Chapter 5
Return to Prisoners of Liberation: Four Years in a Chinese Communist Prison
Chapter 5
Rick: When we returned to the cell we sat down cross-legged on the kang and I felt the former friendliness of my cell mates disappear as if turned off at the source. Jeng, as cell leader, started off in a very businesslike tone by asking, “What did the judge ask you last night?”
“Oh, he just wanted to know about my background.”
“Anything else?”
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t end up here because of what you did in your childhood.”
“Well, he said I was a spy.”
“Are you?”
“No-o-o, I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean, ‘you don’t think so’?” growled Gwo, his heavy features scowling. “You are, or you wouldn’t be here!” “Well, maybe they made a mistake,” I faltered.
“These people don’t make mistakes,” cut in the pockmarked Meng. “Now listen, you, we’ve been here for some time and have gone through it all ourselves. We’ve seen a lot of men come and go. They all say the same thing at first, just as we did and as you are now, but you’re not hurting anyone but yourself. You’re just as guilty as we were.”
When I did not say anything, Gwo suddenly let out a roar, “Talk, will you!”
“Well, I’m not a spy,” I said defiantly.
Then bedlam broke loose. Everyone began shouting at once. Big Lu, his former amicability gone, began shaking his huge finger under my nose and repeated over and over, “You’d better come clean. You’d better come clean.”
I sat silent until the wave subsided. Jeng then altered the approach.
“This isn’t going to get you anywhere,” the cell leader resumed calmly. “What did you do during the war?”
“I was in the Marine Corps.”
“What did you do in the Marine Corps?”
I hesitated and then said, reluctantly, “I, uh, interrogated Japanese prisoners.”
“I knew it,” shouted Meng.
“Isn’t that intelligence?” asked Jeng.
“Well, I guess so, but that’s different.”
“What’s different about it?” someone yelled.
“Well, we were all fighting the Japanese. What’s wrong with that?”
“Who said there was anything wrong with fighting the Japanese? It’s what you did after you came to China that counts. Are you or are you not an intelligence man?”
“I was during the war, but not afterward.”
“You severed all connections with the Marine Corps?”
“Well, no, I was still in the Reserves.”
“Ta-ma-di” cursed Gwo. “This character wriggles like a snake. What did they send you to China to do?”
“Nothing,” I said, and then hastily added, “They didn’t send me to China.”
Ju, the intellectual, then took up the battle and asked, “Do you mean to tell us that the United States government spends $100,000,000 a year sending spies to the socialist countries and then lets one of their trained intelligence men wander around China with nothing to do?”
He waved his thin, bony hand in disgust. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Jeng broke in, “Where did you get the money to come to China, anyway? You said you were a poor student and your father was a railroad worker. He couldn’t have helped you.”
“I had a scholarship.”
“What kind of a scholarship?”
I paused, hoping in some way to avoid the question.
“What kind of a—a—whatever-you-call-it?” bellowed Big Lu, shaking his finger with even more gusto.
“Well, it’s sort of hard to explain— ‘
“We’ve got lots of time. Where did the money come from?”
“From the, uh—” I hesitated again.
“Answer!!” they all roared.
“Well, it was sort of a Nationalist Government and State Department business.”
“Ta-ma-di!“ swore Gwo again. “If you don’t stop wriggling, I’ll break your neck!”
By that time, I was becoming angry enough to wish he would try. Who did these guys think they were? If they thought they could push me around, they were mistaken. Gwo made no move, however, and fortunately I was given a chance to cool down by the call for breakfast. Big Lu and Ju each grabbed a green crockery basin from under the kang and, when the door was opened, dashed out. They returned a moment later with the basins filled with wo-tou and tomato soup. Meng then began carefully ladling out a bowl for each of us.
In the meantime, Jeng pulled out my string beans and, reverting to his friendly manner of the early morning, told me, “You can eat as much wo-tou as you want, and if you’d like there’s a bowl of soup, but you must finish these beans. You can’t let them go to waste.”
Waving aside the soup I started in on the string beans, but I cared no more for eating than I had the night before. After nibbling a few, I ended up with the bowl still over half full.
“What’s the matter?” asked Big Lu, with his mouth full of wo-tou and his huge hand already reaching for another.
“Don’t you like string beans?”
“Oh, sure, sure, but I’m not very hungry right now.”
“Well, you’d better eat them. You can’t waste them. Somebody worked hard to grow those beans.”
“I’ll save them till tonight,” I compromised.
“Aren’t you going to eat any wo-tou? I brought you two.” he persisted.
“No, thanks. I’m really not hungry.”
