Anthony Grey

by Peking- A Novel of China's Revolution- 1921-1978 (epub)

  Jakob nodded.

  “After eight years of torture in a damp prison cell he died in a puddle of his own blood. By then he was suffering from tuberculosis and he was denied all medical treatment. President Liu was also tormented to death in isolation. Thousands of others like them were murdered. I was held in isolation for four years and tortured frequently with old Kuomintang instruments from our own museums.”

  “How did you manage to survive all that time?”

  Chiao smiled grimly. “ ‘Through ease and softness of movement there is a development of enduring strength’ — you probably know that maxim. Endurance is only possible if one is in harmony with nature. If your spirit is entire and concentrated, your body becomes indifferent to pain.”

  Jakob stared at Chiao in surprise. “You practiced the Taoist arts?” Chiao nodded. “My father taught me assiduously as a boy. I never dreamed I would have reason to be grateful for any legacy from my capitalist father. But the teachings of Lao-tzu had stayed with me. found after a time I was able to summon the old disciplines from memory. ‘What we truly know, we do effortlessly and know unconsciously.’ Do you remember? I had more than enough time to practice — both the meditational arts and T’ai Chi Ch’uan. I learned again through much suffering that the road to enlightenment is truly an inward path leading us back to our original nature.”

  They walked on in silence across the great, ugly parade ground which the Communists had bulldozed from the heart of the ancient capital. To create it, all the imperial buildings which had stood on the site during Jakob’s early days in Peking had been demolished, and this had seemed to him to leave a terrible, symbolic vacuum at the center of the old China he had first known. It was as if the very heart of the historic capital and all it stood for had been ripped out, but now in the act of crossing the soulless square for the first time on foot, he suddenly felt a paradoxical sense of encouragement begin to grow within him. The poetic spontaneity of the tributes to Chou En-lai seemed to spell out a message which transcended the bleak materialism of the square, and more important, amid all the horror and despair of recent years, the ancient spiritual wisdom of China had helped the man at his side prevail in the face of terrible adversity. Jakob began to feel a strong sense of companionship with the Chinese marshal he had first met forty-five years earlier, and although he had no logical reason to do so, he began to hope he might succeed in his own efforts to make peace with Abigail and even Kao.

  “In case you’re wondering, perhaps I should tell you that I’m aware of all the facts concerning my nephew’s past,” said Chiao uncomfortably, as though reading Jakob’s thoughts. “But there’s no need to be alarmed. I’m sure nobody else knows Premier Chou probably suspected the truth but was never sure. That’s perhaps why he did so much to help Kao when he was young.”

  Taken aback by the abruptness of Chiao’s revelation, Jakob could only stare down in consternation at the paving Stones of the square.

  “It would be quite natural for you to want to see Kao while you’re in Peking,” continued Chiao in a faintly embarrassed tone. “But it might be better for all concerned to avoid such a meeting.”

  “I’ve spent ten years thinking about what I’d like to say to him,” said Jakob in a barely audible voice. “I met him in Shanghai at Mei-ling’s house in 1966. I entered China for a few hours illegally on a ship from Hong Kong. It was a stormy meeting, I’m afraid ... and I’ve often wondered since what he was doing.”

  “Then he found out that you are his father?”

  Jakob nodded miserably. “Yes. But I hope you’ll never reveal your knowledge to him.”

  Chiao quickly nodded his assent.

  “What’s he doing now?”

  “Kao married five years ago. He has a young son.” Chiao hesitated, looking uneasy. “But I’m sorry to say he threw in his lot with Madame Mao and her supporters long ago. He’s been one of their chief activists for a long time.”

  Jakob absorbed the information in silence. “Do you ever see him?”

  “There have been many bitter moments between uncle and nephew in the past ten years.” Chiao’s face darkened, “If you decide to try to visit him, please be circumspect.”

  “How did you find out about Kao?”

  “Mei-ling confided in me after she was freed from the Tangshan coal yard.”

  “What’s happened to her?”

  The question Jakob had been aching to ask for so long came out in an anxious whisper but Chiao did not answer at once. “My sister has suffered terribly,” he said at last, speaking slowly. “She was subjected to very severe punishments. She was driven beyond the limits of endurance.”

