Chapter 13
Return to Prisoners of Liberation: Four Years in a Chinese Communist Prison
Chapter 13
Dell: In spite of the conflicts which arose at times in cell No. 12 during the spring of 1953, and the struggle that went on in trying to help each of us in turn, a feeling of warmth and comradeliness was clearly evident. Each time a new movement was announced we would assert solemnly to each other that our cell would lead the rest in efficiency and honesty. The feeling was expressed also in the give and take of our daily living. I felt particularly warm inside when one of the women asked me to help her make a pair of slacks out of a piece of cloth she had ordered from home. In turn, they took delight in teaching me Peking colloquial expressions and laughed at my clumsy accent.
It was with dismay, therefore, that we heard the woman supervisor, Fang, call through the little window in the door one Saturday morning in early June telling us to pack up our belongings. All the women in the compound were being reshuffled and I was told to move into cell No. 9, only three doors away.
I had to adjust to an entirely new situation. Though my new home was similar in size and shape to the one I had just left, the picture it presented was quite different. In the other room crowded conditions had made neatness mandatory and we had kept our bedding and belongings stacked in orderly fashion in a corner of the kang during the day. My two new cell mates had their things spread over a large portion of the kang. Each was sitting on her own mattress and leaning against her own fat clothing bundle. A little table piled high at one end with books and papers was placed between them. All in all, it looked quite casual and comfortable. They urged me to spread my mattress out in the remaining one-third of the kang toward the back wall and make myself at home.
The casualness was emphasized by the fact that the door was not locked at any time, nor were these women taking part in the organized study and criticism going on in the cells around them. They seemed a little world in themselves. Though I was elated at the thought that I was no longer behind a locked door, my feeling dampened when I learned that this freedom stemmed from the fact that my two cell mates were not political prisoners. Under such conditions I wondered how much of their privileges could be assumed by me.
The reason for my transfer became quickly apparent when I found that the women’s cells in the compound had been reduced to only two and that Harriet was in the other. It was the government’s policy to separate people involved in the same case.
I was accepted immediately into the pattern of life in the cell, and went out with them at all times of the day to the latrine and for water. Except for reading and discussing the newspaper together in the morning and evening, we kept on the whole to ourselves. Ordinarily I would have reveled in such an easygoing existence, but I could not relax completely, knowing the wide gulf that lay between us. Their every action showed that they considered themselves, as civil offenders, far superior to me, a counterrevolutionary.
My new cell mates, Jeng Ai-ling and Mei Chi-yun, were both in much better command of Marxist theory and practice than the women in cell No. 12. The very first day Jeng Ai-ling, who acted as cell leader, on learning that I was an American, praised to the skies the new American synthetic wool sweaters she had seen in Hong Kong the year before. I was slightly taken aback at this frankness, for in cell No. 12 no one would have dreamed of praising anything which came from the United States. Jeng Ai-ling was a vivacious extrovert, with a dynamic, forceful character. Though thirty-five years old and the mother of five children, ranging from five to fifteen years old, she looked more like a college student, with her hair bobbed and dressed in plaid shirt and blue slacks. What she thought she said in straightforward terms, and in the eight months I spent in cell No. 9 I learned much from her.
She never talked much about her crimes, except for the fact that she had been involved in smuggling and the misuse of government funds. One day, however, she described part of her investigation, and said that in one instance there was a question about the placing of responsibility for some point in her crime. She maintained that the matter had not been her responsibility, but there were several witnesses who said it was. For eleven months the People’s Government investigated this one point, and she was summoned to court sixteen or seventeen times to be confronted by witnesses. Each time she was asked to state her version of the story. A witness would then be brought in and asked to state his version. When he had finished, Jeng Ai-ling spoke again in her own defense, and in each case the witness backed down and admitted that he might have been wrong. Jeng Ai-ling remained steadfast during the questioning and in the end the People’s Government told her they were satisfied that she was telling the truth. In telling us of her experience, she paced up and down the cell, her eyes sometimes crinkling at the sides with laughter, sometimes shining bright with excitement as she related the flustered shame of each witness as he admitted his mistake.
