预计阅读本页时间：-
6
Interrogation
THE MORNING DAWNED BRIGHT and sunny. When I opened the window, frosty fresh air flowed into the cell. Winter was not far off, I thought. The guard was going from cell to cell calling the inmates to take their sheets off their beds for laundering, a routine that took place once a month on a sunny day. Extra cold water was issued to the cells. The inmates soaked their sheets in it, rubbed soap on the wet sheets, and then pushed them out of the small windows of the cells, to be collected by the Labor Reform girls, who finished washing them in the laundry room.
广告：个人专属 VPN，独立 IP，无限流量，多机房切换，还可以屏蔽广告和恶意软件，每月最低仅 5 美元
While I was rubbing soap on my wet sheet, a male guard unlocked the cell door, threw it open wide, and yelled, “Come out!”
“I’m doing my laundry,” I said.
“Don’t argue. When I say come out, just come out.”
The female guard on duty also came to the door. She said, “You can do your laundry later. Now you must go for interrogation.”
Interrogation! At last it seemed I was to come face to face with my antagonist. I hurriedly wiped my hands on a dry towel.
“Hurry up! Bring your book of Chairman Mao’s quotations,” the male guard said impatiently.
I followed him out of the cell through the courtyard of the women’s prison into an area at the back of the prison compound. He led me into a building past a large white wooden board on which was written in black characters, “Lenient treatment to those who confess frankly. Severe punishment to those who remain stubborn. Reward to those who render meritorious service.”
My heart palpitated with excitement; my footsteps were eager with expectancy. The long-awaited opportunity to answer questions and to have my case examined dispassionately was here at last. I believed a government interrogator couldn’t possibly behave like a hysterical Red Guard or a Revolutionary. He must be a trained man with a sense of responsibility, able to distinguish a guilty person from an innocent one.
Several guards were lolling on wooden chairs in a small room beside the entrance to the building. I was handed over to one of them who led me through a long corridor with many interrogation rooms ranged on either side. Most of the doors were closed. But I heard the muffled sound of voices and an occasional shout from some of them. The guard stopped in front of one of the rooms, threw open the door, and shouted, “Go in!”
The room was narrow and long and rather dark, with only a small window, like the one in my cell, high on the back wall. Two men, dressed in the baggy and faded blue cotton Maoist uniform worn by nearly all men in China except senior officials, were seated behind a wooden counter under the window. About two yards away, facing the window, was a heavy wooden chair for the prisoner. The room was very dark, but the little light that came through the window was focused on the spot where the prisoner sat. I noticed that the walls were dusty, the cement floor was black with damp, and the wooden counter and chair had been rubbed into a neutral color of gray.
After I entered the room, one of the men said, “Read the teaching of our Great Leader Chairman Mao from your book of quotations.” The quotation he selected was the same one used by the Red Guards when they came to loot my home.
“ ‘When the enemies with guns are annihilated, the enemies without guns still remain. We must not belittle these enemies.’ ” I read the quotation in a firm voice, conscious of the fact that the two men were watching me closely. I tried not to show any sign of nervousness lest it be interpreted as a sign of guilt.
“Sit down,” the man said, pointing to the prisoner’s chair.
As I turned to sit down, I saw a small window rather like the one in the door of my cell, only perhaps a little larger, in the wall behind the prisoner’s chair. I concluded that the interrogations carried out in the room were monitored by someone in the corridor.
I sat down on the heavy wooden chair and looked at the two men behind the counter. They had the pale faces of men who worked indoors with little chance for exercise. Unlike the man who registered my arrival, these two men, despite their rather shabby appearance, exuded an air of authority and self-confidence common to men of official position. They were quite relaxed, almost casual; of course, interviewing a prisoner was just routine work to them. I assumed the one who spoke to me was the interrogator and the one with sheets of paper in front of him was the secretary.
After I was seated, the interrogator looked past my shoulder at the small window behind me and gave a barely perceptible nod. It seemed my initial perception was correct; a man was indeed outside listening in on my interrogation. Disappointment overwhelmed me for a moment. It seemed the interrogator was just an intermediary and I was not going to see my real antagonist after all. How I wished I could deal face to face with the man who had treated me so unjustly and have his features carved on my memory, never to be forgotten!