  “Is she dead?” asked Jakob in a horrified tone.

  Chiao shook his head. “She’s not dead — but it might be better if she were.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When her anguish became unbearable, like many others she tried to take her life,”

  “But she didn’t succeed?”

  “No, she scraped all the sulfur from a box of matches and swallowed it. But that wasn’t enough to kill her. . . .“ The muscles of Chiao’s jaw tightened. “They preserved her life — but her mind had snapped.”

  Jakob stared at Chiao, aghast. “Where is she now?”

  “She was confined to an institution for the insane in Shanghai. When I regained my freedom and discovered what had happened, I had her transferred to a similar institution here in Peking.”

  A chill seemed to spread slowly through Jakob’s body. “I’d like to see Mei-ling, please. Can you arrange it?”

  “I can, of course.” Chiao’s sunken features gathered into a frown. “But she rarely speaks — and when she does, she shows no awareness of reality. She recognizes nobody. Visiting her is an ordeal.”

  “I’d still like to see her,” said Jakob without hesitation.

  3

  Early that evening Jakob gingerly pushed open the courtyard gate of a small house to the east of the Forbidden City, wondering how he would cope with the ordeal that lay ahead. Chinks of light were visible behind curtains drawn across the windows of the single- storied house, and he made a conscious effort to steady himself as he crossed the empty courtyard and knocked on the screened door. Countless times since his clandestine visit to Shanghai he had tried to imagine how he might approach such a moment, but now that it had arrived, he found he was having to steel himself in preparation. The old courtier’s dwelling reminded him of the similar house little more than a mile away which had been his home while he was studying in Peking forty-five years earlier, and as he waited for an answer to his knock, he remembered something of the naive sense of excitement that these ancient surroundings had then invoked in him. The tranquil atmosphere of the silent, shadowy courtyard seemed to roll back the intervening years and he remembered too the fierce, unshakable faith which had then spurred him to preach in China’s remote hinterland.

  The force of these recollections distracted him momentarily and he started when the door swung halfway open to reveal the unsmiling face of a young Chinese woman dressed in a blue cotton tunic and trousers. Her expression betrayed surprise at seeing a foreign face but she said nothing, waiting for him to speak. At knee level, a small boy with a fringe of black hair falling across his eyes clutched at her left hand and stared up wonderingly at Jakob. Dressed in gray trousers and a jacket of vivid red, the boy was aged about four and from his expression it was evident he had never seen a real, long-nosed “foreign devil” before. Over the woman’s shoulder Jakob could see a large colored portrait of Mao Tse-tung hanging on the wall of a small, austerely furnished room, and yellow-covered volumes of Mao’s collected writings stood on a shelf. Somewhere an unseen radio was broadcasting indignant extracts from the current People’s Daily editorial, making repeated references to “rabid class enemies” who were “fabricating rumors” and “stirring up trouble among the masses,” but otherwise the room betrayed no more information about its occupants.

  “I’m sorry to ar
rive unannounced, but I’d like to speak to Comrade Chen Kao,” said Jakob uncertainly. “Is he at home?”

  “My husband is here. But he’s busy at his desk and shouldn’t be disturbed. Who are you, please?”

  “My name is Jakob Kellner.” Jakob offered his hand but she ignored it and after a moment he bent toward the boy. “Ni hao,” he said, smiling playfully. “Ni chiao hen mo ming tzu?” — What’s your name?”

  The boy gazed, mystified, at the unfamiliar foreign face: then he murmured “Wo chiao Ming” before shrinking back shyly against his mother.

  “Ni hao, Hsiao Ming,” said Jakob, taking the boy’s hand and shaking it gravely. “Kan tao ni chen kao hsing” — “I’m very happy to meet you.”

