Chiang had chosen the setting with an agenda in mind. A few days from now, Harriman would be in the Oval Office resigning his post and giving valedictory counsel to the president. If Marshall was not doing enough to educate Washington on Communist perfidy, perhaps, with the right cultivation, Harriman would.
A banker-turned-statesman with the inborn assurance of a first-born heir, Harriman brought an intimate view of Soviet foreign relations. He had been at Roosevelt’s side at Yalta the year before, extracting the Soviet promise to attack Japan’s troops in Manchuria. He had been in the wings for negotiations over the Sino-Soviet Treaty, stepping in to back up the Chinese when Kremlin demands became excessive. He had spent hours face-to-face with Stalin. In a farewell meeting, when the topic of the CCP came up, Stalin remarked that it was “stupid” to think China was ready for “Sovietization.” If the Nationalists moved toward democracy, everything would be fine.
Harriman had heard such assurances for years. Lately he had become more skeptical, influenced by his deputy, George Kennan. “USSR seeks predominant influence in China,” Kennan had written a few weeks earlier in a memo Harriman sent along to Chongqing. Whatever the talk of democracy and cooperation, Moscow would be satisfied only with “influence eventually amounting to effective control.”
Chiang arranged a welcome banquet at his country house, but first saw Harriman and Marshall over tea. Marshall’s recent political intervention had triggered a torrent of bitterness. “Both his thoughts and ideology are influenced by the Russians,” Chiang seethed in his diary. “Marshall’s proposals to cease political and military conflicts are ten times more dangerous and absurd than those of the Communists.” So now, with Harriman, Chiang was pleased when discussion turned quickly to Soviet ambitions in China. It was a chance to remind the Americans that Moscow and Yenan should be treated as a single—and shared—threat. Harriman seemed to share his doubts about Communist cooperation.
But when they entered the dining room, late for dinner, Chiang appeared tense. Eighteen guests were waiting, a fire burning, cherry blossoms on the table and calligraphed scrolls on the walls. He worried he had said too much, perhaps overplayed his hand. More important, he was increasingly concerned about Manchuria, and Harriman had not entirely consoled him.
On the same day that the United States dropped an atomic bomb on Nagasaki, eleven Soviet armies had, as Stalin promised at Yalta, surprised the Japanese during a rainstorm and swept into China’s northeast. Ever since, the withdrawal of 300,000 Soviet troops from Manchuria had been repeatedly pledged and repeatedly postponed. At first, the delays came at Chiang’s request: he wanted more time to get troops in position to take over. A week before Harriman’s arrival, Moscow announced another delay—this one without consulting Chiang. The stated reason was weather. But it came in the context of mounting protest, Chinese and American, over the Red Army’s seizure of “war booty” in Manchuria. The message was clear: if Chiang challenged the Kremlin, there would be consequences.
For all the geopolitical intricacy, Soviet conduct in Manchuria was, at bottom, old-fashioned pillage and plunder. Had world revolution been the priority, the Soviets would have ceded Japanese-built industrial infrastructure to the CCP, in service of China’s own revolution. Instead, they took everything they could. Factories, power plants, and railways were dismantled, lashed onto trucks and tanks, and carted into Siberia. Even Chinese Communists were appalled—by the greed, by the inability to distinguish between Japanese foes and Chinese friends, by the “capacity to drink.” Stalin was unapologetic: a conquering army was due its “trophies.”
The predation hinted at the true Soviet objectives in Manchuria. What Stalin wanted above all was domination, the commanding position Tsarist Russia had before the humiliation of the Russo-Japanese War. Domination meant economic privileges and a warm-water port, but also, most important, security. Despite victory in World War II, Stalin was still “trembling inside,” as those around him could see. He was afraid of Manchuria becoming a launching pad for an invasion of Russia’s vast, vulnerable east. He was afraid of it becoming a “showcase for the economic and political influence of another great power.” And he was afraid of it becoming a bastion of American military might—which, he informed Nationalist envoys, he could never accept.
