by Henry Pu Yi
“I, PU YI, HAVE NO CONSCIENCE. DESPITE THE FACT THAT the government has given me humane treatment I have nevertheless concealed things and violated prison regulations. I have committed a crime against the State. These jewels were never mine; they belonged to the people. Until now I never understood this.”
I stood in the reception room of the Center Chief with my head bowed. On a desk near the window were the 468 pieces of jewelry shining with a brilliance that would make anyone wish to possess them.
The Chief stared at me attentively as I spoke. Then he nodded his head. “Please sit down,” he said. “You must have gone through a great deal of mental anguish regarding this affair.”
I replied that I had been very uneasy and then went on to elaborate my difficulties, but in all that I said at that time, only the last sentence was important. “I didn’t dare to be frank with you because I was afraid that even if I should confess, I still might not receive lenient treatment.”
“Why was that?” the Chief asked as the trace of a smile darted across the corners of his mouth. “Was it because you were an emperor?”
I hesitated for a while and then admitted he was right.
“I don’t blame you for entertaining this kind of thought,” the Chief continued with the smile still on his lips. “You have a special history and naturally you have many special thoughts. However, I wish to tell you once more, the Communist Party and the People’s Government are always true to their word. It doesn’t matter what kind of status you once had; after you have confessed and if you can reform yourself more completely, you may even receive a reduced sentence. If you should be able to achieve an act of genuine merit you might even receive a reward. It’s always up to the individual. The fact that you did not surrender these jewels prior to this time, means that you have committed a violation of prison regulations. But now, since you have confessed voluntarily and recognized your mistake, this indicates that you show regret for your previous conduct. I definitely will not give you hard treatment.”
After he had finished speaking he ordered the guard outside the door to summon someone from the Custodial Section whom he asked to inventory the jewelry and to provide me with a receipt. “Even if the government is unwilling to confiscate them,” I said, “I myself would like to contribute them to the State.”
“No, it’s better for us to keep them for you,” the Chief explained. And then, just before walking out of the room, he turned to face me and said, “As I have told you previously, insofar as we are concerned, a man who has been reformed is more valuable to us than jewels.”
When I returned to my cell with the receipt for the jewelry, my cellmates gave me an unprecedented welcome and congratulated me on my progress.
“Oh, Pu, we never thought of you showing such bravery, we do so admire you,” they said. They had all stopped calling me Mr. Pu for some time, and I now found this familiar form of address most comforting.
This sort of praise from them was unprecedented, for since I had started to wash my clothing and do my mending myself, my appearance had become so sloppy that the respect my cellmates had shown me had been greatly reduced. Some had given me the nickname of “secondhand shop.” Also, whenever I had made a mistake in class, I would at once become the object of unreserved laughter. Now they embraced me, and I immediately felt proud.
Later, during the rest period in the courtyard, I overheard our former Ambassador to Japan talking about the case in a way that touched my heart. “Pu is really not so dumb,” I heard him say. “He has gained the initiative by confessing his ownership of the jewelry. What he did was correct. Besides, I don’t think he could have concealed them much longer. The information the government holds in its hands today is simply unimaginable. You can understand what I mean if you consider all the cases reported in the press. Tens of thousands of people have supplied information to the government.”
Hearing his talk made me think about the lies in the draft of my reminiscences and feel that I could not fool the government officials. But if I were to speak out, perhaps I could pass through this ordeal peacefully, just as had been the case with the jewelry. Of course, this was a political problem rather than an economic one and the Center Chief had said nothing about it. But, nevertheless, it made me wonder if I would receive the same kind of treatment.
According to the exposures of anti-Communist activity reported in the press, those who admitted their guilt by confession were being treated leniently. News regarding the settlement of these cases was becoming more and more frequent. I had talked many times with my cell section chief, Wang, a former judge of the Manchukuo regime, about these cases, and his analysis of them always had the effect of making me see the relationship between my particular case and the ones receiving such publicity.
Not long after this, the Center asked us to supply material on the criminal actions of the Japanese in the Northeast for use in connection with its proceedings against them. When the Communist cadre in the Center announced this to us someone asked whether, besides the behavior of the Japanese, we should write about something else.
The cadre member replied, “Of course, you can, but the main thing we want to know about is the criminal action of the Japanese bandits.”
Upon hearing this exchange, I couldn’t help but become worried again. What did this mean, writing about “something else”? “Something else” clearly meant the Chinese, and the war criminals among the Chinese meant me. Would my own family write about me?
When my fellow prisoners wrote about criminal action regarding the Japanese in Manchukuo they were very accurate. In my own section, on the first day, more than ten copybooks of material were produced, and Wang, after collecting all the material submitted, said, “Our result is very good. Tomorrow I’m sure we’ll produce even more.”
On the second day we wrote all day long. I, however, had produced much less than on the previous day. But as Wang collected it, he still seemed satisfied, at least with what the others had produced.
“You people can well imagine,” he said, “how much more material the people in the Northeast themselves will write. Thus, you can estimate the enormous amount of material in government hands. Those of you who have had judicial experience will know how it works. Once you have evidence you need not worry about those who do not talk. In the old days, the judicial organ of government felt that it was very difficult to gather evidence, but now, in the People’s Government, the common people all gladly supply material. The situation is completely different.”