Big Lu, who was now working on his third, shook his head. “They’re mighty good. You’d better try and eat some. We eat only twice a day. That’s the custom in the countryside, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” I replied, wishing he would change the subject. I wandered off and stood facing the wall. A few names had been scratched into the whitewashed clay. I remembered a book I had read about prisons under the Nazis in Europe, where the condemned prisoners had scratched pathetic messages on the walls. With my fingernail I involuntarily started to trace Dell’s initials. “I’m getting dramatic and stupid,” I thought, and hastily rubbed it out so the others would not see.
Turning back, I found the others finished and starting to do the dishes. When I asked if I could help, Jeng told me to go sit down and think things over. I had hardly settled myself on the kang under the window where a slight breeze gave some relief from the heat when the door opened. I jumped up, hoping it would be a call for me. Anything to get out of that room. But Big Lu picked up one of the green basins and dashed out again. This time he reappeared carrying hot water. Jeng poured me a bowl.
“Drink it,” he said. I picked it up and set it down again. “It’s too hot. I’ll wait till it cools off.”
“Cold water’s bad for the stomach,” said Big Lu seriously.
“Foreigners always drink it that way,” explained Ju with a certain amount of condescension in his voice for Big Lu’s ignorance. “They even put ice in it.”
“Yes, I heard once they even put ice in tea,” interposed Meng.
Big Lu choked over his bowl of water. “In tea?” he gasped. “No wonder they all go around with such sour looking faces. Their stomachs must be tied up in knots.”
Just then the supervisor could be heard blowing his whistle. The bowls were hastily put away and everyone climbed back on the kang. An air of seriousness descended on the room. “Now begins round two.” I thought glumly.
As usual, Jeng started off, but this time his manner was less harsh than before. “You must realize.” he explained, “that you are in a dangerous situation. Your only way out is to come clean. We know. We were once in your position. That’s why we want to help you. In the new society, everyone helps everyone else.”
“Help?” I thought. “That kind of help I can do without.”
Jeng went on, “If we didn’t do everything we could to help you straighten out your case and you were shot for refusing to confess, we’d feel morally responsible.”
“Of all the hypocrisy,” I fumed inwardly. “Why don’t you admit you’re just trying to get in good with the Communists in order to have your sentence reduced?”
As if he had read my thoughts he continued in a quiet voice, “We know you can’t understand all this now. You’re probably thinking that we’re just out to get you, but it’s not true. We really want to help you, because we see things a little more clearly than you do now. You see, I am an old te-wu [special agent]. I worked with Japanese intelligence outfits all during the War of Resistance, and after the Japanese surrender I entered the Jun-tung [Special Service Section of the Nationalist military intelligence],
“I had so many things against me that I was sure I would be killed when the Communists came, so just before liberation I escaped to Nanking. From there I ran to Hangchow, then down to Canton, always only a few steps ahead of the Liberation Army. Then, because my money was gone I was unable to get to Formosa. I had just enough to make my way back to my wife and child in Nanking. I found them almost starving, but I didn’t dare go to anyone for help. Finally, we had sold everything, even my clothes, except for a pair of shorts and an undershirt. I was in torment. The baby and my wife were always crying. When I couldn’t stand it anymore I used to beat them. One day the police came. I tried to escape and they could have shot me, but instead of doing so they chased me until I was finally caught. They sent me back here to Peking to settle my case.
“At first when they questioned me, I, like you, refused to say anything. I thought, I’m going to die anyway. Why should I confess? Besides, if I did confess and the Nationalists came back I’d certainly be killed then if I weren’t now. As for dying, it all seemed so hopeless I was past caring. But I soon found that the People’s Government was not what I had expected. They patiently explained to me that there was no need for me to die. I had committed too many crimes for them to be overlooked, it is true, but the People’s Government was not out for revenge. If I were willing to change and become really a good and honest citizen, I too would be able to enjoy a happy life in the future.
“At the same time, they gave me clothes to wear, and when I had one of my attacks of amoebic dysentery they gave me special food to eat and medicine. I decided then that there might be some hope, after all, and so I confessed a little. But there were some things I didn’t tell, because I was still suspicious. Maybe they were treating me well, just to get a confession and then it would be all over.
“The months dragged on. I was worried also about my wife and baby. What had happened to them? One day I received a letter. To my surprise, it was from her. When I was arrested she could hardly write her name. The People’s Government had found her a job working in a cooperative and she was going to school to learn to read and write. This was the first letter she had ever written. When I finished reading it I cried and began to think about all the rotten things I had done in my life. I had sold out my country to the Japanese and many innocent people had died because of me. And now the People’s Government was not only taking care of my wife and child but also offering me a new life where I could live like a decent human being. I decided to make a full confession and put my trust in the People’s Government.”
