The Chinese Communist Party During The Cultural Revolution The Case of The Sixty-One Renegades

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The Chinese Communist
Party and the Cultural
Revolution
The Case of the Sixty-One Renegades
Pamela Lubell
The Harry S. Truman Research Institute for the Advancement of Peace
The Hebrew University of Jerusalem
in association with
St. Antony’s College, Oxford
© Pamela Lubell 2002
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lubell, Pamela, 1949–
The Chinese Communist Party and the Cultural Revolution:
the case of the sixty-one renegades / Pamela Lubell.
p. cm. – (St. Antony’s series)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Zhongguo gongchandang–History. I. Title. II. Series.

JQ1519.A5 L796 2001
324.251’075’09046–dc21
2001046006
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
11 10 09 08 07 06 05 04 03 02
For Miriam (Mimi) Feldman
and in memory of Sam Feldman
with love and respect
Contents
Acknowledgements ix
Abbreviations xi
Introduction 1
1 1936: On the Eve of War and Freedom 20

The common enemy 22
The CCP in northern China 28
An organizational shambles 32
An, Yang, Bo and Liu under arrest 39
Beijing under threat 45
The party and the students 47
Risk assessment: Song, Liu and the sixty-one 49
2 Release from the Guomindang Prison, 1936 52

Caolanzi prison 53
The roles of Liu Shaoqi and Zhang Wentian 67
Into the great wide open: Shanxi 1936–43 73
Cadre screening 79
Yan’an, 1943–45 85
3 Levers of Power: Careers 1949–66 94

Dossier access 98
Liu Lantao and the Central Control Commission 101
An Ziwen and the Organization Department 106
Yang Xianzhen and the Party School 118
Bo Yibo: heavy power 123
Summary 135
4 Prison Again – the CCP Version 138

1–12 August 1966: the Eleventh Plenum of the Eighth
Central Committee 140
Revving Up: Kang Sheng’s role, August–September 1966 142
Zhou Enlai’s role in November 1966: shoring up the
defence 145
vii
viii Contents
December 1966 to February 1967 147

Official condemnation: March–May 1967 151
Spreading the net 154
Winding up the case 158
5 Rehabilitating the Sixty-One 161

Rehabilitation policy and balance-of-power politics
in the early 1970s 163
May 1975: a brief spring thaw 166
A barely changing climate 168
Hu Yaobang and rehabilitation policy 170
1978: the COD acts 173
Muted tones of rehabilitation 176
The sixty-one rehabilitated 179
The CDIC and the CAC 181
Bo Yibo: post-Cultural Revolution 182
Remembrance 186
6 A Prejudiced Conclusion 190
Appendix: The Sixty-One 196
Notes and References 197
Bibliography 233
Index 253
Acknowledgements
I would like to express my gratitude to the following foundations and

institutions for their generous support: the Polonsky Foundation; the
Louis Freiberg Research Fund for East Asian Studies; The Dean’s Office,
Faculty of Humanities at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem and the
Dean himself, Professor Yair Zakovitch; the Minerva Center for Human
Rights at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem and last but not least,
my second home, the Harry S. Truman Institute for the Advancement
of Peace. I would like to thank the Warden and Fellows of St Antony’s
College, Oxford and those who awarded me the Israeli Junior Research
fellowship (1998–9) for a wonderfully peaceful and academically fruit-
ful year.
I am indebted to those who have read parts or all of this book in the
various stages of its evolution: Professors Lyman P. Van Slyke, Frederick
Teiwes, Vera Schwarcz, Michael Schoenhals, Thomas Kampen, Irene
Eber, Harold Z. Schiffrin, Ellis Joffe, Yitzhak Shichor, Theodore Friedgut,
Norman Rose and Eyal Ben-Ari. I thank them and the anonymous
readers for their perspicacious comments and suggestions. Both Michael
Schoenhals and Thomas Kampen generously volunteered documents
that were most helpful. The book’s failings are my own.
I would also like to thank the academic and administrative staff at
the Truman Institute and the former and current chief librarians: Cecile
Panzer and Tirzah Margolioth. My thanks in particular to the Institute’s
East Asia librarian, Riccardo Schwed, for his ever-gracious assistance.
Librarian Nancy Hearst at Harvard University’s John King Fairbank
Centre for East Asian Research was tremendously helpful, not only
responding promptly to my many requests, but also furnishing me with
additional enlightening materials. Many thanks to Lin Qian, Zhang
Hunbo, Weijia Dukes (all at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem) and
Kan Shio-yun (at the Institute for Chinese Studies, Oxford) for their
invaluable research and translation assistance. I am very grateful to
those involved in the editing and production of this book: Helen
Simpson, Keith Povey, Rosalind Duke; and at Palgrave: Josie Dixon,
Alison Howson, Peter Dent and Anthea Coombs.
On a more general note, I would like to acknowledge my debt to my
mentors at Hebrew University. Professors emeritus Harold Z. Schiffrin,
founding father (along with Avraham Altman) of East Asian studies in
ix
x Acknowledgements
Israel, and Irene Eber introduced me to Chinese history and culture.

I am privileged to have benefited from the phenomenal depth and
breadth of their knowledge. I don’t know where to begin or end in
thanking Ellis Joffe. In fact there is no end but since he is such a master
of succinct prose, I will try and do this in two simple sentences. As a
teacher, scholar, writer, loyal friend and boss, Ellis is a superb role model.
I respect and thank him for being all these things. Yitzhak Shichor
supervised my doctoral dissertation on which this book is based. It was
Yitzhak’s idea originally that I tackle the subject of political survival in
China, and this in turn led me to the curious story of the ‘sixty-one’. I
thank him for the many hours of stimulating discussion on China’s
political culture, for his profound insights into its changes and conti-
nuities – and no less for his warm friendship, patience and the time
invested in guiding me through many a bureaucratic maze in academia.
I would also like to thank the many relatives and friends – among
them, Clive and Seth Sinclair, Haidee Becker, David Kretzmer, Anna and
Jon Immanuel, Pam Blum, William and Haya White, Stephanie Segal,
Ronnie and Naomi Ban, Louise and Laurie Cohen, Ines Smyth and Tom
Hewitt, for enduring my woes and sustaining me with warmth, wisdom
and not infrequently good food and wine.
Finally, to all those who are constantly amazed at my unwavering
ability to see the negative in everything, be assured there is a sphere in
my life where this isn’t the case: to Jonathan, and to Noam, Yoel and
Ma’ayan, cosi revayah. Thank you.
PAMELA LUBELL
Abbreviations
APC Agricultural Producers’ Cooperatives

CAC Central Advisory Commission
CC Central Committee
CCC Central Control Commission
CCP Chinese Communist Party
CDIC Central Discipline Inspection Commission
CCEG Central Case Examination Group
COD Central Organization Department
CNLV China National Liberation Vanguard
CYL/CYC Communist Youth League/Corps
CRG Cultural Revolution Group
FEC Financial and Economic Committee
GMD Guomindang
JCJ Jin–Cha–Ji (region)
JJLY Jin–Ji–Lu–Yu (region)
NURGs Nankai University Red Guards
PRC People’s Republic of China
SCC State Construction Commission
SEC State Economic Commission
SPC State Planning Commission
xi
Introduction
First, he has a high communist morality . . .

Second, he has the greatest revolutionary courage . . .
Third, he learns how best to grasp the theory and the method of
Marxism–Leninism . . .
Fourth, he is the most sincere, most candid and happiest of
men . . .
Fifth, he has the greatest self-respect and self-esteem . . .
But when it is necessary to swallow humiliation and bear a heavy load
for some important purpose in the cause of the Party and the revolution,
he can take on the most difficult and vital of tasks without the slight-
est reluctance, never passing the difficulties to others [emphasis
added].
(Liu Shaoqi, ‘How to be a Good Communist’, July 1939)1
What could be more humiliating for a dedicated Chinese communist

than to sign a newspaper declaration renouncing allegiance to com-
munism and affiliation to the Chinese Communist Party (CCP)? This
was the humiliation that one particular group of cadres reluctantly swal-
lowed in the late summer of 1936 in order to gain their release from a
Guomindang (GMD) prison in Beijing. Authorized by the CCP Central
Committee, the Party’s North Bureau had secretly ordered them to
recant because their release would serve a most important purpose – in
fact, a dual purpose. As Japan’s creeping domination of China’s north-
ern provinces advanced, urban China burned with patriotic fervour.
The CCP urgently needed an appropriately skilled cadre corps who
could galvanize this ‘inflamed state of mind’ into an effective anti-
Japanese united front, and at the same time rebuild the party’s patheti-
cally depleted presence in northern China.2 Experienced in CCP–GMD
1
P. Lubell, The Chinese Communist Party and the Cultural Revolution
2 The Chinese Communist Party and the Cultural Revolution
united-front work in its previous incarnation (1923–27) and in urban

underground work since 1927, these imprisoned comrades fitted the
bill. They knew the cities, they knew the campuses and they had the
contacts.
A few prisoners refused to heed the bizarre decree to recant despite
its backing by the highest party authorities, but the majority – several
dozen – obeyed. The released, who included future leading CCP officials
such as Bo Yibo, An Ziwen, Liu Lantao and Yang Xianzhen, set about
their party-building and united-front tasks with dedicated zeal – and
remarkable success. Nevertheless throughout their political careers they
indeed bore a heavy load – the lingering stigma of apostasy – despite
the party’s role in their release, despite their contribution to the com-
munist revolution and despite their prominent party roles before and
after the birth of the People’s Republic of China (PRC) in 1949. Rather
than acknowledging full responsibility for decreeing the collective act
of disloyalty, the Central Committee chose to cover up the precise
nature of its unorthodox role. Responsibility fragmented and shifted to
more amorphous spheres, as cadres in their confidential dossiers referred
vaguely to ‘rescue by the party’.3 There was no glory to be gained for
party or cadre by disclosing the ignominious details.
This vulnerability, this complication in their past, with its potential
for ugly manipulation, was kept largely, though not altogether, in check
for thirty years until the Cultural Revolution, when collective amnesia
struck the CCP Central Committee. On the basis of evidence presented
by the Central Case Examination Group (CCEG), with a little help from
eager Red Guards inspired by the radical leaders of the Cultural Revo-
lution Group (CRG), the ‘Case of the Sixty-One Renegades’ was born
in the autumn of 1966.4 On 16 March 1967 the Central Committee for-
mally condemned the sixty-one as renegades.5 Clearly the party had
turned its back on these cadres and the ethical dilemma it had wrought
for them in 1936. Twelve years elapsed before they were rehabilitated
by the party’s Third Plenum of the Eleventh Central Committee in late
December 1978 and could shuffle back into the political arena. Not all
did. Some had died long before the Cultural Revolution and some
during it, for imprisonment by the CCP when they were in their fifties
and sixties took a harsher toll than the GMD incarceration in their
youth.
Within its Cultural Revolution context the case was of critical signifi-
cance. For one thing it triggered a witch-hunt after thousands of cadres
who had worked for the party in the white areas – those parts of China
under nationalist control from the late 1920s and Japanese occupation
Introduction 3
in the 1930s and 1940s. For another the case was pivotal in the top-
pling of PRC chairman – and Mao’s esrtwhile intended successor – Liu
Shaoqi, who, as North Bureau chief in 1936, had ordered the sixty-one
to follow the GMD release procedures. For these reasons alone the case
deserves scrutiny. But it has a broader significance than its Cultural
Revolution confines, for it rolls up the blinds on a taboo subject in offi-
cial party history – the ambivalent status of white area cadres within
the revolutionary generation.
The party’s official line has always been that there was no difference
in revolutionary calibre between cadres of the red (liberated soviet) and
white areas. Yet such protestations only draw attention to the white area
cadres’ invisible but indelible ‘second-class hero’ tag. How and why has
the image of these cadres as inferior heroes been perpetuated? Why is
it that for half a century the lives and experiences of white area cadres
inhabited only the haziest shadows of China’s communist revolution-
ary history?
Outsiders
The first dent in the white area cadres’ image lay not so much in what
they had done for the revolution and where, as in what they had not
done and where they had not been. They had not participated in those
core moments that individually and collectively – at the time and
in retrospect – constituted major transformative experiences in the
Chinese communist revolution: the 1931–34 Jiangxi soviet (or any of
the other soviets), the legendary 1934–35 Long March, and the birth of
the Yan’an era (1935–47), the era that the CCP still claims as its exem-
plary golden age. Until the late 1930s and early 1940s white area cadres
had not fought in or alongside the Red Army. They had not rubbed
shoulders with Mao Zedong.
These experiences were at the centre of the Maoist version of party
history and it was the relatively well documented Maoist version that
remained dominant, occupying the foreground of China’s revolution-
ary history – in clear focus and full colour. The Mao-centred approach
controlled all input to official party history and effectively elbowed
other revolutionary strands out of the limelight.6 Since white area cadres
functioned elsewhere during the formative years of the Maoist main-
stream, the perception of them as outsiders and their revolutionary
role as peripheral has persisted. In the post-Mao era there has been
some attempt by party historians to rectify the balance between fore-
ground and background, not by diminishing the centrality of the
former but by respectfully acknowledging and painting in details of the

latter.7
Lack of detail was more than a second dent. It made them unrecog-
nizable. There are no heroes without stories. As long as the white area
cadres remained relatively storyless in official memory, the perception
of them as outsiders to the revolution was deepened. The dearth of
material on their activities could not be blamed entirely on the
selective–exclusive approach of official party history. There were natural
causes. Underground work demanded maximum secrecy. As little as pos-
sible was committed to paper. Minutes of underground party meetings,
if taken at all, were likely to be destroyed before the ink was dry. Mes-
sages and instructions tended to be by word of mouth rather than pen.
What was penned would be in code.8 The white area cadre acted fre-
quently alone, with infrequent organizational contact, in order to
reduce the possibility of exposure of his party cell or branch organiza-
tion. Although since the early 1980s there has been a significant increase
of material on white area life, much of it has had to rely on the recol-
lections of aged participants, recollections more often than not of solo
performances, less verifiable than the group acts typical of red area life.9
Thirdly, if the passage of information was limited within the white
area operational networks, there was even less between these local net-
works and party central headquarters. At times there was none at all.
This was often the situation when the party was forced underground in
1927 and when the Shanghai leadership moved gradually to Ruijin (the
Jiangxi soviet capital) in the early 1930s, and during the 1934–35 year
of transit to Sha’anxi. There was still a paucity of communication when
the party’s headquarters finally settled in its remote Yan’an enclave.
Without full knowledge of what was going on in its urban apparatus,
the party centre could not exercise effective control, and it had no inter-
est in giving subsequent credit or publicity to networks it did not fully
control. It did not want to advertise itself as cut off and not pulling all
the strings of the revolution. It did not want to diminish the carefully
cultivated image of omnipotent, omnipresent leadership of the Chinese
communist movement.
Furthermore, had the spotlight shone on the party’s urban under-
ground operations from 1927 onwards there would have been little to
boast about. The urban organizations were, for the most part, in a dire
mess. After the first crushing blows of Chiang Kai-shek’s ‘white terror’,
thousands were either dead or under arrest, or had deserted the cause.
Many surviving communists had abandoned the cities and joined the
growing crop of rural soviets. What communication there was indicates
Introduction 5
a significant degree of disagreement between central and local leader-

ships on what could and should be done and how to do it. Despite the
tightening up of local organizations by the party’s 1931 leadership, its
directives continued to demand high-profile activities from the meagre
urban cadre force, a hunted, endangered species that desperately needed
to lie low and conserve the little strength it had. In fact some of the
central leadership’s directives were tantamount to shining a spotlight
on the urban cadres and guiding the GMD authorities directly to them.
There were many botched operations. Repeated failure did not make the
white area cadres look good, whether or not the responsibility was ulti-
mately theirs. And sometimes they were at fault, be it through inept
local organization, individual carelessness – or betrayal.
The usual suspects
Betrayal was a huge problem. For whatever reason – fear, disillusion-

ment or greed – betrayal was rife. Gu Shunzhang, who headed the CCP’s
security police, stands out as traitor par excellence. Arrested in the
spring of 1931, he delivered the communist underground networks of
east and central China to the GMD authorities. ‘Eventually, the entire
Party organization was endangered as were red unions, communication
centers, publications, the headquarters of the Jiangsu Provincial Com-
mittee and even the Central Committee.’10 The memoirs of under-
ground workers, in particular those referring to the late 1920s and early
1930s, provide an overwhelming impression that most of their mental
and physical energy was invested not so much in the masterminding
and performing of dramatic and revolutionary acts as in the less heroic
tasks of being on the run, constantly looking over one’s shoulder, avoid-
ing capture and wondering if captured colleagues had talked.11 It was
the first thought that crossed a white area cadre’s mind on hearing that
a comrade had been arrested. Had he or she informed on colleagues, on
safe houses, cells, local headquarters and plans? Was it time to pack up
and move on, yet again?
Nobody was treated with greater suspicion than those comrades
who had not only been arrested and imprisoned by the Guomindang
authorities but had also been released. Since the early 1930s, weighing
up the detriment of creating a hero-martyr syndrome against the
benefits of wide-scale execution of communists, the GMD had instituted
‘re-education’ programmes for its political prisoners and restricted its
execution policy (somewhat) to unrepentant communists and those
who were found to have held fairly high positions in the movement.
Re-education was followed by release usually on condition that the

apparently reformed prisoner made a formal statement of recantation.
The GMD tried – with success in some cases – to feed released cadres
back into the movement as spies.12 There was good reason for the ap-
parent paranoia exhibited in the CCP’s so-called Rescue Campaign of
1943–44 in Yan’an. Release, conditional or not, after several years’
imprisonment would at the very least provoke communist concern
about the erosion of commitment to the cause, or far worse, fear that a
spy or double agent was now lurking in their midst.
The GMD re-education policy was therefore particularly effective. Not
because it necessarily turned prisoners into authentic GMD supporters
but because it created an aura of suspicion around every imprisoned
and released white area cadre. Who had genuinely recanted? Who had
wavered momentarily? Who had falsely confessed to speed the moment
and resume revolutionary work? Because of its need for manpower the
CCP often turned a temporary blind eye to individual acts of recanta-
tion initiated by prisoners themselves, perhaps pressured by their
anxious families or even authorized by the local party branch. This blind
eye, however, developed a miraculously watchful capability as soon as
the comrades resumed their party work.
White area cadres without a GMD prison record but with gaps in their
active party life were also subject to scrutiny. In the late 1920s and into
the mid 1930s local party organizations were frequently raided and
destroyed by the GMD secret police. Sometimes regional bureaux and
local branches were dismantled and restructured by the party centre
itself, reflecting changes in the party leadership. Often enough, and
through no fault of their own, cadres working in the menacing shadows
of the underground, fleeing from one city or province to another, lost
contact with the party for weeks, months or even years. On regaining
contact they then faced the difficult task of proving their interim loyalty
to a new and justifiably suspicious local leadership. That was not the
end of the story. From then on, whenever a periodic checking of cadre
dossiers occurred the gaps in their party history were liable for reinves-
tigation. Similarly cadres who had been imprisoned had to prove again
and again that their release had not involved betrayal. Difficulties in
verification laid both prison and non-prison white area cadres open to
suspicion.
Trust was therefore a scarce commodity. If white area cadres found it
hard to trust each other, because of bitter experience or the impossibil-
ity of predicting how one’s comrade might react under the severest of
pressures, why should red area cadres regard them with anything less
Introduction 7
than guarded suspicion? White area cadres – those outsiders to the red
rural revolution – arriving in Yan’an in the late 1930s and early 1940s
found that even if they could account convincingly for their survival,
trust was still not automatically conferred on them. They might be able
to prove their loyalty in specific circumstances but they could not dispel
doubts of a more general nature: had their revolutionary fibre been
tainted by their white area environment and the very nature of their
work?
Red simplicity: white complexity
That tensions existed between red and white cadres has been accepted
by scholars, some of whom have commented on the differing compo-
sition and characteristics of the two mainstreams of manpower that
formed the communist elite:
The CCP elite was split between those in the ‘Red area’ forces, com-
prised of peasant armies and guerrilla generals under Mao Tse-tung,
on the one hand and those in the ‘White area’ forces consisting of
urban students, workers and peasants operating under Liu Shao-ch’i
on the other.13
Certainly, differing socioeconomic backgrounds supplied ample fuel for

tension. Educated, well-read white area cadres arrived in Yan’an in the
late 1930s and early 1940s better versed in Marxism–Leninism than a
good many of their red area counterparts, including Mao himself. This
was particularly true of prison cadres – like the sixty-one – who had
been able to acquire and study materials on communist theory during
their incarceration.14 The influx of urban cadres who were not only edu-
cated but also skilled and experienced in organization and management
was sometimes perceived by red area rural cadres as threatening their
own roles in the party hierarchy. Furthermore the better-educated white
area cadres were all too easily identified by the less discerning eye with
the politically inadequate but radically patriotic, idealistic young intel-
lectuals whom it had been their responsibility to recruit to Yan’an.
One of the initial aims of the 1942–44 Yan’an Rectification Cam-
paign was to defuse such tensions and reinforce party unity. But red and
white cadres were separated by more than the levels of education and
skills that the Rectification Campaign sought to adjust. Though some
of the party elite had shared experiences in the early and mid 1920s,
their revolutionary worlds had diverged quite dramatically since 1927.
Throughout the 1930s red and white cadres faced dissimilar challenges,
problems and ways of solving them. As Tony Saich points out, ‘The
revolution looked quite different to a Party member ducking in and out
of Shanghai’s foreign concessions while arranging clandestine meetings
than to a Red Army soldier gazing out from a barren mountain-top in
a relatively safe Communist base area.’15
First of all, however tough the physical conditions in the liberated
soviet area, the resident communists enjoyed autonomy, solidarity and
a sense of control over their destinies that white area cadres could
scarcely dream of. In Mao’s words, ‘To arrive in a [revolutionary] base
area is to arrive in an epoch unprecedented in the several thousand
years of Chinese history, one where workers, peasants, soldiers and the
popular masses hold power’.16
The red area cadre could wear his communist badge proudly on his
sleeve. He existed in a rarefied, ‘pure’ atmosphere, a cocoon of egalitar-
ian brotherhood and a relationship of mutual respect with neighbour-
ing peasant populations. Work could be done in the liberated areas in
a framework of ‘party discipline and administrative and ideological
control’.17 Life was not comfortable, but it was clear-cut, simplified in
the consciousness of unity between one’s thoughts and deeds. Knowl-
edge and action meshed in fluid harmony. This is obviously a wildly
over-idealized and romanticized image of the red area cadre, but it is
nevertheless the confident self-image – one of revolutionary purity and
simplicity – that evolved and was successfully and effectively projected.
The heroic military activities, participation in the Long March and
frugal, ascetic life-style of the liberated area cadres have all been docu-
mented, recounted and frequently glorified – and not only by party
historians.18 Even in the light of evidence that paints a more realistic
picture, harshly highlighting the impurities, these fell far short of the
levels of crime, corruption, decadence and miserable inequalities of life
in the white areas.19
White area life in the ‘semi-feudal, semi-colonial society ruled by land-
lords and the big bourgeoisie’ was considered the complete antithesis of
the ‘new democratic society under the leadership of the proletariat’.20
White area cadres, however unwavering in their commitment to
communist principles, had to behave in keeping with the ‘corrupt’ envi-
ronment in which they operated, to observe the norms of bourgeois
society. Unlike their red area counterparts, white area cadres could
not align inner purity of commitment with outer conduct – they could
not be both inwardly and outwardly sincere. They had to adopt double,
if not multiple, personas because they had constantly to dissemble.
Introduction 9
Deceit, perforce, was second nature. This was the case whether they
worked in legally permitted, united front activities with non-communist
personnel or in the illegal, underground party organizations. Either way
their communist identity had to be concealed. Either way their outer
behaviour was essentially pragmatic.
The complexities of communist cadre life in a non-communist milieu
challenged the simplistic notions and concepts of communist morality
enjoyed by those in the liberated areas. In the white areas there seemed
to be infinite shades of grey in terms of what a cadre could do to
promote the communist cause. Paradoxically this could even include
denouncing communism, as did the sixty-one. If such unprincipled
means could be employed in the service of principled ends it was no
wonder that white area cadres came to be regarded with suspicion by
their red area colleagues. The pasts of white area cadres are often referred
to as ‘complicated’, a euphemism for ‘fraught with suspicious and
highly dubious aspects’. Respectful obituaries take pains to stress – from
a rather poignantly defensive stance – that the deceased was always
‘open and above-board’ when in fact a white area cadre’s life and
revolutionary role depended on his ability to adopt the very opposite
characteristics.21
The dichotomy between simplicity and complexity was perhaps the
most fundamental and powerful of contrasts in the respective life-style
and Weltanschauung of red and white area cadres.22 Lowell Dittmer has
contrasted Mao’s ‘fairly uncomplicated approach to inner-Party strug-
gle’ with the ‘rather more complex system of ethics’ promoted by Liu
Shaoqi. The former could afford to be less complicated, operating as he
did from the ‘security of the red area bases’, but for Liu ‘White area
forces were “fish” in a non-Party sea and exposed to much more serious
security problems’.23
Minimizing white area cadres’ exposure to danger and maximizing
the effectiveness of their party work were Liu Shaoqi’s primary objec-
tives when he arrived in Tianjin in the spring of 1936 to head the party’s
North Bureau. He began by clarifying party policy on how white area
work was to be carried out henceforth: united front and underground
work were to be kept strictly separate in terms of personnel and content.
As many cadres as possible were required for united-front operations
with the burgeoning bourgeois patriotic movement, which desired civil
unity and resistance to Japan. These patriots were students, intellec-
tuals, professionals, businessmen and soldiers – a responsive population
eager to have their dynamic, volatile nationalist feelings organized
into effective expression and action. Without identifying themselves
as communists, party cadres were to lend their organizational and

public relations (propaganda) skills, thereby supporting and, wherever
possible, leading legal organizations that promoted national unity and
resistance. This type of work was referred to as overt (legal) or semi-overt
work.
While ‘the scope of overt work should be broadened as much as
possible and all that can be done openly should be done so’, Liu
declared that ‘the scope of covert work should be reduced as much as
possible, and only such work as cannot be done openly should be done
covertly’.24 No cadre should be assigned simultaneously to both types
of work, and as few as possible were required for the small, secret under-
ground party organizations. The underground cadre worked largely
alone. Discipline was self-administered. Here was no cocoon of group
support and mutual supervision. Ideally the only direct contact the indi-
vidual cadre was supposed to have with the party was via one cadre at
the next operational level in the hierarchy. Beyond this level the rela-
tionship between cadre and party was somewhat distant and imper-
sonal. Not for him the immediate and visible presence, as in Yan’an, of
the charismatic Mao and his leadership colleagues. The underground
cadre had to have faith in the notion of a tightly organized, small and
secret party hierarchy, the Leninist model of party leadership based on
the principle of democratic centralism. He had to have faith in it and
protect it above all else, because this was his lifeline in the shark-infested
non-communist sea. Projects and plans that might threaten the exis-
tence of the party organizations were to be suspended until the time
was ripe. Comrades should act with ‘foresight, persistance and patience’
– or not at all.25
Ensconced and cut off in Yan’an, the Maoist leadership voiced full
support and understanding for the more-cloak, less-dagger approach to
white area work. Pragmatism, the use of flexible tactics and safeguard-
ing one’s numerically inferior manpower were hardly foreign concepts
to Mao. They were the very essence of guerrilla warfare. But their blood-
and-guts application on the battlefield had a heroic qualitative edge
over white area activities in the salons and teahouses of Beijing and
Tianjin. The red area leadership certainly recognized the complexities
and peculiarities of white area work as necessary – but as necessary evils
that could not be incorporated into the vocabulary of revolutionary
purity. When slogans referring to white area work did enter the official
lexicon they were double-edged swords, for they addressed not only
honourable objectives but also ambiguous methods, with all their
loaded potential for misinterpretation, both by those who chose to do
Introduction 11
so and by those naive enough to believe the distortions. Thus the oft-
repeated (with minor variations) party depiction of white area comrades
as ‘well-selected cadres working underground for a long time, accumu-
lating strength and biding their time’ could also conjure up a less kind
image – comrades doing precious little and concerned mainly for their
own personal safety.26
Even without this twist in meaning, slogans such as the above or
the ‘red heart, white skin’ policy still underscored an essential differ-
ence between the red and white area milieux.27 Conditions and events
beyond their control constrained and determined the choice of actions
by white area cadres. In the autonomous liberated area, communists
had far greater freedom to create initiatives for action, for openly mobi-
lizing the masses. In effect Mao had a head start in developing the
ingredients of his man-over-matter and countryside-first brand of com-
munism, whereas until the late 1930s white area cadres in their urban
setting seemed to be going about the business of revolution in a more
conventionally Leninist mould.28
Self-sacrifice
Liu Shaoqi made valiant attempts to convey the heroic side of white
area work, which he described as
thousands of times more difficult than work in a liberated base area,

where one immediately receives work, food and clothing. The white
area cadre must find his own food, finance the Party, and be willing
to put his head on the block at any time for he is in ever-present
danger of being caught by the enemy.29
But try as he did to package the white area cadre’s image in heroic terms,
the realities of white area work and the work methods that Liu himself
promoted (and that the Maoist Party leadership supported from afar)
nurtured the seeds of prejudice. Willingness to put one’s head on the
block was one thing. Actually putting it there was something that Liu
encouraged party cadres to avoid. He rejected all vestiges of empty
heroism – ‘The Party member should not play the individual hero’ –
condemning it as ‘conceit’ and ‘ostentatiousness’.30 What the party
needed in 1936 was live manpower, not dead martyrs. As far as Liu was
concerned there had been too many of the latter, owing to the irre-
sponsible approach of his predecessors’ ‘left-adventurist’ or ‘closed-door’
white area policies. While there could be no compromise on matters
of principle, there could and should be life-preserving flexibility in

method. He demanded cautious, rational planning:
There are always several possible solutions to concrete and practical

problems. There are always several roads to get from one place to
another. These ways and roads have their respective advantages and
disadvantages depending on the circumstances. A certain path might
seem to hold the greatest benefits for us, but since it entails risk, we
will play it safe by taking another which seems less advantageous.31
But playing it safe, the low-profile, prudent work-style that Liu sought
to cultivate, contradicted the simplistic and conventional notions of
heroism: bold, highly visible acts of defiance and daring. Sacrificing
oneself for the party had an array of meanings for Liu, only one of
which was death. His approach to the ethic of loyalty accorded with the
‘rational, relativist’ tendency in Chinese history.32 He did not question
the principle of loyalty, but was willing to bend convention in the
ways of demonstrating it. Giving up one’s good name, as the sixty-one
risked doing, could therefore also be considered self-sacrifice if it was in
the party’s interest. But the language of revolutionary purity in which
the Yan’an era was wrapped harked back to the equally prevalent tra-
dition in which absolute loyalty to the ruler was expressed in absolute
ways – plumbing religious inspiration for ‘ritual human sacrifice’ and
the ‘tendency of the absolute imperative to conflate loyalty with filial
piety’.33
Lucien Pye refers to the mythical and real self-sacrificing heros of
Chinese literature and politics, placing them firmly within the ethos
of loyalty in the Maoist rebel brotherhood culture: ‘For the Maoists,
dedication, commitment and self-sacrifice constituted the essentials of
loyalty, which is a key value in all politics’.34 In the red areas, defini-
tions of such essentials were simple and straightforward. They had to
be if they were to reach the greatest number of people – most of whom
were not well educated – in the shortest time. As the paramount role
model of communist morality the party had to set crystal-clear, unam-
biguous standards of revolutionary purity for its members’ conduct,
and these standards continued to be transmitted in party teminology.
Hence, for example, the following commemoration of three imprisoned
communists who met their death in 1946: ‘They remained unyielding
and awe-inspiring, by upholding justice against the vicious enemy and
remained faithful to the party until they were killed. They demonstrated
the fearless spirit and revolutionary heroism of communists.’35 The use
Introduction 13
of the terms ‘unyielding’ and ‘remained faithful’ indicated the antithe-

sis of recantation. Martyrs remained in control of their communist iden-
tity. Theirs was an act of starkly unambiguous simplicity, suiting the
red area revolutionary ideal milieu just as it was later to suit the Cul-
tural Revolution milieu. In such a definition of revolutionary heroism
there was no room for recanters such as the sixty-one, however sham
their recantation, however worthy its ultimate purpose.
Confession
A surrender is a surrender, and no surrender is phoney. As far as a

communist who has fallen into the hands of the enemy is concerned,
he has to make the choice between laying down his life for the
revolution and betraying the revolution for his personal safety. There
can never be any third road to take. . . . Every ‘phoney surrender’ was
a genuine betrayal.36
These words encapsulate the uncompromising perspective of the Cul-

tural Revolution media on the conduct of the sixty-one. Not choosing
to risk death was bad enough as far as the revolutionary purists were
concerned, but escaping this fate via confession compounded the evil.
The act of confession carried its own weighty baggage of positive and
negative associations from China’s political–legal and Marxist–Leninist
traditions. The legal tradition demonstrated generous lenience to the
offender who confessed, to the extent of withholding punishment alto-
gether if the confession was made before the offence had come to light
or reducing the punishment following the confession of a crime already
committed.37 But this could put the confessant in an awkward situation.
The more lenient the law, the more cowardly the confessant appeared
in the eyes of his peers, and all the more so if he had been convicted
and then confessed in order to avoid a sentence involving physical pun-
ishment, not to mention a potential death penalty.
The trend of full or partial mitigation of punishment for those who
confessed their offences continued with variations under both GMD
and CCP rule.38 Both parties politicized and incorporated aspects of the
legal tradition’s approach to confession into their respective thought-
reform methods and legal systems, promising lenient treatment to those
willing to cooperate and renounce their former political affiliations.
Both parties drew on the Confucian approach to self-rectification via
education and practice, to zixin (becoming a new person), though what
was once a private and self-imposed process became increasingly public
and coercive in its twentieth-century political attire. But what the old
and new modes still had in common regarding the act of confession
was that it facilitated the demonstration of benevolence on the part of
the ruling authority, placing the latter in an enhanced moral light and
at the same time underlining its supreme power. Recantation as a cul-
mination of thought reform thus appealed to the GMD (just as much
as it did to the CCP) as symbolic proof of its re-education techniques,
but above all as a very real acknowledgement of GMD power. In an era
of bitter struggle between the two parties, one contending for the power
the other held, the recantations by the sixty-one were quite a coup, for
these comrades were a hefty proportion of the party’s leading activists
in north China.
Confession to the GMD authorities, false or not, was a thorny issue
for the communists. Attempts were made by the party, for example in
1937 (by no small coincidence, not long after the release of the sixty-
one) and 1941, to formulate policy toward comrades who had followed
GMD confession procedures.39 Could their party membership be
resumed immediately, or did they require a probationary trial period?
Did different categories of confession demand different forms of treat-
ment? Was signing a newspaper recantation in widely circulated GMD
newspapers more serious than participating in a ‘turning over a new
leaf’ ceremony? In the long run, despite attempts to create categories
there were no blanket solutions. Each case had to be investigated on
an individual basis. Because of the Central Committee’s involvement in
their release and the ensuing high-level protection, the sixty-one were
able to escape rigorous individual inspection – up to a point. That point
was the Cultural Revolution, when their protection was shattered and
the language of revolutionary purity knew no bounds in literal inter-
pretation. Apostasy was not be stomached, not by Red Guard zealots
too young to have had first-hand experience of the complexities of
white area life, and not by radical leaders – Kang Sheng, Jiang Qing,
Chen Boda among them – who had had so much of it that they felt
compelled to draw a holier-than-thou line between themselves and
unfortunates such as the sixty-one.40
The sixty-one
The Chinese Communist Party’s ambivalence towards its white area

cadres is epitomized in the experiences of the sixty-one. This mono-
graph charts their voyage over half a century from the early 1930s until
the 1990s. It follows the leading sixty-oners’ careers from their under-
Introduction 15
ground party roles and their arrest and imprisonment by the GMD,
through to the peak of their PRC careers and beyond – Bo Yibo became
one of the foremost policy makers and administrators of the PRC
economy, An Ziwen was to head the party’s powerful Organization
Department, Yang Xianzhen ran the Party’s Central School, and Liu
Lantao directed the party’s disciplinary watchdog, the Control Com-
mission, in the mid 1950s and subsequently moved on to govern an
entire region of China as first secretary of the Northwest China Bureau.
While many of their former cell mates rose to illustrious positions as
party secretaries and government ministers, Bo, An, Yang and Liu
remained the most prominent figures among the sixty-one. The paths
of the sixty-one, though not strewn with obstacles thrown up from the
past, did incur the odd bump and pothole well before the Cultural
Revolution. Some learnt to manoeuvre round these hazards more suc-
cessfully than others. But the Cultural Revolution was non-negotiable.
All the sixty-oners who had been rounded up were treated as equally
bad and equally dispensable. They had all fallen into the same pit,
reserved for renegades only.
This book opens with a brief survey of the broad historical context,
the international and domestic conditions that inaugurated the
CCP–GMD united front and precipitated the release of the sixty-one.
The second chapter addresses their GMD prison experience (1931–36)
and how this has been remembered by some of the participants as a
revolution in micro. Their portrayal rejects any Rip van Winkle images
of passivity, of inmates frozen in space and time – more than five years
– while their peers were practising war and revolution. In reconstruct-
ing their prison years, the sixty-one stake their claim as no less dynamic
actors in the communist revolution, despite their restrictive prison
environment.
The fateful decision to which they bow, the release plan, is the next
subject under scrutiny. Who inititated it? How was it arranged and
executed? The convolutions involved are a worthy demonstration of
the complexities of party life in the white areas, both inside and outside
prison. The labyrinthine process involves a motley cast of agents,
including a university lecturer, an ex-prisoner, a friendly prison guard
and, at a later stage, a chicken.
Interestingly the facts of the release presented in Red Guard ma-
terials, so antipathetic to the sixty-one, are almost entirely corroborated
by the sympathetic post-Cultural Revolution accounts.41 The interpre-
tation, of course, is different, as is the issue of Central Committee
involvement – an issue that is never satisfactorily resolved even in the
Central Committee resolution exonerating the sixty-one in 1978.42 Had

the Central Committee formally recorded that it as a collective body –
not just one or two individuals – backed the 1936 release, and that the
cadres were guilty of nothing more than obeying party orders, this
might have pre-empted some of the problems the sixty-one were to
encounter. The first such encounter occurred after their arrival in Yan’an
in the early 1940s, when aspersions were cast on their suitability as
delegates in the run-up to the party’s Seventh Congress (1945). This
issue closes Chapter 2, following a survey of the diverse party activities
pursued by the sixty-one in their first years of freedom. Their work in
building up new liberated base areas and recruiting new blood to the
party was invaluable to the Chinese communist movement’s eventual
accession to power in 1949.43
Chapter 3 opens with an overview of the subsequent PRC career paths
of the sixty-one – an impressive array of high-level appointments: heads
and deputy heads of central and regional Party organs and government
bodies. By 1958 several had achieved Central Committee status. In
1956 two were appointed as alternate members to the party’s highest
echelons of power, the Politburo and the Secretariat – Bo Yibo to the
former and Liu Lantao to the latter. Yet neither achieved full member-
ship status in these institutions.44 Focusing on Bo, An, Yang and Liu,
Chapter 3 examines their high-profile roles and political power bases,
highlighting factors that may have reinforced the subsequent Cultural
Revolution image of disloyalty, constructed on their 1936 renuncia-
tions. It looks at their responses to specific events, such as the Gao Gang
affair, to policy disputes over party building and the pace of economic
development, as well as their behaviour in periods of crisis such as the
Great Leap Forward and its aftermath. It raises the question of whether
their political responses were determined by a feeling of vulnerability
(because of their complicated histories), by a need to prove and prove
again that they were loyal servants of the party – and its unpredictable
master. Despite their impressive collective curriculum vitae, they were
still subject to the occasional veiled allusion to their past, to a ques-
tioning of their fitness (that is, loyalty) as participants in the party’s
leading ranks. In the early 1950s, when Party unity was a theme close
to his heart, Mao took care to quash such tendencies, but his attitude
was far from consistent as time went on, and the whole notion of party
unity was turned on its head during the Cultural Revolution’s ferocious
attack on party bureaucracy.
The subsequent chapters discuss the fall of the sixty-one in the early
stages of the Cultural Revolution and their very late rehabilitation at
Introduction 17
the end of 1978. Chapter 4 looks at the collusion of radical leaders with
Red Guards and the media in building up the ‘case of the sixty-one rene-
gades’. The party leadership – and here Zhou Enlai played an active role
– at first tried in vain to stem the flow of publicity about the case, fearing
exposure of the Central Committee’s role in the 1936 release. Trying
to make the best of the situation, it then opted for a strategy of limited
containment. Zhang Wentian was forced to say that he alone, in his
1936 role as secretary-general of the Central Committee, had authorized
Liu Shaoqi’s release plan without consulting Mao or any other Central
Committee colleagues.
However the untidy dynamic of the Cultural Revolution could not be
neatly contained. The incrimination of the sixty-one led to a campaign
against former white area cadres in general, especially those who had
been imprisoned in the 1930s and 1940s. Once the sixty-one were offi-
cially condemned as renegades by the Central Committee’s resolution
of mid March 1967, the campaign against Liu Shaoqi moved into high
gear. If Mao had previously entertained a more merciful approach to
Liu, implying that he was not beyond re-education, the March resolu-
tion was a turning point, for renegades belonged to the most abysmal
category of contradictions, that between the people and the enemy. Not
only had Liu been linked to various episodes of alleged betrayal, but he
had decreed the disloyalty of the sixty-one. He was the devil–renegade
incarnate.
The 1936 recantation was the sixty-one’s ticket out of the GMD jail.
A costly ticket, it was still valid more than three decades later to trans-
port them back to prison in Beijing, this time under the custody of their
own party. Their harsh treatment – torture and medical neglect – cost
some their lives, as it cost Liu Shaoqi his in October 1969. Others
somehow endured. As has been documented by Michael Schoenhals,
leaders such as Zhou Enlai were far from ignorant of these conditions
and were just as accountable as Kang Sheng and other more conven-
tionally perceived perpetrators of Cultural Revolution iniquities.45
Chapter 5 traces the long-drawn-out process of rehabilitation. The
case of the sixty-one still had a role to play in the mid 1970s, when
Mao pursued his extraordinary balancing act between the radical and
moderate elements in the party leadership. On the one hand, survivors
among the sixty-one were released from prison in 1975; on the other,
they were not rehabilitated – far from it. They were expelled from the
party and mostly removed from Beijing to remote areas for internal
exile. After Mao’s death and the Gang of Four’s arrest, and throughout
1977 and 1978 when still more prominent officials were rehabilitated,
the sixty-one and other notable white area cadres, such as Peng Zhen,
remained personae non gratae. Renegades were still renegades. It was the
most difficult label to remove.
Eventually the uniquely traditional Chinese preference for restoring
disgraced officials to office held sway even for the sixty-one. The Third
Plenum of the Eleventh Central Committee (December 1978) rehabili-
tated most of the remaining purged high-level cadres and former white
area cadres. The tendency to return its rejected and ejected cadre offi-
cials to the fold and reactivate them, has distinguished the Chinese
communist regime from European ones, particularly the Soviet Union,
where rehabilitation was, in the vast majority of cases, posthumous.46
One practical motive for rehabilitation, with an identifiably Confu-
cian origin, was to make use of skilled and experienced personnel for
the sake of efficient government and hence for the good of the people.
Thus disgraced officials often came to expect relatively lenient treat-
ment and could hope for rehabilitation. At a more philosophical level
lay the desire to restore cosmic harmony upset by wrongful or exces-
sive punishment. Translated into post-Cultural Revolution terms, this
meant the desire to restore a sense of order following a decade of chaos.
One way to do this was to bestow fair treatment upon victims of injus-
tice. Being seen to restore harmony and administer justice was no less
important, demonstrating not only benevolence but also absolute
power. In this respect the concerns of the post-Cultural Revolution lead-
ership were no different from those of its various imperial antecedents,
nor at times from those of its immediate predecessor, the Maoist regime.
But even in its rehabilitative role the party maintained an ambivalent
tone in its handling of the sixty-one. Other late rehabilitees, such as
Yang Shangkun and Peng Zhen, fared better in terms of official posi-
tions in the political arena. Neither the Central Organization Depart-
ment’s investigative report of November 1978 on the so-called sixty-one
renegades’ case nor their subsequent formal exoneration by the Central
Committee the following month did much to contradict the impression
that Zhang Wentian, rather than the Central Committee as a whole,
had authorized the release plan in 1936. It was presented as a ‘one-off’
situation, special circumstances at a special time. The Central Commit-
tee was determined to shake off any impression that it was in the habit
of issuing such distasteful instructions. Similarly when Liu Shaoqi
was finally and posthumously rehabilitated in 1980, other renegadism
charges against him were dismissed in copious detail, but the sixty-one
affair was briefly glossed over.47 This seemed to imply a lapse in judge-
ment in his handling of the whole sorry business.
Introduction 19
Many of the communist cadres who emerged from the Guomindang

jails of the 1930s and 1940s were to enrich the Chinese communist
movement with their white area background and experience, their
skills in party building, civil administration and economic planning
and, perhaps above all, with their faith in the Leninist model of party
leadership and discipline. In the hazardous underground they learnt
caution; in prison they learnt patience. They constituted a significant
component of the CCP leadership’s educated core, the Leninist van-
guard of the revolution. The present Chinese leadership owes more to
the rational Marxist–Leninist mindset than to Mao’s voluntarist tradi-
tion. Yet despite the essentially pragmatic socioeconomic policies and
activities of the post-Mao era, the vocabulary of communist morality
remains largely stuck in the time warp of revolutionary purity. A good
communist is still defined as one who behaves according to the clear-
cut norms of idealized Yan’an morality. The ambiguities of white area
life cannot be wrapped up in a neat ready-to-emulate model. Nobody
has ever wanted to hold up the 1936 affair, with all its moral complex-
ity, as something to be proud of. Nor is anyone likely to in the fore-
seeable future.
1
1936: On the Eve of War
and Freedom
The year 1936 was a turning point for everybody. The Versailles
settlement of 1919 gave way to the overtures of World War II:
Hitler reoccupied the Rhineland, Mussolini finished the conquest of
Ethiopia, they set up the Berlin-Rome Axis, the League of Nations
collapsed, civil war began in Spain. Me, I finished my D.Phil (Oxon.)
and began to face issues of policy and livelihood.
( John K. Fairbank, Chinabound)1
I arrived in Tianjin in spring, 1936. The task assigned to me by the

Central Committee was to direct the work of the Party organization
in north China, . . . to unite all parties, groups and social strata in
north China . . . to establish an anti-Japanese united front . . . to
devise slogans and forms of struggle suited to the concrete circum-
stances of an already rising tide in the revolutionary movement
(especially among the students and the intelligentsia) . . .
(Liu Shaoqi, Selected Works)2
1936 was indeed a turning point, not just for scholars and revolution-
aries but for entire nations and vast continents. For China it was the
year that all its disparate forces – Guomindang government and mili-
tary leaders, the Chinese Communist Party, warlord generals, radical
students and National Salvation activists – finally converged on the one
path of a united front against Japan.3 For Bo Yibo, An Ziwen, Yang
Xianzhen, Liu Lantao and their comrades in Beijing’s Caolanzi prison,
1936 was the year they achieved freedom and took up a new and for-
mative role in the communist revolution.
Most of the group had been incarcerated together since 1931, an
enforced bonding experience for these individuals, who hailed from all
20
1936: On the Eve of War and Freedom 21
over China and from a variety of class backgrounds, and whose ages
ranged, at the time of their arrest, from the late teens to the early thir-
ties. In general they had completed at least secondary education and
many – Bo, An, Yang and Liu included – had gone on to tertiary level,
to teacher-training colleges or universities, though not all had gradu-
ated since their revolutionary activities had tended to interfere with
their academic progress. A few, such as Yin Jian, Hu Xikui and Liu Xiwu,
had studied abroad. Apart from being better educated than their peasant
counterparts in the rural soviets, the most this group had had in
common in 1931 had been an active involvement in the clandestine
communist movement in urban north China, though not all had been
formal party members before their imprisonment. They had held posi-
tions at various organizational levels in the party’s northern network,
which had operated in up to nine provinces, so few had been person-
ally acquainted before the relentless intimacy of their Caolanzi years.4
Besides the security constraints of underground work (not always
observed in practice), there had been no reason for a provincial party
secretary in Henan to know a grass-roots party worker in Chahar, or a
courier in Shandong to know a municipal secretary in Shanxi.
Why, as spring turned to summer in 1936, did it become imperative
to engineer the release of these few dozen cadres from the GMD prison
in Beijing? Why risk the damage of publishing recantation notices in
widely read newspapers? The answers to these questions constitute the
broad and narrow historical context behind the release of the so-called
‘sixty-one renegades’, and the subject of this chapter. There were three
main and interrelated components of this context. The first was the
CCP’s decision to opt for a nationwide anti-Japanese united front, for
which it had many willing partners – and some less so. The second was
the CCP’s lack of available personnel to set up and operate a united
front. What this task required was not the hardy peasant soldiers who
had endured the Long March but cadres of another ilk: those who had
a common language with urban civilians in general and students in par-
ticular, as well as with military officials desirous of a united front; cadres
who were experienced in mass work and party building in the cities and
their environs. By the mid 1930s, in the northern cities of Beijing,
Tianjin and Taiyuan there were more such cadres inside the GMD jails
than out. The third component was the perceived imminence of Japan’s
seizure of Beijing. If Japan was to step up its creeping annexation of
Chinese territory – and in spring 1936 it seemed on the brink of prising
Beijing away from its shaky Chinese sovereignty – these imprisoned
cadres would be shown no mercy.
The common enemy
Since Japan’s occupation of Manchuria after the Mukden incident of

