Anthony Grey

by Peking- A Novel of China's Revolution- 1921-1978 (epub)

  Uneasy thoughts of this kind were still drifting through Jakob’s mind on a twilit evening in the first week of July as the men and animals of the General Headquarters column toiled down from another high, snow-covered pass and he saw with amazement ahead of them a vast and ancient stone fortress. A spectacular, multi-tiered tower adorned with columned balconies and curved roofs rose above it and the fading rays of the sun illuminated the clusters of wooden pillars lacquered in red, black, and gold. Precious gems seemed to sparkle around the bases of the pillars and as they drew nearer, Jakob saw that the great stone bulk of the fortress, built at the foot of a tall crag, was about four stories high. Its high walls were crenellated to provide emplacements for cannon and there were slits in the stonework through which defenders of long ago had been able to fire arrows. Mounted messengers trotting back along the column called out excitedly to the soldiers, telling them of the treasures that lay in the great tower of Chokechi, which for centuries had been the yamen and fortress of the great Tibetan chieftain of the region.

  “The tower has seven stories — all with shrines to Buddha ornamented in gold and silver and jade! . . . There are silken couches on every balcony! . . . Fifteen marble reception rooms have huge woven tapestries covering the walls . . . A library contains ten thousand Chinese and Tibetan books and scrolls . .

  As it drew nearer, the marching column began to buzz with other scraps of information: the stone chambers and courts of the fortress were big enough to house six thousand men, and bonfires were being lit, so there would be warm, dry quarters for all. Streams that flowed beneath its walls formed a moat of crystal-clear drinking water; massive storehouses for grain, flour, salt, spices, sugar, beans, and oil took up two stories; the stables could house several hundred horses. There were ten slaughterhouses and twenty pits for roasting whole carcasses of sheep, goats, and yak. The resident chieftain had fled hurriedly on Kuomintang instructions, taking away as many supplies as he could carry — but there was food, enough for a night or two for most of the troops!

  By the time Jakob’s guards led his roan mare into the main courtyard beneath the tower, darkness had fallen and the ancient stonework was bathed in the orange glow of many bonfires. Red Army men milled in crowds around two glowing pits over which dripping carcasses of yak were turning on spits. As Jakob was about to dismount, the throng parted to allow a small group of armed guards to approach; they were led by an energetic, quick-striding officer who reached out and took the bridle of Jakob’s mare. When the officer raised his head to address Jakob, the missionary found himself looking into a familiar face. It was leaner, four years older, and much roughened by exposure to all weathers, but the brisk, confident gaze, the strong features, and the neatly clipped moustache without doubt belonged to the young Chinese he had met with Mei-ling at the end of his voyage on the Tomeko Maru.

  “Jakob Kellner” said the officer crisply. “I am Regimental Commander Lu Chiao. Please dismount.”

  Chiao, who had spoken in English, studied the missionary carefully as he got down from the horse. His long-gown was torn and muddied beneath his fraying palm-fiber cape and he wore only ts’ao hsieh on his still-swollen feet; his blond hair and beard were matted and uncombed, and the marks of his ordeal were plainly visible in his gaunt, strained face. But in his eyes there remained a calm, self- possessed expression reminiscent of the eager novice missionary who had led the hymn singing during the typhoon.

  “I think perhaps we met once, Commander Lu,” said Jakob slowly. “On board a ship.”

  Chiao nodded formally. “Yes, I believe that is so. For the present, Commissioner Chou En-lai has asked me to inform you that a review of your case is being undertaken. Please follow me.”

  Flanked by the escort, Jakob followed Chiao across the courtyard toward a third roasting pit that was surrounded by a dense crowd. There Jakob was shocked to see that instead of a skinned yak carcass, the writhing body of a Chinese man, stripped to the waist, had been suspended horizontally by ropes from the framework of beams above the pit. A few glowing coals cast a red glow on the underside of the man’s body but his life was more immediately threatened by two long prayer-pennant poles which had been embedded in the pit bottom, their tips shaved to a needle sharpness. One spike touched the man’s chest an inch from his heart and the other brushed his groin. By straining his muscles, the sweating victim was holding himself clear of the spikes, but his own weight threatened constantly to impale him on them.