She then continued, “It does happen sometimes that mistakes occur and it takes a lot of stamina to see the thing through until truth is established.”
Jeng Ai-ling talked about a woman who had left the prison just a few months before. She had been arrested in connection with the Three Anti’s movement on a question of bribery. Her crime was a minor one and, after making a full confession, she had expected to be released. It was a shock when her sentence was passed. She had been given two years.
When Jeng Ai-ling had looked at the statement of charges which the woman had brought back to the cell she was disturbed to find mistakes in it. The woman was prepared to let the matter go and work out her sentence, but Jeng Ai-ling urged her to appeal while there was still time. Just before the three-day limit was up, the woman finally gave in to Jeng Ai-ling’s pressure and the appeal was sent in. The government then went back over the evidence and eventually found that one of the witnesses, an ambitious woman cadre who had hoped to gain position by ruining the defendant, an older, more experienced worker, had falsified evidence.
Jeng Ai-ling concluded, “The result was that my cell mate was cleared of that portion of the charges which was incorrect and granted immediate release. I don’t know what happened to that other woman but I wager she had to make a pretty strict accounting of herself.”
As long as Jeng Ai-ling’s straightforwardness and fierce determination to uphold the truth were directed toward herself and others, I was very happy to listen to her talk, but in July, 1953, a few weeks after I had moved into the cell, she began to ask me for comments on the book I had been reading by myself during the day, a modern history of China.
When I gave her a few stock answers, she said in a musing tone, “You rather surprise me. Your understanding is so superficial. We’ll have to talk at length about some of your viewpoints. Do you really believe that China has suffered at the hands of American imperialism?”
“Yes,” I answered. “Rick and I never did like Chiang Kai-shek and we always felt that the United States was wrong in supporting him. Why, when we were still back home we used to—”
But I never had a chance to finish the sentence. Mei Chi-yün fixed me with a hostile glare and almost shouted, “You didn’t like Chiang Kai-shek! Is that why you took that so-called scholarship money that he had squeezed out of the Chinese people?”
I looked at her in amazement. This mild-mannered, fun-loving girl of twenty-two or twenty-three, who was always talking about wanting to learn how to drive a tractor when she was released was the last person I would have expected to be so belligerent.
“But we didn’t like him.” I insisted hotly, thinking back on the enthusiastic introduction Rick had given me to Edgar Snow’s Red Star over China.
Jeng Ai-ling broke in, no less vehemently, “Yes, maybe you didn’t like him, but from what point of view? You were fed up because he wasn’t winning the war so you Americans could continue to dominate China. You weren’t thinking much about the Chinese people. And you call yourself progressive! Why, you’re a worse imperialist than MacArthur!”
“I am not! You just don’t understand!”
As my attitude became even more obstinate, they lost all patience. Suddenly Mei Chi-yün shouted, “Stand down on the floor!”
I had been lulled into complacency during those first few weeks by the casual atmosphere of our cell, and her sharp command drew me up with a start. I was tempted at first not to take her seriously, but after seeing the determination in her cold, level gaze, I scrambled down and stood on the floor before them.
They both stared at me sternly for a moment and then Jeng Ai-ling said, “All right. You can stand there until you realize what’s wrong with your attitude, even if it takes all night.”
They each picked up a book and started to read, though from time to time I noticed Jeng Ai-ling stealing glances at me. She might have been checking to see that I was standing straight, but rather there seemed to be a look of concern on her face. I stood for about an hour, first on one foot and then on another, trying to figure out what they wanted of me. I was still angry at their accusation and felt very much the martyr. But when gruff, burly Supervisor Ming came by and told me I had better make an accounting of myself, I knew that I could expect no reprieve from the authorities.
