漫步人生

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48楼 蕭振于 2020-03-17 08:39:36

编辑文：

Four bar (prison) provincial prison, usually known as "Fourteen bar", surrounded by mountains on three sides. About 20 cells form a semicircle. There is a row of offices and guard quarters near the exit. The lower floors are kitchens, outdoor showers, etc. My cell phone has a window to the office in the distance. Each cell can hold six prisoners. A few planks were laid on the floor as a place for six people to sleep together. There's a closet at the back, which has a portable toilet and a washing bucket.
Under the front window is a small hole in the wall. I was told to lock the foot of a heavy criminal. Another offender: two long rectangular bars with hinged ends. Two semicircle holes were inserted into each bar from the outside. The prisoner's foot was placed in the hole, and the other end of the column was locked outside. So the prisoner can only sit or lie down. Fortunately, I didn't see anyone locked in my cell. Every morning, a policeman with a prison assistant checks the ward. They opened the door and glanced inside to verify the number of prisoners. Then a prisoner took out the toilet and changed it for one of the clean ones, and also for a bucket of fresh cold water. After drinking, the remaining half of the body is washed with a bucket of water, and each person takes turns to wash every day. The prison assistant was the one who searched me that day. He always has a serious face. Two other Chinese prisoners called him "pig" and said they really wanted to hit him. Shortly after the rounds, we had brunch at about 10 o'clock, including a small bucket of rice, a small bucket of rice