  “It’s possible you may recognize this man,” said Chiao quietly and motioned Jakob forward to the head of the pit.

  One of the guards seized the suspended man by the hair and jerked back his head. This exposed his face, and although it was contorted with fear and pain, the sight of the man’s brutal peasant features transported Jakob in an instant to the hillside outside the walled town of Paoshan. The missionary had last looked into those narrowed eyes as the squat southern executioner casually wiped the bloodstained blade of his long sword on Felicity’s shabby dress; then he had beckoned with the sword tip for Jakob’s guard to march him over to the execution block. Those same dark eyes, now dilated with tear, held Jakob’s gaze for a chilling moment, until the missionary felt a sudden furious surge of anger tighten his chest. His breathing quickened as he struggled to reconcile the agony of the confrontation at Paoshan with the sight of the man hanging helplessly before him over the wickedly pointed stakes.

  “You recognize him then, Mr. Kellner?”

  Chiao’s voice made the missionary start. The turmoil of emotions he was experiencing showed clearly in Jakob’s face and he nodded mutely in the officer’s direction.

  “You’re perhaps surprised to find your wife’s executioner in this position,” said Chiao quietly. “So I should explain that our investigations have led us to believe that this man is a Kuomintang spy. He tricked his way into our ranks on the road to Paoshan and endeavored to ingratiate himself by his readiness to carry out executions. We believe he deliberately planted agitators in the crowd at Paoshan to lead demands for the death sentence, so that he might prove his spurious ‘loyalty’! It’s not our habit to inflict this kind of treatment on prisoners but we believe this man tortured many Communist suspects for the Kuomintang in precisely this fashion. Stretching men under interrogation over growing bamboo spikes is one of China’s oldest methods of torment. This is merely an approximation. . .

  Jakob turned to look at Felicity’s executioner again. He had been suspended facedown over the pit with great precision: ropes tied to his wrists and ankles left his trembling body resting lightly against the lethal points of the stakes and the rope ends had been fastened in notched pulleys that allowed the guards to lower him inch by inch at will. His shuddering body was bathed in perspiration from the effort he was making to hold himself clear of the spikes, but his chest had already been grazed and a small trickle of blood was running down the freshly whittled point of the pennant pole pointing at his heart.

  “This new information emerged in our review of your case, Mr. Kellner. As there’s reason to doubt the legality of the sentence of death passed on you, further consideration will be given to showing leniency and imposing a more appropriate penalty. In escaping from our custody you broke the laws of the Central Soviet — but if your headquarters show themselves willing to pay a reduced fine it might become possible to recommend that you be released at a later date . .

  Jakob tried to concentrate oil Chiao’s words, wondering how much truth there was in them, but he found himself unable to take his eyes from the man hanging above the pit.

  Meantime we offer you the opportunity to give us your opinion on what fate you think would be appropriate for ‘Executioner Wang.’ No final decision has been reached yet — but if you wished to sever the ropes holding him so that the spikes can do their work, we shall have no objection

  Looking around, Jakob saw that one of the guards had drawn a broadsword and was holding it toward him. The breath of the executioner was rasping noisily in his
throat as he struggled to hold himself clear of the spikes, and hearing this, Jakob made up his mind. Snatching the sword from the guard’s hand, he advanced quickly to the rim of the pit. The executioner swiveled his head fearfully when Jakob swung the sword in an arc, and the missionary saw the southerner’s eyes close. The next moment both wooden spikes, severed near the base by the same stroke, flew free into the darkness and Jakob used the sword to hack quickly through each of the four ropes binding the executioner’s wrists and ankles. Supporting him beneath the shoulders, he helped lower the trembling man to the ground, where he collapsed into an exhausted crouch. All around the pit the crowd of soldiers had fallen silent; they watched without moving as Jakob returned the sword wordlessly to its owner.

  “Why do you choose to free the man who beheaded your wife?” asked Chiao.