As we heard the doors being locked in preparation for turning in Jeng Ai-ling suddenly asked, “What have you been thinking about the last couple of hours?”
Tears of self-pity welled in my eyes as I answered, “I’ve been thinking about all the terrible things the imperialists have done in China.”
Jeng Ai-ling exploded, “Filthy spy! You really have all the tricks!” She turned to Mei Chi-yun, “Just look at her, trying to gain our sympathy. She’s running true to form.” Then back to me, “You don’t have a human heart at all. You’ve got a dog’s heart, haven’t you?”
Afraid that a denial would bring on a further accusation of obstinacy, I remained silent, head drooping.
“Answer me! You’ve got a dog’s heart, haven’t you?”
I nodded and replied in a tiny voice, “Yes, I guess I have.”
“Ha!” shouted Mei Chi-yün. “That’s a fine thing. Defiling your parents like that. If you’re a dog, what does that make them? Really you have the character of a filthy spy!”
Just then the whistle blew. The two women looked at each other hesitantly for a moment and then Jeng Ai-ling said, disgustedly, “Get to bed. And you’d better think about your attitude.”
The next two or three days were spent in a struggle to make me face up to those elements in my character which made me one moment cringing and fawning, the next obstinate and defiant. Over and over, they resorted to the method of having me stand on the floor two or three hours at a time, hoping that this would stir me to take a serious look at myself. It was obvious, however, that my continued standing weighed on Jeng Ai-ling’s mind, for she used the flimsiest of pretexts to excuse me and let me sit down.
About the third day Supervisor Fang came by and saw me standing. She came in immediately, dripping water on the floor from the big poncho she had thrown over her shoulders to keep off the rain which was pouring outside. Her short, straight figure seemed weighted down by the heavy rubber cape.
Jeng Ai-ling hastened to explain that my attitude had been very dishonest and they had been trying to make me realize my mistakes.
Supervisor Fang nodded at me curtly, “Get back up on the kang” and at the same time motioned Jeng Ai-ling to follow her outside to one of the compound offices.
When the cell leader returned a few moments later, she said in a rather subdued voice, “Supervisor Fang said we were wrong to make you stand, Li Yu-an. If you continue this way, though, and absolutely refuse to discuss your feelings honestly, you will probably be put in handcuffs. For your sake and ours, I hope you won’t reach that point. Please reconsider and stop play-acting.”
A few moments later the whistle blew for the mid-day two-hour nap. I lay down half fearful and half relieved. I knew I would no longer be made to stand, but might not the handcuffs which I had come to look on as the ultimate disgrace be much worse? I was so worried about how to make a favorable impression and avoid the handcuffs that I gave no thought to the question of the thorough self-criticism which still lay ahead of me.
The dreaded whistle blew all too soon and in no time we were seated on the kang again ready for class. I expected Jeng Ai-ling to begin with a tirade but she took an entirely different tack, with no mention of my previous attitude.
“Let’s just talk a bit,” she said mildly. “We’ve got our views on the United States, probably some of which are not quite accurate. You’ve got your views, some of which may be just a bit biased. If we’re going to come to any understanding of the way you think, it might be a good idea for you to set before us what you like about America. Just why do you think it’s such a wonderful place to live?”
I paused for a moment to assemble my thoughts. There was so much I could say about the land of my birth. First of all, it was my home and I felt at home there as I never had in China. My family, my friends, the familiar places where I had grown up and lived were all a part of me. I longed to be back in that pattern of life I knew so well.
I expressed this a bit haltingly and then went on, “I suppose, too, I love the tremendous sweep of the land from east to west. Every time I have crossed the country I have felt a wonderful pride in the beauty of the plains, the mountains, the lakes, and the seashore. Coming from New York, I have a special affection for that city with its endless variety of places to go and see. I love the terrific contrast of old and new which one meets on almost every street in New York. It never has failed to excite me. After I met Li Ko I discovered the beauty of the northwest, too. We used to go camping in the woods in the shadow of the snow-capped mountains up there.
