19

Jiang Qing's health intervened. This time she really was sick.

The doctors had taken a routine Pap smear during Jiang Qing's physical examination in Beidaihe, and initial results showed a malignancy. Wanting further confirmation, her two doctors, Lin Qiaozhi and Yu Aifeng, sent slides to two of the country's leading pathologists—Liang Boqiang, at Sun Yat-sen Medical School in Guangzhou, and Hu Zhengxiang, at Peking Union Medical College. Both doctors concurred. The sample was malignant. The diagnosis was cervical cancer in situ. The cancer had not yet spread. It was in its very early stages, and they believed the disease could be cured.

But Jiang Qing was Mao's wife and the doctors had to be certain. Dr. Yu Aifeng flew to the Soviet Union with another slide. Again the diagnosis was confirmed. Fu Lianzhang, who had been coordinating the efforts of the doctors, wrote a report to Mao explaining what was wrong.

Mao called a meeting with the doctors. Dr. Lin Qiaozhi, the female gynecologist who had taken the Pap smear, suggested sending Jiang Qing to the Soviet Union for cobalt 60 treatment. Chinese hospitals were providing radium therapy then but were not equipped for cobalt 60 treatment. The Russian doctors insisted that cobalt 60 was better. Dr. Lin's suggestion was as much an effort to protect herself and her Chinese colleagues as it was good medical opinion. None of the Chinese doctors wanted to be responsible if their optimistic prognosis proved wrong.

“I'll let you decide,” Mao said after listening to their recommendations. “When you are ill, you have to listen to doctors.” Dr. Lin's advice was taken. Jiang Qing would be sent to the Soviet Union, accompanied by Dr. Yu Aifeng.

Jiang Qing had had intimations that something was wrong, but she had not been told. Mao wanted the physicians to tell her. He first treated us all to dinner.

Jiang Qing was inconsolable when the doctors broke the news. Only when they assured her repeatedly and unequivocally that the treatment would cure her completely was she finally mollified. Within days she left by plane for the Soviet Union.

It was early November. I had to make my move.

I had explored two possibilities—one was an opportunity to study tropical medicine in Great Britain, the other was a course in neurology at Beijing Hospital under the direction of a famous Soviet neurologist, a man named Rushinski, who was then working in China. The heads of leading neurology departments from all over the country would be participating, and at the end of the course Beijing Hospital planned to establish a new institute for advanced neurological studies.

I told Mao about both training programs. “You mean you want to go?” he asked.

“If you agree, I hope to go,” I responded.

“Tropical medicine?” he mused. “That has nothing to do with me.”

I knew immediately that for Mao, my “going” would be temporary. He would want me to come back.

“If you want to go,” he said, “join the training program here in Beijing. That way, you will be able to help me more.” Mao's most persistent complaints, after all, were symptoms of neurasthenia. A training program in neurology would better prepare me for my future work with him.

“If it meets with Chairman's approval,” I responded, “I will take the matter up with the Ministry of Public Health.” I still intended to leave Group One permanently, but I would have to take one step at a time. The Ministry of Public Health was responsible for placing physicians in jobs.

“Who will take over while you are gone?” Mao asked.

I had already thought of that. I wanted Dr. Bian, an internist at Beijing Hospital about five years my junior and a graduate of a very fine medical school in Nanjing, to replace me.

“I don't know him,” Mao responded. “If he comes, do you intend to leave here permanently?”

I assured Mao that I would return later if he wished.

“Tell Fu Lianzhang that I can get by without a substitute for now,” Mao responded. “Let's decide on this later.”

Fu Lianzhang was happy to see me go—he had never wanted me to serve as Mao's doctor—and insisted, despite Mao's objections, on appointing Bian to replace me. Bian moved immediately to Zhongnanhai, and I began the training program. It was mid-November.