  “I’ve seen too many terrible acts committed for reasons of hatred since I became your prisoner.” Jakob spoke in an unsteady voice, struggling to control his own breathing. “I came to China to proclaim the truth that God loves all men. Nothing lasting will be achieved by hatred and killing. Whatever the facts are behind all this, we must learn to forgive one another.”

  He glanced down at the executioner, who remained hunched on the ground by the roasting pit: in the light of the fires his eyes were still glazed with shock and he was shuddering uncontrollably. Clasping his hands in front of him, Jakob bent his head and said a silent prayer. When he looked up again, guards were pulling the executioner to his feet and Chiao was standing at his side. “Please deal leniently with him,” said Jakob firmly, “no matter what he’s done.”

  From above a sharp cry of command rang out, and Jakob saw that colored glass lanterns had been lit on sonic of the terraces rising above the fortress . Against the starlit blackness of the heavens the softly illuminated tower of Chokechi, with its lacquered pillars and richly decorated pediments, looked like a historical fantasy conjured from the pages of an ancient adventure story. On one of the higher balconies the figure of a tall man was visible in silhouette, looking down into the courtyard, and as Jakob and Chiao watched, he leaned over the balustrade and beckoned. Chiao immediately took Jakob by the arm and guided him away from the roasting pit.

  “Commissar Mao wishes to speak with you,” said the Chinese officer, hurrying Jakob through the crowd of soldiers toward the tower’s first terrace. “You must be prepared to explain your actions.”

  12

  The real missionaries in China today are the men all around you with red stars in their caps. They are the real prophets.”

  In the flickering light of a rapeseed oil lamp the long, gaunt face of Mao Tse-tung glowed like the brass visage of a Buddha that Jakob had glimpsed in a shrine on one of the tower’s lower balconies. Although the lofty sleeping chamber was richly furnished with a huge bed of polished teak as its centerpiece, a frayed hammock had been slung between two urn-wood pillars and Mao lay motionless in it, his hands clasped on his chest.

  “In nine months we’ve marched through Kiangsi, Kwangtung, Hunan, Kwangsi, Kweichow, Yunnan, Sikang, and Szechuan. More than two hundred million Chinese live in those provinces. Most of them are poor, landless peasants. Most of them are illiterate. In every village we’ve passed we have taught three characters: Fen T’ien Ti — ‘Divide Up Land’! That is our simple scripture, and those three characters are changing the lives of all who learn to read and write them.”

  High in the tower Jakob had been surprised to find that the noises from the courtyard were no more than a distant murmur. Colored glass windows decorated with filigree divided the chamber from the balcony, and although the soft, rounded consonants of Mao’s southern accent gave his speech a sibilant quality, Jakob had no difficulty in following what he said. Having conducted Jakob into Mao’s presence Liu Chiao had unobtrusively retired: outside the door an armed bodyguard with a Mauser machine pistol in his belt remained visibly on watch, but otherwise nobody disturbed the peaceful quiet of the sumptuous sleeping chamber.

  “What have foreign missions achieved in comparison? Eight thousand missionaries have been working in China for the last hundred years. They now lay claim to eight hundred thousand converts to Christianity — that’s only one convert per missionary per year. And you know that most of those are rice Christians, who pretend to believe in order to ensure that their bellies are filled. Doesn’t that prove the futility of your task?”

  Mao turned his head an inch or two to look at the missionary. It was the first movement he had made and Jakob became suddenly aware of the quiet, still force in the man before him. The oil lamp sputtering on a lacquered antique desk beside the hammock illuminated a high scholar’s brow, a shock of tousled hair, still blue- black although Mao was in his early forties, and intent eyes that looked overlarge in dark, hollowed sockets. He was unshaven and his faded tunic of crumpled gray cotton was unbuttoned at the neck, but despite his disheveled appearance, the reclining Chinese radiated an aura of vitality and inner strength. The desk beside him, on which a field telephone was rigged, was covered with reports and radio messages. Scattered on the teak bed and carved tables placed around the room were meager belongings similar to those carried by ordinary soldiers: two rough blankets, an oilcloth, a cotton sheet, a worn overcoat and cap, a broken umbrella. A knapsack divided into half a dozen compartments had fallen from a stool and from it spilled maps, faded yellow newspapers, and a few books, among them the Chinese classics The Water Margin and The Romance of the Three Kingdoms.

