After the Japanese seized Manchuria, Ching-kuo was summoned to a meeting with Stalin, apparently to discuss the situation of China and Russia vis-à-vis Japan. Taylor assumes that Stalin asked Chiang’s son whether he thought there was a possibility of their two countries forming a united front against Japan, because shortly thereafter, his aunt Ching-ling visited Chiang Kai-shek—clearly at Moscow’s instigation—to propose exchanging the former head of the Chinese Communist Party, currently imprisoned in Shanghai, for Ching-kuo.
Moscow’s timing was excellent. An entry in Chiang’s diary for November 1931 noted, “I miss Ching-kuo very much. I am bad because I am not taking good care of him. I am sorry about that.” Although May-ling urged her husband to accept the Russian proposition, he refused. “I have been unable to see my son since he went to Russia,” he wrote in his diary. “… Alas! I am neither loyal to the nation and the Party nor filial to my mother or kind to my children. I feel ashamed.… I would rather let Ching-kuo be exiled or killed in Soviet Russia than exchange a criminal for him. God decides whether you will have an heir.… It is not worth it to sacrifice the interest of the country for the sake of my son.” A month later, Chiang was obviously still struggling to come to terms with his decision. “A person will be remembered because he has moral integrity and achievements but not because he has an heir. Many of the heroes, martyrs and officials… in the history of China did not have children, but their spirit and achievements will always be remembered.”
When Stalin was informed that Chiang would not exchange his son for the imprisoned head of the CCP, he retaliated by sending Ching-kuo to a collective farm on the outskirts of Moscow. The peasants on the farm started by mocking the young man who “knows how to enjoy his bread without knowing how to plow,” but within ten days, Ching-kuo had proved that he too could till the soil. They then selected him as their representative to conduct negotiations for loans, taxes, and the purchase of farming tools, and within a few months Ching-kuo was named chairman of the collective. Ordered back to Moscow, he was told by Wang Ming that he must be separated from other Chinese exiles, and he was sent to work in a factory in the city of Sverdlovsk in the Urals, then for nine months to the Siberian Gulag. In the fall of 1934, he was summoned to the office of the chief of the Urals branch of the NKVD and told that the Chinese government had requested his return. The chief wanted him to write to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Moscow saying that he would not go. Ching-kuo refused. In the middle of December, Chiang Kai-shek made the following entry in his diary: “When I was told that Ching-kuo was reluctant to come back from Russia, I knew that was invented by our Russian enemy. I took that calmly. I thought that I had made progress because I dismissed this family problem with a smile.”
In March of 1935 Ching-kuo married a good-looking eighteen-year-old blond from Belarus named Faina. A quiet girl with apparently no connections to the Communist Party, she gave birth at the end of the year to their first child, a boy weighing only 3½ lbs. Ching-kuo named him Ai-lian (Love of Virtue). During the first three months of the baby’s life, the infant’s parents took turns at night feeding him every hour with an eyedropper.
In 1936, Chiang again asked Ching-kuo to come home. This time, the refusal was accompanied by a devastating letter addressed to his mother. In the version of the letter printed in Pravda and subsequently in Time magazine, Ching-kuo called his father “the enemy of the whole people and therefore the implacable enemy of his son.” Saying that he was “ashamed of such a father,” he reminded his mother of what she had suffered when she was living with Chiang: “Don’t you remember, Mother, how he dragged you by the hair from the second floor? Whom did you implore on your knees not to throw you out of the house? Who drove my grandmother to the grave by beatings and insults? Wasn’t it he? That was all done by the man who now babbles of filial affection and family morals.”
But according to Ching-kuo, he did not write this letter. It had been written by the same Wang Ming who had dictated the boy’s response to his father several years before. Ching-kuo refused to sign the letter drafted by Wang, substituted one of his own, and complained to the head of the NKVD, who instructed Wang to destroy the first letter. But Wang ignored the orders, sending out his own version.
In November of 1936, Ching-kuo applied for membership in the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. According to Taylor, “the implication was clear—he [Ching-kuo] felt that he was likely to spend the rest of his life in the USSR.” A few weeks after he submitted his application, however, China’s new ambassador to the Soviet Union arrived in Moscow with the information, given him secretly by May-ling, that her husband “wished very much that his son, Ching-kuo, would return to China.” One of the first things the ambassador did on arrival was inquire as to Ching-kuo’s whereabouts. Although the deputy commissar for foreign affairs told him that it would be difficult to find out, he would do his best. Shortly after this, however, a bizarre event—one that hit the headlines of newspapers all over the world— made it possible for Ching-kuo to return home.
FOR THE CHIANGS, 1936 had started out like most years. Kai-shek was in the field, while May-ling moved between Shanghai and Nanking. In April, she wired her husband that she would accompany Ching-ling, who had to go to the hospital for an appendectomy. Three days later, she reported that Ching-ling was fine after her operation except for a fever but that sister Ai-ling had been in bed for three weeks and that she herself, “tired because of my low blood pressure,” was planning on a “good rest.” In any case, she added, “don’t worry about us.” But May-ling must have written that she was ill again, because two weeks later, Chiang wired, “If you are still not recovered when I get to Nanking, I will change my plans and come to you later in Shanghai.”
