by Cheng Nien
“I’ll soon know, I suppose,” I said.
“Can one apply again if one gets rejected?” he asked.
“Please sit down and wait quietly. I don’t know whether one can apply again or not. You can ask when it’s your turn to go in,” I told him.
He sat down but fixed his eyes on the door to the inner room. When it opened, he jumped up. But I was called. Obviously he had come much ahead of his appointed time.
After I had closed the door and sat down, I laid the printed form I had received on the desk. The official said to me, “You have applied for a passport to go to the United States?”
“Yes.”
“What is the purpose of your trip?”
“To visit my sisters for a family reunion.”
“Do you intend to visit other countries?”
“Yes, on my way there, I’ll visit friends in Canada and Europe.”
“Do you know many people abroad?”
“A few friends here and there.”
He pulled open a drawer and took out the passport I had been waiting for. “Your application has been approved. Here is your passport. The People’s Government wishes to facilitate family reunion. You may go to see your sisters in the United States, and you may visit your friends elsewhere. When you see them, encourage them to come to China. Tell them about the new conditions here and how we are building socialism. Tell them in Taiwan to come back and visit. They will be allowed to come and go freely.”
“I don’t know anyone in Taiwan,” I said.
“Then tell your friends in Hong Kong to come and invest in joint ventures here. Encourage everybody to come and visit.”
I nodded and picked up the passport, glancing at the photograph to make sure the man had not made a mistake.
“When you arrive in the United States, report to our embassy and register,” he said.
“My sisters live in California. The embassy is not there,” I told him.
“Is there no Chinese office where you are going?” He seemed not to believe me.
“No, my sisters live in the country,” I said and left the room.
In his eagerness to come into the inner office, the young man collided with me in the doorway and nearly knocked me over.
My next job was to get a visa from the United States consulate general. To avoid having to line up outside the gate at an early hour of the morning, I paid a call on the local Chartered Bank manager, a Britisher interested in birdwatching. Taking the initiative to see a foreign resident was a bold move not lightly entertained by a Chinese not working for a foreign firm. It was after many days-of consideration that I ventured to the bank’s office on Yuanmingyuan Road. My late husband and I had banked with the Chartered Bank since the early forties, but we had dealt with its branches in Hong Kong and London. Nevertheless, we were not unknown to the succession of managers who had come to Shanghai. Before the Cultural Revolution, they had been guests at our home. The young British manager received me with surprise and welcome, saying that the bank’s officials in Hong Kong and London had been informed I had died during the Cultural Revolution. He also told me that my death had been recorded by the American correspondent Stanley Karnow in his book Mao and China, and by my former Yanjing schoolmate Han Suyin in one of her autobiographies.
I asked him to notify the bank in Hong Kong immediately that I was alive and well and to make an appointment for me with someone at the American consulate. He told me that several American officers of the consulate lived in his apartment building, set aside for foreign residents by the Chinese government, and that he would be glad to speak to them about my case.
Two days later I called at the American consulate general and was given a visa.
When Sir John Addis arrived in Shanghai early in August, I was able to tell him that I would definitely leave China in the autumn. We sat in easy chairs in the middle of the large, empty hotel lobby, in full view of the hotel clerk at the end of the room. Although he was really too far away to listen in to our conversation, I did not dwell on my imprisonment and my daughter’s death; rather I talked mainly about my rehabilitation and the memorial meeting for Meiping. When I told Sir John that my collection of porcelain had been returned and I had donated fifteen pieces to the Shanghai Museum, he asked if he might come to my apartment to see the pieces I had left. Because the official banquet for him was to take place next day at noon, I invited him to dinner at the East Wind Restaurant, formerly the Shanghai Club, a famous British institution with the “longest bar in the Orient.” I said, “I will see whether I can arrange for you to come to my apartment after dinner.”
“I would like to see how you have been living during the last few years,” John said.
When I told Lao Li that Sir John had arrived and that I had seen him, Lao Li asked, “Did you tell him everything that happened to you and your daughter?”