That was where the Communists came in. Stalin told them bluntly that they could not win a war for control of China. But he did not need them to win. He needed them to survive. As long as they remained a threat, on the ground in Manchuria or in the chambers of a coalition government, they gave him leverage over the Nationalists—a blade he could hold to Chiang’s neck. His warnings to Chongqing were pointed: he would not tolerate an attempt to eradicate the CCP in Manchuria. But so were his warnings to Yenan: when he deemed cooperation with Chiang advantageous, they must cooperate. He would not let the CCP be destroyed, but nor would he let it provoke American intervention.
Chiang had a sense of Stalin’s approach. He had been playing his own double game, also attempting to use barbarian to check barbarian. He wanted to secure as much U.S. support as possible without spooking Moscow, and to placate Moscow without angering Washington. To that end, he had offered Stalin a lot: control of Manchurian railways, rights to Manchurian ports, broad commercial advantages. After Marshall’s arrival in Chongqing, Chiang had even sent his son to Moscow with additional promises: he would not “liquidate” the Communists, the Soviets would get their “dominant position,” American troops would never be allowed in Manchuria. But recently, Chiang’s hopes of simultaneously securing Moscow’s support and Washington’s friendship had started to recede. The Kremlin’s price was turning out to be far higher than he was willing or able to pay. The Red Army’s continued presence in Manchuria sent an ominous signal of the consequences.
When Marshall, Harriman, and Chiang met again the following night, Manchuria figured prominently. Harriman had a strong and personal interest. Thirty years earlier, his magnate father had tried, and failed, to acquire the South Manchuria Railroad from the Russian government. (A distant cousin of George Kennan, also a Soviet specialist and also named George Kennan, had written a monograph on the episode called E. H. Harriman’s Far Eastern Plans.) Harriman was primed to hear Chiang’s description of Soviet conduct in Manchuria and come away indignant. It was “a case of vandalism and theft,” he said, a threat to “the whole policy of the Open Door.” America could not “acquiesce.”
Before they parted at midnight, Chiang gave Harriman a message for Truman. He hoped Marshall would stay in China for some time, even once an agreement was struck. It might all come apart otherwise. “He thought there was a chance of success,” Harriman recorded, “if General Marshall remained.” Afterward, Marshall added a cautionary message of his own: progress so far was extremely fragile.
Harriman left the next morning, eager to reach Washington and raise the alarm on the Soviets in Manchuria. On the way, he stopped in Shanghai and saw Wedemeyer. After their conversation, Wedemeyer decided he had better reread Das Kapital.
But in Yenan that same day, the Communists were choosing a different path. As political talks approached a conclusion, eased along by Marshall’s democratic designs, Zhou had gone to confer with his comrades. After greeting a smiling Mao on the rocky Yenan airstrip, he outlined the PCC proposals. The five top Communist leaders—Mao, Zhou, Zhu De, Liu Shaoqi, and Ren Bishi—came to a quick decision: accept them all. Peace was truly possible, Mao said. Others wondered which of them should join Chiang’s government. Zhou thought he might make a good minister of agriculture and forestry.
After landing back in Chongqing late on January 30, Zhou was in Marshall’s living room first thing the next morning to deliver the news. “The door toward democracy is now pushed open,” he said. “The conditions necessary to the introduction of socialism do not exist.” The Communists would follow “the American path”—“U.S.-styled democracy and science,” “free enterprise,” “agricultural reform,” “industrialization,” “the development
of individuality.” They were “prepared to cooperate with the United States in matters both of a local and national character”—a signal, some of Marshall’s aides thought, that the CCP was choosing Washington over Moscow. Zhou also shared an anecdote. Mao, when asked if he was going to visit the Soviet Union, had laughed and replied he would rather visit the United States, where he could “learn a lot of things useful to China.”
Before leaving, Zhou handed Marshall a letter. “I greatly appreciate your fair and just attitude in the course of negotiating and implementing the truce agreement,” it read. “On behalf of the Central Committee of the Chinese Communist Party, I wish to extend you our deepest thanks.” It was signed by Mao.