His thin, pointed face worked with emotion as he spoke. “You have no idea what a wonderful feeling it is to get that all off your chest. And now if I did not try to help you save yourself I would feel that I was betraying my own self again, not to speak of harming you and our country and helping its enemies.”
While Jeng talked I could not but feel that he was sincere, at least when he spoke about himself, but his words left little impression upon me. My thoughts kept turning toward Dell. They must be questioning her, too. Would she be able to fence with them? Sometimes she could be rather stubborn. What if they put handcuffs on her, too? A wave of sick anger swept over me. Both my wandering thoughts and Jeng’s speech were interrupted by the opening of the door and I was called out again to the interrogation room. I was a little groggy from lack of sleep but the judge went right to work as if being up all night had not fazed him one bit. The only show of strain was the nervous way in which he paced up and down while firing questions at me.
This time he wanted to know how I had come to enter Naval Intelligence, what I had done during the war, and what connections I had had with them after the war. This was getting on dangerous ground and when it came to the last question I flatly denied I had had anything to do with them at all. After well over an hour of close interrogation I was sent back to the cell again, to find that everybody was already having the summertime two-hour noon nap.
I heaved a sigh of relief and thought at least now I would have a chance to rest a bit; but once I lay down I found my mind in such a whirl that I could not sleep. I kept going over my past, trying to remember if I had mentioned to anyone that Naval Intelligence interview in Seattle. If that were known, they really had a case against me. Dell knew about it, but I could not remember whether Harriet did or not. Why had I not settled on a story with Dell beforehand? Worst of all, I had told her not to be caught in a lie. She might tell, and she might not. If she did and I did not, I was in for trouble. But if she refused to give in and I did, what would happen to her? Could I get away with admitting the meeting but denying any espionage orders? After all, they could not prove I had had any contact with Navy organizations in China. Thus, my mind spun on. Before the whistle to rise had blown I was called out again for a repeat of the earlier interrogation.
When I returned I saw that Jeng was not in the cell The others were seated in a semicircle on the kang and Gwo, the ex-cop, seemed to be in charge. They waited in impatient silence until I had slipped off my shoes and sat down against the wall next to Big Lu who, as ever, was wielding his fan vigorously. I had hardly crossed my legs when Gwo started in. “What was your interrogation about this time?”
Afraid not to tell the truth, I answered reluctantly, “It was just about my connection with Naval Intelligence during the war.”
“What about afterward?” The words hissed through Gwo’s chipped, blackened teeth.
“Bn-lao-shr [dishonest],” added Ju, in the same tone he must have used when disciplining his students.
“He wanted to know that too, but I haven’t had any since the war.”
“Weren’t you in the Reserves?”
“Yes, I’ve already told you that, but I was inactive.”
“Since when is spying called inactive?.” interposed Ju again.
“Where did you get the money to come to China?” Gwo demanded belligerently.
“I had a scholarship.”
“Scholarship? That was expense money for carrying on your filthy spying.”
“Nonsense!” I said, impatiently, my temper beginning to show. “That was an ordinary scholarship and nothing more.”
“Are you calling me a liar? I say it was!” he shouted.
I did not answer.
“Answer me. Are you calling me a liar?” His ugly, threatening face was thrust close to mine. I still said nothing. Suddenly his fist shot out and caught me on the side of my jaw. My head snapped back, hitting the wall with a crack. That was too much. With fists clenched I was ready to go after Gwo. I heard the others shouting and then the door swinging open with a crash. Everyone froze and a dead silence descended on the room. We were like a group of schoolboys caught in the midst of some mischief.
I turned my head and saw one of the supervisors standing there. He glared at us for a few moments and then brusquely told Gwo, “Don’t hit him.” Turning to me, he said, “You straighten up and start telling the truth or I’ll put you in handcuffs and ankle chains. We don’t treat liars politely here!” With that, he swung out the door, slamming it behind him.
Gwo sat glowering at me and Meng took up the battle. “Why did you come to China?” And on it went until Jeng returned. As soon as Jeng entered the door Big Lu burst out with, “Gwo clipped him!”
“Clipped whom?”
“Li Ko,” answered Big Lu, surprised that there should be any question about it.
“What did you do that for?” asked Jeng. “You know it’s against regulations.”
“Well, we were helping him and he got tough and called me a liar.”
“Is slugging the only way you can think of to help somebody? This is not the old days of the Nationalists, and this is not your old precinct headquarters where you could kick people around at will. You write a statement of self-criticism and hand it in to the supervisor.”