September 1931, Japan’s designs on Chinese territory had cast an
increasingly sinister shadow.5 By mid 1935 the Japanese had established
the Inner Mongolian Autonomous Government and, worse still, by
November eastern Hebei was firmly in Japan’s grasp, in the form of the
East Hebei Autonomous Anti-Communist Zone. But that was not all. In
early July the secret He-Umezu agreement had been drawn up between
the Japanese and the GMD, signifying Japan’s intention of separating
the five northern provinces, Hebei, Shandong, Shanxi, Chahar and
Suiyuan, from the rest of China. In the meantime, to maintain at least
a semblance of ‘national integrity’, the nationalist government had
established the Hebei–Chahar Political Council under the chairmanship
of General Song Zheyuan. The Japanese exerted relentless pressure on
Song to sever his links with the GMD Nanjing government and declare
autonomy – a euphemism for a Japanese puppet regime.
China was not alone in feeling threatened. Her neighbour the Soviet
Union viewed with growing alarm Japan’s steady advance in its direc-
tion and – further threatened by the possibility of an anti-Soviet alliance
composed of Japan, Germany and a Japan-dominated China – was deter-
mined to encourage an anti-Japanese united front between the GMD
and Chinese communists. The Comintern, increasingly bound by the
Soviet Communist Party and state interests, had all but abandoned its
message of international proletarian revolution, and was advocating
instead that the left should ally with bourgeois democratic elements in
united or ‘popular’ fronts to throw off the yoke of fascist imperialism.
In encouraging CCP–GMD negotiations, the Soviet Union could thus
employ an ideological rationale that might be palatable to both Chinese
parties.6 At the same time, as an alternative safety device, it encouraged
the CCP to ally with the northern warlords, who were frustrated with
Chiang Kai-shek’s policy of appeasement, and to maintain an indepen-
dent buffer zone against Japan should Chiang falter and make further
concessions to the Japanese. Despite the incompatibilities in this dual
approach, there were positive responses from all concerned. The Soviet
Union further stimulated these responses through the mention of aid
and military supplies to both nationalists and communists.
Meanwhile Chiang Kai-shek was more than wary of both the Soviet
communist regime and Japan. Perceiving China as ‘wedged between
two dangerous, expansive powers’, he sought ‘to use the influence and
support of each to check the advances of the other’.7 If he continued to
negotiate with Japan and avoid confrontation he might benefit

from Japanese assistance against the resurgent communist movement.
However, should non-confrontation become untenable he would have
no recourse but to turn to the USSR. Chiang therefore sought to keep
his options open with the Soviets by exchanging delegates, indicating
interest in Moscow’s proposal for GMD–CCP negotiations, and having
government officials and political allies engage in such contacts on his
behalf. This may also have been done with an eye to alleviating the
continuous and mounting domestic pressure on Chiang to halt his
internal ‘pacification’ campaigns against the communists and turn his
attention fully to the Japanese threat. It was largely because Chiang per-
sisted in yoking ‘internal pacification’ to ‘resisting the Japanese’ – the
former as a precondition for the latter – that urban public opinion,
including that of some leading GMD figures, began to identify eradica-
tion of the communists with appeasement of the Japanese, and wanted
the entire formula turned on its head.
Domestic pressure was exerted by highly respected national figures
such as Song Qingling, the widow of Sun Yatsen, by intellectuals,
professionals and businessmen who had banded together in National
Salvation Associations. More vocal still were the students who injected
dramatic momentum into the patriotic movement in the winter of
1935, protesting at China’s grim plight as the GMD’s hold on the
northern provinces crumbled away. Armed with a manifesto that
opposed the so-called autonomy of these provinces and ‘demanded
open foreign conduct and restoration of civil liberties’, some 2000
students converged on the streets of Beijing on 9 December 1935. Five
days later a further demonstration took place with more than 7000
student participants.8 Demonstrations spread to Nanjing, Shanghai and
Tianjin:
In many places, the criticism of Chiang Kai-shek and his policies was
nearly as bitter as the condemnation of Japan. Not only was China’s
youth finding its political voice after nearly four years of silence, but
it was on the verge of repudiating the Nanking government.9
But perhaps the most insidious pressure, as far as Chiang was concerned,
came from his own military ranks and at the highest levels. Former war-
lords, who had been no less bent than he on destroying any commu-
nist presence in the territories they commanded, had been co-opted as
generals in Chiang’s army in the wake of his national unification efforts
during the previous decade. They had observed the growth of the Red
Army and were impressed by its troops’ discipline and ability to mobi-
lize support amongst the rural population via effective propaganda,
rural reforms, organizational skills and respectful behaviour. The
warlords-cum-generals – such as Zhang Xueliang, who had lost
Manchuria to the Japanese, and Yan Xishan, who was threatened with
a similar fate in Shanxi – realized they could look to the Red Army not
only as an active fighting ally but also as an agent capable of rallying
support and attracting recruits. Furthermore some considered that
Soviet military aid was more likely to materialize through the commu-
nist channel than via the Nanjing government’s negotiations.
Something of a symbiotic relationship thus developed between the
CCP and certain warlords: the latter would permit the communists a
degree of freedom of manoeuvre among their troops in exchange for
potential joint action against Japan – protecting the warlords’ territorial
interests as well as China’s national integrity. The communists saw this
as an opportunity to expand their soviet base areas and attract troops
into their own armies. Zhang Xueliang and Yang Hucheng, who com-
manded Chiang’s ‘bandit’ (that is, communist) suppression forces in
northern China, tried to persuade Chiang to stop attacking the
communists and turn his firepower on the foreign enemy who had
entered the gates. Eventually the generals resorted to the language of per-
suasion they knew best: force, culminating in the curious and fateful
Xi’an Incident, the kidnapping of Chiang Kai-shek, as 1936 drew to
a close. Negotiations with the communists became official, direct – and
unavoidable.
And what of Chiang’s bête noire, the Chinese communist movement?
How had it fared since the flight of most of its members from the GMD’s
ever-tightening encirclement campaigns around the Jiangxi soviet? By
the autumn of 1935, the Long March was over. Some 30 000 commu-
nists, including the CCP’s central leadership, had survived. They were
ensconced in a soviet in the rugged, inhospitable terrain of northern
Sha’anxi. The party’s headquarters were in Bao’an. Mao Zedong was well
en route to establishing himself as ‘leader of the Party, the Soviet, and
the Army’.10 The communists’ situation had considerably changed now
that they possessed a territorial base and, perhaps even more signifi-
cantly, an army. But time was sorely needed for consolidation, for the
preservation and expansion of military strength. In their new liberated
base they still faced harsh realities: vulnerability to GMD attack, scarcity
of food, isolation from the remaining clandestine communists in the
urban GMD-controlled areas.11 A united-front resistance agreement
would remove the GMD military threat from the communist doorstep,
committing the GMD forces to fight against the Japanese. The CCP
could look to the urban public to support a united front; Mao was deter-
mined to nurture and use the growing national fervour for resistance
against Japan to the best advantage, as he saw it, of both country and
party.12
The convergence of these domestic constraints and international
interests ushered the second united front into being as the most appro-
priate option to serve the respective goals of the parties involved. The
CCP could not, even if it had wanted to, ignore the prestige of the Soviet
Union’s leading role in communist theory and practice.13 If the dictates
of Soviet state interests and Comintern policy were now fused in a call
for communist alliance with bourgeois democratic elements against
fascism and imperialism, the CCP would have to hearken to the call. If
it had not fitted their current perceptions, they would have had to juggle
their perceptions and their interpretation of the Soviet call to make it
do so. But it did fit. The Chinese communists’ revolutionary passion
had always been heavily imbued with national pride, and the notion of
national unity was more an inclination of natural instinct than a major
mental leap. In any case there was little sensible alternative for the rela-
tively small Chinese communist force. If it wanted not only to expand
but also to gain legitimacy, it would have to demonstrate its desire for
alliance with as many sectors of Chinese society as possible in the fight
against Japan.
Thus it was that by the end of 1935 the CCP leadership had con-
cluded, not without prodding from the Soviet Union and much inspired
by the impact of the student December Ninth Movement, that the time
had come to relegate class struggle temporarily to the number-two spot
and promote the national struggle against Japan as the immediate prin-
cipal task of the revolution.14 It took a few more months for the party
leadership to give public expression to the unpalatable fact that an
authentic and completely united front imposed from above would have
to include Chiang Kai-shek. Considering the recent bitter past, the ill-
fated first united front, the 1927 massacres, and the subsequent, relent-
less encirclement campaigns waged against them, the fact that Chiang
was anathema to the communists was hardly surprising. Nevertheless
there was a limit to the support the CCP could garner without declar-
ing its willingness to unite with Chiang, and furthermore the war
against Japan could not be fought without his Nanjing troops. An
unequivocal invitation to join an anti-Japanese united front was com-
municated by the CCP to Chiang and his government on 25 August
1936.15
This significant readjustment to CCP public policy came in the wake

of a veritable fever of secret contacts between CCP and GMD elements.
Between winter 1935 and summer 1936, direct and indirect contact took
place, sometimes initiated and facilitated by the parties themselves,
sometimes by the Comintern and sometimes by supposedly more
neutral agents, the leading national patriotic figures. By secretly engag-
ing in contact with GMD leaders the communists indicated that the
door was not hermetically sealed against Chiang Kai-shek. This aided
the CCP’s attempts to form an alliance with those for whom resistance
to Japan was top priority, but who at the same time did not want to
appear disloyal to Chiang.
Considering their paucity in numbers, the urban underground
communists in north China played a significant role in initiating
and maintaining such contact. On behalf of the CCP, Lu Zhenyu –
Beijing university lecturer by day and Beijing party committee member
by night – met Zeng Yanji, GMD vice-minister of railways, in Novem-
ber 1935 and April 1936. Pan Hannian, one of the party’s foremost intel-
ligence cadres, negotiated first with Deng Wenyi, Chiang Kai-shek’s
military attaché in Moscow, in January 1936 and then in June and Sep-
tember with Chen Lifu, Chiang’s powerful and close associate.16 By the
spring of 1936 the CCP had stationed official liaison representatives
with the troops of Zhang Xueliang and Yang Hucheng – cadres from the
party’s clandestine North Bureau had negotiated the arrangement with
Yang Hucheng. In April 1936 Zhou Enlai met Zhang Xueliang to final-
ize the arrangements that had been discussed with operatives from the
Shanghai underground party organization.17 In the autumn Bo Yibo,
just out of prison, was dispatched to Shanxi to negotiate and operate a
remarkable programme of cooperation with Yan Xishan (discussed in
Chapter 2).
These contacts, whether secret or open, engendered a change in the
political climate. Talking to one’s erstwhile enemies and reaching mutu-
ally favourable accords had become not only politically acceptable but
official party policy. Thirty years later, during the Cultural Revolution,
such contacts were ripped from their officially sanctioned united-front
context and denigrated as an offence against revolutionary purity.
Within the framework of negotiating a united front, the release
of political prisoners such as the sixty-one was a legitimate objective.
The issue was put forward by the communists at every possible turn,
and echoed by the patriotic movement. The CCP proposal forwarded
to Chen Lifu in spring 1936 listed the following terms: (1) political
freedom for anti-Japanese movements; (2) a broad-based national
defence government; (3) a halt to the civil war, including attacks on the
soviet area; (4) recognition of the legality of the soviet area; and (5) the
release of all political prisoners.18 There was no response to the fifth
point. Meanwhile Zhou Enlai had achieved an agreement with Zhang
Xueliang whereby political prisoners would be released from prisons
under his jurisdiction and allowed freedom of action if they agreed ‘not
to oppose the government and attack the leader’.19 This involved
making what the communists referred to as a ‘non-anticommunist
statement’ or an ‘ordinary statement’. Yang Xianzhen, one of the sixty-
one, later described this procedure as one that he and his colleagues
were willing to consider; they had tried to negotiate with the prison
authorities permission to ‘publish an “ordinary” announcement, only
promising to be peasants or teachers after being released from prison,
or looking for other jobs and not to mention anything about anti-
communism and politics’.20
In June the manifesto and political programme of the National Sal-
vation Alliance (the umbrella organization for some sixty salvation asso-
ciations) emphasized the need for an end to civil strife and offered its
services as mediator.21 An appeal for the release of political prisoners was
included and reiterated in the alliance’s formal proposal to the GMD
Second Central Committee Fifth Plenary session.22 In July the Beijing
student union similarly appealed to the plenum to ‘prepare for war
against Japan, terminate civil war, unshackle the patriotic movement,
release political prisoners and institute constitutional rule’.23
At the end of August 1936, when Mao announced to the GMD that
the CCP was willing to enter into a united front with Chiang, Madame
Sun, perhaps in the hope of a positive response from Chiang, called for
a general amnesty for political prisoners. Her proposal was said to have
attracted ‘widespread attention in judicial and legislative circles’, but
there was no offical response.24 The release of the first batch of the sixty-
one from Caolanzi, also at the end of August, came not in the form of
an amnesty but as a result of the prisoners fulfilling stringent con-
ditions laid down by the prison authorities – including the signing of
explicitly and virulently anticommunist statements. After their release
the issue remained high on the communist agenda, since there were
still hundreds of cadres in other prisons.
In December 1936 the release of political prisoners was among
the eight proposals placed before hostage Chiang Kai-shek by his kid-
nappers – Zhang Xueliang and Yang Hucheng – in Xi’an. It was repeated
in the demands laid before Chiang by Zhou Enlai prior to Chiang’s
own release and return to Nanjing, and yet again in the CCP’s telegram
to the GMD’s Third Plenary Session of the Fifth GMD Central Com-
mittee in mid February 1937.25 The formal united front agreement –
reached only in September 1937, when the war with Japan had been
raging for more than two months – did not mention prisoner release,
but by then the GMD was in practice permitting some to be released
unconditionally.
While the patriots viewed the freeing of political prisoners as a gesture
of good faith and an affirmation of national unity by the GMD author-
ities, for the Chinese communist movement it had far more tangible
significance: the release of imprisoned cadres was not simply an issue
of principle or a predictable negotiating stance, but a matter of dire
urgency. Over almost a decade the GMD’s obsession with eradicating
all vestiges of communism had devastated the communists’ urban
network, leaving it desperately short of cadres to galvanize into action
the vast pool of human resources that now lay at its fingertips: national
salvation patriots, regional leaders, soldiers, thousands of students and,
of course, the immense rural population, as yet largely untapped.
If the communist movement wished to expand it would have to inject
very special cadres into this tableau. Men and women seasoned in the
secrecy of underground work and equally comfortable operating in the
open (as required by the united front); educated people who under-
stood the art of propaganda, who could organize, train and lead citi-
zens from all walks of life, and who could dally among government
officials, manoeuvre around warlords and drive intellectual debate. A
few hundred cadres fitted this description. Scarce on the ground at the
best of times, most had been locked up in nationalist jails since the early
1930s. Among them were the sixty-one. How and why had these indi-
viduals landed in prison? The GMD’s ruthless policing was largely but
not solely to blame.
The CCP in northern China
The best of times was the year prior to the anticommunist coup of spring
1927. Membership of the party swelled to almost 58 000. Yet even then,
only about 3000 members operated in northern China. Of these, about
half worked in the two main northern cities of Beijing and Tianjin in
Hebei province.26 Most of the action was in central and southern China.
The communists’ first united front (1923–27) with the Guomindang,
which had been extending its control of central and southern China
since 1926, had given the CCP substantial operational space – under the
GMD flag. Northern China provided no such nurturing environment
for the communist movement. In 1919 Beijing had spawned the pas-
sionate May Fourth intellectual revolution, but the unstable warlord
alliances and their governments seated in Beijing clamped down on
political expression from any direction.
The first united front collapsed in spring 1927. Chiang Kai-shek’s
GMD forces and his notorious Green Gang accomplices engaged in the
slaughter of communists and suspected sympathizers in Shanghai, and
the forces of Manchurian warlord Zhang Zuolin (the father of Zhang
Xueliang) began killing off the CCP’s northern leadership in Beijing,
among them Li Dazhao, the founding father of the Chinese communist
movement. Of the party’s 58 000 members, only about 10 000 survived
the massacres. The few who remained in urban GMD areas were forced
underground; other survivors fled to the countryside and joined in the
creation of rural soviets. From 1927 the Chinese communist entity thus
embarked on a process of metamorphosis, if not of reinventing itself
as a largely peasant-based party. The growth of the movement to some
300 000 members during the early 1930s was largely due to rural
recruitment in the soviet areas.
The overall picture in the cities of northern China, however, was of
dismal decline. By early 1929 there were only 120 members left in
Beijing and about the same in Tianjin. The numbers rose, fell and rose
again briefly, but by the end of 1934 they had dwindled to a few tens
in each city and a few hundred in the entire province of Hebei. ‘The
Beiping Party leadership could contact only 7 members; and there were
only 30 communists in Tianjin.’27 The GMD authorities boasted of
having closed down in 1934 ‘the Northern Military Committee, Hebei
Provincial Committee, Beiping City Committee, and many branches or
sectional committees under it. The secretaries of these organizations,
as well as the divisional and sectional chiefs, were among the 180-
odd persons we arrested.’28 Of the situation in April 1936, Liu Shaoqi
wrote:
What remained of our Party organizations in the White areas? Our

answer, though painful, must be that only the flag of our Party has
been preserved. In general our Party organizations had ceased to
exist, with the exceptions of a provincial committee in Hebei, local
organizations in certain cities and villages and a number of cadres at
the middle and grass-roots levels.29
The blame for this sorry situation did not rest entirely with the ruthless
efficiency of warlord and GMD intelligence services. The CCP – and its
Comintern senior partner – were no less responsible. Internecine strife,

inappropriate policies and vague and contradictory instructions from
the centre to local organizations combined to deleterious effect: erosion
of commitment, alienation and many a case of desertion and/or
betrayal. Some betrayed under torture and some under the threat of
torture, of reprisal against their innocent families or of long years
of imprisonment. But others betrayed because they felt betrayed – by
a party that had lost its way and seemed callously indifferent to the
fate of its members. Illusions and delusions of revolutionary grandeur
created an unbridgeable gap between the centre’s notions of what
should be achieved and the local organizations’ awareness of what could
be achieved in these cities of strategic, political and economic signifi-
cance. Missions really were impossible, given the reality of an oppres-
sive and repressive regime whose hold on the countryside may have
been weak but who made up for this with ferocious tenacity in the cities.
One objective reality, consistently ignored by the CCP central lead-
ership, was the strength of the GMD-controlled ‘yellow’ unions, which
concentrated on the economic needs of urban workers. The workers
remained unstirred – or worse, were frightened – by the inflammatory
political slogans spouted by communist labour organizers. Yet one after
another the rapidly changing CCP leadership constellations in the late
1920s and early 1930s urged the northern cadres to incite politically
motivated strikes in factories, mutinies in armies and armed uprisings
in villages. Each leadership – under Qu Qiubai, then Li Lisan and the
1931–34 leadership – continued to demand high-profile involvement
by its cadres. It was as if the clock had stopped before the 1927 crack-
down and they were still living in the headier days of the May Thirti-
eth movement, when the first united front had enabled the communists
to make temporary inroads in labour organization. Even then their
success had been hampered by lack of manpower, but now they had far
less manpower and no open space in which to manoeuvre. Every leaflet
dropped, every slogan uttered was a life risked.
Despite the mounting importance ascribed to the peasant ‘content’
of the revolution, the CCP leadership simply could not conceive of
even temporarily abandoning the proletariat, the object of its unre-
quited love and, in theory at any rate, the lifeblood of any authentic
communist movement.30 Though the party’s tactics changed to favour
rural uprisings, the formation of soviets and the development of armed
forces, the purpose was still to reinforce or spark off proletarian action
and liberate the cities. The leadership continued to demand not only
a vibrant communist-dominated labour movement but also a solid
working-class backbone to the party’s membership and less reliance on

the intelligentsia. What it got in the cities was a frustrated cadre force
dominated by intellectuals whose most fruitful work was with other
intellectuals and students. Increasingly this was to become the story of
the communist underground’s survival in the 1930s in the northern
cities and, as Patricia Stranahan has related, in Shanghai.31 Thus well
before the the CCP decided to pursue the new united-front option,
certain aspects of its necessary machinery had been well oiled by the
urban underground.
The relationship between the Central Committee and the local
organizations mirrored that between Moscow and the CCP Central
Committee, and suffered from the same syndrome. Each successive lead-
ership acknowledged the failures of its predecessor and professed the
need to put things right – to streamline the bureaucracy, reduce
top-heavy local organizations, increase work at the grass-root level and
increase the security measures for underground work. Each initially
advised against rushing into revolutionary action without adequate
preparation, but then fell quickly into the same trap, deploring the lack
of results with workers, peasants and soldiers, and demanding action.
Failure to act constituted rightist opportunism and defeatism. Acts that
failed constituted leftist adventurism or ‘putschism’. The provincial and
local organizations suffered an additional symptom: time-lag. By the
time they had deciphered the signals from the centre regarding what
was or was not wanted and had started to put their interpretation into
action, the central leadership was already undergoing criticism from the
Comintern, echoed internally, and shifting into another gear.
The response of local cadres veered haphazardly between rash mar-
tyrdom and paralysis. It is amazing that more people didn’t just give
up and leave. That they continued to risk their lives for the party
was a measure of their dedication to the cause and their unswerving
adherence to Leninist principles of party discipline.32 (Within the
party organizational forum, cadres could express disagreement on a pro-
posed policy or plan of action until a majority decison was reached or
had been received from a higher level in the hierarchy, at which point
they had to obey orders and carry out the party’s decision.) Their con-
tinued allegiance may be explained by additional factors, such as the
passion of youthful idealism. Reason embedded in faith, combined
with the Confucian ethic of the noble official who leads and serves in
the best interests of the people, was a powerful combination firing the
hearts and minds of young people who believed they could change the
world.
Perhaps they had faith that each new leadership at central and local
level would make a difference, take cognizance of the realities. Perhaps,
because they had survived while so many of their comrades had not,
their continued allegiance was an attempt to give meaning to those
deaths.33 If survivor guilt motivated veterans of the Long March, this
was also true for white area cadres who survived the consequences of
GMD terror, Comintern ignorance and CCP ill judgement.
An organizational shambles
No less amazing than individual allegiance was the organizational

shambles in which the northern cadres were supposed to function.
Between 1927 and mid 1931, by which time most of the sixty-one were
under lock and key, the party’s northern administration underwent
some form of restructuring every few months. The dizzying frequency
with which this happened not only reflected changes in the central
leadership but was also indicative of ongoing Central Committee
dissatisfaction with its northern arm. Its concern, and the importance
it attributed to the desired CCP role in Beijing, Tianjin, Tangshan and
elsewhere in the north, was further demonstrated by the sending of a
series of prominent party leaders – including Cai Hesen, Liu Shaoqi and
Zhang Guotao – to try to whip things into shape during those four years.
After the cruel spring of 1927 – when the CCP’s North Regional
Committee in Beijing was destroyed, along with the various city com-
mittees and organizations in Hebei – came the summer of internal
purge. Mounting criticism of alleged ‘rightist opportunism’ had led to
the removal of CCP founder and leader Chen Duxiu. Directed by the
new Qu Qiubai leadership, the same criticism was extended to the sur-
viving northern leaders. The North Regional Committee was replaced
by a new structure, the Shunzhi (Hebei) Provincial Committee,34 based
in Tianjin, to run party work in northern China, including the provinces
of Hebei, Shanxi, Shandong, Chahar, Henan, Sha’anxi and Rehe. New
city committees were set up in Beijing and Tianjin, and soon enough
a new North Bureau was created to oversee the Shunzhi Provincial
Committee and ensure that no lingering support for Chen Duxiu was
in evidence.
The new northern leadership, intent on showing how different a
political beast it was from its predecessor, went a little too far in the
eyes of the Central Committee, which promptly accused it of adopting
a military adventurist approach, and of lacking concrete and specific
detail in respect of policy and operational planning. The Central
Committee said derisively that the Shunzhi plan for large-scale upris-
ings in southern Hebei, Rehe, Beijing and Tianjin was surely ‘a joke,
was it not?’35 (Considering the monumental failure of the Central
Committee-inspired uprisings of August–December 1927, this criticism
seems no less of a joke.)36 The Shunzhi committee was severely repri-
manded for paying insufficient attention to the labour movement, for
the superficiality of its reorganization of high-level party organizations
and for its failure to conduct any reorganization at all at lower levels.
By the end of the year the Central Committee had recalled Cai Hesen,
its representative in the north, and abolished the North Bureau again,
and by early 1928 the city committees were reorganized.37
In its new plan, submitted to the Central Committee in the spring
of 1928, the Shunzhi committee was careful to stress the necessity
of preparation (that is, propaganda, organization and struggle among
workers, peasants and soldiers) for a limited seizure of power – but not
the unleashing of a general uprising, for which the time was not yet
ripe. The circumstances seemed to favour such preparations, since the
warlords were busy fighting each other and GMD forces were about to
join in the northern fray and finalize the northen expedition to unify
the country. However in its plan the Shunzhi committee used rather
strong terminology to describe its spurring of mass struggle, which
would lead workers and peasants to engage in violent acts, including
killing and burning (of overlords and property).38 In its response (May
1928) the Central Committee pounced on this terminology – it smacked
of ‘putschism’ (the very word being used to criticise Qu Qiubai’s lead-
ership) and of ‘red terror’, which would alienate the masses. The north,
so the Central Committee announced, was not ready for this sort of
action, for seizing political power, although it is doubtful that the north-
ern leaders had had that in mind.39 It is more likely they had intended
to pre-empt criticism by not sounding too lily-livered – talking only of
preparation without any resulting action.
While the GMD was finally extending formal control over Beijing
in June 1928, in alliance with the city’s ruling force, warlord Zhang
Xueliang, the CCP held its Sixth Congress in Moscow and put a formal
end to Qu Qiubai’s leadership. Xiang Zhongfa, an authentic proletarian
but lacking charisma, became the party’s next official leader. The con-
gress also heralded the advent of Li Lisan’s (de facto) fiery leadership,
which was to bring another brief era of costly, ill-conceived operations.
Some of the Shunzhi leaders who attended the congress were not
returned to their posts. Under the guidance of Liu Shaoqi, the Central
Committee’s representative in the north, Peng Zhen took over as acting
provincial secretary for Shunzhi.40 (Peng, whose prison experiences in

the 1930s and unenviable treatment in the Cultural Revolution closely
parallelled those of the sixty-one, became the best-known white area
cadre after Liu, and an elite figure in the PRC.) By late 1928 it was clear
that things were still not running smoothly between the centre and
its northern satellites. ‘Extreme democratic’ tendencies were reported,
comrades were defying their superiors’ instructions and there were
many cases of desertion.41 Another round of city committee reorgani-
zation took place, but the Central Committee was still not satisfied. In
April 1929 it condemned the rightist tendencies and unwelcome imbal-
ance (too many intellectuals) in the party’s leading organizations, and
demanded the building up of the proletarian base.42
Further reorganization ensued, continuing into the autumn of 1929,
by which time Liu Shaoqi had moved on to Manchuria and Peng Zhen
had been demoted to the district leadership in Tianjin. At that time the
provincial and Tianjin city leadership had been badly damaged by the
botched assassination of two disgruntled former Shunzhi leaders, Wang
Caowen and Li Degui. Having lost their jobs after the Sixth Congress,
they had, it was alleged, threatened exposure of the northern under-
ground network unless they were sufficently recompensed. With autho-
rization from the Central Committee, the Provincial Committee had
carried out the assassinations, killing Li outright but giving Wang
enough time before his demise to incriminate the assassins – and others.
Peng Zhen was among the arrested (he was released in 1935, after which
he renewed his working relationship with Liu Shaoqi, joining him at
the North Bureau in 1936).43
Another cadre arrested that autumn was Bo Yibo. He was picked up
by police in Tangshan in October 1929, but was soon released because
of their failure to pin anything on him. That year Bo had worked in his
‘above ground’ cover role for the GMD police, and underground for the
Provincial Committee’s Military Committee headed by Liao Huaping
(who, according to Bo, turned traitor in mid 1931, betraying Bo and
hundreds of other cadres). Bo was rearrested in the spring of 1930 after
the failed Tangshan mutiny, of which he had been a leader; the mutiny
was exactly the type of activity that the increasingly radical Li Lisan
leadership was encouraging.44 This time Bo did not escape so easily. A
former schoolmate working as court stenographer identified him as a
communist and he was imprisoned in Tianjin (in the same prison as
Peng Zhen) for several months, until his release and that of some thirty
others was arranged by an undercover CCP member in the GMD
government.45
Despite the Tangshan failure the Li Lisan line moved into ever higher
gear. No sooner had Bo been released than he was ordered into another
perilous scheme by He Chang, a devoted supporter of Li Lisan who
had been sent to head a new North Bureau and reform the Shunzhi
Provincial Committee in Li’s image. In June 1930 Li, convinced that (a)
revolution in China would set off a global revolution and (b) a ‘revo-
lutionary high tide’ had arrived, announced his new brainchild of
‘victory in one or several provinces’.46 The organizational hierarchies
were to give way to ‘action committees’. By early autumn He Chang
had set up such a committee to direct simultaneous workers’ strikes,
peasant uprisings and military mutinies; the targets were Beijing,
Tianjin, Tangshan and five strategic railway lines. Bo was to head the
committee’s activities in the Beijing–Hankou Railway area. In his
memoirs Bo details the severe misgivings he expressed to He Chang;
these were rejected.47 Many comrades were killed in action or captured
and executed, among them Zhang Zhaofeng, Bo’s deputy and Military
Committee colleague.
The all-too-frequent reorganizations, unrealistic expectations and
intensifying demands for radical action were taking their toll on the
northern organizations. Not only were members and sympathizers
deserting, becoming double agents or betraying, but those who
remained were breaking up into factions, some supporting the policies
of Li Lisan and others still yearning for the leadership of Chen Duxiu.
More worrying still was the increasing support for the ideas of He
Mengxiong, whose political career had been moulded in the CCP’s
northern administration under Li Dazhao and subsequently in Shang-
hai and the Jiangsu provincial network.48 He Mengxiong opposed Li
Lisan’s high-profile actions and rapid-results demands, and recom-
mended a far more cautious long-term approach, concentrating initially
on workers’ economic needs, in cooperation with the yellow unions.
His views were considered rightist by the Li Lisan leadership, but He
Mengxiong nevertheless developed a significant following at the central
and local leadership levels – in Beijing, Tianjin and Shanghai in par-
ticular – and at the grass-roots level. Much of his pragmatic approach
was forcefully echoed by Liu Shaoqi when he took up his North China
Bureau post in 1936.
This chaotic state of affairs required a tightening of Party discipline
and cadre management. In August 1930 He Chang brought a new face
into the North Bureau to serve in its Organization Department. An
Ziwen, who had worked in CCP underground communications in
Henan, had come to the attention of the Central Committee and been
employed in its Shanghai-based communications network, transferring

documents and escorting party VIPs around the country. An had been
sent to report to He Chang for instructions for work in Sha’anxi. He
Chang must have been impressed with An, for he diverted him from
this course and snapped him up for communications work in the North
Bureau headquarters, bestowing on him the additional dirty and dan-
gerous task of dealing with counterespionage within the party.49 There
was no shortage of work for An. Just as Bo Yibo had once worked under-
cover in the GMD (military) police, so too did at least two other CCP
Hebei officials: Li Chun and Zhang Kaiyun. They, however, were also
working for the GMD against the CCP. It was An’s brief to eliminate
such unwelcome phenomena. Li Chun was successfully ‘taken out’ in
October 1930, but the Zhang Kaiyun mission was aborted because of
An’s own arrest in February 1931.
In the six months between An’s arrival at the North Bureau and his
arrest there were dramatic developments at the party centre and in its
northern network. While the northern cadres were carrying out Li
Lisan’s bidding under He Chang’s direction – and getting killed in the
process – Li himself was coming in for criticism from the Comintern,
which had concluded that he had completely misread the global and
domestic situation and distorted Comintern guidelines. Zhou Enlai and
Qu Qiubai were supposed to have made this clear at the party’s Third
Plenum in September but their criticism, pointing merely to tactical
errors on Li’s behalf, was too muted for the Comintern’s liking. So
muted, in fact, that in spite of it Li managed to add a few cronies to
the Central Committee, including He Chang.50 And He, for his part,
returned to Tianjin conveying a message of dismay from the Central
Committee about rightist influences in the North Bureau that were dis-
couraging the Li-inspired mutinies and uprisings.
While Zhou and Qu seemed to be sitting on the fence, other players
appeared on the field, and Li Lisan had to contend with opposition not
only from the He Mengxiong faction but from party cadres recently
returned from the Soviet Union, where they had studied at the Sun Yat-
sen University, directed by Pavel Mif. Wang Ming (Chen Shaoyu), Qin
Bangxian (Bo Gu) and Wang Jiaxiang criticized Li’s radicalized June 1930
policies and were penalized for doing so. These former students became
part of a larger group who returned to China between 1929 and 1933,
variously labelled the ‘twenty-eight [or ‘281/2’] Bolsheviks’, the ‘Returned
Students’ or the ‘Internationalists’.51 Several of them moved into central
leadership positions in the early 1930s. One, Chen Yuandao, was said
to have incited the majority of the Henan Party organization, in which
he worked, against its secretary, who supported Li’s radical action line.
He Chang, as head of the North Bureau, had severely reprimanded
Chen.52 This picture was to change quite rapidly, with Li Lisan being
summoned to Moscow at the end of November.
Matters came to a head during December, with the arrival in Shang-
hai of Pavel Mif, now Comintern representative, and the creation of ‘an
independent organization with an executive committee of twenty-
seven’, led by He Mengxiong.53 Under Mif’s auspices, a Fourth Plenum
was hastily convened on 7 January. Mif brandished a double-edged
sword that felled both ‘rightists’ and ‘leftists’. Zhou Enlai, mastering
the genre of self-criticism and the art of survival, lined up behind
Mif; Li Lisan lost his Politburo seat, as did Qu Qiubai and Li’s sup-
porter Li Weihan. Mif’s protégé Wang Ming was catapulted into the
Politburo. Xiang Zhongfa continued as general secretary. The so-called
‘rightists’ were completely sidelined. Informed of the plenum at the
last minute, given observer status only and no opportunity to present
their views, He Mengxiong and his followers met on 17 January to set
up their own party organization with a proposed list of Central Com-
mittee candidates.54 Within days they were expelled from the party and,
in a stroke of extraordinary convenience for their opponents in the
Central Committee, He Mengxiong and four dozen supporters were
arrested by the GMD authorities. Half of them, including He, were
executed in early February.
But the story of the rival party organization did not end there, for it
had already taken root not only in Shanghai, where He Mengxiong’s
support was so extensive, but also in the northern cities, where support
that had been substantial but amorphous gathered momentum and
structure, in the form of Emergency Preparatory Committees. Zhang
Jingren (known also as Zhang Mutao) led the Hebei rival committee.
Having once served as a party secretary for the Shunzhi Provincial Com-
mittee he had excellent connections in the area and put them to good
use; the result, according to Bo Yibo, was chaos in the organizational
network.55 At the lower levels, cadres who performed tasks for the party
on an intermittent basis and had little direct contact with party per-
sonnel were utterly confused. To which party organization did they
belong? After all, rumblings of a change in Central Committee policy
had reached the northern cadres just a couple of months ago, when
they had been told to disband the Li Lisan-styled action committees;
the North Bureau itself had been abolished at the end of December, and
He Chang was therefore out of a job; the Li Lisan line had been offi-
cially rejected at the January plenum, and He Chang had made an abject
self-criticism: ‘I made shameful mistakes . . . I failed to provide positive

leadership to the struggle against Li Lisan’s line . . . and even blocked its
progress.’56 Not surprisingly, people at all levels of the hierarchy found
it hard to figure out where their allegiance lay organizationally, let alone
ideologically.
The new central leadership could not allow this situation to con-
tinue. In the last ten days of January 1931 the Central Committee
attempted to reassert its control over the north. It began by issuing
a resolution on the Hebei problem, abolishing both the Shunzhi Pro-
vincial Committee and the rogue Hebei Emergency Committee. It dis-
patched to Tianjin an odd triumvirate. First, to the astonishment
of some Hebei personnel, their former boss He Chang reappeared –
his strength as an antirightist obviously outweighing his weakness as
a Li Lisan supporter. He, like the ‘rebel’ Zhang Jingren, could be
expected to know who was who in the Shunzhi communist network,
certainly at the upper levels of its hierarchy. Then there was Sun Yat-
sen University alumnus Chen Yuandao, who had some experience of
northern provincial work – and had been on the receiving end of He
Chang’s wrath not so long ago. Last and definitely least was Central
Committee alternate member Xu Lanzhi, whose railway-worker back-
ground lent a stamp of proletarian authenticity to the group, just as
Xiang Zhongfa’s boatman past made him an appropriate general secre-
tary of the CCP. This combination of forces, the Central Committee
hoped, would quell the northern chaos. The three arrived in Tianjin
early in February and set up a Temporary Hebei Provincial Committee.
Xu was party secretary, Chen Yuandao headed the Organization Depart-
ment and An Ziwen continued in his role as deputy secretary. He Chang,
barely out of disgrace, had a more nominal-sounding title: ‘inspector
for Shanxi’. Chen Yuandao was considered the real leader of the new
administration.57
Meanwhile Zhang Jingren and his supporters had been joined by
other He Mengxiong followers who had attended the January meet-
ings and the controversial Fourth Plenum. Though the new Temporary
Committee did chalk up successes in recruitment, it failed to track
down the grass-roots cadres. It was forced to turn for help to the semi-
independently functioning Military Committee, of which Bo Yibo was
a member. One way in which the new committee attempted to bring
clarity to the situation was by expelling all the rebel members.
How could party security have functioned efficiently in an atmos-
phere of such bitter rivalry and confusion? It must have been easy
enough to make a mistake – but how many mistakes were deliberate?
How loyal was an arrested comrade from one group to his former
associates in the other group? In the second week of February a wave
of arrests by the GMD military police netted a number of leaders of the
Emergency Committee. Not all were able to withstand torture.58
An, Yang, Bo and Liu under arrest
Less convenient for the Temporary Committee was the arrest of cadres
from its own network, including Zhou Zhongying and An Ziwen,
towards the end of February. Zhou, who had attended the Whampoa
Military Academy and participated in the CCP’s 1 August 1927 Nan-
chang Uprising, had worked for the party’s Beijing Military Commit-
tee until the end of 1927. In 1928 he had worked as a courier, travel-
ling frequently between Shanghai and Tianjin. In the winter of 1930
he had taken over An’s responsibility for communications in the new
Provincial Committee.59 The arrest of Zhou and An was an example of
lax security, probably resulting from the reigning confusion. The ‘Kenye
Company’ office had been created as a front for the former North
Bureau’s headquarters in Tianjin, using hotel rooms in the French
Concession. Despite security concerns, the new committee had hesi-
tated about moving to new premises. Perhaps it had feared that new
premises might only add to the confusion, and therefore had taken
the risk of at least temporary continuity. But frequent changes of
address were de rigueur in the underground handbook – and for
good reason. The premises were under surveillance and Zhou was
arrested on arrival. This must have been done unobtrusively, because a
few days later the police picked up An Ziwen as he approached the
office.60
Just before An’s arrest Zhang Guotao of the CCP Politburo Standing
Committee, founding member of the CCP and labour organizer, arrived
in Tianjin, sent by the Central Committee to give the new administra-
tion and remaining members a pep talk. Zhang described the event as
a cathartic and creative experience for the northern cadres.61 They
poured out their hearts to him, expressing their pain at constantly being
labelled ‘rightists’ or ‘opportunists’ and insisting that the problem really
lay with the central leadership, which misread or ignored the reality of
conditions in the north. Zhang claimed to have come to an agreement
with the cadres, laying out ground rules on how the working relation-
ship between the centre and the provincial organizations should con-
tinue. Zhang also informed An Ziwen that he was to be transferred to
the Shanghai Special Service section. An had delayed his departure in
order to organize the elimination of Zhang Kaiyun.62 His arrest pre-

vented the achievement of either objective.
By March 1931 the situation was showing signs of stabilizing, largely
because so many of the Emergency Committee cadres were in prison.
But this stability was shattered by further GMD raids, and by the end
of April some sixty cadres belonging to the party’s Hebei administra-
tion had been arrested and were awaiting sentence along with Zhou
Zhongying and An Ziwen in the Tianjin Security Bureau. Among them
were Chen Yuandao, whose career as provincial leader was so patheti-
cally brief, and his wife Liu Yaxiong, who had only just taken over An’s
duties in the Provincial Committee; Xu Lanzhi, the new provincial party
leader; Liu Ningyi; and Chen Boda (who was to become Mao’s secretary
in Yan’an and play a leading role in Cultural Revolution radical poli-
tics).63 It is unclear whether the multiple arrests were due to careless-
ness, or to betrayal by rival comrades or one of their own.
With the destruction of the Tianjin network the Hebei party head-
quarters relocated to Beijing. Yin Jian was the Central Committee’s
choice for the new leader of the Hebei Provincial Commitee. Yin had
also studied at the Sun Yat-sen University under Pavel Mif’s direction.64
He had returned to China at the beginning of the year, and had been
thrust immediately into action as head of the Trade Union Federation,
replacing Wang Kequan, who had been ousted for his support of He
Mengxiong.65 Yin was to have the dubious honour of being the only
one of the ‘twenty-eight Bolsheviks’ to be also one of the ‘sixty-one
renegades’. One of Yin’s first tasks in his new Hebei post was to try to
engineer the release of his Tianjin comrades.
The Central Committee, shocked at this substantial loss to the cause,
had decided to launch its own effort to rescue these cadres. Not an
impossible task, since bribery and personal connections had been used
often enough in the past. CCP member Hu Egong, who had been sent
to Tianjin to develop intelligence work, was instructed to seek con-
tacts able to effect the prisoners’ release. Hu himself had useful warlord
connections. He also had an enterprising assistant, Yang Xianzhen, who
had spent two and a half years (1927–29) behind bars in Hubei as a
political prisoner and had subsequently worked as a secondary school
teacher in Henan. When this cover was exposed and Yang was placed
on a wanted list by the local authorities, he fled to Shanghai, where
he met Hu Egong. Hu and Yang arrived in Tianjin from Shanghai in
April. Lai De, the Hebei Provincial Mutual Assistance Committee
secretary, had been deputed by Yin Jian to meet them and provide
any help and information they might require with regard to the
prisoners, and the names of useful contacts who might help with their
release.66
One potential contact was Liu Shaobai, a former civil official in
Tianjin and now resident in Beijing. Liu, a supporter but not yet a
member of the CCP, was highly motivated to help, for his daughter was
none other than prisoner Liu Yaxiong and his son-in-law was prisoner
Chen Yuandao. (Since Chen’s imprisonment, Liu Shaobai had assumed
the vital role of passing funds from the Central Committee leadership
in Shanghai to the Hebei Committee, a fact known only to party sec-
retaries Yin Jian and Guo Yaxian.) As it happened Liu Shaobai had
already arrived in Tianjin, intent on achieving his daughter and son-in-
law’s release, and had been given to understand that the Tianjin law-
court would be amenable to releasing the comrades for a fee of four to
five thousand silver dollars.
Hu Egong and Yang were informed (presumably by Hebei Provin-
cial committee representative Lai De) of Liu’s progress regarding the
‘ransom’. Hu decided to ask the Central Committee leadership in
Shanghai for a green light – and the funds. While the leadership was in
the process of deciding, the devastating consequences of the arrest
of the CCP’s head of security police, Gu Shunzhang, in Shanghai on 24
April 1931, and his subsequent wholesale betrayals, began to unfold.67
CCP general secretary Xiang Zhongfa was arrested in Shanghai on 21
June and executed a few days later. The entire central party leadership
was now vulnerable. Many sought refuge in other cities or in villages,
and some moved south to the new liberated area, the Jiangxi soviet,
where Mao Zedong led the fledgling soviet government. One of the
CCP’s leading intelligence cadres, Chen Geng, fled Shanghai for Tianjin,
and Yang Xianzhen was given the job of protecting and escorting him.68
(This same Chen Geng later tried to prevent the sixty-one from being
entered as delegates to the Party’s Seventh Congress, held in 1945.)
When Hu Egong brought back from Shanghai the news that the party
leadership had agreed to fund the release of the Tianjin captives, Yang
Xianzhen accompanied Chen Geng to Liu Shaobai’s Tianjin hotel. But
Liu was nowhere to be found. It transpired that Gu Shanzhang’s betrayal
had reverberated far beyond Shanghai. The Hebei Committee, so
recently re-established in Beijing, had also been exposed, and one of its
secretaries, Guo Yaxian, was alleged to have turned traitor and informed
on Liu Shaobai, among others.69 The Beijing police had looked for Liu
at his Beijing residence and one of his domestic staff had immediately
travelled to Tianjin to warn him, hence his hasty exit without letting
Yang Xianzhen know.
Hu now sent Yang to Beijing, hoping to locate Liu there. He also gave
him five copies of a small note to deliver to five Beijing comrades. The
notes were headed ‘Developing an Intelligence Programme for the
North’ – just the kind of evidence an underground operator would not
want to be caught with. Yang left Tianjin for Beijing by train on 24 July
1931. The following day the fourth recipient of the intelligence pro-
gramme directed Yang to Liu Shaobai’s house.
I went in alone. . . . Seeing the shadow of an old lady, I asked, ‘Is this
Mr. Liu’s house?’ Coldly, she replied, ‘His house is in the yard’. . . . I
couldn’t tell anything from this old woman’s blank expression, so in
I walked, straight through the yard to Mr Liu’s house, where I found
his son, Liu Jingxiong, terrified, clinging to his mother. A military
policeman was sitting there and another was standing behind the
door. I was stuck – and I still had the fifth intelligence programme
on me! . . . I had to figure out how to destroy it. . . . Should I try and
invent some kind of fake confession . . . ? One of the policemen had
gone out to the yard, perhaps to phone in a report; the other was
looking for a piece of paper to write on. At that moment as I sat
down, I took the chance and stuffed the note into my mouth, chewed
it and swallowed. I breathed a sigh of relief, for there was no other
suspicious evidence.70
Yang was nevertheless arrested and taken to the military police head-
quarters. As evening fell his interrogation began, and as his eyes became
accustomed to the dark interrogation room he glimpsed a familiar face.
‘I suddenly realized what had happened . . . I knew that Lai De had been
arrested and betrayed us. Enemies are bound to meet on a narrow road.
The situation was far from encouraging.’71
On his arrival at the police headquarters Yang had caught sight of
two other captives, Liu Lantao and Kong Xiangzhen (who subsequently
became his comrades in the Caolanzi prison), both of whom, Yang
believed, had been betrayed by Guo Yaxian. Liu had worked mainly in
northern Sha’anxi since joining the Communist Youth League (CYL) in
1926 and the CCP in 1928. Following a brief stint behind bars in late
summer 1930 he was transferred to Beijing, where he was contacted by
Guo Yaxian and informed that he was to start work with the Mutual
Assistance Committee. However he had not even begun his first day of
work when the Beijing CCP organanization was raided by the GMD
authorities. Liu decided to beat a hasty retreat from Beijing, and sought
out a friend from whom to borrow the train fare to Taiyuan. Unfortu-
nately Guo Yaxian caught sight of the penniless Liu and pointed him
out to the police.72 As for Kong Xianzhen, he too had only just begun
his party assignments in Beijing when he was arrested on the basis of
Guo’s information. Kong had previously worked with the Shunzhi
Military Committee in Tangshan.73 As we shall see, Kong was to be
instrumental in the release of the sixty-one from Caolanzi (he himself
was released from Caolanzi a few years before the sixty-one, on the
grounds of ill-health.) Another important figure who was arrested at
that time and became part of the sixty-one group was Hu Xikui. After
studying in Moscow and attending the Party’s Sixth Congress there, he
had worked in Shanghai in communications for the Central Commit-
tee’s Organization Department. He then worked in propaganda in
northern China, becoming editor-in-chief of party publications such as
Beifang Hongqi (Northern Red Flag) and Huoxian (Firing Line). He
became municipal party secretary in Beijing and was then assigned to
the same post in Tangshan.74 Hu Xikui had returned to Beijing at the
end of June and been arrested.
Also under arrest in Beijing by the end of June was Bo Yibo. Accord-
ing to Bo his own boss, the head of the Military Committee, Liao
Huaping, had revealed Bo’s address in Beijing. When Liao failed to meet
him one evening Bo realized that something was up. Rather than go
home he went to the cinema, and then on to a comrade’s house for the
night. Suddenly he remembered that he had left at his lodgings a rather
important Military Committee document, hidden inside his favourite
Goethe novel. He decided to take the risk of returning in order to burn
the document, which he did – but not his beloved novel. As dawn broke,
he was packing his belongings when there was an ominous knock on
the door: ‘Mr Liao Huaping would like a word with you.’ Bo realized
that Liao had been arrested and had probably betrayed him. He could
not escape through the bathroom window because it was guarded, as
was the front door. There was an added complication: another comrade
was due to arrive shortly. It was too late for Bo to save himself, but could
he at least prevent his comrade from being arrested? Seconds before the
comrade was due to arrive, Bo picked up his bag and opened the door,
doing everything slowly and methodically. Three military policemen
followed him from the door into the yard. Bo could see the comrade
approaching. The latter took in the situation in a split second and
walked on as if he did not know Bo.75
Bo was then escorted to the police station, where he saw Liao Huaping
and became duly convinced that the latter had turned traitor. Gu
Shunzhang may have provided basic information on the CCP’s north-

ern network but, if Yang Xianzhen and Bo Yibo are to be believed, Liao
Huaping and Guo Yaxian filled in the details. As a result, between three
and four hundred northern cadres were arrested in June and July 1931.
Among them were the Hebei Provincial Committee leader, Yin Jian, and
other future members of the sixty-one, including Liu Xiwu, who was
working as a secretary for the Beijing City Committee at the time; Li
Chuli, who had taken over communications work following Zhou
Zhongying’s arrest in February; and Wang Hefeng and Li Jukui, both
only sixteen years old, who had just embarked on a training course run
by the Hebei Military Committee.76
In the summer of 1931, those who had been arrested between Feb-
ruary and April in Tianjin (An Ziwen, Zhou Zhongying, Chen Yuandao
and so on) were transferred to Beijing, where they joined their impris-
oned comrades (Bo, Yang, Liu Lantao, Kong Xiangzhen, Yin Jian and so
on) in General Zhang Xueliang’s Armed Forces’ Military–Legal Depart-
ment. In the autumn they were transferred to Caolanzi prison, which
was euphemistically renamed the ‘Military Personnel Self-Examination
Centre of Beiping’ (for the sake of brevity I shall continue to call it
Caolanzi).77
Between 1927 and 1937 – the period known as the ‘Nanjing decade’
– some 24 000 communist or communist-affiliated individuals were
arrested and imprisoned. Some were executed; another 30 000 were
made to ‘repent and surrender voluntarily’.78 Towards the end of August
1936 the Guomindang minister of justice, Wang Yongbin, stated that
there were ‘about 2100 political prisoners in ordinary gaols and 1060 in
provincial reformatories. These figures did not include Sinkiang, Ching-
hai, and Kwangsi.’79
Until late 1935 the communists did what they could to engineer the
release of individual comrades, through the use of bribery and social
connections, and by permitting comrades in prison to sign ‘ordinary’
(non-anticommunist) statements. Once the united-front negotiations
began between the CCP and GMD it became possible to pursue these
efforts at higher levels. Clearly the subject of prisoner release was as
legitimate a topic for representatives of the CCP’s North Bureau to nego-
tiate with Song Zheyuan (the GMD general formally in charge of
Beijing) as it had been between Zhou Enlai and Zhang Xueliang. There
was a marked difference, however, in the results. Unlike Zhang Xueliang
in Xi’an, the GMD authorities in Beijing did not agree to the uncondi-
tional release of the communist prisoners, nor to their signing the fairly
innocuous non-anticommunist statements.
Beijing under threat80
Had Zhang Xueliang still been in control of Beijing, Liu Shaoqi might
have exacted more favourable terms for the release of the sixty-one.
Zhou Enlai had had an easier task, because in the spring of 1936 Zhang
Xueliang had little left to lose and far more to gain by seeking partners
to resist the Japanese. He had lost Manchuria to the Japanese in 1931
through the policy of non-resistance, and Rehe (Jehol) in 1933 through
abysmally poor resistance. His command of Chiang Kai-shek’s northern
forces had been transferred to General He Yingqin (minister of war in
the Nanjing government) that spring, thus ending Zhang Xueliang’s
authority over Beijing.81
While the sixty-one sat in Caolanzi prison, the fate of Beijing hung
in the balance. With Japanese forces barely thirteen miles away in May
1933 and their reconnaissance planes hovering over the northern cities,
the fall of both Beijing and Tianjin appeared imminent. Chiang Kai-
shek chose to keep his best troops in the south, encircling the commu-
nist soviet in Jiangxi, and sought a diplomatic solution that would avoid
the loss of Beijing and Tianjin to the Japanese. The Beijing Political
Affairs Council was established, to be led by Huang Fu, a Nanjing
appointee acceptable to the Japanese. The council was made respon-
sible for the five northern provinces of Hebei, Shandong, Shanxi,
Chahar and Suiyan and for the municipalities of Beijing and Tianjin,
and was given sufficient autonomy by the Nanjing government – and
therefore accountability – to negotiate a truce with Japan. The Tanggu
Truce of 1933 delayed Japan’s outright seizure of Beijing and Tianjin but
provided for a demilitarized zone (DMZ) between the Great Wall and
a line running just north of Peiping and Tientsin. The southern
boundary ran 250 miles from Yench’ing to Lutai and passed within
ten miles of Peiping and thirty-five miles of Tientsin. The DMZ
included approximately 5000 square miles of Hopei (roughly the size
of Connecticut) and over 5 million inhabitants. The Chinese army
was to withdraw to the west and south of the area . . .82
Chinese police authorities not hostile to Japan were supposed to main-

tain law and order in the DMZ.
In 1934 and 1935 Chiang did all he could to avoid conflict with
Japan and continue his domestic pacification programme (that is, the
eradication of communists and communism in China). The Japanese
forces in China, however, looked unfavourably on any rapprochement
between their government and that of Chiang Kai-shek. They seized

on every semblance of provocation by the Chinese as an opportunity
to rattle their samurai swords and threaten full invasion of the cities.
At the end of May 1935 the murder of two journalists working for
Japanese-sponsored publications in Tianjin provided the pretext for
Japan’s demand for GMD forces – including the 3rd Corps of the GMD
Military Police in Beijing (which controlled Caolanzi prison) and two
divisions from Hebei – to be withdrawn. They further demanded the
dismissal of Hebei administrative personnel deemed anti-Japanese, and
the removal from Beijing and Tianjin of some 30 000 51st Army troops,
formerly part of Zhang Xueliang’s Northeastern Army. These demands,
a blatant attempt to bring Beijing and Tianjin into an enlarged demili-
tarized zone, were verbally agreed upon by He Yingqin and the Japan-
ese commander, General Umezu. Song Zheyuan (until then governor of
Chahar), who was deemed more amenable than Zhang to the Japanese,
was permitted to move 30 000 of his 29th Army troops to the Beijing–
Tianjin area.
Japan continued to tighten its noose around northern China and to
magnify anti-Japanese protest incidents. By the end of August 1935 it
had cowed the Nanjing government into abolishing its symbol of
authority in Beijing, the Political Affairs Council. In October, Song
Zheyuan agreed to enlarge the DMZ, which meant that its borders
would come even closer to Beijing and Tianjin, and promised to abolish
the Military Affairs Commision for Beijing the following month. The
Nanjing government and Song were prepared to make further economic
concessions – Chiang was even ready to recognize the Japanese
Manchukuo (Manchuria) regime if the Japanese relinquished their plan
for an ‘autonomous’ northern China. But this did not satisfy the Japan-
ese military, which presented Song with an ultimatum to declare the
autonomy of the provinces of Hebei and Chahar by 20 November. The
ultimatum was backed up with the deployment of 15 000 Japanese
troops and two bomber squadrons to occupy Hebei if need be.
Where did Song stand? Would he bend and become a Japanese puppet
ruler like the commander of the DMZ, which on 25 November became
the East Hebei Anti-Communist Autonomous Council, with its capital
a mere twelve miles from Beijing? Song’s precise thoughts remain a
mystery. He did not respond to the Japanese ultimatum but did inform
Chiang Kai-shek that without assistance from Nanjing he would not be
able to withstand Japanese pressure for northern autonomy.83 Chiang’s
assistance came in the form of a diplomatic solution – a new
Hebei–Chahar Political Council under Song’s leadership, which it was
hoped would ensure his loyalty to Nanjing, while at the same time
satisfying Japan by appointing pro-Japanese officials and not a single
GMD member to the council. War over Beijing and Tianjin was once
again averted.
The word ‘transparency’ cannot be used to describe the various agree-
ments, written and verbal, that the Nanjing government reached with
the Japanese in the early to mid 1930s. Secrecy gave rise to tremendous
suspicion among China’s urban population that Chiang Kai-shek and
Song Zheyuan had sold out, delivering control of Hebei and Chahar –
and therefore Beijing – to the Japanese. This suspicion and general frus-
tration culminated in the massive student protests of December 1935.
Ironically the removal of GMD military police from Beijing and Tianjin
had given leftist and radical students more room to manoeuvre, while
the new authorities under Song, as well as those of the Japanese, had
yet to learn the ropes of policing those cities effectively.
The party and the students
The Chinese communists have tended to claim sole credit not only for
organizing and leading the patriotic movement but for actually launch-
ing the December Ninth student movement of 1935. According to Mao
Zedong, ‘Youth and students were like the wood fueling the December
Ninth Movement, and all we needed then was a match to ignite it. Who
struck the match? The CCP did.’84 This was a somewhat self-laudatory
overestimate of their role. On the other hand it did not require a great
deal of foresight for the communists to recognize the immense poten-
tial for their own movement if they could succeed in harnessing this
wave of patriotic fervour, and this was duly noted by Mao in his
Wayaobao report.85 It was an opportunity the CCP could ill afford to
miss – to reach a broad cross-section of the urban population where
their own numbers had dwindled away. But the sad fact was that in
Beijing in late 1935 and early 1936 there were as few as twenty to thirty
communist activists facing the seemingly impossible task of recruiting
support among 38 000 university and middle-school students.86
This small cadre force contributed propaganda in literary and philo-
sophical form to the student publications at Qinghua and Yanjing Uni-
versities, and helped to establish the Beijing Student Association in
October 1935. At Beijing University a party branch was established in
the autumn of 1935, and over the next few months party activists were
sent to ‘instigate the students to demonstrate’ in Nanjing, Shanghai and
Tianjin.87 In Beijing in January 1936 the Chinese National Liberation
Vanguard (CNLV) was inaugurated as a legal ‘extension of the Com-

munist Youth Corps’.88 With an initial membership of 300, including
left-wing students, the vanguards were organized in tight Leninist
fashion: ‘three to five-man cells . . . secretly organized with no horizon-
tal relations with one another but only vertical relations with the next
highest unit’.89
Also in January 1936 a few hundred students made a propaganda tour
of northern China’s countryside, their aim being to broaden support for
a united front. These inexperienced propagandists came into contact
with peasants who had little notion of the looming Japanese threat and
were more concerned with their tax burden. Within three weeks the stu-
dents’ countryside activities were rudely curtailed when Song Zheyuan’s
troops and police returned them to Beijing. As Israel and Klein suggest,
the impact of the experience was greater on the student participants
than on their target population.90 Their well-intentioned but ineffectual
mission underlined the CCP’s need for more experienced cadres to train
and educate inexperienced candidates.
Students’ high-profile activities soon met a right-wing backlash on
various campuses. By mid February police raids and the arrest of left-
wing students had left the movement weakened and divided, as left and
right continued their radical actions. On 25 March Song announced
that the death penalty would apply if the emergency measures forbid-
ding demonstrations and meetings were defied.91 Less than a week had
elapsed when radical students, as if in direct challenge to Song, marched
through Beijing bearing a coffin in protest at the death of an impris-
oned middle-school pupil. Fifty were arrested; several were expelled
from university.92
It was at this juncture that Liu Shaoqi assumed command of the
CCP North Bureau, and it was this type of adventurist action that he
wished to discourage.93 In order to separate secret and open work, the
Communist Youth Corps was reorganized in May 1936. Its members
became party members while the broader-based CNLV loosened its
organizational structure, permitting previously forbidden ‘horizontal’
relations among cells in different schools – more befitting an open, legal
organization.94
But the more radical students could not be restrained for long. In June
an anti-Chiang strike resulted in the expulsion of some 200 vanguards,
communist cadres among them. These and others began the move to
the north-west, to the soviet base in Bao’an; many more arrived in
Xi’an, where generals Zhang Xueliang and Yang Hucheng offered them
generous freedom of movement among their troops.95 With the loss of
these vanguard cadres the Beijing Party was in disarray. It was still
desperately short of experienced, disciplined cadres to continue and
expand its work with the students – and control the unruly elements.
From the end of August and through the next few months this need
began to be met. Older hands, among whom were cadres just released
from prison, such as Peng Zhen and An Ziwen, appeared on the cam-
puses.96 Students who had experienced many a bloody encounter at
Song Zheyuan’s hands began to fraternize with his 29th Army troops.
By the end of the year students were no longer heard to shout ‘Down
with traitor Song Zheyuan!’ Instead the clarion call was moderated to
‘Support General Song Zheyuan in the fight against Japan’ and ‘Support
the 29th Corps in the fight against Japan’.97
By the summer the CNLV boasted 1300 members and by November
over 2000. CNLV guerrilla training camps (for the potential purpose
of warfare against the Japanese invaders) and popular theatrical per-
formances increased the membership.98 The students who now swelled
the communist ranks were entrusted with mass work and encouraged
to enlist with the nationalist armies in the north, working with the
troops and local populations. Over 1000 students were said to have
undergone military training with Song Zheyuan’s troops and subse-
quently participated in battles in Beijing and Tianjin.99 They were joined
by many of the recently released party veterans, such as Liu Zhao and
Zhu Zemin of the sixty-one.100 In September General Yan Xishan of
Shanxi began to welcome students to his League for National Salvation
through Sacrifice in Taiyuan. Non-students joined too, among them
Bo Yibo and some dozen comrades released from Caolanzi. With Yan
Xishan the CCP cultivated perhaps the most symbiotic of all its warlord
relationships.
Risk assessment: Song, Liu and the sixty-one
Throughout 1936 Song Zheyuan had staggered precariously along a

tightrope, pressured from all directions: from the citizens of China’s
urban north and an increasing number of soldiers in his own army to
mount active resistance to Japan; from the Nanjing government to
avoid armed conflict with Japan but resist its demand for northern
autonomy; and from the Japanese to declare independence from
Nanjing and link up with his East Hebei counterpart. Domestic pressure
did appear to strengthen the resolve of Song and the Hebei–Chahar
Council vis-à-vis Japan, but the student demonstrations provided a
potential pretext for Japanese intervention.
Japan grew increasingly belligerent, maintaining its pressure on Song

and criticizing his refusal, in early spring 1936, to accept its offer of mili-
tary aid against Zhang Xueliang (Japan claimed Zhang had linked up
with the communists to remove Yan Xishan from Shanxi and invade
Hebei, Chahar and Suiyuan). They also criticized Song for not stamp-
ing out anti-Japanese protest and repeated the old demand that he
declare autonomy. In May 1936 Japan’s North China Army added more
than 6000 soldiers to its forces in the Beijing – Tianjin area and other
parts of north China.101 War seemed imminent yet again. In July Chiang
Kai-shek added fire to the Japanese belligerency by declaring (at last)
that there would be no further compromises on China’s territorial
integrity.
Liu Shaoqi, the CCP’s North Bureau chief, was well-attuned to Song’s
predicament and equally aware that his tolerance of communist activ-
ity in his domain was perforce zero. The communist entity was an
anathema to both of Song’s masters: the Japanese invading force and
the Chiang Kai-shek leadership. At best the North Bureau hoped to
deflect Song’s attention away from ‘internal pacification’ by encourag-
ing the students to offer him positive reinforcement. This was a realis-
tic goal, which the North Bureau worked hard to attain.
But the goal of attaining the release of the Caolanzi prison cadres was
more severely constrained by Song’s difficult position, and compounded
by the pervading sense that war might erupt at any moment in Beijing.
From Song’s point of view the unconditional release of a large group of
communist prisoners would provide yet another excuse for Japan to
escalate the increasingly ominously conflict. Nor would such a release
endear him to Chiang Kai-shek, for whom only conditional release –
complete with damning anticommunist statements – had some value.
If the communist leaders really wanted these cadres so badly, condi-
tional release would do. Their freedom might even earn him some kudos
with the National Salvation patriots.
As far as Liu Shaoqi was concerned there was no guarantee that, with
or without reinforcements from Chiang, Song’s army could withstand
a full-scale Japanese invasion of Beijing and Tianjin (indeed when war
finally did break out the following year these cities fell within the first
weeks).102 With this justifiable doubt in mind, combined with the
uncomfortable knowledge that the Japanese forces were even more
vociferous than Chiang in their anticommunism, Liu Shaoqi and his
colleagues had to decide whether to leave the imprisoned cadres to their
fate or to make every effort to rescue them before the last vestiges of
Song’s limited authority in Beijing finally crumbled.
Based on the party’s immediate and future needs in terms of party

building and the united front, a rational decision was made: the sixty-
one were ordered to carry out the GMD release procedures. In terms of
these needs the North Bureau and the Central Committee had made the
right call. The release of communist prisoners in northern China was
to contribute hugely to the qualitative and quantative difference that
the united front made to the Chinese communist movement in legiti-
mating its presence and converting its emergent strength from a periph-
eral to a mainstream force. When the North Bureau, endorsed by the
Central Committee, ordered Bo Yibo et al. to pretend to renege, it was
expected that there would be some temporary embarrassment to the
party and the individuals involved. What the decison did not anticipate
was the long-term legacy of confused perceptions of party loyalty and
behavioural norms – or the temptation to exploit it.
2
Release from the Guomindang
Prison, 1936
We are grateful for the Government’s leniency in pardoning our

misdeeds in the past and allowing us to repent and renew ourselves.
Now we have repented sincerely and are willing to become loyal
citizens, resolutely against Communism, under the Government
leadership. Hereafter we will never join any Communist organization
nor engage in any reactionary activities. We also hope all promis-
ing youths shall not come under the influence of Communist
agitation.
(Huabei ribao [North China Daily], 31 August 1936)1
On the basis of this and similar subsequent press statements, Bo Yibo,

