Pearl of China (19 page)

To my shock, the letter was intercepted by Communist intelligence agents. It got Dick in trouble.

“I have warned you!” Dick hissed at me. “We Communists don’t trust the Americans! Our enemy is supported by the Americans! Why is it so difficult for you to remember that? Yenan’s security is about Mao’s survival!”

In the past Dick had discouraged me from writing to Pearl. Now I was ordered to stop.

I refused to sign the Communist membership application Dick put in front of me. No matter how many times Dick explained the benefits and the necessity, I wouldn’t pick up the pen.

Finally, after months of struggle, I agreed to sign. I did so out of loyalty to my husband. Without my being a member of the Communist Party, Dick would never gain Mao’s full trust.

My biggest problem was following the Communist Party’s rules. I seemed to always say the wrong thing at the wrong time. I would praise the wrong people and criticize the right ones. For example, I remarked that I felt sorry for high-ranking heroes because they had achieved their rank only by killing a great number of people. I also said that all war was wrong. Because of these mistakes, I was ordered to criticize myself in public.

Dick was demoted as a result. His temper was no longer containable. Instead of fighting with me, Dick exploded at work. He applied for a transfer to be nearer the fighting. He was eager to join the battles. He wanted to be the first to engage the enemy and the last to retreat. The irony was that it turned out to be good for his career. He earned medals and promotions. His courage earned him the respect of the Communist leadership. He was restored to his former job. Mao welcomed Dick back and praised him as “the Red Prince.”

“Does that mean that Mao is the Red Emperor?” I joked the moment Dick entered the cave.

Dick didn’t find my comment funny, and warned me not to say such things again.

My life, as a fortune-teller had once predicted, was about the constant turning of feng shui, meaning that my fortunes were always changing. My future as a Communist would soon prove the fortune- teller’s wisdom. I had never imagined that there would be a benefit to claiming my background as a beggar. For the family background section in the party’s membership application, I truthfully wrote “Beggars.” This qualified Papa as a proletarian, and that included Rouge and me. If my grandfather hadn’t lost all his money, my father would have inherited his land and become the enemy of the Communists. I would have been denounced and perhaps shot as a spy.

The strain between Dick and me had much to do with the innocent souls Mao murdered at the Red Base. It happened before my eyes. People were arrested in broad daylight, sent away, and disappeared for good. These were young people, former college students. They were independent thinkers—people whom Dick had personally recruited. They had joined Mao to fight the Japanese. Overnight they were labeled as enemies, arrested, denounced, and murdered.

Dick said that my Christian values had ruined me. I told him that he was ruined, not me. Dick refused to see Mao’s flaws and the fact that he had become a bully. Mao had learned from Stalin, a man who murdered whoever disagreed with him. Half of Dick’s friends were detained and questioned and one third executed as traitors.

“How can you sleep at night?” I asked my husband.

Dick encouraged me to make friends with Madame Mao. “She is a better choice than Pearl Buck,” he insisted.

I tried, but I couldn’t get Madame Mao to like me. She was the opposite of Pearl, judgmental and opinionated. Blessed with good looks, she was also flashy, pretentious, and egotistical. As a former actress, she knew her craft. She called herself “Chairman Mao’s humble student” and was proud to be his trophy. She was not shy about her “capital.” Her skin didn’t turn potato brown as the rest of ours did in the desert sun and harsh wind. Her eyebrows were as thin as a shrimp’s feelers. She and Mao made a perfect couple. They both wanted power and fame. Madame Mao loved to say that she was a peacock among hens. By hens, she meant the women of Yenan, and that included me.

My biggest disappointment was that Mao didn’t turn out to be the hero I had expected. Under the guise of a scholar, Mao sold confidence to people. He made the peasant soldiers hear their own voices when he spoke to them.

When I listened to Mao, I watched his eyes. They appeared to be smiling even when he uttered the most violent phrases. Mao had a broad forehead, a rice-patty-shaped face, and a feminine mouth. He never looked people in the eyes when he talked with them. Mao let people observe him. Never once did I hear him answer a question in a straightforward manner, although he encouraged others to do so. Mao was a master when it came to the art of beating around the bush. He even said himself that he enjoyed catching his enemy by surprise, whether in conversation or on the battlefield.

Dick made the best conversational partner for Mao in the inner circle. He and Mao often talked deep into the night. “We simply enjoy each other’s minds,” Dick told me. Yet Dick failed to learn one important lesson, which was that Mao hated to lose.

Dick had yet to find out that Mao wanted absolute power, though he appeared to desire the opposite. Mao repeated the same phrase over and over again to foreign journalists: “My dream is to become a classroom teacher.” He would open his conversation with a Chinese poem and close by reciting Marx or Lenin. People were easily charmed by Mao. His broad knowledge and sharp wit disarmed. Once, Dick helped Mao issue a telegram to the war front. He was shocked that Mao insisted on ending the communiqué with a line from a poem. “
Only flies are afraid
of winter, so let them freeze and die
.”

