The four of us were put in a small tent at the Pusan POW Collection Center. Now we could talk among ourselves. I was worried about the reregistration, but Chaolin said this might not be anything unusual, otherwise the enemy would have separated us and posted more guards at the entrance to the tent. Indeed, only one South Korean was standing there. The other two officers agreed with Chaolin, saying if the Americans had meant to kill us, they would have done it by themselves without involving the Koreans. So for the whole afternoon, they relaxed, chatting and wisecracking, though I was still nervous, unsure what to do if my false identity was discovered.
Our tent wasn't far away from the Operating Section of the hospital, which I couldn't help but gaze at when it was still light. I wondered if Dr. Greene still worked there. A few female medical personnel passed the door of the white building, but none of them resembled her. If she could see the way I walked now, she'd be pleased, proud of the miraculous job she had done. After watching for about an hour without recognizing anyone, I went up to the Korean guard and asked him about Dr. Greene, but he couldn't understand English and kept shaking his long face.
The next morning we were taken to the administration center one by one. Chaolin went first, while the rest of us lay on straw sacks, smoking, chatting, and waiting for our turns. We talked about Korean women, most of whom we believed were not as good-looking as women in Manchuria, because they didn't wear makeup. "So many of them have sun-bitten faces," the staff officer said, crinkling his flat nose as though sniffing at something. On his neck was a large purple mark left by a cupping jar.
"Their faces are fine for me, some are pretty," said the deputy battalion commander, who was about forty. "But they have bowlegs, that bothers me."
"How come you know what their legs look like? Don't they always wear long dresses or slacks?"
"We stayed near a village two years ago and I often saw them in the river."
"Bathing?"
"Yes." The older officer laughed with a bubbling sound in his throat and waggled his half-grizzled mustache. "Actually you can imagine what their legs are like by looking at Korean men, who mostly have bowlegs."
"Maybe they sit too much," I put in. "They don't have furniture in their homes and sit on the floors all the time. That may have deformed their legs."
"Probably true," agreed the staff officer.
I went on, "Also, Korean women carry manure baskets and water jars on their heads, so their spines must be compressed."
"Right," said the older officer.
But we all felt that by and large Korean women were good-natured and would make better wives than most Chinese women. We guessed that the majority of them were short because they worked too hard, which had stunted their growth. Few Korean men seemed involved in farming. You often saw old men drive oxcarts, watch over orchards, burn charcoal, cure tobacco, grow ginseng in the mountains, but rarely could you find them planting rice shoots or weeding vegetable gardens. Besides, most young men had been conscripted, so the fields had been left to the care of women, who started to do farmwork in their early teens. But with few exceptions Koreans had strong white teeth, which I had noticed because I was often bothered by my inflamed gums. A Korean doctor had once assured me that kimchee was accountable for their healthy teeth,
Chaolin returned an hour later. He was in good spirits, saying that he was allowed to go back to Cheju and that the reregistration was indeed just a routine thing. He believed the Americans must have lost some files and wanted to reestablish the records. Besides us, there were dozens of POWs who had come from other camps for the reregistration too. I didn't have time to ask him more about the process before the guard took me away.
I stuffed Ming's ID tag into my pants pocket and set off. Passing the central latrine on the way, I told the guard I needed to pee, and he let me enter the roofless privy, where I ripped the ID tag to pieces and dropped it into one of the four hundred pits.
Before I went into the registration office, a clerk, a black man whose neck was as thick as his face, asked me to show him my ID tag. I said, "I don't have one."
"How come?" He looked puzzled.
"I lost it in the camp on Cheju Island. I was ill for some time and couldn't take care of my stuff."
"All right, let me get your fingerprints."
I held out my left hand, and one by one he pressed my fingertips into an ink container and printed them on a card that had five marked squares, one for each digit. He did the same with my right hand. After giving me a piece of straw paper to wipe my hand with, he led me into an office, an inner room in a large tent. Here sat an American lieutenant and a Chinese interpreter, who was apparently an officer from Taiwan, though he wore civvies and tortoiseshell glasses. I was told to sit on a padded chair in front of them. This office looked cozy; a white bookcase stood in a corner, loaded with dozens of books, which I observed for a good while. Among the volumes were novels, manuals, and some brand-new copies of the Bible. The lieutenant must have been involved with the prisoners' education program.
"Your name?" the American officer asked. He was about my age, but with a balding crown. I pretended I didn't know English and waited for the interpreter to translate so that I could think before answering.
"Feng Wen," I said, my heart fluttering.
"Age?"
"Twenty-six." Ming was one year older than me.
"Education?"
"College."
"What school?"
" Beijing University."
Suddenly the black clerk stepped in and put the card of my fingerprints on the officer's desk. He said, "Lieutenant Wright, this doesn't match the one in our file."
Heavens, they'd kept a record of Ming's ID! My head was swimming and my heart pounding while both the interrogators fastened their eyes on me. Except for his baldish head, Lieutenant Wright was quite handsome, with a straight nose, a sensuous mouth, and a chin covered with a curly beard. He said, "Now, you must be honest with me. Evidently you're not Feng Wen."