An Ziwen, Liu Lantao, Yang Xianzhen and several dozen other com-
munist cadres were released from the Caolanzi Reformatory in the
autumn of 1936. Committing their renunciation of communism to
newsprint was only one of the requisite release procedures negotiated
by the prison authorities with the CCP North Bureau representatives,
but it appears to have been the most damaging in terms of its conse-
quences for the signatories and their counsellors.
Although many questions remain unanswered as to what details were
known to whom, sufficient information is available in Cultural Revo-
lution and post-1978 sources (that is, anti- and pro-sixty-one, respec-
tively) to reconstruct a feasible scenario of this curious episode. Both
sets of sources agree that the CCP Northern Bureau, headed by Liu
Shaoqi, issued a directive to the imprisoned cadres to comply with the
GMD’s prerelease procedures, and that Central Committee authoriza-
tion was conferred by General Secretary Zhang Wentian. The sources
also agree that Xu Bing and Kong Xiangzhen were part of the commu-
nication chain that delivered directives to the prisoners. None of the
52
Release from the Guomindang Prison, 1936 53
sources, however vehement in its criticism of the sixty-one, disputes the

fact that the prisoners obeyed instructions from party authorities higher
than themselves at the local and central levels.2
Discrepancies arise over the number of directives (two or three) and
the order in which the directives and the party centre’s approval were
issued. Post-Cultural Revolution sources claim that approval was sought
from the Central Committee before the directives were issued. Some
Cultural Revolution sources indicate that at least one directive was
issued before Zhang Wentian’s assistance was sought. Further discrep-
ancies concern the very loaded question of Zhang’s role. Did he confer
with his colleagues or was this decision made by him alone? Was he
given all the information – that is, the details of the release procedures
– or was he merely told that a simple procedure had been agreed? A
similar question arises about Liu Shaoqi’s role. Did he devise and preside
over every last detail of the arrangements or did he authorize his sub-
ordinates to draw up the details?
This chapter describes the 1936 release process and discusses these
questions. It then turns to the united-front activities of the sixty-one
after their release, and traces the progress of the most prominent
amongst them to Yan’an in 1943. It was in the liberated Yan’an base,
where united-front policies were formulated but not directly experi-
enced, that the sixty-one were confronted with the first shadow of
doubt as to whether the 1936 episode had been or ever would be well
and truly buried. They had been released, but the release itself was a
paradoxical, invisible fetter from which they were never to be totally
free.
Chapter 1 dealt with the situation and events in China leading up to
the sixty-one’s release. But what was going on in Caolanzi prison during
that period? Were these lost years for the sixty-one? Not according to
their memoirs. Life in Caolanzi has been revealed as a functioning
microcosm of the communist underground in the most adversarial of
white area conditions.
Caolanzi prison
Caolanzi prison had been established with the specific aim of reform-
ing (some might say brainwashing) political prisoners. The Chinese
communists had no monopoly on thought reform, which was rooted
as much in Chinese tradition as it was in any European practice of com-
munism. Re-education culminating in recantation appealed equally to
the Guomindang leadership as a useful alternative to the wide-scale
execution of suspected communists. Rather than swell the CCP pan-

theon of martyrs with characters who had usually played undistin-
guished, paltry roles, execution would be reserved for the stubbornly
unrepentant and more important catches.3 In the early 1930s, therefore,
a number of prisons were transformed into ‘reformatories’. In the
Jiangsu reformatory, for instance, there were lectures on Guomindang
ideology, followed by examinations. Prisoners were also encouraged to
form ‘autonomous societies’ as a creative political outlet – to write
essays, perform plays and publish periodicals, preferably with an anti-
communist content.4 This did not preclude the use of harsher methods
and torture.
The prison authorities’ ultimate aim was to bring the prisoners to a
state of self-examination, the outer trappings of which would constitute
a signed confession and a public anticommunist declaration. These
activities, prerequisites for a prisoner’s release, were believed to have a
disintegrative effect on CCP morale. If a prisoner actually internalized
the re-education lessons and continued after his release to identify
openly with the GMD, that would of course represent a victory for the
GMD. But an even greater advantage was the future employment of a
reformed ex-prisoner as a secret agent, infiltrating him back into CCP
organizations for information and disinformation purposes, a policy
referred to as ‘clearing up the case and leaving the root’.5 While the
rate of success remains unknown, the GMD’s real achievement lay in
the cloud of distrust that descended on all released cadres who resumed
party work.
Upon their arrival at the Military Personnel Self-Examination (Intro-
spection) Center of Beiping in Beijing’s Caolan Lane in autumn 1931
the prisoners entered a walled compound. Here, in the prison yard, they
would take their brief daily exercise. At one end of the yard stood an
austere, grey, two-storey building – the prison offices – and behind it a
long cells building: home for the foreseeable future. The cell building
was divided by a corridor into two blocks, north and south, and was
intended to hold some hundred political prisoners. Between the blocks
were two rooms for women prisoners and an ill-equipped sickbay, often
in use since the poor food and miserable sanitary conditions were
conducive to illness: Zhou Zhongying and Wei Wenbo, for instance,
contracted tuberculosis.
The prisoners were watched day and night. The male prisoners all
wore iron fetters weighing up to four kilos. Food was meagre, unvaried
and often unpalatable – grit in the rice, steamed buns barely cooked,
and watery soup. Solitary confinement was meted out to anyone who
disobeyed the prison rules. Any incoming funds from relatives and
friends were deposited with the prison authorities.
At first the GMD invited Catholic priests to try to sway the inmates
from their political convictions, but at the end of 1931 the head of the
Nanjing Military Commission’s political education division arrived in
Beijing to announce a new ‘confess or else’ policy. Prisoners would have
opportunities to confess during the course of three six-month periods,
but at the end of these eighteen months, if they had still not confessed
and repented they would be sentenced to death. A confession court was
set up accordingly. After the first six months three party members agreed
to sign confessional statements, as did a handful of non-members.
Before the second period was up, more than a dozen were ready to sign.
This left the more resilient core of communist prisoners, but they
were subjected to a different kind of pressure when a new regime – the
Third Military Police unit under He Yingqin – took over from Zhang
Xueliang’s Northeastern Army prison authorities in late 1933. Accord-
ing to the new regulations, no matter how long the sentence, repent-
ance meant immediate release; conversely, no repentance meant no
release – ever. The new administration also worked on the prisoners’
families to persuade them to repent. Some prisoners found it hard to
resist family pressure, but were nevertheless permitted to resume party
work after their release if they were able to prove there had been nothing
else untoward in their behaviour.
Prisoners came and went, and by and large those who went did so
because they had signed confessional statements. The exceptions were
those released via amnesty, mostly because of ill health. These included
some twenty prisoners in late 1932 and early 1933, among them Chen
Yuandao, former leader of the Hebei Provincial Committee in Tianjin,
and his wife, Liu Yaxiong. Chen was rearrested the following year and
executed. (Liu lost contact with the party for a few years, until Bo Yibo
was released and assigned her party work.)6 Others released because
of ill health were Feng Jiping, Wei Wenbo, Yang Shiren and Kong
Xiangzhen (who would be instrumental in passing the release instruc-
tions from the North Bureau and Central Committee to the prisoners
in 1936). Some three hundred prisoners made confessions and were
released between 1931 and 1936.7 Many were young students, new to
the cause and not yet sufficiently imbued with either the ideology or
the discipline that helped others resist the temptation to opt for
freedom. Bo Yibo has claimed that among the confessants was Chen
Boda, future secretary to Mao Zedong in Yan’an, party theorist and
Cultural Revolution radical leader.8
Veteran party members soon realized that, to help comrades cope

with the duress of prison life and combat the pressure to confess, it
would be necessary to organize resistance. Secret party branches were
formed, one for the north cell block and one for the south. Each had
its own rotating hierarchy of secretary and committee members.
Electing the personnel was easier said than done, since the divisions
that had fractured the Hebei Party organization prior to the various
arrest debacles of 1931 had not dissipated into thin air at Caolanzi’s
iron gates. They were still rife within the prison walls. Expelled rival
Emergency Committee members, ‘central’ cadres, those who had
been dispatched to the north by the party centre but seemed to have
little understanding of local conditions, local cadres who saw local
needs and little else – all jostled together for ideological and organi-
zational space in the prison’s narrow confines. Just agreeing upon
slogans to give themselves hope proved difficult. Bo had to use all his
powers of persuasion to have the positive slogan ‘We will march out
under the Red Flag’ adopted, as opposed to the negatively orientated
‘We will never surrender’, which sounded like a potential martyr’s
death-wish.9
In 1931 the south block’s first party secretary was Kong Xiangzhen.
Kong had studied in the Soviet Union and had worked in both central
and local spheres, and was therefore deemed an acceptable leader. He
soon fell ill and was succeeded by Yin Jian, a ‘central’ cadre who had
also studied in the Soviet Union and had briefly headed the Hebei or-
ganization after it moved to Beijing in the spring of 1931. When Yin
too fell ill, Bo Yibo became the south party branch secretary, and it was
during his term of office in 1936 that the prison release plan went into
operation. (By this time the north branch was headed by one Liu
Geping, who had entered the prison only in January 1936. Liu was to
gain admiration during the Cultural Revolution for not joining the
sixty-one in confessing.)10 Other party branch activists were Chen
Yuandao, An Ziwen, Liu Lantao, Yang Xianzhen, Liu Zijiu, Hu Xikui, Li
Chuli, Zhang Youqing, Zhao Bo, Dong Tianzhi, Liu Xiwu, Ma Huizhi,
Zhao Lin and Wang De.
The organization made a number of decisions geared to strengthen-
ing the prisoners’ resolve, which depended on the meeting of mind,
body and soul. The communists may have failed to energize the labour
movement in urban China because they had tried to raise political
consciousness among the proletariat while neglecting the latter’s urgent
economic needs, but the imprisoned communists eventually learnt the
lesson. They were now the down-trodden class who had to struggle for
improved living conditions – for small but tangible victories that helped
to free the mind and elevate motivation.
Living conditions
The Party organization in the prison pursued several approaches aimed
at maintaining the prisoners’ physical wellbeing. It encouraged them to
exercise and keep as fit as possible, and it organized them to petition
the prison authorities for specific improvements, such as monthly baths
and haircuts (granted in November 1932). Hunger strikes were found to
be an effective tactic, although as Bo Yibo warned, if used to excess they
could become counterproductive. Yang Xianzhen refers to a strike that
won the prisoners slightly better food, showers and lighter fetters for
sick prisoners, but not the right to read books and newspapers.11 Nor
were they granted access to writing materials. An Ziwen’s biography
describes a successful seven-day hunger strike in late 1934 that ‘forced
the authorities to accept their demands for an improvement in prison
food, to allow them to buy books and subscribe to newspapers, and to
allow them out into the fresh air three times a day’.12
Another tactic was to bring their plight to the notice of public pres-
sure groups and respected national figures. Harold Isaacs, the editor
of China Forum, published a letter from imprisoned Tass reporter Liu
Zunqi. Liu’s description of the squalid and inhumane conditions in
Caolanzi attracted the attention of leading human-rights activists, some
of whom visited the prison.13
The party branch used information from new prisoners and GMD
newspapers on the growing patriotic campaigns for action against Japan
and an end to civil conflict. It organized its own campaign for prison-
ers to be released unconditionally in order to fight the enemy. The cam-
paign was launched as an open activity (that is, a united-front activity
in which all prisoners, not only communists, could participate), but in
effect it was ‘semi-open’ as it was not open to the authorities. The pris-
oner population was divided into about twenty cells, each with its own
representative, and all were represented by General Speaker Li Chuli.
The cells formed a prison committee, which in reality was under the
control of the party branch, to produce anti-Japanese resistance articles
and slogans pressuring for release.
Lastly, the prison wardens themselves were targeted to alleviate the
wretchedness of prison life. Wardens were ranked as the lowest-level sol-
diers and tended to come from poor families. They were ideal subjects
on which to practise propaganda – and if that didn’t work, bribery did.
Sometimes it was a combination of improved self-image and a well-lined
pocket that did the trick. An Ziwen was particularly adept at cultivat-
ing the sympathy of the lowly prison wardens.
Ox, whose real name was Nian Baozheng, was from a poor family
and sometimes showed a sense of right and wrong in expressing
approval of the fighting spirit of the Communist prisoners and con-
tempt for the cowardice of traitors who sold out. . . . After careful dis-
cussion the Party branch decided that An and Bo should make friends
with the guard. The two began to approach Ox . . . giving him the
change when he bought things for them, and one of them gave him
a sweater which he himself could ill spare. With their help, Ox
became politically awakened.14
Through Ox and others like him the prisoners could buy food to
supplement their poor diet and, even more importantly, maintain
links with the outside world, with friends, relatives and party comrades.
As long as the prisoners followed the daily regimen and did not
make trouble for the wardens, the latter, and certainly the more sym-
pathetic among them, did not intervene in what appears to have been
a hive of political and intellectual industry. Some, like Ox, even helped
to obtain communist and other reading matter from the French-
managed international bookshop at the Beijing Hotel. Forbidden news-
papers, journals, books, letters, messages and writing materials began to
find their way into Caolanzi, and the party members began construc-
tively to exploit their unsolicited leave of absence from the outside
world to deepen their political understanding and raise their political
consciousness.
Study
Prisons have always been the universities of revolutionaries. . . .
Although I had had the good fortune to spend four years at univer-
sity before going to prison . . . my true university was jail. . . . I began
to study economics and western philosophy in real earnest.15
The list of publications the Caolanzi prisoners claim to have read

between 1931 and 1936 makes the prescribed reading matter – the
famous twenty-two documents of the 1942–44 Yan’an rectification cam-
paign – look puny. Perhaps that was the intention of Bo, Yang and
others in the 1980s and 1990s, when they described the rich scope of
works they had studied long before their red area counterparts began to
grapple with basic texts – most of which were by the CCP leadership.
The following are just some of the texts studied by the sixty-one: Marx
and Engels’ Preface to The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte, Mani-
festo of the Communist Party and Preface to Outlines of a Critique of Politi-
cal Economy; Engels’ Origin of the Family, Private Property and the State,
Anti-Duhring, The Paris Commune and Ludwig Feuerbach and the End of
Classical German Philosophy; Lenin’s Left-Wing Communism: An Infantile
Disorder and Materialism and Empirico-Criticism; Marx’s Two Tactics of
Social Democracy in the Democratic Revolution and Imperialism: the Highest
Stage of Capitalism, Socialism and War; and Stalin’s Marxism and the
National and Colonial Question, Foundations of Leninism and Problems of
Leninism. They also read Lewis Henry Morgan’s Ancient Society as well as
newspapers and journals in Russian, such as the Bolshevik and the Com-
intern’s International Newsletter, and Communications in English.
Those who had studied in Russia or had studied Russian in China (Yin
Jian, Hu Xikui, Yang Xianzhen, Liao Luyan, Liu Zijiu and Liu Zunqi)
translated laboriously. Yang Xianzhen later described how he exploited
the time he spent in the sickbay tending to the ailing Yin Jian (who
died in 1937, just three months after his release). Together they tried to
translate and edit a few thousand words a day, and Yang then circulated
the material to his comrades in numbered paragraphs. This traffic of
material turned out to be a two-way process. When sitting in a Tianjin
courtyard, some months after his release, and chatting with Wang
Ruofei, recently released from prison in Taiyuan, Yang was pleasantly
surprised to discover a mimeographed copy of his translation of Social-
ism and War.16
In 1940 Peng De and Liao Luyan remarked that all their knowledge
of Marxism had been acquired in Caolanzi. Certainly for the younger
inmates it was an intensive and extensive introduction to communist
theory, and for all the comrades it was a learning experience they could
not have undergone amid the instabilities of underground work. And
not only communism was studied. The prisoners pooled their knowl-
edge of Chinese, Japanese and Western literature, history, philosophy,
culture and economic theory. Li Chuli, for instance, took the oppor-
tunity during physical exercise time to tell stories from Russian and
American literature to his cell mates. Liu Zunqi was another who trans-
lated from English to Chinese.
The branch also managed to circulate its own publication, Red October.
Edited by Hu Xikui and Yang Xianzhen, it consisted of ideological ma-
terial and news items about the party and the Red Army, which one
person would read to a group. The paper included a blank section that
was designed to encourage people to comment in writing. On the blank
pages the prisoners wrote their own articles, which were handed back,
edited into small volumes, recirculated and discussed.
Debate
Debate, while a natural by-product of the study of ideas and the pris-
oners’ awareness of domestic and international current events, had gone
on from the moment the prisoners set foot in Caolanzi. As has been
stressed, the prisoners were not all of the same mould, and one issue
that caused fiery argument was the party’s priorities in the face of
Japan’s increasingly aggressive posture in China. What should come first
at this time, the struggle between nations or domestic class struggle?
Memoirs of the sixty-one indicate that the discussions inside the prison
reflected the so-called ‘two-line debate’ outside the prison.17 However
the extent to which a clear-cut, two-line situation existed in the early
1930s is a moot point – if not an artificial or at least highly exaggerated
construct Mao placed on party history retroactively in the early 1940s
to give an ideological basis to the rivalry between himself and Wang
Ming.18 What is clear is that their environment had not cut off the pris-
oners from discussion of vital issues occupying the CCP. On the con-
trary, Bo Yibo seems to imply that he and some of his comrades were
already advancing pro-united-front arguments in the very early 1930s
before this had become the party’s official line:
Some of us held that the KMT could no longer use its old methods
to continue to rule, and that it would have to use a more cunning
and deceptive way, namely resistance against Japan, to maintain its
rule; that we must expose it because it was even more reactionary.
Others held that while that was a crucial moment for national sur-
vival, a moment of acute national contradiction, we should welcome
the national bourgeoisie and form a united front with them because
the January 28, 1932 resistance against Japan showed the progres-
siveness of the national bourgeoisie in turning to the revolution and
opposing the policy of non-resistance.19
Both opinions were written up and passed on to the Hebei Provincial

Committee.
News from the outside continued to stir debate. The prisoners learnt
of the Central Committee’s slogan for forming an ‘anti-Japanese United
Front’, and they read Dimitrov’s report to the Comintern Seventh
Congress on such a front. However it was Mao Zedong’s report ‘On
Tactics Against Japanese Imperialism’, presented at the December 1935
Wayaobao Conference, that resolved their debate: ‘The report showed

us that at the crucial moment of the revolution, Comrade Mao knew
how to keep to the correct course and adopt far-sighted tactics and strat-
egy in uniting all available forces to strive for new victories.’20 The
united front was no longer something happening in the outside world
while the cadres theorized about it behind bars; the prisoners them-
selves were about to be co-opted into those ‘available forces’ and become
instrumental in the struggle ‘for new victories’.
Meanwhile the party branch’s activities and debates had provoked
suspicion, and in spring 1935 GMD agents, appropriately attired in
fetters and handcuffs, were planted among the prisoners. They reported
the branch’s existence to the Nanjing authorities and the cover of some
dozen cell mates was blown. Bo, An and ten others, now held separately,
were sentenced to death for preventing others from repenting and
confessing. According to An and Yang it was only the dramatic turn of
events in May–June 1935 – when the He–Umezu agreement brought
about the retreat of GMD forces and the Third Military Police Regiment
from Beijing – that prevented the execution of the branch leaders.21
The prison spies left with the military police. The reprieved prisoners
resumed their normal prison life with their comrades in June, but they
were more vulnerable now that their identities had been exposed. At
the end of the year Beijing’s steadily worsening situation vis-à-vis Japan
prompted them to press the authorities yet again for their release, which
would enable them to join the anti-Japanese resistance. Party branch
members offered to submit an ‘ordinary’ or ‘regular’ confession – that
is, not specifically anticommunist but devoid of political content, one
that simply promised they would become teachers, agricultural workers
and so on. They presented a draft statement to the authorities, but when
they were called in to sign it they found it had been tampered with and
converted to an anticommunist statement. They refused to sign.22
A few months later, in the spring of 1936, Liu Shaoqi arrived in
Tianjin to head the party’s North Bureau. With the symbiotic tasks of
resuscitating the party’s faded presence in the white area and activating
the party’s united-front policy, Liu had no intention of overlooking an
obvious source of manpower: ready-made crews of several hundred
communist cadres held and to an extent nurtured in the GMD refor-
matories. Their greater vulnerability in the face of the alarmingly
increased presence of Japanese troops in the area reinforced Liu’s almost
immediate decision to orchestrate their release. His order, authorized by
the Central Committee, to the prisoners to sign the prison authorities’
anticommunist statements sparked a new debate among the prisoners.
To what extent were they prepared to compromise their reputations as

loyal communists in order to participate in and contribute their skills
to the new policy and the party’s needs in northern China?
Arranging the release

Ke Qingshi (secretary of the Front Committee of the Hebei Provincial
Committee and director of the Front Committee’s Organization Depart-
ment) furnished Liu Shaoqi with information on the imprisoned cadres,
their prison terms and the possibility of negotiating their early release.23
On behalf of the North Bureau, Nan Hanchen was delegated to organ-
ize negotiations with General Song Zheyuan (the leading nationalist
figure in Beijing) and Yan Wenhai, who headed the Military Legal
Department and whose godson was the prison director.24 The intention
was to persuade them to authorize an unconditional release. This was
not granted. Instead the prisoners were informed that if they went
through a ‘symbolic’ procedure they might be released fairly rapidly.
This symbolic procedure would consist of three stages: (1) the pris-
oners would sign individual confession and renouncement forms; (2)
they would publish an anticommunist announcement in nationalist
newspapers; and (3) they would participate in a ‘new leaf’ repentance
ceremony led by the prison director prior to receiving their release
papers.
Post-Cultural Revolution sources claim that at that point, before any
directive was issued to the prisoners, Liu contacted Zhang Wentian,
whose approval was issued on behalf of the Central Committee. Bo Yibo
later stated unequivocally that following the communication from Liu
Shaoqi and Ke Qingshi, ‘The Party center, Chairman Mao and Comrade
Zhang Wentian ratified their proposal.’25 The following is the reported
content of Liu’s communication to Zhang:
If a group of cadres now in prison in Peking can be released, this

may solve the problem of the shortage of cadres in the White
areas. Recently from the prisons came the news that after the
‘He–Umezu Agreement’ the prison administration was prepared to
leave Peking and wanted to dispose of this group of prisoners at an
early date. It was said that the prisoners could be released if only they
went through a simple procedure of indicating their stand against
communism.26
The first notification the prisoners received was the North Bureau’s first
directive, which was not accompanied by written authorization from
the Central Committee. Ke Qingshi had passed the instruction to Pro-

fessor Xu Bing at the China University. Xu, who was highly active in
united-front work, particularly in the upper echelons of Beijing society,
contacted former Caolanzi inmate Kong Xiangzhen (released because of
ill health in 1932) and told him of the North Bureau and Central Com-
mittee plan. Kong accordingly wrote to Yin Jian, ‘We launched our work
in various areas but we don’t have enough people to implement the
work. We need people. The North Bureau orders you to carry out the
so-called leaving prison formalities (fingerprinting prepared statements
for newspaper publication)’.27 According to Red Guard sources Kong,
quoting the North Bureau leader, also wrote:
Although making an announcement in the paper cannot prevent

unfavourable influence, it will preserve the remnants of our cadres
in the KMT jails and preserve revolutionary power. This is justified.
This is a correct principle in unifying both legal and illegal struggles.
So long as the revolution can be waged well, it will be possible for
us to make up a loss in reputation.28
The letter was smuggled by Ox, the sympathetic warder, into the prison,
where it caused much surprise. There was also some doubt about the
authenticity of its content. Yin Jian, Bo Yibo and Liu Lantao met to
discuss it, and concluded that since the party centre could not possibly
have made such a decision they would ignore the directive.
There is uncertainty, even among sympathetic post-Cultural Revolu-
tion sources, about how much time passed before the second commu-
nication was received. Either a fortnight or a couple of months had
elapsed without any response from the prisoners when Kong Xiangzhen
sent a second letter, explaining to the prisoners that, in case they had
not realized it, ‘Hu Fu’, the author of the first directive, was none other
than Liu Shaoqi, the party’s chosen representative in the white areas
and the head of the North Bureau. Kong repeated the original instruc-
tion but this time he also ‘copied by hand the Central Committee’s
approval’.29 There was still no response from the prisoners.
After receiving this letter, we did not reply straight away. Instead, we
tried through the secret communication channel to verify whether
this order had been approved by the Central Committee. Just then,
the North Bureau sent us a third letter definitely stating that the
resolution in question had been approved by the Central Commit-
tee. In addition, we corroborated the matter with various sources.
Only then did we follow this instruction of the Central Committee

and perform the ‘release formalities’.30
The prisoners had suspected that this was a GMD hoax, or perhaps
a well-meant but ill-conceived plan on the part of a local party organi-
zation or the North Bureau itself. They were incredulous at the notion
of the party leadership requesting them to follow the GMD’s shameful
release procedures. Liu Shaoqi, on his own initiative or under the
order of the Central Committee, may have preferred not to mention the
Central Committee’s role – for security reasons and to avoid setting
precedents. Bo Yibo’s version simply underscores the prisoners’ unwill-
ingness to follow the release procedures until they were absolutely con-
vinced of the Central Committee’s approval. One Cultural Revolution
source refers to a ‘three-point request’ from the prisoners, which Liu
passed on to the Central Committee. The request presumably pressed
for a guarantee that there would be no repercussions for them.31 Indeed
Liu’s final order to the prisoners could not have made the following
three points more clearly: ‘The party now promises you it is completely
responsible for the decision. Politically you will not be regarded as
traitors. Organizationally you will not be discriminated against.’32
All versions agree on the content of this ultimate and unequivocal
order from Liu to the prisoners. They had been correct in the past to
‘have persevered for years in the struggle against the “introspection
policy” ’ and not to have signed anticommunist statements, but now
there was a new political situation. The party was not merely per-
mitting them to go through these formalities, it was ordering them to
do so.
You were totally correct not to perform the ‘release formalities’ as

demanded by the enemy; however, if now you still refuse to carry
out the Party’s resolution by rejecting the formalities as you did in
the past, it means that you will commit an unpardonable mistake.
You are now required to implement this resolution promptly.33
The majority were ready to comply on the basis of the party’s manifesto
principle that the individual must obey the party organization. Their
adherence to this principle was to become the motif of their defence
throughout the Cultural Revolution.
Final but futile attempts were made to persuade Liu Geping and Zhang
Liangyun, who remained adamantly opposed.34 Bo Yibo dispatched Hu
Xikui and three others to the northern ward in the hope of softening
Liu and Zhang’s stand, informing them that:
the order was a decision of the organization and a military order,

which could only be carried out and could not be discussed, and that
if they did not get themselves out of prison, they would be disobey-
ing the organization’s orders and would be expelled from the Party.35
His words fell on deaf ears. Perhaps Liu Geping could afford this bravado
since he had been imprisoned in Caolanzi only a few months previ-
ously. (He went on to serve his full term of imprisonment and was not
released until 1944.)36 During the seven months until March 1937 the
communist cadres were released in batches of nine as each duly fol-
lowed the prescribed procedure, publishing anticommunist statements
in the Huabei ribao [North China Daily] and Yishi bao [Social Welfare
Tribune]. When the party branch was deciding who would be in the
first batch, Liu Xiwu begged not to be included among them. Still scep-
tical of the instruction’s authenticity, he asked that the first releasees,
once they were out, send him a message (in the form of a chicken) to
indicate that the party centre was really behind the plan. Liu duly
received his fowl proof and he too went through the release procedure.37
The release procedure

The following information is drawn largely from Red Guard accounts,
based on their interrogation of ex-prisoners such as Liu Shenzhi and Liu
Xiwu.38 The post-1978 accounts are far more reticent about the release
and prefer to expatiate on the sixty-one’s brave struggle while in prison.
This omission may constitute reluctant acknowledgment that the Red
Guard descriptions are basically correct.
Bo Yibo and Yang Xianzhen were the first to participate in the
required procedure. Since Bo headed the prison’s party branch, it is
feasible that he felt it incumbent upon himself to be first in this uncom-
fortable process. Confession forms had to be collected from the prison
authorities, and then signed and fingerprinted by the prisoners. The
confession stated that ‘the applicant, after his education in the Insti-
tution for Rehabilitation of Criminals, had recognized his past mistakes,
repented, and turned over a new leaf, and that in future he would
not oppose the government but would resolutely fight communism
under the government’s leadership’.39 This was similar in gist to the
press statement the prisoners were required to issue, which began by
saying that:
the undersigned have been arrested and detained at the Military

Penitentiary Branch in Peiping to undergo self-repentance and
renewal because of our ideological ignorance, weak observation, asso-
ciation with bad friends, and negligence in speech and conduct. At
this moment of national crisis, all Chinese youths must follow a
definite principle to fight for the interests of the fatherland.40
The statement concluded with the anticommunist resolutions quoted

at the start of this chapter. The first such announcement appeared in
the Huabei ribao on 31 August 1936. It was signed, under their pseudo-
nyms, by An Ziwen, Yang Xianzhen, Dong Tianzhi, Ma Huizhi, Xu
Zirong, Liu Lantao, Zhou Zhongying, Xian Weixun and Bo Yibo.41
The prisoners then took part in a ceremony in the prison courtyard
under the Guomindang flag. The director exhorted them to ‘revert to
good deeds’, and the group answered in unison that their reform was
sincere; the finale was a group photograph. Prisoners were required to
have present at the ceremony guarantors who would vouch for the sin-
cerity of their repentance and vows for the future. Bo Yibo had two guar-
antors, both supplied by General Yan Xishan, who controlled Shanxi
province, which indicates that Bo’s future cooperation with Yan had
already been negotiated with the North Bureau.42
The final stage of the procedure involved the collection of individual
release cards or certificates, upon which was printed ‘Reforming errors
and reverting to good deeds; making self-examination and a new start’.43
The cards were then fingerprinted and mimeographed. Fingerprints and
photographs are anathema to any self-respecting underground worker
and the Red Guard sources do not fail to point this out, but presumably
the prisoners’ photographs and fingerprints were anyway in the police
archives.
This episode set a precedent for the similar release of several hundred
cadres imprisoned in the north and north-east.44 One of the first duties
imposed on some of the released was to carry letters of instruction from
the North Bureau to other reformatories. Bo Yibo, for instance, passed
on the instructions to the Shanxi GMD Penitentiary and the Taiyuan
Nationalist Army Prison, effecting the release of Wang Ruofei, Qiao
Mingfu, Gong Zirong, Yang Xiufeng and at least a hundred others before
the outbreak of the Sino-Japanese war in July 1937.45
Once out of prison, many cadres assumed new identities and pseudo-
nyms. Their subsequent autobiographical accounts in their individ-
ual party personnel dossiers did not provide the details of the release
described above. The dossier statements were limited to more innocu-
ous wording, such as ‘I got out of prison thanks to efforts by the or-
ganization to save me’ or ‘In accordance with a directive from the
Centre and the spirit of the 1 August declaration, I wrote a simple state-
ment.’ Even after their 1978 rehabilitation, cadres continued to refer
with discreet brevity to the release: ‘when the Party rescued me from
prison’ or ‘I was rescued from prison by the Party’.46 This type of
euphemistic terminology was also used in eulogies for the posthu-
mously rehabilitated: ‘In October 1936, Comrade Hu Xikui and his
comrades-in-arms were successfully rescued from prison through the
efforts of the party organization’, and in the eulogy for Xu Bing, ‘the
Party Central Committee decided to rescue the large numbers of expe-
rienced cadres from the prisons in Beiping’.47
The roles of Liu Shaoqi and Zhang Wentian
Liu Shaoqi
In his third confession during the Cultural Revolution, Liu Shaoqi
claimed that Zhang Wentian, on behalf of the Central Committee, had
instructed that the ‘matter should be handled by Comrade Ke
Qingshi’.48 Liu further claimed that he had not known then ‘what
specific formalities they went through’, nor had he found out until the
Cultural Revolution that they had published anticommunist notices in
the Guomindang press.49
Although he may not have wanted to be told too precisely, it is
unlikely that he was unaware of what the release formalities entailed.
However as head of the North Bureau Liu was ultimately responsible,
with or without prior knowledge of the intricacies of the arrangements
made by his subordinates, as even he was prepared to admit: ‘I accept
a certain amount of responsibility in this matter.’50
Despite Liu’s protestations of ignorance, like any veteran Chinese
communist he surely had more than an inkling of what was entailed.
If it had not been controversial there would have been no argument
among the prisoners, many of whom had been incarcerated together
for five years. Between 1931 and 1936 they had had many opportu-
nities, initiated by the prison authorities, to recant, but had exploited
none of these opportunities. Only authorization from the highest level
of the party’s leadership convinced them to comply with the prison
authorities’ release procedures.
My assumption is that Liu was extremely reluctant to involve the
party centre in the matter. He must have been aware that, even if local
party organizations sometimes authorized (prior to or retroactively) the

false recantation of a cadre who was well known and trusted, a request
to the party’s central leadership for prior approval of an entire group’s
recantation was highly unusual, if not unprecedented. This was hardly
a position the centre would relish, nor a decision it would want to pub-
licize. Furthermore Liu risked a negative response, which would have
jeopardized this opportunity to turn round the abysmal cadre situation
in northern China and breathe new life into white area work. There-
fore even if he did have more information at his disposal, it would
be quite feasible to phrase the request to Zhang Wentian in some-
what vague generalities regarding the proposed release, which would
involve ‘certain formalities’,51 or ‘a simple procedure of indicating
their stand against communism’.52 (Zhang Wentian’s widow, Liu Ying,
claimed that Zhang was given to understand that the ‘simple procedure’
required an ordinary statement promising non-antigovernment activ-
ity, rather than a specifically anticommunist statement.53 But this is
illogical, for if the statement had been so innocent and uncontentious
there would have been no need for Liu Shaoqi to turn to the party centre
for its authorization.)
One of the Cultural Revolution criticisms levelled at Liu Shaoqi with
regard to his role in the release of the sixty-one was that the GMD’s
relatively weak position in Beiping meant that he could have negoti-
ated less ignominious terms:
The upsurge in the resistance against Japan created extremely

favourable conditions for the struggle in the prisons in the White
areas. At the same time, after the ‘He–Umezu Agreement’ Song
Zheyuan took over Beijing. Song at the time was not on speaking
terms with Chiang Kai-shek. If such a favourable situation were
grasped and the struggle inside the prison were closely coordinated
with that outside it would be entirely possible to win support from
the masses and force the enemy to release the political prisoners
unconditionally. However, as a chief responsible member of the
Northern Bureau at the time, Liu Shaoqi did not do so. Instead he
adopted the method of shameless surrender.54
Red Guard sources imply that the authorities were looking for a way to
get the prisoners off their hands and Liu would have simply been doing
them a favour. But this ignores certain facts. Song Zheyuan was well
aware that the communists were desperate to gain this valuable, scarce
resource in northern China – experienced, ‘tempered’ cadres at a time

when tens of thousands of young people were clamouring for effective
leadership against the Japanese. He could have simply left them to await
their fate at the hands of the Japanese. At least through negotiation he
might gain the immediate face-saving measure of the prisoners’ public
renunciation of communism, which would have more than face-saving
potential if it also damaged the party’s reputation. At the same time
Song would bolster his own dubious image of having some effective
authority in Beijing.
Another aspect to be considered is Liu’s cultivation of relations with
Song as part of the new united-front policy. From the moment Liu took
over the North Bureau he had clearly expressed his plans to effect the
CCP’s united-front policy of forming ‘temporary alliances with those
persons in the enemy camp who may co-operate with us or who are not
yet our chief enemy, so as to weaken the enemy as a whole and destroy
his alliance against us’.55 Song, like Yan Xishan, Zhang Xueliang and
others, was an appropriate target for such a temporary alliance. The act
of negotiating the prisoners’ release achieved the objectives of increas-
ing the number of communist cadre personnel while simultaneously
functioning as a confidence-building measure to convince nationalist
forces, dismayed with Chiang Kai-shek, that the communists were
serious about pursuing a united front with them.
The GMD warlord generals were also keen to enlist the organizational
skills of the communist cadres to channell the growing national fervour
for anti-Japanese resistance activities (and possibly to erode Chiang Kai-
shek’s authority) – provided it was done without open recruitment to
the communist cause. This is borne out by Yan Xishan’s speedy partici-
pation regarding Bo Yibo in the Caolanzi reformatory, and the subse-
quent release of prisoners from reformatories under his jurisdiction.
Finally, with regard to Liu’s role in the affair it should be noted that
the unconditional release of political prisoners was repeatedly proposed
by the communists in the initially secret, but later open, united-front
negotiations with the nationalists. Since this point was again raised by
the communists in February 1937 in their telegram to the GMD Central
Executive Committee plenary session, we can deduce that Chiang Kai-
shek had still not acceded to the demand.56 Whether all the prisoners
were eventually released unconditionally is a moot point. If they were the
Red Guards would have mentioned this to highlight what they consid-
ered to be Liu’s poor, premature, if not traitorous judgement. Perhaps
they did not wish to draw attention to Zhou Enlai’s role as chief nego-
tiator with the enemy.57
Zhang Wentian
Since February 1935, following the Zunyi conference, Zhang had held
the post of Party general secretary. It was his duty to handle ‘day-to-
day’ matters, to preside over meetings of the Secretariat and Politburo
and put his signature to the documents issued from such meetings. Liu
Shaoqi’s request was a particularly delicate, controversial and possibly
unprecedented issue. So, thirty years on, during the Cultural Revolu-
tion, when Zhang said that he had not brought Liu’s request before the
Central Committee he was probably telling the truth, for this was a large
and relatively public forum in which to discuss a sensitive issue
demanding the utmost secrecy.
On the other hand it is highly unlikely that Zhang would have taken
‘a decision of this magnitude’ completely alone and without consulting
the Central Secretariat, of which Mao Zedong was a member.58 Hu Hua’s
biography of An Ziwen unambiguously says that the release was dis-
cussed by the Secretariat.59 This top-level body, which also constituted
the Politburo Standing Committee, was a far smaller forum than the
Central Committee, and therefore more suitable for addressing the
matter. In fact one glance at the Secretariat’s composition might lead
one to conclude that the decision-making process was an extremely inti-
mate affair. Mao Zedong, Zhou Enlai, Qin Bangxian (Bo Gu) and Xiang
Ying were Zhang’s Secretariat colleagues; and Xiang Ying, then engaged
in Jiangxi–Fujian guerrilla operations, was not available for consulta-
tion. (As for the Politburo itself, the majority of its members were not
even in Bao’an between April and August 1936, when this particular
decision was made.) Politburo Standing Committee member Qin
Bangxian was there, and bearing in mind Zhang Wentian’s and Qin
Bangxian’s shared background – as fellow students in Moscow and their
experience with white area work – it would seem that Qin was a natural
partner for consultation. Ascertaining whether Zhou Enlai was present
at the time is not so easy. He was heavily involved in negotiations with
Zhang Xueliang in Yan’an in April, and the secret negotiations with
GMD representatives may have involved his direct participation, trav-
elling to Shanghai and Nanjing between May and August. In June 1936,
when Edgar Snow arrived at the revolutionary base, Zhou was stationed
some three days’ journey by horse from Bao’an and was in commu-
nication with the Bao’an headquarters by radio or messenger.60 So he
was accessible at various times during this period.
If Zhang conferred with anybody, Zhou would have been the most
logical choice, not only because of his authority in the party and exper-
tise in white area work, but also because of his high-profile role in engi-
neering the party’s new united-front policy, and his efforts to negotiate
the release of political prisoners. This suggests that he would naturally
have been involved in a decision on such a closely related matter as
freeing cadres to build up the white area communist presence and to
work with nationalists whose top priority was resistance to Japan. On
the other hand Zhou may have been hesitant about authorizing the
false confessions, since this could undermine his attempts to have the
prisoners released unconditionally.
Last but certainly not least in the Secretariat was Mao Zedong. In 1936
Mao’s world revolved around the consolidation of his leadership, the
revolutionary base, the strategy and tactics of the various red armies,
his acrimonious conflict with Zhang Guotao, rivalry with Wang Ming,
relations with the Comintern and overall united-front policy making.61
He had also become deeply engaged in the formulation of the ‘Mao
Zedong Thought’. The nitty-gritty of white area affairs was far from his
top priority. But if, as is widely held, Zhang Wentian had moved closer
to Mao since the Zunyi conference, it makes sense that simply as a trust-
building measure he would have consulted Mao, and not taken any
potentially alienating, maverick action.
In his day-to-day work Comrade Wentian had great esteem for Chair-
man Mao. After the Zunyi conference and for some time after arriv-
ing in Northern Sha’anxi, he always consulted with Chairman Mao
over the agenda or had Chairman Mao outline the questions to be
discussed prior to every meeting of the Secretariat or the Political
Bureau, which he presided over. Some documents were drafted by
him and then revised by Chairman Mao before they were submitted
to the meeting for discussion and approval.62
I can only deduce that Zhang Wentian did confer with his available
‘inner cabinet’ colleagues, though the information he had been given,
and in turn passed on to them, may have been severely limited. This
does not mean that Zhang and his colleagues were any less familiar
than Liu Shaoqi with the GMD’s conditional demands for prisoner
release. But not having all the excruciatingly unpalatable details of the
release procedures spelt out and placed on official record made the
decision-making process much easier. Zhang’s colleagues would not
have to dwell upon the negative aspect of the ethical dilemma. Instead
they could focus on its positive motive: the vital organizational needs
of building up the party in the white areas and increasing the
manpower that would eventually flock to Yan’an. Everyone concerned,

therefore, from Liu to Zhang and Zhang to his party centre colleagues,
preferred a minimum of communicated information, for it enabled
them to act on the basis of ‘need to know’ or, as Lyman Van Slyke sug-
gests, ‘plausible deniability’.63
The assumption that the party centre received limited information is
reinforced by the account by Liu’s widow, Wang Guangmei, of how
Zhou Enlai contacted Liu Shaoqi in late November 1966 about the 1936
release and how ‘Liu Shaoqi recounted in detail the points which
Comrade Zhou Enlai did not know’. The implication is that Zhou cer-
tainly did know some details in 1936.64 Poor communications over long,
arduous distances and brief communications vital to security also com-
bined to minimize and justify the relay of limited information between
the white areas and the liberated soviet area. As Mao told Bo in their
first ever conversation in Yan’an in 1943: ‘In the past I did not have a
good understanding of your activities. You were in the white area and
we were in the soviet area. The passage of information was blocked by
the Guomindang.’65
In some respects this situation was quite convenient for the red area
leadership in terms of its relationship with white area activities. It could
dictate broad lines of policy without directly participating in or appear-
ing to condone specific and dubious methods of policy application. And
later it could protest blissful ignorance of such activities. It would also
be able to deny any collective responsibility for this particular dilemma,
because authorization was issued in the name of one person only, Zhang
Wentian. Again owing to the prevailing security needs, it was not
uncommon for the leadership to convey a decision in a non-formal
format, in this case a personal telegram from Zhang (who was after all
the party’s leading official).66
As we shall see, because of pressure and criticism from white area party
personnel, particularly Liu Shaoqi in the late 1930s, attempts were made
to secure for the darker side of white area tactics the explicit sanction,
if not the blessing, of the party centre. The devastating effects of the
Japanese occupation on communist activities in northern rural areas in
the early 1940s reinforced these efforts. But any such sanction remained
in ‘internal’ party documents and could not compete with the public
rhetoric, which intoned that one should die rather than display disloy-
alty of any sort to the party. Meanwhile almost all of the Caolanzi group
who had put their reputations but not their lives on the line emerged
from prison and gave active credence to the pragmatic logic that had
convinced the party centre to back the release plan.
The authorization for the captured Communists to obtain release

from the Kuomintang prison through pretended surrender and
renewals was in fact the wisest move the CCP had ever taken. . . . The
released Communists, as proved by later events, were able to
strengthen Communist united front operations in the war zones.
Thus they paved the way for the subsequent wartime Communist
expansion and the postwar Communist rebellion and seizure of the
whole of mainland China.67
Into the great wide open: Shanxi 1936–4368
Under the instruction of the North Bureau at least a third of the released
Caolanzi cadres made their way to Shanxi, where Yan Xishan had
decided that an alliance with the communists was his best option in
the face of the looming Japanese threat on the one hand, and Chiang
Kai-shek’s interest in exercising his own authority over Shanxi on the
other. Despite the brutal revenge that Yan had recently wrought on
those he had perceived as communist sympathizers after Liu Zhidan
and Xu Haidong’s brief but impressive victory in February 1936, by the
early summer he was clearly ready to work with his erstwhile enemy.69
His approach dovetailed neatly with the current CCP united-front
policy.
The representatives of Yan who had acted as guarantors for Bo Yibo’s
release from Caolanzi had taken an invitation from Yan to fellow Shanxi
native Bo to ‘defend Shanxi together’. Bo later referred to his misgiv-
ings about the idea of cooperating with this warlord governor:
When I got out of prison in late August 1936, a representative of Yan

Xishan came to see me. He brought along with him a cable message
from Yan, inviting me to return to Shanxi to ‘participate in the work
of safeguarding Shanxi’. In the past I was always doing underground
work for the party and had never done any high-level united front
work. Nor was I willing to have anything to do with Yan Xishan.
Therefore I politely declined to accept Yan’s offer.70
Bo’s reluctance reflected a situation that Liu Shaoqi had been finding
problematic since his arrival in Tianjin. Veteran cadres had still to shake
off the lingering influences of leftist attitudes and ‘closed-doorism’.
They were slow to adapt to the new united-front policies and to differ-
entiate between open and secret work methods, despite Liu’s continued
coaxing and coaching.71 Professor Xu Bing worked hard on behalf of Liu

Shaoqi to persuade Bo.
The next day, Comrade Xu Bing told me: ‘Comrade Hu Fu [Liu

Shaoqi] has said that this is a rare opportunity and you must go. . . .
Most probably you believe that we should not cooperate with Yan
Xishan to resist Japan, that we should only do mass work at the basic
level and that we should not carry out work at the high level. This
shows you do not understand the situation well enough . . . Japan
seeks to destroy China. Chiang Kai-shek continues to implement the
policy of non-resistance, while Yan Xishan is still vacillating. The
Party’s present task is to carry out mass work well at the basic level,
and at the same time do a good job at the high-level united front.
Now Yan Xishan asks you to go. This is an excellent opportunity,
because he is approaching you and asking you to go. You will lose
this good chance, if you refuse to go.’72
It was over a month before Bo reported back to the North Bureau that
he was prepared to undertake this mission. Almost six decades later he
still felt it necessary to remind the public that Mao had been as ardent
a proponent of the united-front policy as Liu, and that he, Bo, had been
following Mao’s bidding, as dispatched to the North Bureau: ‘with
regard to the leading army and government persons in the six North
China provinces and cities, “we should make contacts as soon as the
opportunity arises. We must bear in mind that the united front attaches
priority to the armies of all actions.” ’73
Accompanied by Yang Xianzhen, Dong Tianzhi, Han Jun and Zhou
Zhongying, Bo returned to Taiyuan. Gradually they were joined by
others of the sixty-one: Liu Youguang, Hou Zhenya, Liao Luyan, Wang
Hefeng, Fu Yutian, Li Liguo, Tang Fanglei, Zhao Lin and Caolanzi ex-
prisoners, including Kong Xiangzhen, Feng Jiping and Liu Yaxiong.74
Before the first group’s departure for Taiyuan, Xu Bing passed on a
number of guidelines and instructions from Liu Shaoqi. Under no cir-
cumstances were they to ‘engage in “left” adventurism and “phrase-
mongering” ’. Bo described the situation as follows:
I arrived in Taiyuan in the capacity of an anti-Japanese activist,

reached an agreement with Yan Xishan, and established a special
form of united front. Proceeding from Shanxi’s reality, we defied
being labelled an ‘official organization’, refrained from raising any
slogan that was unacceptable to Yan Xishan and took over and reor-
ganized the ‘Shanxi Alliance for Sacrifice and National Salvation’

chaired by Yan Xishan.75
A party work committee to oversee united-front work was to be set up

in Shanxi under the direct leadership of the North Bureau; two of the
sixty-one, Zhang Youqing and Xu Zirong, were to head a related com-
mittee, the Shanxi Workers’ Committee. Open and secret work were to
be kept completely separate.
Thus began a two-year period of cooperation with Yan Xishan within
the open/legal front of Yan’s civil administration – within the ‘Sacrifice
League’ established in September 1936 and the armed ‘Dare-to-Die’
columns created in August 1937, known later as Yan Xishan’s New
Army.
We expanded the Ximenghui [Sacrifice League] organizations to

embrace factories (including the munitions factory), schools (includ-
ing military academies) and rural areas . . . we set up a number of
training units under the name of the ‘Shanxi Military and Adminis-
trative Training Committee’. . . . We recruited tens of thousands of
progressive youths in Shanxi and other provinces for training in
these units. These training units virtually became our party’s military
and administrative cadres’ schools.76
In July 1937, following the Japanese occupation of Beijing, the North

Bureau transferred its headquarters to Taiyuan, but when in November
the Japanese occupied Taiyuan too, it moved again, this time to Linfen
in south-west Shanxi, along with Yan Xishan’s own headquarters. On
both occasions An Ziwen (who since his release had been in Beijing,
where he headed the Organization Department of the party’s Munici-
pal Committee, organizing and recruiting students and rescuing other
prison cadres) was instrumental in making the necessary arrangements
to establish the North Bureau’s new headquarters.
Also part of the North Bureau presence in Beijing and Taiyuan were
Caolanzi sixty-one releasees Ma Huizhi, Wang De, Liu Shenzhi and Li
Chuli. After their release they had initially been engaged in united-front
and undercover work with National Salvation activists, but following
the occupation of Beijing and Taiyuan, Ma had become secretary of the
Hebei Provincial Party Committee. Two others, Liu Zhao and Zhu
Zemin, who had remained in Beijing after their release, had joined up
with Song Zheyuan’s troops, following the North Bureau’s instruction
that procommunist students (and presumably communist underground
workers) should now be encouraged to support and enlist in the 29th

