5

On April 25, 1955, at about three o'clock in the afternoon, the head nurse at the Zhongnanhai Clinic came to me with a message. She seemed tense and puzzled. “Group One just telephoned,” she whispered. “You're wanted at the swimming pool.” Group One was the code name designating Mao and his staff.¹ The “swimming pool” was Mao's.

There were two swimming pools then in Zhongnanhai. The outdoor pool, open in the summertime, was used by the entire staff. The indoor pool had been constructed for the top-level leadership, but over time the other leaders had stopped using it and Mao took it over as his. Later he would spend so much time there that additions were built—a reception room and study and a bedroom. In 1967, during the Cultural Revolution, Mao finally moved his residence to the building that housed the swimming pool, living there until only weeks before his death. It was there that he received President Richard Nixon, Premier Tanaka, and many other foreign leaders. Even in 1955, the “swimming pool” always referred to Mao.

My order to meet the Chairman had come.

My clinic was busy that day—it always was—and several patients had been waiting for several hours. I attended to them before riding my bicycle to the indoor pool. Li Yinqiao, the deputy chief of Mao's bodyguards, who was constantly at his side, was waiting. “Why are you so late?” he asked anxiously, rushing up to me. “You kept Chairman waiting.”

“I couldn't leave my patients,” I explained. “It took some time to finish with them. Is Chairman ill? Does he need medical care?”

“No, no. He just wants to talk to you.”

Li Yinqiao escorted me into the indoor pool area.

Mao was lying on a wooden bed, naked beneath an open terry-cloth robe, his lower body loosely covered with a towel. He was reading. His body was as strong and large as I remembered from my first sight of him atop Tiananmen. His shoulders were broad, and his belly was big. His face had the same healthy glow, and his hair was still thick and black, his forehead broad, his skin like butter, delicate and hairless. His legs were rather thin for such a robust man. He wore coffee-colored socks. His feet were large.

Li Yinqiao announced my arrival, and I apologized immediately for being so late, explaining that I could not leave the patients who had already waited hours to see me. Mao was not irritated at all. He put aside his book and asked Li to pull up a chair so I could sit next to him. Mao's bodyguards doubled as his personal attendants, and a group of four were on duty, organized by teams, day and night, twenty-four hours a day.

“Zhang Zhidong did not follow a regular schedule for eating and sleeping,” Mao said, referring to a high-ranking official of the Qing dynasty. “I am just like Zhang. I came over here right after I woke up. What time is it now?”

“It's four-thirty in the afternoon,” I replied.

“This is my morning. What time do you get up?”

I was confused. Most Chinese take a short nap after lunch, and since I did not yet understand Mao's habits or how he went about eliciting information, I was not sure whether he was asking what time I woke up from my afternoon nap or what time I got up in the morning. “Usually I get up a little after six in the morning,” I replied, “and then I take a short nap in the afternoon.”

“You are a doctor,” Mao said with a smile. “You take good care of your health and follow a regular schedule.” Mao's eyes seemed full of wisdom, and he exuded good feeling—less by his words than by the expression on his face. I was overcome. I felt that I was in the presence of a great man.

He was smoking a British-made “555” cigarette, puffing through a cigarette holder. “Song Qingling suggested the cigarette holder,” he said, referring to the widow of Sun Yat-sen. “It has a filter inside that is supposed to eliminate nicotine. I have smoked for many years, but I still wonder how nicotine affects me. Do you smoke?”

“Yes, I do,” I responded, “but not much.” I usually smoked three or four cigarettes a day after work.

“You are the first smoking doctor I have met, then.” He smiled, taking several deep puffs and looking at me with a mischievous grin. “Smoking is also a deep breathing exercise, don't you think?” I could not tell whether he was joking or serious, so I did not know how to respond. I just smiled at him in silence.

He looked at my hair. “You are just a little over thirty. Why do you have so much more gray hair than I?”

I tried to explain that my prematurely gray hair was probably inherited, part of my genetic makeup. “To look at our hair,” I said, “I seem much older than the Chairman.”

“You are flattering me,” Mao laughed.

His conversation had put me at ease.

He asked about my educational background and my professional experience, listening attentively as I responded. “Since you started high school, your education has been completely American,” he said, “and during the war of liberation against Chiang Kai-shek and the Guomindang, the Americans helped Chiang. The Americans also fought against us in Korea. Still, I like having American- or British-trained people working for me. I am interested in foreign languages. Some people think I should learn Russian, but I don't want to. I'd rather learn English. You can teach me.”

I agreed.