My heart nearly jumped through my throat on hearing this. It was not the first time I had heard how the government was in possession of lots of material. That very morning we had discussed an item in the newspaper about the arrest of a counter-revolutionary in Hunan who had assassinated a Red Army general way back in 1935, and who had hidden in the mountains for many years. How had they found his hiding place? Perhaps the Communist Party had been collecting evidence on this man for years and had it available in its files, pending investigation.
On the third day of our writing about the Japanese in the Northeast, I heard footsteps at the foot of the stairs. Turning around, I saw a middle-aged stranger who was followed by the Center Chief. Based on previous experience, I judged that he was someone from high up in the Public Security Organization who had come for an inspection of the prison.
The inspector examined each and every cell and also listened to the names of the prisoners as read off by the Chief. His face remained expressionless and, although he did not wear an army uniform, he looked like a military man.
“What are you doing?” he asked as he stopped outside my cell. His eyes bored into me.
I stood up and reported that I was writing about the criminal actions of the Japanese. He seemed interested in my reply. “What kind of criminal actions of the Japanese bandits do you know of?” he asked.
I told him about a report I had once received on the execution of workers at a construction site of a secret base. Perhaps it was due to m
y supersensitivity, or perhaps it was really the case, I do not know, but I sensed that the trace of a smile that had originally shown on his face seemed to disappear. His eyes became stern.
“At the time I originally heard the story I was much agitated. I had never expected the Japanese to be so cruel,” I added, most uncomfortably.
“Why didn’t you protest to the Japanese?” he asked, as he looked straight into my eyes.
I felt that he was very angry and immediately I bowed my head. “. . . I . . . didn’t dare,” I replied.
“You didn’t dare? Were you afraid? Was that it?” He did not wait for my reply. “Fear . . . fear, to think that fear could change a man to this extent.”
“No,” I answered. “It was not fear. . . . It happened as a result of my own crimes and mistakes. I can only admit my crimes to the people. Even if ten thousand deaths were meted out to me, I could not wash away my guilt.”
“You don’t need to be like that,” he said quietly. “Don’t try to take everything on your own shoulders. You can only be responsible for what is yours. You should deal with facts. What is yours you cannot erase, but what is not yours, you should not assume.”
But I still continued to talk on about my guilt and how I had made up my mind to reform. Meanwhile, I noticed that he was conducting an inspection of my cell. He even asked one of my cellmates to hand over his mouthwash cup for inspection. After I finally finished speaking, he shook his head and said, “We must depend on facts. So long as one can really admit guilt and show by facts the degree of his guilt he will receive very lenient treatment. You must use facts to explain and illustrate your progress and not empty talk. Do your best.”
He then glanced casually at the things I had written and went to the neighboring cell. From this time on, the inspector’s pair of stern eyes stayed with me, as well as his words: “You must base your story on facts, not empty talk.”
He had made me feel that I myself was confronted with an irresistible and driving and thrusting force, the kind of force that was able to get to the bottom of everything. It was because of this same force that a man who had murdered a Red Army Chief in 1935 could not escape his fate, even though he had hidden for years deep in a mountain. I now felt that because of this thrusting force, nothing could escape revelation.
A few days later, I took up my pen and put down in detail, far greater detail than heretofore, all the facts about my activities in Tientsin and the relationship between me and my courtiers on the one hand, and the Japanese on the other, as well as my meeting with Doihara.
Two days later, our Section Chief told me that the Center authorities had read what I had written and felt I had shown important progress which should be commended.
At the end of 1952 we moved to another building with larger rooms where there were new wooden boards for beds, as well as tables, wooden benches and bright windows. I began to feel that what the Center Chief had said about my reformation was true, especially since I had received no punishment, but rather a commendation for what I had written about my collaboration with the Japanese.
In the spring of 1953, the Center entered into a working agreement with a pencil factory in Harbin. The prisoners pasted up the paper boxes that contained the pencils and, from this time on, every day, we would work at making paper boxes four hours a day and would study four hours.
The authorities explained that this arrangement would be useful in breaking the monotony of our lives and, furthermore, since we had never before worked as laborers, it would be good for us.
These words were to have a particular meaning for me. Needless to say, in the past I had never even sharpened a pencil, to say nothing of having pasted a pencil box. I had never paid any attention to the boxes pencils came in and I did not know how much trouble it took to make them. But after a while, all my curiosity over the process was lost. Pencil boxes and paste became synonymous and I was reduced to a state of confusion. By the time others had finished several boxes, I had not yet completed one of them. I had no concept of manual work.
“What have you done to this one?” Hsien, who had been Chief of Military Hospitals in Manchukuo, asked me one day as he picked up one of my boxes. “How come it cannot be opened? What do you call it?”
Hsien was the son of Prince Su. He and several of his brothers and sisters had been educated in Japan and he had studied medicine there. Lady Yamagishi was his younger sister. One of his brothers had been mayor of Harbin and his whole family was pro-Japanese. When we had met for the first time in Soviet Russia, he had knelt before me, saying, “Your slave now has the opportunity to see his master.”
