Chapter 6
Return to Prisoners of Liberation: Four Years in a Chinese Communist Prison
Chapter 6
Dell: Several hours had passed since Rick and Harriet had been taken away in the jeep. The shadows were beginning to lengthen in the courtyard but still I sat on in the living room, my hands folded in my lap, not daring to move under the watchful eyes of the armed guard. Our guests were expected at eight o’clock and I fidgeted inwardly. “If there were only some way of telling them not to come. What a thing to be involved in!”
My thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of a cadre who asked me, “Aren’t you going to have your dinner? It’s getting late.”
“What time is it?” I asked hurriedly.
“Quarter to eight.”
“I’ve got guests coming in a few minutes. I suppose I had better wait and eat with them,” I said, hoping to find out from his answer just what my status was.
“Suit yourself,” he replied indifferently.
“Well, if I’m going to eat with them—” I paused to see if he would say anything, but he met my questioning gaze with a blank stare. I tried again from a different tack to find out what I could without asking a direct question. “Uh, well, I had better get dressed. I can’t receive guests in these clothes! And I had better tell Wang to start setting the table.”
I made a move toward the door and called, “Wang! Wang!”
“Never mind, never mind,” said the cadre hurriedly. “You don’t need to change. We’ll take care of everything. You just sit down and take it easy.”
My short-lived hope flickered out as I took in the significance of his words. It was plain I would not be allowed to see our friends. When the doorbell rang at eight, the guard motioned me to go into the little room over the kitchen which we had been using as a pantry and catch-all for odds and ends of furniture. There was a small boudoir chair in the room and I sat on that in the dark with the guard standing just outside the door to the living room.
The first to arrive were the two couples from the British Embassy, and they were ushered into the room which I had just vacated. A few moments later the bell rang again and I heard the bank manager’s voice asking in bewilderment, mixed with a trace of fear, “Isn’t this the home of Mr. Rickett? I’m looking for Mr. Rickett. This must be the wrong house.”
He was assured by the guard that he had come to the correct address and was asked to sit down in the courtyard. The cadre had just started to converse with him when one of the British walked boldly out of the living room and, standing in the doorway, called in a clear voice, “Rickett’s been arrested.” He then walked calmly back into the room and to my amazement I heard the four of them start to play bridge.
The poor manager sputtered for some time in the courtyard about how he had hardly known us; really we could not be considered his friends, just chance acquaintances seen at the club once in a while. After an uncomfortable two hours, he and the others were allowed to go. I wondered if they had realized that I was there, but in a way it did not matter much whether they knew or not. They seemed utterly remote at that point.
Not long after they had left I was asked to step into the living room again. Two young men in blue cadre uniform, who looked as if they had just finished college, were sitting on the couch. One, a man with a broad, high-cheek boned face and unusually pasty complexion, accentuated by snapping black eyes and a thick shock of black hair, motioned me to an easy chair and asked if I had eaten.
I smiled wryly, “I’m really not hungry.”
“Would you like a glass of water?”
I nodded and the cadre told a guard standing nearby to fetch a glass of water.
Meanwhile the pasty-faced cadre went on to explain that Rick had been arrested because he was a spy. Evidence had been gathered which proved this beyond the shadow of a doubt.
He continued in a quick, central China accent which I sometimes found difficult to understand, “We have not placed you under formal arrest because we haven’t decided to what extent you were involved in your husband’s crime. We know that many wives are forced by circumstances into becoming accomplices of their husbands, without realizing the implications of their actions. In such cases the government tries to be extremely lenient. If in the course of the investigation it should be made clear that you were as responsible as he, you will probably be arrested too, although your attitude in the investigation will have a lot to do with deciding your future. If you are honest and do not try to hide the truth, the People’s Government will be very lenient with you. The People’s Government felt that, as a married woman, you would be more comfortable at home. Now, tell me, what did your husband come to China to do?”
I explained carefully that Rick was a student of ancient Chinese who was interested only in Chinese history and philosophy. He had come to China to study and wanted to return to the United States to promote good relations between the Chinese and American people by teaching history. As I spoke, the young man tossed his head impatiently as if my words hurt his ears. The curl of his sensuous lips and the quiver of his nostrils revealed a hot temper which he was obviously suppressing with difficulty. Shifting my glance to see the reaction of the cadre at his side, I took stock of him for the first time. He sat there almost phlegmatic. The darkness of his complexion stood out in striking contrast to that of the broad-faced one. His features were small and delicate and the eyes which peered out from behind rimless glasses were calm and somewhat friendly.