“And then, too, I love the fact that there are schools and libraries to be found in every city. I used to be a librarian, and I have a certain sense of security, I guess, in knowing that wherever I might live I would be assured of a job because there are always openings in that field. But most of all, I guess what I like about America is the fact that I could shut myself off from the rest of the world and live with Li Ko completely free, with no feeling of responsibility toward anyone else. While we lived in Philadelphia no one bothered us and we bothered no one. We came and went as we pleased and had no obligations. The way of life is so carefree there.”
I lapsed into silence and gazed at the two of them. Jeng Ai-ling finally said, “You talk about the length and breadth of America and I have no doubt there is beautiful scenery in many places, but did you ever stop to think how big the original United States was? Thirteen small states, am I right? The rest came about through expansion, and the wresting of land from the Indians. Suppose the Indians decided they wanted their land back, or suppose another minority group wanted to set up its own autonomous state, would you have anything to say?
“At the mention of the United States shrinking in size, or being altered in any way, I protested hotly. “You can’t say that about my America! It’s the United States the way it is, and it can’t be changed!”
“Your America?” laughed Jeng Ai-ling. “You should have seen your face when you said that. Really! Nobody’s saying anything about your America, but you ought to wake up to the fact that it wasn’t always that way and that a lot of it was taken away from other people. But then, that’s not our business.”
She went off into laughter again. “You looked so funny.” I smiled, too, then. Somehow, talking about the United States had broken down my fear of bringing to light my feelings on a number of subjects, and for the next few days I revealed many of the thoughts I had kept locked inside me, thoughts I had not been actually conscious of.
It was about this time in late July that Supervisor Ming called me into the compound office one morning to ask how I was getting along. I told him what we had been discussing and he asked for my views on the People’s Government, thought reform, and so on. We got onto the subject of war and the relationship of the individual to military conflict. I told him, “I have never felt much concern about war except when it threatened to separate Li Ko and me. I suppose that if a third world war were to bring us together again, I wouldn’t care what happened.”
He looked at me a moment, his eyes blazing, his lips compressed in a thin line. The freckles on his face stood out as if painted on. He was obviously trying to control himself. Finally, he said in a strained, quiet voice, “How can you be so selfish?”
I stared at him in horror as I began to think what my words must sound like to another person. Thinking as usual only of my relationship with Rick, it had never occurred to me there might be something wrong with such a thought. But, voiced to another person who might very well be one of the dead in that war I was so blithely asking for, it revealed my self-centered blindness to the welfare of others.
I walked slowly back to the cell. After recounting the interview to my cell mates, I tried to minimize the significance of my statement by saying that I had not meant anyone any harm, I was just trying to express how great was my devotion to Li Ko. Jeng Ai-ling and Mei Chi-yun both refused to let this pass and I was forced then to think through for the first time the question of personal interest in relation to the common good. It was a shattering experience, those next few weeks of class. I revealed my thoughts on war, the working class, Negroes, work, religion, politics, status of women, and, again, Rick.
Quite unconsciously my former belligerent attitude had begun to disappear and thoughts which were ingrown and which I had never questioned as good or bad before were brought to light and examined by the three of us.
One day it was on race prejudice.
“Do you have any Negro friends, Li Yu-an?” asked Jeng Ai-ling, almost belligerently.
“Well, no, I haven’t known many Negroes,” I admitted reluctantly. Then, brightening a little, I continued, “But I don’t think I have any prejudices at all. I’ve been concerned about the problem of race relations for years, and I think I’ve hit on the final solution— it lies in intermarriage. If white people and Negroes intermarry long enough, and Jews and Christians likewise, the prejudice in the United States will gradually disappear.”
“I suppose you think it shows great tolerance to suggest that whites and Negroes intermarry?” asked Mei Chi-yun, her eyes curiously bright.