In a low voice that was almost bored, the interrogator asked me my name and other personal particulars. Then he looked up, raised his voice, and asked firmly, “Do you know what this place is?”
“I suppose it’s some sort of prison or concentration camp, since everybody is locked up.”
“You are quite right. This is the Number One Detention House, a prison for political prisoners. This is the place where counterrevolutionaries who have committed crimes against the People’s Government are locked up and investigated.”
“In that case, I should not have been brought here,” I declared firmly.
He was not perturbed by my remark but went on calmly, “You are locked up here precisely because you have committed a crime against the People’s Government.”
“There must have been some mistake,” I said.
“The People’s Government does not make mistakes.”
“You are not an irresponsible Red Guard. You are a government representative. You can’t make wild accusations like that.”
“It’s not a wild accusation.”
“You will have to provide some evidence to prove what you are saying.” I was deeply disappointed that the long-awaited interrogation was turning out to be just like the sessions I had had with the Revolutionaries before my imprisonment.
“Of course we have the evidence,” the interrogator bluffed shamelessly.
“Produce it, then,” I said sarcastically, calling his bluff. “Why waste time having an interrogation? Why not just produce the evidence and punish the culprit?”
“You must not underrate the masses. The Red Guards and the Revolutionaries can obtain all the evidence we need. Nothing can be hidden. Those who have made mistakes or committed crimes are making confessions and providing denunciations of others. They want to earn lenient treatment by confessing and to receive rewards by incriminating others.”
“I don’t believe you could possibly have any evidence against me, not because I fail to understand the nature of the Proletarian Cultural Revolution or because I underestimate the power of the masses. It’s because I don’t think you, or anybody else for that matter, could have something that simply doesn’t exist. I have never committed any crime; how could there be any evidence to show that I have done so?” Because he had lied about having evidence, I had gained a moral advantage over him. It reinforced my self-confidence.
“It would be an easy matter to produce the evidence and punish you. But that is not the policy of our Great Leader. The purpose of this interrogation is to help you change your way of thinking and to give you an opportunity to earn lenient treatment by confessing frankly so that you can make a clean break with your criminal past and become a new person.”
“I’m not a magician. I don’t know how to confess to something that did not happen.”
“Perhaps you are not ready yet. We are patient. We can wait.” He fixed his gaze upon me and spoke slowly so that his implied threat of long imprisonment would sink in.
“A million years would make no difference. If something didn’t happen, it just didn’t happen. You can’t change facts, no matter how long you wait.” I also spoke slowly and firmly to make him see that he had failed to frighten me.
“Time can change a person’s attitude. A woman like you would not last five years in this place. Your health will break down. Eventually you will be begging for a chance to confess. If you don’t you will surely die.”
“I would rather die than tell a lie.”
“Not at all. To want to live is the basic instinct of all living things, humans included.”
“I will obey our Great Leader Chairman Mao’s teaching. He said, ‘Firstly, do not fear hardship, and secondly, do not fear death.’”
“That quotation was not for the likes of you. That was for the Liberation Army soldiers,” he said indignantly.
“Marshal Lin Biao said, ‘The teachings of our Great Leader have universal significance and are applicable in all circumstances.’ ” A subtle change had taken place in my mood since the interrogator had given me the moral advantage by lying. I was beginning to enjoy this interrogation now. It was a lot better than being left in a dark, damp cell with no one to talk to.
There was a moment of silence. The interrogator again looked past my shoulder. Then he said, “You are audacious. But you can’t talk your way out of your difficulties. The only way out for you is to assume a correct attitude of sincerity. It’s my duty to help you come to a full understanding of the policy of the government and realize that you have no alternative to showing sincerity of repentance by giving a full confession. Do not belittle the Dictatorship of the Proletariat! This interrogation room is the equivalent of the People’s Court. You must take everything said here extremely seriously.”
“Am I not to expect justice from the People’s Government?”
