He next took up the question of the motives which caused people to join the Party. He listed the information brought to light at the gate as follows:
While not all of these motives could be classed as admirable, still none of them bespoke an intent to wreck the Party or to use it for counter-revolutionary purposes.
The third question examined in Hou’s report was that of self-enrichment. Detailed information on the economic position of each Communist household showed that the Party members, with one or two exceptions, were originally very poor. Before Liberation they and their families had owned, on the average, less than a third of an acre per capita. Several had never owned any land at all. In the course of the Settling Accounts Movement they fanshened pretty thoroughly and received altogether a total of 60 acres of land, 134 sections of housing, large quantities of grain, and many implements, clothes, articles of furniture, and other items. As a group they had received slightly more per capita than the rest of the villagers. Ts’ai-yuan and his brother Fu-yuan were allocated the most grain—more than 30 hundredweight. Man-hsi came next with 26 hundredweight. As to the other articles, they got about the same number as the rest of the poor peasants, but often received goods of slightly better quality because as cadres or militiamen they had a chance to pick out what they wanted before the crowd got there.
Even if the Communists had benefited slightly from this practice, it was not true to say that they grossly misappropriated the fruits of the struggle against the landlord class. They certainly could not serve as a source for the fanshen of those who were still poor.
The crimes and mistakes committed by the Party members constituted the fourth question examined by Hou. He classified them under four headings: (1) bad working style; (2) personal selfishness and corrupt practices; (3) “rascal behavior,” loose morals, philandering; (4) forgetting one’s class.
The beating cases came under the first heading, but the beatings which had occurred were quite clearly of two kinds—those administered in an effort to carry out official assignments and these administered for purely personal reasons. Although no beatings could be condoned, the latter were considered far more reprehensible than the former. Altogether 55 grievances concerning physical assault and corporal punishment were brought up by the delegates. Of these 20 fell in the first category and constituted the cases of bad working style. The other 35 fell in the second category, had nothing to do with work at all, and were therefore considered much more serious. Man-hsi, of course, was the outstanding example of a rough fellow, but almost all the cases in which he was involved had to do with the performance of his duties as a militiaman—a fact which, to a certain extent, mitigated his guilt.
When it came to personal selfishness and corrupt practices more than 100 grievances were presented, and almost all of them were accepted as true. They included squeeze, illegal seizure, outright theft, and favoritism in the distribution of the “fruits.” In order to square accounts with the people, the Party members promised to swap one good acre of land for one of poorer quality and to return to the village office for subsequent distribution the following items:
Seventeen cases of illicit sex relations or “rascal behavior” were charged. Almost all the men and women comrades had been involved in some sort of extra-marital relations, but since buy-and-sell marriages had been the norm, this type of behavior was almost universal in the village, and only those cases where men forced their attention on women were listed as grievances. Some of these involved out-and-out rape. In regard to others the situation was not clear, but there appeared to be at least some measure of coercion involved. Because the victims were almost invariably the wives and daughters-in-law of dispossessed landlords and rich peasants, the peasants tended to be lenient in regard to punishment but strict in their demand for reform. Since no form of restitution was possible, apologies and promises of better behavior in the future had to suffice.
The fourth heading, forgetting one’s class, meant collaboration with landlords, trying to protect landlords, or not attacking landlords during the land reform movement. Eleven cases of this nature were brought up during the hearings. These included six instances of concealing landlord property, one instance of informing a landlord as to what to expect next, one instance of harboring a landlord in the home, one instance of doing a landlord a favor, one instance of sending a landlord a gift, and one instance of inactivity when a certain landlord was under attack. From the point of view of the Communist Party these were considered to be very serious errors, certainly as serious as any of the others. Communists were expected to draw a firm line between themselves and the gentry whom they had vowed to expropriate. Any weakness in this key area was ground for discipline, even severe discipline; but education rather than punishment was favored in most cases. In this respect the gate proved to be a very effective school.
In regard to punishments, Hou announced that the recommendations of the delegates, the Party branch, and the work team would all be forwarded to the higher authorities as soon as possible. He promised that action would be taken by these authorities right away.
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Hou’s report covered what might be called the statistical and the tangible results of the Party purification. All the members of the team felt that the intangible results were far more important- They saw the gate as a turning point in the political fanshen of the people. It had already created a new climate of opinion, a new political atmosphere, a new relationship between the Communist Party and the people, and a new relationship between the people and the Border Region government.
These changes were profoundly democratic. They transformed “supervision by the people” from a slogan into a reality and effectively drew people, whom the land distribution had made equal economically, into activity that enabled them to project this equality into the political sphere.
The most important result of the whole campaign was certainly this drawing into meaningful action of hundreds of peasants who, because of various inhibitions and fears, had remained passive throughout the revolutionary years, or had lapsed back into passivity once the big struggle against the landlords had been victoriously concluded. The campaign to purify the party made clear to all participants that the people were sovereign, that they were responsible, and that they could and must decide their own future.