He then turned to me with a withering glance. “You still want to play stupid, huh? We’re trying to help you and you try to get tough. You’d better remember that the Chinese have stood up in the world and no lousy imperialist is going to walk on us anymore. Now apologize to Gwo.”
I practically choked, but did manage to murmur a reluctant “Dwey-bu-chi [I beg your pardon].”
“Now Gwo has to write a self-criticism.” continued Jeng sternly. “You ought to do one, too, but you can’t write Chinese well enough. What do you propose to do about it?” He paused expectantly.
“Let’s punish him,” suggested Ju. “Make him stand with his hands over his head for a while.”
“That’s a good idea,” agreed the pock-marked Meng. “It will teach him to behave himself.”
“No, we don’t have to do that,” said Jeng. “Let him punish himself.” And to me, “What would you suggest?”
I searched for something that would satisfy them and yet be easy on me. “How about not eating any dinner?”
Jeng gave me a disgusted look. “You ought to know that the People’s Government would never stand for that. Besides, you don’t eat anything anyway.”
Seating himself on the kang, he asked, “Who were your friends in the Consulate?”
I named a few of them.
“Did you ever give them any information?”
“No,” I said, “we were just friends.”
“What did you talk about when you were with them?”
“Nothing much, just parties and—”
Gwo hit the kang with his fist. “Ta-ma-di” he shouted, “so help me—”
Motioning him to be quiet, Jeng went on. “Did you ever talk about the political situation?”
“Occasionally,” I replied, “but not very much.”
“What in particular?”
I mentioned a few innocuous topics which we might conceivably have touched on in normal conversation.
“Nothing else?”
At that moment we could hear a commotion in the hall and a thump as the huge vats used to carry in the food struck the ground. Big Lu and Ju scrambled down from the kang to get out the basins, and the session ended for the time being. “Saved by the bell,” I thought. I pulled out the bowl of string beans, but they looked no more appetizing than they had at the first meal. I even turned down the offer of some tomato soup proffered me by Jeng.
After the dishes were done and we had returned from the evening latrine call Big Lu and Meng took out a chessboard and began to play, while Gwo labored over the writing of his self-criticism and Jeng read a book. Ju just sat on the edge of the kang, knees drawn up under his chin and back propped against the wall. I walked aimlessly up and down the cell in the space in front of the kang, thankful for the rest period which gave me a chance to collect my battered thoughts. Suddenly I looked up and was appalled to see Ju staring at me from behind his rimless glasses with a look of cold hatred in his eyes. He must have realized that I had caught him off guard, for he immediately covered himself by asking, “What university did you go to?”
“Pennsylvania,” I replied. “Where did you go?”
“Bern. I took my Ph.D. in philosophy there.”
Jeng looked up from his book and said in a biting tone, “Reactionary philosophy. The only thing he learned was how to serve his foreign masters well.”
Ju looked away and did not make any comment.
Just before the whistle blew for the evening session a note arrived ordering me to write out a list of all the people I knew in Peking and what my relations with them had been. I took a sheet of paper and began writing down a few names. Since most of the foreigners I had known had already left China I had no qualms about putting them down, but when it came to listing the Chinese and those foreigners still in Peking I hesitated. I had been under surveillance for so long there could be no secret about my acquaintances. If I did not mention them it might create more suspicion. Knowing full well whom I knew, the government might be setting a trap to see whether I was going to be honest or not.
Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by a curt question from Jeng, “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“He’s just stalling,” said Ju, his beady eyes fixed on the list I had been writing, “He needs a lesson.”
But before he could add any more suggestions Jeng simply waved him down and told me to get on with my writing. Finally, a few minutes before bed time I finished the list, after putting what I hoped were sufficiently ambiguous remarks like “personal friend.” “Business acquaintance,” “fellow student” beside each name to explain our relationship. I gave it to Jeng, who called to the guard to come and get it. As the guard turned away with the paper the whistle blew and we all began to prepare for bed.
I asked to sleep on the floor, which I thought would be cooler and less crowded. Jeng hesitated, but Ju said, “Let him. He stinks, like all foreigners.”
“You ought to know,” interposed Gwo. “You’ve been around them enough.”
Ju’s eyes blazed, but before any trouble could start Jeng ordered, “Get to bed, all of you,” and we all lay down, I on the floor beside Big Lu.
Writing that list had set me to thinking about my friends on the outside. The British must have sent the news home by now and maybe action had already been started to get me out. I knew the British and other friends in the embassies would do everything they could, but somehow I did not have much hope.
The door opened and I was called out again. In my nervous haste to get out the door, the sleeve of my shirt caught on the bolt and was badly torn. When I sat before the judge his dark eyes looked at me sharply as he said, “How did your shirt get like that?”