I rejoiced in my newfound freedom! I loved the program. My schedule was tight, and I quickly became absorbed in my new studies. I was thrilled to be working with medical colleagues. Conversation was easy, and we got along well. I often worked until two or three in the morning, but still I felt more energetic and relaxed than I had in Zhongnanhai, when my “colleagues” were Ye Zilong and Li Yinqiao. Dr. Ji Suhua, the vice-president of Beijing Hospital, invited me to stay after completing my training and promised to find me a place in the new neurology institute.

Lillian was elated with my new assignment, too, happier than she had been in years. My long hours still left little time for leisure, but her life was returning at last to normal. Her parents came from Nanjing, living with my mother, Lillian, and our two sons in the old family compound. They were delighted to be there. Their political rights had recently been restored, after the local Nanjing authorities discovered that I was the doctor of some high-ranking official in Beijing. They had been reclassified, respectably, as poor urban residents. They, too, were much more relaxed, and took pleasure in doting on their two grandsons.

But I kept my apartment in Zhongnanhai, even though we were rarely there. Luo Daorang, the man who had taken over temporarily as acting director of the Central Bureau of Guards after Wang Dongxing's dismissal, allowed me to move my official work unit to Beijing Hospital but would not allow me a complete break with Mao. He wanted to make it easy for me to return. Mao had already fired three doctors before me. Luo was afraid there would be trouble if he let me leave and the Chairman wanted me back.

Immersed in my studies, I was oblivious to the changing political situation in China, only vaguely aware that Mao had introduced a new policy of “letting one hundred flowers bloom, one hundred schools of thought contend.” I knew that on February 27, 1957, he had given a talk and called on intellectuals and members of the so-called democratic parties to offer criticisms of the party's performance, and afterward, we in the training program were offered the opportunity to raise our own criticisms of the party as well. Meetings were called at Beijing Hospital. But I was too engrossed in my studies to participate in the meetings. The political movement seemed far away, like war in a distant land, and no one insisted that we take part.

By spring 1957, I was still absorbed in my studies and grateful to be back in my own milieu.

Then on May 4, 1957, Li Yinqiao came to see me at the hospital. The Chairman had caught a cold and wanted to see me. I was being summoned back.

I did not want to go.

I asked Li about Dr. Bian, who was supposed to be taking care of the Chairman.

Dr. Bian had seen Mao a couple of times after I left, Mao's bodyguard explained, but Mao could not get used to him. Mao had arranged to be introduced to the young doctor at one of his dancing parties, hoping that the festive atmosphere would put the physician at ease. But Bian had still been extremely nervous, literally trembling in Mao's presence. Mao did not like him. He was without a doctor. Mao had just returned from Guangzhou, and Jiang Qing was back from the Soviet Union. Li Yinqiao told me they both wanted me back. “When the Chairman wants you, how can you turn him down?”

But I was on duty at the hospital. Regulations required me to request permission to go, but only the party secretary at the hospital knew that I was the Chairman's doctor. Mao's security personnel had insisted that my position remain secret. They were afraid that would-be assassins could somehow use me to poison Mao. If I left the hospital without permission, I could be criticized for abusing my privileges, coming and going as I pleased. It would create a bad impression.

“Your superiors are already aware of this matter,” Li informed me. A man named Wang Jingxian had by then taken charge of Mao's security after Wang Dongxing's demotion. Wang had given the directive for my return, instructing Li Yinqiao to fetch me. A car was waiting.

I insisted on reporting to my superiors.

“You don't have time,” Li Yinqiao insisted. “The Chairman asked me to send for you right after he woke up. It's not good to keep him waiting. You can go see him first and report to the others later.”

I had never really escaped from Group One. I was only on loan to the Ministry of Public Health. The Central Bureau of Guards still had real control over my life. I had no choice. I returned to Zhongnanhai with Li Yinqiao, my medical bag in hand.

Mao was lying in bed when I arrived, looking tired and pale. He asked me to sit next to him on the bed. A guard served tea. I asked him how he felt. “Not good,” he said. “Caught a cold.”

He had had a cold and a cough for more than two months, he said, since just after his February 27 speech, and he had lost his appetite.

