9. BEFORE THE SCREENING

I showed my tattoo to Chang Ming across the barbed-wire fence. He didn't seem surprised, though he wondered why they had used English instead of Chinese. "Do you think I can have this removed eventually?" I asked him.

"A surgeon can get rid of it, I'm sure."

"What should I do now? With these words on me, how do I dare to return to the mainland?"

My last sentence seemed to startle him. He said gloomily, "We didn't anticipate that they'd tattoo our men."

"Can you ask Commissar Pei what I should do? Maybe he can give us instructions."

"We still haven't gotten in touch with him yet."

"How about contacting him through the Koreans? They must have a secret channel."

"We'll try."

"You do it soon, otherwise we'll be lost. We really don't know how to deal with this if the screening starts tomorrow."

I had Dajian on my mind too; that was why I ended up using the pronoun "we." Ming promised to let me know what to do in two days. He seemed underslept lately, his eyes dim and tired and his cheekbones more prominent, but he was quite optimistic and assured me that there must be a way to cope with this. He even joked that if he had been me he would have stuffed himself with the pork roast and fried squid before saying good-bye to Wang Yong. He said I should be more tactful, not just act like "a rigid intellectual."

The truth was that Ming couldn't walk in my shoes. Though he was a college graduate too, unlike me he had never been involved with the Nationalists. To the Communists he was a clean man, whereas I carried the heavy baggage of my past. If I had dined with Wang Yong's men, the whole company would have known of it. Then, facing the Communists' accusatory fingers, how could I have absolved myself? Wouldn't they punish me as a traitor too? Fortunately I hadn't touched the dinner, or else, compounded by the horrible words on my belly, I would have become too entangled with the pro-Nationalists to clear myself.

Like me, Dajian had been in low spirits ever since he was tattooed. He broke into wretched sobs from time to time. Once he even asked me whether we should sign up for Taiwan. I told him not to think this way and that we mustn't give up hope so easily.

Two days later, Ming and I met again at the northwestern end of the barbed-wire fence. He said we shouldn't worry too much about the tattoos and must adamantly insist on repatriation at the screening. I asked him, "Did you get this order from Commissar Pei?"

"No, we still haven't gotten in touch with him yet."

It was Hao Chaolin, the former artillery director of our division, who had given the instructions and who seemed to lead the Communist force now. Through Ming, Chaolin assured us that the tattoos could be removed. He provided convincing evidence as well: a few years ago, Warlord Yan in northwestern China had gotten a whole division of his troops tattooed with reactionary slogans on their chests; later many of these men had surrendered to the Communist army, whose surgeons effaced the words for them. This information comforted me some and bolstered my resolve to repatriate. With excitement I told Dajian the story, but it didn't cheer him up. He just said he'd follow me wherever I went. He was suffering from dysentery these days, passing blood and mucus, but he wouldn't stay at the hospital, afraid he might die there alone. I made him drink a lot of boiled water to prevent dehydration, and he took some medicine prescribed by a Korean doctor. The pills helped him and reduced his trips to the latrine, though his recovery was slow.

Spring in Korea was longer than in inland China, or to be more accurate, it was more distinct as a season. Indigo swallows and petrels appeared in the sky. The wind changed too, mostly coming from the Pacific, warm in the daytime but nippy at night. There were more fishing boats on the sea now, bobbing between the clouds and the water like large birds. Sometimes I watched them for hours on end, as though I knew some people on them. I even imagined myself making a living as a fisherman on the ocean – yes, I would love to do that. I was still young and could start my life afresh. I would prefer any land of life to this confinement, my heart full of longing for an untrammeled life.

On the morning of April 8 an American sound truck came to the gate of our compound and began broadcasting the policy for the screening, first in Korean, next in Chinese, then in English. The statement, repeated many times, moved and disturbed a lot of inmates. The Chinese part sounded smooth, firm, and clear. An amiable male voice announced:

… According to international law, both sides should return captured personnel as soon as possible. Repatriation will not be denied because some prisoners were forced to write their confessions, to have words or signs tattooed on them, or to have done what they would not do under normal circumstances. We understand that they were made to do things against their will. Therefore, we promise we will not hold them responsible. We wholeheartedly welcome every one of you back into the arms of our motherland. Brothers and comrades, your parents and families are expecting you. Please come home and rejoin them to live in peace and to participate in the construction of our great country…

After that statement, another man declared in stiff Chinese the United Nations' position on the screening. This voice represented the prison authorities and also urged us to repatriate. It declared:

The U.N. Command can offer no guarantee whatsoever on the ultimate fate of those of you who refuse to return to your own people. Therefore, before any of you decide irrevocably to resist repatriation, you must consider the consequences of your decision for your family. If you fail to go back, your government may hold your family accountable. On top of that, you may never see them again…

Hearing those words, many POWs became tearful. Some men drifted back into their tents and buried their heads in blankets, weeping. Wang Yong flew into a fury. "Fuck the Americans!" he cursed. "If I had a grenade I'd blow up that sound truck."

But the loudspeaker kept on: "Please also consider this possibility: if you refuse to go home, you will be held in custody here for at least several months longer. The United Nations cannot feed you forever, will make no promise about your future, and will not guarantee to send you to any safe place…"

Indeed, the broadcast was undermining the work the pro-Nationalists had painstakingly accomplished, and it made some prisoners more homesick. Worried about their future, some wanted to change their minds about going to Taiwan. The English part of the announcement also encouraged the captives to return home. It emphasized that the United Nations would keep only those who "forcibly resist repatriation." It sounded like the Americans were not interested in detaining POWs at all. Perhaps they didn't want to embarrass China and North Korea with a huge number of nonrepatriates, which would complicate a POW exchange and getting their own men back. Besides, it must have been an enormous burden to have tens of thousands of prisoners on their hands.

As soon as the sound truck pulled away to blare at a neighboring compound, our battalion was assembled in Liberty Hall. Han Shu, the chief of our regiment, came to speak to us. He was a slim, soft-spoken man, who in every way looked more like an official than an officer. Without Liu Tai-an's help, Han Shu could not have ruled the compound. But somehow the Americans liked him and had put him in the top position. Pacing the platform back and forth with his hands clasped behind him, Han Shu seemed lost in thought. We watched him silently. Then he lifted his intelligent face and said to us, "I have had a question on my mind for a long time." He pointed at Dajian standing in the front row. "Now, brother, I need you to help me figure out an answer. Yes, you. Come up here. Don't be nervous."