编辑文：
The mystery of Li Guangcheng

One day, after checking the cell, I leaned against the window and saw a tall, well-dressed man Sent to the next cell. There is a small hole in the wall between the two cells. We can talk. He said he was Li Guangcheng (Cantonese pronunciation) from Foshan, only 20 kilometers from Foshan, Guangzhou; I have been there many times. Mr. Li talked about the local ancestral hall and Shiwan Ceramics (dolls), which are all familiar to me.He explained that "Baochai pill" (a treatment for cold, diarrhea or vomiting) is known by Cantonese as Li Zhongsheng's product pharmaceutical factory. Now Li Zhongsheng is not only in Foshan, but also in Guangzhou and Hong Kong. These pills and other products are exported to Southeast Asia and to places where overseas Chinese live around the world. He is a member of the Li zongshengtang family, Mr. Lee said. Why is it called "Zhong" (meaning "win together")? Because his generation was rated "honest" (winning) by genealogy. Their father encouraged them to work together to run a pharmaceutical factory, so the name of this factory is bell. I'm interested in what he said. A few years later, I learned that Li Zhongsheng has indeed been passed down from generation to generation. If the bell has what he said, it is not likely to become a member of the generation. But I didn't doubt that. Li went on to say that he was the third generation of traditional Chinese medicine. He and Ma Jianxian (son of Ma Deyu, a famous doctor in Foshan)

原文：
The Mystery of ‘Lee Kwan Shing’
One day after checking the cell, I leaned on the window and saw a tall, neatly dressed man being
sent over and into the next cell.
There was a small hole in the wall between the two cells which allowed us to talk. He said he was
Lee Kwan Shing (as pronounced in Cantonese) from Foshan, a town only 20 kilometers from
Guangzhou; I had been there many times. Lee talked about the local Ancestral Temple and Shiwan
ceramics (toy dolls), all of them familiar to me.
He explained that "Po Chai Pills" (a Chinese herbal formula for treating colds, diarrhea or
vomiting), well-known in Cantonese community, were the product of the Lee Chung Shing Tong
Pharmaceutical Factory. Now Lee Chung Shing Tong is not only in Foshan but also in Guangzhou and
Hong Kong. The pills and its other products are exported to Southeast Asia and around the world
wherever overseas Chinese resided.
Lee said that he was a member of the Lee Chung Shing Tong family. Why was it called “Chung
Shing” (meaning “Together Winning”)? Because his generation in the family tree was ranked "Shing
(Winning)". Their fathers encouraged them to work together to run the pharmaceutical factory well, so
the factory was named Chung Shing.
I was very interested in what he said. Years later I learned that the Lee Chung Shing Tong has
indeed been passed down for generations, if Chung Shing had the meaning he claimed, it was not
possible for him to be a member of the Shing generation. However, I did not doubt this at the time.
Lee went on that he was a doctor of Traditional Chinese Medicine of the third generation. He and
Ma Jianxian (son of the well-known doctor of TCM in Foshan, Ma Deyu) were intimate friends. When
Ma Jianxian got married, he presented Ma with a watch. At that time, the watch was a gift of very high
grade, because its purchase required not only money but also a coupon.
I was much amazed because Ma was my classmate and fellow provincial at the Beijing Medical
College! This seemed like a happy coincidence, running into my classmate’s close friend in a distant
land. So I chatted with him without reservation and often full of emotion and candor. Once Lee sang for
me, "When Will You Come Again" - the song very popular in the 1940s. I remembered some of it and
followed along.
Lee also told me that he had been in Vietnam for more than two years and practiced Traditional
Chinese Medicine in Hon Gai. His business was good. Someone who was jealous may have reported
him, causing the police to nab him. He asked the Vietnamese government not to send him back to
China because he might be killed by stoning or beaten in a disorderly mass assembly.
I shuddered and had little doubt it could happen, but wondered if that was likely.
He said Vietnam was socialist (an official term; the locals usually said "communist"), but unlike
China, he could still practice medicine by himself. I said I felt the same about this.
I was surprised when he told me he might ask to be sent to the Soviet Union. I had never thought
about being sent to the Soviet Union, and told Lee that before coming to Vietnam, I saw a court bulletin
in Guangzhou listing someone sentenced to 10 years in prison for fleeing to the Soviet Union.
Lee Kwan Shing seemed to have growing conflict with the Vietnamese in his cell. They often
quarreled and once he fought with them violently. Afterwards he told me through the hole that he was
skillful in kung fu (martial arts), and even the three Vietnamese together could not match him. I was
naturally inclined to take his side.
Just a couple of days later something happened that made me consider him more carefully. I was
looking out the window when I heard the next cell door open. Leaning on the sill for a better view, I
saw Lee Kwan Shing coming out, followed by the jail aide "pig", and going straight into the office
facing my cell at a distance. Before long, Lee came out of the office alone, left the jail and disappeared!
I was immediately suspicious. Who really was this Lee Kwan Shing? Why could he go out of the
prison by himself?
After many years, I returned to Guangzhou and visited my classmate Ma Jianxian. When I told
him about Lee Kwan Shing, Ma was stunned: "I don't know who Lee Kwan Shing is. When I got
married, no one presented me even a strap, not to say a watch!"
Then it was my turn to be stunned. What kind of person was Lee Kwan Shing? What did he want
with me? Was our meeting secretly arranged? Was Lee’s supposed request to be sent to the Soviet
Union some kind of hint for me?
More than 30 years have elapsed and I still am unable to crack the mystery of "Lee Kwan Shing".
Repatriation
Not long after I was imprisoned, a number of border-crossed Chinese were repatriated without
me. After more than a month, there were whispers of another imminent repatriation of Chinese. One
day after brunch, two policemen came and read the list. Chen and I were called. More than a dozen of
us climbed into a truck and sat on our own baggage.
My mood was heavy and anxious but mixed with a glimmer of inexplicable hope: Let the past be
past, all events ahead of me were unknowns; God would arrange them. Be tough to survive humiliation
and suffering. I believed that time was on my side.
At about one o'clock in the afternoon, our truck was driven to Tien Yen midway and stopped
behind the police station. I did not know why, but the news spread quickly. Many people came up to the
truck, some of them my former patients or their family members, all gazing at me sorrowfully. Qian
also came and gave me a packet of biscuits. Others handed me snacks, one packet after another. No
police was there to interfere. My fellow sufferers in the truck cleared a place for me to store the food
The day was growing cold and my clothes were thin. When I asked if someone might spare me an
extra shirt, a man handed me one. Qian immediately took off his new uniform and gave it to me.
Seeing no police nearby, two young men close to the truck signaled me to jump out and run. I
smiled wryly and gently shook my head. After more than half an hour, the truck started to move slowly.
I forced a smile and waved my hand to bid farewell, noticing someone quickly turning his face away.
Later I learned that when Dong Hoa villagers got the news, some immediately came, but others
were busy preparing food and came after the truck already had left. Others came from nearby
communes but also were too late. For a time people were clamoring: "Alas! Good man, good man,
healed and saved so many patients. Being sent back, he would be killed. How wrong, ah!" Even the
policemen returning to Hong Gai talked about so many people seeing me off at Tien Yen; it was a big
surprise.
I was deeply moved and thankful to the Tien Yen people. During my seven years wandering in
North Vietnam, I spent most of my time in Tien Yen and came to be regarded as a semi-Tien Yenese.
Although our contacts were limited, I had built a profound friendship with many good and honest
people. I did my best to provide health care for them; they gave me their concern, care, warmth, and
protection, and help me resolve so many difficulties. As they say, it was the relationship between fish
and water. The friendship was engraved on my heart and remains unforgettable.
Do not worry, my friends. I would get over even the biggest difficulties. The disgraced evil power
would not last long. The time was on my side. Goodbye! I would always remember you, remember the
days and nights we had been together.
......
At about five o'clock in the afternoon, we arrived at the police station in the city of Mong Cai near
the border of China. We were confined in two cells. To our surprise, the jail walls were emblazoned
with graffiti, writings and drawings cursing Mao, revealing a clenched jaw hatred of him. We talked
privately that, if someone wrote these in China, needless to say he would immediately be pulled out
and shot. However, the Vietnamese police ignored it. That really afforded us food for thought.
Next morning, there was a sudden commotion. It was said that a Yangjiang man had escaped,
possibly by climbing over the low wall of the urinal trough. I admired him for his courage and wit and
silently wished him good luck. Chen in my cell told me the man who escaped was captain of a
production brigade and a Communist Party member. If sent back, he might be somewhat troublesome,
but there would be no big problem.
The Mong Cai police staff was very nervous and became angry when their search proved futile.
Later I heard that the next group of prisoners coming to the Dongxing detention center was handcuffed
together two by two, even while eating, going to the toilet or sleeping at night.
Our group was ordered to line up and walk to the Beilun Bridge which connected the two
countries. Because of the escape, the Vietnamese police were not as friendly as before and rebuked us
for trifling things. But it was not a long distance. In the middle of the bridge, sentries from each country
called out the names of those being handed over.
So, after seven years wandering in Northern Vietnam, I returned to the motherland. It was
December XX, 1975.

