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?"