Feeling slightly reassured, I waited for my interrogator’s comment. He ran his hand impatiently through his thick hair and said coldly, “All right, but we aren’t interested in listening to fairy stories. You think about it and we will talk with you again. You had better get some rest now; it’s already quite late.”
A young girl in cadre uniform entered and told me I could sleep in Harriet’s room. As I passed our study bedroom, I could see two or three men and women going through our belongings. “Oh, my heavens,” I thought, “that report Rick was writing to send out in the Dutch diplomatic mail pouch— was it out on the desk or in one of the drawers? I’ve got to think of some way to get in and grab it. If need be, I could chew it up and swallow it, or flush it down the toilet.”
As I dropped down on Harriet’s bed, I realized I was being ridiculous. That report must have been discovered first thing. They would certainly have started with Rick’s desk. It must be in their hands by now. “But,” I thought, “what shall I do when they ask me about it? Better play dumb and say I never heard of it. Thank goodness it was still in rough form and I hadn’t typed it up yet. I can probably get away with denying any knowledge of it.”
The next morning, after refusing breakfast, I sat down alone in the living room and stared blankly into space. When the search of all our belongings was concluded, the slow-moving, bespectacled cadre brought me a number of papers, photographs, and cards and asked me to count them and sign a chit to the effect that they were being taken into the custody of the People’s Government. My heart jumped when I saw the report in the little pile, but I made no sign that I had an idea what any of the material was as I signed the receipt. I had decided to take my cue from the interrogators. If they thought I was not seriously involved in any questionable activities I would certainly do my best to keep them thinking that way.
After he left I relapsed into my semi-stupor, to be suddenly roused by the thought that Harriet had asked one of her student friends for lunch that day. Yang Miao-jung, a young Chinese girl whose mannerisms, ways of thinking, and habits were as American as any college student in the United States, had been one of Harriet’s most valuable contacts and over the lunch or dinner table would be bombarded by all of us with questions about the organization in which she worked— how was their study going, how responsive to the new regime were her coworkers, what did the government stress in their study, what was the hierarchy in her organization, what did they eat in the mess, etc., etc.
As noon approached I waited nervously for her knock. I had asked Wang in a whisper if there were any way we could warn her not to come, little realizing that, as one of Harriet’s informants, she was bound to be picked up for questioning sooner or later no matter where she was. But Wang shook his head disconsolately and said “No.” The bell rang several times toward noon as people came and went, and then the sound I had been dreading could be heard loud and clear through the courtyard.
“Da de de da daa, Da da!” (Shave and a haircut, two bits!) It was the special knock we had taught her as a joke because she was too short to reach the bell pull that Rick had made.
As soon as Little Yang entered the courtyard I was told to go back into the small room over the kitchen. (I spent much of the next six weeks there.) Little Yang was taken into the living room and questioned. Her relationship with Harriet was well known. Old friends and acquaintances at work had warned her more than once, so she had told us, that she ought not see so much of Harriet, that no good would come of it, but she, in her fiery little way, had retorted that she liked Harriet and would continue to see as much of her as she wanted. It was quite obvious that under these circumstances she would have to undergo some investigation. I wondered if she would be arrested, but it soon became apparent that she was going to be detained in our house. She took up quarters in Harriet’s room and wrote to her father, who sent her extra clothes, bedding, toilet articles, and money, which she used for the food bought daily for her by the guards.
We were in close proximity but were not allowed to talk to each other, although for a couple of weeks we passed notes back and forth by putting them in each other’s soap dish in the bathroom. When we were caught the hot-tempered cadre who had taken the lead in my investigation told me sternly that we would not be punished since this was the first time, but I should understand that in prison note-passing was a very serious offense and I would not have been let off so lightly there. It was comforting to have Little Yang there. Though we could not talk we did smile and give each other encouraging winks or gestures as we passed from one room to another during the day.
The interrogation was centered on Little Yang the first two days, and it was not until the third day that I was asked to go into the living room again. The two cadres were seated on the couch as before. The dark, bespectacled little man said nothing, while his partner began the questioning. Running his hand through his heavy, black hair in what I came to know as his most characteristic gesture, he asked, “What did your husband do during the war?”