“I tore it on the door as I came out.”
He fixed me with a level gaze for a moment, as if trying to ascertain whether I was telling the truth or not. Then, apparently satisfied, the matter was dropped, but his obvious concern over any mistreatment I might have met with in the cell gave me an uplift and from that time on I was never worried about being tortured.
He began firing questions at me in rapid succession, as he had done before. Why and how had I come to China? What relations had I had with the American Consulate? The systematic probing into every facet of my past went on all night, interspersed with short rest periods back in the cell. The painstaking thoroughness of my interrogator made my experience in questioning prisoners during the war seem like child’s play. Sometimes he sat patiently smoking his pipe; sometimes he paced restlessly up and down, giving release to his suppressed energy. Occasionally, when he thought I was lying his eyes would flash, but he usually managed to keep his voice calm. The man’s stamina amazed me, and all the time the little secretary sitting next to him busily took down everything I said.
With the dawn the interrogation came to an end. I returned to the cell to fall into an exhausted sleep, only to be aroused by the whistle and the feel of Big Lu’s rough hand shaking me. I awoke with a terrible headache. After washing quickly, I sat down on the kang with my head in my hands. Jeng noticed me sitting there and asked if there were anything wrong.
“Just a headache,” I replied.
“You can get some medicine if you want. There’s a sick call every morning. All you have to do is write out a slip and hand it in during latrine call. Here, I’ll fill it out for you.”
He tore a small piece of paper out of an improvised notebook and wrote down my name and the fact that I had a headache.
The “helping” began again and, except for breakfast and a welcome trip to the dispensary where I was given some aspirin, it went on all morning. When noon came not even my troubled thoughts could keep me from sleep and this time I was dead to the world for the whole two hours. I awoke feeling oddly refreshed and realized suddenly that the bad cold I had had the day of my arrest had long since disappeared.
The discussion began again with Jeng delivering another long lecture on how I ought to confess for my own good, telling me to think of my family. It would be a terrible thing for them if I were shot just because I refused to confess. How would they feel? He was just about to get down to questioning me again when the supervisor called him out and Gwo was left in charge. It was with mixed feelings that I saw Jeng leave the cell. I was afraid of him because he was too smart, but at the same time I had come to look upon him for protection against Gwo’s third-degree methods. When Gwo began talking I knew immediately I was in for trouble.
“Are you going to come clean or are we going to have to get nasty?” he said belligerently.
“I’ve told you all there is.”
“You’ve told us nothing.” said Ju. “To whom did you give your information?”
“Nobody. I didn’t have any information.”
“You’re a liar,” shouted Meng.
Ptfu! I winced as Ju spit in my face.
“Who was your superior?” yelled Gwo again.
“I didn’t have one.”
“Take off your glasses and stand over there against the wall.”
As I moved to obey, Gwo followed me down from the kang, his ankle chains rattling on the cement floor.
“Now are you going to come clean or am I going to have to slap it out of you?” he demanded in an ugly tone, his body pressing close to mine. “Hey, Gwo,” Big Lu called from the kang, “if you hit him you’ll have to write another self-criticism.”
“That’s all right. I’ll hit him first and write the self-criticism afterward.”
With that he drew back his fist and let go. I turned my head to avoid the full impact of his blow but it caught me on the jaw, and for a moment my brain flashed black and white and my knees turned to rubber.
“Now are you going to be good?” he asked. “Get back on the kang and start talking. If you don’t tell it straight, this is only the beginning.”
I sat down again. A cold rage was boiling inside me. At first I made up my mind not to answer any more questions at all, but then as I looked at Ju, Gwo, and Meng sitting across from me I could see that they meant business, and though Big Lu was obviously against any rough stuff he certainly would not try to stop the others, if for no other reason than that he would be afraid of being accused of having sympathy for me.
As the others started throwing questions at me again I decided it might be better to play along and stall for time until Jeng returned. I deliberately began talking in circles or pretended lack of comprehension of the questions put to me on the plea that my Chinese was too poor.
When Ju then tried to speak to me in a combination of French and English I managed to kill a good deal of time discussing the meaning of the words he used. This, of course, meant a loss of face for Ju and I could see his eyes becoming darker and darker behind his sweat-stained glasses. Suddenly his face was livid with rage. He grabbed a straight pen and tried to jab its point into my foot. I drew back hastily and he missed. Before he could try again Meng seized his wrist, but at the same time they all started swearing at me for my trickery. Then Gwo told me to get down from the kang and stand up against the wall again with my hands over my head.