“Justice! What is justice? It’s a mere word. It’s an abstract word with no universal meaning. To different classes of people, justice means different things. The capitalist class considers it perfectly just to exploit the workers, while the workers consider it decidedly unjust to be so exploited. In any case, who are you to demand justice? When you sat in your well-heated house and there were other people shivering in the snow, did you think of justice?”
“You are confusing social justice with legal justice. I can tell you that it was precisely because my late husband and I hoped that the People’s Government would improve conditions in China so that there would never be anybody suffering cold and hunger that we remained here in 1949 rather than follow the Kuomintang to Taiwan,” I told him.
“In any case, we are not concerned with the abstract concept of justice. The army, the police, and the court are instruments of repression used by one class against another. They have nothing to do with justice. The cell you now occupy was used to lock up members of the Communist Party during the days of the reactionary Kuomintang government. Now the Dictatorship of the Proletariat uses the same instruments of repression against its own enemies. The capitalist countries use such attractive words as ‘justice’ and ‘liberty’ to fool the common people and to prevent their revolutionary awakening. To assume a proper attitude you must get all that rubbish out of your head. Otherwise you will get nowhere.”
What he said was not new to me or to anybody who had lived in China and followed events since 1949. It was the accepted Marxist theory of class struggle. “The army, the police, and the court are instruments of repression used by one class against another” was said by Mao Zedong in his essay “On the Dictatorship of the People’s Democracy.” In the fifties Mao Zedong and his propaganda machinery used “the Dictatorship of the People’s Democracy” to describe the Communist regime in China. The facts of history have demonstrated, however, that the Communist regime in China was a dictatorship by Mao Zedong until his death in 1976. Mao’s essay “On the Dictatorship of the People’s Democracy” was published on July 1, 1949, to celebrate the anniversary of the founding of the Chinese Communist Party in 1921. That essay actually heralded and justified a series of political campaigns and large-scale arrests of men and women suspected of being hostile to the new Communist regime.
I saw that the interrogation was getting nowhere. As long as the interrogator did not ask concrete questions, nothing could be clarified. There was no point in my engaging in theoretical arguments over Marxism. One either believed in it or one did not. There was no middle way. My own outlook and my values had been formed long ago. I did not believe in dividing people into rigid classes, and I did not believe in class struggle as a means to promote progress. I believed that to rebuild after so many years of war, China needed a peaceful environment and the unity of all sections of society, not perpetual revolution. I could not change these beliefs. Unfortunately the interrogator would not see that, at least not at the moment. At the moment, he hoped to confuse me, to overcome my resistance with a combination of threats and arguments. The session was going to be protracted and tedious. My head was throbbing from my cold. I decided to let him talk on and hear him out.
After a moment’s silence, the interrogator went on. “The first requisite to confession is an admission of guilt. You must admit your guilt not only to the People’s Government but also to yourself. The admission of guilt is like the opening of the floodgates. When you admit sincerely that you are indeed guilty, that you were opposed to the People’s Government even though you pretended not to be, your confession will flow out easily.”
He stopped for a moment and looked at me searchingly to see my reaction. He had said “opposed to the People’s Government.” Of course I had been opposed to some measures of the People’s Government, such as large-scale arrests of innocent people, declaring a man an enemy just because of his class origin, etc. But I never talked about any of these things to anybody. And certainly I never tried to do anything about them. I only hoped that when the regime achieved maturity and experience, it would mellow. The interrogator was trying to instill in me a feeling of guilt because he knew very well that every citizen in every country opposes some measures of his or her government at one time or another. He hoped to manipulate me psychologically. But I saw through him at once, so I just sat there without any expression on my face. In my mind I thought of all the aspects of the People’s Government’s work that I fully supported, such as the improvement in public hygiene and the resettlement of the homeless. On the whole, I thought of myself as a supporter of the People’s Government. This assessment of my own positive attitude towards the Communist regime bolstered my courage to resist the interrogator’s attempt to promote a sense of guilt in my mind. It proved invaluable in all the years I spent in prison.