Corps.77
Yan Xishan had turned over many of the civil administration posts
to his Sacrifice League colleagues, in full knowledge of the communist
leanings and even membership of a good many of them. Thus the com-
munists were in control of five of the seven administrative districts. Bo
Yibo, for instance, directed the Third Administrative District in south-
east Shanxi, where his Dare-to-Die column operated. Bo was in charge
of 13 counties, including Qinxian, where the Third District offices were
situated.78 The special commissioners of the Shanxi government’s First,
Fifth and Sixth Administrative Districts were also communists, as were
the leaders of at least 60 of the 105 Shanxi counties and the magistrates
of 77 counties. Again, Liu’s comments on the difficulty of adapting to
the new united-front policy are verified in An Ziwen’s biography. Those
appointed by An and Bo to work under Yan Xishan’s auspices initially
viewed their new tasks with a lack of enthusiasm: ‘they believed these
positions to be symbolic of reactionary power but they finally agreed
because of An Ziwen’s thoroughgoing and painstaking ideological
work’.79
Like Bo, the communist district administrators were concurrently
commanders of Dare-to-Die columns, comprising some 40 000–50 000
armed militia troops; also like Bo, the commanders had recently been
released from Chiang Kai-shek’s prisons.80 They spread out across the
Shanxi countryside: ‘As soon as they arrived at their new destina-
tions, they assumed command over specific geographic areas, each
comprising several counties.’81 Eventually Liu Shaoqi was able to sum
up united-front work in Shanxi most positively: ‘By helping Yan
Xishan to resist Japan, we persisted in the war of resistance in Shanxi,
pushed the revolution in the province forward and also advanced
ourselves.’82
The new civilian and militia presence in south-east Shanxi facilitated
the arrival of the 129th Division of the 8th Route Army (8RA), led by
Liu Bocheng and Deng Xiaoping. By the spring of 1938 they had estab-
lished the Taiyue–Taihang military base, an integral feature of what soon
became the Shanxi–Hebei–Henan–Shandong or Jin–Ji–Lu–Yu ( JJLY)
border region. Among those of the sixty-one who had accompanied Bo
to Shanxi and were involved in the civil and military organizations were
Yang Xianzhen and Liu Youguang, a company political instructor and
political commissar of one of the Dare-to Die columns. Once the 8RA’s
presence was established, Liu Youguang was appointed director of one
of its Political Department subcommands within the Taiyue Military
Area Command and 13th Brigade political commissar. Liao Luyan, Zhou
Zhongying and Wang Hefeng were also responsible for political work
with the forces.
In 1940 Yang Xianzhen was transferred to the North Bureau Secre-
tariat, where he worked in administration and cadre training. He was
also involved in the ‘building-up of the bureau’s Party school’, where it
was his responsibility ‘to create teaching material to connect theory
with reality’.83 Yang’s Party School associations were to continue well
into the mid 1960s.
A confluent development in the Taiyue region was the initiation of
a party organization. Liu Shaoqi had instructed An Ziwen in late 1937
to join Bo in Qinxian, and in early 1938 to set up a party presence in
the Taiyue mountain area. North Bureau Organization Department
director Peng Zhen (imprisoned by the GMD in Tianjin between 1929
and 1935) accompanied An and assisted him in creating the new
organization before moving on in December to the Shanxi–Chahar–
Hebei or Jin–Cha–Ji (JCJ) area. An Ziwen served on the JJL party com-
mittee and the following year became secretary of the Taiyue Special
Zone and secretary of its working committee, as well as directing its
united-front operations. His operational field covered twelve counties,
based mainly in Qinxian, Qinyuan, Andan and Fushan. The Taiyue
Party Committee headquarters moved to Qinyuan after Japanese troops
occupied Qinxian in the summer of 1939. In the counties of Hebei,
Shandong and Henan, where communist organizations functioned,
party membership grew so rapidly during 1938 and early 1939 – from
mere hundreds to tens of thousands – that the Central Committee Polit-
buro felt it necessary to slow down recruitment and tighten up the
screening of all cadres.
A further strengthening of communist power in Shanxi was evident
in early 1940. Yan Xishan, alarmed at the increasing communist control
of areas within his province, allowed his ‘old army’ to attack the ‘new’
in December 1939. The result was significant: the defection of some
30 000 of Yan Xishan’s New Army troops to the three divisions of the
Red Army’s 8RA. Political Commissar Han Jun (of the sixty-one) led his
2nd Dare-to-Die column to join the 8RA’s 115th Division. Units of other
columns joined under commander-in-chief Bo Yibo. Han Jun became
commander of the 1st Army and Niu Yinguan (an ex-Beijing student
recruited by An Ziwen in 1937) of the 2nd Army. Another participant
in the mutiny, an ex-prison cadre from the Shanxi GMD Penitentiary,
Liu Taifeng, became a council member of the JJLY regional government
and director of its Department of Construction. The JJLY border region
government was established in July 1941 with Professor Yang Xiufeng

as chairman and Bo as vice-chairman. In accordance with the CCP’s
suggested ‘three-thirds’ formula, 46 of the 134 elected assembly
members were CCP cadres.84
During the last few years of the Sino-Japanese War, Bo Yibo was divi-
sion commander in the JJLY military region and political commissar of
the Taiyue military subdistrict, the western sector of the JJLY military
region; he then became deputy political commissar of the JJLY military
region. Continuing as JJLY vice-chairman he was also responsible for
its civil affairs and president of its general assembly. Another of the
sixty-one, ‘one of the more important communists in the Hebei–
Shandong–Henan area during and after the Sino-Japanese War, was
Zhang Xi.85 Zhang was secretary of the JJLY Special Party Committee
and of the District Party Committees of Hebei–Henan and Tainan, and,
like Liu Zijiu in west Henan, he was also political commissar of the
military district.
I have dwelt on the Shanxi contingent of the sixty-one, but I
should point out that many cadres released from other prisons were
equally active in Shanxi,86 and that others of the sixty-one were equally
active in other base areas: Hu Xikui, Liu Lantao and Li Chuli in east
Hebei, with Liu Lantao and Hu Xikui later playing roles in the JCJ
Beiyue district; Zhao Bo, He Zhiping, Zhao Mingxin and Zhu Zemin
in Shandong; and Liu Zijiu, Wang Qimei, Li Jukui, Wang Xinbo and
Zhang Manping in Henan. Like their sixty-one colleagues in Shanxi, and
their white area colleagues in general, who all participated in border
region government and party activities, acquired a tremendous range of
skills in the organizational and financial spheres of civil administration,
particularly in the implementation of rural policies involving land
taxation and rent reduction.87 They also honed their skills in recruiting
party members, organizing guerrilla units and militias and generally
swaying rural support in northern China in the communist movement’s
favour.
At the same time, however, their united-front work, their open or
secret work initiated and authorized by the party centre, added layer
upon layer to the complex and often suspect image of the white area
cadre. There were few illusions about the nature of white area work,
both open and secret, and there was every understanding that it had to
be done. In the late 1930s the party leadership agreed that the ‘front
line of battle has moved from the soviet to the white areas’.88 In fact,
as we shall see, the parameters of the permissible in white area work
grew broader as the party’s situation in the north grew more dire under
Japanese occupation. But there remained an unbridgeable gap between

the dictates of policy and the attitude towards those who executed it; a
failure to integrate the white area worker’s brief with the identikit profile
of a respectable party member. This was most apparent when it came
to the periodic screening of party members, as well as checking the
credentials of delegates to party congresses and candidates for Central
Committee membership. All three processes occurred between 1939 and
1945 and each time cadres had to account for their behaviour in enemy
prisons and the manner of their release.
Cadre screening
Since taking on his leading role in the North Bureau, Liu Shaoqi had
campaigned relentlessly not only for a fresh approach to white area
work but also for greater trust in those who participated in such work,
challenging the party’s conventional notions of loyalty and heroism.89
How could he combat the attitude of suspicion and prejudice towards
white area cadres? The party had genuine security needs – it really did
have to guard against the infiltration of enemy agents – but in address-
ing these needs, comments such as the following by Chen Yun were
bound to fuel mistrust of cadres such as the sixty-one: ‘The so-called
Communist confessions that sometimes appear in the press are in fact
fabricated by enemy agents.’90 The latter, warned Chen, ‘pass themselves
off as revolutionaries who have escaped or been released from imperi-
alist or KMT jails. They appear with blood dripping from their heads
and claim to have been tortured.’91 By uncanny coincidence these com-
ments appeared in October 1936, just after the first few groups of the
sixty-one had been released.
Even the ‘genuine revolutionary’ who had been imprisoned was, as
far as Chen Yun was concerned, at least temporarily a persona non grata
on his release: ‘there is a possibility that he was photographed while in
jail, and detectives are bound to shadow him in pursuit of other revo-
lutionaries’.92 Chen was most emphatic that the party should not rush
to contact anyone just out of prison but instead should subject them
to ‘rigorous investigation’ – after all, surely a ‘genuine revolutionary’
would stoically understand the party’s security needs.
Less than a year later Liu Shaoqi proposed a diametrically opposed
approach, one that was to afford direct and retroactive protection for
the sixty-one. It found expression in a secret internal Central Organi-
zation Department (COD) resolution dated 7 July 1937, the day war at
last broke out between China and Japan.93 This document was referred
to thirty years later, at the height of the Cultural Revolution, as evi-

dence of collusion between Zhang Wentian and Liu Shaoqi to legalize
the basis of the 1936 release by permitting the resumption of party
membership to those who had published anti-CCP statements. Collu-
sion or not, the document was far more controversial than the Cultural
Revolution investigators realized. It was entitled ‘The Decision on How
to Handle So-called Confessants’, and its timing suggests that it was
intended as a final bid to persuade local communist organizations to
encourage their imprisoned cadres to get themselves released before the
Japanese became their warders – or their executioners.
Beginning with a dutiful paean to those who remained loyal to the
party throughout their prison term (that is, did not make false confes-
sions in order to obtain their release), the resolution then demonstrated
remarkable generosity towards a whole range of alternative behaviours.
More importantly, it recommended that upon arrest, if their commu-
nist identity had not been revealed, cadres should sign the confession
forms along with arrested non-communists in order to obtain immedi-
ate release; the same applied to imprisoned cadres. This was followed
by a clause that offered further protection for the sixty-one and implied
full trust in the loyalty of such cadres: the membership of those who
signed confessional statements with party approval remained effective
and they could therefore resume work without delay (that is, without
undergoing investigation). Those who signed without approval could
continue their revolutionary work but would be reinstated in the party
only after investigation, and provided that their anticommunist state-
ment was not accompanied or preceded by any betrayal or exposure of
the party network. None of the above should be regarded as having
reneged.
As for those whose confessions were genuine, if this was simply a
temporary aberration – if they had momentarily ‘wavered’ – and as
long as their confession had not damaged the party (for example by
betraying names or organizations), they could continue to work for the
good of the party, although not as members. However if they subse-
quently accumulated an impressive record of achievement, a special
committee above provincial level could approve their readmission fol-
lowing reinvestigation. The resolution was so generous that even ex-
cadres expelled as proven traitors were not beyond the pale. If they
repented, they could still be rehabilitated as progressive elements. Fur-
thermore expelled traitors now working for anticommunist adminis-
trations but not directly harming the party – and occasionally helping
the party – could likewise be categorized as progressive elements. The
final clause criticized as ultraleftist those who lumped all confessants

together and denounced them without differentiating between the con-
texts in which the act of confession had taken place. At the same time
it warned that too relaxed an attitude towards betrayal was a form of
ultrarightism.
Altogether this document revealed both practicality and extraordi-
nary sensitivity towards a complex issue. It recognized that the party
was not in a position to fritter away manpower, neither its loyal cadres
nor those who had fallen from grace to become merely erratic sympa-
thizers. It recognized that people had the capacity to change for the
better, for the worse, for the better again, and so on; that most people
were not supernatural or foolhardy heroes, but just ordinary mortals
struggling to keep themselves and their families alive. The echoes of the
Confucian tradition were strong – the notion of making use of people
and their skills for the public good and the notion that people could be
rectified through education. These echoes bounced back again and
again in the Maoist tradition and underlay movements such as the rec-
tification campaign that unfurled in Yan’an in 1942–44. But echoes of
a more purist nature were equally strident, and it was these that carried
the campaign into sinister and paranoid spheres where guilt of betrayal
was assumed and innocence had to be proven.
Nothing better illustrates the continuing ambiguities in party policy
towards arrested cadres than the range of articles in the first issue of The
Communist in October 1939. On one hand the flexible tactics of open
and secret white area work were advocated; on the other a rigid code of
behaviour was unequivocally demanded in an article entitled ‘How
to Handle the Cases of Arrested Communists and the Question of
Morality’: ‘in no circumstances should one make confessions before
the enemy such as filling out confession forms, writing pledges of repen-
tance or releasing similar statements to the press’.94 This was a complete
contradiction of the 1937 COD resolution.
In the summer of 1940 the COD (by then under the leadership of the
wary Chen Yun) defined screening procedures, some of which related
to the loyalty of underground cadres who had been out of contact with
the party and/or imprisoned:
(1) Whether there is a disruption in their association with the

Party and what are the causes for such disruption. Is there any evi-
dence of their effort to keep in touch with the Party at the time of
disruption and in what manner have they resumed this organiza-
tional relationship?
(2) Whether they have been arrested and imprisoned, what they
have confessed or whether they have betrayed the Party in their
imprisonment. Is there any evidence that can prove loyalty or dis-
loyalty while they were in prison?
(3) How have they been released from imprisonment? Is there any
evidence showing whether they have written any confession, repent-
ant statement or pledges?95
Although Chen Yun moderated his language – and to an extent his

views – on the party’s position towards confessants, he continued to
maintain that an investigation and a breathing space of undefined dura-
tion outside the party was necessary for all categories of personnel who
had been cut off from the party for one reason or another, or had been
forced to follow GMD procedures such as the ‘turning over a new leaf’
ceremony, in which case ‘they can deal with the situation as non-Party
people, but they must be careful not to harm the Party organization in
any way. Anyone who protects the Party and continues to work for the
revolution may be reinstated in the Party when the time comes.’96 (This
difference between Chen Yun and Liu Shaoqi on the issue of delayed or
immediate re-entry to the party sanctum for cadres who been out of
contact with the party or had made a recantation – albeit a false one –
was connected to another bone of contention: the limiting or expan-
sion of party recruitment, Chen favouring the former and Liu the latter.)
Another category of cadre concerned Chen deeply – those involved
in the controversial ‘white skin, red heart’ (baipi hongxin) policy, also
referred to as the ‘revolutionary double-dealing policy’.97 This policy,
adopted as a necessary evil to survive under Japanese occupation, was
a potent example of how party policy for white area work could rebound
on those who executed it.
White skin, red heart

If the communist presence in northern China had flourished in the late
1930s, the early 1940s saw a downward spiral in its fortunes. Following
the battle of 100 Regiments in the summer of 1940, when communist
forces attacked transport lines and Japanese-established blockhouses,
the Japanese forces turned their full and ferocious attention to the rural
areas where the communists were nestled.98 In the ‘burn all, loot all, kill
all’ manifestations that ensued, the rural population was utterly demor-
alized as crops were destroyed, animals killed or confiscated and family,
friends and neighbours suspected of aiding communists or cooperating
with the border region government were murdered. The communist

bases were ‘nibbled away’.
By 1942, 90 per cent of the plains bases were reduced to guerrilla

status or outright enemy control. In the mountainous T’aiyue dis-
trict of the Chin–Chi–Lu–Yu base, a cadre admitted that ‘not a single
county was kept intact and the government offices of all its twelve
counties were exiled in Chin-yuan’.99
That the communists survived at all, and maintained a more than

symbolic presence, was in itself no small victory. Their survival was due
largely to their use of appropriate responses to counter the effects on
peasant morale of the harsh repression: ‘reducing the material risks of
martyrdom’ and ‘reducing demands for heroism’, encouraging peasants
to cooperate ‘with the Japanese by day and the border region by
night’.100 ‘The policy permitted sympathizers to do a little bit for the
resistance cause at a fairly small risk – collect a little tax grain, help
hide a few guerillas for the day – rather than presenting them with a
choice of doing a great deal . . . at an enormous risk . . . or doing nothing
at all.’101
One of the leading figures among the sixty-one, An Ziwen, who intro-
duced the policy in the JJLY Taiyue district, called it ‘the tactics of
double-faced power’.102 Although this policy was not the original inven-
tion of the border region’s party organization, and although it facili-
tated the survival of the communist presence (adversely affecting
Japanese intelligence efforts along the way), it was just the sort of op-
eration that subsequently fed prejudices against white area cadres. For
not only were the peasants encouraged to collaborate with puppet
government personnel, so were the cadres themselves: ‘Indeed, many
puppet governments were infiltrated by Communist party members
who even got elected under the Japanese auspices. They did as they were
told by the Japanese, but passed information on to the Communist
side.’103 The policy had a centrally sanctioned basis in the CCP Secre-
tariat’s ‘Notice on the Work in Major Cities Behind Enemy Lines’ of 15
September 1940, which permitted cadres to ‘penetrate puppet organi-
zations and work in the puppet regime . . . to work in the enemy and
puppet troops and to recruit “operatives” . . . wavering individuals in
the puppet regime. . . . We can capitalize on their double-dealing psy-
chology and interests to use them for intelligence purposes’.104
In November 1978 Chen Yun claimed that in July 1941 the COD,
under his leadership, had issued a resolution intended to protect cadres
involved in such work – as well as those who had been imprisoned –

from a subsequent charge of betrayal.105 He also claimed that at the time
he had been unaware of the existence of the 1937 decision on how to
deal with confessants, which already covered the issue of faked rene-
gadism. Be that as it may (and it seems doubtful that he would not have
made it his business to know of such matters when he returned from
Moscow in November 1937 and took up his new COD post), Chen’s
resolution was decidedly less generous and comprehensive than the
1937 one it superceded. Nothing was left to chance or trust. Reinvesti-
gation was a prerequisite for resumption of party work and membership
in all cases. Even in 1978, when Chen himself proposed the rehabilita-
tion of those who had been discriminated against or expelled during
the Cultural Revolution, either because of their work with puppet
administrations or because of their release from enemy prison back in
the 1930s and 1940s, he still insisted that they undergo a full investi-
gation before readmission.106
Despite the differences between Chen Yun and Liu Shaoqi on cadre
recruitment and screening policies, and despite Liu’s 1937 stinging cri-
tique (see note 89) of the earlier ‘left-deviationist, adventurist’ approach
to white area work, which had offended earlier white area policy makers
– of whom Chen was one – there was nevertheless a growing consen-
sus among the party leaders on how open and covert work should
operate. Meanwhile one person who had not been offended by Liu’s
bombardment of criticism was Mao Zedong. On the contrary, Mao
viewed Liu with increasing interest and appreciation. At the time he
could not have realized it, but in his critique Liu had set a precedent
for Mao in the rewriting of party history that made its debut as the April
1945 ‘Resolution of the CCP CC on Certain Historical Questions’.107 Liu
had thus carved his niche as potential junior partner to Mao in the
latter’s final ascent to formal leadership of the CCP in 1943 at the height
of the Yan’an rectification campaign.
While red area cadres were in the early throes of this campaign,
sorting out the texts to be used for educating party members in
communist theory, practice and morality, their white area colleagues
were still stretching permissible operational methods into such slip-
pery spheres as collaboration with the enemy. But it was not long
before a number of the sixty-one found their way to Yan’an for the
ostensible purpose of engaging in the rectification process of study,
criticism and self-criticism. By the spring of 1943 commanding officers,
political commissars of the 8th Route Army and the New 4th Route
Army, secretaries of party organs at county level and above, and respon-
sible party cadres in various mass organizations had been summoned to

Yan’an.108
Yan’an, 1943–45
In the course of the Yan’an rectification campaign thousands of white

area cadres were hounded as suspected GMD agents, spies and traitors,
so one might be surprised to find that in general the sixty-one appear
to have escaped attention, or at least with regard to the specific ques-
tion of their recantation.109 This can be explained fairly simply. In the
late 1930s and early 1940s Mao may have been considered first among
equals, but he had yet to consolidate his position in terms of posts held
and as the party’s leading theoretical authority. In the latter sphere he
still felt – justifiably – overshadowed by Wang Ming. But as noted above,
Mao had found a critical (in both senses of the word) ally in Liu Shaoqi.
Mao and Liu had built up a mutual support system that bolstered their
almost parallel rise in importance, Mao as the red-area-based pre-
eminent leader of the CCP and Liu as the party’s chief representative in
the white areas. The sixty-one were part of Liu’s support base and there-
fore part of the larger support system that Liu could offer Mao.110 Under
such patronage it was unlikely that the sixty-one would suffer during
the rectification campaign, and the incorporation of some of the group’s
leading members into the machinery that operated the rectification
campaign contributed to their protected status. Furthermore it seems
that it was less the veteran and more the recently recruited white area
cadres, especially intellectuals, who were the main targeted groups.
The campaign was well under way when leading figures among the
sixty-one arrived in Yan’an in the spring of 1943. Although the cam-
paign did not begin officially until February 1942, early rumblings had
been evident since the enlarged meeting of the Politburo in September
1941. The rectification campaign’s aims were several. It was to bring a
sense of unity to a party in which diversity of geographical, socioeco-
nomic, educational and other backgrounds had served to fragment
rather than unite. It was to establish educational and disciplinary stan-
dards and, via a process of criticism and self-criticism, to bring the indi-
vidual to a state of identity with, and loyalty before all else to, the party.
It was to do away with dogmatism, subjectivism and sectarianism, sins
that Mao considered Wang Ming and other returned students to be espe-
cially guilty of. In retrospect the campaign provided the CCP’s Mao-
centred framework upon which Mao imposed his unique stamp, his
Sinification of Marxism–Leninism, that is, the adaptation of communist
theory to the practical realities of China. This framework also embraced

the arduous task of summing up the party’s history so far, essentially a
critique of past leaderships’ errors and misdemeanours.
As far as cadre discipline and education were concerned, the rectifi-
cation campaign’s persuasive techniques were soon abandoned for
harsher, coercive ones. In the spring of 1943 the campaign became
inseparably intertwined with a cadre-screening movement, which Kang
Sheng enthusiastically administered and euphemistically called the
‘rescue campaign’.111 It veered wildly out of control and became a witch-
hunt for traitors and spies in their hundreds and thousands. Who were
the most obvious suspects? Cadres who had arrived from the contami-
nated milieu of the white areas.112 The rescue campaign thus foreshad-
owed the Cultural Revolution’s hunt for renegades almost a quarter of
a century later. Similarly foreshadowed was the blaming of Kang Sheng
for ‘excesses’. But in both cases – in the rectification campaign and the
Cultural Revolution – Kang had peers and superiors who were no less
accountable.
Initially the rectification campaign operated within the framework
of the party school, which had been revamped and divided into
departments for this purpose. Mao was the school’s president (replac-
ing Deng Fa in April 1942) and ex-prison cadre Peng Zhen was vice-
president in charge of its daily running. In the first department were
cadres at prefectural level and above, plus some below that level who
had been selected as potential delegates to the Seventh National
Party Congress. In the second department were the original Party School
students at county and regimental level, some 600–800 cadres. An
Ziwen, who arrived in Yan’an in May 1943, was sent to study in the
first department but illness soon prevented his attendance. After
his recovery in July he was appointed deputy director of the second
department.113
In May 1943 the third department absorbed the party’s Research Insti-
tute, hosting the chief targets for rectification – some 825 white area
urban intellectuals, of whom 745 had been in the party only since
1937.114 An’s biographers claim that he ‘repeatedly’ warned against dis-
criminating against white area cadres, whose complicated histories must
be regarded ‘in the context of the times. People who had worked under-
ground in the White regions, in particular, were peculiarly situated, and
this factor must be taken into account.’ If no witnesses could be found
to verify or contradict a cadre’s testimony, he should ‘be given the
benefit of the doubt’.115 This was to become a recurrent theme in An’s
later COD career, and was an early indication of his awareness that cadre
behaviour, including his own, in the white areas could easily be mis-
construed. An’s biographers also claim that he was both responsible for
restoring the good names of many cadres wrongly accused as traitors,
and instrumental in Mao’s curtailment of Kang’s coercive excesses and
returning the campaign to a gentler persuasive footing.
The punitive action against suspected spies and traitors alienated
countless more than the thousands who were hounded and expelled.
Official party history says the reining-in of the campaign commenced
in August 1943 – a mere two months after it began – with Mao’s ‘Deci-
sion on the Screening of the Cadres’.116 But if Mao did begin to pull the
plug on the coercive and absolutist approach to party purity at that
time, he did so rather gingerly, warning that it was necessary to find the
right moment to curtail leftist excesses and that it was just as counter-
effective to do so too early as too late. This must have sounded rather
cavalier to the innocent who were being persecuted or to those who felt
they might be next in line. Nevertheless there were signs that he was
prepared to reassert the pragmatic tradition, which also had a firm place
in his thought. It was preferable ‘not to arrest and kill’ and ‘commit irre-
versible errors’, but to emulate the GMD techniques of ‘winning over
and softening members so that they serve their cause’.
[W]e must not only focus on recruiting CP members. . . . We must

also pay attention to counter-revolutionary spies, transforming them
into revolutionary cadres who will ferret out traitors. The greater the
spy, the greater his use will be to us when he turns.117
Cadre investigation was to continue, ordered Mao, but without the

extortion of confessions by means of ‘pressure’. Those found innocent
should have their reputations restored. ‘We must not automatically
assume that all who have been accused are important spies or spies at
all.’118 The campaign wound down slowly. Reinvestigation and rehabil-
itation did not begin until the end of the year, continuing into the
spring of 1944, and Mao found himself apologizing more than once to
a deeply troubled community of white area cadres.119
As Bo Yibo did not arrive in Yan’an until November 1943 he missed
the worst of the campaign. He and Zhao Lin, another of the sixty-one,
were appointed party branch leaders in the school’s first department.
The day after he arrived, Bo met Mao for the first time and was given a
marathon eight- to nine-hour audience, in which Mao apparently
demonstrated great interest in and admiration for the Caolanzi cadres’
party activities during and after their imprisonment. Bo claims that he

submitted to Mao a full list of the cadres released from Caolanzi in 1936.
The following day Bo reported to Ren Bishi about the 1936 release.
According to Bo, both Mao and Ren told him that they were well aware
of the matter and that the Central Committee had given its permission
at the time.120 (In March 1943 there had been a streamlining of the
party’s central organs and Ren Bishi now stood with Mao and Liu Shaoqi
at the top of the leadership pyramid, the new Central Secretariat. Liu
was appointed vice-chairman to the Military Commission and also sec-
retary of the Central Organization Commission, which ranked him
above the other commission members – Ren Bishi, Chen Yun, Kang
Sheng, Deng Fa, Wang Jiaxiang, Zhang Wentian and Yang Shangkun.)121
If most of the sixty-one breathed a sigh of relief as the rectification
movement drew to a close, those nominated as delegates to the party’s
Seventh Congress were less free of apprehension. Eleven were nomi-
nated as formal delegates and two as alternates – Bo Yibo, Liu Lantao,
An Ziwen, Zhou Zhongying, Zhao Mingxin, Wu Yunpu, Wang De, Peng
De, Ma Huizhi, Li Chuli, Liu Shenzhi, Fu Yutian and Liu Zijiu – not an
insignificant proportion of the 547 formal delegates and 208 alternates.
They were to spend an initial period in the first department of the party
school for study and examination; which meant having their candidacy
credentials further scrutinized.
One sympathetic account of the case of the sixty-one hints that
at that juncture Bo Yibo felt that it might be in the sixty-one’s best
interests to place the collective experience of the 1936 release episode
– and the Central Committee’s role in it – on official record, once and
for all. The humiliating experiences undergone by so many other white
area cadres during the rectification campaign and ‘rescue’ movement
must have given him and his colleagues more than a glimpse of the
ironic vulnerability of white area cadres in what was supposed to be the
safety of their own home – the liberated base area. Bo put forward a
request to report to the Seventh Party Congress in order to ‘clarify the
details of its [the release] process and request a conclusion’.122 Perhaps
he intended his request to reach the committee preparing the ‘Resolu-
tion on Certain Historical Questions’. The committee had been estab-
lished in May 1944; its members were Ren Bishi, Liu Shaoqi, Zhang
Wentian, Zhou Enlai, Peng Zhen, Gao Gang, Kang Sheng and Qin
Bangxian. Bo might well have expected a sympathetic reception from
several of them. But his request only got as far as the Central Commit-
tee’s Qualifications Committee – where it stayed. Ren Bishi reassured
the committee:
These comrades have no political problems. It was the Party organi-

zation which rescued them from prison; it was the North Bureau
that made this suggestion and it was the Central Committee that
agreed to it by telegram. So this should not affect their delegate
qualification.123
On the basis of Ren’s words and its own investigations, the committee
concluded that each cadre was fit to be a delegate.
Verbal assurances were one thing, but what was written – or not – was
another matter. The party’s 1936 decision to rescue the group would not
be recorded in the party’s official annals, but would remain buried in
the individual dossiers. This served to fragment the image of party
responsibility for the affair and play up the personal responsibility of
each cadre. Had there been a documented party resolution on the issue,
Bo Yibo would not have had to face yet another eligibility hurdle,
this time in respect of Central Committee membership. But without
such pre-emptive protection, the circumstances in which ‘cadre X’ was
released from prison remained uppermost in the minds of those whose
task it was to assess his party loyalty.
Initially Bo had been nominated for alternate membership. One of
the leading military cadres, Chen Geng, opposed his nomination on the
grounds of his prison release experience. According to Bo, Mao’s reply
had turned Chen’s objection on its head. ‘Why shouldn’t he be an alter-
native member? He should be a full member!’124 Why had Chen
objected? Did he believe that the sixty-one had not tried hard enough
to seek an alternative to false confession? Chen had had his own ex-
perience of GMD imprisonment in the early 1930s. Despite Chiang
Kai-shek’s personal offer to release Chen (who had apparently saved
Chiang’s life in 1925) if he agreed to join the nationalists, Chen is said
to have refused and later escaped.125 Perhaps it was a personal grudge
or dislike of Bo and/or others among the sixty-one. He had worked at
close quarters with Bo in the JJLY region in previous years, and, as men-
tioned in Chapter 1, had had dealings in underground work with Yang
Xianzhen back in 1931. Or was Chen simply trying to distance himself
from them and this type of unwholesome white area experience? Such
distancing, or putting on ‘holier than thou’ airs, may not have been
uncommon. Quite a few leading cadres had come to Yan’an with rich
experience of work in the white areas in the late 1920s and early 1930s,
including Peng Zhen and Chen Boda, not to mention Kang Sheng
himself. In taking on formal roles in Yan’an in cadre rectification,
for instance (as did some of the sixty-one themselves), perhaps they
believed they were shedding their white skins and cultivating redder-
than-red ones.
Cultural Revolution accounts claim that Liu Shaoqi had tried and
failed to have a clause inserted into the 1945 revised constitution stating
that those who had made a false recantation should not be automati-
cally barred from Central Committee membership.126 The same sources
say that his effort was stymied by Kang Sheng. If indeed Liu did put
this forward, it is unlikely that Kang’s opposition would have been
effective. Kang was out of favour at this congress because of the witch-
hunt excesses he had inspired in 1943, while Liu was very much in
favour.127 (In May 1944 Liu was one of the five members of the Presid-
ium created to replace temporarily the Politburo and Secretariat. He
then joined the new Seventh Central Committee Secretariat.) Further-
more the clause to which the Cultural Revolution materials allude may
have related to party membership in general rather than specific Central
Committee membership. In Liu’s 14 May 1945 report to the congress,
‘On the Party’, the following proposal appears in his section on party
membership, but it does not appear in the equivalent section in the
revised party constitution adopted by the Congress the following
month:
Should a member apply for reinstatement because of having been

forced to lose contact with the Party, he is to be reinstated immedi-
ately after his application has been verified by the Party committee
of a province or border region or at any higher level, without having
to go through the procedure required of a new member.128
With the elections for the Seventh Party Congress, another hurdle had
been cleared. Bo Yibo, Liu Lantao and Liu Zijiu were elected to the
Central Committee, Bo as a member and the two Lius as alternate
members. But it appears that before the next congress in 1956, each
nominee from the sixty-one would again have to go through the process
of proving himself worthy, limiting the detail of his 1936 release to an
authorized ‘rescue’ operation by the party. By then the most prominent
among them were in positions of party and government status at the
central as well as the regional level, forging their own not insignificant
power bases as they went along. Their 1937–49 work experiences both
led to and enriched their post-1949 careers.
Yang Xianzhen, who had arrived in Yan’an in January 1945, just
before the Congress, taught at the Party School, where more than 5000
students were enrolled. In 1948 he became the school’s vice-president,
‘responsible both for creating a formal teaching and research

program’.129
From 1945 An Ziwen became well entrenched in the COD. At first he
served as deputy director under Peng Zhen, but when the latter moved
to north-east China, An took control of the department’s daily opera-
tions under the supervision of party Secretariat member Ren Bishi. One
of An’s tasks was to select cadres for work in the north-east, and he was
responsible for the transfer of some 200 000 cadres there.130 He also
supervised the movement of cadres to GMD-occupied areas for under-
ground work.
In the winter of 1946 An ordered the ‘cleaning-up’ of some 20 000
dossiers, that is, the deletion of data entered during the Kang Sheng
‘rescue’ operation. With the Yan’an base facing imminent attack, An was
ordered to streamline all the existing dossiers in order to facilitate mobil-
ity. The dossiers were to be divided into three categories – those in the
first category were to be preserved at all costs, while those in the third
were to be destroyed. The preserved files were moved first to Linxian in
Shanxi and then in 1949, after the liberation, to Beijing. The destruc-
tion of dossiers (which might have contained embarrassing material)
was to be one of the charges levelled against An during the Cultural
Revolution.
Following the GMD attack on Yan’an in March 1947, the party Sec-
retariat was divided into two sections. One, headed by Mao, Zhou Enlai
and Ren Bishi, stayed in northern Sha’anxi. The other, led by Liu Shaoqi
and composed of a working committee, with Zhu De as deputy secre-
tary and An Ziwen as secretary-general, moved to northern China – to
Xibaipo in Hebei in the JCJ liberated area. Late in 1947, as more and
more areas were liberated, An transferred over 50 000 cadres to work
with the population of 100 million in the areas now under communist
control. In May 1948 Mao and the Central Committee arrived in the
JCJ region, and the working committee, ‘having completed its histori-
cal task, was declared abolished’,131 or as an official contemporary party
history puts it, ‘merged with the Central Committee’.132
Since early 1946 Bo Yibo had been deputy political commissar of
the entire JJLY region, where he also continued as government vice-
chairman. This post gave him virtual control over all civil affairs in the
region, which covered an area of 100 000 square miles and had a
population of some 25 million.133 In May 1948 the JCJ and JJLY regions
merged, with Nie Rongzhen as commander and Bo as political
commissar. Bo was then appointed first vice-chairman of the North
China People’s Government, vice-chairman of the Financial–Economic
Committee, both under Dong Biwu, and first secretary of the North
China Bureau.134 Also serving in the North China Bureau in 1948 was
Liu Lantao, a member of its Standing Committee and director of its
Organization Department. In January 1949 Liu became third secretary
of the North Bureau under Bo Yibo, director of the North China Revo-
lutionary University and vice-chairman of the North China People’s
Government. Hu Xikui was appointed vice-president of the North
China University in October 1949, under Liu Lantao. This university
was responsible for ‘recruiting and remoulding large numbers of intel-
lectuals and turning out cadres for the vast liberated areas’.135 Wang
Hefeng, another of the sixty-one and a North Bureau cadre, served as
secretary of both the JJLY Sub-Bureau and the Taiyue District Commit-
tee in the late 1940s.
Li Chuli, Ma Huizhi and Liu Xiwu had also found their way to high-
level officialdom in the north-east by the late 1940s, as had Xu Zirong
and Liu Zijiu in the central plains, and Zhu Zemin and He Zhiping in
the east. Zhang Xi and an ex-Caolanzi inmate who had played a vital
role in the release scheme, Kong Xiangzhen, held important positions
in the central south.
Sixteen of the group did not live to see the establishment of the
communist regime. Ten died at the hands of the Japanese or GMD.
Yin Jian, Qiu Shaoshang, Gao Tingkai and Hao Jinbo died of illness.
Han Jun commited suicide. One cadre, Liu Kerang, was ‘mistakenly’ exe-
cuted in the liberated area.136 Another, Fu Ping, left the party after his
release.
While occasional small clusters of the sixty-one appeared in various
locations, it is apparent that they did not stick together as one large
group, geographically or institutionally. Since what had bound them
together had been followed by the stigma of prison release via recan-
tation, there was little reason to maintain a group identity and stick
out like a sore thumb. While the post-release careers of many may
have contributed substantially to the establishment of the commu-
nist regime, eventually they became grist to the Red Guard mill,
which generally distorted the second united-front period, and specifi-
cally the cooperation with Yan Xishan, as further evidence of their
betrayal.
In the interim sixteen years (until summer 1966) a number of the
sixty-one moved into positions of considerable prominence in both
party and state structures. From these post-1949 careers, too, Cultural
Revolution activists were subsequently able to pick out events and
trends, weaving them together into an image of disloyalty, the centre-
piece of which was the 1936 release. Until then, if certain circumstances,
such as the periodic cadre-screening procedures, jogged uneasy memo-
ries, the seemingly solid leadership presence of Liu Shaoqi was there to
assuage them. Once that began to crumble, the release episode that had
linked Liu and the sixty-one together became pivotal to their mutual
downfall.
3
Levers of Power: Careers 1949–66
Big renegade Po I-po . . . alternate member of the Central Political

Bureau, Vice Premier of the State Council, and Chairman of the State
Economic Commission. He controlled the industrial and communi-
cations fronts and the lifeline of the national economy.
Big renegade An Tzu-wen controlled the Central Organization
Department. He collected demons and monsters . . . in organizational
preparation for Liu Shao-ch’i’s capitalist restoration.
Big renegade Yang Hsien-chen monopolized the Central Higher
Party School, in an attempt to corrupt and reform our Party from the
ideological front.
(Chunlei [Spring Thunder], 13 April 1967)1
The Red Guards’ assessment of the tremendous power wielded by

three of the most prominent of the sixty-one prison cadres was not
inaccurate. However their conclusions about how, and for what pur-
poses, this power was exercised are far more questionable. Bo Yibo,
An Ziwen, Yang Xianzhen and Liu Lantao, plus a significant number
of their 1930s Caolanzi colleagues, occupied the highest echelons of
some of the major functional systems of the party and government
apparatus, covering the spheres of economics, organization and per-
sonnel, theory and propaganda.2 The 1956 Eighth Central Committee
saw Bo’s rise to alternate membership status on the Politburo and Liu
Lantao’s to alternate membership of the party’s Secretariat. An Ziwen
and Yang Xianzhen were Central Committee members (Yang was first
appointed alternate member, then promoted to full member in 1958).
Liao Luyan, Xu Zirong and Zhang Xi were alternate members. By the
time the Cultural Revolution broke out in 1966, more than a third of
the original Caolanzi group (and almost half of those still alive in 1966)
94
Levers of Power: Careers 1949–66 95
held high-level central and regional posts in party and government

(Table 3.1).
Viewed through the Cultural Revolution prism, the prison cadres had
proved their betrayal of the communist cause in 1936 when they had
followed the dictates of the GMD release procedure. That act was to
serve as the basic premise for the radical and Red Guard portrayal of the
sixty-one cadres’ disloyalty. Any seemingly politically incorrect mani-
festations in the cadres’ subsequent careers were simply further proof of
their treachery, or at least their inadequacy as communists; any appar-
ently politically ‘correct’ behaviour was interpreted as hypocrisy, a
smokescreen. Weaving together statements quoted out of context was
a favoured technique of defamation; layer upon layer of accusations
built up an image of disloyalty to communism and ipso facto to Mao
Zedong. The ‘renegade’ cadres had established ‘independent kingdoms’,
Table 3.1 Posts held by members of the sixty-one in 1966
Government:
Vice-premier and chairman, SEC: Bo Yibo
Vice-chairman, SEC: Zhou Zhongying
Minister of agriculture: Liao Luyan
Vice-minister of public security: Xu Zirong
Vice-minister, Seventh Ministry of Machine Building: Liu Youguang
Vice-chairman, Guangxi Autonomous Region: Fu Yutian
Vice-chairman, SPC, until his death in 1959: Zhang Xi
Vice-minister of communications: Ma Huizhi
Party:
Director, COD: An Ziwen
Deputy director, COD: Li Chuli
Vice-president, Central Party School, till December 1965: Yang Xianzhen
Members, Central Control Commission: Liu Lantao, Liu Xiwu, Li Chuli, Liu
Shenzhi, Wang Hefeng, Zhou Zhongying
Director, Second Archives Office of the Central Committee: Hu Jingyi
First secretary, Northwest China Bureau: Liu Lantao
Secretaries, Northwest Bureau Secretariat: Liu Lantao, Hu Xikui
Alternate secretary, Central South Bureau, and director of its Organization
Department: Wang De
Secretary, Northeast China Bureau Control Committee: Wang Hefeng
Member, East China Bureau Standing Committee, and director of its Control
Committee: Liu Shenzhi
Deputy secretary, Tibet CCP Working Committee: Wang Qimei
Secretary, Fujian CCP Provincial Committee Secretariat: Hou Zhenya
Acting first secretary, Jilin CCP Provincial Committee: Zhao Lin
and had revealed themselves ultimately as partners to capitalism and its

odious personification, Liu Shaoqi. Here the image neatly ended as it
had begun, sealed with the print of Liu, who in 1936 had initiated their
primary act of betrayal.
The purpose of this chapter is not to present a defence of the prison
cadres, but to examine those factors in their 1949–66 careers that made
them convenient prey for the Cultural Revolution radicals, enabling the
latter to construct an image of disloyalty upon the 1936 episode. What
was the nature and extent of their power bases? How might their
involvement in intraleadership rivalries and policy disputes have con-
tributed to their disloyal image? To what extent, if any, did their ‘com-
plicated’ history affect their careers, in terms of perceived and/or real
discrimination? We shall focus on episodes in the careers of the most
prominent four of the sixty-one: Bo Yibo, An Ziwen, Yang Xianzhen and
Liu Lantao (de facto leader of the Central Control Commission from
1955 to 1961 and subsequently head of the party’s Northwest Bureau
until 1967). These men were the Cultural Revolution media’s hard-core
target whenever the prison cadres were mentioned. The sixty-one
became a four-headed monster, embodying the evil of renegadism and
all that was ‘complicated’ in the history of white area underground
cadres.
Perhaps foremost among the factors that laid these particular prison
cadres open to attack was their very prominence in their respective
bureaucratic structures (where their status naturally involved them in
leadership conflicts). Since the party bureaucracy itself became the
target of the Cultural Revolution, those who commanded it were espe-
cially vulnerable. Second, there had been several appointments of ex-
Caolanzi and other north China prison associates to most of these
structures. Inferences could therefore be made about power bases of a
‘vertical’ nature, that is, the formal power engendered in the command
of a single bureaucratic structure. This power may have had informal
origins – personal ties – that became formalized via professional associ-
ation and identity of interest, both in terms of bureaucratic interest
and on policy issues. Third, coordinational links between or overlaps in
policy implementation occurred between the functional systems that
Bo, An, Yang and Liu administered, which involved them in joint plan-
ning and consultation; for example Bo and An worked closely together
on the Sanfan campaign (the 1951–52 ‘Three-Anti’ campaign against
corruption, waste and bureaucratism), and An and Yang would have
cooperated on education and training programmes for high-level cadres,
particularly during the rectification campaigns. Hence there would have
been mutual reinforcement between their personal political power (and

hence the power of their bases) and their ‘horizontal’ links.
Power bases and active factions are not synonymous. The former, a
result of evolution rather than planning, may be a prerequisite for the
latter, but it is not an inevitable process. No doubt the bonding of the
prison years, followed by the frequent intermingling of career paths up
to 1949, largely explains the continuing professional association among
the cadres after 1949. Furthermore there is little doubt that these bonds
were vitalized by like-mindedness on certain core issues, such as an affil-
iation to the Leninist concept of tight party organizational discipline,
and a fervent belief that the party should be led and populated by
members who were both educated and educable in the study of com-
munist theory. But a little of the ubiquitous patron–client guanxi – jobs
for the boys, in this case because of the old prison uniform rather than
the old school tie – was a far cry from factional activity, from engaging
in power struggles or coup conspiracies.
These cadres had no reason to act in a factional manner; they owed
their reactivation in party life and their careers to the unconventional
party decision of 1936, which had remained shrouded in secrecy, and
to which it was not in their interest to draw attention. On the contrary,
they tended to toe the party line, despite their misgivings about poli-
cies. Their white area experiences in both party underground and the
united front had taught them patience in adversity and had left them
well versed in defensive strategy – in knowing when and how to coop-
erate with those with whom they were not in agreement. When they
did step out of line they were reprimanded and disciplined, sometimes
lightly, sometimes severely; An, Yang and Bo all suffered distinct career
setbacks even before their Cultural Revolution fate. But it was not until
late 1966, when the locus of power had slipped away from Liu Shaoqi,
that the ‘secret’ of their 1936 release was released to the public and used
with a vengeance against them, culminating in the long, unhappy
hiatus in their careers until December 1978.
All four cadres had to an extent developed specialized career lines
before the establishment of the People’s Republic in 1949. Their organi-
zational and educational skills were a scarce and highly valued resource,
meeting the needs of the newly established regime, which suddenly had
to extend its control over the vast territory of China. Most urgently
required were cadres experienced in the less familiar field of urban eco-
nomic management, and in cooperating with the urban bourgeoisie
and intellectuals. Bo Yibo, Liu Lantao, An Ziwen and Yang Xianzhen fell
into this category. Bo had moved rapidly into the central economic
policy-making and administrative arena while still nominal leader of

northern China, where his immediate subordinate, Liu, actually offici-
ated. Yang, who had established the North Bureau’s Party School in the
early 1940s, had worked for the central party school in Yan’an from
1945. An, who had run the day-to-day affairs of the Central Organiza-
tion Department since 1945, was called on to organize the massive
recruitment and transfer of cadres in the early years of the regime.
Their reputations were thus well established, and their respective
bases of power, well rooted before 1949, were nurtured in the atmos-
phere of leadership consensus that reigned in the regime’s early years.
Until the late 1950s, potential cleavages in the leadership were con-
tained because of the overall commitment to establishing and consoli-
dating the new communist regime, and to effecting the industrial
modernization and social transformation of China. Differences of
opinion were confined to to the pace, scope and intensity of policy
implementation. As Frederick Teiwes notes, because of ‘the mutually
reinforcing interplay of Party unity and policy success’, the policies
themselves were not challenged. ‘Unity contributed to effective solu-
tions to problems; success in solving problems further deepened
leadership solidarity. Success also served to mask or diminish any latent
conflict over goals.’3
When, however, doubts and scepticism were expressed about the
wisdom of certain policies, such as the Great Leap Forward, the poten-
tial cleavages were less easily contained. Mao’s habit of manoeuvring
and campaigning for policy support and implementation outside the
central party apparatus, his almost mystical faith in human willpower
and mass mobilization, and his propensity to give the edge to practice
over theory, were all tendencies that intensified in the late 1950s and
1960s. Above all he considered that the bureaucratization of the party
was leading it down the path of revisionism. While the central party
apparatus concurred that bureaucratization was an evil that naturally
evolved once a revolutionary party was established in power, it also
believed that this evil could and should be checked internally, through
mechanisms created by the party itself for this purpose. These two
approaches were integral elements of the collision course in the
Cultural Revolution.4
Dossier access
Before turning to the individual careers of Bo, An, Liu and Yang, atten-
tion should be drawn to another factor that combined both power and
potential vulnerability in the post-1949 careers of some of the former

white area prison cadres. Until 1966 they enjoyed a power awarded to
a relatively limited number of high-level officials: access to personnel
dossiers. The content of these dossiers, upon which cadres’ professional
careers and reputations depended, were and are considered state secrets.
Access was therefore a form of power, with all the inherent potential
for its abuse.
Dossiers are kept on all members of the party and on state employ-
ees. They contain a cadre’s biography in two formats: answers on offi-
cial forms, and a written autobiography. Both cover not only personal
history, professional experience and class background, but also social
relations. Cadres are expected to detail whether they or their relatives
had ever been arrested or imprisoned and the manner of their release.5
The dossiers contain references, documentation on transfers, promo-
tions and so on, and applications for party membership. Assessments
and self-evaluations are added annually, while political campaigns
generate more random investigations of dossiers and the addition of
further assessment data. The dossier thus provides an on-going profile
of a cadre’s political loyalty and professional competence.
On one hand it appeared that trust was vested in those cadres who
had dossier access. On the other, for those with prison release histories,
this prize was also tantamount to holding burning coals. For just as
much as the party was indicating trust, it was also signalling that
accountability was in the hands of these cadres. It was their burden to
manage the content and security of dossier material. They could be
accused – as indeed they were during the Cultural Revolution – of
abusing their dossier-access power, of concealing, distorting or destroy-
ing evidence. As Hong Yung Lee notes, the dossier system provides the
regime with a means to ‘maintain tight political control over the cadres’,
given the all-inclusive nature of the data entered: ‘The dossier may offer
the regime a solid basis for selecting cadres according to the criteria
emphasized at a given moment, or it may offer an excuse to persecute
anyone the regime may choose to.’6
This powerful lever of internal control was available to several politi-
cal and government hierarchies in two of the main functional systems:
organization and political–legal. The several supervisory bodies that
maintained and/or had access to sensitive dossier material on top-level
cadres were the COD, which held the dossiers on all centrally employed
party and state cadres and the highest-ranking provincial and munici-
pal party cadres, the Central Committee’s General Office, which main-
tained the party archives, the Central State Organs Committee, the
Central Control Commission, the Public Security Bureau, the Personnel

Ministry until its abolition in 1954, and the Supervision Ministry until
it was abolished in 1959. The Personnel Bureau (later the Ministry of
the Interior), with the COD, maintained the dossiers on all ministry per-
sonnel of bureau-chief rank and above. An Ziwen – COD deputy direc-
tor and minister of personnel from 1950 until 1954, and COD director
from November 1956 – undoubtedly enjoyed dossier access. One of An’s
vice-ministers in the Personnel Ministry was Caolanzi prison colleague
Li Chuli; by 1955, Li had moved to the COD, where he ran the Cadre
Examination Office. Other 1930s prison cadres in the COD included
Qiao Mingfu, Shuai Mengqi and Li Mengli. Among the Caolanzi sixty-
one who held Organization Department posts at the regional level,
and therefore handled dossiers, were Wang De, Wang Hefeng and Liu
Shenzhi.
Since the early 1950s Gong Zirong, a Shanxi Penitentiary colleague
of Qiao Mingfu, had been a member of the party’s Central State Organs
Committee and since 1954 deputy secretary-general of the State
Council. Within three years he had become first secretary of the Central
State Organs Committee, which supervised party cadres in the central
government. Gong therefore had access to their dossiers. In 1958 he
was also made deputy director of the General Office of the Central
Committee, under Yang Shangkun. This department, which supervised
the Party Central Archives, had generous access to party leaders’ per-
sonal histories via their dossiers. Other prison cadres in the archives
sector were its director, Zeng San, and Hu Jingyi of the sixty-one, who
was director of the second archives office.
Another dossier access point, this time in the government adminis-
tration, was the Public Security Bureau and Ministry. Here we find Xu
Zirong of the sixty-one, who directed the bureau’s personnel section in
the early years of the regime and in 1952 was appointed vice-minister
(he held the post until the Cultural Revolution), adding to this role the
deputy directorship of the State Council’s Internal Affairs Office in 1965.
Xu certainly had access to the dossiers on all public security personnel,
and he would have had similar access to dossiers on anybody under
investigation, or anybody who was a candidate for investigation. In the
same functional system was another ex-Caolanzi prison cadre, Feng
Jiping, deputy director of Public Security in Beijing from 1949 until
1955, when he was promoted to director. His duties, though confining
him to the Beijing municipal government, gave him ample opportunity
to gain access to the dossiers on the capital’s officials. Feng was con-
currently vice-mayor of Beijing, and therefore subordinate to its mayor,
Peng Zhen, a Politburo and Secretariat member whose own Tianjin

prison past was to become a pet topic of the Red Guard media.
Access to personnel dossiers was thus one source of power shared in
the 1949–66 regime by a number of the prison cadres, cutting across
the top echelons of several political and government hierarchies in two
of the main functional systems. Ironically, when the rules and regu-
lations on limited access to dossiers crumbled during the Cultural
Revolution, the continuing value of the dossier played a key part in
increasing the Red Guard media’s power. Leaked references to the 1936
release in various dossiers of the sixty-one set the Red Guards on their
trail. Some cadres were accused of having destroyed dossier evidence;
others of having covered up ‘complicating’ factors in their past by
stating in their dossiers merely that in 1936 they had been ‘rescued’
from the GMD prisons by the Party organization, without furnish-
ing the details of the release procedure.7 The power the former
prison cadres could wield vis-à-vis other cadres turned into terrifying
vulnerability.
One other central Party organization empowered with dossier access
was the Central Control Commission, which brings us to the first offi-
cial on the Caolanzi shortlist, Liu Lantao.
Liu Lantao and the Central Control Commission (CCC)8
Section 5 of the State Procuratorate Indictment in the Gang of Four trial

charged that, during the Cultural Revolution, thirty-seven of the sixty
members and alternate members of the CCC were falsely labelled as
renegades, counterrevolutionary revisionists and the like.9 For the first
six years of its existence, however, from April 1955, the CCC was a much
smaller elite of no more than twenty officials led de facto by Caolanzi
graduate Liu Lantao (the ageing Dong Biwu was its titular head). Liu,
who served as deputy secretary-general of the Central Committee, was
promoted in 1956 to alternate membership of the Central Committee
Secretariat. He was the only CCC member to serve concurrently on the
Secretariat (as an alternate member).
As minister of north China affairs in the early 1950s and a secretary
in the Party’s North China Bureau under former prison colleague Bo
Yibo, Liu was one of the powerful regional leaders brought to the capital
in the wake of the Gao–Rao (Gao Gang and Rao Shushi) affair.10 This
affair had accelerated the process of political and governmental admin-
istrative centralization and the concomitant reduction of the power of
regional leaders.
Not only had Gao, as leader of the nation’s most economically pow-
erful region, the north-east, demonstrated an overintimate relationship
with his Soviet neighbours, but he had also indiscreetly bid for the
number-two spot in the leadership, Liu Shaoqi’s position. Whether out
of personal ambition, ideological commitment or both, Gao had raised
the issue of red military versus white area cadres, claiming that the
former were better qualified to inherit the mantle of party leadership,
and the latter were unscrupulously bent on the pursuit of power at the
expense of the former.
Gao’s indiscretion lay as much in his inappropriate choice of cam-
paign method as in his objective – he travelled the country in an
attempt to draw other leaders to his side, one by one, tempting them
with promises of future ‘job’ rewards. These activities, when eventually
revealed to Mao, drew his wrath, and Gao’s party-splitting aims and
techniques were duly noted in the announcement of his purge.
This was one of the rare occasions when publicity, albeit negative,
was given to the discriminatory attitude towards white area cadres.
When the issue was raised within the leadership it was rapidly quashed,
for it was entirely antithetical to the strong consensus on party unity
and the commitment to maintaining a stable regime – of top priority
for Mao, certainly during the early political and economic consolida-
tion of the regime, with the years of civil war still fresh in the nation’s
consciousness.
Public notice of Gao’s offences coincided with the establishment of
the CCC; Franz Schurmann refers to the 5 April 1955 Renmin ribao article
announcing that the CCC and its local branches were to have ‘far-reach-
ing power to investigate unreliable Party members, in particular parti-
sans of the Kao–Jao group’.11 In Liu Lantao’s hands, the CCC was
intended to be an autonomous organizational structure, an external or
objective mechanism for ‘keeping watch’ over party discipline. The 1956
party constitution defined the scope of the CCC’s powers accordingly.
It should
examine and deal with cases of violation of the Party constitution,

