War Trash (41 page)

"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.

32. BACK TO CHEJU

Pusan at that time was the provisional capital of South Korea. In spite of its asphalt streets and neon signs, the city was squalid and crowded; yet the sight of strolling pedestrians and the stands overfilled with merchandise intensified my self-awareness as a captive. The Chinese words on numerous shop signs evoked my memories of China, while the smell of home cooking, a mixture of sautéed scallions and pork, wafted up, bringing me intense hunger pangs. The moment we came out of the downtown area, refugees appeared. There were so many of them that even the bushes and trees were draped with laundered clothing and diapers. Rows and clusters of tents, shacks, and huts sprawled in every direction; even the nearby hills were scattered with them. Many of the civilians wore olive drab clothes made out of American blankets. I was amazed that the Koreans used the army blankets for so many purposes – insulating rooms, making mattresses, unraveling them for the wool with which they knitted socks, shawls, sweaters, mittens, baby clothes. Some men and women just wrapped themselves in blankets, moving about like small mobile tents. I had heard that the North Korean POWs bartered blankets with civilians for dried fish, pickles, alcohol, and medicinal herbs, but never had I imagined the business had reached such a huge scale.

There were automobiles everywhere, but many of them, especially those driven by Koreans, were just rattletraps assembled with parts from American and Japanese models. On the hood of a jeep, parked under an acacia, sat a small Korean boy in a steel helmet, laughing noisily as some GIs gave him Coca-Cola to drink while teaching him how to curse in English. The area smelled awful, the air thick with a stench, an amalgam of carrion and human excrement.

The trip back to Cheju was relatively pleasant. Once the ship pulled out of the harbor, the air became fresh and invigorating. Along the coast clouds of smog were gliding slowly, and some freight trains crawled about like gigantic worms spewing dark smoke. The sea was calm toward evening as the setting sun cast its last rays on the greenish waves. I leaned against the railing at the bow and spotted a school of sharks, each five or six feet long. A few POWs rushed over to watch them, whooping and jabbering as the fish dashed away, blazing a phosphorescent trail. Except for that moment I stayed by myself all the way, reluctant to mix with others. I just watched the ocean, from whose surface small silvery fish skipped out time and again. We were allowed to spend our time on deck, though we had to return to the cabin when it got chilly at night. Because we were all supposed to be anti-Communists, the guards treated us prisoners less severely than before.

Toward midmorning the next day we arrived at Mosulpo, a tiny isle about a mile southwest of Cheju Island. As we approached the rocky shore, I saw some women in black suits and caps and large goggles diving in the bay to gather mussels, sea cucumbers, scallops, abalones, conchs. About a dozen large gourds floated on the water, to each of which was affixed a string bag for the catch. I was amazed that there was no man among them. The women looked cheerful, calling out and waving at one another from time to time. Some of them were not young, close to forty; I noticed their wrinkled chins and necks when their weather-beaten faces popped out of the water.

"Haenyo," a Korean man said behind me, pointing at the women. The word, meaning "sea maids," must have come from Chinese originally. I was quite moved by the tranquil sight of the women, whose livelihood seemed unaffected by the war.