Return to the Motherland
Dongxing Detention Center
We were taken to the border checkpoint for vaccination. Then a very young Peoples Liberation Army (PLA) solider with a stony face sat behind a small table and registered us. At my turn, I reported my former unit as the Kunming Medical College. The soldier glanced at me with some surprise but said nothing. From there we were taken to the Dongxing Detention Center in Guangxi Province and housed in three cells, two for the men and one for the women. Our cells included a urine bucket, boards laid over a wooden frame for sleeping, and just one entry passage. Most detainees were repatriated from Vietnam, some were so called odd-job migrants or wanderers from rural areas, and a few were local thieves or other rogues. I had heard that the detention centers in Guangxi Province were more brutal than those in Guangdong. Was it not true that two groups of repatriates were randomly shot causing the Vietnamese government to suspend repatriation temporarily? I also heard that when a supervisor of Dongxing Detention Center heard a noise in a cell he shot randomly from outside and broke a detainee's leg. In contrast, Guangdong was relatively open and also relatively civilized. I also remained worried about something else: Was fleeing to Vietnam regarded as "violation of border regulations" or "treason" in Kunming? If I were taken away by the police from here, it would mean my case had been upgraded. Fretting over these concerns led to no answers, so I thought it best to forget them. Everything already was exposed. Unlike previously being caught simply fleeing to Hong Kong, I had used fake ID and was always on tenterhooks, afraid of exposure. Whatever was to happen, God would provide a way for me. That same day we were questioned by the head of the Detention Center. He asked for more details, including parents and family members. I answered everything truthfully even including overseas relations. Hearing that I had such relatives, the head showed some surprise. Each morning we assembled outside. Sometimes the supervisor gave a few admonitions but did not read the "Highest Directives" or sing the "Songs of Quotations". I immediately felt the difference from before. Afterwards, we went in groups of three or four to the latrines, shielded by mats on the slope. Each person was limited to 10 minutes, no problem for me. Some others were constipated from nervous tension and unable to defecate. The bucket in the cell was allowed only for urination. How many days could one endure without a bowl movement? Time passed and nothing eventful happened. The overall situation had indeed eased. No policeman from Kunming came to take me away, so it seemed that my case was just like anyone else fleeing Dongxing to Vietnam, simply a "violation of the border regulations”. This was very important to me because it meant that I had no file in the police records, and my case was not "treason" but belonged to the so-called "internal contradictions among the people”. My anxious heart gradually settled down, although I was still worried about unknowns in the future. Except for the mental pressure of the unknown, other aspects of my situation were more agreeable. There was no difficulty in language, no more Chinese-Vietnamese racial conflict and meals were better. Being close to Beibu Gulf, we had small herring almost every day. I had been in many detention centers and the meals here were the best. The supervisors were rather respectful of me but not to everyone, especially not to those who could not speak Cantonese or the so-called "odd-job migrants" from other provinces. Just as in Guangdong, strangers were bullied and rebuked for trifling things. Our detention center often arranged some kind of labor. Detainees who volunteered were given a bit more to eat, so many were willing to participate. I sometimes joined them, usually to carry sand, or stones or other building materials. One afternoon, all the detainees returning from labor looking very serious. I hadn’t gone that day and was told that one of our cellmates and a man in the next cell from Fusui had a quarrel with a supervisor when they were carrying stones. The supervisor took a club and was about to beat them. But the Fusui man threatened resistance by brandishing a bamboo pole. The supervisor held up his hands. We were worried that something further might happen that evening. Sure enough, soon after dinner, the doors of both cells were opened. Two devil-like supervisors came into my cell. One ordered out the man who had carried the stone with the "Fusui guy" and told him to kneel. The supervisor asked a question or two, and then kicked his right foot sharply against the man’s chest. He screamed, fell back and hit his head on the edge of a plank. The supervisor then stepped forward, kicked his lower belly, and gave him several thumps with a club. The man screamed, his face covered with blood. All of us remained silent. We could hear screams from the "Fusui guy" in the next cell continuing for a while. At the other end of the detention center, a prisoner was kept in solitary confinement. It was said that he had been sentenced to death after killing a county official with a dozen chops from a kitchen cleaver. A former supervisor was the relative of the dead official and he took the advantage of the relationship to have the prisoner brought to the detention center. This supervisor tied the prisoner’s hands behind his back, shackled his feet, and tied his penis to prevent urination. After a day or two, the inmate screamed in misery as his bladder swelled like a big pumpkin. Later, another supervisor helped this inmate loosen the tie, but his hands and feet remained shackled. He wore no pants even in cold weather, so to permit urination and bowl movements. At meal time the tray was put in under the door; the prisoner had to lie prone on the floor and lick his food like a dog. Once, when the supervisor who had tortured him came in to pick up the urine bucket, the man suddenly bit down firmly on the supervisor's arm. The supervisor cried out in pain and slammed the man’s head again and again. Leaving to get a hammer, the supervisor returned to knock out all the man’s teeth one by one. Afterwards at meal time, the prisoner had to come to the window and have porridge poured in his mouth through a bamboo tube. I shivered all over but not from cold. One day, a supervisor tossed in a newspaper with the news of Zhou Enlai's death. Several fellow detainees gave it a glance but without much reaction. Dr. Wang of Zhanjiang who was caught back from Vietnam said ironically: “Anyway, as Chairman Mao has much merit, Premier Zhou has also much merit.” There was veiled sarcasm in his words and we responded with knowing smiles. Another morning, a supervisor again tossed us a newspaper, this one publishing Mao’s new poetry proclaiming that "Everywhere is the joy of spring,…". All of us sneered at it; then when we saw the phrase "Don't fart,......" we looked at each other and laughed in spite of trying not to. A fellow-detainee whispered: “Probably the head of the detention center with full-mouthed abuse could also write such a masterpiece.” In all fairness, although the head liked to speak in foul language, he was not necessarily abusive. Another supervisor named Xie who was possibly in charge of dietary or general affairs, was always friendly. The crows are not necessarily all black; there are good men even in the evil world. After some days, a supervisor said to me: "You reported to Kunming Medical College, but it does not recognize you." I didn't understand what he said and asked, "How doesn't it recognize me?" He replied, "The Medical College has fired you already." "Then you send me back to Guangzhou,” I blurted out. “My family is in Guangzhou. I applied to resign from Medical College many years ago." That Kunming Medical College did not recognize me was exactly what I had wished for. If the Medical College had approved my resignation and my registered residence was moved back to Guangzhou (It was not easy but I would persist), I would not have so many worries being sent back to Kunming when I went fleeing to Hong Komg, and later would not have been driven into a corner and fled to Vietnam. However, according to regulations, even if Kunming Medical College had fired me, as long as my original registered residence was there, I still had to be sent back to Kunming. After ten more days, my name was called to go there; the first stop would be Nanning. Nanning Detention Center A total of seven detainees, six men and one woman, were sent to Nanning. Every two men were buckled in a pair of handcuffs, and the woman was spared. We boarded a long-distance bus. The regular passengers sat in front and showed no surprise at seeing our group in the rear. During the long, bumpy ride, I got severe motion sickness, including repeated vomiting, pallor and a cold sweat. The woman detainee said she was afraid I would die. I forced a smile and said, "My inexorable doom has not been completed, and I cannot die yet!” The Nanning Detention Center was housed in an abandoned hospital, a two-story building with a star shape but now surround by high, barbed-wired walls. Only a small portion of the space was used for detention and the rest remained vacant. We had assembly in the square every couple of days to listen newspaper readings. There were often more than a hundred detainees, most of them odd-job migrants or wanderers; others were gangsters, thieves or prostitutes. During such an assembly I met Mr. Chen from Guangzhou who was also repatriated from Vietnam. I requested him to take a message to my parents and family when he returned to Guangzhou. Since I had been caught in Vietnam, my family heard nothing from me for a couple of months and was almost in despair. After getting his message, they would know I was alive and in a detention center. They still would be worried about my future, but at least they would have some hope. Sometimes I had an opportunity to go out to labor which meant I could eat a bit more, exercise my body, and enjoy the sunshine. All that would somewhat benefit my weakened body. We went out either to help the commune production team, or to work on the detention center’s land, planting corn, sugarcane, or vegetables. The supervisor who led us to labor was named Tian. He was more humane and rarely shouted at or scolded us. He frankly admitted that detainees did not have enough to eat, so he did not force us to complete the quota of labor. Once again I felt that there were still good men in that evil time. Once we went to help the production team cut sugarcane, and were allowed to eat the cane when we took break. This rare opportunity not surprisingly resulted in overindulgence, including distended and upset stomachs. It was my first experience that drinking too much sugar water could cause bloat. Once after labor, I was assigned with another detainee to pack the tools. Returning after dinner time, we were sent to the kitchen to eat our usual portions of rice with vegetables. But there in the kitchen we spotted a pile of raw rice stems in a corner. So we began peeling and eating them quickly, one by one! Back in my cell, I tossed about all night with a stomachache because the raw rice stems proved indigestible. The other fellow was even worse and had colic and diarrhea, his urine bucket overflowing and stinking up the whole cell. It was midnight, so no one could be called. I told him to drink plenty of water, otherwise excessive dehydration would be dangerous. I also did acupressure for him: Zusanli, and a point on the medial tibia at about the upper third (I called it the "belly point"). It's very sensitive; I pressed it slightly and he would yell. But the pain was quickly relieved and the diarrhea also gradually diminished. After a few applications of acupressure, the next day he didn’t need to see a doctor. Two "odd-job migrants” were sent to our cell. One was a teenager and looked like a student. I called him Xiao Li. He came from Gansu Province to Guangxi to do odd jobs as a plasterer’s aide but was detained as an "odd-job migrant". He brought two books of Traditional Chinese Medicine with him and had written a lot of notes on them.