He let me examine him. Nothing was seriously wrong. He just had a bad cold. I suggested that he take some cough syrup and some medicine to improve his digestion.

“Okay, I'll take them,” he agreed. “You can write the prescriptions and give the guards the directions. You don't have to come here each time I take the medicine.”

I agreed and got ready to leave.

“Please sit for a while,” Mao insisted. I sat back down. “It's not so easy working for me, is it?” he asked with a smile, recalling the time he had lost his temper in Beidaihe. I smiled too. “You're thinking of leaving here permanently, aren't you?” he wanted to know. “But I don't have a new doctor yet. Let's work out a gentlemen's agreement. You come back to your job. I know you don't have much to do here. You can't give me a checkup every day. We'll find some other things for you to do. I remember something about the minister of public health under the Guomindang—Zhou Yichun or something like that, I can't remember his name exactly—but he earned a doctorate from Germany by studying the ovaries of rabbits. See, he earned an advanced degree by studying a seemingly insignificant thing. You can use your spare time here to do some research. Maybe you can get together some animals, buy some equipment, and set up a research laboratory. I will finance the whole thing with my own funds, not the government's. What do you think?”

But I did not think setting up an animal laboratory in Zhongnanhai was a good idea. I would be severely criticized. No animals were permitted within Zhongnanhai—not even cats or dogs. The health and security people were afraid that animals could pass infectious diseases to Mao and the other leaders. Later, Jiang Qing would cause quite a stir when she got a pet monkey. It simply would not do for me to have a laboratory with animals.

“Maybe when I have nothing to do here I can just read more books,” I suggested to Mao.

He thought for a moment. “That's all right,” he said. “But it's not enough. Knowledge cannot be acquired without practice. Well, let's settle it this way. You take care of my health and then decide later how best to use your time.”

This was not a gentlemen's agreement. It was a command, politely phrased, from the party chairman. No one could disobey Mao. His word was law. If I refused, I would never find another job. My wife would be fired, too, and she would never find work again. I could even be arrested, tortured perhaps, if I ignored his command.

“I asked you to be my secretary,” Mao reminded me after a pause. “But you didn't want to. There are quite a few famous personalities in modern China who began their careers in medicine and ended up in politics, you know. Sun Yat-sen, Lu Xun, and Guo Moruo all started out in medicine. Practicing medicine is fine, but there is no reason to limit yourself to it. It's also a good idea to know something about the social sciences.”

Mao could force me to serve as his doctor, but he could still not persuade me to become his secretary. I was not a politician, and I would never debase myself by becoming part of the scramble for power.

“You still don't want to be my secretary?” Mao continued. “All right. Just be my physician. But let's try to develop some common language between us, try to broaden our mutual knowledge. You can read more of the Reference Materials even if you aren't my secretary. This way we can talk together and have a peaceful coexistence.”

I was miserably disappointed. I had finally found peace in my work at Beijing Hospital and wanted very much to stay. Working with Mao, I would not even be able to visit my medical colleagues again. Loyalty to Mao meant giving up one's friends. I hated the thought of having to work with Ye Zilong and the others in Group One again, in that hateful atmosphere. But my fate still rested with Mao. I was forced to return to his side.

“I really am resigning as chairman of the republic,” Mao continued. The news of Mao's resignation was still secret, but the decision was now definite. “The central authority has issued a statement to the high-level leaders of the party and government for discussion. Ye Zilong, Li Yinqiao, and some others in Group One don't like the idea. I told them my resignation is good for my health. But they don't see the point. They think when I'm no longer chairman of the republic, they won't be able to profit from my position. They think working for the chairman of the republic is more glorious.”

Mao's cold, I sensed, was not his only problem. Enormous political changes had taken place during my six-month absence. I had ignored the rumblings while I was at the hospital, but now I was back in the political world.

I never returned to Beijing Hospital, not even to collect my belongings or to explain why I had to withdraw from my studies. I called the party secretary to explain that Mao had called me back, and a guard went to get my things. That very night I was back in Zhongnanhai, trapped in Group One once more. This time there was to be no escape.