Summer brought more of the same:
Chiang to May-ling:
Have you recovered from your sickness? I miss you very much.
May-ling to Chiang:
I slept very well last night, so I’m in good spirits this morning. According to division commander [Doctor?] Fang, the inner measles have not cleared up. Considering my weakness, it would be wrong to “attack” them again, and we have decided to adopt a more “peaceful” method of curing them. When I become stronger, I will receive strict therapy.
Toward the end of October, five days before Chiang’s fiftieth birthday,* May-ling sent another ill-health report: “The result of my examination is that there is a canker on the mouth of my stomach. The doctor says I must take care of myself.… Brother H. H. Kung is suffering not only from heart disease, but from schistosome [parasites] in his liver. Yesterday he was running a fever.” The news alarmed Chiang: “How are you feeling now? Did the doctor tell you how it can be cured? How about Brother Kung? Has his temperature gone down to normal? I care about you two very much.” Two days later, however, May-ling wrote that “October 31 is your birthday. I plan to come to wherever you are to spend the whole day with you. Please send the plane to Shanghai right now. The doctor said that I could only be away for a very short period of time, so I will come back to Shanghai after your birthday to continue my therapy.” In response to what he called this “touching telegram” Chiang sent his plane to pick her up. And on October 31, 1936, the month before his son applied to become a member of the Russian Communist Party, Chiang Kai-shek celebrated his fiftieth birthday.
He had chosen to spend the day at the army base in Loyang, where he and May-ling were joined for a celebratory lunch by the Young Marshal. May-ling personally served slices of birthday cake to the locals, their wives, and their children, and her husband gave a typical self-deprecating tribute to his mother in his birthday speech: “Now that the trees by her grave have grown tall and thick, I cannot but realize how little I have accomplished and how I have failed to live up to the hopes that she had placed in me.” He also spoke about his New Life dreams for China: “We should not imitate the superficialities of the West,” he said, “nor plagiarize the Doctrine of Might of the Imperialistic nations.… My hope lies
in the revival of our old national traits.” Along with his speech, there was an hourlong parade in honor of the occasion, for which May-ling wore a Western-style fur coat against the cold.
In other parts of China, the celebrations were noisier and more jubilant. A fund honoring Chiang’s half-century mark had raised enough money to buy a hundred American airplanes, and in Nanking, some 200,000 citizens gathered at the airport to watch them fly over, dipping their wings before a huge likeness of Chiang. The salute was repeated three times, and each time the people in the enormous crowd bowed their heads.
May-ling returned to Shanghai after her husband’s birthday. “My situation is getting better,” she wired on November 29, “but it still aches when I lift my arms. Now we are using electrotherapeutics and I take medicine at noon and in the evening. I also have a slight fever. I will remember to take care of myself. Please don’t worry too much about me. I heard that your legs are giving you trouble. I think you may have caught cold. I will send clothes and medicine. Please try the ointment.” All of which elicited a return wire the next day in which her husband said he was “very worried,” about her.
“I got your telegram this morning,” May-ling wired back. “Thank you very much. I prayed for you at 6:00 A.M. this morning—for your progress, for the victory of the revolution, and for achieving the goal of national survival.” Chiang replied with thanks, saying how grateful he was for the clothes and medications, inquiring about her health, and saying, as usual, that he missed her.
ALONG WITH HEALTH bulletins, November 1936 brought Chiang word of the defection of an entire regiment of the National Army to the Communists along with the destruction of one calvary and two infantry brigades, sent to fight the CCP. On December 7, he flew to Sian in order to force the Young Marshal to join his sixth extermination campaign, which had been planned for some time.
During the previous year, Stalin had suggested establishing a united front with China against Japan, but Chiang had not been interested, ordering Young Marshal Chang to attack Mao and the others who had survived the Long March and recently arrived in Yenan. Although he was not particularly optimistic about his prospects and still hated the Japanese for killing his father, the Young Marshal did as he was instructed and attacked the Communists. But when the Japanese seized more land around Peiping and student riots broke out, it began to occur to him that the time had come to join the Communists against Japan. Moreover, the CCP was attracting many of his soldiers, who defected—willingly or otherwise*—to their ranks. Faced with a dwindling army, Chang had met secretly with officials of the Chinese Communist Party in February 1936.
In his most recent encounter with the generalissimo, the Young Marshal had refused to attack the armies of the CCP because, as he explained to Donald, when he and his soldiers started out to fight the Chinese Communists, “he found that their Red propaganda among his troops was much more damaging than their bullets.” It seems that when Chang’s troops “got within yelling distance” of the soldiers of the CCP, their leaders would call out to ask why they were fighting their own countrymen instead of the Japanese. They also taunted the government soldiers with the corruption of their generals and officers: “Why do you Chinese fight us, who are Chinese, to help a lot of worthless officers make money to ride about in motor cars, to get concubines, to gamble and to live a life of luxury?” As Chang put it to Donald, “it was difficult to combat these arguments, for they were absolutely right.” According to Donald, the government had already spent more than $300 million to stamp out the Chinese Communists, “to say nothing of the loss of life and property”—all without success.