“He was in the Marine Corps.”
“What part of the Marine Corps?”
“He was a line officer.”
“What was the exact branch?”
“Well, I don’t remember. I just remember that he was in a branch where they were called line officers.”
He looked me squarely in the eyes and asked coldly, “You don’t know what that branch was called?”
My gaze was equally level and cold as I replied, “No, I don’t know.”
“Well, I’ll tell you. Your husband was in . . .”
He paused, and I thought to myself, “Good. You tell me what you know and I may be able to keep one step ahead of you.”
But he did not finish the sentence. At the time, it never occurred to me how ridiculous it was to deny knowledge of such open facts about our past. The fact that Rick had been an interpreter during the war had come out back in 1949 when we had applied for residence permits. I could only make the interrogator suspicious of me by playing dumb on such points, but I was determined to say nothing that would incriminate Rick or involve me.
The cadre, with a look of impatient disgust, soon terminated the questioning and told me to write out a list of the people we had known in Peking, our relationship with them, and what we had talked about with them. As I turned to go, he said, “This is our method. If you are honest, that’s all there is to it.”
I went back to the little room with mixed feelings. All those months past I had been dreading arrest and the torture which was sure to accompany it, but now that arrest had finally come it did not seem so bad after all. The guards walked up and down the courtyard with their guns in full view, it was true, but they had not molested me in any way. I had not been shouted at or treated roughly. Moreover, Wang had been instructed to cook whatever I wanted and to serve it to me on the card table in the little pantry room. On the second day, when I told the girl cadre that I was dirty and would like a bath, she had said that I should have one whenever I wanted. She and the other cadres stopped by my room from time to time to ask how I was getting along or to make some friendly comment, such as, “My, but you’re thin!”
And now the interrogator had told me that their method was simply to ask questions and have me write material. “I’m really in luck,” I thought, “and if I can keep them thinking I’m a harmless housewife maybe they’ll let me go home.”
My old longing for home had come back with redoubled force now that I was alone. My greatest fear was that I might be allowed to live on my own in Peking. I had read A Room on the Route some months back and had been profoundly influenced by the story of the American woman stranded in Moscow who could not get a passport to return to the United States but who at the same time could find no work there. With no one to turn to she was gradually starving to death. I could envisage myself in a similar position. I wanted to stay near Rick, but at the same time I wanted desperately to get back where I could find some security. I knew from hearing the experience of other foreigners arrested in Peking that we would not be allowed to see each other, and I began to reason I could wait for him just as well in Yonkers as I could in Peking. As long as he was behind barred doors, ten miles or ten thousand miles did not matter.
With my hopes up for an early settlement of our case, I set about writing the list of the people we had known. I said in the case of our conversations with people in the Consulate and British Embassy that we had talked mostly about American and British customs, books, places we had been, and so on. In mentioning a couple of our friends, I said that “they went around most of the time in an alcoholic haze.”
I was elated when the guard, watching me through the window as I wrote, said admiringly, “Gee, you write fast, and with your left hand, too!”
I had written thirty-five pages by eleven o’clock that evening and turned them in, thinking I had written with style and taste! The People’s Government would probably tell me to pack up and go home in a couple of days. Two days passed and still no word from the interrogator. When I was called into the living room on the third day he was brusque.
“We have read what you wrote,” he said, “but it is not realistic. We want the facts, not a lot of irrelevant matter. I’ll tell you this quite frankly.” His tone became coldly severe. “The People’s Government is lenient with people who tell the truth, but we are not polite with liars. If you insist on lying we will not hesitate to put you in handcuffs. That is the first step, and if you still continue to be dishonest the ankle chains come next. Now, you think it over. We hope you won’t be foolish.”
I went back to the pantry room, my mind in a whirl. Was this the extent of their torture? Handcuffs and ankle chains? But what was the torture in that? Were these people really so naive and childlike? I almost laughed out loud. If that was all it amounted to, I guessed I could take it. I took out my crossword puzzle book and tried to relax over the word game.
Again, I was left alone for a couple of days. I read through a few of Jane Austen’s novels and started on An American Tragedy. I limited myself to two crossword puzzles a day, and estimated that, with the reading matter at hand, I could keep myself occupied for a couple of months at least.