  The boy giggled and flung himself behind his mother’s legs to hide, Sand in the act of straightening up Jakob caught sight of the sharply handsome face he had last seen at Mei-ling’s house in Shanghai ten years before. Wearing a dark, high-necked cadre’s suit, Kao strode to the door holding a sheaf of papers in one hand and a ballpoint pen in the other. His composed, blank expression did not alter as he caught sight of Jakob and it seemed obvious that he had heard what had been said. When his wife turned to look questioningly at him, Kao asked her in a quiet voice to pay a short visit to a neighbor in the next courtyard, and he waited in silence until his wife and son disappeared through the gate into the street. Then, with a stony look, he gestured for Jakob to enter and closed the door behind him. In the middle of the small room that obviously served both as a sitting room and dining room, Kao turned to face Jakob. A scowl of displeasure distorted his features and Jakob found himself momentarily at a loss for words.

  “I’ve rehearsed this moment many times inside my head,” said Jakob haltingly in Chinese. “But face to face with you, it’s difficult even to begin to say what I feel

  “I have no interest in what you feel. There was no reason for you to come here.” Kao’s eyes flashed with hostility. “You weren’t invited. You’re not welcome.”

  “I understand,” replied Jakob shakily. “I’m very much to blame for the shock you had. I wanted to tell you how deeply sorry I was that you had to find out that way —“

  “It’s of no significance,” snapped Kao. “You only offend me further by coming here.”

  “But I’m your father, Kao,” persisted Jakob. “Ever since that terrible night in Shanghai I’ve wanted to talk to you. Until now it hasn’t been possible

  “I’ve never had any need for a father! The Chinese Communist Party and its great leader Chairman Mao have been father and mother enough to me.”

  Jakob stared helplessly at his son and a sense of futility gripped him. Kao’s pale features had changed little in the ten years since Jakob had last seen him but there was a fierce hardness in his manner now and his self-possession had a cold, chilling quality.

  “I didn’t intentionally dishonor you, Kao,” said Jakob, struggling to keep his voice steady. “I told you in Shanghai I had asked your mother to marry me. We had both been through terrible experiences. But she was determined to devote herself to what she believed in . .

  “These matters are of no importance to me.” Kao’s voice shook with a scarcely controlled fury. “I have no wish to hear about them.”

  “I’m sorry that’s how you look at things. Marshal Lu told me briefly today of how your mother has suffered. I suppose I had hoped —“

  “The battle between Chairman Mao’s revolutionary line and the line of the Parry’s class enemies has been Long and bloody,” put in Kao quickly. “Those who fail to support the Party have to face the consequences

  Jakob stared at his son, appalled by his seeming lack of feeling. Then he took a half-pace toward him, searching desperately for words that might ease the terrible hostility between them. “A whole world divides us, Kao. Perhaps any real understanding is impossible now — but I suppose I came here to tell! you that despite all the freakish tricks fate has played on us, I’ve never ceased to love your mother.” Emotion rose suddenly within him and Jakob stumbled over his words. “I’ve never married again ... and my feelings could never be separated entirely from you. . . . In a perfect world, Kao, we might have known one another as father and son. It’s pained me terribly over the years that I’ve never been able to show you anything of these feelings and if I could ever help you in any way, I hope you would ask me.”

  “How could you ever do anything to help me?” asked Kao scornfully. “Until I met you in Shanghai, I believed my father was a patriotic war hero. You destroyed that idea — you destroyed everything for mc! Do you think I’ve had no thoughts or feelings about that in the last ten years? Do you think I could forget that my mother betrayed herself and the revolution with you?” Anger and contempt contorted Kao’s face and his voice roughened. “You’ve never caused anything but harm to me. Take your selfish offers of help elsewhere.”

  “I’ve never wished to harm you, Kao. Surely you must understand that.”

  “Then go!” Swinging on his heel, Kao strode to the door, wrenched it open, and stood glaring angrily at his father. “If you want to help, leave China tomorrow and never return!”

  For a long moment father and son stood looking mutely at one another; then Jakob shook his head slowly “I’m sorry, Kao, I can’t promise to do that.”

  Kao did not reply but merely opened the door wider and Jakob stepped out into the courtyard. The door slammed loudly behind him, and when he reached the street he found it full of people making their way southward toward the Square of Heavenly Peace. Many were carrying paper wreaths and small portraits of Chou En-lai, and as soon as Jakob came in sight of the Monument to the People’s Heroes he saw that the tributes to Chou were now piled to a height of thirty or forty feet around the tall center column of lavender granite.

