Chaolin returned an hour later. He was in good spirits, saying that he was allowed to go back to Cheju and that the reregistration was indeed just a routine thing. He believed the Americans must have lost some files and wanted to reestablish the records. Besides us, there were dozens of POWs who had come from other camps for the reregistration too. I didn't have time to ask him more about the process before the guard took me away.

I stuffed Ming's ID tag into my pants pocket and set off. Passing the central latrine on the way, I told the guard I needed to pee, and he let me enter the roofless privy, where I ripped the ID tag to pieces and dropped it into one of the four hundred pits.

Before I went into the registration office, a clerk, a black man whose neck was as thick as his face, asked me to show him my ID tag. I said, "I don't have one."

"How come?" He looked puzzled.

"I lost it in the camp on Cheju Island. I was ill for some time and couldn't take care of my stuff."

"All right, let me get your fingerprints."

I held out my left hand, and one by one he pressed my fingertips into an ink container and printed them on a card that had five marked squares, one for each digit. He did the same with my right hand. After giving me a piece of straw paper to wipe my hand with, he led me into an office, an inner room in a large tent. Here sat an American lieutenant and a Chinese interpreter, who was apparently an officer from Taiwan, though he wore civvies and tortoiseshell glasses. I was told to sit on a padded chair in front of them. This office looked cozy; a white bookcase stood in a corner, loaded with dozens of books, which I observed for a good while. Among the volumes were novels, manuals, and some brand-new copies of the Bible. The lieutenant must have been involved with the prisoners' education program.

"Your name?" the American officer asked. He was about my age, but with a balding crown. I pretended I didn't know English and waited for the interpreter to translate so that I could think before answering.

"Feng Wen," I said, my heart fluttering.

"Age?"

"Twenty-six." Ming was one year older than me.

"Education?"

"College."

"What school?"

" Beijing University."

Suddenly the black clerk stepped in and put the card of my fingerprints on the officer's desk. He said, "Lieutenant Wright, this doesn't match the one in our file."

Heavens, they'd kept a record of Ming's ID! My head was swimming and my heart pounding while both the interrogators fastened their eyes on me. Except for his baldish head, Lieutenant Wright was quite handsome, with a straight nose, a sensuous mouth, and a chin covered with a curly beard. He said, "Now, you must be honest with me. Evidently you're not Feng Wen."

"I am Feng Wen," I replied in English, having forgotten to wait for the interpreter to translate.

They looked at each other. The lieutenant said sternly, "Then you must explain why your fingerprints don't match our record."

"I have no idea. This must be a mistake. I was told to come and get registered again."

"You speak good English," commented the interpreter.

"I took some English classes at college."

Lieutenant Wright said, "Mr. Feng, or whoever you are, if you can't explain the discrepancy, we're going to keep you in custody until this gets clarified."

"That wouldn't make much difference, I'm already in custody."

"I don't think this is an error, though. What we have here is subterfuge, so we must get to the bottom of it."

I was impressed by his manner of speech. Obviously he was a well-educated man, probably a college graduate. Despite my effort to be articulate, I got rattled, sweat oozing from my face. I lifted my hand and wiped it away.

Wright flicked his fingers and ordered the guard, "Put him into Cell 4."

I wanted to say something, but words failed me. Silently I followed the guard out.

Once slammed into a solitary cell whose window was blocked by an iron grille, I began thinking about what to do. The crucial question was whether I should admit my true identity. Such a confession would amount to treason in the Communists' eyes, but if I refused to own up, the interrogators would not let me go. What step should I take then? Should I tell them something but not the whole truth? Maybe I should do that, but how much information should I give them? That would depend on how much they knew about me. If they found out that I had withheld information, I'd be done for.

Hard as I tried, I couldn't make up my mind. The more I thought about my predicament, the more I resented Commissar Pei for sending me here. If Ming had come himself, the whole thing would have ended well without costing him a single hair. The Party just wouldn't risk losing one of its own men.

Unsure what to do, I decided that from now on I'd act according to the situation. In any event I must not get myself hurt. As long as I stayed alive, there would be a way to get back to China.

Early the next morning I was taken to Lieutenant Wright's office again. This time a bulky tape recorder was on his desk. I told myself I must speak carefully. The moment I sat down, Wright handed me a photograph that showed Commissar Pei and me on the beach. Dumbfounded, I couldn't face him.

"Well," he said with a grin, "we know who you are, Feng Yan. Now you must tell us why you came here in Feng Wen's place."

"They told me to come, but I'm not sure why," I said.

"Who are they?"

"The Communist leaders."

"What's your mission here?" demanded the interpreter.

"None, just to sacrifice myself, I guess."

"How do you mean?" asked the lieutenant.

I was so angry about Pei 's scheme that I said, "Feng Wen is Pei Shan's interpreter, indispensable to him. That's why Pei sent me here, to be trashed."

"You must speak English better than Feng Wen, don't you?" asked the Chinese man.

"But I'm not a Party member."

"I see."

Lieutenant Wright said, "Let me ask you another question, which you must answer honestly. Then we'll decide how to handle your case. My question is: are you disgusted with the Communists?"

I glanced at the tape recorder, which wasn't on. "Yes," I managed to say.

"You don't sound convincing."

At the spur of the moment I pulled up my shirt to show them my tattoo – FUCK COMMUNISM. "Look at this. Don't you think this is convincing?"

They both laughed. Lieutenant Wright flung up his hand and said, "I don't know. I can't read your Oriental mind, which is full of duplicity. If you hate the Communists as much as your tattoo indicates, then why did you follow them all the way to Camp 8?"

"I was a soldier and had to obey orders."

"Whose orders?"

Before I could answer, the Chinese officer stepped in with a shrewd smile, "I doubt if you told us the truth."

"Why don't you believe me?"

"That tattoo must've been put on your tummy by the Communists themselves."

"Why would they do that?"

"To make you an effective agent working for them."

"Yes, that's it." Wright's hazel eyes gleamed.

"That's preposterous," I said. "The two words were marked on me by some men in Compound 72 on Koje Island. It has nothing do with the Communists. You can call that compound on Koje, check with the chief of the Third Company by the name of Wang Yong, and ask him whether his men tattooed me last spring."

That held them in check. The lieutenant said, "Okay, well contact Cheju Island. Let's stop here for today."

"Why don't you call Koje?" I was surprised.

"They moved to Cheju too."

That was news to me. I had never heard there was a camp for the pro-Nationalist prisoners on the island.

Before I left, I again looked at the bookcase. Wright caught my envious eyes, but said nothing. Back in the cell, I wondered if I had done a wise thing to mention Compound 72. Many of those pro-Nationalists must still hate my guts, and they might tip off the Americans to destroy me. If only I hadn't mentioned Wang Yong. But if I had not, there would have been no way to get myself cleared. I was anxious about what would happen at the next interrogation. To some degree I liked Lieutenant Wright, who seemed decent and unassuming, careful with his choice of words. It was his interpreter who unnerved me. Americans were usually forthcoming, poor at concealing their feelings, so you knew where you stood when dealing with them, whereas some Chinese were hard to assess, rarely showing what was on their minds. I feared the interpreter might plot to hurt me.