Dick told me later that when Mao had trouble giving direction during battles or was unsure of his next move, he would telegram poems to his generals. The confused generals would have no choice but to make up their own minds about whether to charge or retreat.

“Such is Mao’s brilliance,” Dick said admiringly.

*          *          *

Dick brought Madame Mao the local singer who wrote the song “Red in the East.” Dick never guessed that one day the tune would become China’s unofficial national anthem.

I went to listen to “Red in the East” being performed at a weekend party for high-ranking officials. Madame Mao introduced the singer, whose name was Li You-yuan. Li was a peasant dressed in rags with a dirty towel wrapped around his forehead. He was in his forties and had three missing front teeth. Dick did a background check and found that Li was not one hundred percent proletarian, because his family owned a half acre of land.

When Dick reported this to Madame Mao, she said, “If I say Li is a peasant, he will be a peasant.”

The song “Red in the East” was Madame Mao’s birthday gift to her husband.

When the peasant opened his mouth, the listeners’ jaws dropped. Li’s voice was like a goat’s cry.

Mao remained seated, because he had the good sense to trust his wife’s magic-making abilities.

After Li exited the stage, Madame Mao presented her version of “Red in the East.” The singing was performed by the Yenan repertory group conducted by Madame Mao herself.

Li You-yuan didn’t write more than the first line of “Red in the East.” The peasant had no knowledge of the Red Base or its leader, Mao. He hummed the tune to pass the time when he plowed his field. Dick happened to cross his path and heard him singing. Dick foresaw the usefulness of the tune and brought Li to Madame Mao’s attention.

To demonstrate his modesty, Mao rejected Madame Mao’s proposal to list “Red in the East” as a “must-learn song” for the troops.

Madame Mao insisted that it was the people’s wish that Mao be regarded as the rising sun of China.

Madame Mao asked Dick to send me a message. She criticized me as arrogant. I tried to hide my disgust for the sake of Dick.

Madame Mao was unaware that I had some knowledge of her past. Before coming to Yenan, she had been a third-rate movie actress in Shanghai. She had had an affair with a newspaper reporter who happened to be Dick’s friend. At the Red Base, Madame Mao’s past was a stain on an immaculate embroidery. Desperate to get rid of the stain, she behaved like a passionate revolutionary. She invited me to watch her perform a newly learned skill—making yarn out of raw cotton.

I did something behind Dick’s back. I bribed the base’s special postman who traveled between Yenan and Shanghai as a merchant. The man smuggled my letters out to Shanghai and then mailed them to Pearl in America using a secret address. In my letters, I reported that I had begun telling Christian stories to Rouge. I told Pearl that my day was brightened when Rouge started to fall in love with “Amazing Grace.”

Like raindrops in the middle of a drought, I received a letter from Pearl. It comforted me and soothed my anxiety, for I had been friendless. Pearl told me that she had been traveling the world and had spent a great deal of time in India, Southeast Asia, and Japan. The line that filled my eyes with tears of happiness was that she was “dying to return to China.”

C
HAPTER
26

When Mao defied Stalin and crossed the Yangtze River in pursuit of Chiang Kai-shek in 1948, Dick told me that the Communists would win China. By May 1949 it was a reality. The people had suffered for twelve years: eight years fighting Japan and then four years of civil war. It was hard to believe that the wars were over. Russian and American advisers on both sides had to admit that they had been wrong. Mao believed that there ought to be only one lion on the mountain. He would never share power with Chiang Kai-shek.

The day his capital, Nanking, fell, Chiang Kai-shek fled to Taiwan. Mao would have continued the chase until he captured Chiang Kai-shek if it hadn’t been for the American military forces on the island. Mao was cautious. He didn’t want to be stretched too thin, so he claimed a nation and named it the People’s Republic of China.

We were to meet Dick in Peking. Mao had decided to make the city his new capital, and he had its name changed from Peking to Beijing. Also seeing a change were troops from the Eighth and Fourth Army Divisions. Previously under the command of Chiang Kai-shek, they now fell behind Mao and were incorporated into the People’s Liberation Army.

Dick drove an American jeep to pick us up. Although he was dark brown and thin from the stomach ulcers he had developed, he was happy. He told us that the car’s former owner had been Madame Chiang Kai-shek.

The People’s Liberation Army was received joyously by the city residents. Dick’s American jeep was part of the parade when we entered Beijing. The cheering crowd beat drums. Children threw flowers. “Long live Chairman Mao!” they shouted. “Long live the Communist Party of China!”

