Chapter 18
Return to Prisoners of Liberation: Four Years in a Chinese Communist Prison
Chapter 18
Rick: By late spring of 1955 it had become clear that my long-awaited release was near at hand. In April I was informed that Dell had left and that my own case would soon be settled. Then one evening in late August, 1955, I was called out of the cell and directed toward a big room near the interrogation offices. As I entered, the guard remained on the outside and I found a man and woman waiting for me there.
The man stood up, bowed politely, and asked if I were Li Ko. When I replied in the affirmative, he motioned to a comfortable chair and said pleasantly, “We are from the Procurator-General’s office. The Public Security Bureau has turned your case over to us and we would like you to tell us about your crime. You should speak freely and you may disregard any statements you have made before.”
I told him that my last statement written in the summer of 1954 was correct to the best of my knowledge. I then proceeded to give him a rough outline of my relations with the Consulate and the British Negotiation Mission.
When I had finished he leaned back for a moment and asked, “Have you any complaints or requests which you would like to make?”
I faltered, “What do you mean? Requests or complaints about what?”
“About the way you were treated and the handling of your case.”
I told him that I considered my treatment fair and my punishment just, but that I hoped that someday I would be able to return to the United States.”
Well, “he said, standing up by way of dismissal, “we think your wish will probably come true.”
September 11 was a Sunday. Han and I had a big project afoot. My Chinese-English dictionary had become so battered it was falling apart. Han, who had once lived next door to a bookbindery, had suggested that we try to rebind it ourselves. Saturday evening, we had spent dismantling the volume and twisting cotton threads to sew the pages together again. We had just started arranging the guide strings Sunday morning when Supervisor Shen appeared at the door.
“Li Ko, put on some presentable clothes and come along,” he said.
He stood waiting while I scrambled into a pair of clean slacks and shirt and then led me over to his office, where a blue-uniformed cadre presented me with a typewritten sheet bearing the stamp of the Superior Municipal Court of Peking.
“These are the charges against you,” he said. “Read them over and see if they are correct.”
I read them carefully. I had been charged with supplying information to the American Consulate and the British Negotiation Party, as well as carrying on activities intended to sabotage the revolution.
After assuring him that they were correct and signing the statement, I was led out to the courtyard where a jeep was waiting. We rode through the streets of Peking to the Municipal Court Building, where I was ordered into a small waiting room. In a few minutes the little interpreter who had accompanied us ushered in a man whom she introduced in English as Professor Wang of the Peking University Law School.
“He is to act as your lawyer,” she said.
“I don’t need a lawyer,” I replied in Chinese. “I’m guilty of the charges against me.”
“That’s not the point,” broke in the professor. “Let me explain. In the first place, since this is not a military court, the law entitles you to legal advice. If you are not satisfied with me, you can choose anyone you want to represent you. Expenses will be taken care of by the government. Secondly, you may plead guilty or not guilty. But even if you plead guilty you still want to have your sentence reduced as much as possible. There are a number of points which can be argued in your favor.”
“What?” I asked.
“The fact that you made a full confession and that your attitude since arrest has shown that you regret your past actions. And then, too, perhaps there were extenuating circumstances which forced you to commit your crime. All of these factors should be considered by the court.”
We discussed my case for about half an hour and he then left with the interpreter, whose services had not been needed.
About twenty minutes later an attendant appeared to summon me to the courtroom. I walked down a broad corridor to a side door of a long, narrow room. To my left across the back of the room was a gallery of about twenty-odd people some of whom I seemed to recognize. They were probably witnesses called to testify against me if I should plead not guilty. Toward the front of the room on either side were long tables. I was motioned to take a chair at the foot of the table nearest me, where I noticed my lawyer sitting. The young woman on the other side of him turned out to be the court stenographer.
At the table opposite us sat the man from the Procurator-General’s office who had interviewed me a few weeks before in prison. Next to him sat a clerk from his office and the interpreter.
I had hardly sat down when the court was called to order and three men filed in to take their places at the bench on the dais which filled the front of the room. The man in the middle, a heavy-set person of forty or so with a fierce looking mustache, announced in a clear Peking accent that the court was about to consider my case and told me to stand up. He first asked me if I wished an interpreter, and when I declined, he introduced himself as the judge and the men on his right and left as people’s assayers. From their appearance they might very well have been college professors. After he had ascertained that I was represented by counsel, the trial got under way.
The man from the Procurator-General’s office read off the charges. I was asked whether I pleaded guilty or not guilty.
“I wish to plead guilty,” I stated.
The judge then told me that I was free to make any statement in my defense. I declined, but my lawyer stood up and made a plea for clemency. He cited the points which he had mentioned to me before. I was again asked if there were anything I wished to say and after I had declined for the second time the court record was read back to us and I was asked to sign it. The judges filed out and I was led back to the waiting room. The whole trial could not have taken more than half an hour.
I sat watching the clock as it ticked off the minutes. When twenty-five of them had gone by, the attendant appeared again to lead me back to the courtroom. This time I was ordered to stand in the center of the room.
The judge and two jurors returned to take their places again on the dais. After clearing his throat, the judge began to read off the decision, a lengthy document. I was guilty on two counts but in view of my record since arrest, the plea for clemency was granted in part and my sentence was six years, dating from the time of arrest.
“Six years!” I thought, a little stunned. Perhaps I had not heard right. I had been so sure that I was already on my way home. But when I was asked to sign the decision and given a copy, I could see it clearly in black and white six years.
Court was adjourned and I was led out. By the time I had reached the waiting room the initial shock had worn off.
“Six years is not so bad. I could have been given much more,” I thought. “With only two more to go, I’ll be home in no time.”