The interrogator continued. “The thing for you to do is to look over your own life and examine your family background. Find your correct place in the political and economic structure of our socialist state. Where do you stand? With the working people and the Revolutionaries or with the class enemies? You do not need me to tell you that you came from a feudal family that owned an enormous amount of rich agricultural land. For generations, your family exploited the peasants and lived off the riches they created. Your grandfather, your father, and your husband were all senior officials of reactionary regimes that cooperated with foreign imperialism, exploited the people, and opposed the Communist Party. You yourself decided to work for a multinational foreign firm though you were offered the opportunity to become a teacher at an educational institution of the people. It’s seventeen years since the Communist army liberated Shanghai. Scores of Chinese with backgrounds like yours have changed their mode of life and fallen in line with us. What did you do? You just went on as if nothing had happened. You carried on arrogantly in your old lifestyle, wore the same bourgeois clothes, and even dared to speak English in public and maintain friendly contact with a large number of foreigners here and abroad.
“Did you think your attitude of intransigence could pass unnoticed? The proletariat has been watching you for years. Our Great Leader said recently, ‘The eyes of the masses are clear and bright as snow.’ Do you still think you can hide anything from us?
“You are an intelligent woman. Do you honestly think we would let you out of here without succeeding in completely transforming your way of thinking?
“You have been here nearly two months already. I must admit you surprised us with your adaptability. Nevertheless, no matter how nonchalant you appear, you must find the living conditions in the prison cell extremely trying. Winter will soon be upon us. I do not believe you have ever passed a single winter in an unheated room in your whole life. That cell is going to be very cold. Then there is the coarse food you often find difficult to swallow. We have observed that. And what about your daughter? Do you not miss her? Do you not often wonder what is happening to her?”
He paused again. But when I continued to maintain silence, he went on. “First of all, we want you to write your autobiography. Nearly everyone in the country has done it, but we could find nothing like that in your file. Write everything down clearly. Do not try to whitewash yourself. Do not try to hide anything. We will check what you write with the material we already have about you. If you omit anything, we will think you are not sincere. Write in chronological order, starting with your family. We will make an assessment of your political standpoint and your sincerity from what you write.”
The man taking notes got up and handed me a roll of paper. After I had accepted it, the interrogator said, “If this paper is not enough, the guard on duty will give you more. She will also give you pen and ink. You are not allowed to make a draft. You are not allowed to throw away the paper on which you make a mistake. Hand it in with the rest when you finish.”
He looked at me with great seriousness and said, “Think over carefully everything I have said today. When you have finished your autobiography, give it to the guard on duty. We will call you again.”
The door of the interrogation room opened, and a guard appeared. I followed him through the long corridor back to my cell. I had no way of knowing how long I had been gone, but it seemed ages. I was hungry, tired, and very disappointed.
My wet sheet was spread on the stacked beds, which I used as a table. I picked up the cake of soap to rub on it. When I had finished, I called to the guard on duty, “Report!”
She came to the small window and handed me a pen and a bottle of ink.
“May I have my sheet washed now?”
“Laundry time is over. You can keep it for the next time.”
“But it’s wet, and I have soaped it. It’s not hygienic to keep a wet sheet for a whole month,” I said.
She did not wait for me to finish speaking but banged the small window shut and walked away.
During the afternoon, however, she came repeatedly to the peephole to look into the cell. After several trips, she opened the small window and asked me, “Why are you not writing?”
“How can I write? I’m worried about the wet sheet. It will smell. I haven’t another sheet to use.”
Perhaps to ensure my getting on with writing my autobiography as the interrogator wanted, she relented and got the Labor Reform girl to take the sheet. It was returned to me the next day, clean and dry.
The guard continued to come regularly to the peephole to look into the cell. To give the appearance of writing, I laid one of Mao’s books on my lap, placed a sheet of paper on it, and put the ink bottle beside me. After that, the guard left me alone.
Before writing anything, I had to ascertain what the interrogator hoped to achieve by ordering me to write my autobiography. His excuse that all other Chinese had done it was not a valid one. Although I had never been asked to write an autobiography, I believe the police in my district had a detailed record of my life already, as they had for everybody else who lived there. Obviously the interrogator hoped that the autobiography would provide some material they could twist and use against me.
