"We're glad you understand this. If only General Ridgway were here to take the same lesson."
"I can pass the message on to him and – " Catching himself, Bell looked abashed.
"We'll talk more about the treatment of the prisoners at the conference tomorrow. Meanwhile, take it easy and rest well."
"I will."
"Good-bye now."
"Bye." He stood up, and his hand moved but didn't stretch out.
The moment we came out of the tent, Chaolin burst into laughter, holding his sides with both hands. I joined him in laughing too. A Korean officer, who had been at the entrance to the tent during our meeting with Bell, remarked in English, "American general is just so-so, a paper tiger, like Stalin says."
I don't know where Stalin said that. Amused, I translated his words to Chaolin. That brought out more laughter. Without further delay the Korean officer led us to a tent at the back of the barracks, where we were to meet their top leader.
At the sight of us Mr. Park got up from a reed mat and came to hug us. He said in barely comprehensible Chinese, "Ah my friends, welcome!"
He gestured for us to sit down on the mat. I noticed that unlike the others, he sat on a sheepskin, its white fur mottled with black blotches. With ease we entered into conversation. The slim Colonel Lee sat beside the leader, serving as his interpreter, so I could relax now. Mr. Park showed deep concern about our living conditions and asked us how well we were organized in Compound 602. Chaolin reported to him briefly on the newly founded United Communist Association. Mr. Park was impressed by the intention to include as many people in the organization as possible while maintaining the Party's leadership and principles at the core. He said, "I always admire the Chinese Communist Party. You have more experience and more strategies. I'm sorry we haven't given enough support to your struggle."
Chaolin seemed touched and replied, "Under your leadership the Korean comrades captured General Bell. This is an extraordinary event in the history of warfare, and it dealt a crushing blow to our common enemy. It has also inspired us tremendously. We must learn from our Korean comrades' courage and bravery."
"Well, without your help we couldn't have done it at all," said Mr. Park, smiling. "So half of the victory belongs to you. The Chinese comrades showed us how to stage a hunger strike and how to lure Bell to our compound, otherwise we couldn't have brought him in. This victory is only a part of our two peoples' joint struggle."
He turned aside and whispered to an aide. Lee winked at us and said, "Mr. Park would like to invite you to dinner."
"Please don't treat us like guests," I said.
"You are our honored guests," replied Lee, smiling meaningfully. He got up and went out, apparently to make arrangements for the dinner.
I wondered what kind of food Mr. Park could offer us in such a place. Maybe a bowl of white rice and a bit of kimchee, at most accompanied by a few pieces of dried fish or some baked squid. My thoughts were interrupted by the hearty laughter from both Chaolin and our host. Mr. Park inquired after Commissar Pei and sent him his regards, which Chaolin promised to convey. I forced myself not to think of the promised dinner so as to remain in the conversation.
Then a young man stepped in, carrying a large cauldron lid filled with steaming dumplings made of wheat flour, quite thick. We were flabbergasted – this was the best Chinese food a host could offer! Where on earth could they get the stuff for such a meal?
Mr. Park smiled and opened his arms almost mischievously, saying, "Help yourselves, please."
"Let's eat together," said Chaolin, motioning for them to sit closer.
"No, we already ate."
"How can we thank you enough for this?"
"Stop talking and eat. You don't have to thank us. Everything came from the Americans. If they hadn't delivered the flour and the meat, we wouldn't have known what to come up with. So enjoy yourselves. Excuse me for a moment." Mr. Park stood up and went into a corner to discuss something with a group of officers.
We each picked up a wooden spoon and began eating. The fillings were made of corned beef mixed with young cabbage. There was so much meat in the dumplings that they dripped oil whenever we took a bite. I tried hard to eat slowly while Chaolin grinned at me and went on licking his lips. He said, "After we go back home, I'll tell my wife to make dumplings every weekend."
"This is the best meal I've had since we crossed the Yalu," I said with a catch in my throat.
"I know. Come on, don't be too emotional, Yuan. They're watching us."
I checked my tears. Despite enjoying the food, I wasn't happy exactly. My emotions were mixed, evoked by Chaolin's mention of his wife. I remembered the crabmeat wontons my mother and my fiancee had cooked for me the day before I left home. But I broke my reverie and forced myself to smile and not to think about my family in a situation like this. It was embarrassing to let your personal emotions interfere with your work. From now on I must build a closet in my heart, in which I would lock up my personal thoughts and feelings so that they couldn't crop up at the wrong time.
What happened after dinner was even more astonishing. We were led into a secret basement in the back of the tent. It was like being inside a bunker, but it was well lit, and on a small dais of earth covered with a piece of hardboard sat a radio – a glossy case made of grained oak, about two feet long and one foot high. Colonel Lee told me that they had exchanged canned food and blankets for this machine with a grocer and had it smuggled into the compound. As I was wondering if they had radio contact with the North, Mr. Park placed his hands on Chaolin's and my shoulders, saying, "My dear comrades, only because we seized General Bell could we invite you over. But we have nothing special to entertain you with, so I thought perhaps you might like to listen to the voice of Beijing."
Heavens, they could hear broadcasts from China! We hadn't heard a single sound from our homeland for more than a year. Hurriedly we bent over and turned on the radio. Through the rasping static came a female voice, crisp, clear, and warm. It announced:
More donations were received lately. To support our army on the Korean front, two and a half million people participated in the public assemblies held in the capital last week, condemning the American invasion of Korea and championing the anti-imperialist cause. The actress of Yu Opera, Chang Hsiang-yu, donated a large sum for a jet fighter. The painter Huang Ran offered five of his paintings. A party of famous writers sold their manuscripts. All the proceeds are going to our army in Korea…
The news seemed as distant as if it were coming from another planet. At the same time it was so close that it was tightening my scalp, contracting my chest, and shaking my heart. Tears were coursing down Chaolin's and my faces. The air was so charged that nobody made a sound for a long while. Noiselessly we let our tears drop on the damp, yellow, foreign earth. Colonel Lee wept too.
There was to be a preparatory meeting at the Koreans' headquarters attended only by the key leaders. Chaolin stayed on for the meeting, so for the rest of the night I was free. As I walked out of the tent, large emotions were still surging in my chest. The salty breeze stung my still-wet face, and my heart was filled with homesickness and love. If only we could be heading home tomorrow! If only the moon were a transmitter that could send a telegram to my mother and Julan! But I curbed my fantasies and walked on, taking care not to get near the barbed wire, beyond which a group of GIs stood. They were smoking and jabbering, their guns emitting flecks of bluish light, their shiny helmets dulled by the string nets over the steel.
Somehow in my mind echoed the words of the Russian revolutionary novelist Nikolai Ostrovsky: "The most valuable thing to man is his life. Life belongs to him only once and should be spent this way: when he recalls his past, he will not regret having wasted any time or feel ashamed of having accomplished nothing. Thus he can say on his deathbed: I have devoted my whole life and every bit of my energy to the most magnificent cause of humanity – the struggle for the liberation of mankind." Like many others, I had committed to memory this passage from How the Steel Was Tempered, but now it was resonating more in my mind. I felt for the first time that I was a useful man, and that my life had finally been shaped by a goal. How small an individual was. Only when you joined a cause greater than yourself could you expand your individual role by a "multiplier." For the time being, maybe the struggle against the American imperialists was the "multiplier" I had been seeking. Even though my role at this conference made me feel rather aggrandized, I was, after all, a mere translator and didn't even play second fiddle to Chaolin. I got so carried away that I even considered applying for membership in the United Communist Association again.