“He knows all about the Cultural Revolution already. He was stationed in Beijing himself, so I wouldn’t think it was a surprise to him to learn what happened to us,” I told him.
“Still, it’s somebody he knows personally,” Lao Li said.
“He has many Chinese friends, including Party officials, I believe. I think he knows China very well indeed.”
“Is he friendly to China?”
“Oh, yes, he is most friendly to China. Would he be invited back now if he weren’t?”
Lao Li visibly relaxed. To him, the Chinese government’s acceptance of Sir John as a friend made a great deal of difference.
“I’ve invited him to a dinner party at the East Wind Restaurant this evening. I’ve also invited the Chartered Bank manager and two Chinese friends to make up a party. Is that all right?” I asked him.
“Certainly, certainly, there must be a few other guests to show him due respect. He was an ambassador,” said Lao Li.
“I’m afraid he wants to come and see my porcelain after dinner. What shall I say to him?”
Poor Lao Li was taken aback. “Oh …” He wrinkled his brow, stroked his chin, and looked thoughtful. I knew he was thinking about those shacks.
“You know, Sir John was stationed in Nanjing and Beijing for many years. He must have seen worse sights than the shacks outside my door,” I reminded him.
“Yes, yes, you are right. In any case, you can’t very well refuse to let a friend come to your home. Bring him after dinner. What time would you be coming?” Lao Li asked.
“Maybe nine o’clock or a little later,” I told him.
When I brought John and the Chartered Bank manager to my apartment by taxi that night, I found the entire street cleared of people. No laundry was hanging outside the shacks, and no radios blared. The things that blocked our entrance had all been removed, and the sidewalk had been swept clean. When John stood on my balcony to look down at my garden, he commented on how peaceful and quiet the place was and said, “Your living conditions are much better than I had imagined.” I didn’t tell him that Lao Li had probably ordered the shack people to remain indoors and keep quiet for his benefit.
I have recorded John’s visit here mainly because I think Lao Li’s behavior rather interesting. While he controlled my life, he did not want to appear to do so. It was up to me to anticipate his wishes and act accordingly. All Chinese Party officials behave in exactly the same manner towards the people. But of course not all of them are so touchingly human as my policeman, who was basically a very kind individual.
After obtaining visas from the embassies of the countries I wanted to visit during my trip, I rented a house for two weeks on Moganshan, near Hangzhou, and went up the mountain for a retreat. In spite of all that had happened, I was sad to leave China, never to return. All Chinese have this feeling of attachment to our native country. No matter how far we travel or how long we are absent, eventually we want to return to die in China. “The fallen leaves return to the root,” we call it. But I had decided already that I would never come back. I would die elsewhere, in some country that would accept me. Now that my depart
ure was imminent, I felt terribly sad. I wanted to sort out the conflicting emotions in my mind through prayer and self-examination before embarking on a new chapter of my life.
When I returned to Shanghai, a farewell tea party was arranged for me by my Federation of Women study group. After our leader announced that I was about to go abroad to visit my sisters, I made a short speech, thanking the Federation of Women for giving me the opportunity of joining such a distinguished group of ladies for my political studies. I praised their intelligence, their patriotism, and their high degree of socialist consciousness and told them that I had greatly benefited from their example. Several other ladies spoke politely too, urging me to tell my relatives and friends abroad about the new situation in China and to encourage them to visit. Comrade He informed everybody that I had booked a passage on a steamer of the newly opened shipping line linking Shanghai and Hong Kong, and she invited a few ladies from our group to join her to see me off.
On September 20, 1980, I left Shanghai. Because private individuals without official passes were barred from the waterfront, only Comrade He and the five ladies from the study group came to see me off in their capacity as representatives of the Federation of Women. They picked me up in a small bus recently imported from Japan. There were very strict rules governing the amount of luggage and money a traveler could take out of the country; I had only one suitcase and one grip. In my handbag was twenty U.S. dollars’ worth of Hong Kong dollars, obtained through the Foreign Exchange Department of the Bank of China. My Chinese bank account and everything else, I had to leave behind.