He said he was going to medical school after senior high, but the Cultural Revolution had forced him to be a zhiqing like all other students nationwide. No more school, he studied Traditional Chinese Medicine by himself. As a zhiqing in a barren area, it was hard to earn enough for food, so he followed a plasterer to Guangxi to do odd jobs. Whenever he had free time he would study by himself. I developed a profound respect for him. In such adversity, he still insisted on self-study and strove for progress. It was indeed rare. Alas! The evil power hurt so many people; our generation and the previous generation were ruined, the next generation was wasted. When I was in the fourth and fifth grades of Beijing Medical College, the college opened a course of Acupuncture and Traditional Chinese Medicine as a pilot for the (Western) Medical College nationwide. Later I continued to study it, and gradually realized the scientific rationale of TCM. During my wanderings in North Vietnam, I also applied TCM sometimes in practice. Combined with my background of Western Medicine, I felt that the contents and phenomena of Yin and Yang, exterior and interior, cold and heat, deficiency and excess in TCM were intrinsically related with the neuro-humoral (sympathetic, parasympathetic, endocrine hormones and other humoral mediators) regulations of modern medicine. TCM laid emphasis on the relationship between disease and the human body as well as the environment; it analyzed and integrated the relationship to make a diagnosis, and then formulated a comprehensive treatment program including clearing the condition of disease development. Western Medicine investigated the cause (such as bacteria and virus) and its damage; the treatment was to remove the cause and heal the injury. As an example: If cockroaches were found in the kitchen, TCM was to eliminate the environment for cockroach breeding, while Western Medicine was to kill the cockroaches. Each treatment was from a different point of view, but the target was the same—the patient. They could be effective separately but also could complement each other. TCM was really worth studying. I borrowed one book from Xiao Li and read it again and again. When he was sent away, I begged him to give the book to me in exchange for a used sweatshirt. Xiao Li declined at first because he had written many notes on the book, but later agreed. This book was very helpful because it prompted me to further explore combining Traditional Chinese Medicine with the theory of Western Medicine. A young man was sent to our cell. He was about 15, thin and a bit pale, but with a heroic spirit shining out from between his eyebrows. He did not speak much, but often sang alone in a low voice. Talking with him, I learned that his name was Wei Ying-yu and he was caught back when fleeing to Hong Kong. He was a Nanning person. I wondered why he went all the way to Guangdong to flee to Hong Kong. It turned out that he had a miserable story: In the 1950s, Wei’s parents were graduated from a university in that province. His father was assigned to a government literary and art department and his mother taught in a high school. His father was talented, often publishing articles in newspapers and magazines. In 1957 he was labeled a “rightist”; after three years of “labor education” he was sent back to his former unit under surveillance. His rightist label was removed in 1964. During the chaos of the Cultural Revolution, as a "label removed rightist" he was tortured to death by the Red Guards. Wei’s mother was driven to suicide by taking sleeping pills. Little Wei went to Xinhui, Guangdong province, hoping to live with an uncle who was a high school teacher there. His uncle was very sympathetic but could not accommodate him because Wei had no registered residence and grain ration there. Moreover, his uncle was under attack in the Cultural Revolution because his father had been a medical officer in the Kuomintang era. Wei understood that he could not stay long. By chance he met a man who had failed in fleeing to Hong Kong and was ready to try again. Wei went with him. Unfortunately they were caught in Bao'an County. As Wei sang alone in a low voice again, I asked him quietly, "What song are you singing? It sounds very good." Little Wei smiled wryly but did not answer me. Then I listened more carefully and roughly heard the lyrics: I had traveled all over the motherland, and had tasted a world of the bitterness; The book says that the childhood is wonderful, but my childhood is full of suffering. ......(Second, third paragraph re-singing) Ah, ah! The beautiful blue sky, Ah, ah, ah! The vast ocean, Look at the seagulls who are flying freely. It’s compendious and tragically moving. I remembered the second paragraph was about the experience of his suffering, the discrimination and humiliation; the third paragraph was the deep memory of his parents, and the resentment and frustration of his situation. Finally, with repressed and melodious tones, he sang of his desire for freedom by the metaphor of the blue sky, vast ocean and seagulls. Did he compose this song himself? If so, this pathetic young man was full of artistic promise! After leaving the Nanning Detention Center, I heard no more from young Wei. I really hoped that one day I might come across him on the streets of Los Angeles. From the heroic spirit between his eyebrows I would surely recognize him: "Hi, Little Wei, hope that you are well! Hope you won freedom finally!" The weather was growing hotter and the mosquitoes getting thicker. The detention center provided no mosquito net so they buzzed and bit me all night. I tried covering my head with a vest but that made night seem muggier and more intolerable. For a couple of consecutive nights I almost couldn't sleep at all and felt my head swimming and dizzy. I even lost an appetite for the two meals which sustained my life. I realized I soon would be exhausted if this situation continued. However, at this time I heard my name called and was told I was to be sent to Guiyang. Guiyang and Kunming Detention Centers Ten detainees were sent to Guiyang. We were paired in tandem with a rope around each one's neck and shoulders and then linked with a rope about one meter long. As before, we boarded a bus carrying regular travelers and sat in rear. This time I was okay, with no serious motion sickness and no vomiting. There were also one or two hundred detainees in Guiyang Detention Center, most of them odd-job migrants or wanderers. Unlike Nanning Detention Center, daily affairs were controlled by several jail aides and the administrative staff only supervised. The jail aids tyrannically abused their power and did as they pleased. After detainees arose each morning, we were lined up and run around the square. In other detention centers where I stayed this had been voluntary. But here it was compulsory, unless one was sick and got a jail aide’s approval. In addition, all detainees were forced to run numerous laps at a quick pace or otherwise be whipped. The jail aides invented a brutal punishment for detainees: Tying both elbows behind one’s back, and then pulling the rope tight to force the elbows closer and closer. The sufferer screamed with a pain that had penetrated his heart and lungs and fell down on the ground wailing. The jail aides enjoyed a laugh. I washed a vest and a pair of underpants and hung them on a drying line on the square. Picking them up in the afternoon I was surprised to find many gray dots on the clothes. "Lice!" I almost cried out. It turned out that someone else had hung a pair of underpants with a lot of lice next to mine. The lice crawled along the wire. Upset, I rinsed my garments thoroughly under the tap. Of all the detention centers where I stayed during those years, Guiyang was the messiest and dirtiest, and one of two where the jail aides were most rude and unreasonable. One reason may have been its isolation from the outside community; another reason was that most detainees here were from the bottom level of the society and were often bullied. This was unlike Guangdong which was relatively open, where the majority of detainees were those fleeing to Hong Kong and who came from all levels of society. One fellow detainee told me about instances of butchering innocents in Guiyang at the peak of the Cultural Revolution. It gave 6 me a big shock: The Red Guards had escorted a group of the "cow demons and snake spirits" to the wilderness and ordered them to form a circle. After reading the “Highest Directives”, they gave a hoe or shovel to each to dig a large pit. After taking back the tools, the Red Guards gave everyone a single shot, kicked them into the pit and buried them, regardless of whether they were dead or alive. My fellow detainee continued: As the two factions fought each other violently, the general commander of one faction was shot and killed. His followers made a stainless steel coffin, selected two attractive female students from among captives of the opposite faction, shot them to death, and then dragged the corpses over to serve as padding for the coffin. Finally, a spectacular funeral was held for their commander. I understood that the bloody cruelty had reached a frenzied crescendo. However, I also knew that the tragedy had extended far beyond Guiyang! One day at Guiyang I noticed a student-like detainee about 20 years old with both hands gone. He held the bowl with his two forearm stumps and protruded his mouth to eat. To urinate or defecate he needed someone to help. A fellow detainee told me that this young man’s father had left college to join the KMT army early in the War of Resistance against Japanese Aggression. He was a hero in fighting the Japanese and was promoted to company commander. Later he was wounded and demobilized with a bullet still lodged in his body. After Communist “liberation”, the young man’s father was executed for the “crime” of being a former Kuomintang officer. In the Cultural Revolution, his mother committed suicide after repeated denouncement and torture. The young man was tied up with both hands behind his back and left overnight by the Red Guards. Next day, with blackened hands, he was sent to the hospital for amputation. Later he wandered the streets and became the head of a small gang of beggars. The fellow detainee told me: "In the detention center this young man has his underlings. You see, there is always someone to help him with the meal, and help him to loosen the belt to pee or s--t.” I wondered how the son of a hero of the War of Resistance against Japanese Aggression whose family suffered such injustice could not help but be indignant at being relegated to such a low place. After staying in Guiyang for many days, ten of us were 7 transferred to Kunming. Only two or three were tied, but not me. We boarded a slow night train with not enough seats, so many sat in the aisle. I sat near the door which I noticed the supervisor had neglected to lock. To escape I needed only wait until the train accelerated downhill, then open the door and jump. But I did not want to do that. When we arrived at the terminal and I advised the supervisors the door was not locked, they were taken aback. Next morning we arrived in Kunming, filed out of the train station and got on a detention center truck. Hadn’t seen you for a long time, Kunming! Nine years ago I fled from here back to Guangzhou; tried several times to flee to Hong Kong but failed; and finally was forced to escape to North Vietnam. After experiencing 101 hardships and dangers, I still could not escape “Buddha's palm” in the end. I really had mixed feelings and felt infinite melancholy. Ahead I might expect more suffering and humiliation. Yet I also saw the distant glimmer of a vague hope. We rode through the urban district on familiar streets, but more deserted than before. The shops were dilapidated and gloomy. Kunming Detention Center was in the western suburb Huangtupo, not far from the Medical College. Conditions were similar to those of Guiyang. The jail aides were also domineering. Every morning the detainees were forced to line up and run several laps, not allowed to be slow, and not allowed to drop out. After several months of imprisonment and abuse, my physical strength had grown very weak. Once I ran only two laps and then fell to the ground. A jail aide came and kicked me. I stood up dazedly and dragged myself with faltering footsteps back to the cell. Among the detainees was a Cantonese with the surname Ho, who was in his 30s, of medium build, thin and strong. He had been a performer in an acrobatic troupe, was of upright character and liked defending against injustice. In the Cultural Revolution, Ho was persecuted and fired from his job. To support himself he had a recipe for injuries, preparing plasters and setting up stalls to sell them everywhere. But he was detained by market management personnel and sent to the detention center. Ho asked my advice about his future plans: He realized he might be caught again for selling plasters, and both the plasters and his money would be confiscated. So that was not the way to go. He was considering purchase of a boat, drifting along the river to fish and 8 changing the place every day to avoid checking of his registered residence. He asked if I thought this would work. I had never heard of such a scheme and felt it hard to imagine, but was sad for his plight. After some thought, I realized the plan would not work. Seeing him drifting along the river, the river management department would intercept; selling fish ashore, the market management personnel would investigate. Alas, Communist control was far more than nets above and snares below, but was heavy iron bastions! Once a teenager was bullied by a big guy and Ho challenged him. The big guy, seeing that Ho was small and thin, gave him a push. To the big guy’s surprise, Ho pushed back; the bully staggered and fell on the threshold and split open his shoulder. The jail aide then tied both of Ho’s elbows tightly behind his back. Anyone else suffering such torture would have screamed in tears. But Ho was an acrobat, so that was not much for him. Then a supervisor came in to resolve the situation and loosened him. The terminal detention center usually sent the detainees on quickly, but I had waited for more than a month and still heard nothing. This caused me to become anxious. Finally, one day I was called to the reception room and found two men from the Medical College there. One was Director of Personnel Yang Changwang, the other I didn't recognize at first. Yang introduced him: "Well, he is Wang Zhanyuan (Director of General Affairs)." "Oh, got fat," I reflected on their appearance. Both of them also were growing some white hairs on their temples. I wondered, after passing through the difficult vicissitudes of life, what would I look like to them? I believed they should have no ill feeling for me because, although I was not sociable, I had never caused trouble. They might even have retained respect for my professional knowledge. For example, once the Pharmacological Department had disposed of a batch of post-experimental rabbits which later were sold by the General Affairs Section. In those years meat was in short supply and everyone wanted them.

