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One day in the fall of 1971, a large bundle was deposited on the floor of my cell by a guard. After I had signed the receipt, I took the bundle to my bed and untied it. To my astonishment, I found the padded jacket, the fleece-lined winter coat, the two sweaters and the woolen underpants the Red Guards had allowed my daughter to keep after they looted our home in 1966. The padded jacket of navy blue woolen material lined with maroon silk was new in 1966, and it looked new now. With trembling hands, I picked up the white porcelain mug Meiping used for tea and found it was stained faintly brown inside. It had not been washed, and the tea had dried. My heart thumped faster and faster as I examined each article. I could not help thinking that something terrible had happened to my daughter not long after I was arrested. She had probably died. That was why the clothes had hardly been worn. Perhaps her death had happened rather suddenly and unexpectedly, so that she did not have time to wash the mug she had used for tea. I rushed to the door, hoping to find out the truth. ''These things you have just given to me -- they are my daughter's clothes and quilt,'' I said. ''Yes,'' answered the guard. ''What's happened to my daughter?'' ''Nothing has happened to her.'' ''Do you mean to tell me that you know for a fact my daughter is alive and well at this moment?'' ''Why should she be otherwise?'' The guard walked away. After a few weeks of anxiety, with little food and hardly any sleep, I became sick once more, with a high fever and delirium. I was again taken to the prison hospital. I recovered, but then I had a bad hemorrhage. When the bleeding was brought under control, I was taken to the hospital for an examination. The ''doctor'' was a young woman in her early twenties, with an armband of the Revolutionaries. She was clumsy, and after the brief examination she told the guard I had cancer of the uterus. I did not believe her because I was sure she was not a qualified doctor. But apparently the guards and others at the detention house believed her. My treatment improved. More months passed. Suddenly, on March 27, 1973, after the midday meal, while I was walking about in the cell, a guard opened the small window and said, ''Pack up all your things.'' ''All my things?'' I asked her. ''Yes, all your things. Don't leave anything behind.'' In the interrogation rooms, the interrogator said, ''I will read the conclusion arrived at by the People's Government on your case.'' He read a document that said I ''deserved punishment'' but added, ''In view of the fact that she is politically backward and ignorant, we decided to give her a chance to realize her mistakes. After 6 1/2 years of education in the No. 1 Detention House, we observed a certain degree of improvement in her way of thinking and an attitude of repentance. We have, therefore, decided to show her proletarian magnanimity by allowing her to leave the detention house as a free person.'' He lifted his head and looked at me. ''Haven't you something to say? Aren't you grateful? Aren't you pleased that you can now leave as a free person?'' I tried my best to control my anger. ''I can't accept your conclusion. I shall remain here in the No. 1 Detention House until a proper conclusion is reached about my case. A proper conclusion must include a declaration that I am innocent of any crime or political mistake, an apology for wrongful arrest and full rehabilitation. Furthermore, the apology must be