  4

  From the rear seat of a Tatra taxi, which had collected him from his hotel shortly after breakfast, Jakob watched the swarms of Chinese cyclists milling along the narrow, tree-lined road in the northeast corner of the old Imperial City. For some minutes he had been aware that the streets through which he was passing were vaguely familiar from his student days and he found himself subconsciously searching for the three-story European-style building standing in a leafy garden which had once housed the Joint Missionary Language School. He had begun to assume that it must have been pulled down when the taxi halted outside a pair of dun-colored double gates in a high wall of gray brick above which a sign reading “Peking Number 7 Mental Health Center” was visible. He paid off the taxi and rang a bell beside the gate. When it was opened by an elderly Chinese, he stepped through and showed him the stamped letter authorizing his visit, which he had found waiting at his hotel the previous evening on returning from Kao’s house. After the Chinese grunted his approval, Jakob began walking up a short asphalt drive toward the portalled front door and because his mind was distracted by the prospect of the visit, he did not fully recognize where he was until he reached the short flight of steps leading into the building.

  Then the sight of the aging panels of colored glass in the double doors and a rusted iron bell pull beside them brought him to a sudden halt and his memory vaulted backward forty-five years. The scarred paint on the doors was a different color and yellowing notices fixed to the begrimed glass marred their decorative effect, but he was in no doubt that he was standing before the entrance of the old Joint Missionary Language School through which he had passed daily as a young man. Turning to look back the way he had come, he saw then that some of the original cypress trees still flanked the drive, which had once been graveled, but the grass beneath them was rank and untended and the ornamental iron railings that had surrounded the shady garden in the thirties had been replaced by the high wall clearly designed to deter unauthorized exit or entry.

  For a moment Jakob stood rooted to the spot, overwhelmed by the awful irony. A sense of foreboding had begun to grow in him as soon as he stepped into the taxi outside the hotel, but finding himself unexpectedly in surr
oundings which he had last inhabited as a novice missionary, he felt his agitation increase. It seemed for a moment or two as though he were caught up in a nightmarish dream; he found himself wondering how many other transformations the old language college might have passed through, and looking at the garden brought back poignant memories of Felicity hurrying earnestly in and out of the building at his side, clutching her Chinese-language books. Then the sound of the door opening behind him broke his train of thought and he turned to find a Chinese male orderly looking questioningly at him from the threshold. He mounted the steps hesitantly, and when he produced his letter of authorization the orderly directed him to a small reception window inside the entrance hall. After his credentials had been checked, the waiting orderly led Jakob away along a drab corridor that he immediately recognized; some doors that led into once-familiar classrooms stood open, but in place of the rows of desks at which he and Felicity had sat, he saw iron beds and wooden chairs on which vacant-eyed Chinese patients were slumped in attitudes of bemused idleness.

  Other patients were wandering aimlessly along the corridors, shepherded by white-overalled orderlies, and behind the few closed doors they passed, Jakob could hear the sound of crazed voices babbling and shouting incoherently. As they entered a corridor where all the rooms were visibly occupied by women, his heart began to thud painfully. Young girls and gray-haired crones alike looked out numbly through the doorways, their eyes blurred and unfocused, and he was seized by an irrational fear that he might not be equal to the demands of the meeting. When the orderly finally halted before a half-open door and motioned him ahead, Jakob had to take a deep breath before stepping past him; once inside the room, his first glimpse of Mei-ling seemed to paralyze his senses and he could only stand and stare.

  The loss of her reason had left Mei-ling strangely tranquil and composed. Her face ‘as smooth, almost unlined, and her hair, still lustrously dark and long, was dressed with a girl’s care in glossy braids. Slender and straight inside a tunic and baggy trousers of faded blue cotton, she sat unmoving on a chair in the middle of the sparsely furnished room, and despite her age, in her blank expression there was an unearthly beauty. She made no move and gave no sign that she had noticed his arrival but sat staring fixedly at a small window beyond which nothing was visible except a blank, -whitewashed wall. Even when he took a hesitant step toward her, she did not move or acknowledge his presence in any way, and after the male orderly closed the door softly on leaving, Jakob found himself listening uneasily to the man’s footsteps retreating along the scuffed linoleum of the passageway.