When Chiang arrived at Lintung, a famous hot-springs resort at the base of the mountains a few miles outside Sian, he called his commanders to a meeting to finalize plans for the sixth extermination campaign, letting it be known that if Young Marshal Chang did not attend or chose to disobey his orders, he would be relieved of his command. He also invited Chang and General Yang Hu-cheng to dinner. Yang was a “bull-necked, loudmouthed” warlord, who commanded an army of former bandits and thought of the province as his personal fiefdom. He had a reputation for stubborness, earned during an eight-month seige of Sian when he had refused to surrender “until every cow, every horse, every cat, and every dog” had been eaten. Commander of the Seventeenth Route Army, Yang refused to go to Chiang’s dinner, and Young Marshal Chang seemed noticeably ill at ease during the meal. Since his recent refusal to do Chiang’s bidding, the Young Marshal and Chiang had been on extremely cool terms, and during dinner they argued about a petition that Chang had passed on from some students asking for permission to have a parade. Chiang scolded the Young Marshal, saying that he was a double-dealer, representing both the government and the students. He then said that if the students proceeded with their plans, he would call out soldiers with machine guns to shoot them down. “How can you use machine guns on students instead of the Japanese?” Chang said he had wanted to blurt out, but had forcibly controlled himself. Only his face, which turned red at the effort to keep silent, betrayed his fury.
The idea of gunning down Chinese students instead of the invading Japanese was, according to the Young Marshal, the straw that finally broke his back, leading him to join Yang and order his soldiers to take extreme action in order to force Chiang to listen to reason.
23
Chinese politics are remote, obscure, and picturesque only on occasion. The remoteness and obscurity are a convenient excuse for preoccupation with the picturesque.
—JAMES M. BERTRAM
SOMETIME DURING the night after the argument between Chiang Kai-shek and Young Marshal Chang, the Blue Shirts who had accompanied Chiang to Sian were arrested, most of his personal staff was imprisoned, and fifty planes and their pilots were taken over by rebel soldiers.
At 5:30 the next morning, December 12, 1936, Chiang, who had just risen to do his ablutions, heard gunfire outside. “I sent one of my bodyguards to see what was the matter,” he wrote,* “but as he did not come back to report I sent two others out and then heard guns firing again which then continued incessantly.” A dozen or so truckloads of soldiers had surrounded the building where Chiang was staying. His personal bodyguards managed to hold the soldiers off just long enough for him to escape.†
Chiang and two of his men scaled a wall outside. It was, he said,
only about ten feet high and not difficult to get over. But just outside the wall there was a deep moat, the bottom of which was about thirty feet below the top of the wall. As it was still dark, I missed my footing and fell into the moat. I felt a bad pain and was unable to rise. About three minutes later I managed to stand up and walked with difficulty… [to]… a small temple, where some of my bodyguards were on duty. They helped me to climb the mountain.… After about half an hour we reached the mountain top.… Presently gun firing was heard on all sides. Bullets whizzed by quite close to my body. Some of the bodyguards were hit and dropped dead. I than realized that I was surrounded.… So I decided not to take shelter, but to go back to my Headquarters.… I walked down the mountain as quickly as I could. Halfway down the mountain I fell into a cave which was overgrown with thorny shrubs.… Twice I struggled to my feet but fell down again. I was compelled to remain there.… As the day gradually dawned, I could see… that the Lishan Mountain was surrounded by a large number of troops. Then I heard the detonation of machine-guns and hand grenades near my Headquarters. I knew that my faithful bodyguards… continued their resistance.… It was about nine o’clock after which time no more firing could be heard.
By this time, most of Chiang’s soldiers, hugely outnumbered, had been either killed or wounded.
The rebels sought for me. Twice they passed the cave in which I took cover, but failed to discover me. About twenty or thirty feet from my refuge I heard someone hotly arguing with the rebels. It was Chian Hsiao-chung’s [Young Marshal Chang’s] voice. The rebels made a more thorough search. I heard one of the mutinous soldiers about the cave saying, “Here is a m
an in civilian dress; probably he is the Generalissimo.” Another soldier said: “Let us first fire a shot.” Still another said: “Don’t do that.” I then raised my voice and said: “I am the Generalissimo. Don’t be disrespectful. If you regard me as your prisoner, kill me, but don’t subject me to indignities.” The mutineers said: “We don’t dare.” They fired three shots into the air and shouted: “The Generalissimo is here!”
Chiang said that one of the Young Marshal’s battalion commanders knelt before him “with tears in his eyes” and asked him to go down the mountain. When they got to Chiang’s headquarters, the ground was littered with dead bodies. The battalion commander asked Chiang to get into a car that would take him to Sian, where the Young Marshal was waiting for him. Chiang admitted that he was very surprised to be driven to the headquarters of General Yang, whom he trusted. When the Young Marshal appeared a half hour later, he was “very respectful,” but, according to Chiang, “I did not return his courtesies.” When Chiang asked him if he had known in advance of the revolt, the Young Marshal answered “in the negative.”
The Last Empress Page 33