原文：
The Fourteen Bar (Prison)
The provincial prison, generally called the "Fourteen Bar", was surrounded by mountains on three
sides. There were about 20 cells forming a semicircle. Near the exit was a row of rooms for an office
and guards’ dormitory. On a lower level were the kitchen, open air showers and the like. My cell had a
window facing the office in the distance.
Each cell could accommodate six prisoners. A few wooden boards were laid on the floor as a bed
where all six slept side by side. There was a closet in the rear with a portable toilet and a wash bucket.
Under the front window was a small hole in the wall. I was told it was to lock the feet of the felon or
other offender: Two long rectangular poles hinged at the end with two semi-circular holes in each pole
were inserted from outside, the prisoner's feet were placed into the holes, and the other end of the poles
were locked outside. That way the prisoner could only sit or lie down. Fortunately, I saw nobody
locked in my cell.
Every morning a policeman with a jail aide checked the ward. They opened the door, and glanced
inside to verify the number of inmates. Then an inmate took the toilet out and exchanged it for a clean
one, also exchanged and brought in a fresh bucket of cold water. After drinking, the remaining half
bucket of water was used to wash the body and everyone took turns each day.
The jail aide was the man who searched me that day. He always had a stern face and often was
very demanding. The other two Chinese inmates called him "the pig", and said that they really wanted
to beat him up.
Shortly after the ward check, we ate brunch about 10 o'clock, including a small bucket of rice, a
small bucket of boiling water, and a vegetable pot. The inmates allocated the food among themselves.
Each received a full bowl of about 150 to 200 grams of dry rice; the vegetable pot was almost always
boiled spinach. Dinner was around five o'clock. Every other week we had pork, each inmate getting
two pieces of pork about two fingers wide.
It was said that the Vietnamese and Chinese were mixed in most cells. Here “Chinese” referred to
both ethnic Chinese and border-crossed Chinese. Due to the differences in language and custom, the
Vietnamese and Chinese were always divided into two factions and quarreling in their confined space
of a dozen square meters. According to the rule of biology, the interspecific competition is always
higher than the intraspecific competition. Although all human beings are the same species, the rule
seemed to be true for different ethnic factions. Whenever a Vietnamese or Chinese was taken in or out
of a cell, the changed balance of factions would be reflected in meal allocation and other
contradictions.
Meal allocation was the main cause of conflict, and opposition between the two factions was
sharp. I could speak limited Vietnamese and tried to act as peacemaker. After negotiations, we agreed to
take turns, with the one who allocated the meal taking his portion last. This seemed rather fair to all, so
the factional conflict eased somewhat.
The lack of cleanliness connected with bowel movements bothered me. There was no toilet tissue
or any other paper in the prison. Some wrapping paper I had brought in was soon used up. What to do?
The bristles of the broom were not allowed to be pulled out, although I secretly used them once or
twice. A Chinese inmate advised me to ignore the problem which seemed a bit disgusting. Fortunately,
a new Vietnamese prisoner joined us. Our cellmates begged him to share his food, but I was happy to
receive his newspaper.
The weather was hot. Besides taking turns each day to wash our bodies in the remaining half a
bucket of water, we went down to the large open-air shower room next to the kitchen to take a shower
once a week. Everyone had a haircut once a month, done in the cell by a barber prisoner.
There were bedbugs on the wooden boards. Although they were killed with boiling water from
time to time, they could not be eradicated.
Another problem was scabies, and almost everyone was infested. I was very careful to avoid them
but still found a few between my fingers. A Vietnamese inmate had the most serious case of scabies,
with blisters all over the body. He used a needle to pierce them one by one. I advised against it but he
wouldn't listen. He developed a high fever the next day and was sent to the hospital.
I was detained for nearly two months in this prison and, fortunately, did not experience forced
labor, political studies, or criticism, denouncement and struggle. It was said that the labor camps in
other places were quite different, with forced labor, meager food, and abuse or beating commonplace.
That a prison is a microcosm of the outside society is true.
Inquiry
Two days later, I was called for inquiry. The inquirer was the same officer who took me from Tien
Yen to Hon Gai. He began with a set format of questions: name, age and address, but not family
members or social relations. He asked class status. I answered "professional" (my father was a doctor).
He did not understand the term and asked if it meant "bourgeois" or "petty bourgeoisie"? Neither, I
tried to explain to him, but he still did not understand. So I let him write what he pleased.
Afterward, he began asking questions, only occasionally recording my answers. For example:
China was very big, right? Where had you ever been? Was Beijing much bigger than Hanoi? What city
did you live in? Were there many factories? What factories? What hospital did you work in? Who was
the dean? Did you like your hospital? How was the relationship between you and your colleagues?
How much did you earn a month?...... But he asked nothing about the Cultural Revolution or political
issues.
His questions continued: How many years had you been in Vietnam? Where had you been? You
did heal a lot of patients, right? How many patients the most a day? If you continued to be a doctor in
Vietnam, where would you like to practice medicine: in Hanoi, Haiphong, or in towns or countryside?
Did you have many friends? Who were the best ones? Did you like to make Vietnamese friends? Who
were your best Vietnamese friends?......
I was really surprised by such an extensive and random inquiry, but gave straight-forward and
truthful answers. A day or two later it finally dawned on me that he had been testing my feelings for
China and Vietnam so to reach a final judgment about my stay. I understood right away that I would
certainly be sent back to China
There was no further inquiry.
Then I remembered Nguyen Tai Thu, the classmate I had visited in Hanoi a year earlier. It
suddenly occurred to me that he might be of help in my present predicament. The next day during our
cell check, I asked if I could write a letter. The policeman, stunned for a moment, asked to whom I
would write. I answered: "Doctor Nguyen Tai Thu, Hanoi." The policeman and the "pig" were very
surprised, but gave me a pen and paper.
I wrote my friend in Chinese as follows: "A year ago I visited you in Hanoi. We had a nice
memorial chat about the past years in Beijing Medical College. Things are unpredictable. A year later I
am behind the bars. The affairs of human life are unpredictable. But I’ll take things easy as they come.
Could we meet again sometime in the future? God knows. Wish to take care respectively." The address
on the envelope I wrote in Vietnamese.
What was written was written. I couldn’t hold much hope, but just gave it a try. Next day, I
handed the letter to the policeman and said I had no stamp. He glanced at it and said in a low voice that
it would be sent out.
Sure enough, that letter would make a ripple like a stone thrown into a pond.
Chinese and Vietnamese Cellmates
I met three other Chinese in my cell. One was a tall man from Dongxing or nearby. He might have
been a teacher or clerk. He did not talk much, seemed to be preoccupied by troubles, and liked leaning
on the window to look outside. I didn't make much of an impression on him.
The second was named Chen, in his 50s. He said he was a handyman in the family of Chen
Jitang's brother. One time he and another man were called to air-dry banknotes for Chen Jitang
(Governor of Guangdong Province, 1929-1936). They spread out the dampened banknotes on the roof
terrace, from time to time loosening them with bamboo rakes. He told a lot stories about the Chen
family. He and the tall man were repatriated before me.
My third cellmate was also called Chen. He was from Yangjiang County, about 30 years old. He
was an apprentice of an herbalist of Traditional Chinese Medicine. One of his cousins who fled to Hong
Kong two years earlier ran a small business and often remitted money to his family. Chen was longing
to join him and tried to flee to Hong Kong with several people but failed. Later he heard that he might
practice Chinese Medicine or do small business in Vietnam, so he and several friends went there
together. They had no relatives in Vietnam, did not understand Vietnamese, and soon were caught.
He talked a lot about the Cultural Revolution, said that in a village of his neighboring county, all
the “five categories” and their families were slain on one night, even the babies were not spared. The
evildoers shouted "Be red throughout the village and for generation after generation". The news
reached Hong Kong and was known to everybody.
I heard this with my hair standing on end and expressed concern about the current domestic
situation in China. Was there still random fighting and slaughtering? Chen said it was not as chaotic as
before. However, the two factions were still fighting each other; the targets to be overthrown went
higher and higher, from the city and province to the greater administrative regions, and finally to the
Beijing center. At first it was Liu Shaoji, Deng Xiaoping and Tao Zhu who were "proletarian
revolutionaries" one day but overthrown the next day. The big rebel leaders in Peking University and
Tsinghua University, the members of Central Panel of Cultural Revolution, fell one by one. Later
events were the Lin Biao defection; "Criticize Lin Biao and Criticize Confucius", with its disguised
goal being Zhou Enlai....... "In a word, not a single man is good."
Hearing that there was no longer randomly lawless fighting and killing, I recovered some peace of
mind.
There were four Vietnamese in my cell successively. One was a fisherman from a small island off
the coast. He was in his 30s and had been held for half a year for fighting and wounding somebody. He
was reckless but honest, and I had more contact with him than the others. Another one appeared to be a
minor official and was sophisticated. One was a thief and often a troublemaker, causing the atmosphere
between Chinese and Vietnamese to grow tense from time to time. Another was also a thief in his teen
years; he was temperamental and not always reasonable, once almost fighting with old Chen.
Felony criminals were not held with the border-crossed Chinese.

49楼 蕭振于 2020-03-17 08:40:43

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.

50楼 蕭振于 2020-03-21 04:16:56

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.

51楼 蕭振于 2020-03-21 04:18:02

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.

52楼 蕭振于 2020-03-21 04:18:59

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.

53楼 蕭振于 2020-03-24 01:50:04

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?

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