by Cheng Nien
At the second plenum of the Central Committee, Hua Guofeng made two concessions. He agreed to the demand made by Ye Jianying and other members of the old guard to rehabilitate Deng Xiaoping and appoint him a vice-premier. And he promised that the Party and government would review all cases of victims of the Cultural Revolution.
I made many trips and wrote many petitions to the People’s Court, the Public Prosecutor’s Office, and the Public Security Bureau. This activity lasted the whole of 1977. Though the junior officials appointed to receive the public and hear their petitions at the Prosecutor’s Office listened with patience to my story, all they said to me each time was that I must write everything down and send in my report. There was no response from either the People’s Court or the Public Security Bureau. In short, I was getting nowhere at all. The crowds I had met waiting outside those places fared no better than I did.
In March 1978, a man from the Public Security Bureau came to see me, accompanied by Lao Li from my local police station.
After they were seated, the middle-aged man in a faded blue Mao suit leaned forward, looked at me earnestly, and, with a frown on his brow, said, “I’m from the Public Security Bureau. You have sent many letters and petitions to both the Public Security Bureau and the Prosecutor’s Office, haven’t you?”
“Yes, I’ve sent a few petitions,” I said.
“Not a few”—he shook his head—“a great many!” The frown on his brow deepened as he added, “Why did you have to write so often? Don’t you trust the People’s Government? Have you no patience at all?”
The man spoke to me irritably. Lao Li fixed his gaze on the floor. Neither of them touched the tea A-yi had brought them.
“It’s over eleven years since I was wrongfully arrested, and it is over ten years since my daughter was murdered. I think I have been very patient. I don’t mind telling you that while I trust the Communist Party and the People’s Government, my confidence in some individual officials who claim to represent the government has been severely shaken by my experience during the Cultural Revolution,” I said to him firmly.
“I have come here today to tell you to stop writing petitions. In due course your case will be reviewed, since it is the policy of the Party and government to review all cases of the Cultural Revolution.”
“How much longer will I have to wait?” I asked him.
“Do you know how many cases we have to deal with in Shanghai? Ten thousand people died unnaturally in this city. Their deaths were all related directly or indirectly to the Gang of Four and their followers. Many times that number were imprisoned. Many are still detained. Our first priority must be to examine these cases immediately and to release the innocent people. Then we will examine the cases of those who are out of prison and are still living, like yourself. After that we will come to the cases of those who are dead, like your daughter. There are many people working very hard to clarify all the cases. You must wait patiently. We’ll get to you and your daughter eventually.”
What he said seemed reasonable. I had not realized the magnitude of the problem facing the officials charged with reviewing the cases.
“It’s good of you to take time off to visit me today. I want to thank you and the government you represent. I must say your visit has somewhat restored my confidence. You are very different from the officials I have had to deal with during the past ten years.”
“Of course I’m different. I’ve only recently been rehabilitated myself,” the man said with a twist of his mouth that might have been a bitter smile.
“If you have experienced persecution yourself, you understand how I feel.”
“Of course I understand. But when you think of your own losses and suffering, try to think of the losses and suffering of others too. Think of the Party leaders who fought and sacrificed for the Revolution all their lives, such as Liu Shaoqi, Peng Dehuai, He Long, … and many others who died in tragic circumstances. And think of cadres like myself who joined the Party during the War of Resistance against Japan and worked hard for the Party without any consideration of personal gain. Because I did not fall in with the wishes of the Gang of Four, I was accused of having an anti-Party attitude and put in jail. Do you know that Mrs. Liu Shaoqi has only recently been released from prison? You must try to see the whole situation and put your own problems in perspective,” he told me.
I looked at this man seated in front of me and wondered what his true feeling for the Party was now. The cuffs of his faded blue cotton jacket were frayed, and his black cloth shoes were worn. His face was pale and thin. He had had a hard life; his appearance showed it. Dedicated lower-middle-ranking officials like this man were the foundation of the power of the Communist Party. When their faith in the Party was shaken, the Party could not govern effectively. No matter how correct or timely the policy decided upon by the Politburo in Beijing, its success or failure depended on officials like this man who implemented the policy.
“I’m grateful to you for coming. I shall not write any more petitions but will wait patiently for you to get in touch with me again,” I told him.
The man seemed pleased that he had accomplished his mission. When the two took their leave, I followed them to the front gate and saw the man from the Public Security Bureau get on his old rusty bicycle and ride away.
I was reassured by the official’s visit. It seemed my petitions had reached their destination and in due course I would be rehabilitated. At the same time, I also realized that I would be granted rehabilitation simply because the policy of the Party had changed. It had nothing to do with redressing injustice. In fact, in newspaper reports and in the documents concerning the review of cases, the word “justice” was never mentioned. When the Gang of Four was accused of committing crimes against the Party, the government, and the people, “crimes” referred not to their breaking the law but to their perverting the Party’s policy to further their own ambition. In Communist China, there was no law independent of Party policy.
A few months later, in the summer of 1978, eleven years after my daughter had been killed by the Revolutionaries, three members of the Shanghai Film Studio called on me.