Now he was in my section and enjoyed picking bones with me. He was a very irritable man, easily aroused against others, and, yet, if he got into an argument, he could never win it. Since my work was incomparably poorer than others and since I never had the courage to argue, I had become the escape hatch for his own emotions.
Hsien’s meddling in my affairs aroused the attention of the other workers in our section and they came over to observe my problems and began to laugh. I grabbed the box from Hsien and threw it on the discard pile. “Why do you set yourself up arbitrarily as the official reporter on waste?” I asked him.
“Who has reported waste?” he answered as he stared at me and opened his eyes wide.
“Even though my pasting is a little inferior, it doesn’t mean that the boxes can’t be used,” I muttered. Then I picked up the pencil box from the waste pile and put it back on the pile of finished boxes.
“And even though you put it over there,” he answered, as he pointed at the box, “it’s still a waste item.”
I became so angry that I began to tremble uncontrollably. “You can only cope with me. You are someone who always jumps on a weak person. I’m about the only man you can handle.”
This remark touched him on his raw spot and he blushed. “Who have I bullied? Who am I afraid of?” he shouted. “You still think you are the Emperor; do you want people to worship you?”
Fortunately, none of the workers paid any attention to him and he stopped shouting when the Section Chief came up, but this did not end the quarrel because Hsien was not a person to give up easily. The following day when we went to work, he selected a seat next to me. From the moment we commenced, he began to look at my work with a critical eye. I turned my back on him and, even though my day’s work could not compare with the others, at least it showed some progress.
The Center used the money it obtained from our labor to buy candies and sweets for us. This was the first time in my life that I enjoyed something as the result of my own physical labor and I felt that the candy I received was really better than any I had ever tasted. But, unfortunately, as soon as it was issued to us, Hsien started talking, “Today Pu Yi’s results have not been so bad.”
“Not bad, nothing was wasted,” I answered him.
“You would do better to be more humble,” he said, chuckling.
“Am I not humble when I say I did not have any waste?” I was really angry at heart and the candy no longer seemed sweet. What I disliked the most was that Hsien had a compulsion to be critical when others were happy. “If I produce any more waste items, you can be critical of me again,” I added.
I hoped that when I said this he would stop and I would not have to talk to him again. I did not expect that he would pick up one of my finished boxes, hold it up in the air, and say to everyone, “Please look at this!”
As I raised my head to look at it, I nearly swallowed my candy. I had pasted the label on upside down. I became so mad, I felt like taking a box and throwing it at Hsien’s face. “Do whatever you wish to do,” I growled after a while.
“Uh, now look at all the big talk! Still showing the smelly pomp of an Emperor,” he droned on. Then he raised his voice. “When I criticized you it was for your own good. Why don’t you admit it?” As he heard the footsteps of the guards outside the door, he raised his voice even louder. “Do you still entertain the illusion of becom
ing an emperor again?” he asked.
“You are talking utter nonsense,” I said. “I am dumber than you; I cannot compare with you in either talking or working. By nature I am not as able as you. Now, will that do?”
Everyone had left their benches and come over to try and stop our quarrel. Our workroom held eighteen people. There were, besides me, three former Manchukuo civilian high officials and fourteen military officers. Our Section Chief, Wei, was a former military man and Chang Ching-hui, the former Premier of Manchukuo, was one of the three civilians, but he had become senile and did not study or work and seldom talked.
That evening, with the exception of Chang Ching-hui, the others participated in a discussion regarding the now famous “paper box incident.” One man criticized Hsien saying, “He should not have raised his voice.” Another criticized me saying, “If I had not pasted the box right, I should have admitted it at once and not taken an unfriendly attitude.” A Mongol named Kuo felt that the attitude of Hsien was wrong from beginning to end and that I was entirely justified in getting angry. Another, who was friendly with Hsien, opposed Kuo and another believed that the whole incident should be discussed at our Saturday review and self-criticism session with the prison authorities.
As the talk went on, neither side would give in. But all of a sudden, everyone became quiet. I turned my head and saw that Chief Li, a cadre member in charge of our study section, had come into the room. After he heard the story, he picked up the paper box on which I had pasted the label upside down, and said, “This is a very small item; it’s not worth quarreling about. Since the label was pasted upside down, paste another label right side up on top of it.”
The suggestion quieted everyone, but the incident was not yet finished. A few days later, Little Jui, who was responsible for distributing paper box material to us, told us that several of the working groups wanted to start a labor competition and asked whether we wished to participate. All of us indicated our approval. Little Jui also told us that the group to which Little Ku belonged had initiated a “speedy pasting process,” the efficiency of which was 100 percent higher and thus our group felt that if we were to join the competition we could no longer use our old method and that we would have to devise a newer and more efficient one. Someone advocated a “water flow” or mass production system by which each man would specialize on one phase of the work; one would paste the bottom of the box, another put on the paper, another the label, etc., etc. We all agreed to try it out and I was pleased because I felt that, in this division of labor, the work would be simpler and less confusing. I didn’t foresee that new problems for me would develop.