My summons from Group One came toward the end of December. Xu Yunbei, a vice-minister of public health, came to visit. He had already discussed my case with my doctor, Wu Jie. When Li Yinqiao tried to extract me, Wu Jie had protected me, claiming I needed more time to recuperate. It took a vice-minister of public health to override him. Wu Jie finally agreed that I could check out.

But I wanted to stay. I wanted more time to recuperate. Xu insisted. My substitute, Huang Shuze, had left. His mother had died, and Huang had returned to Tianjin for her funeral. I was needed in Group One.

Still I resisted.

But my convalescence had become a political matter. “The campaign against right opportunism is spreading like wildfire,” Xu Yunbei warned. “It would not look good for you to stay in the hospital with no serious medical problem.”

It was political blackmail. Much had changed during the four months I had spent in the hospital. Peng Dehuai had been removed from his military posts, and so had his deputy, the chief of the general staff, Huang Kecheng. Luo Ruiqing had been promoted, taking over Huang's position as chief of the general staff. And Lin Biao, a vice-chairman of the Military Affairs Commission and a vice-chairman of the National Defense Council, had succeeded to Peng Dehuai's position as minister of defense. Many wondered why Mao had appointed a man in failing health to take over such an important position.

Lin Biao's first act in his new role as defense minister was to attack his predecessor at an enlarged meeting of the Military Affairs Commission, accusing Peng Dehuai of being both “anti-party” and a rightist. Then he turned against Marshal Zhu De. “What kind of commander in chief is Zhu?” Lin asked sarcastically of the man who had joined Mao to found the Red Army. “He never fought any major battles, never won any great victories. He was nothing but a black commander in chief.” Lin's speech had been cleared in advance by Mao. The Chairman had turned against his old colleague Zhu De.

If I stayed in the hospital, Xu Yunbei could accuse me of siding with Peng Dehuai. I could be implicated in the campaign against right opportunism.

I promised the vice-minister that I would leave as soon as I received my official checkout papers. Xu assured me that would not be necessary. Xu's word as a vice-minister of health was all the notarization the hospital would need.

I was back in Group One the next day.

Mao was in Hangzhou. Wang Jingxian had called two days before I left the hospital, insisting that I go there as soon as possible.

I left with Li Yinqiao by plane on December 22, 1959. We encountered heavy snow en route, and the plane began to shake so violently that we had to land in Nanjing. A massive snowstorm was sweeping the region, extending south to Hangzhou. To continue by plane was dangerous. The director of the Jiangsu provincial bureau of public security arranged for a car to take us to Mao. We spent the night in Nanjing and left the next morning in heavy snow, working our way slowly by car to Hangzhou, arriving finally at about three in the afternoon. Mao was asleep. I did not meet with him until that evening.

He was bleary-eyed and tired, coughing constantly, with another of his colds. “I've been miserable for several days,” he said. “How have you been?”

“I have recovered. But Chairman seems to have a cold.”

“I don't know. Just don't feel well.”

“Let's have a checkup.”

Mao had a slight fever, but his heart, blood pressure, and pulse were normal. He had a severe cold and acute bronchitis.

Mao wanted a quick recovery. A new round of party meetings was coming up. He wanted to be well for them.

I suggested that he take antibiotics for his bronchitis and other medicine for his cold. He agreed.

By the next evening, Mao was much better and his temperature was normal. The coughing had subsided. He was cheerful. “The bragging doctor has some good medicine,” he joked.

The Chairman's sixty-sixth birthday was approaching. I delivered a message from Zhejiang's first party secretary, Jiang Hua, inviting Mao to a banquet in his honor. Mao declined, saying that he did not like birthday parties anymore and claiming he needed more time to recuperate. He asked Group One to join in the dinner and report to him on the food. But he warned us against having too extravagant a feast and asked that we view the gathering not as his birthday party but as an opportunity to chat and have fun. Mao was still losing face because of the food crisis and did not want to indulge in extravagance when so many ordinary folk were suffering.

The other leaders had no such empathy with the masses.

Ye Zilong, ever ready for fine food and drink, planned to have a good time. He told me he intended to get Wang Fang, the director of Zhejiang public security, drunk. “Doctor, you have done us all a great favor,” he said to me gratefully when I told him about the invitation.

The next day, December 26, was Mao's birthday. His entire staff went to pay their respects. Mao had recovered completely, and his spirits were high. He thanked me for the treatment I had given, and we had a photograph taken together.

Eight tables of ten people each were set for the banquet that night, and the entire provincial leadership of Zhejiang participated. First party secretary Jiang Hua and head of provincial public security Wang Fang represented all the guests and went to wish Mao a happy birthday.

Mao's warning against overindulgence was ignored. The feast that night was as extravagant as any I have ever had, consisting of the finest, most expensive delicacies Chinese cuisine can offer. We had real bird's-nest soup with baby doves, one of the rarest of Chinese dishes, and shark's-fin soup cooked in a special clay pot, also rare and expensive. Nothing could top those two delicacies, but the other food was only slightly less delectable. The wine was superb as well, and Ye Zilong succeeded without great effort in getting Wang Fang drunk.

Midway through our extravagant meal, Wang Jingxian turned to me. “It's shameful for us to be consuming such a feast,” he whispered. “So many people are starving to death.”

I agreed. Outside, beyond the protective walls of Group One, beyond the special privileges of the country's leaders, the peasants of China were starving. The harvest of 1959 had been worse than the one the year before. The deaths were now in the millions, and before the famine was over tens of millions would die. As so many of my countrymen starved, I sat with Lin Ke and Wang Jingxian, with Ye Zilong and Li Yinqiao, and with the leadership of Zhejiang province celebrating the sixty-sixth birthday of the absent emperor Mao, the tables laden with expensive, extravagant delicacies. The head of the provincial public security bureau was falling-down drunk. I was miserable.

But I felt that I had no choice. Had I refused to participate, I would have risked bringing political trouble to myself. “Those who brave the battle alone are always shot down,” Lin Ke often said, quoting from Lu Xun. “Survival in Group One requires us to violate our consciences.” The only way to be at peace with my conscience was to leave Group One. But I had just tried once more and failed.

I lived in a world apart. We in Group One had no rules. There was no law. It was a paradise, free from all restraint, subject only to the whim of Mao and the guilt that gnawed those of us whose consciences remained intact.