While waiting for someone to take me back to prison, I began making plans as to how I would spend those next-two years. The list of books I would ask Dell to send me was already taking shape in my mind. Much to my surprise, however, the court attendant reappeared to direct me to a small room opposite the courtroom. It seemed filled with people.
As I stood at attention, a man informed me that I was now before the Peking Lao-gai Wei-yüan Hwey (Labor Reform Committee, which acts as a sort of parole board). My case had been referred to the committee and in view of my record it was decided that my six years’ sentence should be commuted to immediate release.
Mumbling some sort of thanks, I left the committee room in a state of joyous confusion and as I almost flew back to the waiting room my lawyer had a hard time catching up with me to explain that I had three years or three days (I was too excited to hear him clearly) to appeal my sentence. In any case I assured him that no appeal would be necessary.
The reader may be struck by the great difference between my trial and that of Dell, but it is understandable when one realizes that I was given a trial in a civil court while she was simply sentenced by a military tribunal. The difference in our treatment would seem to be in line with the general broadening of the jurisdiction of civil agencies after the implementation of China’s new constitution in late 1954.
In a matter of minutes, I was in the jeep again on my way back to the detention quarters. It was about noon. I was taken to a large room, where I found all my things had been assembled, including the scattered pages of my mutilated dictionary. For a moment I was at a loss. What was I supposed to do? Was I actually leaving? Seeing my watch lying in a box, I reached to put it on, but my hand stopped in mid-air as I thought, “Maybe I didn’t hear right. Maybe I’m not really going home.”
Supervisor Fang appeared to inform me that a jeep would be arriving in a few minutes to take me to a hotel.
I hastily threw my belongings into the chest and trunk which had been stored in the prison for me ever since our house on Hsin Kai Lu had been broken up in 1953. Then, just before I went out to enter the jeep, I remembered that the money which Dell had borrowed from the government during her stay in the house had never been repaid.
Turning to Supervisor Fang I said uncertainly, “I owe the People’s Government some money and I’d like to make some arrangement to pay it back.”
She looked me squarely in the eye and then said firmly, “You owe the People’s Government a lot of things. Forget it.”
The sharpness of her reply caused me to flush slightly with resentful embarrassment, but I realized there was no use in pressing the point. A few minutes later I was again in the jeep speeding through the streets of Peking. As we passed through the old, familiar thoroughfares I craned my neck to take in all the sights. New buildings seemed to be everywhere and some areas had changed so much in the past four years I could hardly recognize them.
We finally drew up in front of a large, Western-style hotel in the Chinese section of the city and I was taken to a neat, nicely furnished room.
“Anything you want you just go ahead and order,” said the boyish-looking policeman who had accompanied me. “I’ll be around to help you out. We’ll try to get you on the train tonight if possible.”
A bath, shave, and haircut were followed by a sumptuous dinner and a short time later the policeman poked his head in to say that I would not be able to leave that night because my baggage exceeded the regular limit and special arrangements would have to be made for it.
The luxurious, soft spring mattress and darkened room should have made sleep come easily that first night out of prison, but thoughts of home and anticipation of what was waiting for me in Hong Kong kept me tossing the whole night through.
The next morning at breakfast time I asked for a paper to be sent up, and when it arrived eagerly skimmed the lines looking for some mention of my trial. I had not far to look, for there was a short notice on the first page. What really caught my eye, however, were the bold headlines proclaiming the text of the agreement signed by the American and Chinese ambassadors at Geneva. It appeared that civilians of both countries were to be allowed to exercise their rights to return home. For a moment I felt a little perturbed. Had my trial and subsequent release by the parole board been nothing but a sham?
Then I remembered that settlement of my case had been under consideration at least since April, 1955, long before the Geneva talks and at a time when the United States and China were still on the “brink of war.” Undoubtedly the agreement had affected the timing of my release but still it had come about only after going through the due process of Chinese law.
I spent the rest of the day sitting on the sun porch outside my room and drinking in the vivid coloring of the red walls and green and yellow tile roofs which so set Peking apart from any other city in the world. I felt a deep longing to pay one last visit to Tsinghua and Yenching. I had heard that they were both over twice their former size now. However, I did not quite dare ask. In spite of the solicitous treatment, I was receiving I still was not certain just how free I had become.
That evening the policeman, whose name I later learned was Yang, informed me my baggage had all been arranged for and we would leave on the ten-p.m. train for Hankow and Canton.
When we boarded the train that evening I found myself in a compartment with Yang and two other policemen who were to be my constant companions for the next four days. At first I was inclined to be a little on the defensive at the thought of having so many men watching over me, but later when I discovered I was allowed to move throughout the train at will and they seemed mostly interested in getting me and my baggage from one place to another on time I began to loosen up a little. Soon we were playing chess and chatting over endless cups of tea.
On the third day we reached Canton and put up at another hotel. It was neither as modern nor as comfortable as the one in Peking, but that evening, in celebration of my crossing the border on the next day, my escorts took me out for my last meal in China. It was a delicious one, but even better was the first real feeling of being free which came to me as we swung our way through the city streets, brushing up against the hurrying throngs and stopping now and again to view the well-stocked displays of the shops and fruit stands.
The next morning, we were up early to catch the train to the border and as we rolled along through the green paddy fields and thickets of bamboo I became increasingly aware of the tension mounting within me.
It was about one o’clock when the train came to a halt. After having my baggage checked in one of the freight sheds and saying good-by to my escorts I was directed down a long arcade, through the now deserted customs station toward a row of barbed-wire covered saw horses which marked the border. Once I turned my head to look back. How many times I had dreamed of this moment! Yet now as I trudged along I felt that I was leaving a place of safety and understanding to plunge into an insecure and troubled unknown.