A light rain was falling by the time we reached the wharf. In spite of Comrade He’s official pass, the ladies were not allowed to go into the passenger waiting room. I said goodbye to them in the rain, and they returned to the bus. They wished me a pleasant trip and a happy reunion with my sisters, but none of them mentioned anything about my coming back. I think they knew that I was unlikely to return to the city that held for me such tragic memories.
After a long wait, the customs office opened and the passengers filed in. My suitcase and grip were thoroughly searched by two customs officials. They also looked in my handbag and counted the Hong Kong bank notes. When they were done, I followed the others into a bus that took us to the ship, anchored some distance downstream.
When the bus stopped alongside the ship, the light rain had become a heavy downpour, accompanied by thunder and lightning. I had neither a raincoat nor an umbrella. Hastily I staggered up the slippery gangway, my luggage dripping with rainwater. The ship was an old steamer of British origin bought by the Chinese government and refitted for the Hong Kong–Shanghai run. My first-class single cabin had a small shower. I warmed myself with a shower and put on dry clothes. Then I went on deck to have a last look at Shanghai.
The ship had lifted anchor and was sailing upstream in order to turn around. Through the misty curtain of rain, I caught a glimpse of the Shell building and the window of my old office. Already the past was assuming an unreal, dreamlike quality. The ship was gathering speed, sailing down the remaining stretch of the Huangpu River. When we reached the Yangzi estuary, the storm was over and rays of sunshine were filtering through the thinning clouds.
Many times in my life I had sailed from Shanghai to go abroad, standing just as I did now on the deck of a ship, with the wind whipping my hair while I watched the coastline of China receding. Never had I felt so sad as I did at that moment. It was I who had brought Meiping back from Hong Kong in April 1949, in response to my husband’s request. The shocking tragedy of her death, I believed, was a direct consequence of our fatal decision to stay in our own country at that crucial moment of history. Therefore I felt guilty for being the one who was alive. I wished it were Meiping standing on the deck of this ship, going away to make a new life for herself. After all, it was the law of nature that the old should die first and the young should live on, not the other way around. Also I felt sad because I was leaving forever the country of my birth. It was a break so final that it was shattering. God knows how hard I tried to remain true to my country. But I failed utterly through no fault of my own.
Epilogue
MY REINTRODUCTION TO THE Western way of life took place on a jumbo jet when I traveled across the Pacific on a first-class ticket: a gift from Shell, my former employer.
It was early afternoon in Hong Kong when I boarded the plane. After we took off, an attractive stewardess with shining blond hair bent over me and asked, “Will you have a bloody Mary or a screwdriver?”
I must have looked puzzled, for the young man standing behind her said, “Perhaps you would rather have champagne?”
It was then I realized that a bloody Mary was merely a drink and a screwdriver in this case was not for tightening or loosening screws.
As I stammered a polite refusal, the smiling stewardess handed me a glass of plain orange juice.
I spent nearly a year visiting friends and relatives and trying to find somewhere to live. Canada was the first country to offer me a home. For two years, I lived in Ottawa, its beautiful capital. But the northern climate of long winters and strong winds proved too severe for my arthritic limbs. In 1983, 1 moved south to Washington, D.C., where the climate is rather like Shanghai’s. I bought a condominium and settled down. While I adjusted to my new life of freeway driving, supermarket shopping, and automated banking, I worked on my manuscript.
In Washington, I am free to do whatever I like with each day. I can travel anywhere without having to ask anyone for permission. Goods and services in abundance are available to me. Back doors in America lead only into people’s kitchens. When I am with others, I can speak candidly on any subject without having to consider whether my remarks are ideologically correct or worrying that someone might misinterpret what I have said. I have not found the equivalent of either Lu Ying of my Residents’ Committee or Lao Li, the policeman, in my new existence. In this atmosphere of freedom and relaxation, I feel a lightening of spirit, especially since I have completed this book. What I enjoy more than anything else is the wealth of information available in the form of books, magazine articles, and newspaper reports, and the various activities that bring me into the company of people who share my interests. I live a full and busy life. Only sometimes I feel a haunting sadness. At dusk, when the day is fading away and my physical energy is at a low ebb, I may find myself depressed and nostalgic. But next morning I invariably wake up with renewed optimism to welcome the day as another God-given opportunity for enlightenment and experience.