October 1, 1949, was the day of celebration for the nation. Standing on top of the Gate of Tiananmen, Mao proclaimed China’s independence to the world. He promised freedom and human rights. From that moment on, Mao was regarded as the wisest ruler heaven had ever bestowed on China. Few knew that it was Dick who had negotiated the peaceful transition.

Dick had been secretly working with General Chu, who had guarded Peking for Chiang Kai-shek. Dick had talked General Chu into surrendering. He convinced the man that Chiang Kai-shek had abandoned him. In Dick’s view, further fighting would mean a bloodbath from which Chu would emerge the loser no matter how hard he fought. In Mao’s name, Dick promised General Chu a high-ranking position in the People’s Liberation Army. Dick signed his name on this secret agreement for Mao. The moment General Chu raised the white flag, he would be called the People’s Hero.

I couldn’t believe my eyes when Dick took us to see our new home. It was inside the Forbidden City. We were to occupy one of the palaces. Dick told me that Mao and his wife, along with his vice chairman, his ministers, and their families, had already moved into the Forbidden City.

It took me days to convince myself that my life had really changed. At last, I didn’t have to live in a cave. I no longer had to endure air raids. Food would never again be a problem. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a face I hardly recognized as my own. At age fifty-nine, I was finally able to settle down.

Instead of calling the palaces by their former Imperial names, the Communist housing authority gave them numbers. Our residence used to be called the Palace of Tranquillity; now it was called Building number 19.

I walked around my new home admiring the splendor of the Imperial architecture. The palace was a living work of art. Like a true beauty, she changed her face according to the light. Tremendous arching beams and brick columns reminded me of opera stage sets. Rouge was impressed by the huge wooden gate. She ran from room to room cheering and singing. We had four spacious main rooms and seven utility rooms. There was a roofed hallway to the garden withevergreen trees, luxurious bushes, and wonderfully scented flowers.

“How can we afford to live here?” I asked.

Dick smiled. “It’s free.”

“What do you mean free?”

“I didn’t choose this place,” Dick said. “It was Chairman Mao’s decision.” Looking at my expression, Dick explained, “It’s for Mao’s convenience. He wants me to be near for the sake of business.” He paused, looking at me attentively. “I thought this arrangement would make you happy. How many people in China get to live in a palace like this?”

I would have chosen a place where we could be private. I understood that Dick had no choice. Rouge was to join other children of high-ranking officials attending a private school where she would be taught more Russian than Chinese. The school’s goal was to prepare its graduates for the University of Moscow.

I felt a growing distance from my daughter after she started school. She no longer wanted to pray with me. She threw away the little picture of Jesus I kept in my bathroom. She told me that she had been selected captain of her class. Instead of a hug and a good-bye in the morning, she would raise her right hand to her temple and say, “Salute, comrades!” One day I found a portrait of Mao in my bedroom, replacing my favorite lotus painting. When I protested, Rouge said, “It is for your own good, Mother. You don’t seem to understand what is going on outside our family.”

I was not used to my new role as a revolutionary’s housewife. For security reasons, I was not allowed to share my address with anyone, including Papa. I complained to Dick and said that I missed my father. A month later, Papa was dropped at my door like a package. Although robust in health and glad to see me, Papa described his journey as being “kidnapped.” Mao’s secret agents plucked him from Chin-kiang and brought him to Beijing. Papa was not told where he was going or whom he was going to see. During his stay in the Forbidden City, Papa was reprimanded for trying to exit the gates without permission. He fought with the guards and said that he didn’t want to be a prisoner. Finally Papa begged me to buy him a ticket so that he could return to Chin-kiang. I bought him a ticket and was sad when he didn’t turn his head as he boarded the train. We barely had time to talk and catch up about our lives. I didn’t even get a chance to ask Papa how everyone was doing in Chin-kiang.

I tried to find a way to let Pearl know about my move to Beijing. I assumed that she would know about Mao’s victory. I wondered what she thought about Chiang Kai-shek’s defeat. In a way, Pearl had predicted the outcome during our earlier correspondences. So many had been impressed by Madame Chiang Kai-shek, who had campaigned in America for her husband and succeeded in rallying the public behind her. But Pearl did not believe her claims. Pearl had often said in the past that the Chiangs were in power for themselves. She believed that there was a divide between the Chiangs and the peasants of China. She had said long ago that Mao’s power came from his understanding of the peasants.

Pearl never trusted the Communists. She enjoyed her friendship with Dick and supported my marriage to him because she saw that he loved me. On the other hand, Pearl didn’t like my being brainwashed by Dick. When I mentioned Dick’s worship of Karl Marx in a letter, Pearl wrote back and asked, “Do you know who Karl Marx is? He is this strange little man, long dead, who lived his narrow little life, and somehow managed by the power of his wayward brain to lay hold upon millions of human lives!”

This made sense to me, although nothing I said changed Dick’s mind. With Mao’s victory, Dick had gone further on what I would call a journey of no return.