A point that puzzled me was that I was not the only Chinese woman in Shanghai who had carried on with a comfortable lifestyle, worn traditional Chinese dress instead of the Mao suit, and kept foreign friends. But I had been singled out for imprisonment. No doubt the others had suffered at the hands of the Red Guards and probably had their homes looted. Maybe they had been beaten up. But I did not think they could all have been arrested. There was in fact much in the situation that was still a mystery to me. It would be foolish to plunge in and write frankly about myself and my life, revealing my innermost thoughts and standpoint. Besides, I had known cases of men being asked to write autobiographies over and over again. When discrepancies were found, the men were enmeshed in deep suspicion. Obviously the only thing I could do was to write a simple record of my life giving the bare facts in chronological order. If I was asked to write my autobiography again, I would have no difficulty in producing an identical version.
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 never 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 several 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.
“Your relationship with Scott was more than a casual acquaintance,” the interrogator said.
“Whatever it was, your interpretation of the situation is farfetched and incorrect.”
The interrogator glared at me and said, “My advice to you is not to try to get out of your difficulties by claiming you did have a love affair with Scott. A Chinese woman degrading her country by having a love affair with a barbarian from the West deserves incarceration in a Reform through Labor camp.”
Chinese throughout the ages have suffered from racial arrogance. Those who never went out of the country and had no close contact with other nationalities often thought of people in other lands as alien, therefore uncivilized creatures with strange habits and called them “foreigners” or even “foreign devils.” The self-imposed isolation during Mao Zedong’s reign and Party propaganda on the evils of capitalism greatly reinforced the Chinese people’s unfortunate state of self-delusion. When Deng Xiaoping threw China’s door open to the rest of the world and a flood of well-meaning and obviously affluent “foreigners” came to China with money to invest and ideas to share, the Chinese people suffered such a traumatic awakening that they sank into shame and self-reproach, only to emerge with an eagerness to jettison everything Chinese in order to become thoroughly “civilized.”
There was nothing I could say to the interrogator really, though I realized by his stance that sending me to a labor camp was not satisfactory unless I could be sent as a “spy.” This was interesting, and I asked myself why. Normally when the Party picked a victim to be punished, the Party didn’t much care what excuse it used for imposing sentence. Indeed, sometimes the excuses were extremely vague or nonexistent. To punish was the aim. In my case, to judge from the attitude of the interrogator, it seemed that I had to be punished as a “spy,” not for some other reason. Why? I was not to know until much, much later.
“I see you are not attempting to tell more lies. Now confess what Scott said to you when you were together,” the interrogator said.
“You cannot expect me to remember conversations that took place several years ago. There was nothing of any significance. We talked about books, music, Chinese porcelain, places we both knew, our families, and so on.”
“Your conversation never touched politics at all?”
“Well, we probably exchanged views on current affairs sometimes, mostly international affairs. Scott was a diplomat. He would not have wanted to comment on anything that was going on in China to a Chinese.”
To all the Europeans I had met, whether diplomats or businessmen, China under Mao Zedong was a fascinating subject mainly because the closed-door policy of the Communist Party shrouded the country in mystery. There were also some who came to China because they were interested in Chinese culture. When they had an opportunity to meet a Chinese with whom they could talk, naturally they asked questions. But these questions had nothing to do with political secrets. As a Chinese I believed that helping people from other lands understand China, her history, her cultural heritage, and her aspirations was not a bad thing. But the Communist Party officials of the radical faction did not see things in this light. They assumed that any Chinese not parroting the official propaganda line was hostile to the regime and everybody coming to China was trying to find fault with the Communist system. So they were always suspicious of the Chinese who worked in foreign firms and had contacts with the Europeans.
Before the Cultural Revolution, my feeling of safety had rested on the fact that I knew no Chinese of any significance in the official world and was not in a position to learn of anything that could possibly be considered a state secret. And I took great care never to ask questions on sensitive subjects when I saw my Chinese friends and relatives, especially when they happened to be Party members. In the end this policy paid off, because during the Cultural Revolution, when my friends and relatives were cross-examined, they could honestly say that I never showed any interest in state secrets.
“Scott was an intelligence officer. It was his duty to find out things. What did he ask you to do? Did he not ask you to get information for him?” persisted the interrogator.
