I tried to find a way to let Pearl know about my move to Beijing. I assumed that she would know about Mao’s victory. I wondered what she thought about Chiang Kai-shek’s defeat. In a way, Pearl had predicted the outcome during our earlier correspondences. So many had been impressed by Madame Chiang Kai-shek, who had campaigned in America for her husband and succeeded in rallying the public behind her. But Pearl did not believe her claims. Pearl had often said in the past that the Chiangs were in power for themselves. She believed that there was a divide between the Chiangs and the peasants of China. She had said long ago that Mao’s power came from his understanding of the peasants.
Pearl never trusted the Communists. She enjoyed her friendship with Dick and supported my marriage to him because she saw that he loved me. On the other hand, Pearl didn’t like my being brainwashed by Dick. When I mentioned Dick’s worship of Karl Marx in a letter, Pearl wrote back and asked, “Do you know who Karl Marx is? He is this strange little man, long dead, who lived his narrow little life, and somehow managed by the power of his wayward brain to lay hold upon millions of human lives!”
This made sense to me, although nothing I said changed Dick’s mind. With Mao’s victory, Dick had gone further on what I would call a journey of no return.
A party commemorating national independence was next on Mao’s agenda. Dick was put in charge of arranging it. He was grateful that Mao trusted him with the job. He was finally doing what he loved-bringing talented people together. I rarely got to see Dick in daylight. I told myself that I was lucky my husband had not died in battle, and that I should be satisfied our lives were taken care of by the Communist Party. We were given chefs, drivers, doctors, dressmakers, bodyguards, and house cleaners.
I wrote to Pearl the first chance I got. Beijing was a huge city where I could easily melt into the crowd when visiting a post office. I told Pearl that while Dick became an ever more devoted Communist, I remained an independent bourgeois liberal, and worse, I continued to be a Christian. “The changing China excites me and scares me at the same time,” I confessed. “Mao has made himself into a god to the people. I feel like I am losing my husband and daughter to this man. The irony is: I am the person they think mad.”
For the sake of my daughter, I stopped trying to seek out churches in Beijing in which to worship. But even if I wanted to, I could never give up my faith in God. I prayed in the dark. I was on my knees when Dick and Rouge were asleep. I was also determined to keep up my correspondence with Pearl as long as I could.
Dick’s stomach pain worsened and finally he needed surgery. Two thirds of his stomach was removed. He continued to work from his hospital bed. He met with some of the day’s most influential people, from Chiang Kai-shek’s former ministers to famous artists. Dick’s goal was to secure domestic and international legitimacy for Mao. “Chairman Mao must make more friends. At any time, America could use Taiwan as its military base to launch an attack on China,” Dick told Rouge.
As China’s new minister of the Bureau of Culture, Science, and Art, Dick encouraged overseas Chinese to return to their homeland. For the next ten years Dick would write hundreds of letters telling his friends all over the world that “Mao is a wise and merciful leader who recognizes and appreciates talent.”
Among those who returned were intellectuals, scientists, architects, playwrights, novelists, and artists. In the name of the Communist Party, Dick guaranteed their salaries and offered privileged lifestyles and freedom of expression. Dick appointed them as heads of national theaters and universities. Every morning, Dick drove his jeep to pick up the new arrivals. Every evening, he hosted a gay welcoming party.
At one welcoming party, Dick drank too much. The next morning, with puffy, bloodshot eyes, he said, “If Hsu Chih-mo hadn’t died, I would have invited him. He would have enjoyed himself.”
“Hsu Chih-mo would not hide himself like I do,” I responded. “He would have criticized Mao. He would have told Mao to his face that he was an amateur poet.”
“Who are you trying to challenge?” Dick was irritated. “Why are you so cynical all the time?”
“I just question how true China’s freedom of expression is,” I said. “Are you sure that you can keep the promises you have made to so many?”
Dick understood my concern. He could not answer my question, because deep down he knew that “Mao’s will” would be the “nation’s will.”
“You might end up carrying the stone that will eventually smash your own toes,” I said, afraid.
Dick put his arm around my shoulders and said that he agreed with me. “But I must have faith in what I do.”
I rubbed my face against his hand and told him that I understood.
“I must trust that others share my values,” Dick said in a gentle voice.
“You are being naïve.”
“I know, I know,” he cut me off. “Your worries are legitimate but unnecessary.”
“I can see it coming.”
“Willow, you have a wild imagination. Don’t let it drive you crazy.”
“I won’t say this again. Listen, I am your wife, and I know you enough to know that you and Mao are different people.”
“We complement each other.”
“That is not what I mean.”
“I know what you mean, darling.”
“Let me finish, will you?” I was upset. “To get his way, Mao will not hesitate to persecute or-dare I say the word?-murder. He’s done it before.”
Dick stood and put some distance between us. “Mao doesn’t own the party,” he said in a firm voice. “Communism is about justice and democracy.”
Dick led me to his room and opened the top drawer in his desk. He took out an envelope. I could tell that the Chinese writing on the envelope was Pearl’s. The stamps showed that the letter had arrived two months ago, and the letter had already been opened. The envelope was empty.
“My privacy has been invaded,” I protested.
“Mao’s internal security agents opened it.”
“Where is the letter?”
“The central bureau has it. They notified me that it was to be confiscated.”
“Why didn’t you speak up for me?”
“You would not be here now if I hadn’t!” Dick almost yelled.
I knew Dick had done his best.
“Look.” Dick pulled more documents from his drawer. “Here is more evidence. I have fought for you not once but repeatedly.”
I had had no idea that I was in so much trouble.
“You are being watched by internal security,” Dick continued. “You are one step from becoming known as an enemy sympathizer. Your friendship with Pearl Buck is seen as a threat to national security. Pearl’s status in America and her public criticism of Mao and the Communist Party have categorized her as an enemy of China.”
“Am I a suspect?”
“What do you think? You were caught passing her information.”
I remembered that in my letters I had shared with Pearl my doubts about Dick’s efforts to recruit people to the Communist cause. I had confided to her that I could never forget what had happened in Yenan in the thirties. Several Shanghai youths Dick had recruited had been arrested as spies and shot. All these years later, their families still wrote to Dick asking for information about their loved ones. Dick put on a mask when talking to them. He had no answers for them. He felt responsible and couldn’t forgive himself no matter how many times he told himself that the murders had been caused by the war with Japan.
I didn’t mean to mail Pearl another letter. I knew it was too dangerous. The political atmosphere had begun to change after Mao’s experiment called the Great Leap Forward. It began in the year 1958 and lasted three years before utterly failing. It forced the entire nation to adopt a communal lifestyle. The result was millions of deaths and a starving nation. By the end of 1962, respect for Mao had faded. There were voices calling for a “competent leader.”