I was getting ready one evening to lie down on the cot which had been set up for me in the pantry room when I heard a jeep draw up in front. A few moments later the tall cadre, named Lu, who had been assigned to take charge of the house came in and said that it would be more convenient to ask me a few questions in another place, so would I please come along. I changed from the shorts which I had been continuing to wear at home every day into a skirt and fresh blouse, and then put on my leather shoes. If I were going to jail or forced to make long marches, I was going to be sure of being comfortably dressed.
After a short drive across the city, I was led into a large room with two desks at one end. A small chair was placed in the center and I was told to sit on it. The informal atmosphere of the questioning at home was lacking here. I faced the same two interrogators, but their manner was more formal and businesslike. This time they both asked questions, to which I answered a straight “I don’t know.” or gave evasive half-truths or downright lies. The quiet mannered one maintained his phlegmatic calm, but the hot temper of the other began to show signs of exploding, though he tried to keep his voice level. Eventually I was led into an anteroom and told to rest for a few minutes.
As the questioning started again I answered with a lie and continued to maintain that I knew nothing about Li Ko’s connections with Intelligence.
The interrogator, unable to control himself any longer, suddenly interrupted me, anger and loathing in his voice, “Move your chair back away from us!”
I moved it back a few inches and started to sit down again.
“Farther!” he roared.
I complied, thinking, “Well, I didn’t ask to come here. If you don’t like me, why don’t you let me go home?”
But I was not to be let off that easily.
“Why did you and your husband come to China?”
“We came simply as students and nothing more. We wanted to study Chinese and impart some—”
“That’s enough,” he roared again. “Stand back by the window.”
I moved back to the wall opposite the desks and stood defiantly, my fists clenched.
“I tell you this,” he said more calmly, but firmly, “if you lie once more we will put you in handcuffs. We have tried to be patient with you, but you must realize that this is a serious matter. You’ve got to wake up to reality—that there is only one way and that is to tell the truth. The People’s Government wants to give you every opportunity possible and will be lenient with you up to a certain point, but if you continue to be so defiant we will certainly not be polite.”
He looked down at the desk for a moment as if to compose himself, and then asked, “What did your husband do in China?”
I stuck out my chin and answered, “He was a student.”
At that moment I glanced at the young girl who was taking down the record. She was gazing at me with exasperation and astonishment, as if to say, “How can you be so stupid!”
The interrogator motioned to her and she came over to me with the handcuffs in her hand. “Put your hands behind your back,” she said gently, and as I obeyed I felt the cuffs snap into place around my wrists. The interrogation went on as before. Finally, as dawn came creeping through the window the officer said, “You go back home now and think things over. Just remember, think of yourself and your husband. It is to his interest, too, to get this case cleared up, you know.”
In spite of the anger and temper he had displayed during the course of the questioning, it seemed now almost as if there were a note of sympathy in his voice. The young recorder then came over to me and started to fumble with the cuffs. As my hands came down to my sides again I began to congratulate myself on having won this round, but she motioned me to put my hands forward and to my amazement the cuffs were snapped back on again.
“Maybe this is just for the ride home,” I thought, but when we entered the courtyard at 48 Hsin Kai Lu she said to me, “When you eat or want to go to the bathroom, just tell the guard and he’ll take these off for you. He has the key.”
For the first time since Rick had left I had a feeling that they might possibly mean business after all. It might not be as easy to fool them as I had expected. In fact, this might call for a reassessment of my position and realignment of tactics. Was it possible that they knew more about our activities than I had thought?
Handcuffs locked on in front do not curtail hand and arm movements to any great extent. I could still wield a pencil to work my crossword puzzles, and reading books was no problem at all. I asked to have them removed every afternoon so that I could take a bath, and I managed to stretch every meal out for about half an hour to have that time free of them. I was determined not to show the least sign of discomfort and mentally I maintained such a disdain for the whole affair that I could not even feel humiliation because of them.
I had been told to “think things over,” but the only thinking I was doing was the heroic tale I would have to tell in Hong Kong about how I had been kept in chains. On the second day the quiet-mannered cadre, who seemed to serve as the assistant interrogator, came to see me. He asked me if I had anything further to say. I merely replied that I had told everything I knew, which was nothing. He looked at me almost pleadingly for a moment and then went back to our bedroom-study, which had been taken over by the cadre and guards.