Party discipline, Communist ethics, and state laws and decrees on
Party members; to decide on or cancel disciplinary measures against
Party members; and to deal with appeals and complaints from Party
members.12
Curiously the CCC, when first established, was composed largely of

people with a white area underground and even prison background. Red
area cadres had only token representation. Three of the five CCC deputy
secretaries – Liu Lantao, Liu Xiwu (both members of the sixty-one)
and Qian Ying – had spent several years in GMD prisons in the 1930s.
The fourth, Wang Congwu, was a North China Bureau and government
associate of Liu Lantao and a colleague of An Ziwen in the COD. Of
the eleven members, five (Li Chuli, Liu Geping, Shuai Mengqi, Wang
Weigang and Ma Mingfang) had had similar prison experiences, as had
Gong Zirong, one of the three alternate members.13 Was the CCC estab-
lished as a compensatory and conciliatory measure towards the white
area cadres after Gao’s insulting inferences that this ilk was not to be
trusted? Was this a signal indicating trust, by formalizing it in a bureau-
cratic structure and empowering these very people with the guardian-
ship of the behavioural norms of party members?
If so, there was an inherent and ironic flaw, a double bind in the
message: the CCC’s powers were limited to the important but never-
theless secondary sphere of organizational unity, recommending puni-
tive action when this was violated. The CCC members were not the
educators or the inspirers or the guardians of ideological uniformity.
Furthermore a body whose raison d’être was disciplinary and punitive in
nature possessed a somewhat negative image within the (Maoist)
Chinese communist ethic, which stressed, at least theoretically, oppo-
sition to heavy-handed, excessive measures, preferring gentler educa-
tional and consciousness-raising techniques. Liu Lantao attempted to
portray party control in the more positive light of the ‘creative power’
it afforded party members, rather than emphasizing its negative puni-
tive role, and assured them that ‘tightening up party discipline must
not and cannot be regarded as a means of turning each party member
in to a “yes” man, blindly obeying orders, echoing others and being
careful in the minutest particulars’.14 Whether anyone was convinced
by this is a moot point.
If the CCC was limited in terms of the rationale underlying its
creation, its proposed role as an independent authority was absurdly
undermined by at least two functional peculiarities. First, at the central
level most of its officers held concurrent party and government posts
and could hardly be considered disinterested when it came to investi-
gating or disciplining themselves or their respective organizations. Liu
Lantao was, as previously mentioned, in the Secretariat; Li Chuli, Wang
Congwu, Shuai Mengqi and Ma Mingfang were all deputy directors in
the Organization Department; Gong Zirong held the same rank in the
General Office; Qian Ying was minister of supervision; and Xiao Hua
headed the General Political Department of the People’s Liberation
Army (PLA). Second, the intended flow of authority down the vertical
structure to the local level was severely hampered, if not prevented alto-
gether, by the branch control committees being subordinate to the local
party committees. Similarly this horizontal interference meant that
information did not always travel directly up or down via the control
committee channels. As one of the few analysts of the control com-
mittee bureaucracy has observed, the local branches were regarded as
‘an obtrusive but subordinate stepchild of party officialdom’.15
Although the CCC’s structural weaknesses impaired its effectiveness,
its image as a corrective authority, the party’s right hand, enhanced the
status and respectability of its individual administrators. Moreover it
may well have accentuated and extended the powers of those members
who held key posts elsewhere. As far as Liu Lantao was concerned, even
if the CCC offered a satellite power base, rather than an independent
one, his visibility as a central party leader was dramatically increased.
In a report on control work, delivered at the Eighth Party Congress in
September 1956, Liu made it clear that he was aware of the constraints
in this sphere, for unlike their Soviet counterparts, in China the con-
trollers too were subject to control: ‘in this respect we shall never permit
the idea of special rights. Our principle must . . . be placed under the
leadership of the Party and the Party committees.’16
After the September 1962 Tenth Plenum the CCC expanded its mem-
bership to sixty, but this increase in number was not necessarily accom-
panied by an increase in the effectiveness of the CCC’s role.17 Mao may
have looked to the CCC as a legitimate ‘in-house’ tool to reinvigorate
the party bureaucracy, but the very nature of the expanded CCC, which
now enjoyed a more balanced representation of the various population
sectors, including military and provincial officialdom, caused it a degree
of immobilism in its effort to preserve this balance. The subservience
of its local branches to the party committees continued, and the CCC
lost its attraction for Mao when he came to the conclusion that only
external forces could effectively prevent the party from sinking to a
bureaucratic doom.
By this time, however, Liu’s status in the CCC had changed – he was
no longer chief deputy secretary, but a regular member. This should not
be interpreted as a setback in his career, for in the autumn of 1960 he
had been appointed first secretary of the party’s newly created North-
west China Bureau. In the wake of the Great Leap Forward’s excessive
and chaotic decentralization of political and economic power, the party
was attempting to reestablish central control over the regions. An
October 1959 article by Liu, fervently advocating the party’s overall
supremacy in all matters, may have convinced the leadership that here
was the right man for the right job at the right time; or perhaps Liu
wrote in the knowledge that this change was in the offing. He reiter-
ated his earlier view that the control organs were subordinate to the
object of their control. Outside the centre, the party committees, not
the control committees, were the ‘principal source of supervision’. The
last few paragraphs offered fulsome praise of Mao, even reinvoking the
almost forgotten ‘Thought of Mao Zedong’.
When we have followed the Thought, we have succeeded, when we

have departed from it we have failed. Mao’s leadership is indis-
pensable. We depend upon and benefit from his example, wisdom,
experience, and his coordination of the universal truths of Marxism–
Leninism with the concrete practice of the Chinese revolution.18
Liu also stressed the necessity of collective leadership, tight party disci-
pline, party supremacy and organizational leadership in all spheres, irre-
spective of the party member’s expertise or non-expertise in the sphere
he was leading.
The CCC was a convenient auxiliary stage from which to air his con-
sistently expressed view on party supremacy, rather than an intention-
ally cultivated ‘independent kingdom’. If anything Liu obediently kept
the CCC subordinate to the party rather than exploiting its potential as
an external structure with supervisory authority. He did not take advan-
tage of the criticism that, as we shall see, was levelled at the Central
Organization Department in the early 1960s for monopolizing tasks
that could have been shared with the CCC. (Perhaps he did not want
to embarrass his former prison colleague An Ziwen, who headed the
department.) As far as Liu was concerned the CCC was a temporary, sec-
ondary and therefore expendable power base. His next posting, though
originally designed to enhance central party authority over the regions,
brought him far greater reward in terms of personal power. Unlike his
leading sixty-one colleagues, Liu remained in Mao’s favour until late
1966, when he was promoted to alternate membership of the Politburo.
Since it is hard to detect anything that the Cultural Revolution activists
may have found offensive in the Control Commission’s actions or state-
ments during Liu Lantao’s tenure, one might conclude that its compo-
sition, with a preponderance of Liu’s white area prison cadre associates,
was the irksome factor. This, plus the impression by the mid 1960s that
it was an ineffective, almost non-functioning bureaucratic structure,
made it an easy target.
Another target, though one less easily disposed of, was the Central
Committee’s Organization Department, led by An Ziwen. The reasons
for the downfall of this department and its director were quite
different.
An Ziwen and the Organization Department19
The locus of political power in China was the CCP, particularly its
Organization Department, the political–legal apparatus, and the Party
Secretariat, and in portions of the People’s Liberation Army (PLA).
Pursuit of power involved building a career within one of these
organizations. . . . As to seniority, the key positions of power were
monopolized by the generation of cadres who had joined the CCP
before 1949 [emphasis added].20
Earlier in this chapter attention was drawn to dossier access as a

powerful tool for certain departments in the party and government
bureaucracy. This power was most widely vested in the COD, and for
twenty-one years (from 1945) An Ziwen had led this department as
deputy director, acting director and finally (from November 1956 until
the Cultural Revolution) director. Although An frequently participated
in Politburo and Secretariat meetings in his COD capacity, he became
a Central Committee member only in 1956, and did not achieve higher
party rank than that. Yet his powers were extraordinary; in running
the COD he was, in effect, patron to a clientelist network of macro
proportions, a power base par excellence.
It was the COD that laid down the criteria for party membership, the
COD that recruited, examined and reexamined members, transferring
them around the country, training, educating and disciplining them.
The execution and administration of rectification campaigns were in its
domain. It recommended and authorized all top party appointments at
the provincial level and all central-level appointments. As the Politburo
and Secretariat’s bureaucratic arm, it became an obvious target for
criticism when the campaign that set out in 1966 to crush the bureau-
cratization of the party gathered ominous momentum:
It was . . . alleged that a ‘counter-revolutionary clique’ had

entrenched itself in the Organization Department, which had
become ‘a sinister den’ and had ‘established a nationwide network
of counter-revolution which recruited renegades to form a clique to
pursue its own selfish interests’.21
Although there were a number of ex-prison cadre appointees (includ-

ing Li Mengli, Shuai Mengqi and Qiao Mingfu) in the COD, An, perhaps
out of professional discretion, does not seem to have overexploited his
powers by surrounding himself with old Caolanzi associates, apart from
Li Chuli and, at the regional level, Hou Zhenya and Wang De. Perhaps
he preferred to concentrate on strengthening the top-level links
between his department and other central bodies. After all he was in a
position to implement the appointment of colleagues in party and state
posts in most spheres except the military. Thus while moderating the
tone of the abovementioned Cultural Revolution terminology, one
might plausibly conjecture that such appointments could easily have
contributed to a strong fabric of associates in the highest echelons of
power nationwide.
An’s career had not been without its pitfalls, and by highlighting
them and ignoring or distorting his many achievements with which
Mao had no quarrel, the Cultural Revolution media constructed its neg-
ative image, cementing it together with the subtheme of disloyalty –
the 1936 disavowal of communism. Among An’s activities that came
under most frequent attack were his handling of party recruitment
and his emphasis on maintaining and raising the standard of party
members. Most of these activities were, of course, well within the policy
consensus at the time of their execution. It was An’s misfortune that
Mao’s views on these subjects tended to shift, while his own remained
fairly constant. An’s controlled, selective approach to party building laid
him open to the Red Guard charge that he had limited the growth of
the party in order to weaken it.
Early PRC recruitment policy and the eight criteria

In the 1950s there were three distinct periods of rapid and massive
recruitment to the party. An had by no means been remiss in imple-
menting that policy; he had also combined it with a policy of risk man-
agement. Each rapid infusion of party members brought with it its own
set of problems and rectification mechanisms. The two later recruitment
campaigns, 1954–56 (during the accelerated Agricultural Producers’
Cooperatives [APCs] drive) and 1958–60 (during the Great Leap
Forward) were part and parcel of the policy implementation of eco-
nomic development via mass mobilization. The first drive, from 1949
to 1953, was a matter of sheer expediency, since the ‘sudden and vast
expansion of areas under Communist control left the Party acutely short
of the personnel and skills needed for nationwide rule’.22 By late 1950
the CCP membership had more than doubled, reaching 5.8 million.
In order to ensure the Party’s presence in and establish its authority

over the industrial sector, recruitment policy focused on urban workers
from 1950 to 1953. An Ziwen clarified the policy thus:
At present attention is mainly directed at creating Party organiza-

tions in industrial enterprises, at increasing Party membership by
admitting more industrial workers. While this is being done, the
admission of new members in the villages of the old liberated areas
has been temporarily stopped and in the newly liberated areas, it
has been limited . . . to properly adjust the social constitution of the
leadership.23
The party, with Mao’s support, had in June 1950 expressed the hope
that within three to five years a third of all industrial workers would be
drawn into the party’s ranks, but only 13 per cent had joined by
1956–57. One of the Cultural Revolution claims against An was that he
had been responsible for the meagre numbers, that he had sabotaged
the party’s efforts.24 In fact the pace of recruitment had been affected
by the screening procedures and the various rectification campaigns,
such as the Sanfan and Wufan movements, that had been conducted
throughout the period – all official party policy.25 As a result the overall
membership of the party was reduced by some 10 per cent. An explained
that the pace of recruitment had to be controlled because of the earlier
(1948–50) rapid and somewhat indiscriminate recruitment, during
which ‘serious mistakes’ had been made and ‘Certain Party organiza-
tions lowered their standards for joining the Party’.26
Consequently the First National Conference for Organization Work,
held in the spring of 1951, had laid down guidelines in the form
of ‘Eight Criteria’ required of party members. These criteria were
announced in Liu Shaoqi’s concluding speech to the conference. Their
nature appears innocent enough, yet there does not seem to have been
immediate formal approval from the Central Committee in the form of
a circular or directive, as was usually the case with COD proposals.
Instead the COD directly instructed its branch departments to observe
these criteria when selecting members. Was Mao in some way miffed?
Cultural Revolution sources quote him thus: ‘What does the Organiza-
tional Work Conference mean? What does the “Eight Criteria for Party
members” mean? Why did it not come to my knowledge?’27 Perhaps it
was the manner in which the criteria had been issued – independent of
Mao’s guiding hand – rather than the in nature that so irked him.
The criteria were aired publicly the following year (1 July 1952) in a
Renmin ribao article by An Ziwen. During the Cultural Revolution An
was absurdly criticized for leaving mention of ‘Mao Zedong Thought’
to the last of the eight criteria, and for his reference in the second
criterion to the ‘struggle for the consolidation of the New Democratic
system’ as the current stage towards the CCP’s ultimate goal, the real-
ization of communism.28 The Cultural Revolution media had taken An’s
terminology completely out of context, since it was not until 1953 that
the transition to socialism was officially inaugurated. In 1951, when the
Eight Criteria were formulated, the term ‘New Democracy’ was not
merely acceptable, it was Maoist orthodoxy.
One point that the Red Guards did not pick up on was the watered-
down version of the third criterion in An’s 1952 version – ‘Each and
every member of the Party must be determined to devote his whole life
to persist in the revolutionary struggle courageously’ – compared with
the original draft proposal from the previous year.
[A]ll Party members must be courageous and resolute, must not flinch
from any serious or difficult environment, must never surrender
themselves to the enemy, and must never betray the Party and com-
munism; otherwise they cannot be Party members.29
Perhaps Liu Shaoqi had allowed himself this absolutist, traditional party
rhetoric in 1951 since GMD control and Japanese occupation had
receded into the past. But as we shall see, one of the defining charac-
teristics of An’s career was his continuing need to convey the caution
with which white area cadres should be investigated and judged – the
need to steer people away from black-and-white definitions of loyalty
and betrayal. An’s own shocking experience in the course of the Gao
Gang affair made this need all the more urgent.
Gao’s trap
The Gao Gang affair cost An Ziwen a career setback. In the spring of
1953 Gao approached An with a request from Mao, or so he claimed,
for a list of proposed candidates for the next Politburo. Gao, it seems,
had hoped that An would consult Liu Shaoqi, and thus involve him in
this mischief. Whether or not Liu was involved in the preparation of
the list, it was An who was subsequently censured before and during
the Finance and Economic National Work Conference in June to August
1953 (when Bo Yibo came under severe criticism for his tax policy) and
the September–October 1953 National Organization Work Conference.
Gao is supposed to have accused An of omitting army leaders such as

Lin Biao and Zhu De while including white area cadres such as Peng
Zhen, Bo Yibo and Liu Lantao. Such a line-up would have upset the
carefully achieved status quo in respect of posts held by the various
groups from these different revolutionary backgrounds.30 Bo Yibo claims
that Gao deliberately misrepresented the contents of An’s list by omit-
ting the names of Lin Biao and Zhu De, and that An’s mistake was not
so much the list’s content as that it was drawn up without the neces-
sary authorization.31
At the Finance and Economic conference, Gao and Rao Shushi, Orga-
nization Department director since February 1953, had complained
about the appointment of cadres with ‘complicated’ histories, naming
specific individuals.
An Ziwen directed his secretary . . . to look up the files of those com-

rades one by one. On the face of it those few comrades who had been
named did have a ‘complicated’ history, but conclusions had been
made on the important questions that were clear. The reason the
history of these cadres was ‘complicated’ was the Party’s struggle
against the Guomindang reactionaries. They had carried out many
different kinds of complex struggle, open or secret, legal or illegal,
against the enemy under instruction from the Party.32
Who was named? For a start it seems logical that Bo Yibo was, since he
was under scathing attack at this conference for his bourgeois-orientated
approach to taxation; furthermore his was one of the names on An’s
Politburo list to which Gao Gang had vociferously objected. Another
was Peng Zhen, also with a white area prison past. An refused to
comment but the issue was brought up again a few weeks later at the
National Organization Work Conference. This time Rao Shushi over-
stepped the mark, attacking Liu Shaoqi, and on Mao’s instruction the
conference was closed. A leadership small group met under Liu Shaoqi’s
auspices; Rao was criticized, while the department’s work, and An’s in
particular, was praised.
Nevertheless there were repercussions for An. He was disciplined for
his preparation of the Politburo list. While retaining his deputy direc-
torship of the COD, he was demoted from his supervisory role in its
day-to-day affairs. With the purging of Gao and Rao in early 1954, Deng
Xiaoping now headed the Organization Department. In less than a year
An was back in this post, so his disgrace was only a temporary embar-
rassment. But the experience was traumatic. He is described as having
become ‘silent and morose,’ unable to sleep or eat during the confer-
ence days.33 This direct attack on cadres with ‘complicated’ pasts rein-
forced An’s determination to clarify, once and for all, the situation of
party members in this category. He was to make further efforts in this
direction in 1955–56.
Cadre management and the reregistration of

party members, 1953–55
Meanwhile, during Deng’s COD reign two resolutions, originally
intended as measures suited to a period of consolidation of party
membership, were implemented. The first was administrative, dividing
cadres into nine categories, to be managed by the corresponding Central
Committee departments and local party committees, and ultimately
under the command of the COD and its branches. This was largely
achieved by the end of 1955. The first resolution also recommended
that party cadres undergo technical education and training.34 An was
to remain quite consistent on the issue of cadres acquiring technical
expertise in addition to political study and practice.
The second resolution required the examination and reregistration of
party members, which naturally involved the rechecking of dossiers.
According to Red Guard sources, there was definite foot-dragging on the
issue of reexamination.35 An Ziwen zhuanlue, the sympathetic biography
of An, confirms the Red Guard statistics, indicating that by 1955 only
one-fifth of party cadres had been examined. By 1957 some 50 per cent
of cadres in eighteen provinces and twenty-eight municipalities had
been examined.36 There are two possible explanations for the delay.
First, during 1954 and 1955, as a result of the speed-up of agricultural
cooperativization and spurred by Mao’s July 1955 directives, there was
a second mass recruitment drive, which brought the party some 2.8
million new members. As with the earlier large recruitment drive, the
various OD branches just could not keep up with the rapid influx;
it was beyond their manpower and technical capacity to check the
standards and suitability of each new member.
The second explanation is perhaps of more interest here. In 1955 the
COD established the Cadre Examination Office (CEO) under Li Chuli,
of the Caolanzi sixty-one. The CEO exempted various categories of
cadres from investigation, confining it to those from what might be
termed ‘politically correct’ backgrounds – the vast influx of the recently
inducted poor and lower-middle-class peasants. An indicated his wari-
ness of this type of rapid recruitment: ‘in the period 1955–1957 . . . new
Party members should be recruited in a planned way . . . in the rural
areas, the number of Party members in this period should be controlled

at 1 percent and that in the future, the control number should be gen-
erally around 2 percent of the rural population’. He added unequivo-
cally that ‘the quality of rural cadres fell short of need’ and that the
solution lay in (educational) training and strengthening the manage-
ment of them.37 His lack of enthusiasm for large-scale peasant recruit-
ment and his preference for technically trained cadres in the industrial
sector placed An clearly in the camp of those leaders, such as his col-
league Bo Yibo, who at least initially preferred a slower approach to the
APC revolution. This approach provided excellent fodder for criticism
by the Cultural Revolution media.
But potentially even more damning were the categories An chose to
exempt from reinvestigation. Pro- and anti-An sources agree on the issue
of exemptions, albeit with some textual differences.38 Altogether the ori-
entation was towards exempting cadres who showed ‘virtue’ (political)
and ‘ability’ (technical expertise and productivity), even though their
family backgrounds and social relations may have been problematic;
this category was particularly helpful to intellectuals and urban workers.
Also exempt were cadres who had been previously examined and had
experienced no political problems in their past, and cadres who had
once had problems – which had been investigated and conclusions
had been drawn on them – but had had none since. (This would have
exempted the sixty-one, upon whom conclusions had been drawn
before the 1945 Seventh Congress.) As for those ‘cases involving con-
fession or betrayal to the enemy’ on which conclusions were still to be
drawn, An had this to say:
The circumstances surrounding cases involving confession or

betrayal to the enemy are extremely complicated. In handling each
case, we should judge the seriousness of the situation, consider the
individual’s performance after recovering party membership or upon
reentering the party, the extent of his or her later contributions,
whether or not he or she had tried to cover up this history, and the
extent of the person’s present understanding of the question.39
An reveals here a desire for greater sensitivity, and less generalization

about ‘complicated’ cases. As he himself had been on the receiving end
of suspicion and derogatory comments by professional colleagues for
his underground past, it is understandable that he wanted to establish
fair procedural norms for the checking of similar cases. His biographers
claim that his 1 August 1955 report on cadre-screening procedures was
discussed by the Politburo, and affirmed by the Central Committee in

October.40
According to Red Guard sources, An showed similar concern when
determining who was qualified to serve as a deputy to the Party’s Eighth
Congress and who was eligible for Central Committee membership.
Those with ‘complicated’ pasts were not to be left out of the selection
process. An and Liu Shaoqi evidently came up with a formula, the ‘Six
Articles’, intended to cover the entire gamut of ‘complicated’ (confes-
sion or betrayal) histories: ‘The formulation of the “Six Articles” is
to pave the way for convening the 8th Party Congress, to confirm
and exonerate a number of people, some as delegates to the 8th Party
Congress and some as Central Committee members.’41
Little is known about the Six Articles except for the details supplied
by the Cultural Revolution media, which claimed that the proposed cat-
egories ranged from excusable to inexcusable: mistake, serious mistake,
once wavered, surrendered, betrayed, seriously betrayed. One thing is
clear: despite some distortions the Six Articles, as recorded in Cultural
Revolution documents, appear remarkably similar to the categories in
the 1937 COD ‘Decision on how to treat so-called confessants’.
[T]hose prisoners who had signed the surrender statements prepared

by the enemy were simply considered to have committed a ‘wrong
deed in the face of the enemy’ instead of being regarded as having
surrendered. Persons in this category should be given posts again.
The Regulation [Six Articles] also provided that after being arrested,
those who had made an anti-communist announcement in the
enemy’s newspaper might still be offered jobs being regarded as
only having surrendered. Those who had revealed names of com-
rades or Party secrets but subsequently reversed their attitude, were
classified as ‘once wavered’ and there was slight restriction to their
reinstatement.42
Liu and An’s Six Articles also ‘stressed the point that some of those who
made confessions in the press did so “in pretense” to “fool the enemy”
and therefore could not be regarded as having made a political mistake
and that some confessed because they were afraid to die, but that act
was not a betrayal of the Party’.43
Whatever slant the Six Articles may have been given by the Red
Guards, they nevertheless constituted an elaboration of An’s require-
ment for a more discerning attitude towards such cases. They were also
the most damning link that the Red Guards could find between An’s
post-1949 Organization Department activities and the 1936 episode.
From quality to quantity . . . and back again

An’s credentials passed muster. Subsequent to the Congress, in Novem-
ber 1956 An Ziwen, now a Central Committee member, was promoted
to director of the COD. Since January that year a policy of mobilizing
intellectuals to work for the party had been in effect, and the COD had
been ordered to plan the recruitment of a third of the approximately
100 000 high-level intellectuals to the party over the next five years.44
An’s faithful attempt to carry out this policy was later attacked in the
anti-intellectual context of the Cultural Revolution, but in 1956–57 the
policy of increasing the number of educated members and those with
expertise in the party prevailed. At the Eighth Party Congress Liu Shaoqi
had implied that the quantitative spurt in party membership in 1954–56
had had a qualitative cost. Consolidation, rectification, education,
training and specialization were now essential. Rapid promotion was
undesirable. At a COD conference in December 1956 An announced:
[O]ur policy regarding cadres is to stabilize their positions and raise

their quality. Only through being stabilized at their posts can cadres
hope to master their work. . . . Stabilization means (1) cadres will
become specialized in the trade or profession they are engaged in;
and (2) work will be for a long time at that post.45
This programme was temporarily abandoned, however, with the

antirightist campaign of May 1957 and the Great Leap Forward
(1958–60). Barely a word of criticism was levelled at An’s antirightist
and Great Leap performance by the Cultural Revolution media; and his
biographers likewise have precious little to say on the subject. These
omissions indicate that An did not step out of line but, on the contrary,
pursued his tasks obediently. In the Great Leap’s wave of massive recruit-
ment, close to 6.5 million new members were admitted. The question
of quantity versus quality resurfaced with a vengeance.
The gradual dawning on various PRC leaders of the enormity of the
damage done by the Great Leap Forward, plus the alarming fate of its
critics – Defence Minister Peng Dehuai had been denounced and dis-
missed – left many perplexed as to where they stood. The dilemma was
resolved for some in what was later criticized as being ‘left in form and
right in essence’. One wonders whether An did not begin to feel a creep-
ing in of weariness, wariness or even cynicism in adjusting to rapid

policy switches (as cadres at subordinate levels did). It is difficult to trace
a coherent course in An’s actions and motives in the early 1960s. In
trying to steer a course of pleasing both the increasing radical presence
among the political elite and the ‘readjusters’ in the party bureaucracy
– that is, those, including Liu Shaoqi and Deng Xiaoping, bent on repair-
ing the Great Leap damage – An seems to have fallen between two
stools. The readjusters appeared irritated by the COD’s inefficiency and
snail-like pace in implementing the tasks in hand, such as speeding up
the reversal of verdicts of against ‘rightists’.46 An, having played so faith-
ful a role in the antirightist and rightist–opportunist campaigns, had
not been equally speedy in undoing the fruits of his labour.
In November 1961 the Central Committee issued its ‘Report of the
Organization Department on Improving the Education and Manage-
ment of Party Members’, which criticized party organizations that had
become excessively and unnecessarily involved in economic develop-
ment and administrative tasks, to the detriment of the education and
management of party members.47 A year went by and the subject was
still on the agenda at the National Organization Work Conference in
late October 1962, following the Tenth Plenum of the Eighth Central
Committee in September. An attended the conference despite being on
‘sick leave’. Was he really ill, or was this a euphemism for an unofficial
form of discipline? Had he shown a lack of industriousness in imple-
menting the cadre management and education policies? Reiterating the
Central Committee’s November 1961 criticism, Liu Shaoqi appeared to
rebuke An’s department for its sloppy work and for intruding in areas
not of its concern: ‘If your department is placed on a strict basis, it will
not be so easy to break through your barrier.’48 A report prepared under
An’s direction was presented in response. It concluded with a self-
criticism of the COD’s 1958–60 activities:
During that period the Organization Department failed to take cor-

rective measures on, or report to the Central Committee in time, such
problems as the disruption in some regions of democratic-centralism
in inner-party life, disruption of the principle of combining collec-
tive leadership with individual responsibility in party committees
. . . the deviation of going to an excess in inner-party struggle. At the
same time, the department had relaxed giving direction to the regular
organizational work and cadre work of party organizations and did
not strictly control the work of promoting cadres and admitting new
members.49
Both Deng Xiaoping and Liu Shaoqi stressed the need for a tightening
up of cadre supervision, and for higher standards in their selection and
education for the purpose of party building in the period of socialist
construction:
All of us are revolutionary-minded. We are adept at revolution

but not at technology. . . . In supervising these persons (meaning
technical cadres) we must find people who are educated in technol-
ogy to do the job. . . . The Organization Department must take in new
elements.50
If the readjusters were concerned about An’s efficiency, they probably

did not doubt his basic commitment to cadre education; here An was
clearly in their camp, and as the Socialist Education Movement rolled
on the radicals’ and An’s notions of what it took to educate a party
member became more and more blatantly at odds. When Mao called
for the ‘rotational training’ of cadres in socialist construction, the COD
complemented this with its own educational plan for party members.51
The plan involved the study of communist theory, the party’s history
and traditions and ethics; there was particular emphasis on Liu Shaoqi’s
‘How to Be a Good Communist’. Then An either demonstrated his belief
in a firmly based theoretical education by rotating himself off to the
Party School in autumn 1963, or he was rotated. He spent four months
immersed in the study of Das Kapital. A prolonged visit to the school
was not an unusual phenomenon in the punitive rectification of
high-level cadres.
Revolutionary successors
The 1964 debate on cultivating revolutionary successors brings us to the
final episode before the Cultural Revolution, where we find An attempt-
ing to steer an increasingly obstacle-strewn path of allegiance to Mao
and to his own views on how China should become an industrialized,
modern communist state, led by an educated party elite. In the late
summer and early autumn of 1964 a spate of articles on revolutionary
successors appeared in the media.52 They were not unconnected to, but
were somewhat dwarfed by, the ‘two combine into one’ versus the ‘one
divides into two’ philosophical debate that had just saturated the press.
This theoretical debate on dialectical mechanics had pitted Mao against
An’s ex-Caolanzi colleague Yang Xianzhen, former president and since
1961 vice-president of the party’s Central School. The Maoist interpre-
tation of one dividing into two was the philosophical code language –
the symbol for struggle – for learning through practice as the means to
produce and reproduce revolutionary spirit. It was at the heart of his
intention in the socialist education movement.
In the late spring of 1964 Mao listed five requirements for revolu-
tionary successors; ironically, each had its twin in five of Liu Shaoqi and
An Ziwen’s 1951 Eight Criteria. It was therefore not difficult for An to
come out in apparent full support of Mao’s five requirements. However
there were some significant differences of emphasis between a Hongqi
editorial that appeared on 31 July 1964 and An’s 23 September article
three issues later.53 The editorial, presumably penned by editor Chen
Boda (or someone under his auspices), was essentially a call to youth,
stressing the need to recruit under-forty-year-old cadres in ‘large
numbers’. It was addressed to the ‘new blood’, younger cadres being
trained in the basic-level units that were the latest source of revolu-
tionary inspiration:
Only through popularization and implementation by the basic-level

units will the policies of the Party be accepted by the masses and
translated into action by the masses. . . . Large numbers of Party and
State cadres must be trained and supplied by the basic-level units.54
The editorial paid lip service to the valuable advice from older-
generation cadres, but added that their role would not be complete until
they handed over the tasks of the revolution to the younger generation.
‘If a unit has fulfilled all tasks except the task of training personnel . . .
it has failed to make a success of personnel work and Party-building
work.’55 This was a clear challenge to those involved in personnel work,
a challenge that An, with overall responsibility for the organization
of personnel work, attempted to meet in his article, ‘Cultivating and
Training Revolutionary Successors is a Strategic Task of the Party’. The
first section was a long treatise on communist revisionism, warning
against revisionists disguised as Bolsheviks and phoney Marxist–
Leninists who ‘cheat young people and curry favour with them’. Was
this a surreptitious dig at the clarion call to youth in the Hongqi edi-
torial? An then analysed the five requirements, and the contrasting
viewpoints visibly emerged.
Meeting these [the five] qualifications, they can become more versed
in their trades, master techniques, learn how to administer the state
and manage the economy, science and culture, can better serve
socialism and become proletarian revolutionaries politically red and

professionally proficient.56
There in a nutshell was the ‘red and expert’ dialectical concept, the
policy of cadre strengthening and management that had been pressed
for in 1956, 1957, 1961 and 1962. The Hongqi editorial did not once
refer to the acquisition of technical expertise. An’s attention was focused
on the work-team personnel – party members who had been tem-
porarily sent for training and ‘steeling’ to the basic-level units – rather
than on the basic-level unit personnel. The work-team members were
there both to learn and to teach, and were to be led by veteran cadres.
‘In the final analysis the work of training and cultivating successors has
to be done by veteran cadres.’57 An was less interested in encouraging
massive recruitment from the basic-level units than in ensuring that
those who were to train revolutionary successors were fit to do so. Mao
responded unambiguously at the January 1965 Central Work Confer-
ence: An Ziwen was guilty of ‘closed-doorism’.58
Yang Xianzhen and the Party School59
Of the power bases held by the four leading members of the sixty-one,
Yang’s was the narrowest and the most vulnerable, despite its ‘depth’.
Throughout his revolutionary career, Yang had stayed largely within
the cloisters of theoretical education in communism, conforming
closely to the traditional image of ‘scholar official’. He does not appear
to have built up networks of professional associates beyond the Central
Party School and in the Propaganda Department, to which the school
acted as an adjunct. He does seem to have made a number of influen-
tial enemies – Kang Sheng, Chen Boda, Ai Siqi and Wang Ruoshi –
within the institutions to which he was connected. Not only was Yang’s
power base narrow, but the resources available within the confines of
the school engendered an essentially shaky form of power. An Ziwen
had the vast resource of party and state manpower at his disposal, Bo
Yibo was among those who commanded a grand variety of resources
in China’s heavy industry and communications systems, and Liu
Lantao governed an entire region of China. Yang Xianzhen’s sphere of
manoeuvre was all in the mind – his understanding of communist
theory and his views on how this should be practised in China. The fact
that this was very much Mao’s turf increased Yang’s vulnerability, a
situation exacerbated by their disagreement on certain fundamentals of
communism.
Yang’s problems began early on and have been documented by both

unsympathetic and sympathetic sources in China, not to mention Yang
himself, as well as by Western scholars.60 Yang suffered a number of set-
backs in his career from 1959 onwards, and was criticized and demoted
at least twice, but the renegadism charge was not levelled against him
until the Cultural Revolution. This charge, plus some deft finishing
touches of guilt by association with Liu Shaoqi, completed the negative
portrayal of Yang, most of which was well in place by the summer of
1964.
Yang’s association with the Central Party School began in Yan’an in
1945. By 1948 he had become its vice-president or dean, a position he
held until 1955 when he became president, replacing Liu Shaoqi, who
continued as Politburo and Secretariat adviser to the school. Like several
others among the sixty-one who were honoured at the Eighth Party
Congress in September 1956, Yang became an alternate member of
the Eighth Central Committee, and in May 1958 was promoted to full
membership. That was the good news; unfortunately for Yang, after the
Eighth Congress Kang Sheng was appointed Politburo representative to
the school, and his wife, Cao Yi’ou, was appointed to the school’s
administration.
By 1955 Yang had clearly outlined his orthodox Marxist views on
materialism and his anti-idealism. He favoured a gradual transition
of economic stages towards communism.61 Certainly until the mid
1950s, until Mao’s July 1955 speech urging the accelerated APC drive,
this gradualism was within the mainstream of leadership viewpoints.
The views of other theoreticians such as Ai Siqi and Chen Boda, who
had already shown a preference for a more radical line, were vindicated
by Mao’s July 1955 direction, and at that Yang point opted for discreet
silence.
The philosophical theoretical base for his economic standpoint had
also been stated in 1955; on the relationship between thought and exis-
tence, Yang maintained that ‘true materialists must uphold the absolute
primacy of material reality’.62 Hence objective conditions must deter-
mine the nature of revolutionary action. The Great Leap Forward turned
such ideas on their heads. Yet Yang participated with alacrity at least
in the initial stages of the Great Leap, later admitting to being a ‘little
hot-headed’ like many others at the time.63 Students at the Party School,
instead of commencing the 1958 autumn term, returned to their units.
Teaching staff were relocated to factories or the countryside. By Novem-
ber Yang was showing some signs of distress about ‘unrealistic targets’,
but he moderated any critical signal by adding that ‘the main current
remains good’.64 That month Mao himself referred to his sleepless nights
over the multitude of problems in policy execution.65
Yang, visiting his erstwhile philosophy students in Henan in January
1959, began to fathom the inconsistencies between what was reported
and what was reality. However it was not until June and July 1959, at
a meeting with a delegation from the Henan Party School, that Yang
sharply and sarcastically criticized the Great Leap Forward’s slogans and
fake statistics:
‘Monkey’ was able to pull out a strand of hair, breathe on it and have
whatever he wanted. We no longer possess that ability of his. . . .
What we need now is real iron, and real steel, not some fake ‘steel
sputnik’. Big talk will not give us socialism: only hard work will create
it, step by step. We must not reward those who hand in fake reports,
and give ‘black banners’ to those who speak the truth.66
He also ridiculed the notion that studying the Marxist classics ‘stressed
the past’ and belittled the study of Mao’s works (‘slighting the present’).
Finally, he roundly condemned idealism: ‘I ask all of those who prac-
tice idealism to knock it off! You have already created one “miracle,”
e.g. that of starvation; . . . We must earnestly condemn utopian
communism . . .’67
But even then he believed, perhaps naively, that he was speaking off
the record in a private forum, and he must have been somewhat
unnerved to receive an edited transcript of his comments, copies of
which apparently found their way into Politburo and Secretariat circles.
In the meantime Yang attended the Lushan Eighth Plenary session
of the Eighth Congress in August, and on the advice of his Caolanzi
associates Bo, An and Liu Lantao, decided against speaking out.68 This
time his discretion was too late; despite a vigorous speech at the Party
School in late October condemning rightist opportunism, Yang could
not escape criticism for his stinging commentary on the Great Leap
Forward. For several months he underwent criticism in a series of closed
sessions of the Central School’s Party Committee, which reached a
verdict of rightist opportunism and reported accordingly to the Central
Committee in July 1960. In January 1961 he lost his prestigious posts
as president of the Party School and secretary of its Party Committee,
and was demoted to vice-president and vice-secretary.
One wonders what deals were engineered during this 1960 limbo
period as far as Yang’s fate and the command of the school were
concerned. Considering the vituperous nature of Yang’s criticism of the
Great Leap Forward, the punishment meted out to him – the closed
forum criticism and the one-slot demotions – seems relatively light,
especially if one compares this with the fate of Peng Dehuai and others
for their Great Leap criticisms. There are several possible explanations.
First, as suggested by Michael Schoenhals, Yang’s comments were
targeted at ‘lower level cadres and propaganda officials’ rather than
Mao personally, which could be interpreted as an attack on the imple-
mentation of the Great Leap Forward rather than on the policy concept
itself.69 Second, his remarks were ‘unofficial’, whereas Peng’s were in the
form of a letter to Mao. Third, Yang enjoyed far less recognition from
the general public than Peng, who was minister of defence, a military
hero and a household name – and a peasant household name at that.
Another possibility is that Yang was directly or indirectly protected by
associates such as An Ziwen, or even Liu Shaoqi. That might explain
why it was Wang Congwu of the school’s Party Committee who replaced
Yang as president and Party Committee first secretary in autumn 1961,
and not Ai Siqi, who had served as acting president in Yang’s absence.
Wang, who may well have been responsible for confining the criticism,
had served as deputy director of the COD (and was therefore an asso-
ciate of An Ziwen), and as deputy secretary in the Control Commission
(an associate, therefore, of Liu Lantao).
Wang’s tenure was certainly to Yang’s satisfaction; as he stated in
1981, ‘After the meeting of the 7000, the democratic life in the Central
Party School was restored.’70 The verdict on Yang was reversed in mid
1962, but his return to normal life did not last long. As Carol Lee
Hamrin notes:
The well-known purge of Yang in 1964–65 on the charge of raising

the slogan of ‘combining two into one’ to oppose Mao’s ‘dividing
one into two’ was in many ways the mere playing out of the
substantive disagreements and power struggles between Yang and his
competitors.71
I shall relate only briefly the philosophical content of this well-

documented and well-analysed episode – an episode of some two and
a half years’ duration, at the end of which Mao danced Yang off the
school floor in their Hegelian–Marxist pas de deux. In May 1963 Mao
issued his ‘First Ten Points’ in respect of the socialist education cam-
paign, and spoke of his understanding of the relationship between
contradictions, of struggle as the mechanism activating the mutual
transformation of opposites.72 In Mao’s view human consciousness,

spirit, transformed matter, the world; in Yang’s view ‘revolutionary spirit
. . . had to be combined with a sober respect for objective limitations’.73
This was the era of at least paying lip service to class-struggle terminol-
ogy, even if actions might lend themselves to other interpretations; the
language in which Yang’s viewpoint was expressed, however, stressed
compromise and tolerance.
Yang said he was simply following Mao’s directive on publicizing
dialectics when he delved into his library that summer and came up
with the ‘combine two into one’ phrase from the seventeenth-century
Ming–Qing scholar Fang Yizhi. He worked on this idea for several
months, discussing it extensively in Party School circles; his stimulated
students wrote and published an article on the concept at the end of
May 1964. Unfortunately the article was titled ‘Dividing One into Two:
Uniting Two into One’.74 This, as Hamrin has suggested, set up the two
phrases as if on the one hand challenging and on the other comple-
menting each other,75 neither option endeared itself to Mao. By mid
June Kang Sheng had orchestrated a newspaper attack on Yang’s theory.
Between 18 and 24 August, during the course of his ‘Talks on Problems
of Philosophy’, Mao criticized Yang by name: ‘When the Kuomintang
troops came, we swallowed them piece by piece. This is not Yang
Xianzhen’s theory of combining two into one.’76
A further spate of media attacks ensued, continuing throughout the
following year, but despite the ferocious publicity Yang was not removed
from the Party School until December 1965, and even then his disgrace
was far from absolute. He was transferred to the Academy of Sciences
at Mao’s order. Again the protective kid-glove treatment was afforded
by another former white area cadre, Lin Feng, who had served in the
North Bureau in the 1930s and had replaced Wang Congwu as presi-
dent of the school. Furthermore, while one might give Mao the benefit
of the doubt, considering his oft-proclaimed distaste for excessive
punishment, his radical cohorts were not yet in possession of sufficient
authority to engineer party purges, and in the meantime had to make
do with media smear campaigns.
During the Cultural Revolution, Yang’s critics linked him to Liu
Shaoqi, showing how in early 1956 Liu and Yang had planned to alter
the curriculum, changing its balance to increase research into economic
policy and technical education. This is confirmed by pro- and anti-Yang
sources.77 It was also alleged that Yang, under Liu’s direction, had
attempted to limit the teaching of Mao’s Thought at the school and in
cadre education programmes. Yang later conceded that some in the
school’s theoretical training department were guilty of ‘disparaging

Comrade Mao Zedong’s works’ and that at the school’s second party
delegates’ meeting in 1956, ‘we unequivocally provided that, in the
teaching plans and the booklists in the future, Chairman Mao Zedong’s
works must be included among the Marxist classics’.78 In the Cul-
tural Revolution context the phrase ‘must be included’ was woefully
inadequate – ‘must be foremost’ might have done the trick.
Bo Yibo: heavy power79
[T]he planners and leaders of heavy industry created a system that

produced and disposed of heavy industrial products in ways that
maintained their dominance and impenetrability . . . their insatiable
demands for investment meant that funds for light industry and
agriculture were squeezed even more tightly.80
The above is not a scornful Red Guard comment but the conclusion of
a Western scholar.81 The Cultural Revolution media were, of course, even
less complimentary to this sector and its allegedly nefarious chief, Bo
Yibo, referring to him as ‘an old-time renegade’, ‘turncoat’ and the ‘top
Party person in authority taking the capitalist road in the industrial and
communications system’.82 Just as with his three colleagues, the radical
media pounced on the 1936 episode as the epitome and the rationale
of Bo’s behavioural code, padding out the portrayal with their own
slanted interpretations of his policy-making and implementational roles
in China’s economy.
If his three colleagues operated in the relationship sphere between
superstructure and base, Bo’s feet were planted firmly in the latter –
where in his immediate vicinity one can easily identify an impressive
array of characters from his past; a power base of deep and broad dimen-
sions.83 Former white area cadres, including Caolanzi and other prison
associates from the 1930s, Dare-to-Die comrades and North China
Bureau cadres all figured prominently in the bureaucratic institutions
led by Bo in the 1950s and 1960s.84 An Ziwen played no small part in
contributing to Bo’s base, in terms of the approval given for high-level
party and state appointments by the Organization Department (and for
state posts approved when An was minister of personnel). Not only
opulent in cliental terms, Bo Yibo’s base was economically powerful
because of its wealth of material resources. While I do not mean to
suggest that Bo acted in anything but what he believed to be the best
interests of nation and revolution – that is, turning China into a

modern, powerful, communist state – the economic functional system
with which he was identified was undeniably mighty. It should also be
emphasized that, however mighty any functional system was, or any
individuals or groups were, such might was always relative to the might
of Mao Zedong and how or whether he chose to exercise it.
The organizational bureaucratic structure into which much of Bo’s
power was fed and organized was the State Economic Commission
(SEC), which he chaired for a full decade from 1956. Added to this in
1961 was the chairmanship of the Industry and Communications Staff
Office of the State Council, and in the following year the post of vice-
chairman to the State Planning Commission. Although Bo was also a
Politburo alternate member from September 1956, his operational base
was mainly in the state sphere (the State Council, of which he was
vice-premier from November 1956), and as such perhaps enjoyed an
atmosphere of slightly less political–ideological intensity than would
have been the case in a party base of equivalent stature.
There were certainly periods in the PRC’s economic history when
Mao’s and Bo’s approaches to economic development neatly dovetailed
(during the Great Leap Forward, for instance), and Cultural Revolution
spokesmen seemed hard-pushed to produce any substantial complaints
against him; on such occasions he was accused of ‘double-dealing tactics
of feigning compliance’. But there were also times when they did
not see eye to eye, whereupon Bo was accused of having ‘boycotted
Chairman Mao’s instructions’. Some aspects and episodes of Bo’s
1949–66 career may have fuelled such charges.
Bo and the tax dispute

Although Bo continued officially to hold his various north China posts
(secretary of the North China Bureau, first vice-chairman of the North
China People’s Government, and vice-chairman of its Financial and
Economic Committee), he immediately entered the central echelons of
power upon the establishment of the People’s Republic in October 1949.
Bo was appointed as a member of the Central People’s Government
Council (CPGC) and of the Government Administration Council (GAC),
and was made vice-chairman of the GAC Financial and Economic Com-
mittee (FEC), of which Chen Yun was chairman. This was ‘the impor-
tant committee charged with the task of coordinating the work of
the ministries concerned with finance, industry, trade, food, railways,
communications, water conservancy, agriculture, forestry and labour as
well as the People’s Bank of China’.85
One other post held by Bo from 1949 was that of finance minister,
and it was in this capacity that he found himself tottering on the brink
of early political demise, an experience that may well have influenced
his subsequent political choices. Apparently without prior Central Com-
mittee consultation, in late 1952 Bo publicly proposed the equalization
of taxes for private and state-owned enterprises.86 Both the content of
and the manner in which the proposal was presented were scathingly
criticized by Mao at the June–August 1953 National Conference on
Financial and Economic Work:
Bo Yibo’s mistake is a reflection of bourgeois ideology. It is beneficial

to capitalism and harmful to socialism. . . . A spiritual sugar-coated
bullet has hit the mark in Bo Yibo. . . . Politically and ideologically
he is somewhat corrupted, [so] it is absolutely necessary to criticize
him.87
There was more than chilling irony in Mao’s words, for Bo had con-
ducted and only recently wound up the Sanfan movement, directed at
corrupt urban cadres, and the Wufan movement, targeting fraudulent
capitalists in particular and the national bourgeoisie in general. The
conference was an altogether alarming, if not shocking, experience for
Bo and not just because of Mao’s closing speech. Gao Gang (chairman
of the State Planning Commission), Rao Shushi (director of the Orga-
nization Department) and others attacked Bo for his accumulation of
personal power, or independent kingdom building, and for his surren-
der ‘to the rich peasants and the bourgeoisie’. Bo was also criticized by
his peers, including Li Fuchun and Zhou Enlai. An Ziwen did not spring
to Bo’s defence, but maintained a steady silence.88 Support from An, who
was under attack for his Politburo list, would only have done more
damage and reinforced the aspersions cast by Gao on white area cadres.
Zhou Enlai found Bo’s atonement attempts unsatisfactory:
Comrade Bo Yibo has already made two self-criticisms. In the second

Comrade Bo Yibo has shown increased realization of his mistakes but
has not been able to expose the roots of his mistakes . . . [which] stem
from his ideological, social and historical roots. . . . I agree with the
opinion expressed by Gao Gang and others that the most conspicu-
ous problem with Comrade Bo Yibo’s bourgeois individualism is in
having wrongly placed his personal position [above] that of the Party,
in not having been honest with the Party, and in his lack of democ-
racy in working style.89
This damning criticism was at least alleviated by Zhou’s reference to

praiseworthy aspects of Bo’s past, in that he had ‘fought valiantly
against the enemy’ and ‘made relatively major achievements’ when he
had followed the correct party line.90
Mao was less generous. He criticized Bo’s defeatist attitude about the
peasantry’s ability to move from individual to collective economy. He
criticized Bo’s contravention of the principle of collective leadership.
Harshest of all was his attack on Bo’s bourgeois ideology:
[D]uring the three periods when we cooperated with the bourgeoisie,

that is, during the first period of cooperation between the Kuom-
intang and the Communist Party of China, the period of the War of
Resistance against Japan, and the current period, it was always bour-
geois ideology that influenced some people in the Party and caused
them to waver. Bo Yibo’s mistake was committed under such
circumstances.91
Mao’s words could not have held any comfort for those white area
cadres who had actually carried out the policy of direct cooperation with
the bourgeoisie, unlike the cadres who had enjoyed the less contami-
nating luxury of simply theorizing on the subject. Gao Gang had voiced
far more overt criticisms of white area cadres’ ideological purity, but
Mao’s words, perhaps without conscious intent, cast subtler but no less
worrying aspersions. Similarly there was an intentional or unintentional
subtext, a menacing echo in Zhou Enlai’s choice of phrase: Bo had
placed his ‘personal position’ before that of the party. This was the crux
of the sixty-one’s 1936 dilemma – that they would be perceived as moti-
vated by personal safety rather than by obedience to the party.
Apart from the ignominy of criticism and self-criticism in front of
his elite peers and the small superelite, the formal expression of Bo’s
punishment was the loss of his Finance Ministry post.92 Considering
that he remained in all his other posts and considering the severity of
criticism, the organizational aspect of the punishment seems almost
trivial. We can attribute this to at least two reasons. First and foremost
was Mao’s overarching concern at that time to preserve party unity and
maintain the balance of power amongst the ‘differently advantaged’ (in
terms of their revolutionary backgrounds) leadership cadres. Second, he
had no intention of being bullied by Gao or anyone else into losing
the skills of a highly competent man of proven experience, whose
ideological aberration need not be irreversible. Third, the criticism itself
was probably deemed sufficiently punitive and educational.
The extent to which Bo learnt and applied painfully acquired survival

guidelines for the future is difficult to ascertain. In the meantime other
guidelines of a more general application were emerging from the
conference; the PRC’s New Democracy phase was over and China
was now treading the gradual path of socialist transformation, which
involved the nationalization of industry and agricultural cooperativiza-
tion, to be completed within ten to fifteen years. The national bour-
geoisie, sobered by their experiences in the Wufan campaign, would
continue to be tolerated, though less and less so, within the framework
of a peaceful and gradual takeover of capitalist industrial and commer-
cial enterprises by the state. The First Five Year Plan was (again) refined;
the leadership committed itself to the application of the Soviet model,
with heavy industry as the priority sector and agriculture acting as its
supportive (accumulation) base. As far as goals were concerned, there
certainly appeared to be leadership consensus. But how to achieve these
goals, at what pace, and the proportion of resources to be allocated
to the different economic sectors – these were questions that would
arise over and over again among the leadership’s policy makers and
implementers.
Building on a heavy base, 1954–56

During the financial and economic conference and a period after-
wards, we had a misunderstanding about Comrade Yibo. But the mis-
understanding would not be cleared up without the exposure of the
Gao Gang–Rao Shushi anti-party clique. ‘A long journey proves the
stamina of a horse and the passage of time tells the true from
the false.’ Comrade Yibo is our good comrade.93
Bo’s disgrace (like An Ziwen’s) did not last long. An improvement in

his fortunes coincided with a reverse in Gao’s. In September 1954 a
restructuring of the state central administrative organs took place. The
GAC was replaced by the State Council (SC); the FEC was dissolved, and
the State Planning Commission, which Gao had headed, moved under
the wing of the new SC; and the State Construction Commission (SCC)
was established, with Bo as its chairman. The SCC was to supervise
capital investment in accordance with the Five Year Plan. Under the
State Council were eight ‘general’ or staff offices, each responsible for
policy coordination among groups of ministries in specific sectors, six
of which were economic. Bo was appointed director of the Third Staff
Office, controlling the Ministries of Heavy Industry, Fuel, Construction
and Engineering (also known as Building), First and Second Machine

Building.
The ministries under Bo’s control governed the giant share of in-
dustrial investment: ‘Over half of investment was channelled into
industry, and of this almost 90 percent was allocated to producer goods
branches such as the metallurgy, machine-building, electric power, coal,
petroleum and chemical industries.’94 Together with the State Planning
Commission and in accordance with the Soviet system of material
balance planning, ‘the central government ministries drew up output
and distribution plans for the most important industrial products. That
placed the distribution of key commodities under the direct control of
central planners, not the market mechanism.’95
Change, however, appeared to be in the offing as the leadership in
general became less enamoured of the Soviet model and increasingly
aware of the plight of the agricultural and light industrial sectors and
their relationship with the rapidly growing heavy industry sector. Two
factors led to the end of this situation: shortfalls in the grain supply,
and the accelerated establishment of the APCs. Through collectivization
the CCP hoped to extend its control over the agricultural sector and
organize grain allocation. This differed from the Soviet approach in that
Mao was calling for collectivization before the mechanization of the agri-
cultural sector, instead of a gradual, simultaneous process.
Although Mao had obtained his colleagues’ agreement on the issue
of mechanization, there were considerable differences of opinion on his
July 1955 initiative on speeding up collectivization. The main obstacle
was the pace. Bo, in the distinguished company of Liu Shaoqi, Chen
Yun and Li Xiannian, would have preferred a gradual collectivization,
but Mao’s reference to Deng Zihui (minister of agriculture) as a ‘right
deviationist’ served as sufficient warning for Bo and others to fall meekly
into line by mid autumn. By 1956 the incredibly swift socialist trans-
formation of the agricultural and commercial sectors was almost com-
plete and well ahead of schedule. Its swiftness, however, was paralleled
by its superficiality and the tremendous ‘imbalances and planning chaos
in the overall economy’.96 A variety of economic strategies were sug-
gested during 1956–57, as it became clear that there was some rethink-
ing to be done vis-à-vis economic planning, and that this would involve
more than fine-tuning the adjustments to the Soviet model. Ideas
ranged from increasing investment in agriculture and light industry to
devolving planning and allocation powers for certain light industry
commodities downward and outward to the respective localities. Chen
Yun had begun to formulate his own idea on moving away from
material balance planning towards ‘the three balances’: ‘a balanced

budget, balanced bank loans and repayments, and balanced material
supply and demand’.97
In the spirit of democratic centralism, Mao had called for reports from
a whole range of economic institutions in early 1956. Bo had been
instrumental in organizing this effort.
Comrade Liu Shaoqi had asked responsible persons of the industrial

departments to make reports and hold forums, many new problems
were discovered. When I reported this to Chairman Mao, he said
happily, ‘This is very good. Organize similar activities because I
would like to hear about them.’ He later personally heard the reports
of 34 departments of industry, agriculture, transportation, commerce
and finance of the central authorities. This was an important act of
investigation and study of our country’s socialist construction, and
I had personally taken part in the entire course of such reporting
activity.98
On the basis of these reports, Mao had been moved to make his speech
‘On the Ten Great Relationships’, proposing economic adjustments such
as increased investment in agriculture and coastal industrial develop-
ment. Even as he argued for these increases, he did so within the frame-
work of his commitment to heavy industry as the key sector, ‘the centre
of gravity’.99
If Bo was troubled by the notion of a reduced imbalance in invest-
ment among the sectors, he was perhaps compensated by a further
restructuring of the economy’s functional system hierarchy. In May
1956 the State Economic Commission (SEC), was established, with Bo
as chairman. Planning powers were split: long-term planning – the Five
Year Plans – remained the domain of the State Planning Commission
under Li Fuchun, but short-term, year-to-year planning was the new
SEC’s responsibility: it was given the task of effecting a balance at the
national level between the supply of and demand for raw materials.
While Bo’s powers had previously been in the realm of coordinating
and implementing dictated policies in the heavy industry sector, his
new SEC powers extended to policy making and overall economic
planning. This was underlined by his election as alternate member of
the Politburo in September 1956. In these capacities he could not pos-
sibly be oblivious of the continuing pressure for increased investment
in agriculture.
Second – and third – thoughts on agriculture