“Now,” he said, “you can stand there till you get ready to talk.” Turning to the others, he said, “Let him think it over in that position for a while.”
In just a few minutes my arms began to ache and I started dropping them down a little, but every time I did so one or another of them shouted at me to get them back up. Fortunately, it was not long before the door opened and in walked Jeng.
When he saw me standing there he asked Gwo, “Now what?”
Gwo replied, “Li Ko’s been bu-lao-shr again and we’ve had to help him.” “What did you do? Hit him again?” asked Jeng in disgust.
“Just once,” said Meng. “Gwo made him take off his glasses first.”
“Ta-ma-di,” swore Jeng. “I thought I told you not to hit him. Can’t you get it through your head it’s against regulations?”
“Well-” said Gwo.
“Well, nothing,” interrupted Jeng. “You were arrested because you couldn’t keep from beating people up, you filthy te-wu. And now here you are in the people’s prison, still in ankle chains, and you think you can go right on doing it.”
Then turning to me he roared, “Who told you, you could take your arms down?”
When I hastily shot them up again he ordered, “Get back up on the kang.”
I had hardly sat down when we heard the welcome sound of the food vats hitting the floor in the corridor. Big Lu and Ju jumped up. So ended another session.
Thus, it went on morning, afternoon, and night. I had little chance to sleep, but with my nerves keyed up to such a pitch I really did not seem to need it. At the same time, the tension had tied my stomach up in such knots that I could hardly stand the sight of food. By the third day I had managed to finish the bowl of string beans, with the help of some soup mixed in, but the wo-tou was still beyond me. On the fourth day, after Big Lu and Ju had returned with the steaming basins, the door opened a second time and I was ordered to bring my bowl for some rice gruel and take all I wanted. I helped myself to only a little because I did not think I could swallow it either, but as soon as I tasted it I wished I had taken more. It was good and I finished it quickly.
Reaching for my bowl to put it in with the dishes he was washing, Jeng said gruffly, “That’s better, huh? I told the People’s Government you weren’t used to eating wo-tou, so they sent you some rice. Usually, only people who are sick get that. Now will you believe that the People’s Government really looks out for every person?”
“Yeah,” I thought. “I used to give cigarettes, candy, and even brandy sometimes to Japanese prisoners to get them to talk. If you think I’m going to give in for a little rice gruel, you’re crazy.” But to Jeng I said, “Yes, the People’s Government is very kind.”
“You’d better say that.” snarled Ju, his face twisted. “Lousy filthy imperialist. You ought to be shot.” He moved away from the rest of us and sat sulkily on the edge of the kang.
“What’s on your mind?” questioned Jeng, getting up from his dishes to stand before Ju. “Well, they don’t give food like that to us. Here my stomach can’t digest that wo-tou either. Why should he get special treatment? If it weren’t for stinking imperialists like him I wouldn’t be here. And they don’t even put him in handcuffs and ankle chains.” With that he took off his glasses and started to cry.
There was a sharp smacking sound as Jeng slapped him across the face with the palm of his hand. “So that’s it, huh? I’ve been noticing you these past few days. You’ve been trying to get him. So, it’s his fault you’re here. Why, you turtle’s egg I suppose everyone who’s had anything to do with a foreigner has landed in prison. Who forced you to sell out your country? Now, get this straight. In this place we’re all equal. He’s a spy and you’re a te-wu [secret agent] and nobody gets special privileges. The People’s Government will put him in irons if he deserves them, and if he is given rice it’s because he needs it. As soon as his stomach straightens out he’ll be eating wo-tou along with the rest of us. If your stomach is as delicate as you say, how is it you can manage to eat two wo-tou every meal? You can criticize Li Ko all you want for his sneaky lying, but if I catch you picking on him again to satisfy your own revenge against foreigners you’re going to end up in irons yourself and for a good long time. You’d better begin to realize that one of the things you’re here for is to come to an understanding of yourself and stop putting the blame for everything you’ve done on someone else.”
The rest of us had stood around half-embarrassed by the naked emotion displayed in Ju’s outburst. As Jeng turned angrily back to his work we all made a pretense of busying ourselves in preparation for the evening latrine call. Ju continued to sob quietly to himself.
I cast a furtive glance in his direction. Now I knew why he hated me so. He was taking out on me all his hatred against the government and the foreigners who he felt were responsible for his ending up in prison. It was a reaction which I was to meet again later. In fact, the most difficult people I had to contend with all during my stay in prison were those very men I thought should be most friendly because of their past pro-Western attitudes and connections with foreigners.
