VI
34
ON DECEMBER 9, 1959, I ARRIVED AT PEKING, MY HOME town from which I had been absent for thirty-five years. On the station platform, I saw a younger sister whom I had not seen for more than ten years and a younger brother whom I had not seen for more than twenty years. I shook their hands very warmly and heard them call me “Elder Brother,” a term they had never before used in addressing me. They thus made me feel that I had commenced a new type of life among my family members. I then bade good-bye to Li and Meng, both of whom had accompanied me all the way from Fushun. Li had been the cadre member in charge of our study section who had sought to quiet everyone after the dispute arose over my inadequacy at pasting labels on pencil boxes, and Meng had been one of the eight inmates from Chiang Kai-shek’s organization who had received a special pardon at the same time I did.
As Meng left the platform with his wife, who had come to welcome him, my younger brother picked up my black leather suitcase and, with my sister, we walked out of the station together.
Once outside, I glanced at the station clock and took out my pocket watch to set it. When I had left Fushun the Center Director had taken this watch from among the things I had contributed to the Government and asked me to accept it. It was the same French gold pocket watch that I had bought at Wu Li Wen Company in 1924 on the day I had fled from my father’s mansion to the Japanese Legation. Now I was using it to set the time for starting a new life.
My family were very amiable and kind to me and, early in the morning of the following day, I wanted to think of something I could do to help them. When I noticed that neighbors were using a broom to sweep the alley outside the house I joined them and swept all the way to the end. Unfortunately, when I finished I found that I could no longer locate the house where I was staying and, by mistake, walked into the home of total strangers.
These people were very considerate and kind about leading me to the correct house and said I did not need to thank them. “We are neighbors; but even if we were not,” they explained, “you would not need to thank us for doing so little. It doesn’t matter at all.”
Later that day I saw my uncle Tsai Tao and his wife as well as some cousins and another sister and her husband. My uncle told me what had happened to the various members of my family clan. We also listened together to Pu Chin who played some music on the Chinese lute, and he showed me some of his calligraphy which was really so good that it had reached a new high standard. Later I saw some paintings of flowers and birds that another cousin had painted, and, after that, I went to call on a sister but found that she had already left for the street nursery where she worked. According to her husband who was an engineer for the Postal and Cable Department, she was now so busy that she no longer had time for the migraine headaches from which she used to suffer. I also saw an unmarried sister and three other married sisters and their husbands. One was active in political association study work, another was working on the archives of the Forbidden City and another, with her husband, were painters.
In this period of again getting to know my family, I was especially touched by all their children, and was taught, through their eyes, what the second generation regarded as honorable titles. For these growing youth in their ruby neckties, their idols were the champion Peking girl’s motorcycle racer and a mountain-climbing chief. And the younger ones, still in middle school, were learning all kinds of specialized occupations. All, without exception, were proud to earn honorable titles.
During my first few days in Peking I also met many old friends including some who had once been eunuchs in the Forbidden City, and I learned of the present situation of many of them. They were spending a peaceful old age at a Center for the Aged that had been especially established by the Peking Civilian Administration Bureau.
Almost all the people I met said to me: “Now you have returned, you must go about the city and take a look and see the changes and improvements.” And so I went for a walk with a younger sister and another young relative. In the square in front of the Gate of Heavenly Peace as we were walking slowly westward toward the Cultural Palace of Nationalities my sister said to me: “My brother, aren’t you tired? Isn’t this the first time you have walked so long?”
“I’m not tired,” I answered. “It is because it is the first time, that I’m not tired!”
These words, “the first time,” had become very much a part of the life I had just commenced. There had been two other “first times” that very morning; and in each case I had not felt uncomfortable, because it was the “first time”; only excited. That morning I had gone to a barbershop.
As soon as I sat on the barber chair, I heard a hair drier being used on the man next to me and did not know what it was or what to call it. I asked the barber what he called the device which made such a “woo . . . wooo . . . woo” sound.
“That’s not a device,” he replied joking, “that’s the wind blowing.”
“In that case,” I said to him in all sincerity, “what do you do first; blow the wind or cut the hair?”
He looked stunned at this remark and for a moment obviously thought I was some odd creature from another world. “Have you never had a haircut before?” he asked, finally.
When I explained to him who I was and that it was indeed my first visit to a modern barbership we couldn’t help laughing. Thus by the time I heard the woo . . . wooo . . . woo sound over my own head the novelty of it made me feel quite happy.