“Well, yes. After all, intermarriage is one of the difficulties in the United States today.” “But let me ask you, Li Yu-an,” said Jeng Ai-ling, “what would happen? Would the whites become Negro or the Negroes white?”
I thought a moment. “I have always felt that the Negroes would gradually become lighter and then the basis for prejudice would disappear. The same with the Jews. They would probably all become Christians in the end.”
Jeng Ai-ling snorted. “If that isn’t the Anglo-Saxon race supremacy at its worst. You just want to wipe out whole races, whole religions. And suppose the Negroes said to you, you should all become dark-skinned’?”
“Oh, no,” I said involuntarily. “I think the Negroes would rather be white.”
“And did you ever ask a Negro?”
“No, of course not,” I admitted. “It just never occurred to me that everyone wouldn’t like to be like us. I guess that is race prejudice.”
Our discussion that afternoon, painful as it was to admit that I was wrong, was actually an exhilarating experience in that it served to give me inspiration for going on to a fresh probing of my former outlooks. I felt grateful that the mistake in my point of view had been pointed out to me, for, when I considered the problem from another point of view, I could see my error.
We touched on religion only briefly. I told them my beliefs and they explained theirs. They expressed a tremendous respect for Christ as a champion of the oppressed and looked on Him as one of the great revolutionaries of the world, but they could not believe that He had divine attributes. Neither of us tried to convince the other on this, but left it as purely each person’s own business.
Other times they would voice criticisms of me which I could not go along with. This was particularly true in their ideas about Rick and me. I told them one night about how Rick and I had met and married, how we had studied together, shopped together, violated etiquette at parties by sitting side by side at the dinner table, and how I had followed in Rick’s shadow at parties rather than going off to chat with people on my own.
When I mentioned that I had written to him every night while we were separated during the war, they let out a hoot of derision. This was decadent, feudal, slavish. How could I talk about the emancipation of women in the United States if I were so dependent on Rick for my spiritual welfare? Maybe economically I could exist independently, but I leaned on him for decision making and outlook as much as the bound-footed ladies of ancient China did on their husbands.
Did I admit it? Well, no, I did not, but that night I tossed and turned as I went over the problem. Suddenly it was too much to bear. It seemed as if everything I had always taken for granted as right was being turned upside down. My whole attitude toward the working class in the United States, the foreign relations of the United States, who wanted war and who wanted peace, the justification for use of arms, who had really set up the Iron Curtain, and a host of other subjects had been discussed over and over. We had gone from one to the other and then back to the earlier ones again. And now we had come back to the question of my relationship with Rick. Decadent! This was too much. My pillow remained wet all through that long night.
The next day was Sunday and we played cards and sewed all day long. That night I again wrestled with the problem, trying to look at it from their point of view. Were they right or were they wrong? I finally decided they were carrying some of the questions too far and were deliberately trying to plague me. It was time for a showdown.
Monday morning, as soon as we sat down for class, I started with, “I’ve got to get something straight. I can’t go on like this. It’s not doing me any good and I’ll never make any progress as long as I feel the way I do.”
My voice trembled as I rushed to get the words out, and tears began swimming in my eyes.
Jeng Ai-ling sensed immediately the tenseness in my manner and said kindly, “Go ahead. What’s on your mind?”
“I want to tell you what I think of you both. I think you’re carrying things too far. You’re persecuting me and I can’t stand it any longer. There are so many things going on in my mind and so many different ideas to weigh and consider and you keep hammering away at them, never giving me time to collect my thoughts on any one question before we go to another. I feel as if my head were a soccer ball, being kicked hard from both sides at once.”
The tears were streaming down my face now, brought on both by the emotional strain I was under and, as I analyzed later, that defense mechanism which I seemed to revert to unconsciously in hopes of softening the expected blast from my listeners.
Jeng Ai-ling burst out laughing. “So, you think we’re persecuting you? Anything else?”
