night.
“My winter clothes are worn out. Please come into the cell and look at them. I’m so afraid I might get ill again this winter if I do not get some warm clothes,” I said.
She unlocked the cell door, came in, and examined my clothes and the quilt. Then she said, “I’ll report to the authorities. Would you like to borrow some prison clothes for now?”