At the end of February 1957, in his speech ‘On the Correct Handling of
Contradictions Among the People’, Mao reiterated the need for agri-
cultural investment and its integral relationship with heavy industry:
[I]ndustry must develop with agriculture, for only thus can industry
secure raw materials and a market, and only thus is it possible to
accumulate fairly large funds for building a powerful heavy industry
. . . it is not yet so clearly understood that agriculture provides heavy
industry with an important market.100
In August, Bo announced that there would be an increase in invest-

ment in this sector in the 1958 plan, and that equal emphasis was
required on the development of industry and agriculture, because ‘the
development of agriculture will not only improve the living standards
of the people, but will promote the development of light and heavy
industry’.101
Mao was clearly attracted to Chen Yun’s ideas on economic decen-
tralization, and sympathetic to local leaders who naturally concurred
with such views. Bo was given the task of figuring out how central
control was to be maintained as economic powers devolved.102 By late
1957 the central planners were prudently courting Mao with a reform
programme that included a decision to invest in medium-sized and small
heavy industrial plants to serve local needs, thereby alleviating the
bottlenecks that occurred in production and distribution. Savings could
even be made in agricultural and light industrial production (and pre-
sumably ploughed back into heavy industry) by increasing production
but reducing quality control if there was better preproduction planning.
These decentralizing innovations were termed ‘self-reliance’ and
essentially constituted the blueprint for the Great Leap Forward. Thus
ensued the eventual dovetailing of the economic strategies of Bo and
his heavy industry associates with the desire of Mao and his supporters
for mass mobilization efforts to accelerate socialist transformation. In
theory the September 1957 policy to decentralize the control of many
light industrial products left central control of planning and alloca-
tion in the heavy industry sector relatively unaffected. Similarly the
September 1958 Central Committee and State Council directive on
planning reform, while detailing a ‘double-track’ system that would
give priority to the local ‘horizontal’ track, still allowed for more than
a significant degree of central control over planning and allocation.103
In practice of course the decentralization of economic power during the

Great Leap Forward went far beyond its theoretical concept.
Bo leaps
Bo, like most others in the leadership, ultimately gave his full support
to the Great Leap Forward. That he had not leapt fast enough is evident
from Mao’s criticism of him and other leaders (including Zhou Enlai,
Chen Yun and Li Xiannian) at the January 1958 Hangzhou and Nanning
conferences.104 In May 1958, at the second session of the Eighth Party
Congress, Bo and the aforementioned offered self-criticisms for their
tardy support of the 1956 measures (‘opposing rash advances’) and the
first sets of plans for the 1958 plan.105 Once Bo became caught up in
the vortex of revolutionary euphoria, there was, as far as heavy indus-
try was concerned, method in the madness. Increased investment in
agriculture (and hence a decrease in capital construction) would be
minimal because of the policy of self-reliance and dependence on local
resources (raw materials, equipment and labour) in the countryside,
where the communes would run the small industries. This should have
alleviated the burden on the central heavy industry sector. What actu-
ally happened was another story.
Communes, in their efforts to ‘go in for industry in a big way’,

retained many superfluous materials. Provincial authorities, attempt-
ing to build up comprehensive industrial complexes within their
own provinces, had set up and expanded various industries, almost
regardless of cost. As a result many key raw materials were in short
supply, the state’s priority projects were adversely affected, and the
situation was out of control.106
This was but one element of the chaos and tragedy engendered by the
Great Leap. It is difficult to avoid being judgmental about the ensuing
famine and mortality. Though one can understand the initial enthusi-
asm amongst the leadership, the nationalistic pride they felt in this
attempt to carve out a unique Chinese model of socialist industrializa-
tion, it is far less easy to understand those who were ready to take up
the cudgel a second time, immediately after the grim facts had begun
to accumulate and reach the leadership’s ears. In late 1959 Bo Yibo was
among those who ardently supported the revived Leap and the contin-
ued drive to raise steel and iron output.
In the interim period, November 1958 to July 1959, there had been
acknowledgement of the growing chaos, and directives on readjustment
– specifically for reducing the planned output quotas for the steel indus-
try – had been issued. However the July–August Lushan conference, at
which Mao blasted Peng Dehuai and others for their criticism of the
Great Leap’s failures and called them right-deviationist opportunists,
paralysed the implementation of the proposed readjustments. While
Peng was censured for ‘coming out of the closet’, in later years Bo was
censured for hypocritically staying in it. Attuned to the hostile atmos-
phere, he did not deliver the critical speech prepared for him on the
basis of data supplied by Ma Hong and Sun Yefang.107 Instead he spoke
favourably of the Leap. Was he visited with a sinister sense of déjà vu,
casting his mind back six years to when he had been condemned
as bourgeois ideology incarnate?108 If survival instincts sprang to the
fore, did they also embrace pragmatic thoughts on a continuation of
the Leap? The latter had vastly increased the steel production targets;
investment in state-owned units was almost double that of 1957; and
1587 large and medium-sized enterprises in metallurgy, coal, electric
power, chemicals, construction materials and machine-building had
been established in 1958.109
In 1959 investment soared to 43.4 per cent of national income, and
the capital construction funds for heavy industry dropped by a mere
0.3 per cent from the 57 per cent high of 1958.110 Bo was sufficiently
astute to realize that, with or without investment cuts, changes to the
industry would have to come, changes that in both the short and the
long term could benefit this sector. In the autumn of 1959 an article by
Bo harped back to an old and favoured theme: the mechanization of
agriculture. The heavy industry sector should cultivate its departments
responsible for agricultural machinery, chemical fertilizers and electric-
ity. Research was necessary.
Large industrial enterprises are the main support of agriculture. We

should actively develop those big industries which serve agriculture,
expanding or building factories that make agricultural machines,
tractors, power equipment, chemical fertilizers, insecticides, lorries
etc. We should do all we can to increase the output and improve the
quality of industrial products (including such fuels as petroleum)
needed for the technical transformation of agriculture.111
Although Bo’s article appeared during the peak of the revived Leap, and
did not contradict the ‘walking on two legs’ policy of simultaneous
development in agriculture and industry, its emphasis on industry

serving agriculture moved Bo considerably closer to common ground
with the reformers and readjusters, who subsequently reestablished
their hold on economic policy making and implementation. The salient
aspects of the policy he had outlined, altering priorities within the heavy
industry sector, were adopted and implemented during the readjust-
ment undertaken in the early and mid 1960s.
Adjustments in strategy
This was a well-judged move on Bo’s part, for during the summer
and autumn of 1960, sense and sensibility gradually crept back into the
economic leadership; Chen Yun’s policies appeared to be in the ascen-
dant. Mao had removed himself from the direct involvement in eco-
nomic policy making that had characterized the Great Leap Forward,
leaving the field open for the economic reformers. Chen had Liu
Shaoqi’s full support, much reinforced after Liu’s spring 1961 investi-
gation of the situation in Hunan. The starved agricultural sector, ‘the
foundation of all things’, would receive all available resources; private
plots would be restored; peasants could once again engage in sideline
production and free trade; and they would receive 70 per cent of
payments from the collective income in the form of wages.112 ‘Read-
justment, consolidation, filling out and raising standards’ became the
national economic slogan.
While it is probably true that the reformers welcomed Bo’s coopera-
tion in altering heavy industry’s developmental priorities, it is no
less true that his alignment options were singularly limited anyway,
with Mao’s temporary disengagement from direct management of the
economy and the unified approach to economic reform among the
other top leaders: Liu Shaoqi, Zhou Enlai, Deng Xiaoping and Chen
Yun. In June 1961 Bo, leading a ‘ten-man small group’, was given the
responsibility of formulating industrial readjustment plans.113 The
resulting seventy-article document, ‘Regulations on Industry Mines and
Enterprises’, basically reversed the Great Leap policies.
Except in a few specially regulated cases, all capital construction

programs were to be terminated . . . and all industrial enterprises
set up in haste and in defiance of economic rationality (i.e., those
suffering financial loss) were to be closed down. . . . Rationality,
rather than mass movement, became the dominant theme of indus-
trial management; factory managers were again given production
authority, and the importance of engineers and technicians in pro-

duction processes was reemphasized. . . . Quality was favoured over
quantity.114
Despite the objection of heavy industry personnel such as Wang Heshou

(metallurgy minister), steel output was reduced by almost two thirds
between 1960 and 1962. In 1963 roughly 25 per cent of state invest-
ment was allocated to agriculture and water conservancy projects, more
than three times the allocation in the first Five Year Plan and two and
a half times the 1958–59 allocation. As Bo had surmised in his 1959
article, industry was now to support agriculture. There was tremendous
growth in the output of crude oil and natural gas, and the oil-refining,
petrochemical, chemical fertilizer and synthetic fibre industries flour-
ished. By late 1963 China was self-sufficient in petroleum. Heavy indus-
try suffered not so much a loss as an internal rearrangement.
In April 1961 Bo took over from Li Fuchun as director of the Third
Office of the State Council, adding a number of ministries associated
with light industry, transport and communications to his rich port-
folio. The following year, 1962, Bo became vice-chairman of the SPC
and also joined Chen Yun on the Finance and Economic Small Group.
Meanwhile Mao, who had tacitly or otherwise accepted a limited
degree of responsibility for the economic disasters, watched the virtual
dismantling of the communes and the general backtracking or socialist
‘distransformation’ with mounting dismay, bitterly criticizing the eco-
nomic leadership in the spring and summer of 1962. Chen Yun was
singled out, and the SPC, the SEC and the State Council Finance and
Trade Office were angrily referred to as independent kingdoms. In lip-
service deference to Mao’s wrath, minor adjustments were made to agri-
cultural policy. The agricultural sector gradually recovered, approaching
the pre-Leap yields, and in some spheres transcended these levels. The
industrial sector, despite or perhaps because of the apparent clamp-
downs, enjoyed a swifter recovery. ‘Light and heavy industrial output
grew at 27 and 17 percent a year, respectively in 1963–1965. By 1965
the level of output of such major products as steel, electric power,
cement and heavy trucks was more than double that of 1957.’115
While still carping about the trend of the economy, Mao nevertheless
confined himself largely to politics, to his Socialist Education Move-
ment, and the economic readjustment programme continued in other
capable hands until 1965. With the increased party political presence
in the countryside, the economic strategy eventually returned to rapid
industrial growth. The bulk of Cultural Revolution criticism against Bo
relates to his performance during the years of economic readjustment,

to his support for revisionist or capitalist style ‘enterprise management’,
for the work teams he had sent out from the industrial and communi-
cations departments ‘to suppress the revolutionary masses’, and for his
destruction of evidence against himself after the 1–12 August Eleventh
Plenary Session of the Eighth Central Committee, at which he had been
criticized.116 At the October Central Work Conference, Bo was branded
as antiparty and antisocialist. The renegadism charge was not formally
brought until early 1967, and was then used as the ultimate proof of
Bo’s covert but continuous renunciation of communism throughout his
career.
Even without the renegadism charge, the Red Guards would have felt
they had sufficient support from Mao and the radical leaders to act
against Bo. On both a personal and a professional basis, Mao had good
reason to feel antagonism towards Bo, to whom he had given a chance
back in 1953 to redeem himself from his seemingly bourgeois ideologi-
cal inclinations. But Bo had bitten the hand that fed him: moving sud-
denly from his cautious, conservative (pro-Soviet model) approach to a
short-lived alignment with the radicals, and then doing an equally rapid
U-turn, Bo had abandoned Mao and turned against his Socialist Educa-
tion Movement.
From the angle of Bo’s Weltanschauung, in terms of his economic
strategy and certainly his power base interests there were no zig-zags.
The Great Leap could be viewed as an extreme intensification of, or
a radically alternative method for, the policy objective of keeping
heavy industry as the main priority and extracting the maximum from
agriculture on its behalf.117 Similarly, in the early 1960s, when effective
economic leadership was clearly in the hands of the reformers and read-
justers, Bo’s alignment with them made sense in terms of continued
investment in heavy industry, with some reallocation of this investment
within the sector. Even if agriculture had become the priority, heavy
industry continued to receive ‘the lion’s share of total investment’ and
Bo and his colleagues remained at the pinnacle of economic policy
making.118
Summary
The nature and extent of the power bases of Bo, An, Liu and Yang
were very different. Bo Yibo’s and Yang Xianzhen’s were the furthest
apart. Unlike Yang, Bo was not confined to one institution but enjoyed
a rich, complex base within which he could move from one bureau-
cratic structure to another. He could make pragmatic alignment choices

and still maintain solid cliental support. Furthermore he operated in the
government’s economic administration, where his political–ideological
credentials were under an occasional rather than a continuous spot-
light. He groomed associates for top-level positions alongside him, but
this accumulation of colleagues with past working associations, shared
prison pasts and in some cases provincial affiliations brought upon him
factional, clique-forming charges. His acceptance of and contribution to
the economic readjustment programme of the early 1960s retied him
to his alleged bourgeoisie sympathies of the early 1950s and detached
him from his Soviet model and Great Leap economic partnership with
Mao.
Yang’s operational base, small, academic and inflexible, was further
constrained by the ‘too close for comfort’ presence of Kang Sheng, Chen
Boda and Ai Siqi. Worst of all, Yang was in a state of ongoing and direct
ideological conflict with Mao – an inexcusable sin. His differences with
Mao on communist theory were so fundamental as to be undisguisable.
He was fortunate in having a degree of patron protection between 1960
and 1964, which delayed earlier ousting from his base.
Liu Lantao’s sphere of activities at the centre indicated that he had
initially derived some benefit from his ‘complicated’ past. If the CCC
was created partly to mollify the wounded dignity of white area cadres
with such complicated histories, the benefits were superficial because of
the limited definition of the CCC’s powers. Liu acknowledged this, and
acting with due circumspection was rewarded with a more effective base
– responsibility for an entire region.
An Ziwen was apparently the only one of the four to reveal palpable
signs of concern about discrimination against cadres with ‘complicated
histories’ such as his own, and indicated a need or desire to clarify and
justify such pasts. Within the scope of his extensive COD powers, he
had the ability to act on these instincts. His success, if at all, was brief
and rapidly undone in the context of the negation of his alleged ‘elitist’
(as opposed to ‘mass’) approach to party building.
Attacks on these four and the case of the Sixty-One Renegades were
to serve several Cultural Revolution purposes: detaching top-level party
and state officials from their power bases and debilitating the bureau-
cracy; the vilification of Liu Shaoqi; and the persecution of white
area cadres in general and prison cadres in particular. All were woven
together into a poisonous web of bourgeois ideology. When looking at
Bo, An, Liu and Yang, at their bases and choices of alignments, this
chapter has tried to cast light on the confidence, and sometimes lack of
it, with which they performed between 1949 and 1966. This focus on
the four most politically visible of the sixty-one can be seen as a kind
of ‘play within a play’. The real theatre – the potent word symbols, the
humiliating public parades, the unmasking of political villains – this
theatre of the grotesque and cruel absurd was yet to come.119
4
Prison Again – the CCP Version
[O]ur fighters braved wind and snow to make investigations . . . rail-

roads were ice-bound. . . . They could only march long distances on
foot over the snow. . . . One comrade had his feet . . . benumbed by
frostbite. Some fighters checked and verified cases for three days and
nights in succession without sleeping. . . . Ch’en Ts’ung . . . was so
worn out that he suddenly shrieked in the middle of the night, ‘Aiya,
I am finished!’ . . . his face had turned very pale and his pulse had
stopped beating.
(Nankai University ‘August 18’ Red Guards describe their winter
1966–67 experiences in researching the Case of
the Sixty-One Renegades)1
On leaving the plane, it seemed they had jumped into a steamer. In

the extremely hot summer . . . it was even difficult for them to gasp
for breath. . . . Jia Suping and others were busily rushing about con-
ducting their investigations. . . . They looked up files day and night.
. . . Jia Suping was too tired, and he suffered a heart attack.
(The COD group’s summer 1978 experience in reinvestigating
the Case of the Sixty-one Renegades)2
Upon reading the above accounts, a literary critic might scoff at

the all-too-obvious meteorological reversal and the almost identical
exhaustion-induced ailments suffered by the investigatory teams of
1966 accusers and 1978 exonerators. Despite the lack of literary subtlety
the two documents provide piquant detail on the opening and closure
of the Case of the Sixty-One Renegades.
This chapter traces how the case was handled during the Cultural
Revolution,3 focusing on the period from August 1966 to summer 1967,
138
Prison Again – the CCP Version 139
by which time the official (March 1967) Central Committee’s con-

demnation of the sixty-one had become public. Aside from its intrinsic
interest, the case offers a microcosmic view of how Cultural Revolu-
tion forces, once unleashed, spiralled rapidly out of control; how the
disintegrating party leadership responded to the networking of the
radical elite with the various official media organs, with the Central
Examination Committee (CEC) and Central Case Examination Group
(CCEG), and with Red Guard organizations and their unofficial media
operations.4
Above all the case’s almost inextricable relationship with the fate of
Liu Shaoqi is brought sharply into focus. If the 1936 release from prison
stamped ‘betrayal’ on the image of each of the sixty-one, the effect on
Liu Shaoqi’s image was all the more damning. Not only was he guilty,
from the organizational, administrative point of view, of having given
the order, but he had advocated this unethical action in accordance
with his ‘philosophy of survival’, as interpreted by the Cultural Revo-
lution radical elite from their reading of his 1939 essay ‘How to be a
Good Communist’. This philosophy was deemed integral to Liu’s unac-
ceptable ‘antirevolutionary’ political line. Furthermore his perceived sin
was not confined to 1936, but had spilt over in time and space: he had
‘protected’ these cadres from then onwards, facilitating their rise to posi-
tions of power.
It may seem, from an overall perspective, that both the radical elite
and the remaining party leadership used the case for the seemingly iden-
tical intention of ‘nailing’ Liu Shaoqi; their objectives, however, were
diametrically opposed. The radical leaders saw in the case justification
for increasing their attacks on groups and individuals in the party and
state cadre corps. Party leaders such as Zhou Enlai, having failed to
prevent exposure of the case, appears to have sought some compen-
satory benefit from it. Perhaps Zhou hoped that if the focus of attacks
was narrowed to this one significantly representative group, it might
satisfy the appetite of the radicals and forestall the scapegoating of other
high-level cadres, himself included.
The name of Kang Sheng also crops up frequently. Clearly he, like
others in the radical elite, generally manipulated and exploited the Cul-
tural Revolution chaos. Kang, in his capacity as a member of the CCEG
and overseer of its activities on behalf of the Politburo Standing Com-
mittee, ordered official investigations into the sixty-one and encouraged
the Red Guards in their research and exposure of the so-called rene-
gades. Post-1978 PRC historiography casts Kang as the chief villain of
the piece, but he cannot be held solely accountable:5 he did not operate
in a vacuum. The Cultural Revolution was Mao’s initiative and the role
of the enigmatic Zhou Enlai, which has yet to be fully explained,
appears increasingly suspect. As Michael Schoenhals has pointed out, it
was Zhou who chaired the Central Case Examination Group meetings.
The leadership was therefore well informed of the harsh day-to-day fate
of its purged and imprisoned leading cadres.6 Kang Sheng died in 1975.
Allowing the full blame to rest in peace along with the demonic or
demonized, but certainly deceased, Kang Sheng (for whom there was
no formal posthumous trial) meant not raising the question of the
party’s responsibility, let alone Mao’s or Zhou’s.
1–12 August 1966: the Eleventh Plenum of the Eighth

Central Committee
What then was the objective of the GPCR? Its objectives seem to have
been to remedy an accumulation of frustrations from which Mao had
suffered during the previous decade.7
Mao’s perception of the deteriorating political maladies of revisionism

and ossifying bureaucratization, within the party and the erosion of his
own political power gave rise to much of his frustration. His first oppor-
tunity to give vent to it centred on the Cultural Revolution’s initial and
superficially cultural focus, Wu Han’s drama The Dismissal of Hai Rui.
Mao and the radical elite perceived distinctly political – and subversive
– overtones to the play, but rejected the critique (the February Outline)
from the group (led by Politburo member Peng Zhen) appointed to deal
with the issue. This in turn led to the dismissal in June 1966 of Peng
Zhen from his prestigious post as mayor of Beijing, the reorganization
of the Beijing Party Municipal Committee and in August 1966, at the
Eighth Central Committee’s Eleventh Plenary Session, to Peng’s removal
from the Politburo.
At least as significant at that plenum was the demotion of Liu Shaoqi
from second to eighth position in the leadership hierarchy, signifying
Mao’s contempt for Liu’s work teams, which had tried to regain author-
ity for party leadership in the face of rising campus radicalism. Orga-
nized resistance to the work teams had evolved into Red Guard groups,
supported by the Cultural Revolution Group (CRG), established in May
1966 and composed of Chen Boda, Kang Sheng, Jiang Qing, Zhang
Chunqiao, Yao Wenyuan, Qi Benyu, Wang Li and Guan Feng. Liu
Shaoqi’s criticism of radical student leader Kuai Dafu of Qinghua Uni-
versity on the one hand, and Kang Sheng’s support on the other, was
an indication of the party leadership’s polarization vis-à-vis the Cultural
Revolution. On 5 August, with the plenum still in session, Mao
expressed publicly, in wall-poster format, his own radical sentiments.8
Coupled with the CRG criticisms accumulating inside the plenum
against those, such as Bo Yibo, who had supported and activated the
work-team programme, it was clear that things did not bode well for
certain party cadres.
At the plenum, in which ‘Mao obtained the formal endorsement of
the party’s Central Committee for a criticism of revisionism’, the
dichotomous motif for the ensuing period of the Cultural Revolution
was thus set.9 For while the plenum’s ‘sixteen-point decision’ called omi-
nously for struggle against those in authority who were taking the capi-
talist road, there were also voices of moderation. Stipulations were
introduced requiring that though such persons should be criticized they
should not be attacked in the press unless prior approval had been given
by the appropriate party committee. Party cadres were divided into four
categories: good (the majority); relatively good; those who had made
serious mistakes but were not antiparty and antisocialist (that is, their
mistakes were considered as contradictions among the people); and ‘a
small number of anti-Party, anti-socialist rightists’, guilty of ‘contradic-
tions between ourselves and the enemy’. Even fourth-category cadres
could still turn over a new leaf.10
Officially, errant cadres were to be criticized within the closed circle
of their immediate institutional framework. They were expected to offer
genuine self-criticism and would then be permitted to return to the fold.
In effect the hotline between the radical elite and the mass organiza-
tions enabled the latter to identify targets, publicize them in the unof-
ficial media of wall posters and tabloids, and parade them with dunces’
caps. The categories of internal and external contradictions became
hopelessly blurred as targets were ‘struggled’ against by Red Guard
groups. Although Mao and Zhou Enlai were known to have admonished
struggle and advocated criticism, ignoring Central Committee and
State Council directives became systemic and symptomatic during the
Cultural Revolution.
While Liu Shaoqi and Deng Xiaoping were probably considered
third-category cadres at that point, it seems that public awareness of
the different categories invited eager critics to place other targets in the
fourth. Hence we find that radical organizations immediately labelled
both An Ziwen and Bo Yibo antiparty, antisocialist, anti-Mao Zedong
(or simply ‘three-anti elements’). At the plenum Mao complained that
‘The Central Organization Department is no longer in our hands’.

Almost immediately (on 19 August) a COD mass meeting attacked An
Ziwen and some of his COD colleagues (including Li Chuli of the sixty-
one),11 and three days later An was taken into custody; Bo Yibo was
also labelled a ‘three-anti element, following scathing criticism at the
plenum. However their roles in the 1936 release episode were not
referred to at that stage, and the promotion at the plenum of Caolanzi
fellow and regional leader Liu Lantao to alternate membership of the
Politburo indicates that the case of the sixty-one had not yet found its
way onto the Cultural Revolution agenda. That situation was to change
rapidly – almost overnight.
Revving up: Kang Sheng’s role, August–September 1966
As the plenum drew to a close the mobilization of the masses began.

Between August and November 1966 there were eight major rallies, in
which some 13 million Red Guards participated. On 18 August, at the
first huge Tiananmen rally, Kang Sheng initiated – possibly uninten-
tionally – the investigation into the sixty-one when he met ‘a Red Guard
contingent’ from Tianjin’s Nankai University. He gave the group written
instructions to investigate renegade connections in Liu Shaoqi’s pre-
1949 history: ‘Please organize Red Guards to investigate the renegades
who infiltrated every unit and department. Investigate the arrest and
treachery of Liu Shaoqi and others. Kang Sheng. 18 August.’12
At that stage the Red Guards did not, apparently, find conclusive evi-
dence against Liu vis-à-vis his early arrests, but they did turn up some
interesting material on the 1936 prison release and Liu’s involvement
in it. In investigating their own leading university personnel at Nankai,
the ‘18 August’ group found that the secretary of the university’s Party
Committee, Gao Yangyun, had a ‘complicated’ white area history:
imprisonment in and release from Caolanzi. The Red Guards had
inadvertently made their first discovery in the ‘Case of the Sixty-one
Renegades’.
Whether Kang Sheng’s memory of the episode was triggered by the
early Red Guard information, or whether it was his prior intention to
reopen the matter officially, is not and probably never will be known.
Either way, as the matter had always been kept under wraps by the party,
once Kang decided to expose it he would have had to make use of unof-
ficial as well as official channels. Perhaps he manipulated the Red
Guards in order that eventually there would be some sort of official
response. Clearly there were parallel investigations by the CCEG and
Red Guard groups, encouraged by the CRG members. Information

flowed back and forth between these bodies.
In September 1966 the CEC (Central Examination Committee) group
investigating the crimes of Peng Zhen turned its attention to the sixty-
one. One case group was established to investigate An Ziwen, and
another – the 1949 Case Group, headed by Guo Yufeng – was to inves-
tigate the alleged destruction of files by An at the time of Beijing’s lib-
eration.13 By mid September Kang Sheng was able to write to Mao and
other senior leaders: ‘Bo Yibo and these sixty-one comrades have con-
ducted resolute anti-communist renegade activity, but Liu Shaoqi’s
decision legalized this anti-communist renegade behaviour.’14 There
does not appear to have been any top-level response, perhaps because
of potentially damaging embarrassment to the party establishment for
its action thirty years previously: official investigators with access to
restricted documents might just prove that Central Committee author-
ities even higher-ranking in 1936 than Liu Shaoqi had authorized the
release. As long as such a hazard existed, neither Mao nor Zhou Enlai
would have wanted the case opened up. In fact only a week previously,
alarmed by the uninhibited foraging of Red Guards into such strictly
classified materials as party personnel dossiers, to prevent exactly that
type of activity the Central Committee and State Council had issued a
directive: ‘Regulations of the CCP Central Committee and the State
Council Concerning the Protection of the Security of Party and State
Secrets during the Great Cultural Revolution Movement’.15
The foraging nevertheless continued. In early October the ‘masses’ in
the Ministry of Agriculture discovered the 1936 renegade past of Min-
ister Liao Luyan. Liao was ‘dragged out’ to a mass rally in the ministry
and forced to confess that he had signed a statement in Huabei ribao in
1936. His interrogators paid a visit to the Beijing public library and veri-
fied his story.16 The Nankai University Red Guards (NURGs) meanwhile
continued their investigations. Their interrogation of Gao Yangyun led
them to Yang Xianzhen.
We made a direct onslaught against Yang Xianzhen with a ‘concen-

trated force’. At first Yang was crafty and dishonest. After we crossed
swords with him, under the pressure of the infinitely powerful
thought of Mao Zedong, he was forced into explaining . . . how he
and Gao Yangyun betrayed the Party in 1936 by publishing in the
newspaper their ‘anti-communist announcement’ in order to secure
their release from prison. We pressed on with the attack in the flush
of victory and traitor Yang revealed that their group comprised also
Bo Yibo, An Ziwen, Liu Lantao, Hu Xikui, Liu Xiwu, Liao Luyan and
others. He also stated unequivocally that they acted as instructed by
Liu Shaoqi.17
Yang’s testimony thus appears to have become the key to the unfolding
of the entire story. During the ten days they spent in the Beijing Library
in October, the NURGs further substantiated their suspicions while
checking the August 1936 to March 1937 issues of Huabei ribao and Yishi
bao (Social Welfare Post). They found lists of the traitors and also the
anticommunist statements. They were only briefly stymied by the fact
that the names on the lists were pseudonyms; this obstacle was over-
come by ‘checking the dead with the living’ and ‘making a flexible inves-
tigation of dead materials’.18 The ‘living’ included Xu Bing, director of
the United Front Department, and two of the sixty-one: Zhu Zemin,
president of the Institute of Agricultural Science, and Yang Xianzhen,
who underwent a second interrogation. The NURGs were now in pos-
session of ‘ironbound evidence of the betrayal . . . by several dozen
persons’.19
At that point the eager investigators stopped to ask themselves some
pertinent questions: ‘why was it that these traitors, after their betrayal
and capitulation to the enemy, were allowed to sneak once again into
the party for as long as thirty years, usurp important Party and gov-
ernment posts and flagrantly carry out counter-revolutionary activ-
ities?’20 The NURGs’ answer to these rhetorical ruminations was that Liu
Shaoqi and others had protected the prison cadres. Despite the evidence
and their enlightenment, the Red Guards felt somewhat daunted.
Although Liu Shaoqi was facing difficulties, he was still considered a
political giant. Bo Yibo, though obviously a target of criticism, was still
vice-premier, and Liu Lantao was secretary of the Northwest Bureau.
Gao Yangyun was small fry in comparison. Furthermore Zhou Enlai had
arranged for Bo to be sent to a convalescent home in Guangzhou, so he
was temporarily out of harm’s way.21
The Red Guards’ hesitation to take the case further did not last long.
Concomitant with their October investigations was a further radical-
ization of the Cultural Revolution. Especially to the NURGs’ advantage
was Liu Shaoqi’s increasing vulnerability. His mistakes had now been
defined as of a ‘line’, denoting consistently incorrect ideology as
opposed to occasional deviations from the correct line. His drastically
weakening position culminated in his self-criticism during the Central
Committee Work Conference in Beijing on 9–28 October 1966.
What followed again typified the double-track management – or
rather mismanagement – of the Cultural Revolution. Mao was appar-

ently willing to accept Liu’s confession, in which Liu dated his errors
back to 1946. Despite urging from Lin Biao and Kang Sheng, Mao did
not class Liu with the antiparty plotters; on the contrary, his errors had
been made in the open. Mao expressed his belief in Liu Shaoqi’s reha-
bilitation potential and reiterated earlier statements that most cadres
who had erred could reform themselves.22 But that was not the message
the public received. CRG members apparently leaked the contents of
Liu’s self-criticism to the Red Guards and rumours were spread that he
had retracted his confession. By November wall posters to this effect
began to appear, even though Mao had expressed his opposition to
posters of this nature. If Liu had confessed to errors as far back as 1946
there would be no stopping the Red Guards, who had proof of earlier
misdemeanours, such as Liu’s role in the 1936 episode. And publicity
on this was presumably exactly what the CRG people wanted, but had
not been able to engineer within official circles.
As far as the Central Committee was concerned, however, the 1936
episode remained taboo, despite Kang Sheng’s attempt to draw attention
to it the previous month. Had it been on the October Work Conference
agenda, Liu would surely have referred to it in his October self-criticism
(as he did later). Clearly neither Mao nor Zhou Enlai wanted this deli-
cate matter opened up. Zhou’s adamant insistence on maintaining party
secrecy about it became evident the following month.
Zhou Enlai’s role in November 1966:

shoring up the defence
Between 1 and 9 November the NURGs sent interim reports of their

findings, and requests for further instructions, to the Central Commit-
tee, Chairman Mao, Vice-chairman Lin Biao, Premier Zhou Enlai and
the Cultural Revolution Group. They requested certain clarifications.
(1) Has Liu Shaoqi explained things to Chairman Mao and Vice-
chairman Lin Biao on this question?
(2) Has a conclusion been drawn on this question within the
party? If the answer is affirmative, who is the author of this conclu-
sion? We are of the view that this question must be examined afresh.
(3) Regardless of how things stand, we are of the opinion that all
of them are traitors, and must be completely exposed and firmly
struck down! The Central Committee is asked to instruct us when we
should hit out.23
There was no response.24 When their final batch of reports was dis-
patched on 9 November, the NURGs displayed their first dazibao (wall
poster) in Tianjin, exposing Gao Yangyun and his surrender. The poster
also named Peng Zhen (a former white area prison cadre, but not one
of the sixty-one), Bo Yibo, An Ziwen, Yang Xianzhen and Liu Lantao as
traitors.25 Within days Red Guards were demanding that Liu Lantao, first
secretary of the Northwest Bureau, be ‘dragged out’. The authorities in
the Northwest Bureau hastily contacted Zhou Enlai. His response, on 24
November, was explicit:
Your telegram of the 23rd has been received. Please explain to the
Weidong Red Guards of Nankai University and to the students of
the Xi’an Bombard the Headquarters Militant Detachment that the
Central Committee of the Party is aware of Comrade Liu Lantao’s
release from the Guomindang prison. If any new materials are found,
they can be sent by representatives to the Central Committee for
investigation and handling, but they are not to be made public or inves-
tigated by the students themselves [emphasis added].26
Zhou’s Selected Works, published long after the Cultural Revolution,

note that he then wrote to Mao that ‘as representative of the Central
Committee [Liu Shaoqi] had made the decision . . . [and] the case had
been examined and cleared at the Seventh and Eighth National Party
Congresses, so the Central Committee must now confirm its action’.27
This may be interpreted as an attempt by Zhou to protect Liu Lantao,
but the downside is that he seems to have been less interested in pro-
tecting Liu Shaoqi. Zhou may well have considered that Liu Shaoqi was
by then (November 1966) a ‘dead tiger’ and therefore there was little
point in protecting him.28
Less than a week had elapsed when Zhou was consulted on another
of the sixty-one: Zhao Lin, first secretary of the Jilin Party Provincial
Committee. Zhou replied to the Northeast Bureau and the Jilin com-
mittee, ‘unequivocally pointing out that it [the Central Committee] had
known about Comrade Zhao Lin’s being released from prison and that
this event should not be made public or inquired into at meetings’.29
This time Zhou also addressed himself directly to the Red Guards (at
Jilin Normal University) by telegram on 30 November 1966, repeating
that the Central Committee was aware of the prison discharge problem:
‘I hope that you will act according to the Party Central’s telegraphed
instructions. Do not make announcements or do investigations in mass
meetings: do not spread pamphlets or paste up slogans.’30
This is a clear indication that the Central Committee, or at least both

Zhou and Mao, still opted for establishment secrecy about the case. Yet
under pressure from two directions (radical leaders and Red Guards) –
neither of them particularly discreet – there was by now little likelihood
of such a strategy succeeding: too much had already been made public.
Those of the sixty-one and others who had been questioned continued
to maintain that the Central Committee had given its backing to the
1936 release, and Zhou himself, in trying to maintain the secrecy, stated
that it had been known to the Central Committee. There were two
options. The best scenario was somehow to ‘prove’ that it had been Liu
Shaoqi’s sole responsibility, despite all the claims to the contrary. The
second-best scenario was to admit to Central Committee involvement
but limit it to the ‘error’ of one man: Zhang Wentian, the party’s 1936
general secretary, who had handled day-to-day affairs. Under Kang
Sheng’s guidance, both options were pursued relentlessly.
December 1966 to February 1967
On 18 December 1966 the Wang Guangmei case group – in fact the real
target was Wang’s husband, Liu Shaoqi – was formed under the auspices
of Kang Sheng, Jiang Qing and Xie Fuzhi.31 Among the first to be inter-
rogated was Zhang Wentian, who apparently denied that Liu had been
solely responsible and maintained that the Central Committee had
authorized the release plan. Accounts sympathetic to Zhang claim that
he wrote twice to Kang Sheng, furnishing him with as much detail as
his fading memory could recall after thirty years, and suggesting that
Kang check the party archives for detail. Kang did not respond.32
In the meantime anti-Liu Shaoqi feeling was growing stronger.
Militant Qinghua students formed the United Jinggangshan Regiment,
posted a dazibao on 24 December listing ten major crimes by Liu Shaoqi,
and shortly afterwards held a Tiananmen rally condemning him.
Throughout December, in speeches to Red Guard and mass organiza-
tions the CRG leaders uninhibitedly denounced high-ranking cadres by
name, among them Zhang Wentian, Peng Zhen, Yang Xianzhen, Bo
Yibo, Lin Feng and Gu Mu. Though Mao and Zhou appeared to oppose
the personal attacks on Liu Shaoqi, they were committed to criticism of
the reactionary antirevolutionary line, of which Liu had become the
personifying symbol. Amid the chaotic political conditions of the 1967
‘January Power Seizure’, pressure upon the Central Committee was
stepped up by both Red Guards and the radical elite to deal with the
case of the sixty-one, and above all to incriminate Liu Shaoqi.33 The case
became more and more public as more of the sixty-one were ‘exposed’
and ‘trials’ were conducted within their organizational units.
The NURGs saw to it that Liu Shenzhi of the East China Bureau
Control Commission was brought to trial. In addition Wang De (direc-
tor of the Organization Department of the Central South Bureau), Fu
Yutian (vice-chairman of the Guangxi Zhuang Autonomous Region)
and, in Beijing, Ma Huizhi (vice-minister of communications) were all
‘dragged out’ on the basis of information extracted from another of the
sixty-one, Wang Xinbo.34 Agriculture minister Liao Luyan’s alleged tes-
timony can hardly have helped Liu Shaoqi:
Since my imprisonment I consistently and firmly opposed the

enemy. However during August–September 1936 the prison warden
received a notice from an organization at a higher level asking for
our release from imprisonment. It appears to me now that what was
decided upon in the past was wrong . . . before I was a Communist
Party member: I am one now . . . I carried out the wrong decision.35
On 9 January a second NURG report on the Caolanzi renegades was for-

warded to Zhou Enlai and the CRG leaders, again requesting instruc-
tions but this time also requesting authorization to bring Liu Shaoqi,
Bo Yibo and An Ziwen to trial. On the same day radical leader Qi Benyu
announced that, in the public investigation of the ‘An Ziwen party
renegades,
the chief organizer of these turncoats and renegades is Liu Shaoqi.

. . . On this point, we must learn from them [the Red Guards]. They
are concerned with the most important affairs of the State. They
seized the traitorous statement of An Ziwen. An Ziwen’s gang of
traitors against the Party was directed by Liu Shaoqi. Therefore the
Red Guards are very good . . . [they have] exposed the personal back-
grounds of these people.36
Praise by the radical elite for the Red Guards’ activities and condemna-
tion of the sixty-one leaders was followed up by Guan Feng, who
pointed out that
An Ziwen, Bo Yibo and Liu Lantao occupied important posts in the

Organization Department, the Supervisory Commission (jianwei),
and the industry and communications system (gongjiaokou), with all

the authority in their grasp. They practised capitalist dictatorship. In
starting the Cultural Revolution, the ‘little red soldiers’ have accom-
plished meritorious deeds. These people [An, Bo and Liu] all turned
themselves in and are therefore traitors.37
Of further pertinence to the investigations was the transfer in January

of the COD into the hands of Kang Sheng. Over the next few months
the COD staff were purged and replaced, and Kang’s right-hand man,
Guo Yufeng, who had been investigating An Ziwen, was given overall
responsibility for the department. This of course meant that the CCEG
investigatory teams now had unlimited access to sensitive dossier
materials. CRG-controlled newspapers published Red Guard articles
denouncing traitors’ philosophy.38 Red Guard wall posters and tabloids
naming the sixty-one – complete with copies of the Huabei ribao anti-
communist statements – proliferated in Beijing, Tianjin, Shanghai and
Xi’an.
To little effect, towards the end of January the Military Affairs Com-
mission (several of whose members were veteran cadres) issued instruc-
tions against the public humiliation of cadres, and on 1 February Mao
reiterated this in writing to Zhou Enlai.39 This did not stop Zhou making
derogatory comments on the sixty-one and Liu Shaoqi, and praising the
NURGs.
When I received XX organization of Nankai University I called upon

them to conduct more investigations. With great determination they
went to many libraries to conduct research for several months. It is
a student who found out that An Tzu-wen was a black gang element.
. . . In the case of An Tzu-wen’s betrayal, Liu Shao-ch’i approved the
action of the whole group who gave themselves up. After entry into
the city An Tzu-wen, who was chief of the Organization Department,
refrained from producing this particular document.40
The Red Guards’ investigations and interrogations continued. Their

tasks were further assisted by the vacuum left when the original local
party authorities exited the scene in the wake of the January power
seizure. The idea of the party committees’ replacement by a Paris
Commune model had been rejected by Mao, who favoured a ‘three-in-
one’ administrative model of revolutionary committees. But this process
did not even begin to get effectively under way until mid February,
following the ‘February Adverse Current’ meetings. Nothing could be

more symbolic of Zhou’s apparent plight than the post-Cultural Revo-
lution description of the seating arrangements at this series of meetings,
which Zhou chaired in mid February. He is said to have sat at the head
of the table, with the ‘veteran’ leading cadres seated along the right-
hand side of the table and the radical elite along the left. But had he
really?
Until recently the February Adverse Current has been portrayed as
having challenged Zhou’s credibility as a supporter of the Cultural Revo-
lution.41 However his image as the protector of abused colleagues,
damage control expert and the sole voice of sanity who could still
whisper in Mao’s ear – an image of sense and sensibility that has been
so precious to the Chinese – has begun to suffer cracks and no doubt
will continue to do so at the hands of both Western and Chinese schol-
ars. They may well conclude that Zhou was simply trying to stay one
step ahead, interpreting and executing Mao’s will while conserving his
own power and, of course, ensuring his survival in such uncertain
times.42
At the February meetings, some veteran cadres voiced their con-
cern about the excessively harsh treatment of their colleagues, and
demanded their restoration to power. They also expressed doubts about
basic conceptual aspects of the Cultural Revolution and suggested it be
wound down. This was interpreted by Mao as a personal attack: their
actions had backfired, their colleagues were not to be brought back and
they themselves became objects of CRG-inspired criticism.43
Nevertheless some order-restoring, compromise elements did emerge:
representatives of mass organizations were ordered to stop travelling
around the country, to leave the various departments connected to the
functioning of the economy and to return to their native posts. On 17
February another directive was issued, in the name of the State Council
and the Central Committee, reiterating the secrecy restrictions on
archive and dossier materials.44 But with regard to restoring those who
had been criticized to public positions, there seems to have been no
room for manoeuvre, despite repeated official assurances that those who
had deviated from the correct line were to be treated with forbearance.
By February, as far as Zhou Enlai was concerned, the fate of the sixty-
one and Liu Shaoqi was sealed. If he really had tried to protect any of
them, there was no longer any point.45 They were extremely dead tigers.
However their burial required the elimination of one risk: damage to
the Central Committee’s reputation. Conveniently, Zhang Wentian
changed his testimony.
Official condemnation: March–May 1967
On 7 March 1967 the Peng Zhen Special Case Group submitted its report
on the sixty-one to the central authorities. The contents simultaneously
and unsurprisingly found their way into various Red Guard publications
that appeared the following day in Beijing. The report was accompa-
nied by other incriminating documents, one of which was a statement
by Zhang Wentian to the effect that he had sent Liu Shaoqi a personal
letter signing the North Bureau’s request for approval for the prisoners
to follow a ‘simple procedure’ in order to gain release, plus a three-point
request from the prisoners themselves that their party membership
would be in no way affected.46 Zhang added ‘I did not report the matter
to Chairman Mao, nor did I bring it up at a Central Committee
meeting.’47 It was this last statement that clinched the issue for the
Central Committee, at last enabling it to join in the condemnation of
Liu and the sixty-one.
At some point between January and March, Zhang Wentian had
agreed to assume sole responsibility for the 1936 decision. In 1995 Bo
Yibo remarked that it was only after the Cultural Revolution that he was
able to understand why Zhang Wentian ‘did not lay all the cards on the
table’ (that is, why he did not reveal the names of whoever in the central
leadership knew of the instruction when it was issued): Zhang ‘was
warned by the investigators specially assigned by Kang Sheng and his
band “not to disclose the approval of the Central Committee and, what
is more, not to involve Chairman Mao in the case” ’.48 Perhaps Zhang
was promised a degree of protection for himself and his wife for the
duration of the Cultural Revolution.49 Since he was under criticism
anyway for his 1959 support of Peng Dehuai and his economic policies,
and had been labelled a three-anti element, he may have decided that
assuming sole responsibility for the 1936 decision on behalf of the
Central Committee was not such a bad option. In fact, to an extent it
was the converse of a typical Cultural Revolution ethical dilemma in
that he was being asked not to name others. ‘Others’ might well have
included Zhou Enlai – one of the few who might still have been able,
if he chose, to afford at least a degree of protection to his colleagues.
Furthermore it was probably made clear to Zhang that it was Liu
Shaoqi, not he, who was the real target, and that both Liu and the sixty-
one were already lost causes. Under the circumstances Zhang Wentian
achieved a relatively honourable compromise: while he got the Central
Committee as a whole off the hook, he somewhat reduced Liu Shaoqi’s
degree of responsibility by sharing it and added weight to the sixty-one’s
defence plea that they had obeyed what they had understood to be party
orders. Once Zhang had spoken, Mao and Zhou no longer needed to
try to push back the waves; the secret – no longer a secret, owing to the
combined efforts of the radical elite and the Red Guards – could now
be officially addressed without causing scandalous embarrassment to
the Central Committee.50 On 16 March 1967 the Central Committee
issued its directive (Zhongfa 96) on the issue and distribution of ‘Mate-
rials on the Problem of the Release from Prison of Bo Yibo, Liu Lantao,
An Ziwen and Yang Xianzhen et al.’, confirming the sixty-one as a ‘rene-
gade clique’.51
The directive said unambiguously that the 1936 release had been
‘planned and decided by Liu Shaoqi and Zhang Wentian without
informing Mao Zedong’, and that a letter from Zhang, plus various other
documents, including the report of the Peng Zhen Special Case Group,
had been forwarded to ‘Chairman Mao, Vice-Chairman Lin, the CRG
leading officials, the Politburo, Secretariat, Military Commission and to
other leading comrades’. Much of this circular echoed the CCEG report
of the previous week, including commentary on the sixty-one them-
selves, implying that they could not be let off the hook for simply
‘obeying orders’ because they had been cowards to begin with, and
that Liu’s orders had just ‘provided the legal grounds for confession
and betrayal of the Party. They not only betrayed themselves but also
tempted others into betrayal.’
Although the directive did not immediately reach public scrutiny, the
CCEG’s findings were public knowledge and the affair did not rest. The
campaign against Liu Shaoqi accelerated: on 21 March twenty Red
Guard organizations, some of which were attached to Qinghua and
Beijing Universities and the Beijing Aeronautical Institute, formed the
Preparatory Committee for Smashing the Liu Shaoqi Renegade Clique.
The official condemnation and release of information heralded a
turning point in Mao’s attitude towards Liu Shaoqi. The kid gloves were
off. Official investigation by the CCEG into alleged instances of betrayal
by Liu in 1925, 1927 and 1929 ensued. On the day that Zhongfa 96 was
issued, Mao is said to have deleted a passage in his own works praising
Liu.52 He suggested that Liu’s ‘How to be a Good Communist’ – one of
the twenty-two hallowed documents of the Yan’an rectification cam-
paign – be scrutinized and excised from the classics of Chinese com-
munism. The radical elite and Red Guards jumped on this with alacrity.
They quoted out of context passages on ‘self-interest’ and ‘survival’ that
appeared to offer theoretical justification for the 1936 release episode as
well as for Liu’s own alleged betrayals. Kang Sheng had this to say: ‘Liu
Shao-ch’i has also stated that one must have the highest ‘self-dignity’
and self-love. . . . This is Khrushchev’s philosophy of self-survival. That
is why he asked Bo Yibo and An Ziwen to give themselves up. Such is
his self-cultivation.’53
Bandying about the vocabulary of treason, traitors, renegades, capitu-
lation, surrender and so on, in contrast to those heroic martyrs who
had died in the name of the revolution, the radical leadership added a
new and seriously damaging dimension to the besmirching of Liu
Shaoqi’s reputation. Following the Central Committee’s condemnation
of the sixty-one, on 1 April the official party journal, Hongqi, added the
culminating touch in an article by Qi Benyu entitled ‘Patriotism or
National Betrayal’.54
Pointedly addressing Liu Shaoqi, the article demanded explanations
from him on a number of issues, one of which was his role in the 1936
episode.
Why did you, on the eve of the war of resistance against Japan, ener-
getically promote the philosophy of survival, the philosophy of
capitulation and the philosophy of being a renegade, and direct
others to confess their betrayal of the cause, and tell them to sur-
render to the Kuomintang, revolt against the CCP, openly issue anti-
communist directives and take an anti-communist oath?55
On 10 April Liu’s wife, Wang Guangmei, attempted to defend him

against these charges. She told her interrogators that the whole idea
had emanated from Ke Qingshi and that Liu had agreed to it in order
to preserve the effective strength of the revolution.56 In contemptuous
response, one week later Red Guard tabloids in Tianjin published not
only a partial list of the sixty-one and their anticommunist statements,
but also lists of cadres released from the Shanxi reformatory and two
Taiyuan reformatories.
Mao later referred to the publication of Qi Benyu’s accusatory article
as marking the fourth and most important phase in his periodization
of the Cultural Revolution, ‘for it marks the seizure of ideological power
from the revisionists and the bourgeoisie’.57 From that point onwards
the official media intensified their attack on Liu:
The author of ‘Self-cultivation,’ namely the number one person in

power taking the capitalist road . . . , carried out secret activities of
recruiting deserter renegades and forming cliques. . . . In one instance
. . . he openly directed his subordinates to write statements of
confession to the Kuomintang, to publish anti-communist directives

in the newspapers and to become turncoats. In order to legalize these
acts of betrayal, he advocated the philosophy of the ‘justification of
betrayal’ in his ‘Self-Cultivation’.58
In late March and early April CRG members made at least ten public
speeches denouncing Liu, with specific reference to ‘How to be a Good
Communist’, and throughout April there were anti-Liu rallies almost
every day. On 7 May 1967 a joint Hongqi–Renmin ribao editorial, revised
by Mao himself, was published. Its title was ‘Betrayal of the Dictator-
ship of the Proletariat is the Essential Element in the Book on “Self-
Cultivation” ’.59 On the same day the Japanese press reported that Bo
Yibo and An Ziwen had been dragged out to a criticism and struggle
rally at the People’s University in Beijing.60 Barely a week had elapsed
when posters appeared in Beijing quoting Zhongfa 96 at length, naming
approximately half of the ‘traitorous sixty-one clique’, and detailing
their party and state ranks. The names included Bo Yibo, Liu Lantao,
An Ziwen and Yang Xianzhen. The posters stated that thirty-six of the
sixty-one were still alive, fourteen of them working in Beijing and
twenty-two in the provinces.61
Publication of the official verdict on the sixty-one heralded a new
stage in the role of the Sixty-One Renegades Case in the Cultural
Revolution: the hunt for other renegades.
Spreading the net
The circulation of Zhongfa 96
gave rise to a sinister campaign of ‘ferreting out renegades’ through-

out the country. . . . Lin Biao and Jiang Qing asserted that there
had been an ‘organizational line of Liu Shaoqi’s renegades clique’.
This followed by the framing of the ‘Xinjiang renegades clique’, the
‘northeast renegades clique’, the ‘south China renegades clique’ and
other major wrong cases.62
The Red Guards lost no time in pursuing further groups and indi-
viduals. In mid May even Zhou Enlai found himself under brief but
embarrassing suspicion when the ‘Wu Hao Incident’ surfaced. ‘Wu Hao’
was an alias used by Zhou during his CCP underground years. The
‘Announcement of Wu Hao and Others Quitting the Communist Party’
had been published in several Shanghai newspapers in February 1932,
by which time Zhou had transferred from Shanghai to the CCP soviet
in Jiangxi. Red Guards discovered this item during their newspaper

archive research and passed it on to Jiang Qing. However Kang Sheng
was quick to vouchsafe Premier Zhou’s loyalty at the time and to
confirm Zhou’s point that the announcement had been pure fabrication
by the GMD. Zhou also provided a fully documented account of the
episode; his account satisfied Mao, who ordered the incident closed.63
In early June a Red Guard tabloid, Zhui qiongkou (Pursue the
Tottering Foe), published a list of prisoners released in the 1930s from
the GMD Suzhou reformatory in Jiangsu. Of the forty-two people
named, almost half held central state administrative posts (one, Zhang
Hanfu, was vice-minister of foreign affairs) and four held high-level
posts in the Education Ministry. Leading intellectuals were well repre-
sented, including Liao Mosha, Ai Qing and Chen Paichen. Cao Diqiu,
the former acting mayor of Shanghai, was another familiar name. The
document did not describe the release procedures but alleged that some
had gained their release by agreeing to spy for the GMD. All this infor-
mation was supplied by the NURGs, who had so scrupulously investi-
gated the sixty-one.64
In the same tabloid another Red Guard group offered a list of former
Beijing Party Committee cadres who had been imprisoned in the white
areas, this time not limiting itself to 1936–37.65 A typical Red Guard
method of labelling a person a renegade was to give a few details of the
person’s imprisonment history followed by a list of professional and per-
sonal links he or she had had since then with known renegades. An
article attacking Gu Mu, chairman of the State Capital Construction
Commission, listed fourteen such people – guilt plus guilt by asso-
ciation.66 Another use made by the Red Guards of ‘renegade’ material
was to interweave it with political–economic theory, suggesting that
renegadism and capitalism went hand in hand. Thus economists, such
as Sun Yefang, who had been imprisoned by the GMD were party to
economic theories unacceptable to Mao but of course supported by
Liu Shaoqi, and were therefore integral components of his heretical
‘line’.67
The ‘renegade’ cliques referred to in the quotations that opened this
section were also investigated during 1967. The Xinjiang case refers to
the 1946 release of 129 cadres imprisoned there by warlord Sheng Shicai
since mid 1941, when they had been en route from the USSR to
Yan’an.68 Other imprisoned communists, including Mao’s brother,
Mao Zemin, had been executed by Sheng and had since been frequently
commemorated as martyrs. During the Cultural Revolution this heroic
fate was sharply contrasted with the survival of other prominent
Xinjiang released communists such as Ma Mingfang, leader of the
Northeast Bureau of the CCP. Ninety-two cadres were accused of being

renegades.
The ‘Northeastern renegades clique’ were those in the Party’s North-
eastern Bureau who had communicated with Chiang Kai-shek in Feb-
ruary 1946 to demand the release of Zhang Xueliang. Ninety cadres were
accused of having capitulated to the enemy. Accusations against the
‘Southern renegades’ referred to some 7100 people who had worked in
the Guangdong underground party organization. Investigations against
them were under way in autumn 1967.69
In the meantime traitor-catching fever was getting anarchically out
of hand. In internecine rivalries, various mass organizations were
naming traitors not only in official echelons but also in one another’s
organizations. On 28 June 1967 the Central Committee issued Zhongfa
200, ‘Notification on Catching Traitors’. Five guidelines were laid down,
with the emphasis on greater discernment; traitors must be distin-
guished from cadres with ‘ordinary’ historical problems:
(1) The conclusion drawn in respect of whether or not a person is a