Later that day, the PCC finalized the agreements. “All meaningless political strife can from now on be thoroughly eliminated,” Chiang proclaimed at the close of three weeks of debate. “Our important problem today is how to safeguard unity and how to establish a democratic system.” The PCC resolutions were full of venerable democratic principles and hopeful democratic plans—“a charter for the development of a democratic nation,” the press said. All parties would be legalized, all armies nationalized. In May, a National Assembly would ratify a constitution enshrining basic rights. Until then, Chiang’s government would be run by a State Council, half the seats controlled by Nationalists, half split among other groups, while local governments remained as they were until elections. Some analysts thought the Communists had “achieved big political gains,” as the New York Times’ Tillman Durdin wrote. But in Marshall’s view, a key outcome was to the Nationalists’ advantage: recognition of the “national leadership of President Chiang Kai-shek.”
The political agreement was promptly hailed as a second great step toward peace, with Marshall again due a share of the credit—though just how large a share was known only to him and Chiang. Students cheered at the mention of Marshall’s name, calling him “a true and great friend of the Chinese.” An Executive Headquarters spokesman announced that “there is no longer any doubt that both parties want peace and will do everything within their power to attain it.” Walter Lippmann published a laudatory column: “It would have been only too easy to drift, and to be pushed and pulled, into a horrible mess. . . . It is not, I think, too soon to say that we have prevented it.”
Even Chiang allowed himself some optimism. He detected a drastic change in Zhou’s attitude and genuine support for cooperation. And Marshall, Chiang wrote in his diary, was starting to see the Communists for what they were. He added a few days later, “Marshall and I are bonding.” In public, Chiang said he might retire once the government was reorganized and armies combined: “I shall have finished my responsibility.” Americans called him China’s George Washington.
Chiang might have been even more heartened had he seen the orders issued by Yenan. A directive on “the current situation and its tasks” went to party members across China: “The Chinese revolution has now shifted from a phase of armed struggle to one of peaceful mass and parliamentary struggle.” A series of dictates followed: “domestic issues should be settled politically”; “the party will no longer issue direct orders to the army.” Failure to adapt to the “peaceful new democratic stage” was classified as a revolutionary sin: closed-doorism. Yenan stressed that Marshall “not only represents the United States, in fact, he is the representative [of the international community] to carry out the agreement of the Moscow Conference.”
Communist officials ordered cadres to brush up on their politics, since “all of the party’s activities must be suited to this new stage.” They were to cooperate with Chiang and other relatively moderate Nationalists to “isolate” hard-line factions, such as the CC Clique. They were to advocate popular reforms, at which “our party should be relatively more skilled than the KMT.” Mao himself sent instructions to his commanders in Manchuria, emphasizing that “a policy of civil war” would mean “failure.”
In Yenan, Mao gave his first interview in months. “China has stepped into a stage of democracy,” he offered buoyantly to an Associated Press reporter. “Marshall has made an indelible contribution.” Liu Shaoqi tracked down a Dixie Mission officer and spent two hours expounding on the Communists’ commitment to peace. “The main task is drafting the constitution through which a parliamentary and cabinet system of government akin to that of the United States and Great Britain will be adopted,” he explained. The CCP started making plans to close its revolutionary headquarters and set up shop in a major city, though Mao hoped it would not be anywhere too hot.
Seeing all of this unfold, Marshall radioed Washington. He needed a message in Harriman’s hands urgently: the cautionary note he had wanted conveyed to the president was no longer necessary. Things were going well. Marshall was aware that, as Melby put it to him, “so far it is only words, words, words.” But, Marshall wrote, “I do not now see any heavy storm clouds on the horizon.”
February 2 was Chinese New Year, the Year of the Rooster (signifying exorcism of evil spirits) giving way to the Year of the Dog (signifying coming good fortune). There was jubilation in Chongqing, sounded out by firecrackers and gongs. The skies were clearing after days of rain. A note arrived for Marshall from Truman: “It looks as if the Chinese program is working out exactly as planned. Thanks to you.”