“Never! How could I get information for him? I worked for Shell, a foreign firm. I knew nothing more than the foreigners knew.”
“It’s not possible for an intelligence officer to refrain from trying to gather information useful to his government.”
“Are you sure he was in fact an intelligence officer?” I asked the interrogator.
“Do not doubt our information.”
“Then why did you not arrest him or declare him persona non grata and expel him from China?”
“It was much better that he did not know we knew. We put him under close surveillance, and we knew everything he did. The British were working not only for their own country but also for the United States, since the Americans could not come here openly. The United States cooperates closely with the Kuomintang, so the British were helping the Kuomintang also.”
Raising his voice and abandoning his matter-of-fact manner, he went on. “In 1962, when Scott came to Shanghai for the second time, the Kuomintang were preparing for an attack against us. Scott chose to establish contact with you because you were connected with the Kuomintang.”
“Nonsense! I was never connected with the Kuomintang.”
“Your husband was a senior official of the Kuomintang government. But that’s not the whole story. Your class origin dictated that your sympathy would be with the Kuomintang. The teaching of our Great Leader on class struggle is like a telescope as well as a microscope. Armed with Mao Zedong Thought, we see through the superficial phenomena and get to the heart of the matter.”
I knew that the official propaganda line of Beijing in 1962 was that the Kuomintang was about to launch an attack against the mainland. But none of the newspapers and magazines I got from abroad ever hinted at any sign of military preparation in Taiwan. Besides, I was sure that Taiwan would not undertake an attack against the mainland without the consent of the United States and that in 1962 the United States was unlikely to allow such a venture. In Shanghai, however, I heard frequently of movements of Chinese troops to, and the withdrawal of families of military personnel from, Fujian province facing Taiwan. Many people believed that Mao planned military action against Taiwan, not the reverse. The gossip in Shanghai was that only the economic collapse caused by the failure of Mao’s Great Leap Forward, along with dissension in the Party leadership, compelled him to shelve his plan.
As I tried to recall whether anybody in the foreign community, including Scott, had asked me about Taiwan during that time, I became thoughtful. The interrogator, observing me closely but misunderstanding the reason for my thoughtfulness, seized the moment to say, “Whether you confess or not, we have a complete record of what you said to Scott.”
“In that case, you would know for a certainty that we never talked politics,” I told him.
“You are obviously not ready to confess right away. You need time to think and to recollect. That’s perfectly all right with us. We’ll give you plenty of time to prepare for a full and frank confession. After today, you should know it’s useless for you to try to evade. Now we will talk about that female agent Austin. Give an account of your dealings with her.”
“As you know, Mrs. Austin was the wife of a businessman. My contact with her was purely social. We played bridge together and dined with each other.”
“You brought her into contact with an ex-Kuomintang army officer!”
“What! Who was that?” I was genuinely shocked, and I showed my surprise. The interrogator, watching me, relaxed visibly.
“The Chinese doctor of traditional medicine you took to her apartment was a ranking officer of the Kuomintang army before he practiced medicine.”
“I knew nothing of his background. I knew only that he was a very good doctor of Chinese traditional medicine. Mrs. Austin confided to me that she was unhappy because she could not have children. She had been to European doctors who could not find anything organically wrong. I was sorry for her, so I asked the doctor if Chinese medicine could do something for her. Since he said that he could not be certain without seeing her, I introduced them to each other. You could easily get confirmation of what happened from the doctor himself.”
“He committed suicide soon after the Red Guards started their revolutionary action against him.”
Had the Red Guards tortured him because he had had contact with a British agent? God, why did I introduce him to her? How stupid I had been not to realize fully the complexity of life under Mao! Since good intentions and sympathy for others often led people into trouble, the Chinese people had invented a new proverb that said, “The more you do, the more trouble you have; the less you do, the less trouble you have. If you do nothing whatever, you will become a model citizen.” Why did I not heed the experience of others? I felt greatly saddened by the death of this poor man.
“Besides taking the doctor to see her, you also traveled to Beijing with her. What did you do there and whom did you see?”
