31. AT THE REREGISTRATION
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.