A party commemorating national independence was next on Mao’s agenda. Dick was put in charge of arranging it. He was grateful that Mao trusted him with the job. He was finally doing what he loved—bringing talented people together. I rarely got to see Dick in daylight. I told myself that I was lucky my husband had not died in battle, and that I should be satisfied our lives were taken care of by the Communist Party. We were given chefs, drivers, doctors, dressmakers, bodyguards, and house cleaners.

I wrote to Pearl the first chance I got. Beijing was a huge city where I could easily melt into the crowd when visiting a post office. I told Pearl that while Dick became an ever more devoted Communist, I remained an independent bourgeois liberal, and worse, I continued to be a Christian. “The changing China excites me and scares me at the same time,” I confessed. “Mao has made himself into a god to the people. I feel like I am losing my husband and daughter to this man. The irony is: I am the person they think mad.”

For the sake of my daughter, I stopped trying to seek out churches in Beijing in which to worship. But even if I wanted to, I could never give up my faith in God. I prayed in the dark. I was on my knees when Dick and Rouge were asleep. I was also determined to keep up my correspondence with Pearl as long as I could.

Dick’s stomach pain worsened and finally he needed surgery. Two thirds of his stomach was removed. He continued to work from his hospital bed. He met with some of the day’s most influential people, from Chiang Kai-shek’s former ministers to famous artists. Dick’s goal was to secure domestic and international legitimacy for Mao. “Chairman Mao must make more friends. At any time, America could use Taiwan as its military base to launch an attack on China,” Dick told Rouge.

As China’s new minister of the Bureau of Culture, Science, and Art, Dick encouraged overseas Chinese to return to their homeland. For the next ten years Dick would write hundreds of letters telling his friends all over the world that “Mao is a wise and merciful leader who recognizes and appreciates talent.”

Among those who returned were intellectuals, scientists, architects, playwrights, novelists, and artists. In the name of the Communist Party, Dick guaranteed their salaries and offered privileged lifestyles and freedom of expression. Dick appointed them as heads of national theaters and universities. Every morning, Dick drove his jeep to pick up the new arrivals. Every evening, he hosted a gay welcoming party.

At one welcoming party, Dick drank too much. The next morning, with puffy, bloodshot eyes, he said, “If Hsu Chih-mo hadn’t died, I would have invited him. He would have enjoyed himself.”

“Hsu Chih-mo would not hide himself like I do,” I responded. “He would have criticized Mao. He would have told Mao to his face that he was an amateur poet.”

“Who are you trying to challenge?” Dick was irritated. “Why are you so cynical all the time?”

“I just question how true China’s freedom of expression is,” I said. “Are you sure that you can keep the promises you have made to so many?”

Dick understood my concern. He could not answer my question, because deep down he knew that “Mao’s will” would be the “nation’s will.”

“You might end up carrying the stone that will eventually smash your own toes,” I said, afraid.

Dick put his arm around my shoulders and said that he agreed with me. “But I must have faith in what I do.”

I rubbed my face against his hand and told him that I understood.

“I must trust that others share my values,” Dick said in a gentle voice.

“You are being naïve.”

“I know, I know,” he cut me off. “Your worries are legitimate but unnecessary.”

“I can see it coming.”

“Willow, you have a wild imagination. Don’t let it drive you crazy.”

“I won’t say this again. Listen, I am your wife, and I know you enough to know that you and Mao are different people.”

“We complement each other.”

“That is not what I mean.”

“I know what you mean, darling.”

“Let me finish, will you?” I was upset. “To get his way, Mao will not hesitate to persecute or—dare I say the word?—murder. He’s done it before.”

Dick stood and put some distance between us. “Mao doesn’t own the party,” he said in a firm voice. “Communism is about justice and democracy.”

Dick led me to his room and opened the top drawer in his desk. He took out an envelope. I could tell that the Chinese writing on the envelope was Pearl’s. The stamps showed that the letter had arrived two months ago, and the letter had already been opened. The envelope was empty.

“My privacy has been invaded,” I protested.

“Mao’s internal security agents opened it.”

“Where is the letter?”

“The central bureau has it. They notified me that it was to be confiscated.”

“Why didn’t you speak up for me?”

“You would not be here now if I hadn’t!” Dick almost yelled.

I knew Dick had done his best.

“Look.” Dick pulled more documents from his drawer. “Here is more evidence. I have fought for you not once but repeatedly.”

I had had no idea that I was in so much trouble.

“You are being watched by internal security,” Dick continued. “You are one step from becoming known as an enemy sympathizer. Your friendship with Pearl Buck is seen as a threat to national security. Pearl’s status in America and her public criticism of Mao and the Communist Party have categorized her as an enemy of China.”

“Am I a suspect?”

“What do you think? You were caught passing her information.”