(14 of 29)
The No. 1 Detention House, where I was to remain for 6 1/2 years, was the foremost detention house for political prisoners in Shanghai. It was an old establishment where the Kuomintang had once imprisoned Communists. The black Jeep drove through the main gate, along a drive lined by willow trees, then through another gate. I was undressed, searched, photographed, fingerprinted. ''While you are here, you will be known by a number,'' the man at the entry desk said. ''You'll no longer use your name, not even to the guards. Your number is 1806.'' I was taken out through another gate and into a two-story building where women prisoners were housed. The guard took me to a cell, then pushed the bolt back with a loud clang. I looked around the room, and my heart sank. Cobwebs dangled from the ceiling; the once whitewashed walls were yellow with age and streaked with dust. The single naked bulb was coated with grime and extremely dim. Patches of the cement floor were black with dampness. A strong musty smell pervaded the air. I hastened to open the only small window, with its rust-pitted iron bars. When I succeeded in pulling the knob and the window swung open, flakes of peeling paint as well as a shower of dust fell to the floor. The only furniture in the room was three narrow beds of rough wooden planks, one against the wall, the other two stacked one on top of the other. A cement toilet was built into one corner. Never in my life had I been in or even imagined a place so primitive and filthy. The guard came back with several sheets of toilet paper of the roughest kind, which she handed to me through a small square window in the door of the cell, saying, ''I'll lend you this. When you get your supply, you must return to the government the same number of sheets. Now go to sleep. Lie with your head toward the door. That's the regulation.'' I didn't want to touch the dust-covered bed. But I needed to lie down, as my legs were badly swollen. I pulled the bed away from the dirty wall and wiped it with the toilet paper. But the dirt was so deeply ingrained that I could remove only the loose dust. Then I lay down anyhow and closed my eyes. The naked bulb hanging from the center of the cell was directly above my head. Though dim, it irritated me. I looked around the cell but could not see a light switch anywhere. ''Please!'' I called, knocking on the door. ''I can't find the light switch.'' ! ''We don't switch off the light at night. In future, when you want to speak to the guards, just say, 'Report.' Don't knock on the door. Don't say anything else.'' I lay down again and turned to the dusty wall to avoid the light. Just before daybreak, the electric light in the cell was switched off. In the darkness, the dirt and ugliness of the room disappeared. I could imagine myself elsewhere. During all the years I spent in that prison cell, the short time of darkness after the light was switched off and before daybreak was always a moment when I recovered the dignity of my being and felt a sense of renewal, simply because I had a precious moment of freedom when I was not under the watchful eyes of the guards. At daybreak, we were awakened by a guard shouting, ''Get up! Get up!'' The shutter of the small window on the door was pushed open. An oblong aluminum container appeared. A woman's voice said impatiently, ''Come over, come over.'' When I took the container, she said, ''In future, stand here at mealtimes and wait.'' She also handed me a pair of bamboo