Wang Zhanyuan came to buy one but learned that the rabbits had been injected with some kind of medicine, so he hesitated. I had just exited the General Affairs Section, and overheard someone inside tell Wang: "We have asked Zeng Qing Si. It's edible." Then Wang felt confident enough to buy one. 9 Now Wang’s companion Yang casually chatted with me for awhile, but said nothing about taking me out. A few minutes later they left. My visit by Yang and Wang came caused a stir among the jail aides: A Jeep came, two people jumped down, both were the directors of divisions! After that the jail aides had a more respectful attitude toward me. I thought that after the visit of Yang and Wang, my problem would soon be resolved. But the days continued to pass and nothing happened. Lobar Pneumonia When I got up one morning, I felt a chill, followed by a cough, headache and chest pain. I barely tasted brunch and developed fever in the afternoon; the chest pain and cough were getting worse. I asked the jail aides to report me to the supervisors but with no result. I picked at my dinner, leaving most of it uneaten. A fellow detainee said that I talked in my sleep that night. I was groggy for the next three days, with a racking cough, and spewing rusty sputum! I knew immediately it was lobar pneumonia. When I could bear it no longer, I roused myself, put on most of my clothes, dragged myself over near the exit from the square leading to the office, and knocked on the door. When nobody answered, I squatted nearby under the eaves. It was raining. In Kunming whenever it rains the weather becomes cold, socalled “a rain changes to winter”. Water droplets splashed on my body and face. Even with a high fever, I continued to shiver with chills because of my skin’s microvascular contraction. I did not know how long I had waited, but finally the door opened. A supervisor came over and asked, "What is the matter?" “Fever,” I answered feebly. He glanced at me and told me to follow him to the infirmary where a doctor checked my temperature. "Thirty-nine point five degrees (centigrade)," he whispered to the supervisor. When the supervisor asked what to do, the doctor recommended sending me to the hospital. The chief was called and, after glancing at me, ordered, “Send him.” The supervisor called a jail aide with a flatbed cart and told me to climb on it. As the jail aide pushed the cart and the supervisor 10 escorted, I was taken to the Second Affiliated Hospital of Kunming Medical College. An x-ray showed lobar pneumonia in the upper lobe of my right lung, so I was admitted to the hospital. The supervisor talked with the doctor for a while and then left with the jail aide. I lay quietly on the bed receiving an intravenous drip, looking at the ceiling with mixed feelings. Was I now a patient, or a prisoner? Probably both. Although I had little conversation with the other patients, they seemed to know I was sent from the detention center and also had been affiliated with the Medical College. I admitted that I had escaped to Vietnam and was sent back. A patient sighed, "Alas, why should you escape to Vietnam?" Other patients, who probably had never heard of such a thing, were surprised but dared not ask more. Nevertheless, there were still three patients who shared with me food sent by their families. One of them even visited me twice after I returned to the Medical College. Two days later, the fever gradually subsided. Several doctors treated me although I didn't know them. I wondered if any one of them might be my former student at the Medical College. But now, smiling bitterly in my heart, I thought: Who would be willing or dare to recognize you? It might be someone who had denounced you, or ransacked your dormitory. It's much like the old saying: "The changeability of men's feelings depends on the fickleness of the world.” During "Class struggle every day" how could you deviate from “Drawing a line from enemy”? One was even expected “Not to recognize one’s own closest relatives.” However, there was one familiar person who did come to see me. It was Zhang Jiezhi. We had been seniors in the same year but from different medical colleges; now she was a senior attending physician. She had long been a Party member and likely had risen to the leadership level. Zhang and I stood face to face for a while, and then she asked: "Are you better?" “It is better,” I answered in a low voice. She stood a while longer and said, "If there is anything you need, just call me," and then slowly walked away. I made a phone call to my cousin at the Provincial Design Institute. That afternoon he came with some delicious snacks to visit 11 me. Reunited after being apart for so long, there was a bittersweet taste in our hearts. Cousin said, "Nowadays the Cultural Revolution is rarely mentioned and there is no longer fighting between factions, although there are still some Big Character Posters used to attack each other. We have not many things to do in the work unit." Cousin also said I should not worry too much. I asked him to write a letter to my parents letting them know that I had returned to Kunming. The detention center sent a jail aide to see me. When he saw a box of biscuits on the bedside stand, I explained about my cousin from the Design Institute. To my surprise, the jail aide urged me to visit my cousin. When I asked the doctor in charge, he said I could go but should return soon. My cousin still lived in his old place. He was very happy to see me and asked his wife to prepare lunch. After lunch he gave me five yuan (his monthly salary was 56 yuan). Two days later, the Detention Center sent the jail aide to take me back. Cousin later told me that the jail aide returned again after a few days, claiming that I needed money to buy something to eat. Cousin knew he was cheating, but knowing I was under his control, gave him five yuan. Cousin was following the adages, "spend money for blocking a disaster" or so called “afraid not of the officer but of control.” Returning to the detention center I was put in a room with two other sick detainees. Finally, one day, a supervisor ordered me, "Pack up your belongings." In less than a minute I stuffed my things into a bag and followed him to the office. The chief sitting behind a desk waved and told me to get myself back to Medical College.

My Return to the Medical College
Out of the detention center, I took a deep breath out and then in again. I had been detained about nine months in the Vietnamese prison plus four domestic detention centers and finally was free. Although other sufferings no doubt were ahead, I was grateful for being restored relative freedom of movement. Thank God, Thou behold me again! I didn't think much about how the Medical College would treat me. Humiliation and tribulations seemed inevitable, but I had not the fear of years past. At least I had no criminal record with the police. To take the popular words at that time, I belonged to "the contradictions among the people". I also felt that the Cultural Revolution was already a spent force. Although the Communist Party was known to change unpredictably, the situation was no longer as crazy and savage as before in defying laws human and divine. I determined resolutely in my mind that no matter what the sufferings and humiliation, I would just clench my teeth and get through them. Time was on my side. Walking along the Medical College road, I noticed that the tennis court on the west side was invisible, overgrown with weeds and littered with rubbish. There were almost no flowers in the Four Season Gardens. Several teaching buildings still stood but looked faded and dilapidated. The campus was desolate. Probably it was still in summer vacation, so no students appeared and I didn’t come across any acquaintances. I walked up to the fourth floor of the five-story main building where most administrative offices were located. The doorplates were still on several office doors but they were locked. Seeing no one around, I descended the stairs and left the building Where to go? I thought for a while and decided to look for Teacher Li, my colleague and fellow townsman. I remembered his apartment and hoped that after so many years he would still be there. Entering his building, I went up the second floor. It seemed darker than before and one side of the narrow corridor was full of clutter. I knocked and was pleased when Li opened the door. He greeted me with great surprise, "Oh!" and immediately beckoned me in. Li's wife, Teacher Huang, came out from the bedroom and also showed happy surprise. They warmly invited me to sit down, and we enjoyed tea and cookies. After a few questions about my situation, they recommended that I look for the Director of Personnel Yang Changwang. As I left the apartment, I spotted a man at the other end of the corridor looking at me stealthily. Although the corridor was dark, I still recognized him right away. It was Maoge, a notorious thug during the Cultural Revolution. Once an assembly was denouncing and struggling against the "reactionary academic authority" Teacher Huang who was pregnant. When she knelt to be denounced, Maoge fiercely kicked her pregnant belly. Huang fell to the ground with a screech, and later gave birth to an idiotic daughter who became a lifelong pain and burden for the Li-Huang couple. I was in a department different from Maoge's and had rare contact with him in the past, so I ignored him there in the hallway. Later Li told me that after I had left, Maoge came nosing around like a hound seeking prey and inquired about this and that. Yang Changwang still lived in his old place. When I arrived, he obviously knew that I was coming back and whispered, "Back?" Then he explained, "The dorm is not available yet, let’s go to your department and see." So he took me to the head of Physiological Department Mr. Xiao. Xiao had no special expression when he saw me. He said, “Let’s go to see the student lab”. We walked to the Second Student Lab where previously I had guided students doing experiments. Xiao told me I was to live there temporarily. There were five experimental tables in the lab. Linking two together was longer than a bed, and certainly much higher. But I didn't care. It certainly was better than the detention center, and better than the bullpen, the sugarcane field or the wilderness. I was provided a quilt and a mosquito net. My “temporary” stay actually lasted more than a couple of months. Yang took me to the cafeteria office to obtain meal tickets for a few days. After settling in I went to the Provincial Design Institute to visit my cousin and his wife who were pleased and relieved to see me. I asked for paper and an envelope and quickly wrote a letter. I also borrowed five yuan from them and went to post a letter, then to a small restaurant to have a delicious meal. When my parents received the letter, the whole family was ecstatic. They quickly sent a sum of money to me. Next day, Yang told me that the Party committee decided to give me a monthly living allowance of 30 yuan (my former salary was 56 yuan per month), pending further arrangements. He also said that I could borrow one month’s food ration from the cafeteria. When I went to the cafeteria office to buy meal tickets I also asked to borrow two jin of food coupons. In those years, eating out or buying food products could not be done without food coupons. The clerks Chen and Liu were very friendly but Wu, who was head of the Cafeteria Office, deliberately caused difficulty, exclaiming, "No! You have no food ration, so how can you borrow food coupons?" Chen hinted for me not to argue. Wu previously had cut hair in the college barber shop, advanced in the Cultural Revolution, and finally was catapulted to become head of Cafeteria Office. He was particularly overbearing. As soon as Wu left, Chen gave me two jin of food coupons. In the evening, I went out to buy something. On the path between the fields outside the living quarters of the College, two former colleagues from other departments approached. Talking with each other they did not notice me. When I casually said hello, they showed no recognition at first and just answered "ah", but then did a “double take”, exclaimed “ah!” and looked as if they had seen a ghost. By that time, however, I had walked on. Later, I learned that as I was missing for nine years, rumors spread several times that I had died by various means. Now, as I drifted back like a phantom, no wonder some found it eerie. Friendships Survive Calamities Not only were classes suspended but there also were no more meetings for political studying. Only the college’s General Affairs staff and administrative workers maintained daily operations; teaching activity had completely ceased. The same two factions were still fighting each other by open or secret means but no longer with violence. There were occasionally Big Character Posters posted. I bought food in the cafeteria and brought it back to my place to eat. Some colleagues met me and said hello. Although they were amazed at my reappearance after nine years and marveled at my wandering North Vietnam for seven years, most were friendly and some liked to chat or even crack jokes. There was no longer the former tension when everyone feared to contact me, nor had I feelings of isolation and tenterhooks. The situation was not the same as nine years before. One day Yang Changwang saw me wearing a thin shirt and told me I could apply for a cottonpadded coat. In the past, such an application had to go through many procedures. I thanked him for his concern but said I could buy one myself. Later I asked someone to give me six feet of cloth coupon and I bought one. I often visited my cousin or chatted with fellow townsmen. Although they were still working, there actually was not much to do. Sometimes I enjoyed a snack with them at the evening market. When talking about some of the horrific things of years past, they said, "It's better you went away." In those years the Big Character Posters falsely charged me having of "counter revolutionary ties" with Professor Wei Jiechen. How was he now? I asked a colleague privately. He told me that Professor Wei was vindicated and had resumed work some time ago. Some provincial and municipal leaders visited him for treatments; even those who had denounced and struggled against him most fiercely called him now respectfully “Uncle Wei, Uncle Wei.” One day in the cafeteria I met his wife Aunt Wei by chance. Although surprised, she invited me to their home. There Professor Wei told me that he was arrested and imprisoned for several years, and was tortured, beaten, forced to kneel on gravel, etc. In short, he thanked God for not dying. In the late 1970s, Professor Wei resumed teaching graduate students. After I immigrated to the Unites States, he asked me to find someone who would accept one of his students to study abroad under a grant funded by the Chinese government. At my request, a professor of ophthalmology at UCLA agreed. Unfortunately, another student with more powerful political support in China was selected instead and the original student was unable to come to the United States. Fortunately, during a reception in Kunming Medical College for U.S. visiting scholars, Professor Wei took the opportunity to ask one of the visitors to assist the graduate student to study in the United States. Before I went to the United States, Professor Wei hosted a farewell dinner and warmly invited my parents (who had immigrated to the United States already) for a reunion and to take a tour of Dunhuang, site of the famous Mogao Caves. Later my father told me he could have skipped the Dunhuang tour but really had wanted to see his former classmate Wei. However, my father then was more than 80 and concerned that a long-distance flight with one transfer might be too much for him. So he reluctantly declined. I received a letter from an old classmate living in Canada, saying, "I have heard many rumors about your life and death; now confirming that you are still alive, I feel relief.” Soon I got a letter from another friend, also saying that after missing me for many years, now he was happy to learn I had returned to Kunming Medical College safely. My brother-in-law Dr. Chen who was a physician at a community hospital in Guangzhou told me a man suddenly entered his consulting room and asked: "Where is Zeng Qing Si now?" Dr. Chen, a bit startled, replied: "Well, he is at Kunming Medical College." The man exclaimed, "Oh!" and then departed. From Dr. Chen’s description I immediately thought it might be my intimate classmate Liu Tai. After I immigrated to the United States, I visited Liu Tai during a trip to New York. He remembered our friendship and said he was relieved to learn that I was alive and back in Kunming. Because he knew me well, he was sure I would face no serious problems. I was very grateful for the concern of these friends, and also felt very lucky that I had escaped from the calamity. Unfortunately, some familiar faces of old colleagues had disappeared. One was Professor Zhu Xihou. He was a "Label-removed rightist" and was also the object of the Big Character Poster siege. Where was he now? I worried if he had been able to survive the crazy times. After careful inquiry, I learned he was sent somewhere in the north of Jiangsu Province during the so called "war readiness evacuation" in 1969. After the Cultural Revolution he was finally transferred to Hangzhou University in his hometown after many hardships. I wrote a letter to him: "I am pleased to learn that Professor Zhu is still alive and felt relieved (I apologize for the offense of such disrespectful words. Since I returned to Medical College, I have received two letters from my friends saying that they are relieved after learning that I am still alive)......" Professor Zhu quickly replied, "I am very pleased to receive your letter, as if a generation had passed......." I also recalled certain other classmates and friends, wondering what happened to them in the crazy calamity. One was an intimate classmate in Beijing Medical College, a man with a naturally even temper, always smiling, and liking to play harmonica. Sadly, he was driven to suicide early in the Cultural Revolution, which shocked and depressed me. How about other friends? Should I try writing to them? But considering my own plight and not knowing their situations, I could see how writing might cause trouble. So, I decided, better not to write. I composed a ragged verse to express my mood at that time: Want to write a friend but stop 1975 Having parted from intimate classmate for years, I would like to write him to recall our former times. However, considering the continual political purge campaigns for many years, and the unjust, false and erroneous cases happened one after another; everyone was in danger, and any unpredictable event might happen, I did not know his recent situation: Could he still drag out an ignoble existence as a man, or had he fallen in the ruse and became a slave, or did he even die on a false charge and became a ferocious ghost?