Mao paused for a while, becoming more serious. “You were only fifteen years old in 1935, when you joined the National Renaissance Society—just a kid. You didn't know anything then. Besides, you have already told the story to your superiors. I can't see that this is a problem.” He told me how the founding emperor of the Tang dynasty (A.D. 618–907), Li Shimin, had refused to listen to the advice of his ministers and had placed such trust in a general with a questionable background that he allowed the general to sleep by his side. The general was extremely talented and became quite useful to the emperor. The two learned to work well together. “What it takes,” Mao said, looking at me, “is sincerity. We have to treat each other with sincerity. Both the relationship and our sincerity have to be tested over a long period of time.

“Take Xu Shiyou, for instance,” he continued, referring to the onetime Buddhist monk who was then the commander of the Nanjing Military Region. Xu Shiyou had originally been a follower of Zhang Guotao, one of the founders of the Chinese Communist party, who in a disagreement with Mao had defected to the Guomindang. Xu Shiyou refused to follow Zhang Guotao, declaring his loyalty to Mao instead. “During the rectification campaign in 1942 in Yanan, many people questioned Xu's loyalty because he had once worked for Zhang Guotao,” Mao explained. “They criticized him severely. Xu was desperate and was thinking about pulling his army out of Yanan. Kang Sheng wanted to arrest him and have him shot. I said that we had to wait. I needed to talk to him. Many comrades did not like this. They were afraid he might harm me. I disagreed.

“When Xu saw me, he burst into tears. I told him not to cry. I just wanted him to answer two simple questions. ‘Do you believe in Zhang Guotao or me?' I asked. ‘Of course I believe in you,' Xu answered. ‘Do you want to go or stay?' I asked. ‘Of course I want to stay,' he answered. So I told him, ‘Okay, stay. Continue to command your troops. That's it.' Hasn't Xu Shiyou done a fine job since?”

Suddenly, after years of anxiety and depression, I felt safe. Mao had solved the problem of my family background and political past. Others had used my past to attack me, to deprive me of party membership, to make me insecure. “You were just a kid,” Mao had said. “What matters is sincerity.” His logic was so simple, but it relieved all the weight of my past. Mao was the supreme leader. No one could challenge him. I was grateful. Mao had saved me.

A bodyguard entered and began serving Mao his meal. He invited me to share it. There were four dishes—fish, pork mixed with hot peppers, a favorite of Mao's, lamb with leeks, and a platter of vegetables. They were swimming in oil but had no soy sauce and little salt. For most people, life was still difficult in the mid-1950s. Food was scarce, and oil was a precious commodity. I was not accustomed to eating oil and only picked at the meal we were sharing.

“You don't want to eat,” Mao chided me. “This fish is very good—and the pork, too.”

“I'm not very hungry,” I apologized. Only much later would I become accustomed to his tastes.

“This is both my breakfast and lunch,” he said. “I only have two meals a day. Maybe this isn't your mealtime.”

We continued to chat. He asked whether I had ever studied philosophy.

“When I was a student, I could not even finish my medical texts,” I answered. “I had little time for other reading. Since then I have spent all my time treating patients. So I have had little opportunity to read philosophy. But I have read two of Chairman's essays—‘On Practice' and ‘On Contradiction.' ”

I had really liked both essays. Mao wrote well—simply and to the point. “On Practice” had taught me that real knowledge comes from doing rather than from reading about how to do—a useful lesson for an aspiring surgeon. “On Contradiction” had helped me understand that the solution to any problem requires locating the major contradiction—going to the root and treating the cause rather than concentrating on the symptoms.

Mao smiled. “During the War of Resistance against Japan [1937–1945], I was asked to give a lecture on philosophy at the ‘Resist Japan University' in Yanan. I thought then that I needed to summarize the experiences of our revolution by integrating the theory of Marxism with the concrete reality of China. So I wrote those two articles. ‘On Practice,' I think, was more important than ‘On Contradiction.' I spent two weeks writing ‘On Contradiction,' but it only took me two hours to deliver it as a lecture.”

Years later, when I sometimes looked back and wondered why I had made such a good impression on Mao during that first meeting, I returned often to this part of our conversation. Only after being in Mao's inner circle for some time did I realize how important Mao himself thought those two articles were. He believed they were a major contribution to the philosophical development of Marxism-Leninism—an explication of “socialism with Chinese characteristics.” The Soviets, however, accorded them no such honor and branded them revisionist instead. I heard rumors that Stalin had designated P. F. Yudin, a renowned Soviet philosopher of Marxism-Leninism, as the Soviet ambassador to China in order to study Mao's thoughts and report on their orthodoxy. Mao often visited Yudin, and the two would argue late into the night. But Yudin persistently rebuffed Mao's views. Mao was vexed. “Did philosophy really reach its limits with Marx and Lenin?” he would sometimes wonder out loud. “Can't the inclusion of China's revolutionary experience produce new philosophical thought?”