"I am Feng Wen," I replied in English, having forgotten to wait for the interpreter to translate.
They looked at each other. The lieutenant said sternly, "Then you must explain why your fingerprints don't match our record."
"I have no idea. This must be a mistake. I was told to come and get registered again."
"You speak good English," commented the interpreter.
"I took some English classes at college."
Lieutenant Wright said, "Mr. Feng, or whoever you are, if you can't explain the discrepancy, we're going to keep you in custody until this gets clarified."
"That wouldn't make much difference, I'm already in custody."
"I don't think this is an error, though. What we have here is subterfuge, so we must get to the bottom of it."
I was impressed by his manner of speech. Obviously he was a well-educated man, probably a college graduate. Despite my effort to be articulate, I got rattled, sweat oozing from my face. I lifted my hand and wiped it away.
Wright flicked his fingers and ordered the guard, "Put him into Cell 4."
I wanted to say something, but words failed me. Silently I followed the guard out.
Once slammed into a solitary cell whose window was blocked by an iron grille, I began thinking about what to do. The crucial question was whether I should admit my true identity. Such a confession would amount to treason in the Communists' eyes, but if I refused to own up, the interrogators would not let me go. What step should I take then? Should I tell them something but not the whole truth? Maybe I should do that, but how much information should I give them? That would depend on how much they knew about me. If they found out that I had withheld information, I'd be done for.
Hard as I tried, I couldn't make up my mind. The more I thought about my predicament, the more I resented Commissar Pei for sending me here. If Ming had come himself, the whole thing would have ended well without costing him a single hair. The Party just wouldn't risk losing one of its own men.
Unsure what to do, I decided that from now on I'd act according to the situation. In any event I must not get myself hurt. As long as I stayed alive, there would be a way to get back to China.
Early the next morning I was taken to Lieutenant Wright's office again. This time a bulky tape recorder was on his desk. I told myself I must speak carefully. The moment I sat down, Wright handed me a photograph that showed Commissar Pei and me on the beach. Dumbfounded, I couldn't face him.
"Well," he said with a grin, "we know who you are, Feng Yan. Now you must tell us why you came here in Feng Wen's place."
"They told me to come, but I'm not sure why," I said.
"Who are they?"
"The Communist leaders."
"What's your mission here?" demanded the interpreter.
"None, just to sacrifice myself, I guess."
"How do you mean?" asked the lieutenant.
I was so angry about Pei 's scheme that I said, "Feng Wen is Pei Shan's interpreter, indispensable to him. That's why Pei sent me here, to be trashed."
"You must speak English better than Feng Wen, don't you?" asked the Chinese man.
"But I'm not a Party member."
"I see."
Lieutenant Wright said, "Let me ask you another question, which you must answer honestly. Then we'll decide how to handle your case. My question is: are you disgusted with the Communists?"
I glanced at the tape recorder, which wasn't on. "Yes," I managed to say.
"You don't sound convincing."
At the spur of the moment I pulled up my shirt to show them my tattoo – FUCK COMMUNISM. "Look at this. Don't you think this is convincing?"
They both laughed. Lieutenant Wright flung up his hand and said, "I don't know. I can't read your Oriental mind, which is full of duplicity. If you hate the Communists as much as your tattoo indicates, then why did you follow them all the way to Camp 8?"
"I was a soldier and had to obey orders."
"Whose orders?"
Before I could answer, the Chinese officer stepped in with a shrewd smile, "I doubt if you told us the truth."
"Why don't you believe me?"
"That tattoo must've been put on your tummy by the Communists themselves."
"Why would they do that?"
"To make you an effective agent working for them."
"Yes, that's it." Wright's hazel eyes gleamed.
"That's preposterous," I said. "The two words were marked on me by some men in Compound 72 on Koje Island. It has nothing do with the Communists. You can call that compound on Koje, check with the chief of the Third Company by the name of Wang Yong, and ask him whether his men tattooed me last spring."
That held them in check. The lieutenant said, "Okay, well contact Cheju Island. Let's stop here for today."
"Why don't you call Koje?" I was surprised.
"They moved to Cheju too."
That was news to me. I had never heard there was a camp for the pro-Nationalist prisoners on the island.
Before I left, I again looked at the bookcase. Wright caught my envious eyes, but said nothing. Back in the cell, I wondered if I had done a wise thing to mention Compound 72. Many of those pro-Nationalists must still hate my guts, and they might tip off the Americans to destroy me. If only I hadn't mentioned Wang Yong. But if I had not, there would have been no way to get myself cleared. I was anxious about what would happen at the next interrogation. To some degree I liked Lieutenant Wright, who seemed decent and unassuming, careful with his choice of words. It was his interpreter who unnerved me. Americans were usually forthcoming, poor at concealing their feelings, so you knew where you stood when dealing with them, whereas some Chinese were hard to assess, rarely showing what was on their minds. I feared the interpreter might plot to hurt me.