Ju’s explosion ended all threats of violence from the other prisoners, but it did not relax their pressure on me. If anything, it was intensified. They shouted, cajoled, threatened, pleaded, argued, and even gave me the silent treatment, but since I obviously welcomed this latter they soon rejected that method.
In the meantime, the pressure from the interrogations themselves was rapidly becoming unbearable. The questions came one after another. Who were my contacts in the Consulate? What were my relationships with them? What had been the subject of our conversations? How often had I visited there? What were the dates? Who else was there? Who else did I know in Peking? What was our relationship and when did we meet? Time, place, frequency, witnesses? What did I do at the universities? Had I taken any trips into the countryside? Why had we become so friendly with the British?
The exhaustive, systematic probing seemed unceasing. Whenever my interrogator thought I was about to balk he quickly changed the subject to something I was willing to talk about, thus always keeping me off balance and never allowing me to come to a crisis, yet not relaxing his pressure. I found myself being led into a maze of truths, half-truths, and outright lies. Often I was unable to remember what I had said before and kept tripping myself up on details. Several times I tried flatly denying any knowledge of a person, only to give in later when I realized my relations with him must have been known. Sometimes, too, I really could not remember details which might have occurred three years before. Then, under the cynical, accusing stare of my interrogator I often felt even more uncomfortable than if I had been telling a lie. All the while, the haunting realization that a large part of what I said could be checked against the facts already in the judge’s hands made me feel even more insecure.
To make matters worse, I constantly felt the cold, rational force of my interrogator’s arguments dragging me down. At almost every session he stated in a matter-of-fact tone that the government already had enough evidence against me to give the maximum penalty. To refuse to confess was pointless. It would help no one and only bring on dire consequences for myself.
The strain was such that I knew I could not hold out much longer. Finally, on the fifth day I admitted that I had supplied information to my ex-Naval Intelligence friend, Roger, and others in the American Consulate, but I tried to maintain that it had not been deliberate and that such information had been revealed only during ordinary conversations. If I had thought that this would satisfy my interrogator, or, for that matter, the prisoners in the cell, I was mistaken.
As Jeng put it, “Do you mean to say that with all your experience in intelligence work during the war and close relationship with that Naval Intelligence friend then, you could provide him with information in Peking and not even know what it was? It doesn’t make sense.”
And so, they kept at it. Soon I had to give way on this point, too, because it was so obvious, but I was determined to do everything I could to avoid the question of my interview with ONI in Seattle. I reasoned that if I could hold to the story that whatever I had done in Peking had been purely spontaneous and had no official connection with any intelligence organization, I might get off lightly. But if I were dubbed as a Naval Intelligence agent there was little chance of ever being released. For some strange reason I still looked upon the Consulate’s intelligence activities as less serious than those of the military organizations. However, again there was a strong chance they knew all about that interview and if I did not talk about it, it might go even worse with me.
More disturbing were Jeng’s frequent questions about such groups as Office of Strategic Services (OSS), the Army’s ESD, and other organized American espionage agencies in China. His implication was that I must have had relations with them also. Although I knew this to be part of the standard technique of interrogation, I could not help giving way to fears that I might be accused of a multiplicity’ of relationships which would prove even more serious. The fact that I was frightened by such inferences gave me added proof that I was weakening. If there was only some way of gauging how much they really knew and how much it was expeditious to confess.
From the moment of my arrest, I had been speculating as to why we had been picked up just when it looked as though the Korean situation were going to be settled. With my usual propensity for guessing wrong, I had decided it was because the Chinese authorities needed a propaganda stunt to counteract their defeat in Korea. It was not until four years later that I learned our arrests had never been mentioned in the Chinese press.
At the time, however, I reasoned, “Probably all they want is a confession. If they get what they want, they may just deport us as they did a number of foreign priests who were arrested in Tientsin and other places.”
Perhaps the best course was to make a full confession and in that way secure escape from the country for Dell and me. When we arrived in Hong Kong I could deny everything. Thus, I would still be on good terms with Naval Intelligence; and then, remembering the case of Robert Vogeler who had been released from prison in Hungary in May of that year and been extolled as a great hero, I could see myself in a similar position. I would become an expert on Communist China, write a book, and make a lot of money. Everyone would sympathize with me, and a position in a university would be assured.
I was feeling very sure of myself that night, about twelve days after my arrest, as I stood before the judge and said, “I’ve decided to tell the truth.”
I then spent several hours making a fairly accurate confession of what I had been doing, although wherever possible I tried to avoid as much of the responsibility as I could.
When I had finished, the investigating judge relaxed in his chair. It was only then I realized that he was almost as tired as I was. But he paused for only a moment and then, leaning forward, asked me a curious question, “Why did you confess?”