That first afternoon, however, I knew none of this, and Mao himself was circumspect. “I think you should read some philosophy,” he said. “It might do you a lot of good as a physician. I have just finished Engels's Dialectics of Nature. Take it with you. I have heard that in American universities the highest degree in the humanities, science, and engineering is called the doctor of philosophy. It seems that they also consider philosophy important for all the academic disciplines. I also think it's important to study history. Without studying history, we can't know how the present has come about. You should also study literature. As a doctor, in touch with so many different people, if you only know medical science, you'll be boring. You won't share a common language with others.”

He paused.

“Well, we can stop here for today. We will have many chances to talk in the future.” He extended his hand and shook mine firmly.

It was shortly past seven in the evening when I left the swimming pool area, and my mind was racing. The meeting had been full of surprises, from finding Mao in bed to the discovery of his unusual sleeping habits, his wry sense of humor, and his ability to get me to relax and speak my mind. He was formidable and approachable, wise and iconoclastic. My tension had evaporated, and I suddenly felt more secure than I had in years. There was still a vast gulf between Mao and me, and I knew little about him, but I was certain I had been in the presence of a great man. I was proud to be called upon to work for him in such an intimate capacity. It was an opportunity I had never imagined. But could I do a good job? How should I prepare myself? What really would be required of me? I went to see Wang Dongxing immediately.

“You spent quite a long time with the Chairman,” he said in greeting, obviously pleased. If the meeting had not gone well, Mao would have dismissed me much earlier. “What did you talk about?”

I reported our conversation.

Wang was delighted. “See? I told you. You can do the job. It's a good beginning. Keep it up.”

The phone rang. It was Mao's bodyguard, Li Yinqiao. I had made a very good impression on Mao. I had passed the test. Mao wanted me to serve as his personal physician.

“I'll report to minister of public security Luo Ruiqing,” Wang said. “Go home now and get a good rest. Keep all this confidential. Don't tell anyone about your job unless they really have to know.”

Lillian was the only person I told. She also thought that I had made a good first impression. Otherwise Mao would not have talked with me so long or invited me to dinner.

I was happy that Mao had seemed to like me, but I was still worried about the job. “We'll just see whether my work goes this well, too,” I said.

“You know the job will be very demanding,” Lillian said.

Fu Lianzhang phoned the next day and invited me to visit him in Bowstring Lane. I bicycled to his home.

“You saw Chairman yesterday,” he greeted me enthusiastically. This time he came to the door to welcome me, taking my hand tightly in his. “Tell me how everything went.”

I never learned how the news had traveled so fast. Fu listened attentively, growing increasingly excited as I described my meeting with Mao. He poured a cup of tea for me, then circled twice around an end table, talking as though to himself. “It was a matter of luck,” he mumbled.

He turned to me, smiled, and said, “You really are lucky. The first time you met the Chairman, and you talked with him for so long. What a precious occasion!” Fu, I sensed, was jealous and puzzled that the meeting had gone so well.

“In 1934, when the Chairman was suffering from malaria and about to go into battle, he asked me to treat him,” Fu said. “I gave him quinine.

“Then, when he was about to go to war again, he asked me to take care of his pregnant wife, Comrade He Zizhen. I delivered her baby.” Fu Lianzhang was not clear about exactly how many children He Zizhen had borne, and I never learned for certain either, but I had heard that she had two boys before the Long March began in the fall of 1934 and that both were left behind with a peasant family when the communists evacuated their southern base area and that later efforts to find them had proved fruitless. Fu Lianzhang became excited as he remembered those times, his cheeks turning red and perspiration breaking out on his forehead. He took a few sips of boiled water. “I don't drink tea or take anything stimulating,” he said.

“Later, Chairman Mao saved my life,” Fu continued, turning the conversation in another direction. “I had been accused of being a member of the Guomindang's Anti-Bolshevik Corps, and Chairman Mao protected me. When I was still a young man, I contracted tuberculosis, and Chairman Mao treated me with great kindness. During the Long March, when everyone else was on foot, he let me ride a horse. He made sure because of my poor health that I had a whole chicken to eat every day.” Chicken was expensive and difficult to come by in those days, and to eat a whole chicken every day was an unimaginable luxury.

Fu offered me some more tea and continued. “I'm telling you these stories because I want you to understand the Chairman.”

I knew little about the early history of the Communist party or of Mao's past. I asked Fu to continue. “What you're telling me is very helpful.”