My premonition proved right. The moment I sat down in front of the interrogators the next morning, Wright told me, "We have checked with Wang Yong. He remembered that his men had tattooed you."
"So you can let me go back to Camp 8?"
The Chinese officer said, "Why are you so eager to rejoin the Communists?"
"I've told you I dislike them, but I want to go home. I'm my mother's only child."
"Mr. Feng, you're a graduate of the Huangpu Military Academy, a student of Generalissimo Chiang. Why won't you go to Taiwan? We shall return to mainland China sooner or later. It's just a matter of time."
I lowered my head and couldn't respond, unsure what he had up his sleeve.
Wright said, "We believe in deeds more than in words. If you hate the Communists, you must separate yourself from them. Let's get this straight now. I won't tolerate duplicity anymore."
"Well, Mr. Feng, you have to decide where to go," the interpreter added and uncrossed his legs.
It became clear that they would never let me return to Camp 8, so the only way out of this impasse was to go join the pro-Nationalists on Cheju Island. My head was reeling and aching and my windpipe tightened, but I forced myself to remain calm. After a moment's silence I said, "All right, I'll go to Taiwan with one proviso."
"Name it," Wright urged.
"I want you to write a letter saying I am going to Taiwan of my own free will."
"I can do that."
"Then I'll go anywhere you send me."
He picked up a squat fountain pen and began writing on a sheet of stationery. The interpreter meanwhile tamped tobacco into a black pipe and lit it. A puff of smoke obscured his slightly pitted face. The tobacco smelled sweetish, like creamy candy, so it must have been an American brand.
"Can I look at your books?" I asked Lieutenant Wright, pointing at the bookcase.
"Help yourself. Those are not mine," he replied without raising his head.
I walked over and went through the titles – about twenty romance novels, half a dozen military manuals, and more than ten copies of the Bible.
"Here you are," Wright said loudly and pushed the letter to the edge of the desk.
I returned to the chair, picked up the sheet, and read the slanted script.
March 2, 1953 To Whom It May Concern:
In the process of reregistration, we identified Feng Yan, who speaks English fluently, as someone who is unwilling to remain in the prison camp dominated by the Communists. He wants to go to Free China, and therefore we are sending him down to you. Please take good care of him. Sincerely, Second Lieutenant Timothy Wright
I was pleased by the letter, especially the last sentence. I folded it carefully and put it into my breast pocket while saying to Wright, "I can't thank you enough for this."
"I'm glad about the result too."
The interpreter put in, "So you're going to Cheju Island this afternoon. We've already made arrangements. You can board the boat heading that way."
"How come I never heard there was another camp for Chinese prisoners on Cheju?"
"It's on the southern end of the island, Camp 13," explained Wright.
Then another thought came to me. I said to him, "One more request before I go, may I?"
"Okay, if it's reasonable."
"Can you give me a Bible? In the Communist-controlled camp they won't let me read any religious books, but I want to study the Bible."
His large eyes lit up. Smiling, he told me, "Pick one then."
I went across to the bookcase and pulled out a chestnut copy, which was a Chinese-English parallel edition, vellum-bound and with a pink ribbon bookmark. I returned and put the book on the desk. "Can I take this one?"
"It's yours." He raised his chin and laughed. So did the interpreter.
"Thank you!" I said.
"Sure. You're free to go now."
When the guard had taken me out of the administration center, I caught sight of a young woman walking toward a medical ward. Viewed from behind, she looked familiar, and her russet hair, like a flaming torch, arrested my eyes as the memory of Dr. Greene flashed through my mind. I begged the guard, "Let me go and thank that doctor, all right? She saved my leg."
He nodded. "You have two minutes."
I ran to catch up with the woman, shouting, "Dr. Greene, Dr. Greene!" She turned around, but to my disappointment, she was a different person, with pink cheeks and wide-set eyes.
"I'm not a doctor, I'm a nurse," she told me pleasantly.
Panting hard, I said, "Do you know Dr. Greene? She operated on my leg." I moved my left foot forward as if this nurse knew my case.
"I've heard of her, but she'd gone back to the States when I came. Most doctors stay here only for a year." She smiled, her lips twisting a little.
"Sorry, I mistook you for her."
"It's all right."
Embarrassed, I went back to the guard, sighing and shaking my head. He took me to a tent full of people, Chinese, Koreans, and Americans, waiting for trucks to take them to the docks or the airport. The officer in charge of the POWs looked through the piece of paper the guard had handed him, then told me, "Go join those guys lying over there. You're going to the same camp with them."
I went over and picked a spot where I could sit down. Lounging against a wooden box filled with assorted nuts and bolts, I began leafing through the Bible, but I couldn't concentrate on the words, because from time to time a miserable feeling overcame me. I was devastated by the prospect that I might never be able to go home to take care of my mother and live with the woman I loved.