Each time I took my pen, an alarm emerged immediately. I hesitated, and finally threw the pen away. It should be prosperous in your young and strong age, Unexpectedly there are so many wrongs in the evil time; I have taken up my pen several times but alarm emerged: Are you still a man, or slave, or even a ferocious ghost? Hepatitis and Farm Labor Before returning to the Medical College, I had often felt pain in the liver area. Later a liver function test showed high GPT (an enzyme related to the liver function), which required regular follow-up. Once I went to the hepatitis clinic of the First Affiliated Hospital. Walking into the consulting room I found Dr. Rao who was the head. She and I had studied together in the amateur English advanced classes of the Medical School before the Cultural Revolution. We had been acquainted but were not close friends. Dr. Rao glanced at me with a flicker of recognition. Looking down at my medical record, she commented, "Zeng Qing Si? The name is so familiar! Which unit are you in?" I replied casually, "The 3rd Construction" (the Third Provincial Construction Company). She didn't look up but just whispered, "No." I expected she might soon remember me. Asking nothing further, she wrote a prescription and a sick leave certificate for one week. Soon after, Yang Changwang, the director of personnel, informed me: "The Party committee decided you must go to the Medical College Farm." I explained that my health was not good, the liver function abnormal. I showed the lab report and the sick leave certificate to him. Yang continued, “You can rest for some time and then go. The farm will not arrange you to do heavy work; you can also come back to see a doctor regularly.” The farm was not the place I wanted to be, so I dragged my feet. Finally, after several reminders, I realized I had no choice. So I lightly packed my bag, leaving a few items in the lab as a "stash", and then went to the farm in the school truck. The College Farm was in Xundian County, a few hours drive from Kunming. The farm was the product of the Supreme Directive “Be also worker and peasant” in the Cultural Revolution. The faculty, staff as well as students took turns participating in labor. Now there were only a few people left there; occasionally staff members went for short-term labor. I was assigned to patrol the corn fields several times a day. It was not hard work. The most inconvenient thing was that I had no daily mail delivery and had to wait for the college truck, usually once a week. Meals were simpler than those at the college. Farm managers were from General Affairs and were peaceful toward me. Late one afternoon I was returning from patrol. Not far from the corner of the office, I spotted a peasant boy stealing cabbage from the vegetable field. He already had cut several heads and stowed them in baskets. I had never played a "catching thief" role, so was nervous and rebuked him in an unnaturally low voice. The boy looked up and turned pale with fright. He tried to get up but reeled and almost fell. When he finally stood, shivering, he quickly dumped the cabbages from the two baskets, afraid to speak or run. I walked over and said: "You should not be doing this!" The boy continued to stare in panic. I picked up a cabbage, tossed it in his basket, and motioned him to go quickly. Not expecting this and remaining frozen in fear, the boy finally recovered himself. As if being granted amnesty, he grabbed the baskets and quickly flew away. I noticed that he was running the wrong way, not toward the farm exit. When I yelled at him to change course, he glanced back but, apparently not understanding me, continued forward and disappeared in the blink of an eye. Xundian County was in a mountainous area with few farming fields and was known for its poverty. It was said to have been used as a Communist guerrilla base in the past. But after the Communist Party took power, the lives of the local people saw no improvement. Later, Wang San, a handyman at the College, told me the following story: One winter during the Cultural Revolution, Wang San went to the farm with Du Fen, the old dean of the Medical College, to graze three cows. They saw a woman also grazing a cow nearby. It was unclear at first sight if she was a child or an adult. Thin, dark, and gaunt in appearance, she wore a shabby sweatshirt reaching to her thighs, with no trousers underneath. She kept pulling down the sweatshirt with her hands and was shivering with cold. When she approached with her cow, Wang San chatted with her. She said she was 18 years old and lived with her sick old mother. Both her sister and brother were married and had children, but were only able to support their own families. So she exchanged her cloth coupon with others for food. Anyway, she did not have money to buy clothes. Wang San lamented to me: “So many years after liberation, this was the former revolutionary base, but is still as poor as ever!” Maybe there were words in his and my heart that we dared not say: What was the point of such a "revolution"? I was on the farm for a few months but returned several times to the Medical College for followups on my hepatitis. The liver function index remained high, and each time I got a certificate for sick leave of one week; so I asked not to go to the farm again. Regardless, I no longer went to the farm. Instead, I visited the library, or went shopping, or to chat with my cousin and fellow townsmen, or to see the Big Character Posters, which by now were rare and mainly in the department stores. The poster contents still portrayed the two factions slamming each other. In fact, the Medical College remained semi-paralyzed. Sometimes when I encountered Director Yang Changwang, he would urge me to return to the farm, but he did not insist. End of Mao and the ‘Gang of Four’ One morning in September 1976, as I walked past the college’s main building, the loudspeaker blared out that there would be important news announced at 10 o'clock that day; everyone was required to listen at the office or at home. I was surprised and puzzled until I encountered one of my former students. He had been a favored one of the revolutionary rebel factions, but now was a surgeon at the First Affiliated Hospital. After greeting me he whispered: "Chairman Mao has passed away." My heart burst in ecstasy. But after all these years of caution, I knew I still must remain calm, so in a low voice I simply replied: "Really?" then walked away calmly as if nothing had happened. It was 8:30. I turned and quietly walked to the street and bought two pieces of "high class cake" (the high-priced food introduced by the government to "retrieve folk currency") - crisp peanut cake and crisp walnut cake, a bottle of soda (I did not drink alcohol), and went back to my sleeping lab, locked the door, closed the window, and then sat quietly waiting for 10 o’clock At exactly 10 o’clock the broadcast began. I lifted the cup, took a long breath, and drank soda while eating the cake. It was truly refreshing to enjoy the roundabout heavy dirge, and quietly savor this unforgettable moment. Longing for the stars and longing for the moon, now we got them. After wrecking the country and bringing calamity to a whole people, I was tempted to imagine the arch- criminal of iniquities finally meeting his devil master. How many Chinese people with consciences were excited to cheer this moment from their hearts, although they still dared not express it? During the catastrophic decade of the Cultural Revolution, I spent all my days in fear and desperation, but there also had been three happy times - very happy times: The first time was when I learned that my wife Yu Ou had successfully fled to Hong Kong. The second time was when I received a letter from Third brother saying that he successfully fled to Hong Kong. The third time was now and ongoing! Thanks and praise to God. During the days that followed, whenever I walked out of the lab I was careful to put on a sad face. I had no doubt many of my colleagues also were feigning to mourn. After all, Mao had taught the Chinese people how to act. Now, to the four "Greats" should be added one more - a Great Director of play. Just a month later, I visited Li Huang’s home. Teacher Huang seemed unable to conceal her inner excitement and couldn't wait to say, "Zeng, did you see the Big Character Posters outside?" "What’s up?" "Jiang Qing and her cabal were arrested!" "Oh?" I burst into a shout, hardly believing my ears that Madame Mao, a villain of the Cultural Revolution, was behind bars. The news spread quickly. The Medical College posted cheering posters, and soon the broadcast rang out: Wang Hongwen, Zhang Chunqiao, Jiang Qing, and Yao Wenyuan, the "Gang of Four", had been ferreted out. The charge was very odd: "opposing Chairman Mao". For many days, newspapers, radio, posters blotted out the sky and covered the earth. Years of resentment now were transformed to a carnival-like atmosphere throughout the country. Newspapers reported that residents of Beijing and other cities rushed to buy crabs, particularly specifying orders of three males and one female. "Just look calmly at the crab, see how long it had run amok!" - This old proverb was verified and spread on the largest scale. Even shameless hack writers who had previously nauseatingly flattered Madame Mao, immediately trimmed their sails to the political winds, grandly proclaiming a newfound condemnation of her. Many Chinese began to cherish a new hope, even a great expectation, and revealed it more or less openly in their conversation. But there were still many who were cautious not to reveal such feelings, myself included. There was popular reference to the Gang of Four, although everybody knew that the so-called Gang of Four actually was "four" or "five". Even later at the trial, Jiang Qing admitted frankly: "I was Chairman Mao's dog, just bit whomever Mao ordered me to bite.” Jiang Qing later received a suspended death sentence. By that time I had returned to the Department of Physiology. At a session of political study someone complained indignantly, "Is China abolishing the death penalty?" One day I joined fellow townsmen for a chat at Chen Hong’s home. Chen Hong was born into a poor and lower-middle peasant family. Admitted to a secondary technical school of Yunnan, after graduation he was assigned to a factory as a technician. According to popular political jargon at that time, he was "root upright and seedlings red", but he had his own views on major issues. He cynically remarked, "Don't you think it is strange? A counterrevolutionary prisoner is sentenced to suspended death, but her husband is not regarded as a "counterrevolutionary family member" to be condemned, but instead to be worshiped in the Mourning Hall!" Another fellow named Ou Rong said, "Things will be changed a bit, but will be hard to change a lot, because the system remains there." What he meant was that the downfall of Gang of Four was but the consequence of factional strife among the high-level powers. Later developments proved what he said, and I admired his prophetic vision. In the following two years, Hua Guofeng, the chosen successor of Mao, shouted two "Whatevers": "Whatever Chairman Mao advocated, we must adhere to it; whatever......,” thus continuing to worship Mao’s specter and clinging to the "class struggle". Later the previously disfavored Deng Xiaoping resurfaced in the political arena and squelched Hua Guofeng. In October 1978, the "People's Daily" editorial proclaimed: "Practice is the sole criterion for testing truth." I later realized that this actually sounded the eulogy of the Mao era. Deng Xiaoping took the lead in criticism of Mao. Deng’s historic step to thoroughly criticize Mao came like a thunder storm, inspiring everyone. But before popular expectations grew too great, Deng