After some hesitation I finally replied, “Because I knew you had too much evidence against me, and if I didn’t I would probably be shot.”
He nodded slowly. Then, looking out the window, he seemed suddenly to notice that it was already light. “You can go back to your cell and rest,” he said. “You must be tired. You can sleep during the day if you want.”
When I returned to the cell I found the others up. I told them what had happened. Everyone, except Ju, expressed happiness. Jeng even offered to wash my shirt, which by now was reeking.
Big Lu said, “We can get a needle and thread and mend that sleeve for you.”
After breakfast the others sat in a circle at one end of the kang and discussed a book they were reading, and I lay down to take a nap but I could not sleep. Now that I had finally decided on the course of confession I found myself wanting to tell everything, in order to be certain there was nothing about my activities which the government could say I was holding back. I kept going over every detail. There were so many points that had to be cleared up, because I had made a great number of contradictory statements in the past two weeks. For the next couple of days, the judge went over and over my story to clarify the details. By this time there was no particular strain for me. I was telling a straight story and it came out easily.
The afternoon of the second day after my confession I arrived in the interrogation room to find several Chinese there, both in uniform and civilian clothes. I was asked to repeat my story for them. As I left the room I noticed a car outside and I thought, “Maybe they’re going to let me go now and that car is to take me home.” As soon as I reached the cell I dug out the socks I had put aside earlier, to save from becoming worn on the kang, and started to put them on. Ju looked at me suspiciously and asked, “What are you putting those on for?”
I was stopped for an answer, but Jeng immediately came to my rescue with, “His feet probably sweat in those leather shoes. If he wants to wear his socks, that’s his business.”
The minutes seemed to drag interminably as I sat waiting for the door to open, but when dinner came and it gradually began to get dark I was forced to realize that leaving here was not going to be that simple. It was not until the next morning that I was called out again. This time I was given a stack of paper and an outline for writing my confession.
With a feeling of triumph, I returned to the cell and showed Jeng the outline. However, as soon as I sat down to work I ran into more trouble. It seemed that “helping,” to my cell mates, not only applied to convincing me I should confess but also to the writing of the confession itself. I would write in English and then make a clumsy oral translation into Chinese for them to hear. When I could not translate properly, Ju would help. Everyone sat around and discussed whether what I had written was right or not.
The first question dealt with my history and education, and a fight started even there. Jeng insisted that I should bring up the fact that I liked to read detective stories, because they had influenced me toward becoming a spy. Ju wanted me to include a statement that in school I had been taught to look down on all other races. I would not agree and my exasperation knew no bounds. How was I ever going to finish this and leave here if they kept butting in? By the end of two days, I had exactly two pages written and I was called in again for interrogation.
“How’s it going?” asked the judge.
When I told him what had been happening, he said seriously, “This is your confession. You write it as you know it and don’t let anyone else try to tell you what to say. Try to be as honest and realistic as you can.”
With that he waved me back to my cell. I was just starting to tell a rather crestfallen Jeng what the judge had said when the supervisor came in and ordered me to get my things together. A few minutes later I was ushered into cell No. 9 across the corridor, a room very similar to the one I had just left, except that, being on the south side of the building, it was much lighter. Seated on the kang was a group of about six men, some wearing ankle chains and one in handcuffs. The leader was a tall, handsome Chinese who looked about my age but who was actually several years older. He introduced himself as Liao. After telling him my name I explained that I was supposed to write my confession. He promptly ordered one of the other prisoners to clear a place by the window so that I could use the broad sill as a desk.
As I sat down to write I felt a conflict of emotion. I was glad to get away from Jeng’s unceasing questions, Ju’s hatred, and Gwo’s bullying, but still during those weeks I had developed a certain attachment for them all. They were the first Chinese I felt I had ever really known, and Jeng’s sincerity had left a deep impression on me. It seemed strange, but I had actually come to look on cell No. 3 as a sort of home. Now I was in a new place among strangers again, with a new set of relationships to be worked out. I wondered why I had been moved. Only later did I learn that it was the government’s policy to transfer a prisoner after he had passed a crisis in order to give him a chance to start fresh in new surroundings. However, for the next few days I was so busy writing that except for the exchange of a few words at mealtime I had little to do with the others.
Finally, I completed my confession, altogether seventy-six hand-written pages, and gave it to the supervisor. I was now ready to leave and my mind was filled with what I would do when I reached Hong Kong. My story for the press was all prepared— how I had been unjustly arrested, mistreated, and forced into making a confession. I wondered if I would be asked to go on a lecture tour, maybe even appear on the radio. My spirits soared as I thought, “This is turning out to be the best thing that ever happened to me.”