‘traitor’ is a grave political question bearing on the political life of
that person. It is therefore imperative to make careful investigation
and adopt a cautious attitude. Don’t declare at individual discretion
a certain person a traitor on the basis of incomplete materials that
have not been verified. Don’t lightly make public such materials.
(2) Emphasis should be laid on ferreting out the traitors among a
handful of Party persons in authority taking the capitalist road. Those
who are known to have committed acts of betrayal in history must also be
investigated but they must be dealt with differently according to the impor-
tance of their cases, whether they have made a clean breast of themselves
to the Party, whether they have worked in collusion with Party
persons taking the capitalist road, and how they have presented
themselves in the great proletarian cultural revolution [emphasis
added].70
The italicized statement is ironically reminiscent of earlier modifying

provisos on the categorization and definitions of betrayal that implied
the possibility of extenuating circumstances – modifications apparently
suggested in the 1950s by Liu Shaoqi, An Ziwen and those in the Orga-
nization Department who were now accused of being traitors. Such
modifications were not to the liking of the radical elite; neither was
Liu Shaoqi’s third confession (2 August 1967), which reiterated Wang
Guangmei’s earlier statements on the sixty-one and his somewhat disin-
genuous claim that he had been unaware until the Red Guards made
their revelations that the sixty-one had signed anticommunist press
statements.71
On 9 August a joint editorial in Jiefang ribao, Wen huibao and Zhibu
shenghuo rejected the concept of extenuating circumstances or modifi-
cations in respect of the issue of betrayal; it was reprinted in the 17
August edition of Hongqi. Though relating specifically to the 1936
episode, it denounced surrender in any form.
A surrender is a surrender, and no surrender is phoney. As far as a

communist who has fallen into the hands of the enemy is concerned,
he has to make the choice between laying down his life for the revo-
lution and betraying the revolution for his personal safety. There can
never be any third road to take. . . . Every ‘phoney surrender’ was a
genuine betrayal.72
Simultaneously the Central Committee demonstrated equally forceful

determination to exercise control via the media. On 14 August 1967 a
Central Committee circular was issued to all revolutionary committees
and military control committees in all regions and provinces, to all
departments of the Central Committee and State Council and to all
mass organizations and propaganda units. Entitled ‘Notice on the Ques-
tion of Criticism and Repudiation by Name in Publications’, it was
designed to clarify once and for all who had been criticized thus far in
central and local publications, with the approval of Mao and the Central
Committee, and who should be similarly subjected in the next stage.73
Among the ten new names listed for repudiation in central publications
were those of Bo Yibo, An Ziwen and Zhang Wentian. Twenty-three
people were named for local castigation, among them three more of the
sixty-one: Liu Lantao, Hu Xikui and Zhao Lin.
The timing of this notice can also be understood as part of the
backlash by the forces of moderation following the radicals’ apparent
victory in the Wuhan incident the previous month.74 It seems that Mao,
Lin Biao and Zhou Enlai had reached the conclusion that it was time
for de-escalation, rather than further radicalization as encouraged by
the CRG. One expression of this de-escalation was the enforced loos-
ening of the CRG’s hold on the media. Four of the radical elite who
were deputy editors of Hongqi under Chen Boda were ousted shortly
after the publication of the 17 August editorial. The journal then tem-
porarily suspended publication and at the end of the year Qi Benyu was
also dismissed.
On 5 September 1967 the Central Committee, State Council, Military

Affairs Commission and CRG issued a joint directive ordering an end
to armed struggle. Throughout that autumn the balance of power
shifted in favour of the regional military commanders rather than the
mass organizations. In September Mao outlined his strategic plan, advo-
cating the re-establishment of party authority, but this was not realized
until another year had elapsed and most of the Revolutionary Com-
mittees had been formed. Periodic bouts of radicalization, such as that
in spring 1968, hardly accelerated the process. By July 1968 Mao’s plan
was well under way, with eighteen provinces under Revolutionary Com-
mittee administration and power effectively in the hands of the mili-
tary. The Party’s Eighth Central Committee Twelfth Plenum in the latter
half of October 1968 again exhibited how the balance of forces lay. On
the one hand most of the veteran cadres who had been actively involved
in the February Adverse Current retained their posts. On the other hand
the radicals had their pound of flesh with the final official condemna-
tion of Liu Shaoqi and his expulsion from the party and all his official
posts on 1 November, following the submission of the CCEG’s ‘Investi-
gation Report on the Crimes Committed by Renegade, Traitor and Scab
Liu Shaoqi’ to the plenum on 18 October.75
Winding up the case
It was at the Twelfth Plenum that the Sixty-One Renegades Case entered
the last scene in the downfall of Liu Shaoqi. The CCEG report con-
demned Liu on three main charges of betrayal in 1925, 1927 and 1929.
It added a brief list of several other ‘serious and unforgivable crimes’,
the first of which was his role in the 1936 release of the sixty-one:
Liu Shao-ch’i instigated 61 traitors, including Po I-po, Liu Lan-t’ao

and An Tzu-wen to publish an ‘anti-communist announcement’ to
declare that they surrendered to the Kuomintang and betrayed the
communist party. This case has been made public by the Party
Central Committee after a careful investigation.76
With Liu’s political demise, his use as the focal symbol of the Cultural
Revolution had peaked. The case of the sixty-one had helped seal his
fate, but what had happened to the so-called renegades themselves?
Between January 1967 and early 1968 they and others connected with
the case, such as Xu Bing and Kong Xiangzhen, were detained one by
one and imprisoned. Xu Zirong, Liu Xiwu, Wang Xinbo and Hou
Zhenya were all arrested in January 1967.77 Yang Xianzhen, detained
since May 1967 at the Philosophical Research Institute of the Academy
of Sciences, was imprisoned on 23 September 1967.78 An Ziwen, under
detention since 22 August 1966, was not formally imprisoned until 21
January 1968.79 Liu Lantao and Bo Yibo were placed in detention in
January 1967; Liu was imprisoned in early January 1968 and Bo shortly
afterwards.
In the early days of the Cultural Revolution it was usual initially to
keep high-level cadres who were being investigated under house arrest,
a form of ‘protective custody’.80 Detention in the prison facility at the
Beijing garrison, to which some were transferred, was still considered
protective custody. Conditions there have been described as ‘appalling
and degrading’.81 In Caolan chunqiu, Wu Linquan and Peng Fei detail
the torture, suffering and medical neglect endured by Liu Lantao, Li
Chuli, An Ziwen and Bo Yibo while investigators attempted to extract
confessions of renegadism. The prisoners were sometimes ‘lent’ to Red
Guard rallies for public humiliation.82 Bo’s interrogators submitted to
the CCEG daily reports that quoted from Bo’s written accounts of
his experiences at the denunciation rallies, and his persistent refusal
to admit to any renegade activity.83 In 1969 most of the high-level
detainees were transferred to the Qincheng prison, about an hour from
the centre of Beijing. The conditions there were even worse (treatment
is said to have included medical experimentation), but they improved
marginally in 1972 when Mao apparently intervened.
Bo Yibo, An Ziwen, Yang Xianzhen and Liu Lantao survived the Cul-
tural Revolution, but several others of the sixty-one died in prison,
including Liu Xiwu and Wu Yunpu. Wang Qimei died in 1967, Xu Zirong
in 1969, Hu Xikui in October 1970 and Liao Luyan in January 1972.84
Case group investigators continued to put pressure on An during his
detainment and imprisonment, and on Zhang Wentian while he was
under house arrest, to confirm that the 1936 release had been designed
and authorized solely by Liu Shaoqi, but apparently they failed to elicit
the desired response.85 (They also interrogated An, Liu Lantao and Li
Chuli about alleged crimes by Deng Xiaoping.)
Some of the sixty-one wrote lengthy appeals in defence of themselves;
they justified having followed the 1936 release procedures on the
grounds that it had been an act of self-sacrificial loyalty to the party,
obedience to party organizational discipline and obedience to a deci-
sion emanating from a higher party authority – a basic tenet of the
Communist Party ethic.
Individuals should obey the organization; the lower-ranking should

obey the higher-ranking; the minority should obey the majority.
Does this organizational principle matter or not? If we are traitors
because we obeyed the North China Bureau, then you should revise
the Party constitution.86
This and other such appeals were considered in 1975 – and rejected. The
renegade label remained until the Third Plenary Session of the Eleventh
Party Congress in December 1978.
5
Rehabilitating the Sixty-One
To call a cadre a renegade is the most effective tactic for discrediting

any party cadre in the public eye. Unlike other political mistakes
. . . being a renegade is an almost unforgivable sin. . . . Once applied,
these labels substantially decreased anyone’s chance for a verdict
reversal, even when the political atmosphere changed drastically. In
fact those who had been condemned as renegades – mostly those
from the White areas – were the last to be rehabilitated.1
The rehabilitation of Cultural Revolution victims began as early as 1968

and continued well into the 1980s. There were peak years – 1973
and 1978 – and years in which the numbers dropped sharply, for
example 1976.2 The question of who was eligible for rehabilitation was
both a recurrent theme and a frequent cause of leadership conflict, but
the principle of political rehabilitation was never invalidated, even
by the most radical in the leadership. On the contrary the notion
that a man’s political consciousness could be rectified and recharged
despite his previous political record was an integral element of the
Thought of Mao Zedong – as it was in traditional Chinese culture –
and had been at the heart of almost every political campaign initiated
during the Maoist era. Since political re-education was supposed to be
more of a privilege than a punishment, the rehabilitated often referred
to their period of detention or internal exile as a fruitfully ‘tempering’
experience – even if they returned to the fold after the accusations
against them were proved false or unjust. This attitude served to obscure
the Party’s role in an act of injustice and enhance its image as an
educator.3
The regeneration of revolutionary consciousness was the quintessen-
tial rationale behind the Cultural Revolution, involving for many the
161
familiar purge – re-educate – rehabilitate process. That is not to say that

the PRC ever adopted a consistent approach to the application of the
rehabilitation principle. The boundaries of those who were deemed
‘potentially rehabilitable’ expanded and contracted pragmatically –
sometimes to embrace even ‘enemies of the people’ (those in the
antagonistic contradictions categories) upon their satisfactory re-
education, while at other times such people were dealt with harshly and
fatally. In Mao’s words, ‘A POW, a disarmed enemy, a disarmed spy,
whom [we] clearly recognize as such, we decide not to kill. So what
then? Remould him. To remould is to proceed from the desire for
unity.’4 On the other hand a grimmer fate befell some seven hundred
thousand so-called counterrevolutionaries in the early 1950s.
On the whole, and certainly in theory, the party opted for the bet-
terment rather than the beheading of erring individuals. ‘In treating an
ideological or political malady one must never be rough or rash but
must adopt the approach of “curing the sickness to save the patient”
which is the only correct and effective method.’5 Mao prided himself
and the party on this as a notion not merely of benevolence but also
of efficiency, in that talents and skills did not go to waste.
In the wake of the Cultural Revolution, ideological and pragmatic
considerations further combined in a number of ways to govern the
rehabilitation of former leadership cadres. One such consideration was
the potential effect on the balance of power among the various leader-
ship groupings. These groupings have conventionally been identified as
Cultural Revolution radicals (the Gang of Four, its supporters and Lin
Biao), beneficiaries (largely middle-level cadres, such as Hua Guofeng,
who had risen in rank to fill the vacancies left by purged senior cadres),
survivors (those who had been criticized but not purged, such as Li
Xiannian and Ye Jianying) and rehabilitated victims (such as Deng
Xiaoping).6 MacFarquhar and Harding have detailed the back-and-forth
swings of the Chinese power pendulum in the 1970s.7 Clearly the radi-
cals were unlikely to press for the return to power of those who might
strengthen the rival ‘survivor’ camp. But the rehabilitation of top-level
cadres was restricted even within a particular group or coalition, because
of the limited availability of posts in the formal structures of party
and government. Even survivors and the (early) rehabilitated may there-
fore have been less than hasty in bringing their former colleagues in
from the cold, despite the proximity of their political–ideological
orientations.
Perhaps the most sensitive issue in the rehabilitation of central-level
cadres was the reversal of verdicts sanctioned by top-level leaders,
Rehabilitating the Sixty-One 163
including Mao himself. The rehabilitation of lower-level cadres was a

far easier proposition, involving only local leadership bodies. By the end
of 1972 ‘virtually all cadres at and below county level and in basic pro-
duction units had been liberated’.8 Reversing the verdict on high-level
cadres was another matter. Such an action not only constituted the dis-
crediting of leadership judgements on specific individuals but chipped
away at the very raison d’être of the Cultural Revolution. In no case was
this more obvious than in that of Liu Shaoqi, arch-villain and focal
symbol of the Cultural Revolution: his rehabilitation would be inter-
preted as the ultimate repudiation of the revolution. For those associ-
ated most directly with Liu, such as the sixty-one, rehabilitation took a
long time, over twelve years; but when it at last came it contributed an
essential preparatory element of Liu’s posthumous rehabilitation in the
spring of 1980, preceding the leadership’s June 1981 rejection of the
Cultural Revolution.9
We may refer to the above factors as the external logic behind the
delay in rehabilitating central-level cadres. But each case had its own
inner facets and vocabulary that helped accelerate or decelerate the
advent of rehabilitation. For cadres who had been officially classed as
‘renegades’ or ‘spies’, rehabilitation policy remained uniformly negative
until Hu Yaobang assumed directorship of the Central Organization
Department at the end of 1977. This did not necessarily mean that the
issue of reviewing renegadism verdicts was never discussed. From time
to time the imprisoned cadres were reinterrogated and permitted to
submit appeals. The fate of the sixty-one in the late spring and early
summer of 1975 and at the end of 1978 provides an excellent illustra-
tion of the period’s ‘balance of power’ dynamic and its interplay with
rehabilitation policy.
Rehabilitation policy and balance-of-power politics

in the early 1970s
The mysterious death of Lin Biao in September 1971 placed the mod-
erate leadership forces (that is, the survivors) in a relatively stronger
position than the radical leaders, facilitating the first wave of rehabili-
tations of purged senior cadres and the reappearance of others who
had been less formally disgraced. The substantially lower profile of the
military in the political leadership elite removed the rationale for the
superficial alliance between radicals and moderates, and enabled issues
on which these latter two groups differed (such as the rehabilitation
of veteran cadres) to surface. In April 1972 a Renmin ribao editorial by
Zhou Enlai referred to veteran cadres as the ‘party’s greatest treasure’,

heralding the reappearance of Chen Yun, Wang Zhen, Zheng Daiyun
and Chen Zaidao on 1 August 1972 (Army Day) and culminating in the
return of Deng Xiaoping in March 1973 as vice-premier.10 The moder-
ates justified their approach to rehabilitation and criticized Lin Biao’s
approach (and implicitly the leftists) as a denial of Mao’s comment that
95 per cent were good and only a handful bad, and of his ‘lenient and
patient line toward officials who had “made mistakes” during the early
1960s’.11
The Tenth Party Congress in late August 1973 saw the reinstatement
of a number of veteran cadres who had been excluded from the Ninth
Central Committee: Ulanfu, Wang Jiaxiang, Li Jingquan, Tan Zhenlin,
Li Baohua, Liao Chengzhi and Yang Yong. While the radicals may have
welcomed the reduced presence of the military in central and provin-
cial party posts, they were surely dismayed at the prospect of these posts
being filled by people who had but recently been subjected to their
harsh scorn and criticism. This prompted murmurings on the part of
the radicals against such rehabilitation as a ‘restoration of the old’, the
essential media message in their subsequent anti-Lin, anti-Confucius
campaign. The radicals were still well represented at Politburo level and
were influential in the media, but they feared not only a reinforcement
of support for the moderates’ economic programme but also the dis-
tinct probability that rehabilitees would seek revenge on those who had
ousted them and bring about a purge of radicals.
As far as the radicals were concerned, the least welcome of the reha-
bilitees was of course the highly competent former ‘number two capi-
talist roadster’, Deng Xiaoping. His return was preceded by the dramatic
catapulting of ‘newborn thing’ Wang Hongwen into third place in the
leadership hierarchy, perhaps reflecting Mao’s conflicting approach to
the problematic question of succession and his vision of a continuously
revolutionary China. Disappointed with Wang’s performance, by
autumn 1974 Mao appears to have accepted that, at least until a better
alternative appeared, Deng would be the most appropriate person to
handle the party’s daily affairs in the absence of the ailing Zhou Enlai.
Mao duly advocated that Deng be appointed vice-premier, participate
in the Military Affairs Commission and become the People’s Liberation
Army chief of staff. In January 1975 Deng was also reinstated in the
Politburo Standing Committee and made vice-chairman of the party,
and with much gusto undertook the ‘four modernizations’ program-
ming. But his zeal alarmed Mao. Roderick MacFarquhar summarizes
Mao’s dilemma:
Mao’s behaviour throughout Teng Hsiao-p’ing’s year in power was

contradictory. He backed Teng’s measures, and defended them from
attacks by the Gang of Four, but he simultaneously propounded his
own leftist views and allowed Chang Ch’un-ch’iao and Yao Wen-
yuan to publicize theirs. . . . Mao’s ambivalence may have reflected
indecision, a genuine conflict between head and heart. It may also
have been a manifestation of his increasing infirmity.12
Meanwhile the radicals made a thinly veiled attack on Zhou Enlai, deni-
grating his efforts to ‘bring old men out of obscurity’. This attack
reached its peak in early 1974 in the form of the Pi Lin, Pi Kong
(Criticize Lin Biao, Criticize Confucius) campaign. The young Wang
Hongwen participated vociferously, scorning those whose desire it
allegedly was to
‘Sweep the temple; invite the real god; old marshals must return to
their posts; little soldiers must return to their barracks.’ . . . They
mean that all those traitors, enemy agents, capitalist roadsters includ-
ing Liu Shao-ch’i will return to their posts and that all the new-born
things of the Cultural Revolution will be abolished. It is a typical
restoration of the old, a counterattack or a liquidation.13
Wang was careful to pay lip service to the principle of an errant cadre’s
re-education and rehabilitation potential, but warned that some had
been only superficially re-educated and that though ‘it would be a
mistake not to exploit the veteran cadres, it would also be a mistake to
determine their position by experience and age regardless of their per-
formance in the real class struggle’.14
Three months later Wang Dongxing – Politburo member, CCP
General Office director, leading figure in the public security system and
Cultural Revolution beneficiary – detailed the party’s current rehabili-
tation policy, making it clear that mere opposition to Lin Biao in the
past was not necessarily a criterion for the rehabilitation of a purged
cadre. Nor did Lin Biao’s involvement in a cadre’s purge necessarily
invalidate the reasons for the purge. He declared ten conditional cat-
egories that permitted rehabilitation and ten categories that ruled it out.
On at least two counts, rehabilitation for the sixty-one seemed impos-
sible: ‘with regard to those with historical problems for which decisions
have already been made, there should be no rehabilitation and no
consideration of their cases’; and ‘ “Renegades”, “enemy agents”, “Trot-
skyites” and “alien class elements” who have sneaked their way into the
“revolutionary ranks” shall be liquidated from the party, regardless of

whether or not they were opposed to Lin Biao and Chen [Boda] and
their sworn followers.’15 These categories remained intact even after the
fall of the Gang of Four, preventing the rehabilitation of the sixty-one
and others labelled ‘renegades’.
May 1975: a brief spring thaw
Mao’s doubts about aspects of the moderates’ economic and social

reforms and his fear of the invalidation of the Cultural Revolution
perhaps motivated him to give relatively free rein to the radicals in their
anti-Confucius media campaign throughout 1974. Yet it was also clear
that he did not want a full-scale swing back to political upheaval; on
several occasions he bade his Politburo members to act for the sake of
unity and not to form factions.16 By the spring of 1975 Mao’s patience
with Jiang Qing and her colleagues was wearing thin. Between the end
of April and early June, Jiang Qing underwent self-criticism at Politburo
meetings presided over by Deng Xiaoping. At one, on 3 May 1975, Mao
warned his wife not to form a Gang of Four, but to support stability and
unity, to oppose not only empiricism (the euphemistic term for revi-
sionism, which the radicals applied to the moderates’ socioeconomic
policies) but also dogmatism (that is, radical media-type hyperbole).17
Mao’s attempt to maintain a balance in the leadership was evident in
the treatment of the sixty-one at that time. He had agreed to the release
from prison of a number of veteran cadres for medical treatment or for
job assignments – but not to their rehabilitation, an issue that Deng
Xiaoping is reported to have raised, saying ‘We must solve this so-called
sixty-one problem. We can’t say it was the individual’s responsibility –
that’s not fair.’18
On 24 May 1975 An Ziwen was taken from Qincheng prison by train
to Huainan city in Anhui and put to work in a fertilizer factory. Yang
Xianzhen was sent on 19 May to Tongguan County in Shanxi, where
he was hospitalized (apparently through Deng’s intervention he had
been released from prison in December 1974 because of ill health). Liu
Lantao was released on 28 May and sent to Anqing in Anhui.19 Bo Yibo
enjoyed slightly more privileged treatment. Having been released from
prison a few months earlier (also apparently at Deng’s behest), he
remained under a form of house arrest in a Beijing hostel belonging to
the State Council, despite attempts by the CCEG to have him exiled to
Henan. Kong Xiangzhen was exiled to Yichang in Hubei and Zhang
Wentian to Wuxi, where he was permitted to live with his wife under
less rigorous surveillance than previously. Bo Yibo and Liu Lantao were
less fortunate: their wives had committed suicide in the early years of
the Cultural Revolution.20
By mid summer 1975 the radicals were again moving onto the offen-
sive, with, it seems, Mao’s backing as he anxiously recoiled from the
moderates’ rapid output of socioeconomic plans – for Mao a déjà-vu of
the experience of the early 1960s. A brief spring thaw ended when the
radicals put into practice a campaign subsequently entitled ‘Fight Back
the Rightist Attempt to Reverse Verdicts’. Despite the degree of relief in
the sixty-one’s physical conditions, barely two months elapsed before
their official status as ‘traitors’ was reaffirmed. They were approached
by CCEG investigators, who requested that the cadres put their signa-
tures to this reaffirmed conclusion for insertion in their personal
dossiers. On 17 July 1975 Bo Yibo, on being asked his opinion of the
following wording – ‘They acted traitorously in accordance with Liu
Shaoqi’s black instructions’ – retorted grimly, ‘First, omit the adjective
“black”; second, change “Liu Shaoqi” to “Central Committee”; and
finally add that we carried out these instructions to leave the prison in
order to work for the Party. If you change all that, then I’ll sign.’21
Similarly An Ziwen, Liu Lantao, Yang Xianzhen, Zhou Zhongying, Li
Chuli and Chen Bozhong (the wife of Zhang Xi, who had died in 1959)
refused to sign, reiterating Bo’s argument that their only crime had been
to obey party orders. They also objected to the accusation that they had
concealed their release from the party authorities and had not entered
it in their personal dossiers. Liu Lantao vehemently defended himself:
In my conclusion it says: ‘Liu Lantao hid his traitorous crimes.’ This

is totally unfounded! I carried out a Central Committee order to leave
the prison. How can you suggest this is concealing a crime? . . . In
the winter of 1944 I went to Yan’an . . . to report to the responsible
comrades of the Central Committee . . . and I referred to the experi-
ence of our release from the Beijing prison.22
In August 1975 Yang Xianzhen, when ordered to sign a similar conclu-

sion, responded: ‘It was according to the Party’s decision that I left
the prison – and this is in accordance with the Party’s organizational
principle – the individual must obey the organization. This is not a
case of getting out of prison by means of betrayal.’23
Such indignant objections were to no avail. The sweetened pill of
internal exile following their harsh prison experiences was now laced
with a bitter additive: expulsion from the party.24
Latching onto Mao’s comments on the portrayal of capitulationists

in Outlaws of the Marsh, the radicals accelerated their campaign, attack-
ing Central Committee leaders who wished to ‘correct the mistakes of
the Cultural Revolution’.25 Deng was more or less neutralized politically,
functioning only in the arena of foreign affairs. Zhou Enlai’s death two
months later appeared to move the fragile balance of power further in
favour of the radicals and beneficiaries. Deng was removed from his
posts in April 1976, though not expelled. The campaign against him
continued not only after Zhou’s death but also after Mao’s death and
the elimination of the Gang of Four, and until the last minute before
his reinstatement to all his former posts in July 1977 at the Tenth
Central Committee’s Third Plenary Session.
A barely changing climate
Any flicker of hope that the sixty-one may have felt at the purge of the
Gang of Four in October 1976 was soon extinguished. In the same
month a policy document was issued reiterating the irreversibility of
renegade verdicts, while advocating the rehabilitation of others whose
only crime was to have resisted the Gang of Four. Victimized opponents
of the gang could be reinstated, unless they fell into the categories of
‘ “renegades, spies, Trotskyites, counter-revolutionaries, KMT elements,
or degenerates,” as well as cases for which the organization had already
arrived at a conclusion’.26 The haste with which the directive was issued
indicates concern on the part of the beneficiaries that others might con-
sider the moment ripe for a wholesale rehabilitation of veteran cadres,
who would swell the ranks of survivors and earlier rehabilitated cadres.
The beneficiaries’ concern was, however, dwarfed by the vast ideo-
logical and charismatic vacuum left by Mao’s death, and the death of
other larger-than-life figures such as Zhou Enlai and Zhu De. Their
demise, plus the vacancies in the party structure after the removal of
the Gang of Four, prompted new thoughts on leadership alignments –
and on who should be rehabilitated. A mere three weeks elapsed
between the closing of the July 1977 plenum, at which Deng was rein-
stated, and the opening of the Party’s Eleventh National Congress. More
than a third of the sixty-three new members of the Central Committee
were rehabilitated cadres. One wonders if, during this period, the ques-
tion of rehabilitating cadres imprisoned by the GMD back in the 1930s
was not being indirectly and subtly addressed in the press. On 3 August
a poem, ‘Song From Prison’ by Ye Ting, was published on the front page
of Renmin ribao:
The door is locked so people cannot go in or out,

The cave is open for the dog to crawl out,
A voice shouts: Let me crawl out! Give me freedom!
I too thirst for freedom
But I deeply know
The body of a man cannot crawl out from the dog’s cave.
I wish for the day when a fire will burst from underground
and burn me in this living coffin – Thus will I find eternal
life through raging flames and boiling blood.27
Implicit in the poem and the accompanying article were two points.
Ye’s release from a GMD prison in March 1946 had been negotiated by
top-level CCP leaders, including Mao and Zhou, with the GMD in
Chongqing in January 1946. The fact that the release of prisoners had
been discussed with the GMD by such illustrious persons was being pub-
licly affirmed, not hushed up as it had been during the Cultural Revo-
lution.28 Second, the emphasis on Ye’s bravery and stoicism, his never
bending to his captors, implied that one could behave honourably if
not heroically without dying a martyr, and still be released from a GMD
prison.
No sooner had this article seen print, however, than another appeared
commemorating communist martyr Fang Zhimin. He too had written
a poem in prison, ‘The enemy can chop off my head – he can never
shake my faith.’ His death wish had been immediately granted – he had
been executed in July 1935. The article stated that ‘The Guomindang
reactionaries used torture and soft tactics, but Fang Zhimin stood firm.
He showed the fine qualities of a Communist Party member.’ Coming
so rapidly on the heels of the previous article, this was a clear rebuttal
of any notion of an honourable release from a GMD prison. Note also
the poem’s prophetic line about Fang’s induction into the party in 1923:
‘From this day on, I’ll give all I have, even my life, for the Party.’29
Hua Guofeng made his position clear: he would continue to draw the
rehabilitation line to exclude ‘proven renegades’. In his political report
to the August 1977 Eleventh Central Committee First Plenum, remark-
able for its lack of reference to the rehabilitation of Cultural Revolution
victims, Hua quoted Mao (as had the moderates a few years previously)
from early 1967:
The overwhelming majority of our cadres are good and only a tiny
minority are not. True those party persons in power taking the
capitalist road are our target, but they are a mere handful. Except for
those who defected, turned renegade, or surrendered to the enemy, the over-
whelming majority of our cadres have surely done good work in the
last dozen years or so, or in the last few decades [emphasis added].30
Hua thus implied that cadres such as the sixty-one could not be reha-
bilitated. But unlike the moderates, when echoing the ‘most cadres are
good’ theme Hua was not saying, ergo let us rehabilitate more Cultural
Revolution victims, but was calling for a minimalist approach to the tar-
geting, screening and punishment of Gang of Four sympathizers and
Cultural Revolution activists. Towards the end of his report Hua made
grudging reference to the possibility of reaching verdicts on unsettled
cases (not those of the sixty-one, for which official verdicts had been
reached) and of repudiating and cancelling false charges made by the
Gang of Four. But rather than adding that such cadres could be restored
to their former positions, he simply warned that they must have a
‘correct attitude’ towards the Cultural Revolution, that is, they should
not negate it.
The biography of An Ziwen, An Ziwen zhuanlue, confirms Hua’s hard
line on the non-negotiability of the renegade verdicts. On behalf of the
Central Committee, Hua approved yet again the CCEG’s conclusion on
An Ziwen; it was announced to An by a representative of the group on
17 August 1977 (while the plenum was still in session) in Huainan,
where he was exiled.31 Others of the sixty-one were similarly informed.
If Hua took a hard line, the survivors and rehabilitated took no line
at all – or at least not publicly. Deng Xiaoping, Ye Jianying, Chen Yun,
Nie Rongzhen and others do not appear to have championed the cause
of their still languishing colleagues at that stage. Neither Deng Xiao-
ping nor Ye Jianying raised the issue of rehabilitation in their speeches
to the Congress; Deng was hardly in a position to do so, since he had
only just been reinstated following the campaign against him. In late
September 1977 Chen Yun – who a year later did champion the specific
cause of the sixty-one – did not mention the need to rehabilitate other
cadres in his long article ‘Mao’s Views on Party Work Style’.32 If Deng
Xiaoping was unlikely to jeopardize his fresh return to power with any
immediate controversial statements, the sixty-one would have to look
elsewhere for their saviour.
Hu Yaobang and rehabilitation policy
A turning point in rehabilitation policy at last came in October 1977,

when a Renmin ribao article demanded the reversal of wrong verdicts
wrought by the Gang of Four and their followers.33 The article was
written by ‘comrades of the Central Party School in accordance with Hu
Yaobang’s views’, and ‘The comrades took the lead in preparing public
opinion for redressing the wrongs suffered by cadres who had been
unjustly and falsely charged.’34 In the first section the authors were
careful to use the quote from Mao that Hua Guofeng had used in his
Eleventh Congress Political Report. They went on to echo Hua’s plea –
invoking Mao’s lenient cadre policy – to deal lightly with those who
might have erred, only here Hua’s intentions were turned around and
it was the Cultural Revolution victims and not the activists who were
the ‘patients’ to be ‘saved’. It was ‘not right to judge a cadre by what
he does during a certain period of time about a certain thing. Rather we
should take the cadre’s entire history and his work performance as a
whole into consideration.’35
Furthermore, and for the first time since the Cultural Revolution had
ended, the issue of Cultural Revolution renegade charges and the pos-
sibility of their being false was raised: ‘They [Gang of Four supporters]
attacked particular faults . . . instead of considering the whole and exag-
gerated the latter’s mistakes to the maximum. Without grounds they
condemned others as renegades, enemy agents or unrepentant capital-
ist roadsters.’36 No specific names or cases were mentioned, but the door
had at last been pushed slightly ajar: it was necessary to address the
issue of renegadism charges and whether they should be reinvestigated.
There was one other notable departure from previous statements on
cadre policy. The article directly asked, if not challenged, the Party’s
Organization Department at all levels to tackle the reversal of wrong
verdicts without further delay. It prompted thousands of letters of
support, including a poignant appeal on 11 October 1977 from Kong
Xiangzhen to the COD for a reinvestigation of the ‘Sixty-One Man
Case’. He pleaded that as the sole survivor of the organizers of the 1936
release he should be allowed to give his evidence.
Because I was responsible for delivering messages to Party members

jailed by the GMD regime, I was imprisoned for 8 years during the
Cultural Revolution and was sent to the countryside for 2 years. I
was paralysed and have not recovered. Fortunately Vice-Chairman Ye
Jianying approved my return to Beijing this year, and now I can
receive medical treatment in Beijing. Before I die, I want to clarify
one matter. Day and night, I always think of how some cadres left
the Beijing Military Self-Reproaching House. If I cannot make it clear
to the Party organization and the masses, I will have everlasting
regrets. Why? Because those who witnessed this event have died.
Zhang Wentian, Ke Qingshi, Xu Bing, and Yin Jian have all died. I
am now the only survivor who can give testimony on this event. If
I do not say anything, who will know the details of that event? This
is not my personal matter, but a matter concerning the political life
of dozens of party cadres. If I do not give a report to the Party central
organ as soon as possible before I die, I will take these everlasting
regrets to my grave.37
His request was eventually granted, but not until there was a change of
personnel in the COD. Within a month of the Central Party School
comrades’ article, Hu Yaobang (whose guiding hand lay behind it) was
appointed head of the COD, replacing Kang Sheng’s successor, Guo
Yufeng, who had been so active in the CCEG investigations of the sixty-
one ‘renegades’. In Hu Yaobang, the sixty-one were to find their saviour.
His task was not easy – there was still opposition to and ambivalence
about the rehabilitation of this particular group.
Nevertheless, advance warning of the COD’s new determination to
reinvestigate the Cultural Revolution renegadism verdicts began to
appear in the media. On 24 November 1977 an obituary demanded full
posthumous rehabilitation for Dong Yan, a Jiangxi CCP official and vice-
governor who had died in April 1968 at the age of fifty three, a victim
of the Cultural Revolution.
In February 1933, when the party organization in Jinan was wrecked

by the enemy, Dong Yan was arrested and jailed. In prison, he main-
tained a firm stand and put up a stubborn struggle against the enemy.
He was unconditionally released in November 1937 during the
period when the Guomindang and CCP cooperated and political pris-
oners were released. . . . He behaved heroically while under arrest and
slanders and charges pressed on him by Lin Biao’s confederates are
rubbish and must be refuted. He must be rehabilitated.38
If this was a trial balloon, it was a lot closer to the nature of the case of
the sixty-one than Ye Ting’s poem: first because Dong had been impris-
oned at the same time, and second because he had been associated with
the white area underground rather than the military. The one major dif-
ference between Dong’s release and the sixty-one’s was that his had been
unconditional – if we accept that adjective at face value. While the obit-
uary reflected the intended broadening of the parameters of rehabilita-
tion policy, it also revealed the concomitant problem of foot-dragging

in its implementation, a problem Hu Yaobang had attacked in his article
the previous month.
That foot-dragging was not peculiar to Jiangxi was abundantly clear,
as critical articles on this theme continued to appear throughout the
following year, stressing the need for correcting erroneous verdicts, criti-
cizing cadres’ tardiness in doing so, and hinting that local-level party
organization departments were still under the unhealthy influence of
the Gang of Four.
They are preventing the movement from developing [by] causing

delays in drawing conclusions on the work of screening cadres and
assigning jobs to them, and boycotting and sabotaging implementa-
tion on the cadre policy. . . . [This is also true of] comrades [who] have
no direct connection with the ‘gang of four’ organizationally. . . .
They always show an unwillingness to give verdicts or handle back-
logged cases that call for further investigation.39
The case of the sixty-one, however, had to be reinvestigated at the

highest and the most central level, that is, under Central Committee
auspices. If the verdict was to be reversed, it would have to be done by
the Central Committee, which had indicted and convicted them in the
first place. However several heavy shadows continued to hang over the
case. Foremost was the connection with Liu Shaoqi, who was still being
vilified, albeit in less shrill terms. Then there were the 1977 revelations
of the past misdemeanours of Jiang Qing, Zhang Chunqiao and the
father of Yao Wenyuan.40 These charges, of the former radical elite’s own
1930s renegadism and capitulation after GMD imprisonment, did not
necessarily help the cause of the Cultural Revolution victims. Not only
did it look suspiciously tit-for-tat, but the use of an identical vocabu-
lary may have served to equate rather than contrast them in the public
consciousness. After all, arguments for extenuating ‘surrender’ circum-
stances could work both ways.
1978: the COD acts
Hu’s tenure as director of the COD began officially on 19 December

1977. No sooner had he assumed his new office than he received, via
Deng Xiaoping, a letter from Wang Xianmei, widow of Wang Qimei,
who had been one of the sixty-one and a former CCP secretary in
Tibet.41 Wang Xianmei appealed on behalf of her offspring, who could

not be employed because their of their father’s case. Deng noted that
Wang Qimei had done much good work since the Sino-Japanese war
and that the issue of his earlier problem (his release from Caolanzi)
should be resolved. In fact Wang Qimei’s case could be used as a model,
a precedent, the basis upon which each of the sixty-one could be reha-
bilitated. Having conferred with General Office director Wang Dong-
xing, Deng passed on the letter, with the above comment, to Hu
Yaobang. (We perhaps should note Deng’s ambivalence: the release issue
was a genuine problem, although one that could and should be solved,
since, as he had stated back in 1975, the sixty-one as individuals were
not to blame.)
One of Hu’s first moves in the COD was to establish a group to handle
the cases of veteran cadres. However, since the verdict against the sixty-
one had been authorized by Mao and the Central Committee, and since
the CCEG had no intention of negating its earlier work, General Office
and CCEG personnel were in no rush to cooperate with any competing
body, and COD staff were denied access to Central Archive materials.42
Hu realized it would be necessary to circumvent these offices and in
June 1978 he decided upon a full reinvestigation of the sixty-one man
case. He approached leading cadres whom he believed would support
the reopening of the case, and having received the blessing of Ye Jian-
ying, Deng Xiaoping and others, in early July he obtained Chairman
Hua’s permission to establish a four-man investigatory team. They were
instructed to complete their mission within three months – in time to
present their findings to the Third Plenary Session of the Eleventh
Central Committee.
Throughout the hot summer of 1978 and until the middle of October
the investigators worked intensively, travelling the country and inter-
viewing survivors among the sixty-one: Bo Yibo, Zhou Zhongying, Liu
Youguang, Kong Xiangzhen, Ma Huizhi, Zhu Zemin, An Ziwen, Liu
Lantao and Tang Fanglei.43 It is interesting to note that the investiga-
tors concluded that the investigation was to some extent unnecessary,
‘because by simply studying the data and materials provided by Kang
Sheng’s special investigation group, a correct conclusion contrary to the
frame-up could be drawn’, indicating that it was not so much the facts
of the case as the interpretation that was in dispute.44 Nevertheless
investigate they did, interviewing former white area North Bureau offi-
cials and JJLY delegates to the Seventh Party Congress in the mid 1940s.
Those interviewed included Li Baohua, Wang Congwu and Wang
Heshou, as well as cadres who had worked closely with Kang Sheng in
the late 1940s in Shandong and had heard him say that these cadres
had acted on Central Committee instructions. The investigators also
raked through old GMD files.45
Eventually, with Hu, the investigators drafted the COD’s seven-part
‘Investigation Report on the Case of the Sixty-One’, which covered the
handling of the case in 1966–67 and the decision in 1978 to reopen it.46
The report listed the sixty-one, summarizing how many had joined the
party and when, and gave their ranks and posts prior to the Cultural
Revolution. It noted that the majority of the prisoners who passed
through Caolanzi between 1931 and 1936 had been released after vol-
untary confession, whereas the sixty-one had refused to do so until they
were thus ordered by the North Bureau with the Central Committee’s
authorization. Their obstinacy had been noted by no less a person than
GMD General Song Zheyuan: ‘they stubbornly stick to their wrong
course and firmly refuse to fulfil the anti-communist formalities. Instead
they prefer to die in the reformatory.’ (Song’s comment, written on 11
September 1936, suggests he was unaware of the first group’s recanta-
tion, published eleven days previously.)47 Part five of the report noted
that before the party’s 1945 seventh congress, the Central Committee’s
Qualifications Committee had checked the credentials of proposed del-
egates among the sixty-one and had ruled that they were eligible.48
The report concluded that Bo Yibo and the others had conducted
themselves well during their Caolanzi prison years, and precisely
because they had proved their reliability the Central Committee and
North Bureau had permitted them to follow the enemy’s required pro-
cedures and sign the anticommunist statement. This ‘was a special
measure adopted by the organization under the specific historical con-
ditions prevailing at that time’49 – hardly praise but a forced and deeply
reluctant acknowledgment of extenuating circumstances, of a one-time
necessary evil.
The report stressed that responsibility for the plan had not been Liu
Shaoqi’s alone, but should also be attributed to other North Bureau
officials, singling out Ke Qingshi. Formal authorization had come from
Zhang Wentian, the party’s general secretary, representing that of the
Central Committee. Furthermore, the report said, there was reliable evi-
dence from many comrades that Mao had indicated to them the Central
Committee’s knowledge of the release procedures. By stopping short of
a clear statement that Zhang had actually consulted his Central Com-
mittee colleagues and that they and Mao had known of the plan before
it was implemented, the report perpetuated the fogging over of collec-
tive Central Committee responsibility. It did at least state that even if
the instruction had been improper, responsibility should rest with the
instructor and not the instructed.50
Finally, the COD’s investigatory committee recommended that the
verdict on the sixty-one be reversed, that the survivors’ party member-
ship be restored, and that they be given suitable work and be financially
compensated (their salaries paid retroactively). Inappropriate judge-
ments against their families should be corrected. Memorial services
should be held for those who had died.
The report was passed on to the Politburo and the Central Commit-
tee on 20 November. Meanwhile, in preparation for the Party’s Eleventh
Congress Third Plenum, a Central Work Conference was in progress.
Hua Guofeng tried to confine it to economic issues but many leading
cadres objected, insisting that political and historical problems had to
be aired. On 12 November, in a speech to the conference’s Northeast
Group, Chen Yun listed six matters requiring urgent review. The first
was the case of the sixty-one. The second was the COD’s controversial
7 July 1937 ‘Decision on how to treat so-called confessants’ which had
seemed tailor-made to help the sixty-one, but which Chen had replaced
in 1941 with a less generous version. His other concerns were Tao Zhu
and Wang Heshou, Peng Dehuai, the Tiananmen incident of 1976 and
Kang Sheng.51 Chen made an interesting comment: ‘Without resolving
these [historical] questions, there is no way of unifying the people.’52
Implied here is the need to do justice, not so much for the sake of the
individual victims as in order for the party to be redeemed in the
people’s eyes by openly meting it out. Chen may also have been trying
to salve his own conscience, harking back to his suspicious allusions to
white area cadres and his lack of support for Liu Shaoqi’s white area
policies in the 1930s.
Muted tones of rehabilitation
Two days before the Third Plenum of the Eleventh Central Committee
(18–22 December 1978) the Central Committee issued Zhongfa 75,
affirming the contents of the COD report and ordering its distribution
to party committees throughout the country. The communiqué of the
Third Plenum, however, did not mention the case of the sixty-one and
referred only to the leading member of the group: ‘The session exam-
ined and corrected the erroneous conclusions which had been adopted
on Peng Dehuai, Tao Zhu, Bo Yibo, Yang Shangkun and other comrades’
[emphasis added].53 It seems that the central leadership still considered
the case too ‘delicate’ or ‘complicated’ for overt public reference.
The memorial service to mark the posthumous rehabilitation of

Zhang Wentian did not take place until some months later, in August
1979, and in his memorial eulogy Deng Xiaoping chose not to refer to
Zhang’s role re the sixty-one.54 Others, however, such as Yang Shangkun,
when eulogizing Zhang referred to his bravely taking sole responsibil-
ity for the 1936 episode, and in doing so used Liu Shaoqi’s definition
of a good communist.
It was widely spread among party comrades that he neither shifted

responsibility onto others nor was vague about the ‘61-person case’.
He endured humiliation in order to carry out an important mission and,
taking the interests of the whole into account, he assumed sole
responsibility for the case [emphasis added].55
But even this wording is sufficiently vague for the lack of clarity to be
maintained – was he solely responsible for the decision in 1936, or did
he pretend in 1966 and 1967 that he had been? Either way it was
implicit that there was something ‘negative’ or at least highly contro-
versial for which responsibility had to be admitted. Yet when praising
Zhang some also took pains to allude to his insistence that the decision-
making process should involve organizational and collective discussion
and never be ‘arbitrary’ or ‘peremptory’.56
As for Liu Shaoqi, it was not until February 1979 that the Central
Committee decided that the COD and the Central Discipline Inspection
Commission should jointly reinvestigate the ‘renegade, traitor and scab’
verdict that had been passed on Liu in October 1968, and even then
the leadership took a full year to arrive at a consensus on his case. In
February–March 1980, by means of Zhongfa 25, the Fifth Plenary Session
of the Eleventh Central Committee reversed the verdict on Liu.57
The charges against him of renegadism in 1925, 1927 and 1929 were
related in copious detail and refuted as baseless, but his role in the 1936
episode was only given terse and brief reference: the document said
merely that this case had already been resolved at the December 1978
plenum. The reason was, as stated above, that the facts upon which the
Cultural Revolution radicals had based their charges re this case were
indeed the facts. It was the use made of the facts that was questionable.
As Lowell Dittmer has commented, the allegation was ‘essentially accu-
rate but invalid’, unlike the ‘inaccurate’ 1925–29 charges.58
One reason for the year-long delay in Liu’s official rehabilitation was
that certain figures in the leadership wanted reference to be made to
Liu’s mistakes as well as to his positive contributions. Liu’s widow, Wang
Guangmei, had objected to mention of Liu’s mistakes unless they were

‘described precisely and in the context of the objective conditions pre-
vailing at the time’.59 Although Zhongfa 25 did not relate his mistakes,
both Deng Xiaoping in his memorial eulogy and an editorial that fol-
lowed in Renmin ribao made a point of mentioning that Liu had not
been without fault.60 The editorial was astonishingly honest about the
difficulties involved in rehabilitating Liu, including the problem of thor-
oughly investigating ‘historical issues of over half a century ago. . . .
Even if only a fraction of what was included in the [renegade, scab,
traitor] resolution was true, it would not be easy to redress the case.’61
The inclusion of the detailed refutations of the 1925–29 charges in
the above-mentioned texts, and the determined avoidance of reference
to the 1936 charge, indicates that the latter may well have been con-
sidered one of Liu’s ‘mistakes’ – an error of judgement, a tactic that had
put the party in a distressingly uncomfortable and untenable position.
Not that the party leadership in 1980 necessarily believed that the
cadres should have been left to rot in 1936 rather than usefully
deployed. But their silence on this and not on the other charges against
Liu Shaoqi indicate that at least some considered that Liu had failed in
not finding another way out for the cadres, one that would have pre-
vented party complicity in their following of enemy procedures. That
silence seems to have perpetuated the radicals’ 1967 address to Liu on
this issue.62
The omission of the case of the sixty-one from the indictments in the
Gang of Four’s trial is the ultimate indication of the party’s ambivalence
about it and Liu Shaoqi’s role in it. Every other major case of false and
unjust accusation against individuals, groups, central and local institu-
tions, including cases ‘left over from history’, such as the Xinjiang 1942
episode, was referred to in the indictments, if not in the final judgment.
References to the injustice of renegade charges against the sixty-one
were subsumed under such charges against the institutional groups to
which they had belonged: the Organization Department, the Control
Commission, the Ministry of Public Security and so on. At the time of
the trial (late 1980 and early 1981) references to the injustice of the case
were relegated to articles denigrating deceased Cultural Revolution
leaders such as Kang Sheng and Xie Fuzhi, and since these men were
already dead and therefore could not be tried, clearly the case of the
sixty-one was not going to receive the kind of attention given to others
in the Gang of Four trial.63
There was one other important document that omitted reference to
the case. Like the 1945 CCP Resolution on Party History, the June 1981
Resolution on CPC History underwent many a revision before it was

released. The 1981 resolution was critical of Mao from the Great Leap
Forward onwards, especially with regard to the Cultural Revolution, and
singled out leading cadres who were victims of the party’s ‘erroneous’
activities, such as the struggle against the so-called antiparty clique of
Peng Zhen, Luo Ruiqing, Lu Dingyi and Yang Shangkun, and the so-
called headquarters of Liu Shaoqi and Deng Xiaoping. It also referred
to the veteran cadres involved in the February Adverse Current and the
wrong criticism of Chen Yun and Zhu De. Bo Yibo and company did
not merit a mention. The Central Committee was thus reversing the fal-
tering steps it had taken in its December 1978 resolution towards assum-
ing responsibility for the sixty-one’s dilemma. It preferred, as it always
had, to lower the profile of this story and bury it in the individual
dossiers.
The sixty-one rehabilitated
Twenty-six of the sixty-one were still alive when the Central Commit-
tee reversed its verdict on their case at the end of 1978. The first leading
figure to make a public appearance was Bo Yibo (in the company of
another late rehabilitee, Yang Shangkun), when he attended the funeral
of Deputy Security Minister Yang Jijing on 2 December 1978, that is,
before the official announcement of the verdict’s reversal.64 On 24
December 1978, immediately following the Third Plenum commu-
niqué, a joint memorial service was held for Cultural Revolution victims
Peng Dehuai and Tao Zhu. Among the friends attending were many of
the sixty-one: Bo Yibo, An Ziwen, Liu Lantao, Liu Youguang, Zhou
Zhongying, Liu Zijiu, Wang Hefeng, Zhao Lin, Fu Yutian, Li Chuli, Zhu
Zemin and Yang Xianzhen (and Kong Xiangzhen).65
For these survivors, just as their verdict had had some verbal limita-
tions, their rehabilitation in terms of reinstatement to office was
somewhat lacklustre. An Ziwen, Bo Yibo and Liu Lantao regained their
Central Committee membership at the Eleventh Central Committee’s
Fourth Plenum in September 1979; however neither Liu nor Bo regained
his Eighth Central Committee Politburo position, nor did Liu return
to the Secretariat. This contrasts sharply with GMD prison cadre and
even later rehabilitee Peng Zhen, who regained his Politburo status in
September 1979, and former General Office director Yang Shangkun
(of mixed red and white area background), who was promoted to the
Twelfth Central Committee Politburo in 1982. Given the presence of
these two in the Politburo, along with Deng Xiaoping, Chen Yun, Li
Xiannian, Ye Jianying and a number of other septua- and octogenar-

ians who did not retire until September 1985, one could hardly argue
that the age of Bo or Liu was an impediment.
Yang Xianzhen did not even regain his Central Committee alternate
membership, a slight that can be put down to Yang’s direct and open
conflict with Mao on political theory. This supposition is substantiated
by the fact that he received further and ‘complete’ rehabilitation only
in November 1980, when ‘The Secretariat of the CPC CC approved a
decision of the CPC Central Committee Party School . . . repudiating all
labels imposed on him by Kang Sheng and others, like “opposing Mao
Zedong’s Thought”.’66 However in September 1979 Yang did receive an
honorary position as adviser in his former professional home, the Party
School.
Honorary, especially ‘advisory’, positions appear to have been gener-
ally the lot for the rehabilitated sixty-ones, with few exceptions. Yang
Xianzhen, Ma Huizhi (former communications vice-minister) and Li
Chuli (former COD deputy director) were appointed to the Fifth
Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference (CPPCC) Standing
Committee in June 1979. Liu Lantao was appointed vice-chairman of
the Standing Committee and continued in the Sixth CPPCC in that
capacity. An Ziwen, Bo Yibo, and Liu Youguang were deputies to the
Fifth National People’s Congress (NPC), and An was appointed vice-
chairman of its Legal Commission in February 1979. Liu Youguang
continued to serve on the Sixth NPC and was a member of its Law
Committee. He also served as political commissar to the National
Defence Science and Technology Commission from 1981 until at least
1983.
Others given advisory posts were Liu Zijiu, adviser to the Labour Min-
istry, of which he had once been vice-minister, and Zhou Zhongying,
adviser to the State Economic Commission, in which he had once
served as vice-chairman. Surprisingly An Ziwen was appointed adviser
to (and vice-president of) the Central Party School, not to the Central
Organization Department with which he had been identified through-
out his career. He died the following year, on 25 June 1980. Between
1979 and 1982 Liu Lantao served as first deputy director and adviser to
the United Front Work Department.
Survivors of the sixty-one who had been purged from provincial
posts were generally reinstated at the same level but in different loca-
tions, and the duration of their appointment was brief, presumably in
accordance with the plan to promote younger cadres. Fu Yutian became
secretary of the Jiangxi Provincial Party Committee in 1979 and vice-
governor of the province in December that year; he had formerly held

a similar rank in Guangxi. Wang De, former party secretary in Guang-
dong province and alternate member of the Central South Bureau
Secretariat, was reappointed party committee secretary of Guangdong
Province CP in April 1979, where he remained until September 1981.
Between July 1982 and March 1983 he served as a party committee sec-
retary in Hunan. He did not receive any regional appointment equiva-
lent to his earlier Central South Bureau status.
Zhao Lin appears to be one of the few provincial officials among the
sixty-one to have achieved improved status. He was a secretary on the
Shandong Provincial Party Committee in 1979–83, and vice-chairman
of the same during 1979. At his send-off ceremony in Jilin, where he
had served as acting first secretary in pre-Cultural Revolution days, Zhao
thanked ‘the dear Party which has given a political life for the second
time’.67 In September 1982 he entered the Central Advisory Commis-
sion and was in the leading group in the Central Commission for
Guiding Party Rectification (CCGPR) in January 1985.
The CDIC and the CAC
Two new central institutions, the Central Advisory Commission (CAC)

and the Central Discipline Inspection Commission (CDIC), offered
some of the sixty-one an honourable transit vehicle to retirement. The
addition of Chen Yun and Hu Yaobang to the Politburo at the water-
shed Third Plenum and the ousting of Wang Dongxing from the
General Office were formal and tangible evidence of the changing policy
on the investigation and rehabilitation of the party’s veteran victims.
The infamous CCEG was to be dismantled.68 Cadre investigations would
in future be held under the auspices of either the COD or the newly
established CDIC, headed by Chen Yun.
The CDIC was a revamped Central Control Commission – in more
senses than one. In January 1979 several of the sixty-one were
appointed to its Standing Committee: Ma Huizhi, Li Chuli, Wang
Hefeng and Zhou Zhongying. Two other Caolanzi cadres, Kong
Xianzhen and Wei Wenbo (released before the sixty-one), also joined
the CDIC, Kong on the Standing Committee and Wei as deputy secre-
tary. In fact there was a quite significant presence of white area prison
cadres on this commission, including Wang Heshou, Wang Congwu,
Shuai Mengqi and Zhang Zhiyi – a situation comparable to the estab-
lishment of its forebear, the 1955 Central Control Commission. Was
this again a compensatory gesture towards white area and especially
prison cadres, indicating the party’s trust in them as ‘models in party

style’?
If this was a gesture of respect, it was short-lived, again a situation
comparable to the fate of the CCC. The September 1982 Twelfth Party
Congress saw a radical change in the composition of the CDIC and a
broadening of its powers. Only twenty-six members of the former CDIC
entered the new 132-man CDIC.69 All six Caolanzi cadres lost their seats.
Only one of them, Li Chuli, was transferred to the CAC, established at
the Twelfth Congress. Bo Yibo was one of the four vice-chairmen of
this commission; Liu Lantao was on its standing committee and Yang
Xianzhen and Zhao Lin were members. After 1985 only Bo and Liu
continued in their CAC capacities. The remarkable ascent of the CAC’s
influence during the one decade of its life was unexpected, not only to
those who created it but also to analysts of the Chinese political scene.
As one commentator observed, ‘appointments to the CAC may be
regarded as a face-saving measure in order to retire them [aged cadres]
with grace. There is little evidence that their alleged “advisory” func-
tions amount to significant factors in the governing of China.’70 How
wrong this proved to be!
With the advantage of hindsight, Lucien Pye has described the
interim arrangement for veterans of the revolution as ‘an institutional
base for maintaining their power’ and their seniority as the essence of
this power.71 The end result was as follows:
The [Fourteenth] Congress confirmed the important decision to

abolish the Central Advisory Commission, which had become an
institutional base of support for Chen Yun’s sniping at Deng Xiao-
ping . . . the existence of such commissions . . . gave ostensibly
retired veterans a formal excuse to interfere directly in decision-
making. Its abolition must be interpreted as a victory for Deng and
his supporters . . . there is now no formal regulation allowing them
to attend either Politburo or Central Committee meetings.72
It is largely within this context that we shall review the paradoxically

bright twilight years of the last survivor among the foremost members
of the sixty-one: Bo Yibo.
Bo Yibo: post-Cultural Revolution
Bo’s career took something of a novel turn after the Cultural Revolu-
tion. Although he continued to hold several positions in the state
economic system, he became highly visible in the ideological–political