I could hear him say to Cadre Lu, “She still won’t talk. What are we going to do?”
“That’s fine.” I thought. “Maybe you’re ready to give up now and let me go home.”
On the third night I was taken in the jeep to another courtroom. This time the interrogator asked me about my background and the things I had studied in the Chinese universities. I felt I could afford to tell the truth about such matters and before long he said, “You seem to be more honest tonight. We shall take the cuffs off this time, and I hope you will try to tell the truth from now on. Now I shall give you three questions to think about and next time we want straight answers. ‘What were you doing in China?’ ‘What was Li Ko doing in China?’ and ‘What was your relationship with the American Naval Attaché, Williams, and his role in China?'” With that I was taken home.
When the handcuffs had been put on I had begun to doubt that my play at ignorance would work, but with the removal of the cuffs my confidence returned in full force. “What can they do if I say I know nothing?” I reasoned. And so, I paid little attention to the three questions.
It was at this point that I developed a queer train of thought for a short time. I remembered Evelyn Waugh’s A Handful of Dust quite vividly and suddenly likened myself to the young hero who maintains a completely detached manner through the dramatic pattern of his life. I placed myself outside the situation for the moment and looked at what was happening as if it were on a stage. “This is just one interesting event in the whole process of my life,” I thought. “As long as I look on it as such I cannot be hurt by it.”
Thus, a few nights later, when the interrogation started again I carried on with “I don’t know” to all questions.
In the case of Williams, I was telling the truth when I said we had had no relations with him and that I knew nothing about him, but, mixed in with the lies, this little bit of truth remained insignificant.
It was not long before the handcuffs were brought out again and snapped on behind my back. This time when I went home they remained behind my back. I was also told that I would not be allowed to read any more.
It was uncomfortable trying to sleep on my stomach. My face felt as if it were being pushed into the pillow, and I had difficulty working the sheet up around my ears to cut out the buzz of the mosquitoes. But I eventually squirmed around into a half-way tolerable position and slept until late in the morning. As before, I would in no way show that I had any feeling about the cuffs at all, and so, when I wanted to eat or go to the bathroom I very nonchalantly backed my way up to the guard and waited patiently for him to unlock them. I really think they were more worried about my situation than I was, for each time they put the cuffs back on they would leave them so loose on my wrists I could almost have slipped out of them.
With no books to read I found the hours dragged by with interminable slowness. I thought about Rick. I thought about the interview he had had in Seattle, and then quickly tried to forget it. I thought of all the information we had given the Consulate and then rationalized, “But we didn’t mean anything by that.” I thought about our Fulbright scholarships and our connection with the Nationalists. I went over all our activities, and every time my mind touched on the answers to the questions I had been asked I felt a tremor in my heart. If I could only blank out my mind and really not know anything, how simple it would be!
The assistant interrogator appeared at the end of the second day and talked with me for a few moments in the living room. I could not help but be moved by the gentle earnest tone of his voice, but at the same time he made it quite clear that the People’s Government would not stand for any nonsense and that if I did not straighten out it would not go well with me.
All that night I pondered his words. To me they could mean only one thing. If I continued as I had been, the interrogators might really start to work with torture. It was quite clear they were not going to be satisfied with my “I don’t know” routine much longer, and I might as well give up any idea of waiting them out. They had all the odds on their side. I began to think of things I might be subjected to, and I finally came to the conclusion that they would certainly force the facts out of me sooner or later if they applied torture because I would never be able to hold out to the end.
“If that is so, why go through all that pain? I might as well give them a few facts now. Maybe they will take that and I will be finished.”
Thus, I began thinking of what I could tell them without mentioning the ONI or Rick’s Seattle interview. I reasoned that our relationship with Roger and some of the other Americans in Peking was well known to the police and I could gain their confidence by “confessing” to having given those people information about Tsinghua. With my mind made up to try this new tactic, I waited almost eagerly for the next interrogation. Basing on my last experience, I was sure that if I presented a few facts the handcuffs would be taken off.
My arms had been pinned behind my back on Tuesday night. On Friday night the jeep came for me. The chief interrogator, whom I had come to dislike intensely for his outbursts of temper and stern manner, started out by asking me if I had anything to say. I replied, “Yes, Li Ko and I did give information to some Americans.”