  “We’ve always known our task in China would not be completed quickly or easily,” said Jakob hesitantly. “That doesn’t dismay us. We hope to sow seeds that will one day grow into a strong Christian church quite independent of foreign missionaries.”

  Mao’s coal black eyes narrowed as he subjected Jakob to closer scrutiny. “You’ve marched a long way with the Red Army. You’ve seen who really champions the poor and the exploited. They can’t wait forever.”

  “I’ve marched a long way and seen a great many poor men killed,” replied Jakob, “in the Red Army and among the Kuomintang forces.”

  “Making a revolution isn’t like a dinner party it can’t be refined and delicate. It’s an act of violence: one class is rising up to overthrow another!” The voice that had been soft and sibilant at first had taken on resonance and depth, and Mao’s big eyes grew suddenly brighter. “Some deaths are unavoidable — a surgeon sometimes has to amputate a man’s limb in order to save his life!”

  “It will never be enough just to change external things.” Jakob, seated in an elaborately carved chair beside the desk, looked steadily back at the Chinese leader. “You may redistribute the land to the poor and needy but your Communist revolution fosters hatred. Even if it succeeds, men will remain selfish and deceitful. To live in harmony and peace, the hearts of men must change within them. Truth, freedom, and justice can’t exist without divine salvation — that’s why European missionaries have come to China.”

  Mao sank thoughtfully back into the hammock, peering toward the ceiling. Fumbling in a pocket of his jacket he withdrew a bent, handmade cigarette, lit it, and inhaled noisily. When he spoke, his tone had become quiet and reflective once more. “Missionaries have always followed the imperialist armies — that is the truth of the matter. In China people know that missionaries always arrive after military defeats. They set themselves up in grand houses with many servants, like rich landlords, which makes the people suspicious of them. Holy men according to Chinese traditions are always very poor and own nothing — if they are genuine. You missionaries also set up schools but most of the students you attract are opportunists who wish to exploit the system for their own ends.” Mao paused, sucked noisily on the crumpled cigarette once more, then laughed. “Even Commissioner Chou En-lai, who is reviewing your case, was fortunate enough to be educated in a foreign missionary school. The Communist Party of China is very grateful.”

  Swinging his legs to the floor, he stood up. On his feet, he wore black cotton slippers, and w
alking softly to the window, he stared down into the fire-lit courtyard, his face serious again. In silhouette against the glass his burly shoulders and big peasant hands gave him a powerful physical appearance but Jakob noticed with surprise that his gestures in lifting the cigarette to and from his mouth were exaggeratedly graceful, almost feminine.

  “Where will all this marching end?” asked Jakob quietly, watching the reflected glow of the bonfires playing on the motionless features of the man before him.

  Shensi!” Mao rapped the word with an abrupt ferocity before falling silent. For a minute or more he smoked the cigarette rapidly, his eyes fixed on something unseen in the courtyard below:

  then he continued in a lower tone. “There are disputes about our goal but you will see — we shall join forces with comrades who have set up a small soviet area in northern Shensi. Two years ago we resolved to fight the Japanese with or without the help of the Kuomintang armies. In the northwest we shall be ready to give battle. We don’t want to fight a civil war while the Japanese invaders are swallowing our country — but Kuomintang armies have attacked us constantly and we have had to defend ourselves.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of losing? You have no airplanes, no tanks or motorized transport.”

  “We’re not afraid of losing because we won’t lose!” Mao stubbed out his cigarette with unnecessary force and raised his clenched hands above his head in a passionate gesture. His small, pursed mouth had suddenly become a grimly determined line and all trace of femininity in his movements disappeared in an instant. “If necessary we will fight the Japanese and the Kuomintang with our bare hands and feet!”