I had a similar experience the first time I rode on a public bus. I noticed that those waiting in line to board it let the older people and children go first and so I let a lady behind me go on ahead and didn’t realize that she was the conductress who expected me to be quick about climbing aboard after her. Then, when she saw me standing motionless she shut the door and the bus left without me. One of my cousins who had seen what happened came back from the next bus stop up the street. We began to laugh when we saw one another and I said to him, “No need to worry. Nothing will happen to me.”
The Civilian Administration Bureau of Peking, in order to help us become reoriented and to acquaint ourselves with life in the outside world, had organized all of us who had been pardoned and were residing in Peking into a special sight-seeing group. We were taken on guided tours of newly constructed factories, expanded public works enterprises, the Municipal People’s Commune and other buildings. We spent about two months at this and, toward the end of the course, at the request of one of my companions, we took a tour of the Forbidden City. I was assigned as a special temporary guide for the group.
What surprised me the most was that the old and desolate atmosphere that had pervaded the palace by the time I had left it was now gone. It had been painted and even the door and window curtains, the draperies on the beds, the seat covers and tablecloths were new. Upon inquiry I found that all these had been made in a special weaving establishment near the palace to reproduce the original fabrics.
There were really not many jade pieces, porcelains, calligraphy, paintings and other ancient cultural relics left, but I did find some things that the Museum had purchased as well as others that had been contributed by private collectors. For instance, there was a famous painting of a river scene which Pu Chieh and I had taken and sold which had been repurchased. In the Imperial Garden I smelled the fragrance emitted by the old cypress trees and it brought back to me memories of my youth.
In March, 1960, I was assigned to work at the Peking Botanical Garden which was under the direction of the Chinese Scientific Botanical Research Center. I worked a half day and studied a half day. This was essentially a testing period for me during which my reformation and remolding could be observed by the authorities and was preparatory to my eventual assignment as a professional worker for the government. Under the direction of technicians I was taught in the hothouse how to plant seeds, how to care for the plants, how to transplant, and so on. When I was not on the job at the hothouse I either studied or worked on my autobiography. The people with whom I worked and lived at the Botanical Garden were friendly and kind from the top to the bottom.
One day, after I returned from a stroll outside, I discovered that my watch was missing. I couldn’t help but feel upset. Also I believed that since I had gone for such a long walk I would never be able to find it again and that I might just as well give it up for lost. But when he learned about it, one of the Garden officials, who was also a roommate, insisted on hearing every detail of my walk and then immediately set out to retrace my steps. There were others, too, who instead of taking a rest went out to look for it. I was really very embarrassed. Later, Liu, the Garden official, found it in the Four Seasons Evergreen Dining Hall of the People’s Commune. He was so happy to be able to give it back to me that I felt that what I had received from him was not a watch but a deep and genuine friendship.
In the summer of that year the Botanical Garden established a unit of the civilian militia. They drilled every day and I registered my desire to participate. When people said that I was too old, I answered that “as a member of the big family of my motherland, I should stand on duty to defend it.”
Finally the officials were convinced and I was allowed to participate as a member of the overaged group and I dreamed of the time my Botanical Garden unit could participate in a parade by the Gate of Heavenly Peace. My wish was realized in a very short time and I joined in a demonstration of support of the Japanese people against the “Japanese-American Security Treaty.” As we passed by the Gate, we shouted our slogan loudly: “Ten thousand years for the Chinese People’s Republic! Long live the alliance of the people of the whole world!”
On November 26, 1960, I received my voter’s certificate with my name written on it: Aisin Gioro Pu Yi—and it seemed to me that nothing in my whole life was as valuable as this. When I placed my vote in the vermilion ballot box, I felt myself the richest man in the world. I was now a citizen of a country of 650,000,000 people and the gigantic hand that was extended by them to reach oppressed people and nationalities everywhere in the world was a reliable one.
In March, 1961, I concluded my testing stage and was assigned to a special job in the Literature and History Material Research Commission of the National Political Alliance. My assignment was to organize and arrange the literature and historical source material of the late Ch’ing Dynasty and the subsequent Peiyang clique war-lord governments. While working, I frequently ran into names that I was quite familiar with. Sometimes I even encountered historical events which had a relationship or connection with my own past.
After work, I continued to write my autobiography. I was supplied with valuable historical source material and some of it was copied down word for word by the hands of many friends whom I had never previously known. Part of this material was verified for me by my colleagues in the Publications Office and there were also elderly people who recalled their own experiences for me. The National Archives, the Historical Museum, the Peking Library and the Capital Library were especially helpful. I felt somewhat uneasy about receiving the assistance of so many strangers but this has become the regular way of doing things in China. Today, so long as you propagandize the truth, you receive aid from one and all including, needless to say, the Communist Party and the Government.