My arms were immediately released and I was told to sit down. The cadre asked me a few more questions but no mention was made of ONI at that point. As I stood up to leave he said, “What you have said tonight we shall examine more thoroughly. It does not agree in entirety with the evidence we already have, but you seem to be trying to be somewhat honest, so we shall compare the facts. You think about your relationship with other foreigners in Peking and try to remember as many details of your activities as possible, your conversations, etc.”
As I lay down to sleep I felt partly relieved, but at the same time fear gripped my heart. It had been easy during the first three weeks when I had been saying “I don’t know” and keeping completely detached from it all. Now I had embarked on the road to partial confession. Would I be able to keep the ball in my own hands and stop when I wanted, or would I find myself getting into a spot from which the only way out lay in disclosing all I knew? And what did the interrogator mean by saying that what I had talked about did not entirely agree with what they already knew? Was he referring to Rick’s connection with ONI? A month had passed since Rick’s arrest. Had he made a confession and were they comparing my statement with his?
Sunday night two days later, the quiet of the courtyard was broken by the sound of the jeep driving up. A moment later my name was called and I hastily changed clothes. I was taken to still another interrogation room this time and told to sit in a straight-backed chair in the middle of a large, pillared room that looked as if it had at one time been a reception room in a private mansion. The softspoken assistant interrogator sat at the desk, while the chief interrogator sat in an easy chair to one side.
“What was Li Ko’s and your relationship with the Dutch?” asked the cadre behind the desk.
I told them how we had often visited in the home of a Dutch friend, how she had helped us find the house at Hsin Kai Lu and loaned us money. The chief interrogator gazed at me quietly for a moment and then said in a gentler tone than he had ever used before, “Li Yu-an, did this woman help you out in any other way?”
I stared at him, then at the little girl recorder, and then at the assistant interrogator. The seconds ticked by as I weighed the question. If I denied any further relationship I would destroy the little bit of confidence I had built up in their minds about me two nights before. And yet, if I confessed would I not give Rick and myself away completely? The three of them sat without moving a muscle. I felt as if my whole life depended on the way I replied. Finally, I took a deep breath as if getting ready for a plunge into the unknown and said, “Yes, there was something else.”
“What was it?”
“Li Ko gave her letters to send out secretly in the Dutch diplomatic mail pouch and I typed those letters for him.”
I could hear a sigh of relief as the three of them relaxed in unison. They knew as well as I that a turning point had been reached. My decision to talk about that key point was the beginning of my total confession. I had listened to them telling me over and over that the only way our case would ever be settled was for us to tell the whole truth about it but I had fought against it those first few weeks. Their willingness to investigate the statement I had made two nights before had begun, somewhat superficially it is true, to penetrate my mind as a manifestation of their avowals that they were looking for the facts in an effort to clarify the case. If I denied a fact which they obviously knew about, I could not expect them to treat anything I said again with credulity. Thus, the only way out was to tell the truth. I had finally begun to realize that I was involved in a serious business of court investigation and not just a bit of play acting. In the weeks that followed I still tried to shy away from any mention of the Seattle incident. However, their repeated questions about why we had come to China and what we had done in the United States made it clear to me that they knew about this also, and in the end there was nothing for me to do but admit that, too.
I went out for interrogation every night for the next two weeks and finally was told to write up my full confession. I thought surely this was the end of the case and that when I had finished I would be told to go home. It was about the 12th of September that I started to write up the material. On that day I was moved into the living room, where Cadre Lu said I would be more comfortable.
Less than a week later I handed in the forty-four-page confession and sat waiting for whatever was to follow.
The next day Cadre Lu came bounding in with his characteristic excited manner. Ever since he had appeared a few days after Rick’s arrest he had taken charge of the house. He could not have been long out of high school but he seemed determined to carry out his duties with a zealous regard for detail which could overcome any problem. We got on very well although his quick, Shansi accent was sometimes unintelligible and he often had to repeat a sentence two or three times before I could understand. This time, however, it did not take long for the meaning of his words to sink in.
“Li Yu-an,” he said breathlessly, “a letter has just come for you. It looks as if it might be from Li Ko.”
I gazed at him in astonishment, and then grabbed the envelope out of his hands.
Darling,
I think from now on I had better write to you in Chinese. I am fine but I need some clothes and a few other things. Will you please send me the things listed below.