slammed on the brakes by saying, "We should not continue to criticize Mao, otherwise it would lead to criticizing ourselves." Instead, he put forward the "four adhere to": Adhere to the Party's leadership, adhere to the socialist road, adhere to this, and adhere to that. People were greatly disappointed. I remember the responses of several fellow townsmen. One said: "See, the political system has not changed." The other said: "It still has to be the same!" I thought to myself: Just like a "conjoined twins" of an embryonic malformation, it’s difficult for officials to cut apart the system; otherwise it might endanger their lives. At last the Cultural Revolution was officially defined as a "national calamity" and was completely repudiated. I had a short-lived illusion: Since I was a direct victim of the national calamity, how should I be re-evaluated? But I was quickly disabused of my wishful thinking. The fact was obvious: The Cultural Revolution was condemned as a national calamity, but the initiator, the evil arch-criminal, was still enshrined as a god, and a mourning hall was built for his disciples and followers of blind devotion to worship him, so his doctrine would still be regarded as a revered principle. Wasn’t that absurd? With the ghost of Mao not scattered but still floating around, the “national calamity” would be coyly disguised under the new name of “turmoil”. The time of shame now had a ridiculous new moniker. Criticizing Mao remained taboo, but Mao’s "class struggle as a guide" was repudiated and a series of related policies gradually were shelved. The new measures were more pragmatic. People could finally breathe a sigh of relief. With the Cultural Revolution at an end, I tried to see how some good could come from this unprecedented calamity. It seemed that the only good benefit was a thorough exposure: From the tyrant all the way down to the minions, the evil spirits had jumped out one after another and thoroughly exposed their prototypes. The inevitable result of this thorough exposure would trigger an awakening among the Chinese people, causing them to reflect and and explore a new road. Despite the corpus being still in the Mourning Hall, the ghost of Mao was not scattered and significant resistance to change remained, but the common aspiration of the Chinese people and the positive historical trend would be triumphant. China had hope and I had confidence. In the following years, the political climate appeared alternately warm and cold. I still experienced many twists and turns. Interrogation in Solitary Confinement Hua Guofeng touted his two “Whatevers” and continued to run amok with the class struggle. A new bout of capricious power struggles erupted between Beijing and local authorities. While the winners took all, the losers were always in the wrong. When the winners came down on their opponents, they used the so-called "cow demons and snake spirits" and "five categories" as excuses to flaunt their "revolution" and strengthen their momentum. Following a burst of propaganda and with the situation growing tenser, Yang Changwang directed me to the auditorium. Following Yang, I sat near the side door. Several persons were standing on the stage bowing their heads, guarded from behind by militia with guns. After the reading of a slew of charges against them, they were handcuffed and removed amidst a frantic voicing of slogans. Yang then gestured me to leave with him. On our way out Yang informed me: "The Party committee decided you are to be interrogated in solitary confinement."

I was somewhat surprised, yet not shocked, and just quietly followed him. Yang took me to a compartment in a microbiology lab in the main building. The exterior of the compartment was guarded by two militiamen from the College affiliated factory. I was deprived of freedom of movement once again! Interrogation no longer frightened me, as it had happened so often before. The question was how they would handle it. Running into the high tide of a political campaign, I might become a sacrificial victim. They might give me a political "hat" or “label”, or send me to "labor education", or whatever. I could only resign myself to the authority’s order. What an unpredictable cold spell in the late spring this was! The procedure of so-called "interrogation in solitary confinement" was to humble someone by having them write a confession, and make a self-criticism and self-derogation, all sort of officialese. I picked up a pen and wrote without making a draft. I marked "not drafting" on the paper which I formally submitted. I had long been accustomed to writing such things. Regarding my events of fleeing to Hong Kong I mentioned only the two which had actual results, but omitted those that were aborted. The next day, two members of the interrogation team interviewed me; one of them named Jie was a Party member in charge of xx Department; the other one might have been a newcomer. They sat across the table facing me. I was not sure if it was intentional or not, but they put a piece of paper on the table and calmly asked me what else I wanted to add. Catching a glimpse of what was written, I could see it was about Aunt Zhou contacting the Haifeng fisherman and being exposed by the blind fortune teller. I immediately admitted all that and wrote a supplement. That they offered such a hint was totally different from previous interrogations which had been threatening, intimidating or "squeezing toothpaste" types. Perhaps because I had always been in peace and had few conflicts with colleagues "Goodness will have a good reward". However, was this possible in the past? Now, after the Cultural Revolution, Mao Zedong's "relentless strike and cruel struggle" had been losing favor. A trace of warmth emerged in my cold heart. Later I was called in for further questioning. I was asked how I could so easily muddle through twice after being held at Xingning Detention Center. I saw no need to conceal anything and just explained what had happened. A member of the interrogation team, whom I remembered as the Party member in charge of General Affairs, said, "I know, I had been in Xingning during the Anti-Japanese War, where it was mountain area with less farming field, many people went out to make a living. After the liberation many people fled to Hong Kong. Fleeing to Hong Kong is not rare there." His remarks might make the others feel that Zeng Qing Si fleeing Hong Kong was influenced by the local environment. This, of course, could make me appear less personally culpable for my actions. Once again I wrote a confession (Later I knew it was the last time), at the end adding frankly: "I admit that escape was wrong, but I do not regret it. Because if I didn't escape, what would I be now: injured, disabled, or anything worse, who knows?" - This was really a subtle protest. Could anyone come up with facts to refute me? Once again I was deprived of freedom while in solitary confinement. Except for writing my confession, I had plenty of spare time. A set of "Selected Works of Mao Zedong" was prominently displayed, but actually I read books of Traditional Chinese Medicine, taking notes as I did so. They dared not prohibit this because TCM was acknowledged as traditional heritage. Before solitary confinement, I had been making extensive notes on the relationship between TCM and modern medical science. While in solitary, not knowing what might come next, I took every possible opportunity to write and often wrote late into the night, hoping to finish quickly. The militiamen never interfered. In fact, they were very friendly, sometimes chatting with me and exclaiming that I knew five foreign languages (I was only able to read them in medical literature), and had published an article in the national first-class medical journal, thus showing respect for me. Several times the militiamen consulted me about medicine, and one requested that I examine his youngster. Whenever I had a letter or money order from my parents in the mail room, they quickly brought it. Occasionally when I asked them to buy a snack outside, they were happy to help. Was this even possible in the past? After the Cultural Revolution, people's choice of “pro or con” had been somewhat changed and was evident even in small things. On one occasion, the head of the Armed Forces of the College (in charge of militia), a pompous official with a few strands of hair on his scarred head, came in with grand gestures for inspection. Seeing the TCM books on the desk, he reprimanded me with a stony face: "Study more of Chairman Mao’s works!" I ignored him. Anyway, Mao’s works already were displayed on the desk. A possible power struggle among authorities caused the situation to suddenly become tense. All my incoming and outgoing letters now had to be inspected beforehand. The militia guards carried rifles; when I wanted to refill my drinking water in the campus boiler room, an armed guard escorted me. Once as I started for water, the militiaman said, “You can go by yourself.” But I replied, "Yes, I can go by myself and I won't run away. But if I were seen with no escort, that might not be good for you." The guard saw my point and accompanied me with his rifle. Several times I was with a group under supervision ordered to labor on campus, often cleaning latrines. While several armed militiamen stood guard outside, we went in, swept first, and then flushed feces accumulated in the trough into the manure tank, stinking to high heaven, flies flying. Even more disgusting were maggots in the fecal trough and bloody menstrual paper discarded everywhere. Anyway, this was a rare experience in my life’s journey! One day, a member of the interrogation team said two visitors wanted to see me. Who were they, and what could be the matter? Following him to a small conference room, I found two fellow townsmen, Chen Luwen and Ouyang, the former a technician of the Provincial Third Construction unit, the latter an engineer of the Provincial Design Institute. They greeted me joyfully, "Nice to see you!" Making no further conversation, they handed me two boxes of moon cakes and cookies that had been opened for inspection, and then said good-bye. I was deeply moved and happy. After all the years of "class struggle every day", "draw clearly the line between ourselves and the enemy", and “disown all relatives”, they were not afraid of being implicated and had gone directly to the Interrogation Office to register to visit me. Such courage and personal loyalty were definitely unusual. Speaking with them about it later, they said: "What fear for? We are born with good family origin, and know that you won't have any problem." Once again I was reminded there were people who were decent, had their own thoughts, and were not easily distorted by pressure and propaganda. During this period of solitary confinement, the attitudes of the militia guard and some members of the interrogation team, as well as many other signs, revealed to me that the "official" and "people" also now marched to a different tune. In the past, even if this were the case, nobody dared to show it. A few days later, the lead militia guard, who was always friendly, escorted me to refill my drinking water. He suddenly told me, "They will let you out soon." I was surprised and asked, "How do you know?" He did not explain, only saying, "Yes." The very next day, the Interrogation Team informed me that my solitary confinement was lifted. Because classes had begun, I could no longer sleep in the lab. A member of the Security Office took me to a dormitory. My roommate was still in “labor education” in the countryside, leaving a small table assembled from wooden planks. There was also a pair of bunk beds. I decided to sleep on the lower bunk, so laid my books and clothes on the upper bunk. It felt good to be a step up from sleeping in the lab.