Writing about the death of my daughter and my own painful experience during the Cultural Revolution was traumatic. Often I had to put the manuscript away to regain my peace of mind. But I persisted in my effort. I felt a compulsion to speak out and let those who have the good fortune to live in freedom know what my life was like during those dark days in Maoist China. My many friends in England, Switzerland, France, Australia, Canada, and here in the United States encouraged me. I owe a special debt of gratitude to Peggy Durdin, a retired journalist and a dear friend of forty-five years. It was Peggy who first suggested that I put my experience down on paper, when I visited her and her husband Tillman in their beautiful home full of Oriental treasures in La Jolla, California, in the winter of 1980. Throughout the time I worked on my manuscript, she gave me useful advice and urged me on.
The expiration date on my Chinese passport has come and gone. I did not have my passport renewed. The United States Immigration and Naturalization Service has issued me a document to enable me to travel abroad. I hope in due course to become a citizen of this great nation of open spaces and warmhearted people where I have found a new life. The United States of America is the right place for me. Here are Jewish survivors of the Holocaust, persecuted dissidents from repressive regimes, boat people from Vietnam, and political refugees from tyranny. Among people like these, I do not feel alone. Since I settled in Washington, D.C., I have been accepted by the American people with unreserved friendliness. I have fou
nd old friends and made new ones. My only regret is that my daughter Meiping is not here with me.
Although I have decided to become a citizen of the United States, I continue to be concerned with the situation in China. I am heartened by the news that unprecedented economic progress has been made since the implementation of Deng Xiaoping’s new economic policy. Often I look back on the wasted years of the Mao Zedong era and the madness of the Cultural Revolution. I feel deeply saddened that so many innocent lives were needlessly sacrificed. I was glad when the Cultural Revolution was officially declared a national catastrophe, but I regret the Communist Party leadership’s inability or unwillingness to repudiate Mao’s policy in explicit terms.
From the point of view of the Chinese Communist Party, the greatest casualties of the Cultural Revolution were the Party’s prestige and its ability to govern. When Mao Zedong used the masses (the Red Guards and the Revolutionaries) to destroy the so-called capitalist-roaders in the Party leadership, he forced the Chinese people to witness and to take part in an ugly drama. The prolonged power struggle and the denunciations of one leader after another enabled the Chinese people to stumble upon the truth that the emperor had no clothes. When Mao Zedong died in 1976, the country was in a state of political disintegration. Obviously if the Party was to continue to govern, it must change course.
To the impoverished and disillusioned Chinese people, the promise of a Communist paradise in some distant future has become meaningless, and the timeworn revolutionary slogans seem vapid rather than inspiring. To rally the people and reawaken their enthusiasm, the Party now appeals to their patriotism. They are told to work for the modernization of China so that the country can regain her historical greatness and take her rightful place in the world. As reward, the Party promises the people an improved standard of living and no more political upheavals.
More than seven years have passed since Deng Xiaoping gathered the supreme power to rule China into his own hands and became the custodian of the fate of a quarter of the earth’s population. His new economic policy of “open door to the outside world and invigorating the economy internally” has been generally successful. Businessmen, technical experts, teachers, and tourists from abroad pour into China in a steady stream. Foreign investment in joint ventures has reached several billion U.S. dollars. According to the 1986 World Bank report on world development, “China shifted from a major importer of food grains in the 1970s to being a surplus producer in the 1980s.” There was a corresponding increase in cash crops, so that in most parts of rural China, where over 70 percent of the people live, the standard of living has dramatically improved. A number of hardworking and resourceful peasants have become “rich” by Chinese standards. Their two-story brick houses are replacing the traditional mud huts and changing the rural landscape of China. Since 1984, reform measures have also been implemented in the cities.