I went on, then, with a resume of the points I could not accept in our discussions. We talked the matter over very quietly for the rest of the morning, with the result that the pace was reduced considerably. I continued to bring up points on which we disagreed, but our discussions never became heated. As soon as the pressure lessened I relaxed and began to work each problem over again. My head felt less like a soccer ball, but the questions were no less difficult to face. I had to admit that living in one’s own little world was a selfish way of life and that others might suffer because of it. But it was so much easier that way. And always the same basic question: What did all this reform have to do with me in America, anyway?
In the midst of this strain an incident occurred which further helped me understand the significance of reform. In mid-August one evening the three of us went out to the latrine together. I had failed to shut the latrine door tight, although I did think no one could see. Supervisor Ming had passed by at just that moment. A few minutes after we returned to the cell he came to the window and asked who was responsible for the door being ajar. On learning it was I he turned to me and swore angrily, “Ta-ma-di. Don’t you know there are men walking around this compound? What do you mean by leaving the door open? Where’s your sense of modesty?”
I stood without saying a word as he delivered his tirade. When he had left, I half-expected Jeng Ai-ling to echo his criticism, but she said, almost wonderingly, “I’m puzzled about Supervisor Ming’s attitude. He had no business swearing like that. And there was nothing to get angry about. We closed the door as soon as we saw it still open. That was wrong of him.”
She sat silent for a moment and then continued, “I think I’ll send in a statement on it.” I did not take her seriously at first. How could a prisoner report the mistakes of a supervisor? The next morning, however, I noticed Jeng Ai-ling writing on a slip of paper and at breakfast time she handed it to Supervisor Wang. As she came back she said firmly, “There. Now we’ve done our duty. Supervisor Ming is an old revolutionary cadre and has contributed much toward the revolution, but he has never tried to correct that habit of swearing. He knows it’s against regulations to swear at prisoners. Now he’ll have to make a self-criticism before the other supervisors. Let’s hope it will help him grow in character.”
“That’s fine,” I thought, glumly. “If he has to do all that he’s going to have some opinion of us. He thinks badly enough of me already for that remark I made about Rick and the war. Now he’ll take all his humiliation over the self-criticism out on us. We’ll really be in for a bad time.”
At the same time, I admired Jeng Ai-ling for pursuing the matter. Reform was not just something to “inflict” on the prisoners. This was apparently a process in which everyone was partaking.
In the next few weeks, I realized that my estimate of Supervisor Ming had been wrong. He never swore at us again and he never seemed to hold it against us. Seven months later, in March, 1954, when I moved to the west compound, he shouldered one of my big, heavy bundles of bedding the whole long distance.
After my outburst about being “persecuted” there was a noticeable change in our life in the cell. Having revealed so much of my innermost thoughts, there was little room left for sham. The good impression which I had tried so hard to create in the previous cell had been wiped out and I had to start from scratch. But this time, though I had certainly not rid myself entirely of the desire to make a good impression, I began to feel the necessity for bringing my thoughts out in the open and obtaining the help of my two cell mates in criticizing them. There was nothing in my character that was not clear to them after the crisis of that struggle during the summer.
As I came to see myself for what I was, I found that the reading I was doing took on a new significance; I was able now to relate much of it to my own problems. One day I came across an unfamiliar four-word phrase, ming je bao shen. My dictionary translated it as “a wise man protects himself,” but this explanation did not fit into the context of the passage. I asked Jeng Ai-ling what it meant.
“It refers to a person who never sticks his neck out,” she said. “In the old society this was considered the attribute of a wise person. He kept out of trouble by never taking any responsibility. But in the new society this is a contemptible attitude. If everyone held back for fear of getting hurt, how would anything ever get done?”
Triumphant in the discovery of another facet of my own character, I exclaimed, “But that’s just me. I’ve always shunned responsibility for fear of criticism. In fact, now that I think of it, that fear of criticism has been the root of my shyness, and even dependence on Rick. You know, I never will say, ‘I such and such’; it’s always ‘we think this or that’ In that way the responsibility rests on him and I can avoid any blame.”