Labor on the Campus

The Security Office assigned me to assist Wang San the handyman to plant flowers and trees and do odd jobs. Although I was just released from solitary confinement and was forced to “labor under surveillance”, Wang San called me Teacher Zeng and was very friendly. In the past, rightists or the “five categories” were always shouted at and scolded like dogs. Now people's ideas had changed. In fact, no matter whether I was on the farm or in solitary confinement, I didn't find that people looked down on me, but instead mostly sympathized. I myself also felt no sense of inferiority. I had never acknowledged in my heart that I had been wrong or shameful. Certainly there were some who were hostile to me, but I pitied their ignorance and gave them as little attention as possible. One day, I asked Wang San, “Why are the Four Season Gardens so ruined”? Wang San sighed, "After the death of Huang Shaoxian, nobody takes care of them." Huang Shaoxian, the former gardener, had kept the gardens blooming with spring-like color the year around. "Huang Shaoxian died?" I asked with surprise. "Died," Wang San said not without sadness. He explained: "When the Great Cultural Revolution 'purifying the class ranks' (1968-69, when I was forced to flee to North Vietnam), the Red Guards and “revolutionary masses” alleged he was a rich peasant, hung him upside down, and beat him to death one midnight." Wang San continued, "In fact, Huang was a poor boy. His parents died during the War of Resistance against Japanese Aggression when he was a teenager. Alone and destitute, wandering about Kunming, a suburban nursery owner took him in. Huang was diligent and hard-working, so the nursery owner recruited him to be a son-in-law. However, he became a son-in-law at an unlucky time that not even a fortune teller could predict. Before long Kunming was ‘liberated.’ His father-in-law and family had worked hard to grow flowers with piss and s--t throughout the year, and had hired someone for odd jobs at the busy season. This was regarded as exploitation and his father-in-law was classified as a rich peasant. So Huang Shaoxian became son-in-law of a rich peasant. When denouncing and struggling against Huang, his persecutors said that he planted poppies in the campus flowerbeds to extract opium. In fact, that kind of poppy was not the kind that produced opium*. Really, who would dare to plant opium poppies on the campus? However, when they were struggling against you, how could you be allowed to defend yourself?" -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- – * That kind of poppy is different from the opium poppy. It may be similar to California poppy, Eschscholzia California, which grows all over the hills north of Los Angeles. Many flower enthusiasts flock there during March and April each year. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- – I was horrified and deeply saddened to learn of this. I could mentally picture that premature aging, gray haired, wrinkle faced and tongue-tied middle-aged man working on the campus all year round regardless of the severely cold winter or intensely hot summer. I recalled the various bright and eye-catching flowers growing in the Four Season Gardens; numerous graft balls attached to different trees; eucalyptuses on both sides of the main road of the campus standing tall and straight; the bushes between them tidy and lush. What kind of people would strike a vicious blow to such a hard-working and honest person? Where was justice? Two years later, the College Party Committee announced the government policy regarding investigation and vindication of unjust, false and abusive killing cases in the Cultural Revolution, but added that cases of those belonging to the "five categories" were not included. Therefore, a case like Huang Shaoxian (son-in-law of a member of the "five categories") being mutilated to death, was considered no worse than killing a dog. This was the "government policy"! I felt extremely sad and indignant. Were there still no right and justice in this society? If I could not manage to leave in the future, would the next victim be me as the political campaigns came one after another? Wang San liked to drink tea and chat in my dormitory when we took a break. Although not well educated, he had intuitive views on many things, so-called “fairness is in the heart”. Once he talked about Yang Likun, the protagonist in the movie “Five Golden Flowers”, a beautiful and kind-hearted girl tortured and beaten mad: "Damn it saying that she was feudal, capitalist and revisionist, what’s the business with her? Jealousy is true!" He told many stories about brutal torture, abusive killing, and fierce factional fighting in past years, as well as various methods of execution which made one's hair stand on end: One method was to insert an oiled bamboo stick under a fingernail and then ignite it, threatening to repeat this on a different finger each day. Soon the victim ran a high fever and went mad, clutching his fingers and screaming, "Don’t burn! Don't burn!" Another method involved inserting a dry twig into the belly fat and igniting it for an effect known as "burning sky lantern". Others included inflicting numerous cuts and bruises, then taking the victim up a mountain, stuffing him into an empty gasoline barrel, sprinkling the inside with lime, and then rolling it downhill. I had heard of such horrors many times in Vietnam and in detention centers after returning to China. But the descriptions were not as straightforward as Wang San told me. Later when I visited the "People Visiting Office" in the Municipal Police Bureau and the Provincial Office for Overseas Chinese Affairs regarding my application for emigration, I also saw people who were wounded or disabled in the Cultural Revolution. On my “confession” written during solitary confinement, I wrote "I don't regret to flee abroad.” It was really an expression of grief and helpless protest. The facts were vivid, blood and tears. Who could say that I was wrong? Miao Ancheng and Li Zong-en Wang San told me to move a pair of bunk beds from Miao Ancheng’s home to the student dormitory. Miao lived in a suite in the general staff dormitory; like his neighbors, he set up a small hen house outside the door. The suite’s interior was less than 20 square meters, separated into front and rear rooms. In the front room there were a table and a few benches or stools, the corner was piled up with odds and ends; in the rear room was a bed, and a pair of bunk beds occupied previously by their children. Wang San and I together lifted the bunk beds and put them on a tricycle. He rode and I steadied the load as we proceeded to the student dormitory. Miao Ancheng was a member of a large family in Yunnan. His parents and grandparents were engaged in business and trade in France and the United States. Miao was born in France, grew up in the United States and obtained a medical doctorate. After returning to China, he served as the Director of Health Bureau of Yunnan Province in the Kuomintang era. When Mao Zedong came to power in 1949, all Miao’s family members fled abroad, but he believed the assurances from Communist Party's United Front and stayed to serve the new government. Miao was assigned to the Medical College to teach microbiology. In 1956 during the "eliminating counterrevolutionary campaign" he was labeled a "historical counterrevolutionary", but remained protected by the United Front. In 1957 during the “free airing the views”, after repeated assurances and persuasion from Party committee members, Miao carefully wrote an innocuous Big Character Poster. Regardless, it was proclaimed that "Miao Ancheng has always hostile sentiments" and he was labeled "ultra-rightist". After several rounds of denouncement and struggling, he was sent to a quarry to crush stone. Rain or shine, in billowing dust, Miao was required to complete a quota regardless of back and arm pain. He suffered this for a couple of years. Wang San told me a story from that time: Miao's younger brother came from the United States to visit him. In those years such an event was rare. When his brother arrived, the college authority sent someone to fetch Miao Ancheng. When the younger brother saw Ancheng wearing a broken straw hat, a patched faded blue jacket, ill-fitting pants, and a pair of dirty broken sneakers revealing a toe, he couldn't help but cry on the spot. Later Miao was transferred to the library for cataloging. I recalled an experience with Miao before the Cultural Revolution: The Medical College had organized in-service English study for teachers and physicians. I participated in the advanced class. There Mr. Miao gave a full lecture in English without Chinese interpretation; the students answered also in English. He taught two evenings a week. During the day he worked in the library. Years later, his uncle Miao Yuntai returned to China, arriving in Beijing. Formerly a celebrity in Yunnan, this time the uncle came to invest in construction of the gas pipeline system in Kunming. This was a big event, and the prestige of Miao Ancheng suddenly soared. The Medical College authority hurriedly sent Wang San and another worker to clean Miao’s suite. They removed the hen house, painted the walls, and moved a set of sofas from the reception room of the dean's office to Miao’s small front room. After a day of hard work, Miao’s suite had an entirely new appearance. Then it was learned that Miao’s uncle would not visit Kunming after all. So it was necessary to move the sofas back to the Dean’s office right away. However, the removed hen house was to be rebuilt by Miao Ancheng himself! In the early 1980's, Miao Ancheng died of peritoneal mesothelioma - a tumor of high malignancy. Its development is related to the inhalation of stone dust. I first was assigned to Kunming Medical College in 1960. I met two scholarly older men in the library who kindly helped as I searched for the original version of French and German journals. One of them was Miao Ancheng, and the other was rightist Li Zong-en who was well-known far and wide. Li's experience was similarly lamentable. He was dean of the internationally renowned Peking Union Medical College, a member of British Royal Society of Medicine and a tropical disease specialist. In 1957 Li was labeled "rightist" and sent to Kunming Medical College. Before working in the library, his job was to cut grass and feed the rabbits for experimental use. He used to wear a big straw hat, hold a bamboo basket and a sickle, squat on the campus lawn to cut grass, and then bring it to the animal house to feed eight rabbits. At that time, some wags at the Medical College circulated a mathematical calculation supposed to be a joke, but not considered funny by many: Li had been one of the very few super grade professor approved by the State Council, with a monthly salary of 500 yuan (the monthly salary of a college graduate was 46 yuan for the first year). After being labeled rightist, he was reduced to a first grade professor, with a monthly salary of 360 yuan. Therefore someone calculated: 360 divided by 8, equaled the 45 yuan cost to raise a rabbit per month, also equivalent to the monthly salary of a college graduate. In less than a month, two rabbits died, so the feeding cost of each rabbit increased to 60 yuan per month, which was 4 yuan more than the monthly salary of 56 yuan for those old assistants or physicians who were graduated more than 10 or 20 years! Li Zong-en later suffered from myocardial infarction, a form of heart attack. It was said that the hospital’s relevant department had "excavated" an ethnic minority herb which might be effective for myocardial infarction. Li was subjected to a trial but nevertheless lost his life. Li allegedly had requested to be cremated three days after his death, because after the heartbeat and the respiration stopped, other organs and cells died gradually, and the pain center - the thalamus - was completely dead in three days. However, the authority sneered, "A big scientist is still superstitious!" Li was cremated on the day of death. So this internationally renowned scholar came to a tragic end. It was said that the British Royal Society of Medicine specially sent a message of condolence. There were many other rumors about Li Zong-en’s death, here omitted. Labor: Making the Best of It The Medical College organized one day to help a commune with the harvest. I was directed to participate as part of the General Affairs Section. We were assigned to clean up the sunning ground. Not knowing we were supposed to bring our own tools, I was embarrassed after I showed up emptyhanded.