“We have come on behalf of the newly reestablished Party Secretariat of the film studio to offer you our condolences for the death of your daughter and our fellow worker Cheng Meiping,” said the middle-aged man who introduced himself as the head of the personnel department.
The retired actress who had been Meiping’s teacher at the film school took my hands in hers and with tears in her eyes said, “All of us were terribly sad. We want you to know that we feel deeply for you.” The once famous actress, a graduate of Yanan’s Lu Xun Art Institute, looked at me as if a camera were on hand to record the scene. Although I had not met her until that moment, I knew that she was the wife of the assistant director of the Shanghai Film Studio.
The third person, a young man, introduced himself and said, “I was Meiping’s classmate at the film school. I have come on behalf of her former schoolfriends at the studio to express our sympathy.”
I invited them to be seated, and A-yi brought them tea. The director of personnel said to me, “Wang Kun here is on the committee to review all the cases of the film studio. We have had twenty-nine cases of death. Many others, including some of our foremost artists, were denounced as counterrevolutionaries and imprisoned. There is a lot of work to be done to review all these cases.”
“How did my daughter die? Who was responsible for her death? Do you know?” I asked all of them.
The young man named Wang Kun said, “We hope to get the cooperation of the Public Security Bureau to work on her case, because it involved people outside the film studio.”
“How long do you think the investigation will take?” I asked him.
“We are working very hard. Government policy is very clear. We must clarify every case, and where a mistake was made we must correct it,” Wang Kun said.
“Today we have come to convey to you the condolences of the film studio a
nd to tell you that we are concerned for you,” the wife of the assistant director said to me. “If you have financial difficulty, you are entitled to assistance by the film studio.”
I thought her offer of assistance so many years after my release from prison rather hypocritical, but I realized she had been instructed by the Party secretary to make it. I said politely, “Thank you very much. I have no difficulties at all.” Then I addressed all three of them. “I hope it will not be too long before you will be able to bring the killer of my daughter to justice.”
“The real culprit is the Gang of Four. We must direct our anger against them,” said the personnel director in the tone of voice all Chinese bureaucrats used when they were embarrassed.
“That’s true, of course. But the man who actually committed the murder must be brought to justice,” I said.
“According to our records, your daughter committed suicide. Until we find evidence to the contrary, we must not assume her death was due to any other cause.” The personnel director obviously did not want to hear me say my daughter was “murdered.”
Perhaps Wang Kun saw that I was getting angry, for he said quickly, “I would like to come and talk to you again very soon. When would it be convenient?”
“Any afternoon would be all right,” I told him.
They got up to leave. The wife of the assistant director again expressed her sadness at my daughter’s death. Either her emotion was genuine, or she was an extremely good actress; she made me cry with her.
Wang Kun came to see me several times. Gradually I came to realize he was trying to prepare me to accept the rehabilitation document the film studio had already drafted. From my point of view, this document was not satisfactory because it failed to state clearly how my daughter had died. While it no longer insisted on the verdict of suicide, it merely said that she “died as a result of persecution.” I was sure someone somewhere was trying to protect my daughter’s murderer. I fought for the clarification of this point with the film studio to no avail. Wang Kun merely told me that politics was a complicated matter and the time was not yet ripe to get to the bottom of many things.
While I was still arguing with the Shanghai Film Studio, representatives of the Public Security Bureau called on me again in October 1978. There were three of them, including the man who had come with Lao Li to tell me to stop writing petitions.
Pointing to his associates a short man of about fifty and a young woman, he said to me, “This is Director Han, and this is Xiao Li.”
“We have come on behalf of the People’s Government to apologize to you for the wrongful arrest and imprisonment you suffered during the Cultural Revolution. We also wish to extend you our condolences for the death of your daughter as a result of persecution,” said Director Han in an official manner.
I invited them to be seated. Xiao Li took out her notebook to transcribe our conversation, as all official visits had to be put on record.
“I appreciate your coming today. There is no need to apologize. I feel no resentment against the People’s Government. It was obvious to me that followers of the Gang of Four usurped the power of the government and put many innocent people, including myself, in prison. What I’m really concerned with is the fact that those responsible for my daughter’s death have not been brought to justice,” I said.
“You must trust the People’s Government and the Security Bureau,” the first man said.
“We have come today mainly to discuss your own rehabilitation,” Director Han said. “We have read the record of your interrogations at the Number One Detention House. You were very brave when you defended the late chairman of the People’s Republic, Liu Shaoqi. You spoke up for him when even veteran Party officials were too timid and afraid to speak up. You will be pleased to know that very soon Chairman Liu Shaoqi’s name will be completely cleared by a Politburo resolution.”
“I’m very glad the power to control the affairs of our country has once again returned to leaders who will pursue the correct line of Mao Zedong Thought,” I said diplomatically.
The first man took a sheet of paper from his bag and laid it on the table. “This is the draft of your rehabilitation document. We would like to hear your opinion and suggestions before making it official.”