We discussed this trait for some time, and in the same way I discovered many other points. The realization that I was selfish, arrogant, bigoted, and sly gave me cause to ponder, and I thought about my religion and my background as a Christian.
From childhood I had attended church, and at various times even taught Sunday School. I called myself a Christian. But now I wondered, had I ever really lived as a Christian? Did not Christ exhort men to think of their brothers first, to work selflessly for the good of mankind? In the new China people were urged to put the common good ahead of personal interests. This was the whole basis of our thought reform in prison. Here was a concept of Christianity being put into practice as I had never seen done at home.
I thought of the picture I had tried to give my cell mates of the United States— a beautiful land where everyone can do as he pleases. But was it so beautiful for everyone? I remembered the year I worked in the public library at home. The bus I took back and forth to work every day passed through the factory section, where cold-water flats were jammed up against each other. Instead of worrying about the conditions under which my fellow men were living, I thought only of the snug, comfortable home awaiting me as I rode by in winter, and the green lawn and shady trees that kept the house cool in summer. Poverty existed in the United States, too, but I had shut my eyes to it.
“Aren’t there any beggars in America?” Mei Chi-yun asked one day.
“Nothing like there used to be in China,” I answered.
“You hardly ever see any around.”
But then I thought of Market Street in Philadelphia where panhandlers walked up and down with tin cups and a poor attempt at a song; or the cripples with no legs who sat in the shelter of doorways, a few pencils displayed for sale. “The poor are always with us,” say some. But why, I began to ponder. Is it not just because of people like myself? People who have always called themselves Christians and at the same time shut their eyes to the needs of their fellow men? Many times, I thought back over Supervisor Ming’s comment, “How can you be so selfish?” And each time I blushed with shame.
But other days I would become despondent about my growing new outlook on life. It put such demands on a person.
“It’s all right for you Chinese,” I said to my cell mates one day. “You’re going back out into a society where the idea of working for the common good is the accepted outlook. But what about me? I’m going back to a society where the accepted rule is every man for himself, and starve if you don’t. If I work for the interests of my fellow man I’ll have to give up the carefree life I used to lead. No more ivory towers, no more aloof ignorance. I just don’t think it’s fair of the People’s Government to expose me to these concepts and work on my conscience until I stop putting myself first.”
The two of them laughed at the consternation on my face, and in a moment I laughed, too. No one was forcing me to put these principles into practice. The People’s Government asked that I recognize the significance of my crime, it was true, but beyond that they could ask nothing. Everyone hoped that I would feel compelled to live up to the high moral standards we talked of so frequently, but whether I did or not was up to me.
Another problem which plagued me from the summer of 1953 on was my treatment on my return home. Up to that time I had always thought in terms of returning home as a long-suffering hero who had sweated out a prison sentence. I would be the center of attraction at parties from the time I reached Hong Kong until I arrived in Yonkers, and probably for some time after. But as I became more and more aware of the need for understanding and the creation of good will between nations, I realized that to repudiate my confession and try to act the hero over something which I had justly deserved would be doing both the American and Chinese people a disservice by furthering misunderstanding and animosity between them. To be honest with myself and fair to others, I would certainly have to tell the truth.
But what would happen to me? I had read of the threats and pressure which had been used at home against the G.I.’s who had supposedly been “brainwashed” while in prison camps in North Korea. If I were subjected to the same pressure would I be able to stand up against it? I told my cell mates of my fears. “I’m not very strong,” I said. “It’s easy to sit here and say I’d never retract my confession but if I actually were faced with the prospects of an insane asylum would I be able to stand firm?”
Naturally I could not answer the question, nor could they, but several times through 1954 I woke up from nightmares about being taken to an insane asylum. The force of Jeng Ai-ling’s character did much to determine me to stick to the truth under any circumstances. For all my vacillation and discouragement, I knew deep down in my heart that I had made some progress, for now at least I had a real desire to become a better person.