time this country will become my thematic homeland, when one day in the fall of 1957 our omniscient secretary, Krysia Korta, called me out of my office at the newspaper and, looking mysterious, agitated, whispered to me:
“You’re going to China.”
CHAIRMAN MAO’S
ONE HUNDRED FLOWERS
Autumn 1957
I reached China on foot. Well, I flew to Hong Kong via Amsterdam and Tokyo. In Hong Kong, a local train took me to a small station in an open field—where, I had been told, I would be able to cross into China. In reality, however, when I stepped down onto the platform, it was only to be approached by a conductor and a policeman, who gestured toward a bridge on the far horizon. “China!” the policeman said.
He was a Chinese man in a British police uniform. He walked with me a ways along the asphalt road, then wished me a good journey and turned back for the station. I continued on alone, carrying my suitcase in one hand and a bag full of books in the other. The sun beat down mercilessly, the air was hot and heavy, flies buzzed aggressively.
The bridge was short, with a diagonal metal grating, and below it flowed a half dried-up river. Further on stood a tall gate covered in flowers, with signs in Chinese and on top a coat of arms—a red shield and five yellow stars, four small and one large. Guards stood near the gate. They carefully inspected my passport, wrote the relevant data down in a big ledger, and told me to keep walking—toward a train which was visible perhaps half a kilometer away.I walked on in the heat, with great effort, perspiring, amidst swarms of flies.
The train was empty. The cars resembled those on the train from Hong Kong—seats arranged in rows, no separate compartments. Finally, we were on our way. The landscape we traversed was sunny and green, the air coming in through the windows felt warm and humid and smelled of the tropics. It all reminded me of India, the India from the area around Madras and Pondicherry. Through these subcontinental analogies, I began to feel at home. I was among landscapes I knew and liked. The train stopped frequently and more and more people got on at the little stations. They were dressed alike, the men in dark blue denim jackets buttoned up to their chins, the women in flowery dresses identically cut. They sat straight-backed, silent, facing forward.
At one of the stations, when the train was already full, three people in uniforms of bright indigo came on board—a young woman and her two male helpers. The girl delivered a rather long speech in a decisive stentorian voice, after which one of the men handed everyone a cup and the second one poured out green tea from a metal pot. The tea was hot; the passengers blew on it to cool it and drank in small gulps, slurping loudly. Other than that, the silence continued. No one spoke so much as a word. I tried reading the passengers’ faces, but they were frozen, seemingly without expression. Plus, I didn’t want to scrutinize them too intently, for fear that this would be deemed rude or perhaps even arouse suspicion. Certainly no one was looking at me, although among all these work jackets and flowery percales I must have cut quite a queer figure in my elegant Italian suit purchased a year earlier in Rome.
I reached Peking after a three-day journey. It was cold and a chill dry wind was blowing, covering the city and its inhabitants inclouds of gray dust. Two journalists from the youth newspaper
Chungkuo
were waiting for me at the barely illuminated station. We shook hands, and one of them, standing stiffly, almost at attention, declaimed:
“We are pleased about your arrival because it is proof that the politics of One Hundred Flowers, announced by Chairman Mao, is bearing fruit. Chairman Mao recommends that we collaborate with others and share our experiences, and that is precisely what our respective editorial offices are doing in exchanging their permanent correspondents. We greet you as the permanent correspondent
“You’re going to China.”
CHAIRMAN MAO’S
ONE HUNDRED FLOWERS
Autumn 1957
I reached China on foot. Well, I flew to Hong Kong via Amsterdam and Tokyo. In Hong Kong, a local train took me to a small station in an open field—where, I had been told, I would be able to cross into China. In reality, however, when I stepped down onto the platform, it was only to be approached by a conductor and a policeman, who gestured toward a bridge on the far horizon. “China!” the policeman said.
He was a Chinese man in a British police uniform. He walked with me a ways along the asphalt road, then wished me a good journey and turned back for the station. I continued on alone, carrying my suitcase in one hand and a bag full of books in the other. The sun beat down mercilessly, the air was hot and heavy, flies buzzed aggressively.
The bridge was short, with a diagonal metal grating, and below it flowed a half dried-up river. Further on stood a tall gate covered in flowers, with signs in Chinese and on top a coat of arms—a red shield and five yellow stars, four small and one large. Guards stood near the gate. They carefully inspected my passport, wrote the relevant data down in a big ledger, and told me to keep walking—toward a train which was visible perhaps half a kilometer away.I walked on in the heat, with great effort, perspiring, amidst swarms of flies.
The train was empty. The cars resembled those on the train from Hong Kong—seats arranged in rows, no separate compartments. Finally, we were on our way. The landscape we traversed was sunny and green, the air coming in through the windows felt warm and humid and smelled of the tropics. It all reminded me of India, the India from the area around Madras and Pondicherry. Through these subcontinental analogies, I began to feel at home. I was among landscapes I knew and liked. The train stopped frequently and more and more people got on at the little stations. They were dressed alike, the men in dark blue denim jackets buttoned up to their chins, the women in flowery dresses identically cut. They sat straight-backed, silent, facing forward.
At one of the stations, when the train was already full, three people in uniforms of bright indigo came on board—a young woman and her two male helpers. The girl delivered a rather long speech in a decisive stentorian voice, after which one of the men handed everyone a cup and the second one poured out green tea from a metal pot. The tea was hot; the passengers blew on it to cool it and drank in small gulps, slurping loudly. Other than that, the silence continued. No one spoke so much as a word. I tried reading the passengers’ faces, but they were frozen, seemingly without expression. Plus, I didn’t want to scrutinize them too intently, for fear that this would be deemed rude or perhaps even arouse suspicion. Certainly no one was looking at me, although among all these work jackets and flowery percales I must have cut quite a queer figure in my elegant Italian suit purchased a year earlier in Rome.
I reached Peking after a three-day journey. It was cold and a chill dry wind was blowing, covering the city and its inhabitants inclouds of gray dust. Two journalists from the youth newspaper
Chungkuo
were waiting for me at the barely illuminated station. We shook hands, and one of them, standing stiffly, almost at attention, declaimed:
“We are pleased about your arrival because it is proof that the politics of One Hundred Flowers, announced by Chairman Mao, is bearing fruit. Chairman Mao recommends that we collaborate with others and share our experiences, and that is precisely what our respective editorial offices are doing in exchanging their permanent correspondents. We greet you as the permanent correspondent
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