The document gave my name, age, and other particulars before stating that my arrest on September 27, 1966, and subsequent detention was a mistake. Investigation by the committee charged with reviewing all cases of the Cultural Revolution had found me not guilty of any crime. Therefore, I must be rehabilitated according to the policy of the People’s Government. I told them that I found the wording satisfactory.
“This document will be made official and given to the Residents’ Committee. It will be read at one of their general meetings,” Director Han said.
“Soon you will hear from the committee in charge of frozen bank accounts. Your deposits will be returned to you with interest,” said the first man.
“I’ll just accept the original sum. Since the country is having economic difficulties, I would rather not accept the additional interest,” I told them.
“You will have to accept. It’s government policy,” Director Han said. Then he smiled and changed the subject. “Do you know I was rehabilitated and reinstated to my old job only a few months ago? I was imprisoned for three years. I didn’t get the special food you were given in the Number One Detention House, you know.”
“As I told you before, I feel no resentment about what happened to me. During the six and a half years I was at the Number One Detention House I had much time to study and to think. I have learned a great deal. But I do feel deeply disappointed that greater efforts have not been made by the Public Security Bureau to resolve the crime committed against my daughter and to bring the murderer to justice.”
I addressed the above remarks directly to Director Han. But he refused to be drawn into a discussion of my daughter’s case. He went on, “You were given very special consideration at the detention house, you know. The special food, the medical treatment, etc. If you had remained outside, perhaps you wouldn’t have survived the Cultural Revolution.”
It was really incredible, I thought, that this man could be trying to make me say I was grateful to the Party and the People’s Government for putting me in prison. All the bureaucrats of the Party seemed to have an insatiable appetite for hearing words of gratitude from the people, even when they knew those words could not have been sincere. It was as if they needed reassurance that even when things went very wrong there was something good about the system after all. Perhaps it would have been diplomatic if I had spoken as he hoped and agreed with him. But I had been too wounded by my suffering and by the death of my daughter to go that far. I remained silent.
For an awkward moment, he waited for me to speak. Finally they took their leave.
I accompanied them to the front gate. As I opened it, I said to them all, “I would like to thank you again for coming today. I will wait for you to notify me when my rehabilitation document is finalized. And I would like to repeat my request that those responsible for my daughter’s death be brought to justice.”
In November 1978, twelve years and two months after my arrest, I was officially rehabilitated and declared a victim of wrongful arrest and persecution. The rehabilitation document was read at a meeting of the Residents’ Committee. Then I was given back my bank deposits. Soon after that, the Shanghai Film Studio held a series of memorial meetings for the twenty-nine members of their staff who had died from persecution. Except for my daughter, the others were nearly all old artists who had known Jiang Qing during the thirties when she was a struggling actress in Shanghai. Among them were film directors who had refused to cast Jiang Qing in parts she coveted, actresses more talented and successful than she, and men with whom she had had love affairs.
The memorial meeting for Meiping, held at Longhua Crematorium, was attended by over two hundred of her friends and fellow artists, as well as representatives from the Shanghai Cul
tural Affairs Department and the Bureau of Motion Pictures. These two organizations and the film studio also sent wreaths in the name of the directors and the organizations. Kong and other schoolfriends of Meiping’s decorated the hall. Although the growing of fresh flowers had only recently been revived in the rural areas around Shanghai, they managed to get enough to fill the front part of the hall, where an enlarged photograph of Meiping in a heavy black frame was placed. The rest of the hall was filled with evergreens and wreaths made of paper flowers.
The ceremony was simple and dignified. Meiping’s teacher, the wife of the assistant director of the film studio, made the memorial speech, in which she recounted the story of Meiping’s short life of twenty-four years, emphasizing the fact that Meiping had received many citations for outstanding achievement and service to other people. The veteran actress delivered the speech with feeling and sincerity, and she moved the audience to tears. The sound of sobbing could be heard throughout the proceedings, and at times it drowned the mourning music played on a tape in the background. At the end of her speech, led by the officials, everybody came up to bow to Meiping’s photograph and to shake hands with me to express personal regret at Meiping’s death.
Soon it was all over. Kong accompanied me home in the same car the film studio had sent to pick me up. Even as we were leaving, the organization that was to use the hall after us was already there unloading wreaths from a truck. Kong told me that all the auditoriums at the crematorium had been booked well into 1980. To accommodate as many memorial meetings as possible in the course of one day, two hours were allowed for each organization using the hall. In the following year, with more and more cases being clarified and more and more deceased being rehabilitated, it became necessary to combine memorial meetings for several members of the same organization.
Kong carried Meiping’s photograph upstairs into my room and took his leave. A-yi brought me a cup of tea. I told her to go home, as I wanted to be alone.
That night, I could not sleep. Lying in the darkened room, I remembered the years that had gone by, and I saw my daughter in various stages of her growth from a chubby-cheeked baby in Canberra, Australia, to a beautiful young woman in Shanghai. I felt defeated because I could do nothing to overcome the obstacles that prevented the complete clarification of her case. I blamed myself for her death because I had brought her back to Shanghai from Hong Kong in 1949. How could I have failed to see the true nature of the Communist regime when I had read so many books on the Soviet Union under Stalin? I asked myself.