I love you,
Rick
I read the clumsily written Chinese characters over and over and then ran my finger over the three words, “I love you.”
The list was a long one and included, besides clothes and toilet articles, some history books, notebook paper, and pencils. My heart soared as I thought of him studying in the prison. At least he could not be having too hard a time of it. Then my eye caught on another item on the list. Eyeglasses. Could his others have been broken? But how? Maybe he was knocked around and they broke when he hit the floor. With this gruesome thought I began collecting the things he needed. Since I was not allowed to go out of the house I sent Wang after whatever had to be bought. While I was waiting for him to come back I mended the holes in Rick’s only two sets of winter underwear. We had been talking that spring about buying some new ones, but as usual had procrastinated. Now, with my store of money shrinking, I did not dare spend any more than was absolutely necessary. By the next day everything was ready and the cadre loaded the bundle into a pedicab and took it off to the prison.
On his return I asked, “How much was the pedicab? Since you were taking Li Ko’s things, I ought to pay for it.”
“Never mind, never mind. You don’t need to bother.” he said, tossing his head with embarrassed impatience.
That night I put Rick’s letter under my pillow, and from then on kept it in my pocket where I could touch it whenever I wanted to. I had expected that I would be called in for a final interrogation the next week and then told that our case was finished, but as the days dragged on nothing happened. Up to that time my eyes had been dry and my emotions
bottled tight inside me. Though I had long since dispelled the Handful of Dust frame of mind, I had still kept myself from any outward display of emotion. But finally, one day the hopelessness of the whole affair weighed down on me and I thought, “I’ve made such a mess of it all. They are certainly not satisfied with what I wrote. How am I ever going to make them believe me?”
As I sat thinking, the tears began to trickle down my cheeks. I wiped them away surreptitiously, hoping that the guard or Wang would not discover me crying. Someone must have noticed it, however, because in a short while Cadre Lu came in and sat down on the chair opposite me.
“What’s the matter, Li Yu-an?” he asked embarrassedly. “Are you thinking about Li Ko? Are you thinking about home? Don’t worry. The court has to work over all the facts in the case and when it is all straightened out and they have determined whether you are telling the truth or not, everything will be all right. But don’t worry.”
I smiled weakly and told him I was sure he was right but I just felt a bit despondent. He left me alone and I tried to stop crying. But once the dam had burst it was no easy matter to check the stream. By evening I was beginning to worry about myself and cast around for some method to stop the flow before I became ill. I finally started to tell myself Winnie-the-Pooh stories. As I concentrated on the delightful nonsense of Pooh Bear and his animal friends my system gradually relaxed, and by ten o’clock I had lulled myself to sleep. The next day I spent in bed with a raging headache, but when that was over I went back to my former calm.
During the days prior to my initial confession, I had been told that I could not read. After I had finished writing what I considered to be my final story I thought I would probably be allowed to take up my books again, but I was sadly mistaken. The assistant interrogator and the recorder came one evening to talk with me. The young cadre looked tired as he sat on the couch across from me. He lit a cigarette slowly and asked, “Do you feel that you have finished, Li Yu-an?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I can think of nothing more.”
“Well, we feel that there are some points you have missed, and we would like you to go on thinking a bit more. After all, we realize that there are some things which you have forgotten that Li Ko has remembered and some things you have remembered that he has forgotten, but it is to the interests of both of you that you get all possible details cleared up. We will not force you in any way, but we would like you to think about your history and your activities some more. Is there anything in your history that you have failed to make a clean breast of?”
I stared at him hopelessly for a moment. “But I have thought and thought these past few weeks and there just isn’t any more. Can’t you give me a hint, or some line toward which to direct my thoughts?”
“That would be no help. You just think if there is anything at all that should be cleared up.”
With that he and the little recorder stood up, buttoned their coats, and left. I remained sitting, my thoughts in a whirl. “I’ve brought this all on myself,” I thought. “I said I don’t know so much in the beginning when I was lying that they can never possibly believe me now when I really don’t know.”
For the next six weeks I sat and thought. I noted with envy that Little Yang was reading again, and every time I remembered Rick’s letter asking for books I imagined him reading, too. Was I the only one not allowed to read? But what more was there to say? One or two minor details came to my mind and I jotted these down, but the basic story had already been told. I wondered how long this would go on. If I could think of nothing new in, say, ten weeks would the interrogation officer consider that enough of a guarantee that I had told everything and let me go? But if I came up with nothing new, might they not come to the conclusion that I was giving them the run around and holding some things back on the pretense of ignorance?