Fu smiled and went on. “The Chairman has a serious case of insomnia. During the Jiangxi soviet period, in the early 1930s, I had to go to Shanghai disguised as a businessman to buy sedatives—Veronal—and glucose to treat him. I suggested that the Chairman take both the Veronal and the glucose before going to bed. The sleeping medication worked, so the Chairman was very happy. You can see I am very loyal to the Chairman. He and I are the same age, but my health is not as good.”

Fu looked at me intently. “Your new assignment means that the party trusts you,” he said. “This is a very noble assignment. But it is also very difficult.”

The meal was served. “Yesterday Chairman treated you to dinner. Today I will do the same,” Fu said. The dishes were light and included a bowl of steamed chicken. “I still eat one chicken a day,” he explained. He ordered wine and raised his glass to me. “Ordinarily I don't drink wine at all,” he said, “but I want to share some with you today.

“You must be very careful in your work as Chairman Mao's physician. Whenever you have any difficulties, no matter what they are, just tell me. I will help you.” I had no idea what help Fu could be. He obviously wanted to know as much about Mao and his activities as he could.

Fu stopped eating after he had finished his chicken. “I eat five meals a day, just a little each time,” he explained. “You must eat more.

“Chairman wants you to help him study English,” he continued. “This is a good opportunity to befriend him. It seems he likes you. Try to be accommodating. In addition to treating him medically, you should do whatever else he wants, too.”

I bridled at Fu's suggestion. I was a physician. To allow myself to become involved in nonmedical matters was to diminish my role as a doctor. “If I were to do as you suggest,” I responded without thinking, “I would have little time for medical practice.”

Fu became solemn. “You shouldn't see things that way. Chairman's knowledge is as deep and as wide as the seas. You have much to learn from him. You are a doctor. You should try to broaden your knowledge. This way, you will have more opportunities to talk with him. You will be able to understand him better.”

Mao, too, had encouraged me to broaden my knowledge, and I realized that Fu had a point. Mao was still young and healthy, and for many years I would not be treating his illnesses but would have to find ways of maintaining and improving his health. I would have to understand his temperament, his character, and his habits, and to do this I would need his trust. Fu was right. I would have to expand my knowledge so I could talk more often with Mao. I thanked Fu for his advice.

He responded warmly, taking my hand in his, gripping it firmly. “Please come visit every week,” he urged me, “with or without business.”

The streets were crowded with people, and the atmosphere around me was festive as I bicycled home from Fu Lianzhang's. Beijing was preparing for May Day, and the buildings were festooned with colorful posters and banners. I felt good.

I had become disillusioned after my return to China. My dream had slipped away. Other members of my generation, my brother, cousins, and friends, were finding their places in this new revolutionary society. They were veteran revolutionaries, men who had made their way to Yanan in the 1930s to make revolution. With the establishment of the new government in 1949, they had been rewarded with important positions. Some had been criticized during the “three-anti” campaign, but they had retained their jobs, and now they were respected by everyone, successful. My schoolmates, too, were making something of their lives. Their medical careers were blossoming. They were becoming highly respected specialists in major hospitals throughout the country.

I had been adrift, assigned a job I never wanted, forced to abandon surgery and become a general practitioner instead, devoting my time to petty illnesses. My career was stymied. Premier Zhou Enlai had recently announced that my clinic at Zhongnanhai would soon be combined with the clinic set up to serve the State Council, and he had appointed me director of the new facility. But all these reorganizations were unsettling. I had no idea what the future would bring. My appointment as Mao's doctor would free me from the clinic and the petty pressures that work entailed.

As Mao's physician, I would enjoy a new respect. Mao was the paramount leader of China, worshiped by millions. But he lived in secret, shut off from even his closest political colleagues. He was tightly guarded. To ordinary people, he was a mysterious and faraway presence whom they could never dream of knowing. Even the highest party officials saw him only at meetings. As his doctor, I would be constantly at his side, with him every day, tutoring him in English, talking with him about philosophy, privy to the workings of his inner court.

My whole world had changed. The sky had opened up and the earth had embraced me. I was no longer a nobody. When I met Fu Lianzhang in 1949, just after my return, he had not even stood up from his chaise longue to greet me and still I had felt honored that such a high official had received me. Now he was meeting me at the door, almost obsequious. Indeed, I soon noticed that many top leaders became suddenly courteous and outgoing, eager to talk to me. I was no longer an ordinary physician. I was proud of myself, exhilarated. I was Chairman Mao's doctor. I was ecstatic!

¹ Group Two referred to Liu Shaoqi, Group Three to Premier Zhou, Group Four to Zhu De, and Group Five first to Ren Bishi and then, after his death, to Chen Yun.