Meanwhile, Katherine had been saying a “daily prayer”: that her husband would manage to “bring some sort of unity out of chaos and come home.”
On February 11, hopes still running high, there was a burst of outrage in Chongqing. One year after Roosevelt, Churchill, and Stalin signed the Yalta Agreement, the text of it was released. As many had suspected but those few in the know denied, it included—along with understandings on Germany, Eastern Europe, and the United Nations—a secret protocol on Asia.
When struck, the secret deal had seemed straightforward. After Germany’s defeat, Stalin would be able to do what he wanted, when he wanted, in Manchuria. Better, Washington figured, to persuade him to invade in time to help against Japan, and with attendant promises to support Chiang, rather than let him wait until it was no longer militarily useful or carve off a Soviet-backed People’s Republic of Manchuria. In exchange, Stalin wanted “preeminent interests” and a naval base in Manchuria, along with independence for Outer Mongolia (which had been part of imperial China). It was a small price to pay, the Americans reasoned. Marshall, at Yalta but not centrally involved, had given his military assessment that a timely Soviet attack would have significant value, measurable in American lives. The secrecy also seemed straightforward. The attack was unlikely to stay a surprise if the Chinese government, or the U.S. Congress, knew in advance. Stalin did not tell Mao either.
As Chiang came to realize what Yalta gave away, he despaired: “American diplomacy has no center, no policy, no morals.” But he also saw the logic. Although ceding Outer Mongolia was a “maximum sacrifice” and Soviet influence in Manchuria “an ache in the joints,” the concessions might allay a greater threat from the Communist “disease of the heart.”
Yet what looked like a sensible trade-off in the heat of battle could look like an indefensible sellout in the light of victory. That was especially true as it became clear that Yalta had not sated Soviet appetites: demands for economic concessions and “war booty” continued. When the secret deal became public, angry Chinese took to the streets.
In Chongqing, 10,000 students marched for full restoration of sovereignty in Manchuria, shouting “Down with imperialism!” as they passed the Soviet embassy. They held signs: “The USSR = Germany + Japan,” “Stalin = Hitler + Hirohito.” Mobs split off and ransacked the offices of two newspapers, one published by the CCP, the other by a liberal party, the Democratic League, sending staffers to the hospital. It soon emerged that Nationalist toughs had spearheaded the violence, with Chen Li-fu operating somewhere behind the scenes.
Marshall went into unusual detail when updating Truman. “I feel that it not only involves me in matters beyond my mission but is perhaps more dan
gerous to world accord than any other present issue,” he explained. “It is clear to me that the survival of much of what has been accomplished this past month will depend to an important degree on an early disposition of the festering situation in Manchuria.” But if escalating tensions were a threat to the success of his mission, the success of his mission would be the best way to address the tensions. “China must proceed with her projected unification at the fastest possible pace,” he wrote, “so as to eliminate her present vulnerability to Soviet undercover attack, which exists so long as there remains a separate Communist Government and a separate Communist Army in China.”
So it was with added urgency that Marshall turned to his next task. He had secured a cease-fire. With his quiet help, the PCC had laid a path to democracy. Now it was up to his new Committee of Three to make two enemy armies one.
Marshall’s fellow members arrived at Happiness Gardens before lunch on February 11—perhaps inauspiciously, the day the Yalta text became public. But the sun was out, plum trees were blooming, and Marshall was feeling confident about what he had seen as the hardest problem of all. “Things today,” he said while preparing, “give some indication that the Nationalization of the Army—integration and demobilization—will not be too difficult.” Zhou was joined by a new Nationalist representative, General Chang Chih-chung, instead of Chang Chun, and they knew each other well. Both taught at the Whampoa military academy in the 1920s, and General Chang had recently been Chiang’s envoy to Yenan. He had an aptitude for both intrigue and conciliation, and a fondness for corny quips. Marshall, he said, was like a matchmaker in a marriage.
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