Almost equal in importance to the changes wrought by the campaign in the conciousness of the peasants were the changes it wrought in the consciousness of the Communists. In the agony of public self-examination, they were forced to face up to their weaknesses, to ask themselves fundamental questions concerning their character and their intentions, and to make important decisions about the future. Under fire for every lapse, every weakness, they began to catch a glimpse of the Revolution as “the hundred-year great task” that Chairman Mao had so often called it, rather than a great upheaval impetuously entered into and soon completed. “Service to the people” assumed new and demanding dimensions.
The enthusiasm engendered by the success of the gate was tempered by the realization that not all had gone well. The obvious disproportion between the fanfare of the build-up and the actual findings of the delegates was disturbing. One could hardly help wonder whether truth had been served as impartially as it should have been. Concentration on the weaknesses, errors, and crimes of the Party members had completely obscured any merits they might have had, any contribution they might have made to the fanshen movement. This followed inevitably from the thesis that the movement itself had been abortive. Yet if this were actually the case, what accounted for the great progressive change that had, in fact, taken place in the village? To insure the reality of supervision by the people, an atmosphere had been created in which only those who bowed their heads won approval. Those who had the courage to stand up for themselves and deny charges which they believed to be false had not been able to pass the gate. Yet possibly they had served truth better than those who had accepted all accusations, admitted full responsibility for crimes t
hat they shared with others and agreed to give up property that was perhaps as rightfully theirs as anything that any family held. The disproportion between allegation and fact showed up sharply in this area.
Even the new sovereign power felt by many people could hardly be said to be solidly grounded by this one gate. Yu-lai, Wen-te, Hunger, and Hsi-yu were still in jail. These were the four cadres whom the people feared most. Without them the gate could hardly be viewed as anything more than a rehearsal. The real test of public criticism as a method of supervision and reform was yet to come.
In spite of all these reservations, the members of the work team felt that the gate had, on the whole, been a triumphant success, and so apparently did the people of Long Bow.
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The confrontation at the gate concluded at an opportune time. Two days later, on April 20, 1948, a conference of all the work teams in the 11 basic villages of Lucheng County convened at the county seat. On April 19, Comrade Hou turned the administration of the village over to the delegates who had so successfully manned the gate and departed for Lucheng with all the local members of the team. The University contingent, which included Ch’i Yun and myself, also departed on that day but did not go directly to the site of the conference. We returned instead to Kao Settlement to be measured for our summer clothes, pick up our monthly millet allowances, and visit old friends.
That night, back in my own high-ceilinged room in the mission compound, I lay awake for a long time thinking over the events of the last few days. The power of the Revolution to inspire and remold people had stirred me. It seemed to me then that no decent person could fail to be touched by the challenge of the new society and that this was what gave the movement such confidence and momentum. Sometime after midnight I fell asleep only to be awakened by wild singing, incoherent shouting, and rapid talk. The sounds came from the next room. I thought at first that a party was going on. Then I realized that the uproar was the achievement of one person, probably a drunkard. When he failed to quiet down, I became very angry. I went out into the hall and spoke through the door that adjoined mine.
“There are people trying to sleep,” I said.
The occupant of the room, completely disregarding my words, called out loudly in English, “Come in, come in.”
I pushed the door open. The room was unlit, but enough moonlight flooded in through the paper on the windows to enable me to distinguish one object from another. On a board bed set against the far wall sat a young student dressed only in a pair of shorts and an undershirt. He never stopped talking, even when I addressed him. Sensing that I was cross, he ignored the fact that he had invited me in and protested what had suddenly become, for him, an unwelcome intrusion.
“Do what I like in my own room,” he shouted. “If you shut your door, you won’t hear me—American police coming in here!”
I slapped him lightly on the side of the face thinking that the shock might jar him to his senses, but he went right on shouting as if nothing had happened. Then I realized that he was sick, that he was suffering from some sort of breakdown, and that I had made a mistake. Not knowing how to mend matters, I retreated quietly to my own room. That proved to be a second mistake.
The distraught student began to shout at the top of his voice, “American, American, where are you? American, come back here! Funny, I have forgotten his name, but I know him well. Say, American, if you are not my enemy, come back, come back.”
Finally he got up and came to my room.
“I met you in Shihlitien. We came on the same truck. I want to be friends,” he said. He held out his hand. It was cold as ice. Then he launched into a rambling discourse that began with the startling statement, “You long for your home. That’s why you come here. This Catholic mission reminds you of home” and ended with “I plan to go to medical college, move to Hsingtai.”
I suggested that he had better go to sleep first.
He went back to his own room, but he didn’t go to sleep. He talked steadily to the four walls until morning.
When, at ten o’clock, Ch’i Yun came to tell me that she was ready to go to Lucheng, the student was still talking wildly, striding up and down, and pulling at his undershirt. All the “little devils” attached to the University staff had gathered outside his window and were peering shamelessly at him through holes which they had made in the paper with their thumbs. From them, I learned that the object of their curiosity had joined a work team, had struck a peasant in the village, had been arrested, tied up, and taken to the county seat for questioning. There he had run away. Caught for the second time, he had been brought back to the University where he had friends.