Thankfully, barber Pan of the college-affiliated barber shop loaned me a shovel, and he cooperated with another person to help us turn the soil, relieving my difficulty. At lunchtime barber Pan invited me to eat with him. He gave me a pickled cucumber, explaining that it was a traditional food in his hometown and was very crisp and delicious. His friendliness was appreciated because I had just been released from the solitary confinement; many people were wary and afraid to associate with me. Barber Pan did not fear implication or what others might say, which I found really commendable. Later I went to Pan for a haircut, took a number and waited to be called. When Pan finished with his previous customer, he ignored the numbers and called me right away. During my haircut Pan liked talking with me in Cantonese. He said he had learned hairdressing as a teenager and knew that the German Double Arrow brand razor was best; all other brands including those from the Soviet Union were far behind. A few years later, I went abroad via Hong Kong, searched several shops to find a West German Double-Arrow razor, and bought it for 200 Hong Kong dollars, 10 times higher than other brands. I then sent it to my good friend barber Pan. There were two students, Shao and Qiu, who joined us in labor under Wang San. They were socalled “the worker, peasant and soldier students” and had studied three years in college. But they had ended up "on the wrong side (faction)" in the Cultural Revolution and had "made mistakes", so they were not assigned jobs temporarily. Both were smart and very serious about learning. When we worked together, they often asked me questions regarding medicine and English. We established very good friendships. Qiu had an uncle who was a professor at a university in the United States and had mailed U.S. stamps and a philatelic catalog to Qiu's father. Therefore, Qiu’s father and family were adversely impacted during the Cultural Revolution because of having “overseas relations”. During the fighting between the two factions, Qiu’s brother’s faction captured the headquarters of the opposing faction. From the ferreted files they found Qiu’s brother's name on a list "to be executed" with the charge of "overseas relations". He was very lucky not to be captured by the opposing faction. How many others were not as lucky as him? I bought a can of ground meat with egg but ate only part of it. Private refrigerators then were rare so I could not refrigerate the leftovers. When I returned to the can a couple of days later I didn’t notice the meat had spoiled. A few hours after eating, I began to have colic, vomiting and diarrhea, and profuse sweating, and lay flaccidly on the bed. I knew it was acute bacterial (maybe staphylococcal) food poisoning. If my blood pressure dropped too low, it would be dangerous. Too sick to move, I wondered what to do. Luckily Shao and Qiu came by and, seeing my condition, they ran to the College Infirmary for help. The infirmary called the First Affiliated Hospital. Their two ambulances were on other calls, so they sent a flatbed cart to transport me to the emergency room of the hospital. A doctor checked my blood pressure, only 82 / 50, indicating I was going into shock. After intravenous drip for a couple of hours, my blood pressure gradually rose to the normal range. I had experienced many narrow escapes before and really did not expect another kind of danger like this. Fortunately, my friends Shao and Qiu were there to help me. One day, my supervisor Wang San directed four of us to carry a set of bunk beds, each holding one corner. By chance Song Chen of the General Affairs Section and another person were carrying a table from the opposite direction. As they approached, Song was alarmed by my strained posture. He put down the table, ran over and said, “Teacher Zeng, I'll help you.” I knew Song, but because we worked in different sections, we rarely met. Moreover, very few people had called me Teacher Zeng since the Cultural Revolution. Now when I was in labor under surveillance, it was notable that Song had offered such friendly help to me. That would have been unthinkable in the years when “class struggle was spoken everyday”. Even more remarkable, I recalled that Song was said to be an active Party member and one of the leaders who had called for wind or rain in the Cultural Revolution. It seemed that the Cultural Revolution’s negative influence was ebbing as people began to awaken and gradually recover their humanity after the distortions of that era. I had this feeling many times after my contacts with others when I returned to Kunming. Of course, not everyone was like this. My two student friends finally were assigned regular jobs. My job was also changed to sweeping the corridors of the Teaching Buildings. Each time when I prepared to sweep the corridor in front of the Financial Section, a new staff member in his 20s, a tall man who looked friendly, hurried out to sweep that segment of the corridor, as if it should not be swept by me. Later, I was assigned to sweep the campus road and basketball courts. I put on old but clean clothes, wore a bamboo hat, and began to work exactly at eight o’clock, as was my habit. I started by sweeping the floor in front of the Main Building. Occasionally some colleague passing by stopped to talk with me or make a joke. One day while I swept before the Main Building, old Dean Du Fen saw me and slowly approached. With a sympathetic expression, he asked, "Are you okay?" "Good. Thank you," I answered in a low voice. The old dean nodded and slowly walked away. Du Fen was an expert of gynecology and obstetrics who studied in France in his early years and return to run a well-known maternity hospital in Kunming. After “liberation” the government took over his hospital and let him serve as nominal dean of the Medical School, but with no authority. He was optimistic and didn’t let that bother him. In the early period after liberation, the government issued bonds and allocated 30,000 (old currency 300 million) yuan to the Medical College. The wages of the faculty and staff were not high and the share allotted to each person was quite a hardship. Dean Du couldn’t bear to see this, so he offered to contribute half the total amount from his own savings. However, later in the many political campaigns his generous offer was turned against him. He was accused of maliciously debasing the faculty and staff's patriotic enthusiasm in an effort to win the hearts of the people. During the Cultural Revolution he and other "reactionary academic authorities" were confined to the “bullpen”, subjected to forced labor and written confessions. His persecutors hung a heavy board of a dozen kilograms on his neck, forced him to kneel to be denounced and struggled, and then paraded. After the Cultural Revolution he was restored as dean but only occasionally went to the office. He retired before I went abroad. One day I started sweeping the floor in front of the Main Building at eight o’clock as usual. The deputy secretary of the Party Committee Zhu ran up and nervously yelled, "Zeng Qing Si, go away to other places to sweep!" It turned out that there were foreign guests visiting. I calmly walked away, thinking: You were so nervous, worried about my sweeping being seen by foreign guests. But I did not think my sweeping was a shame, nothing disreputable – Who should be shamed? One Sunday, fellow townsman Chen Luwen (one of the two who visited me during my solitary confinement) came, saying that he had borrowed a camera. He asked me to put on the frayed clothes I wore at labor, don the bamboo hat, hold the broom and go to sweep the campus road. Then he would take a few pictures as a memoir of my current treatment. This was a rare opportunity and I was tempted to cooperate. However, I was afraid if I were seen I could be charged with "attempting to launch counterattack". So I suggested that we do it secretly on a weekday. But Chen said he had to return the camera that evening, so we gave up the idea. I still regret missing such a good opportunity and failing to "put this on record". I led a friend to the Second Affiliated Hospital to see a doctor. There I heard someone call, "Teacher Zeng!" It turned out to be my former student Li X. She came over and greeted me warmly: "Teacher Zeng, do you remember me?" I recalled her immediately. In those days when I asked questions in the class, she always answered clearly and methodically. I smiled and said, "Sure! A teacher usually remembers the students of two ends: the best and the worst.” Then I jokingly said, "You were one among the worst, so I remember!" Li giggled. She already knew the story of my wandering in North Vietnam, and also knew that now I was sweeping the floor. She did not regard it as right and said, “‘The Gang of Four’ has collapsed, and why should things remain so?" The sense of injustice was revealed in her words. It was said her father was a famous writer, and without exception suffered cruel persecution during the Cultural Revolution. She also got into trouble just because of her father, and was assigned to a remote county after graduation. Now she came back for short-term advanced study. Once I received a letter from a former student, a Party member and the Large Class League branch leader. He sensibly wrote, "We all admire Teacher Zeng’s cultivation. Let the right and wrong of the past be gone. We sincerely hope Teacher Zeng to buoy up, the situation will be getting better; the future is certainly bright.” I was moved and replied to him: "...... Being looked down upon, except for the external factors, is mainly due to not making every effort to succeed.” Then I wrote in bold type: "Strive for progress with determination.” I felt a mild sore throat for several weeks. One day I came across the head of the Otolaryngology Department Dr. Yuan in the doorway of the First Affiliated Hospital. Yuan was also a graduate of Beijing Medical College, two years my senior. He was a quiet man; when I casually talked about my sore throat, he just answered "Oh" with a smile, and immediately took me not to the outpatient section, but directly into his office. There he sat me on a clinic chair in the corner for examination. My throat was very sensitive and when the pharyngoscope approached it would make me nauseous. But he smiled and patiently tried again and again until successful. Then he smiled and said, "Nothing, the mucous membrane is smooth, just a little red. Don’t worry," and wrote a prescription. I was grateful to be so treated as a humble sweeper, “Fairness is in the heart”. This is always true. Nearby as I walked out of Dr. Yuan’s office was a big strong man, barefoot and with a fierce look, who rushed up asking, "Where is Qin Zuoliang?" Qin was head of the Department of Dermatology, a second grade professor. He had come back from the United States in his early years. I hesitated a second and said I did not know. Then another doctor came over and asked the man, "What are you doing?" "I want him to treat my disease." "If you want to see a doctor, just go to the Registration!" The man looked angry and said: "Oh, stinking old ninth, still airs, eh?" "Stinking old ninth" was the address for insulting intellectuals during the Cultural Revolution which was rarely mentioned in these years. Unexpectedly I heard it here again and it sounded particularly harsh. It was not difficult to imagine this man in a thug role at that time; now he still wanted to exercise his former power and prestige. The Department of Anatomy: A Pleasant Place to Work The situation continued to ease. One day the director of the Security Office (rather than the Personnel Office) informed me: "The Party committee decided to transfer you to the Department of Anatomy as a teaching aide." I asked, "Is my problem solved? Is there a conclusion?" He replied coldly that the Party committee was still reviewing. So I said, "Then I won't go until it is resolved." Then he bluntly ordered me: "You should go!" Obviously, the arm could not beat the thigh. So I went to the Department of Anatomy, and continued to receive the same 30 yuan as a monthly living allowance. In the Department of Anatomy were many of my former colleagues, a few recently graduated worker, peasant and soldier students from the college, and a couple of teaching aides who previously were workers in the college’s affiliated factory. All, from the head of the department to teaching aides, were friendly to me. I worked with a senior technician known as Old Li to manage anatomical specimens and prepare teaching materials. The Anatomy Department had a large two-story specimen house at the northwest corner of the Medical College. On the ground floor were three or four corpse ponds where hundreds of cadavers were soaked in formalin. In the passageway was a series of glass cabinets against the wall; inside were many bottles or jars containing organs or limbs soaked in formalin or other fixatives. The second floor, accessed by an outdoor staircase, was a large room with a few rows of wooden shelves on which were placed skeletal specimens. On the floor were two piles of dry bones which had been processed but not yet categorized. For a long time my job was to categorize and register these 206 different types of human bones. I was the only one there to do the job and was under no pressure to hurry. Old Li or others came occasionally to take specimens. I loved this hidden and quiet place which allowed me to steal some time to read books. Once a women came to inspect the hygiene. She saw bones everywhere but did not see me until I suddenly stood up. She screamed and hurried away, never returning for further inspection. Outside the window was a vista of rose fields. Every morning, I loved to look out from the large window and see beautiful roses of endless variety and delicate fragrance. A male singer often practiced among the flowers, bellowing out his repertoire. What a peaceful scene! But I was afraid that the sudden bluster of a thunder storm could easily spoil this Eden and turn it into a hideous mess! Spring Festival approached. One night as I was reading in the dormitory, a man unexpectedly pushed back the curtain (which was several sheets of old newspapers). Reaching in from outside the window, he handed me a piece of paper and said: "The Party branch (to which the Department of Anatomy belonged) decided to give you 30 yuan living supplement. Please sign the receipt." I was momentarily amazed, and replied without thinking, "I don't need it. Thanks.

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