“The tomb of Ming emperor Wanli had been newly opened in Beijing in 1959. In 1960 we went to see it. Traveling with foreigners, I could stay in a good hotel, but as a Chinese citizen, I would only be allowed to stay in a third-rate guesthouse. So I went with Mrs. Austin and another British woman friend. For them it was convenient to take me because I knew Beijing well, having lived there in my childhood, and I spoke the language.”
“Did you introduce her to anybody in Beijing?”
“No, I don’t know many people in Beijing myself.”
“What about your brother? He visited you at the hotel, we know.”
“On the day my brother came, the two British ladies went to the Jade Temple without me. My brother did not want to meet them.”
There was a slight noise behind me. The interrogator looked past my shoulder and then at his watch. After a few whispered words with the man taking notes, he stood up and said, “You may go back to your cell. When I call you again we will talk about the dirty work you did for the company that employed you and the reason your office engaged as secretary the White Russian woman who was also a Soviet agent. I don’t think you will find it easy to deny your involvement with the affairs of the firm that employed you.”
After a momentary pause, he went on. “Think carefully about your relationship with Scott. Remember, we already know he used you to gather information, and we have a good idea what you told him.”
“I couldn’t have told anybody more than I knew myself. Since I knew nothing, how could I have been of use to him?”
“Well, we think he came to Shanghai to see you, both before you went to Hong Kong and after you came back. He wouldn’t have done that if it hadn’t been worth his while.”
A guard opened the door of the interrogation room. The interrogator told me to go. I realized that he was not interested in prolonging the session after the man listening at the small window had departed.
Back in the cell, I was continuously watched by the guards. My mind was troubled, as I felt responsible for the death of that poor doctor. And I wished I had never met Scott or Austin. Were they really British agents? Even if they were, it still did not explain why I was in prison now. Both the foreign residents in Shanghai and the senior Chinese working in foreign firms were under constant observation by their servants at home and by other Chinese staff members at work. In public places, there were always policemen and uniformed sentries, as well as plainclothes operatives working for the police and zealous activists eager to report any unusual behavior. Personal privacy did not exist in Shanghai as it does in other cities of the world. If the People’s Government had been suspicious of my relationship with Scott and Austin, the Shanghai police should have acted years ago. Indeed there was much in the situation I did not as yet understand. It seemed quite likely that the interrogator would go through the whole list of my foreign friends and declare them all secret agents. Scott and Austin were merely the first two being named to frighten me. I realized that I was being drawn into a quagmire. I would have to watch my step to avoid sinking into its depths.
Ever since I had been brought to the No. 1 Detention House, I had been wondering why I was arrested. This was the question that puzzled me most. Who was behind my arrest? Did they really suspect me of having done something criminal, or did they merely hope that I would be frightened into providing them with a false confession they could use against me? Winnie seemed to think that because Shell had closed its Shanghai office, it was my turn to be punished. Was she correct?
As I sat in the cell thinking of my encounter with the interrogator, I couldn’t help recalling all the cases of innocent men and women sentenced to terms of imprisonment and hard labor that I had heard of. My spirit of bravado deserted me, and I became really frightened, not because I was burdened with a sense of guilt but because I feared that the task of defending myself might be beyond my ability.
In the evening, I composed myself for that quiet moment of daily prayer, but the stern voice of the interrogator intruded. I felt lost and unhappy, almost as if God had turned away from me as well.
That night, I had a nightmare, the first of many during my imprisonment. I dreamt I was standing on the narrow ledge of a sheer rocky cliff by the sea. The roaring waves of the incoming tide were rising higher and higher to engulf me. It was pitch-dark, I was utterly alone, and I was petrified.
Instinctively, I pulled my quilt over my face to stifle a cry of terror. I opened my eyes to find the electric light glaring down at me. My eyeshade had slipped to the floor. Remembering the guard standing forever outside the door with her eyes glued to the peephole, ready to interpret any sign of restlessness as a sign of guilt, I froze in fear and apprehension. But the sound of a heavy bolt being driven in place somewhere upstairs told me that she was temporarily elsewhere, putting a newly arrived prisoner into a cell.