As Ch’i Yun and I set out over the fields, I asked her for further details about the young man. She said that he was a student from Tsinghua, the National College of Engineering in Peking. He had come to the Liberated Areas without any real understanding of what the Revolution was all about. In the study sessions he met rebuff after rebuff when he refused to face the implications of his landlord origin. On the land reform work team he was sharply criticized by his colleagues for arrogance. Frustrated, lonely, unable to understand or sympathize with the peasants, a nuisance to his comrades and himself, he finally broke down completely. Then he tried to run back to the Kuomintang side.
Here was one young cadre whom the land reform had failed to remold. Temporarily, at least, it had crushed him.
40
The Lucheng Road
Swiftly the years, beyond recall.
Solemn the stillness of this fair morning.
I will clothe myself in spring-clothing
And visit the slopes of the Eastern Hill.
By the mountain stream a mist hovers,
Hovers a moment, then scatters.
There comes a wind blowing from the south
That brushes the fields of new corn.
T’ao Ch’ien
BRIGHT SUNSHINE flooded the whole valley. A cool breeze caressed the earth. It rippled the winter wheat that shone emerald green on plot after plot. It stirred the young leaves that made feathery wands out of the village aspens. It scattered the blossoms that emblazoned the fruit trees. Everywhere peasants moved on the land spreading manure, sowing millet, planting peas, and hoeing wheat.
I hardly noticed these signs of burgeoning spring. The encounter with the mad student still engaged my mind and made me feel depressed. Had his colleagues been too hard on him? Had they tried to remake him too swiftly? Mao said it took ten years for an intellectual to achieve a truly revolutionary outlook. It could not be done in a few months. So ran my thoughts, but I found it impossible to concentrate on this or to remain depressed for long. The mood of the season would not allow it. The air was too pregnant with new life; the joy of spring after a bitter winter was too exuberant. With every step forward, the countryside around me absorbed more of my attention.
Ch’i Yun, Professor Hsu, and I were on our way to the land reform conference in Lucheng. The shortest route to our destination ran over two round ridges of land, fingers of bedrock covered with loess, that thrust out into the flat from the high ground to the west. From the tops of these ridges we looked down on the valleys below, the roofs and courtyards of the hill villages, the threshing floors and straw stacks that ringed them, the rifled grave mounds that scarred the fields, the checkered land broken as it had been for ages past into a thousand strips and patches. The endless brown of all the land harkened strangely back to winter. Even the scattered plots of wheat, when seen from above, carried only a thin sheen of green. Between the rows of lusty shoots the bare ground stood out sharply, almost menacingly, as if to demonstrate the fact that life had but a tenuous grip on earth and could hardly aspire to clothe her nakedness for long.
From the tops of these ridges we could also see the Taihang Mountains standing stark and naked in the east like a forbidding fortress wall. Absolutely treeless, monotonously bare they were, and yet not barren, for they were clothed with grass right to the top, and now, in t
he spring of the year, that grass too was turning green. It was as if some giant with a watercolor brush had washed the whole scene with light pigment that shone yellow-green in the sunlight, blue-green in the shadows. Because the young blades of grass did not have to push through heavy layers of last year’s growth, but on the contrary showed themselves on slopes winter-grazed by thousands of small flocks of sheep, the green shoots changed the tint of the skyline as soon as they burst the ground and thereby demonstrated the overgrazing to which the mountains, in spite of their vastness, were subject.
Grazed and overgrazed the mountains were, to the point of serious erosion. At that very moment one could make out the scattered sheep and goats on the flanks and buttresses of the range. With patience, one could even spot the minute figure of an occasional shepherd. The highlands, wild and forbidding as they appeared, were in fact populated with men and animals. In all that great expanse of ravines, cliffs, and saw-tooth summits there was hardly any place where the bleating of one stray would not fix at attention ‘the restlessly moving ears of another, hardly any place where a shout from a human throat would not bring an answering shout.
What was true in the highlands was multiplied many times over in the lowlands. There, as we walked, we could at all times hear voices—the abrupt commands of peasants guiding donkeys to the proper spot in the fields for unloading their baskets of compost, the cries of shepherds warning their flocks away from the young wheat, the conversations of men hoeing their way down the parallel rows of fields cultivated by mutual aid, the laughter of women out hunting greens for their supper pot.
That is what one remembers most vividly about the Chinese countryside—the fact that one is never beyond the radius of human voices, that one is surrounded by people laboring and talking to their animals and to one another. Every square foot of ground shows the mark of labor, even if it be only the herding of sheep. Centuries of human effort have transformed, molded, built up and also to some extent torn down the landscape, and yet, so natural has been this process, so gradual its sculpture, that the works of man appear to be a part of nature. The two are united, bound together, inseparably intertwined. The land without the people cannot be imagined, nor the people without land.
Fanshen Page 48