1962 was a special year of happiness for me. I was invited to attend the People’s All China Political Consultative Conference, and I also audited the report of the National People’s Congress regarding China’s reconstruction. Also on May first of that year, my new wife, Li Shu-hsien, and I established our own little home. It wasn’t much but to me it was something very special—a real family unit that represented the start of a new life for me. When I looked at my wife, my voter’s certificate and the unlimited and broad future before me I knew I would never forget how I had obtained this life.
My thoughts thus went back to the summer of 1960, two years before, when Little Jui, who had also returned to Peking, and I went on a visit to Fragrance Hill Park in the Western Hills. We had talked about the various stages of change in our thought development and I told him that as far as I was concerned, at the beginning, I had been most preoccupied with the problem of life and death and whether or not the policy of leniency would be applicable to me. What had given me the first real feeling that I might be able to live was when I had surrendered the jewelry hidden in the double bottom of my suitcase and I had received such unexpectedly lenient treatment. “When I talk about it,” I said to Little Jui, “I have you to thank for your assistance.”
“My assistance?” he asked as he stared at me and opened his eyes. “Then you still don’t know what really happened?”
“Of course,” I answered. “Didn’t the Center Chief ever tell you what happened? Due to the questioning of Little Ku, I admitted everything and later I had a self-criticism session with the Center Chief. I told him that when I had surrendered my things, I had not mentioned the note you had given me because I was afraid that you might receive punishment. The Chief explained that he had known all about the note and that it had been he who had asked you to write it in order to assist me in confessing of my own volition. That was the assistance to which I was referring.”
“Judging from your description, I can see you still don’t know what the real situation was,” Little Jui replied. “You just don’t know about it. When the Center Chief asked me to write the note to you, this was not what I had wanted. It was my idea to have you searched, to confiscate your things and then have you punished.”
This was the first time that the detailed background of these motivations was revealed to me. As Little Jui related the sequence of events, the Center Chief had refused his request. “It will be easy to search him,” the Chief had explained, “but this will not be helpful for his reform. Let’s wait and see. Searching is never as good as a voluntary confession; it will be better if he reaches self-enlightenment by himself.”
Later, Little Jui had again talked to the Center Chief and again asked him to search me, but the Director had explained that the speed of development of each man’s thoughts was completely variable and that they should not be in a hurry. The Communist Party believed that a great majority of criminals could be reformed but that it was an individual process, requiring individual evaluation. The Chief had told Little Jui: “You should understand that it is hard for him because of his special status to believe in the policy of leniency for those who confess. If we search him, he will lose the opportunity to experience personally this policy. Let him surrender the things according to his own will. If you are in a hurry it would be better for you to think of some way to speed up his own self-enlightenment.” As a result, it was decided that Little Jui should write the note to me.
After the note had been passed to me and there was no immediate reaction, Little Jui had become worried and again talked with the Center Chief. “Pu Yi will never understand until his death,” Little Jui had explained. “Since he has no desire for self-enlightenment, why don’t we search him?”
But the Center Chief had again urged patience. “From the beginning,” he had argued, “I have felt that in this case we cannot hurry. It is more essential now than ever that we not get excited.”
Later on, of course, I had become worried and had surrendered the jewelry and from this time on I had seen a way out. “It was at this juncture,” I told Little Jui, “that I began to understand that the Government believed that a majority of the people could be reformed.”
“But you yourself know,” Little Jui answered, “that even after this you were still persistently resisting your reformation and cheating. Several of us had already told everything to the Government, even before the special investigators had arrived.”
At that moment, I had been looking down on Peking in the distance, fading in the light of a glorious sunset behind us, and all the events of the past ten years had come to my mind one by one. I had recalled the grayish-white hair of the Center Chief, the queer speech and voice of the young Deputy Chief of the Center; each and every one of the guards; each doctor and nurse; every single one of the Center personnel. While I had been trying to dupe them and while I was using all kinds of methods to resist them and exposing my own stupidity to the point where I no longer had felt like living, these Communist Party people had persisted in their belief that I could be remolded and had patiently guided me toward being a new man.
“Man” was the first word I had learned to read in The Three Words Classic,43 my first primer, as a child. But in my previous life I had never appreciated the true meaning of its first four lines:
When a man is born (Jen chih chu),
His nature is basically good (hsing pen shan).
Human nature is similar (hsing hsiang chin);
Only environment makes it diverse (hsi hsiang yuan).