And then another train of thought started me off on a fresh tack. I had all along had no feeling that I was an espionage agent such as one reads about in paperback books. From the time Rick had been contacted by ONI in Seattle I had never taken that part of our story in China as anything criminal, mainly because my mind had shrunk from the implications of such an understanding. I certainly could not deny the facts, but I rationalized them wherever possible. However, I realized quickly that the People’s Government considered our activities as distinctly of criminal intent, so I began to try to look at our actions from the standpoint of the Chinese. Perhaps there were points which I had never thought of as wrong but which the People’s Government felt were. In order to satisfy their law and clear up our case from their point of view, I ought to go over our history again. In other words, I tackled the problem from the standpoint of what I felt they wanted about us and not from what I considered wrong myself.
But even then I could think of nothing new. The facts were still the same, and I had given the facts. And so, I spent the days alternately thinking of Rick, my family, home, and our case. Round and round, round and round. Mending, meals, exercise, occasional radio programs, and watching the comings and goings of the cadres and guards broke the monotony, but I longed for my books. This longing had a twofold implication. On the one hand I wanted to read to help pass the time and on the other I felt that the restoration of my books would signify the end of my interrogation and at least partial recognition of the fact that I was not holding back anything.
November 13 was a very cold night. We had not turned the heat on yet in order to save on coal, and I had burrowed under the blankets, though it was still early for sleep. I did not hear the jeep come and was startled to see the little recorder come into the room and ask me to get up. I hastily put on my old Wave overcoat and, teeth chattering— partly from excitement and partly from cold went out to the jeep with her. We drove to the courtroom, which was in the old mansion. There was a stove in the room but it could not begin to have any effect on the cold. I sat shivering with my hands in my pockets.
Both interrogators were there that night. After being asked the usual question as to whether I had anything new to say I was told to write a brief summary of my history and activities. It came to about four pages. When it was finished I signed it and then sat again on the chair in the center of the room.
The chief interrogator sat puffing on his cigarette for a moment and then said, “Li Yu-an, you and Li Ko have been fairly honest. We recognize that fact. What do you honestly feel about all this?”
I hesitated a moment and then said, “I feel this way. I feel that you consider that our spying activities were the main emphasis in our work in China and that they were the most important. I admit that there was definitely that side to it, but I also contend that our studies were an important element and that we were committed to that activity before there was any question of our spying. You know now, after seeing the evidence, that we had decided to come to China years before we actually did.”
He nodded slowly, and then asked, “What would you eventually like to do?”
“There is one main thought in my mind. I want to go home. If I could only go home and stay with my family and wait for Li Ko there I would never, never do this kind of thing again for any kind of government. I don’t care who they are.”
After gazing at me a moment he spoke again, this time almost as if each word pained him. “You know you can’t go home now.”
As the sentence penetrated my consciousness, tears involuntarily spilled over and fell on the front of my coat. I pulled out a handkerchief and wiped them away almost mechanically.
He finally broke the silence that ensued by saying, “Well, you go on back now and tomorrow you start to read again. You have a lot of strange ideas about new China. Why don’t you read a bit and see if we are really as bad as you’ve been led to believe? See what we’ve done and what we want to do in the future. You’re willing to look at two sides of the picture, aren’t you?”
As I nodded in agreement with the logic of his statement he stood up and walked out of the room, accompanied by the assistant interrogator.
The young recorder came over and sat by me as we waited for the jeep to come to take us back. She smiled at me and said, “What is your viewpoint toward humanity?”
I thought wildly, “What in the world does one answer to a question like that?”
Without waiting for me to reply, she said, “I believe that we should all try to help each other and think of others before ourselves. In that way we can grow to be an unselfish, happy people.”
And then, changing the subject abruptly, she continued, “You know, you mustn’t worry about Li Ko. He’s been getting along very well. He has been honest and has been treated very leniently. So don’t worry about him.”
The jeep had arrived and we went out to it. As I lay down to sleep that night I thought with excitement of the morrow. I could start reading again. As long as I had books to read I could wait an eternity. Besides, it probably was almost over. They had finally believed me. Home did not seem so far off.