sphere.73 He played a prominent role in the Party rectification cam-
paigns of 1983 and 1987, and, far more strangely, in the downfall of his
erstwhile saviour, Hu Yaobang. Although this role appeared to place Bo
in the ‘conservative’ or ‘leftist’ camp – and in the early 1980s Bo’s views
on economic reforms certainly bore closer resemblance to Chen Yun’s
than to Deng Xiaoping’s – it seems that he either moved closer to Deng’s
views as the decade wore on or at least suppressed his own, supporting
Deng in exchange for some limelight in the political arena, not to
mention the prestigious honour of having his collected and selected
works published between 1991 and 1993 and the first volume of his
autobiography in 1996.74
On the first anniversary of the CAC’s establishment, Bo chose to
emphasize that, while it was imperative to promote younger cadres,
‘veteran cadres are the backbone. It will not do to let them all step
down immediately’, and predicted a ten- to fifteen-year duration for
the CAC, ‘until the party and state have a perfect retirement system’.75
He was to return to this theme of the vital role still to be played by
his dwindling revolutionary peer group on a number of occasions. In
the meantime Bo listed the various tasks of the CAC, among them
‘its political role as an assistant and consultant . . . to offer some
supplementary opinions to the Party Central Committee’s directives
and decisions before they are made public and while they are being
implemented’.76
Bo augmented his authority as a leading veteran cadre in the sphere
of ideology and politics when he became vice-chairman of the Com-
mission for Guiding Party Consolidation (CGPC), an institution created
specifically to do away with ‘spiritual pollution’. This was the term
applied to (what were perceived as) subversive thoughts on humanism
and alienation that since the spring of 1983 had been seeping out
of the Institute of Marxism–Leninism–Mao Zedong Thought in the
Academy of Social Sciences and the Central Party School, and into
public discourse.77
The Second Plenary Session of the Twelfth Central Committee in mid
October called for a party rectification movement under the auspices of
the CGPC, its chairman, Hu Yaobang, and vice-chairman, Bo. Unhappy
with the campaign, Hu was responsible for its rapid curtailment – a mere
twenty-eight days after its inception. It is possible that this was a source
of friction between Hu and Bo, who appeared intent on continuing the
campaign, sending out the second batch of liaison official groups on 22
December. The campaign nevertheless fizzled out.
Exacerbating the tension were the remarks made by Hu just before

the Fourth Plenary Session of the Twelfth Central Committee (16 Sep-
tember 1985), which accepted the resignation of a significant number
of ageing cadres from the central leading bodies (including Yang
Xianzhen from the CAC). Hu, with characteristic tactlessness, referred
to the ‘old age and limited knowledge’ of the CAC and CDIC members,
and the need to admit new, younger members. This would not have
endeared him to Bo. Adding insult to injury, in January 1986 Hu told
cadres in central organizations that the blame for party ills should be
laid on the top echelons, not the lower ones.78
It is difficult to ascertain whether Bo was wrapping himself in his new
party ideologue cloak as a means to legitimize his continuing political
‘elder’ presence, which was constantly being harassed and challenged
by this ‘pro-youth’ lobby. His lack of Politburo status made him even
more vulnerable. At the same time one must acknowledge the prob-
ability that CCP cadres (such as Bo) whose party membership dated back
to the 1920s, and who were now observing the disintegration of party
authority in the USSR, gravitated toward each other in solidarity, block-
ing any whisper of political reform. Deng Xiaoping was no exception.
And there were such whispers.
Hu Yaobang himself had raised the daring suggestion that classic
Marxism–Leninism might not meet all of China’s current needs.79 The
scholars he patronized at the Marxist–Leninist Institute entered into an
industrious reassessment of Marxism with the intention of eliciting and
elaborating on what was applicable to China’s current stage of economic
and political development. Their findings were to be included in Hu’s
report to the Thirteenth Party Congress.80 However the combined effect
of mooted concepts of political reform and the concurrent student
demonstrations at the end of 1986 fuelled a new party rectification cam-
paign, initiated by the conservative elders in January 1987. The purpose
was ‘to oppose bourgeois liberalization’. The charge was led by Bo Yibo.
Five months later, when winding up the campaign, he commented bit-
terly on the direct relationship between the 1983 and 1987 campaigns:
[S]ome leading individual comrades have not implemented the

decision of the Party Central Committee and have been unwilling
to come round from the extreme of being slack and weak. Accord-
ingly, the struggle to oppose spiritual pollution was quickly cut short
soon after the beginning of party rectification. They protected the
activities of and connived with those who advocated bourgeois
liberalization.81
In this report Bo was once again careful to stress the role of old cadres,
first in the context of training younger theorists in ‘applying stands,
viewpoints, and methods of Marxism–Leninism–Mao Zedong Thought
to solve China’s practical problems’.82 He then turned to strengthening
the leading bodies. Although he acknowledged the need to make them
younger, ‘better educated and professionally more competent’, he stated
emphatically that the qualifications of ‘ “political integrity” and “more
revolutionary” come first. . . . Making the leading bodies younger in
average age does not mean the younger the leading bodies, the better
they are. We must not demand uniformity in age.’83 Like its 1983 pre-
decessor, the 1987 campaign was brief. Hu Yaobang this time con-
tributed to its brevity in the role of chief target. The elders’ pound of
flesh was Hu’s ‘resignation’ as party general secretary and the expulsion
of some prominent intellectuals from the party. In return Deng firmed
up support from his peers for economic reform.
The Thirteenth Congress in October 1987 bade farewell to the remain-
ing elders on the Politburo (apart from Yang Shangkun). Perhaps Bo
felt relief at no longer being the odd one out. On the other hand
Chen Yun was appointed to head the new CAC, but Bo was quick
to assume a new role – as unofficial mediator between the CAC and
the Politburo (and Deng). Bo’s position midway between Deng and
the CAC became apparent when a CAC meeting was called in mid
February 1992, coinciding with the end of Deng’s southern tour. The
upshot of the meeting was a critical letter to Deng requesting that the
Marxist–Leninist party line be upheld. It was signed by thirty-five
leading members of the CAC; Bo’s name does not appear to be among
them.84 In April a Hong Kong source reported that Deng had appointed
Bo to oversee the selection of candidates to the Fourteenth Party Con-
gress, and to help with the selection of replacements for State Council
positions.
After a further stinging critique from Chen Yun and the CAC in the
summer of 1992, Deng decided to delay no further in ending the formal
powers of his elderly colleagues.85 The CAC was abolished at the Four-
teenth Congress in October 1992. Afterwards Bo’s assistance continued
to be sought: he was to ‘act as a bridge between the Politburo and the
elders’ and he was ‘a regular attendant of briefing sessions convened by
Jiang Zemin where advice was sought from first-generation revolution-
aries’.86 The Fourth Plenum of the Fourteenth Central Committee put
an end to any remaining direct intervention by the ‘elders’, passing an
internal resolution permitting them to attend Politburo meetings but
not to vote.
By dint of his astuteness and good health Bo occupied centre-stage

among the few remaining ‘elders’ in the 1990s. His views on the
economy, detailed in his essays, suggested that he did not favour a
wholesale switch to a full market economy.87 Nevertheless Bo was suf-
ficiently pragmatic to present a low verbal profile on this issue, and
discreetly put his views in writing to conserve for prestigious and
respectable posterity. Instead he concentrated his active political efforts
on the preservation of party authority, an objective shared by his peers
– not least Deng Xiaoping:
The present task of party building and the strengthening of party

ranks is more arduous and is of more decisive importance than the
War of Liberation and the socialist transformation. This task and
struggle can also be seen as a test and an appraisal of veteran cadres.
They should not rest on their laurels, pose as people who have
rendered great service.88
Bo’s post-Cultural Revolution career thus illustrates his finely tuned sur-
vival instincts. As his Caolanzi colleagues faded away one by one, he
was perhaps less burdened by association with the so-called sixty-one
renegades. How Bo will be eulogized is not difficult to predict.
Remembrance
On 25 January 1979 a memorial service was held for five prominent

cadres among the sixty-one who had died in the course of the Cultural
Revolution: Liao Luyan, Xu Zirong, Hu Xikui, Liu Xiwu and Wang
Qimei. Li Xiannian officiated and Hu Yaobang eulogized the deceased.
‘Neither in their prison experiences from 1931 on, nor 1966 on, did
these men ever capitulate; they firmly struggled.’89 Provincial officials
such as Wu Yunpu (Shanxi), Liu Wenwei (Sha’anxi) and Hou Zhenya
(Fujian) were accorded similar posthumous honours at the local level.90
Eulogies of the recently deceased have much the same function as the
historical analogy so commonly employed in Chinese political culture,
where ‘symbols tend to have longer life expectancies . . . than in other
political systems’.91 One potent function of a eulogy that positively re-
evaluates a previously maligned political figure is to renovate the image
of the survivor’s associates. When the author of the eulogy just happens
to be among the latter, this offers him a subtle and acceptable way of
‘blowing his own trumpet’. Lowell Dittmer has discussed Deng Xiao-
ping’s commemoration of Liu Shaoqi in this light, and I believe that the
same principle can be applied to the Caolanzi Cultural Revolution sur-

vivors who eulogized their late comrades.
There was one dilemma inherent in all the eulogies and descriptions
of the sixty-one’s experiences. How could their need to be etched into
the public consciousness as courageous heroes of the revolution be real-
ized as long as what bound them together as a group in the public eye
was not only their noble struggle within the prison confines, but also
its flawed concomitant, their ignoble release? They could do little but
draw attention to the former and omit mention of the latter, or at most
refer to it briefly as the party’s responsibility.
Bo Yibo and Liu Lantao, for instance, when eulogizing Hu Xikui on
his underground work, described how he had ‘courageously pitted his
wits against the enemies under extremely adverse and dangerous con-
ditions’, and referred to the activities of Hu and his comrades (that is,
themselves) in GMD prisons:
They secretly carried out arduous work among their fellow prisoners
and encouraged their comrades to foster revolutionary faith and
wage a tit-for-tat struggle against the enemy. . . . During those 5 long
years, he endured great hardships at the hands of the enemy and
stood up to the test for the cause of the liberation of the Chinese
people. He was indeed a worthy son of the Chinese people and a
loyal fighter of the Party.92
An Ziwen was among a group of authors to eulogize Xu Zirong, who

had ‘doggedly waged a revolutionary struggle in an environment of
white terror’, and ‘while in prison . . . engaged in party branch activities
. . . [and] waged a resolute and brave struggle against the enemy’.93
He had of course been ‘open and above-board’ and his ‘lofty qualities
such as his loyalty to the party and the people’ were worthy of emula-
tion. The eulogy also referred to an incident in Xu’s subsequent Min-
istry of Public Security career, when had he warned against using ‘mass
struggle to solve complicated cases’ for in this way ‘you cannot avoid
making mistakes. You may even be used by bad people and those who
bear grudges and want to pay off old scores.’94 Likewise noted was Xu’s
warning not to quote leaders’ articles and speeches out of context but
to ‘give proper historical background as illustration’.95 Xu’s reference
was actually to Luo Ruiqing, but the writers of this eulogy perhaps used
it as a reminder of how Liu Shaoqi’s writings on self-sacrifice had been
taken out of context during the Cultural Revolution to incriminate
him and the sixty-one for putting personal safety above party loyalty.
Another interpretation of this reference is that it inferred that the back-

ground to the 1936 episode should be taken into account before judging
the participants.
In both eulogies the actual release was given brief reference: the latter
article simply mentioned that after Xu’s release from prison he had been
sent by the party to Shanxi. The Hu Xikui article was marginally more
informative: ‘In October 1936, Comrade Hu Xikui and his comrades-in-
arms were successfully rescued from prison through the efforts of the
party organization.’96 Similarly Bo Yibo, when eulogizing An Ziwen,
made only passing mention to ‘the party rescuing us from prison’, high-
lighting instead the struggles they had ‘waged together’ in Caolanzi and
how An Ziwen had ‘firmly resisted the enemy’s “self-reproach” policy
and roused inspiring awe by upholding justice because he did not yield
to the enemy who repeatedly tried to kill him’.97
At the ‘package’ memorial service for Liao Luyan, Xu Zirong, Hu
Xikui, Liu Xiwu and Wang Qimei, Hu Yaobang chose to use the termi-
nology of self-sacrifice, referring to Hu Xikui’s ‘indomitable spirit of sac-
rificing himself’ and to Liu Xiwu’s Caolanzi experience, in which he had
displayed the ‘revolutionary virtue of a communist’ by being ‘fearless,
heroic, obstinate, firm in stand and indomitable’. Similarly Wang Qimei,
‘when engaged in underground party work, [had] displayed heroism and
wisdom and persisted in struggle in [the] face of vicious white terror.
When in jail he [had] never yielded to mistreatment . . . displaying
the dignity and revolutionary virtue of a communist.’98 Although Hu
Yaobang did his best to cloak the tarnished prison cadre image in
ethical, revolutionary hero terms, even he had to skip over the release
procedures in which the sixty-one had participated.
Although several provided detailed accounts of their struggle in
Caolanzi prison, none of the sixty-one or their sympathizers appear to
have detailed the release procedures in the post-Cultural Revolution
period. Perhaps they felt more than a little ambivalent. They had been
caught in a classic ‘catch 22’ situation: be dammed as foolish, closed-
door adventurists damaging the party if they had chosen to disobey the
1936 order, thereby risking death in prison and preventing the party
from rebuilding its strength; or be dammed as they eventually were for
the shaming public ‘renunciation’ of communism and the party, para-
doxically permitted by the party itself. It seems that the sixty-one them-
selves were none too eager for all the facts to come out. Perhaps the
dark, clandestine underside of white area work would always remain
misunderstood and misconstrued and was better left buried in secret
party archives, as Bo suggested:
As for some major controversial issues, we may collect data on them

and do research on them or just file them away; we do not have to
be impatient about such issues, much less disclose data on them
without approval from higher authorities. We must act with
caution.99
6
A Prejudiced Conclusion
In North China there are many good communists like Peng Zhen and
Bo Yibo. They were locked up in prison. Do you think that only we
outside fought hard? Did they not fight hard? They struggled against
the enemy from within the prison. . . . Amongst our white area cadres
are those who survived without having been in prison; those who
survived imprisonment . . . those in prison who died there. They all
struggled bravely and were ready to sacrifice their lives. . . . Their
achievements count. We must appreciate the work they did.
(Mao Zedong speaking at the Central Party School,
15 February 1945)1
Our revolutionary martyrs are like towering peaks that rise into the
clouds, while this handful of traitors are nothing more than earth
mounds. The Khrushchev of China and the handful of traitors under
his protective wings are unable to wash away their disgrace with all
the waters of the East China Sea. The verdict of history is that you
will leave an infamous memory to posterity.
(Hongqi, 17 August 1967)2
In the final autumn of Zhou Enlai’s life, as he fought a losing battle with
cancer, he was troubled by a matter that had been resolved with Mao’s
approval several times over – in 1932, 1968 and 1972. Yet the thought
preyed on his mind that posterity might doubt his loyalty to the party,
might believe that in 1932, under the alias Wu Hao, he had published
a newspaper declaration that he was quitting the party. He requested
that his account and all the accompanying materials that proved the
GMD’s fabrication of the announcement be brought to his hospital bed.
In September 1975 he once again signed his name to the documents,
190
A Prejudiced Conclusion 191
which were then returned to the party archives. Here was a man whose
every moment for more than fifty years had been dedicated for better
or worse to the Chinese Communist Party, a man who had been
involved in every dramatic twist and turn the party had taken, a man
who had stood at Mao’s side and at the side of those leaders who had
preceded Mao. One of the giants of the communist revolution, he had
personally negotiated with the friends and enemies of the CCP and the
PRC. He was revered and loved by his people – and yet his last thoughts
were disturbed by an episode that might appear to us as marginal, if not
trivial.
As it turns out, as his role as protector of his peers during the Cul-
tural Revolution diminishes and is replaced by a far less benign image,
it seems that Zhou had good reason to be concerned about his post-
humous reputation – but not because of the Wu Hao incident. His fear
of being posthumously tagged as a renegade was misplaced. But what
a powerful fear that was for him and how much more so for those
communists, like the sixty-one, who did publish antiparty newspaper
declarations.
The signing of such declarations – and party authorization of such
acts – simply did not belong in the party’s rhetoric of communist moral-
ity. Not surprisingly the party chose to project its identity through a
prism of wholesome, revolutionary purity in thought and action. This
utopian and simplistic conceptualization was the powerful message of
the hallowed Yan’an era, when Mao consolidated his leadership of the
CCP and rewrote its history. Not surprisingly the complex ambiguities
of white area activities were brushed under the carpet. Yet once upon a
time, before the liberated areas existed, the communist movement’s
leading cadres had all been in the same boat. They had all been white
area cadres, hounded and on the run, donning an alias or even a dis-
guise – and fearing betrayal by colleagues and friends. However once
the soviets were created, cadres who moved to them became ‘red area
cadres’, enjoying the freedom to live openly as communists. This was a
moral luxury not afforded to those who remained in the white areas
and certainly not to those in enemy prisons. It was as if they had been
left behind physically and historically while the red area cadres were
evolving into a higher form of Chinese communist species.
A double standard operated towards the white area cadre, accepting
his work as necessary – even lauding it as brave and an integral part of
the revolution – yet constantly reminding him of his vulnerability to
the influences of the corrupt white area environment, and thereby chal-
lenging his integrity. Sneaking doubts and sometimes open antagonism
towards the white area cadres bred fissures in the revolutionary genera-
tion. Despite their crucial role, white area cadres were cast at best as
heroes of a lesser kind. On the whole this discrimination was kept in
check, but in certain periods their complex past spilled forth as politi-
cally exploitable capital. When controls were removed in the Cultural
Revolution the double standard became singly, unambiguously and
ruthlessly focused. Far from being the unsung heroes of the revolution,
the white area cadres were cruelly recast as traitors.
This double-standard pattern was first observed by some of the sixty-
one when they arrived in Yan’an during the Rectification Campaign. On
the one hand, along with red area cadres and other leading white area
cadres such as Peng Zhen, they were entrusted with the running of the
campaign, especially in respect of administering study programmers. On
the other hand many white area cadres, along with intellectuals who
had recently flocked to Yan’an, bore the brunt of persecution in the
course of the 1943 ‘rescue campaign’.
From merely observing discriminatory attitudes, leading cadres
among the sixty-one began to experience them first-hand during the
selection process for delegates to the Seventh Party Congress, when it
began to look like the 1936 release might torpedo their candidacy. It
did not, but the fact that the issue was raised – whether by others, or
by themselves to preempt others – was indicative of their vulnerability
and the threat – perceived or real – of a challenge to their fitness as del-
egates. The ultimately finely balanced representation of delegates from
all ‘mountaintops’ or walks of party life at the Congress signified Mao’s
determination to effect party unity. But it took Mao several attempts,
including giving voice to the words that opened this chapter, to appease
the feelings of the white area cadres. Perhaps he grew a little fed up with
eating humble pie, because his apology in April 1945 sounds cavalier,
if not begrudging:
Comrades from enemy-occupied areas . . . thought that they were

better than people from the base areas. The investigation of cadres
placed them under suspicion and caused them trouble. . . . Now
everything is clear. Apologies have been made to those who have had
wrong hats put on them. The hats have been taken off, and due
respect should be paid to them. They will gradually adapt to the work-
style of the base areas with which they do not feel comfortable.3
Notwithstanding this demonstration of niggardliness, Mao continued

his efforts to preserve party unity after the establishment of the regime
in 1949, by an apparently carefully balanced distribution of party and

government posts among cadres from red and white areas. I use the
word ‘apparently’ since white area cadres received good but not the best
upper echelon jobs and precious few achieved the highest positions in
the party hierarchy (such as full membership of the Politburo). Never-
theless what they did receive was sufficient for them not to complain
and risk appearing greedy. It is also reasonable to assume that the prin-
ciple of party unity was as dear to their hearts as it was to Mao’s at that
time and that their enthusiasm to share in China’s new era outweighed
any seemingly petty discontent about job allocations. As long as party
unity was not only Mao’s primary goal but also within his capacity to
effect, prejudice against white area cadres was likely to be contained.
With the Gao Gang affair, the skeleton slipped briefly out of the cup-
board. In Politics at Mao’s Court Frederick Teiwes revised his earlier thesis
on the Gao Gang affair thus: ‘the effort to manipulate tensions between
“red” and “white” area cadres was far more potent than originally
believed’.4 It was potent because these papered-over tensions were real
and deep. Gao, however clumsily, was in effect exposing a hypocrisy.
That his prejudicial sentiments were not unshared can be deduced from
the overemphatic protestations by party leaders such as Deng Xiaoping:
‘Our Party is a unified one, the vanguard of the working class; it has
never been and can never be divided into the “party of the base areas
and the army” and the “party of the white areas” ’.5 Gao Gang was
purged for his Party-splitting attempts and was not rehabilitated. Ironi-
cally, however, his opinions on the superiority of red area and military
cadres and the inappropriate leadership stature accorded to Liu Shaoqi
found explicit legitimacy during the Cultural Revolution. Until then
there do not appear to have been further outbursts against white area
cadres. Discrimination returned to its subtler guise and the double stan-
dard resumed with the subsequent establishment of the Central Control
Commission, its composition heavily weighted in favour of white area
and prison cadre personnel. The overt message seemed to be: ‘Granting
you (white area cadres) disciplinary powers over cadre behaviour is
proof of our trust in you.’ The covert side of the coin was the narrow
limitation of these powers – a manifestation of underlying misgivings
towards the same cadres.
White area and prison cadres continued to feel vulnerable, which
explains the attempts by An Ziwen and the COD in the 1950s and 1960s
to categorize actions taken by white area cadres in the pre-1949 era in
ways that would determine their acceptability, by taking into account
the precise nature of individual cases and the specific circumstances
surrounding their actions. These efforts became a focus for Cultural Rev-
olution radicals to charge An Ziwen et al. with trying to justify or cover
up the less savoury aspects of their past.
The relative ease with which the radical leaders in 1966–67 dislodged
and dispensed with white area cadres – particularly those who had spent
years in GMD prisons – underscored the lingering mistrust:
During the Cultural Revolution . . . Lin Biao and the ‘gang of four’
. . . even regarded the underground party members sent to work
among the enemy forces as ‘deserters who were recruited’ by the
enemy. They thought that all those who had been arrested and
imprisoned by the enemy were renegades, disregarding their behav-
iour in prison.6
If accusations against high-level cadres regarding their post-1949 per-

formance were not sufficiently incriminating, charges of pre-1949 ren-
egadism, capitulation and betrayal in the white areas provided the icing
on the cake. Furthermore we cannot rule out that a possible reason for
the very late rehabilitation of these cadres was that doubts continued
to sway even their moderate peers. In 1982, long after the purges and
rehabilitations, there was still evidence of the same old prejudice, as the
following comment in Hongqi, the CCP’s official journal, illustrates:
When the great revolution in 1927 failed, many comrades died heroi-
cally. They are heroes and deserve to be called communist fighters.
. . . Under Chiang Kai-shek’s white terror, there were also some people
who became dejected, and lost faith in the revolution. Some dropped
out of the revolutionary ranks. . . . Others published confessions in
Guomindang newspapers and some others even became traitors.7
The author tempers the tone by saying that to understand how such
mistakes could be made, one must investigate the circumstances and
take the historical context into consideration – not to excuse, but to
know how to prevent this in the future:
Purging the Party of those who betrayed it will make our party
stronger, purer and more combat-worthy. Moreover we have to
handle correctly the problem of how we should treat those comrades
who are still loyal to the revolution but have committed mistakes.
We do not approve the adoption of any absolute attitude toward
these comrades. . . . We should concentrate our efforts on analysing
the background in which the mistakes were committed, the details

of the mistakes and their social, historical and ideological sources,
and adopt the policy of learning from the past mistakes to avoid
future ones, and curing the sickness to save the patient.8
As the last of the CCP’s founder generation fade away, so too fades the
particular sickness of prejudice that tended to blight the unity of this
elite group. Often a dormant rather than an active virus, it was one that
its host, the party leadership, preferred not to acknowledge. But as it
lingered on, it could be played upon, consciously or not, for political
capital. The case of the sixty-one renegades was a natural outcome of
the prejudice engendered by the Chinese communist red area–white
area dual morality structure. Their post-Cultural Revolution exoneration
was lukewarm and left the critical issue of the Central Committee’s col-
lective responsibility hanging in the air. Zhang Wentian remains the
Central Committee’s scapegoat. This was a baby nobody wanted to hold,
a buck everyone passed with alacrity. Liu Shaoqi, the sixty-one and their
sympathizers pinned the inspiration for the release plan on North
Bureau cadre Ke Qingshi. Conveniently dead since 1965, this radical
Shanghai cohort of Jiang Qing was unable to counter the claim. Both
Zhang and Liu claimed unconvincingly that they had not been aware
of the full extent of the humiliating release procedures, the implication
being that had they known they might not have been so forthcoming
in authorizing the release. The sixty-one passed the buck back to the
Central Committee – they had just been obeying orders.
Prejudice aside, the sixty-one faced a dilemma of a ubiquitous nature
– the conflict between the individual conscience and allegiance to a
group’s cause. Should a loyal communist die rather than renounce his
credo? But what if the party bids him to recant in order to survive and
contribute his skills in building up the party? Should a loyal commu-
nist struggle with his conscience and assume personal responsibility if
he considers a party order to be a mistake; or is the individual’s obedi-
ence to the party, as dictated by the party constitution the cardinal
value? In pursuing the latter choice the sixty-one believed they had
resolved their dilemma. Lenin, in his adherence to strict party discipline
and the accountability of the lower to the higher levels of the party hier-
archy, might have doffed his cap in respect; it was the sixty-one’s mis-
fortune that so many closer to home did not.
Appendix: The Sixty-One
1. An Ziwen 22. Liu Lantao 42. Wang Zhenlin

2. Bo Yibo 23. Liu Shangzhi 43. Wu Yunpu
3. Ding Xizhen 24. Liu Shenzhi 44. Xia Fuhai
4. Dong Tianzhi 25. Liu Wenwei 45. Xian Weixun
5. Du Boyang 26. Liu Xiwu 46. Xu Zirong
6. Feng Leijin 27. Liu Youguang 47. Yang Xianzhen
7. Fu Ping 28. Liu Zhao 48. Yang Cai
8. Fu Yutian 29. Liu Zijiu 49. Yi Mingdao
9. Gao Tingkai 30. Ma Huizhi 50. Yin Daoli
10. Gao Yangyun 31. Ma Yutang 51. Yin Jian
11. Han Jun 32. Peng De 52. Zhang Manping
12. Hao Jinbo 33. Qiao Jiansheng 53. Zhang Xi
13. He Zhiping 34. Qiu Shaoshang 54. Zhang Youqing
14. Hou Zhenya 35. Tang Fanglei 55. Zhang Zhengsheng
15. Hu Jingyi 36. Wang De 56. Zhao Bo
16. Hu Xikui 37. Wang Qimei 57. Zhao Lin
17. Li Chuli 38. Wang Hefeng 58. Zhao Mingxin
18. Li Jukui 39. Wang Xinbo 59. Zhou Yang
19. Li Liguo 40. Wang Yong 60. Zhou Zhongying
20. Liao Luyan 41. Wang Yutang 61. Zhu Zemin
21. Liu Kerang
Two others, Li Yunchang and Yin Guangshan, were not listed in the 1978 COD
investigation report but were listed in other sources, such as Bo Yibo’s Qishi nian
(1996, pp. 195–6).
196
Notes and References
Introduction
1. Selected Works of Liu Shaoqi, vol. 1 (Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 1984),
pp. 137–9.
2. Lyman P. Van Slyke, Enemies and Friends: The United Front in Chinese Com-
munist History (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1967), p. 68.
3. Wu Linquan and Peng Fei, Caolan chunqiu [Caolan Annals] (Beijing: Renmin
chubanshe, 1988), p. 231.
4. The CCEG, which was accountable to the Politburo and Mao Zedong, ran
three offices to investigate alleged crimes by high-level party cadres. See
Michael Schoenhals, ‘The Central Case Examination Group, 1966–79’, The
China Quarterly, no. 145 (March 1996), pp. 87–114. The members of the
Cultural Revolution Group (CRG), established in May 1966, were Chen
Boda, Kang Sheng, Jiang Qing, Zhang Chunqiao, Guan Feng and Wang Li.
5. CCP Central Committee document Zhongfa 96 (1967), ‘Zhonggong
zhongyang guanyu yinfa Bo Yibo, Liu Lantao, An Ziwen, Yang Xianzhen
deng chuyu wenti cailiao de pishi’ [Instruction of the CCP Central Com-
mittee Concerning the Printing and Distribution of Materials on the
Problem of the Release from Prison of Bo Yibo, Liu Lantao, An Ziwen, Yang
Xianzhen et al.] (from a collection of Cultural Revolution documents [title
page missing] on ‘Cleansing the Class Ranks’ at the Fairbank Center Library,
Harvard University).
6. See for example Patricia Stranahan’s comments in Underground: The Shang-
hai Communist Party and the Politics of Survival, 1927–1937 (Lanham, MD:
Rowman and Littlefield, 1998), pp. 2–3.
7. See for example Zhang Zhuhong, Zhongguo xiandai geming shi shiliaoxue
[Historiography of China’s Modern Revolutionary History] (Beijing: Zhong-
gong dang shi ziliao chubanshe, 1987) in Timothy Cheek and Tony Saich
(eds), ‘A Guide to Material on the Chinese Communist Movement’, Chinese
Studies in History, vol. 24, no. 3 (Spring 1991), pp. 76–7.
8. Liu Shaoqi, ‘Lun gongkai gongzuo yu mimi gongzuo’ [On Open and Secret
Work] (20 October 1939), in Liuda yilai dangnei mimi wenjian [Since the Sixth
Party Congress – Secret Inner-Party Documents], vol. 2 (Beijing: Renmin
chubanshe, 1952, 1981), pp. 220–1.
9. Xie Xiaonai, ‘On the Organization of Party Historiography’ (speech at the
National Work Conference on Collecting Party History Materials, 10 August
1981), Chinese Law and Government, vol. 19, no. 3 (Autumn 1986), p. 109.
10. Stranahan, Underground, op. cit., pp. 106–7.
11. See for example Bo Yibo, Qishi nian fendou yu sikao [Seventy Years of
Struggle and Reflection], vol. 1 (Beijing: Zhonggong dangshi chubanshe,
1996), pp. 113–18.
12. U. T. Hsu, The Invisible Conflict (Hong Kong: China Viewpoints, 1958),
pp. 51–4.
197
198 Notes and References
13. Lowell Dittmer, ‘The Structural Evolution of “Criticism and Self-Criticism” ’,

The China Quarterly, no. 56 (December 1973), p. 712.
14. Detailed in Chapter 2, pp. 58–60.
15. Tony Saich, ‘Introduction: The Chinese Communist Party and the Anti-
Japanese War Base Areas’, The China Quarterly, no. 140 (December 1994),
p. 1001.
16. Bonnie S. MacDougall, Mao Zedong’s ‘Talks at Yan’an Conference on Literature
and Art’: A Translation of the 1943 Text with Commentary (Ann Arbor, MI:
University of Michigan Press, 1980), pp. 84–5.
17. David S. Nivison, ‘Communist Ethics and Chinese Tradition’, Journal of
Asian Studies, vol. 16, no. 1 (November 1956), p. 52.
18. See for example Edgar Snow’s Red Star Over China (London: Victor Gollancz,
1968) and Mark Selden’s The Yenan Way in Revolutionary China (Cambridge,
MA: Harvard University Press, 1972).
19. See for example Chen Yung-fa, ‘The Blooming Poppy under the Red Sun:
The Yan’an Way and the Opium Trade’, in Tony Saich and Hans van de Ven
(eds), New Perspectives on the Chinese Communist Revolution (Armonk, NY: M.
E. Sharpe, 1995), pp. 263–98. See also David E. Apter and Tony Saich, Rev-
olutionary Discourse in Mao’s Republic (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 1994) and Selden’s reassessment, ‘Yan’an Communism Reconsidered’,
Modern China, vol. 21, no. 1 (January 1995), pp. 8–44, which acknowledges
the ‘repressive and elitist tendencies that were insufficiently recognized in
the original study’ (p. 40).
20. MacDougall, Mao Zedong’s ‘Talks’, op. cit., p. 84.
21. For example the eulogy for Zhou Zhongying of the sixty-one: ‘He was open
and above-board throughout his life.’ See ‘Deng and Other Leaders Mourn
CCP Member’s Death’, Xinhua, 8 June 1991; Foreign Broadcast Information
Service, 10 June 1991, p. 35.
22. Gregor Benton indicates a similarly dichotomous perception in contempo-
rary historiography of the Long March and the 1934–37 Three-Year War (in
southern China): ‘The march united the party and brought its different fac-
tions into one political line; the war required the creative adjustment of
policy to varied circumstance, compromise, improvisation, flexibility and
independent initiative.’ See Benton, ‘Under Arms and Umbrellas: Perspec-
tives on Chinese Communism in Defeat’, in Saich and van de Ven, New
Perspectives, op. cit., p. 142.
23. Dittmer, ‘The Structural Evolution’, op. cit., p. 712.
24. ‘Eliminate Closed-Doorism and Adventurism’ (April 1936), in Selected Works
of Liu Shaoqi, op. cit., p. 40.
25. ‘The Party and its Mass Work in the White Areas’, in ibid., p. 74 (report pre-
sented in May 1937 at the Yan’an conference of representatives of party
organizations of the white areas).
26. See Joseph K. S. Yick, Making Urban Revolution in China: The CCP–GMD
Struggle for Beiping–Tianjin, 1945–1949 (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1995),
pp. 40–5.
27. At peak periods of repression (such as under the Japanese occupation in the
early 1940s) in areas where support for the communists was waning, people
– including party members – were encouraged to cooperate with and even
to work for the enemy’s local administration and at the same time to
provide aid, however minimal, to the local communist presence. This ‘red
heart, white skin’ tactic was also referred to as the ‘double-edged policy’ or
the ‘tactic of two-faced power’. See Kathleen Hartford, ‘Repression and
Communist Success: The Case of Jin-Cha-Ji, 1938–1943’, in Kathleen Hart-
ford and Stephen M. Goldstein (eds), Single Sparks: China’s Rural Revolutions
(Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1989), pp. 113–18.
28. For a discussion of these two traditions within the Chinese communist
movement, Maoist voluntarism and the Leninist rational–bureaucratic
mode of operation, see Timothy Cheek and Carol Lee Hamrin’s Introduc-
tion to Hamrin and Cheek (eds), China’s Establishment Intellectuals (Armonk,
NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1986), pp. 3–20.
29. Bo Yibo, Qishi nian, op. cit., pp. 189–90.
30. ‘How to be a Good Communist’ (July 1939), in Selected Works of Liu Shaoqi,
op. cit., pp. 137–45.
31. ‘On Inner-Party Struggle’ ( July 1941), in ibid., p. 205.
32. Ian McMorran, ‘A Note on Loyalty in the Ming–Qing Transition’,
Etudes Chinoises, vol. 13, nos 1–2 (Spring–Autumn 1994), p. 48. See also
Wei-chin Lee, ‘Crimes of the Heart: Political Loyalty in Socialist China’,
Studies in Comparative Communism, vol. 25, no. 3 (September 1992),
pp. 229–30.
33. McMorran, ‘A Note on Loyalty’, op. cit., p. 64.
34. Lucien W. Pye, The Mandarin and The Cadre: China’s Political Cultures (Ann
Arbor, Mich.: University of Michigan Press, 1988), p. 50.
35. Li Xiannian, ‘Learn From Revolutionary Martyrs, Preserve Communist
Purity – Cherishing the Memories of Martyrs Zhang Wenjin, Wu Zuyi,
and Mao Chuxiong’, Hongqi, no. 17 (1 September 1985); Joint Publication
Research Service, 85-022 (19 November 1985), p. 4.
36. Editorial departments of Wenhui ribao, Jiefang ribao and Zhibu shenghuo,
‘Scheming to Betray the Party is Aimed to Usurp the Party’, Hongqi, no. 13
(17 August 1967), in Selections from China Mainland Magazines, 592 (11
September 1967), pp. 1–5.
37. W. Allyn Rickett, ‘Voluntary Surrender and Confession in Chinese Law:
The Problem of Continuity’, Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 30, no. 4 (August
1971), p. 797. The term zishou denoted voluntary surrender or confession
before an offence was committed. The terms zibai and tanbai were used to
indicate a confession after the event. Zishou was the term the communists
continued to use for confession to political inadequacies in their thought-
reform and re-education programmes.
38. Ibid., pp. 797–814.
39. CCP Central Committee document (7 July 1937): ‘Zhongyang zuzhibu
guanyu suowei zishou fenzi de jueding’ [Decision of the Central Commit-
tee Organization Department on how to treat (certain) so-called confes-
sants], in Liuda yilai, vol. 1, pp. 145–6; ‘Guanyu guoqu luxing chuyu shouxu
zhe (tianxie huiguoshu shengming tuodang fangong) zanxing chuli banfa’
[Provisional measures concerning those who in the past followed the release
from prison procedures (filling in a statement of repentance, a statement
of leaving the Party and opposing communism)] (22 July 1941), referred to
in Chen Yun Wenxuan [Selected Works of Chen Yun, 1956–1985] (Beijing:
Renmin chubanshe, 1986), p. 208, p. 364, n. 127.
40. These radical CRG leaders all had white area experiences prior to their
Yan’an days. Between 1931 and 1933 Kang Sheng headed the Party’s Special
Work Committee in Shanghai, which ran the party’s entire secret service
operations. Chen Boda, who became Mao’s political secretary in Yan’an,
had been imprisoned along with the sixty-one but had been released several
years earlier, succumbing, according to Bo Yibo, to pressure to recant; see
Bo Yibo, Qishi nian, op. cit., pp. 148–9.
41. Cultural Revolution sources include ‘Selected Edition on Liu Shaoqi’s
Counter-Revolutionary Revisionist Crimes’: pamphlet by the Liaison
Station ‘Pledging to Fight a Bloody Battle with Liu-Deng-Tao to the End’
attached to August 18 Red Rebel regiment of Nankai University, April 1967,
in Selections from China Mainland Magazines, 653 (5 May 1969), pp. 1–9;
‘Inside Story of the Traitorous Group of Liu Shaoqi, An Ziwen and Bo Yibo’,
edited by the Investigation Group of Weidong Red Guards for the ‘6 March
Special Case’, Nankai University, March 1967, in Classified Chinese Com-
munist Documents: A Selection (Taipei: Institute of International Relations,
1978), pp. 136–47; ‘Overthrow Liu Shaoqi – Boss of a Big Clique of Rene-
gades’, Hongqi Combat Team of Beijing Aeronautical Institute, 8 March
1967, Selections from China Mainland Press, supplement 182, 11 May 1967,
pp. 25–38; ‘Utterly Smash Liu Shaoqi’s Renegade Clique’, by the Joint Head-
quarters of the Revolutionary Rebels of Mao Zedong Thought, 1 August
School of Beijing, in Chunlei [Spring Thunder], 13 April 1967, Selections from
China Mainland Press, 3951 (2 June 1967), pp. 1–6. Post-1978 accounts
include Chen Yeping and Han Jingcao (eds), An Ziwen zhuanlue [The Biog-
raphy of An Ziwen] (Taiyuan: Shanxi renmin chubanshe, 1985). Several
chapters of this biography have been translated and published in Lawrence
Sullivan (ed.), ‘The Biography of An Ziwen and the History of the Organi-
zation Department’, Chinese Law and Government, vol. 21, no. 4 (Winter
1988–89); Wu and Peng, Caolan chunqiu, op. cit., Bo Yibo, Qishi nian, op.
cit., Xiong Huaiji, Tiandi you zhengqi: Caolanzi jianyu douzheng yu ‘liushi yi
ren an’ [Heaven and Earth have Upright Spirit: the Struggle in Caolanzi and
the ‘61-Man Case’] (Beijing: Beijing dichu geming she, Beijing chubanshe,
1982); Yang Xianzhen zhuan [Biography of Yang Xianzhen] (Beijing: Zhong-
gong dangshi chubanshe, 1996); Yang Xianzhen and Guan Shan, ‘Ru
Caolanzi jianyou qianhou’ [Before and After Entering Caolanzi], Geming shi
ziliao, October 1980, pp. 6–22.
42. CCP Central Committee Document Zhongfa 75 (16 December 1978):
‘Zhonggong zhongyang zhuanfa zhongyang zuzhibu guanyu – “liushiyi ren
anjian” de diaocha baogao – de tongzhi’ [Notice of the CCP CC to trans-
mit the COD investigative report concerning the ‘sixty-one man case’]. See
‘Guanyu “liushiyi ren anjian” de diaocha baogao’, in Sanzhongquanhui yilai:
zhongyao wenxian huibian [Since the Third Plenum: Collection of Important
Documents] compiled by the Documentation Institute of the CCP CC]
(Renmin chubanshe, 1982), pp. 25–35.
43. Joseph W. Esherick, ‘Ten Theses on the Chinese Revolution’, Modern China,
vol. 21, no. 1 (January 1995), p. 60.
44. Liu was also appointed alternate member to the Politburo in 1966 – a rather
short-lived appointment.
45. Schoenhals, ‘The Central Case’, op. cit., pp. 110–11.
46. Hong Yung Lee, ‘The Politics of Cadre Rehabilitation Since the Cultural
Revolution’, Asian Survey, vol. 18, no. 9 (September 1978), p. 935; see also
Hong Yung Lee, From Revolutionary Cadres to Party Technocrats in Socialist
China (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1991), p. 163; Lucien
Pye, The Dynamics of Chinese Politics (Santa Monica, CA: Rand Corporation,
1981), pp. 12, 205–6. For political rehabilitation in the Soviet Union, see
for example Albert P. Van Goudoever, The Limits of Destalinization in the
Soviet Union (London: Croom Helm, 1986); Alexander N. Yakovlev (ed.),
Rehabilitatsiia: Politicheskie Protsessy 30–50kh Godov (Moscow: Iztatel’stvo
Politicheskoi Literatury, 1991).
47. CCP Central Committee Document Zhongfa 25 (1980), ‘Notice of the
Central Committee of the Chinese Communist Party to Conscientiously
Transmit the Resolution on the Rehabilitation of Comrade Liu Shao-ch’i’,
Issues and Studies, vol. 16, no. 11 (November 1980), p. 89.
1 1936: On the Eve of War and Freedom

1. John King Fairbank, Chinabound (New York: Harper & Row, 1982), p. 133.
2. ‘Report on Experience Gained in Six Years of Work in North and Central
China’, Selected Works of Liu Shaoqi, vol. 1 (Beijing: Foreign Languages Press,
1984), pp. 246, 248–9.
3. For background information on this period, in the first two chapters of this
study I have drawn on Lyman P. Van Slyke, Enemies and Friends, The United
Front in Chinese Communist History (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press,
1967); Lloyd E. Eastman, Jerome Ch’en, Lyman P. Van Slyke and Suzanne
Pepper, The Nationalist Era in China 1927–1949 (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1991); James Pinckney Harrison, The Long March to Power:
A History of the Chinese Communist Party, 1921–1972 (New York: Praeger,
1972); Tony Saich (ed.), The Rise to Power of the Chinese Communist Party
(New York: M. E. Sharpe, 1996); Shum Kui-Kwong, The Chinese Communists’
Road to Power: The Anti-Japanese National United Front, 1937–1945 (Hong
Kong: Oxford University Press, 1988).
4. Background information on the sixty-one is drawn from the biographical
dictionaries cited in the Bibliography and from Wu Linquan and Peng Fei,
Caolan chunqiu (Beijing: Renmin chubanshe, 1988); Xiong Huaiji, Tiandi
you zhengqi (Beijing: Beijing dichu geming shi, Beijing chubanshe, 1982);
Chen Yeping and Han Jincao (eds), An Ziwen zhuanlue (Taiyuan: Shanxi
renmi chubanshe, 1985); Bo Yibo, Qishi nian fendou yu sikao (Beijing:
Zhonggong dangshi chubanshe, 1996); Yang Xianzhen and Guan Shan, ‘Ru
Caolanzi jianyou qianhou’, Geming shi ziliao, October 1980, pp. 6–22.
5. For a detailed account of Japan’s presence in China between 1931 and 1937,
see Parks M. Coble, Facing Japan: Chinese Politics and Japanese Imperialism,
1931–1937 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991). The Mukden
Incident refers to the hostilities that broke out between Chinese and
Japanese troops following the Japanese accusation that the Chinese had
attacked the railway line near Mukden.
6. See for instance E. H. Carr’s discussion of the Seventh Congress of the
Comintern, July 1935, in Twilight of the Comintern, 1930–1935 (New York:
Pantheon, 1982), pp. 403–27; John W. Garver, Chinese–Soviet Relations,

1937–1945 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988), pp. 11–12.
7. John Garver, ‘The Soviet Union and the Xi’an Incident’, Australian Journal
of Chinese Affairs, no. 26 (July 1991), p. 149.
8. John Israel and Donald W. Klein, Rebels and Bureaucrats, China’s December
9ers (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1976), pp. 87–95.
9. Van Slyke, Enemies and Friends, op. cit., p. 66.
10. Benjamin Yang, From Revolution to Politics: Chinese Communists on the Long
March (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1990), p. 181.
11. After the Wayaobao Conference of December 1935, attempts began to estab-
lish radio links with urban party organizations: ‘a communication line was
established between northern Shaanxi and Xi’an, Shanghai, Beiping and
Tianjin through underground party organizations and various social con-
nections. A secret radio station was set up to keep the CPC Central Com-
mittee in contact with the underground party organizations in Tianjin and
Shanghai and to transmit the principles and policies of the CPC Central
Committee promptly to the areas under KMT rule.’ See Tong Xiaopeng, ‘The
First Model in the United Front Work – Reading Selected Works of Zhou
Enlai on the United Front’, Guangmin ribao, 24 April 1985; Foreign Broad-
cast Information Service, 8 May 1985, K.12.
12. See Shum Kui-Kwong, The Chinese Communists’ Road, op. cit., p. 57, for an
analysis of the united front as the ‘best solution to the CCP’s current
predicament’.
13. Lyman P Van Slyke, ‘The Chinese Communist Movement during the
Sino-Japanese War 1937–1945’, in Eastman et al., The Nationalist Era, op.
cit., p. 185.
14. ‘On Tactics Against Japanese Imperialism’, Selected Works of Mao Zedong,
vol. 1 (Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 1967), pp. 163–7. Mao delivered
this report on 27 December 1935 at Wayaobao, following the Politburo
conference there.
15. ‘Zhongguo gongchandang zhi Zhongguo guomindang shu’ [Letter from the
Chinese Communist Party to the Guomindang Government of China], 25
August 1936, Liuda yilai dangnei mimi wenjian [Since the Sixth Party Con-
gress: Secret Inner Party Documents] vol. 1 (Beijing: Renmin chubanshe,
1952, 1981), pp. 773–7.
16. For information on the fascinating character of Pan Hannian and his tragic
fate, see Hu Hua, Zhonggong dangshi renwu zhuan [Biographies of Personal-
ities in CCP History] (Shanxi: Shanxi renmin chubanshe, 1984), vol. 25, pp.
24–51, and Hu Yuzhi, ‘Weida de bu pingfan de douzheng de yi sheng – yi
Pan Hannian tongzhi’ [The Struggle for Rehabilitation of a Great, Unusual
Life – Remembering Comrade Pan Hannian], Renmin ribao, part 1, 14 July
1983, part 2, 15 July 1983. Chen Lifu (1900–93) and his older brother Chen
Guofu (1892–1951) were known as the ‘CC Clique’ in the Guomindang
leadership. See Chen Lifu’s memoirs, The Storm Clouds Clear Over China,
edited by Sidney H. Chang and Ramon H. Myers (Stanford, CA: Hoover
Institution Press, 1994).
17. See Li Xin, ‘Preliminary Survey of the Xi’an Incident’, Lishi Yanjiu [Histor-
ical Research], no. 11 (November 1979); Joint Publication Research Service,
7514-59 (15 February 1980), pp. 29–35.
18. John Garver, ‘The Origins of the Second United Front’, The China Quarterly,
no. 113 (March 1988), p. 52.
19. Zhang Xueliang, ‘Penitent Confession on the Xian Incident’, Mingbao, vol.
3, no. 9 (1968), translated in Chinese Studies in History, vol. 22, no. 3 (Spring
1989), p. 71; Keiji Furuya, Chiang Kai-shek: His Life and Times (New York: St
John’s University, 1981), p. 510. Li Xin, in ‘Preliminary Survey’, op. cit., p.
42, states that political prisoners under the jurisdiction of Zhang Xueliang
and Yang Hucheng were not released until after the Xi’an incident, that is,
until December 1936.
20. Yang and Guan, ‘Ru Caolanzi’, op. cit., pp. 20–1.
21. Zhou Tiandu, ‘The National Salvation Society and the Seven Gentlemen
Case’, Renmin ribao, 25 February 1985; Joint Publication Research Service,
83259-410 (14 April 1983), pp. 173–4.
23. Ibid., p. 67.
24. Report dispatched from Nanjing on 28 August and published in the North
China Herald, 2 September 1936.
25. Selected Works of Mao Zedong, op. cit., pp. 281–2.
26. Joseph K. S. Yick, Making Urban Revolution in China: The CCP–GMD Struggle
for Beijing–Tianjin, 1945–1949 (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1995), pp. 4–5.
27. Ibid., p. 6.
28. U. T. Hsu, The Invisible Conflict (Hong Kong: China Viewpoints, 1958),
p. 114.
29. ‘Report on Experience’, Selected Works of Liu Shaoqi, op. cit., pp. 247–8.
30. Saich, The Rise to Power, op. cit., p. 281.
31. Patricia Stranahan, Underground: The Shanghai Communist Party and the
Politics of Survival, 1927–1937 (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 1998),
pp. 104, 183–4 and ch. 5.
32. See Kathleen Hartford’s comments in ‘Fits and Starts: The Chinese Com-
munist Party in Rural Hebei, 1921–1936’, in Tony Saich and Hans van de
Ven (eds), New Perspectives on the Chinese Communist Revolution (Armonk,
NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1995), pp. 166–7.
33. Ibid., p. 167.
34. ‘Shunzhi’ (actually Hebei province) was a composite of the area’s traditional
names, Shundefu and Zhili.
35. ‘Letter to the Shunzhi Provincial Committee and [Comrade Cai] Hesen’ (25
December 1927) in Hyobom Pak (ed.), Documents of the CCP 1927–1930
(Hong Kong: Union Research Institute, 1971), p. 341.
36. See, for instance, Harrison, The Long March, op. cit., pp. 120–3 for the Nan-
chang Uprising, pp. 129–34 for Autumn Harvest Uprisings, and pp. 137–40
for the Canton Commune.
37. Yick, Making Urban Revolution, op. cit., p. 6.
38. ‘Political Tasks of the Shunzhi Provincial Committee during the War of
the Fengdian and GMD Warlords’ (The Resolution of the Shunzhi Pro-
vincial Committee) (11 April 1928), in Pak, Documents, op. cit., pp. 475–
88.
39. ‘The Question of Work Deployment in Shunzhi during the Fengdian–GMD
War. Letter from the Central to the Shunzhi Provincial Committee’, in ibid.,
pp. 489–94.
40. See ‘Peng Zhen: From Disgrace to Rehabilitation’, Issues and Studies, vol. 15,
no. 9 (September 1979), pp. 95–6.
41. Warren Kuo, Analytical History of the Chinese Communist Party, vol. 2 (Taipei:
Institute of International Relations, 1968), pp. 53–4.
42. ‘The Present Weakness of the Party Organization and of the Central Task
of Organization’, in Pak, Documents, op. cit., pp. 529–39.
43. See ‘Peng Zhen: From Disgrace’, op. cit., p. 96.
44. Hartford, ‘Fits and Starts’, op. cit., pp. 149, 152.
45. See Bo, Qishi nian, op. cit., pp. 88–104, for details of his various arrests
between 1927 and 1930.
46. Hartford, ‘Fits and Starts’, op. cit., p. 149.
47. Bo, Qishi nian, op. cit., pp. 98–103.
49. Chen and Han, An Ziwen, op. cit., pp. 11–13.
50. Thomas Kampen Mao Zedong, Zhou Enlai and the Evolution of the Chinese
Communist Leadership (Copenhagen S: Nordic Institute of Asian Studies,
2000) p. 35.
51. Kampen’s detailed study Mao Zedong, Zhou Enlai and the Evolution (op. cit.),
challenges much of the conventional academic wisdom regarding the
‘twenty-eight Bolsheviks’.
52. Kuo, Analytical History, op. cit., pp. 148–9.
53. Stranahan, Underground, op. cit., p. 81.
54. Ibid., p. 82.
56. Kuo, Analytical History, op. cit., pp. 221–2.
57. Bo, Qishi nian, op. cit., p. 110.
58. Ibid., pp. 117–19.
59. Wu and Peng, Caolan chunqiu, op. cit., pp. 5–11.
60. Chen and Han, An Ziwen, op. cit., p. 14.
61. See Chang Kuo-t’ao, The Rise of the Chinese Communist Party 1928–1938, vol.
2 (Lawrence, KS: University of Kansas Press, 1971), pp. 159–63, for Zhang’s
account of his visit to the new northern administration.
63. Bo, Qishi nian, op. cit., p. 118.
64. Wu and Peng, Caolan chunqiu, op. cit., p. 20.
65. Kuo, Analytical History, op. cit., p. 218.
66. Yang and Guan, ‘Ru Caolanzi’, op. cit., p. 7.
69. Ibid., p. 9.
70. Ibid., pp. 10–11.
71. Ibid., p. 12.
73. Ibid.
74. Bo Yibo, Liu Lantao, Cheng Zihua and Nie Zhen, ‘In Deep Memory of Hu
Xikui, Loyal Fighter of the Party’, Renmin ribao, 3 April 1980; Foreign Broad-
cast Information Service, 14 May 1980, L. 8–10.
76. Ibid., p. 122.

79. North China Herald, 2 September 1936; report from Nanjing, 28 August
1936.
80. Unless otherwise stated the information in this section is drawn from
Coble, Facing Japan, op. cit., pp. 56–73, 90–119, 241–80, 297–309.
81. Zhang Xueliang went into temporary self-imposed exile in Europe, and on
his return in 1934 was given the vice-command of anticommunist sup-
pression forces in central China and in 1935 in north-west China.
82. Coble, Facing Japan, op. cit., p. 111.
83. Israel and Klein, Rebels and Bureaucrats, op. cit., p. 88.
84. Speech by Mao Zedong, 9 December 1939 at a rally to mark the fourth
anniversary of the 9 December Movement (Hongqi, no. 23, 1 December
1985; Joint Publication Research Service, 86-002, 23 January 1986, p. 8).
Mao preceded the fire-lighting analogy with the following comments: ‘The
CPC no doubt played a backbone role in the 9 December Movement.
It would have been impossible for the 9 December Movement to take
place if the CPC had not played that backbone role. First of all, the CPC’s
1 August declaration had provided the youth and students with a clear
and definite political principle. Next, the arrival of the Red Army in
northern Sha’anxi had promoted the National Salvation movement in
northern China. The third factor was the direct leadership of the CPC
Northern Bureau and CPC organizations in Shanghai’. See also History
of the Chinese Communist Party, A Chronology of Events (1919–1990)
(Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 1991): ‘December 9: With the national
crisis deteriorating every day, several thousand patriotic students, led and
organized by the CPC Provisional Working Committee in Beiping . . .’
(p. 101).
85. ‘On Tactics’, Selected Works of Mao Zedong, op. cit., p. 161.
87. Ting Wang, ‘ “Twelve-nine” and “People’s Vanguards” – Chinese Communist
Student Movement (1935–1938)’, paper presented at the Conference on the
History of the Republic of China (Taipei, Taiwan, 23–28 August 1981) pp. 7–8.
90. Ibid., pp. 98–102.
91. Nym Wales, Notes on the Chinese Student Movement, 1935–1936 (Stanford,
CA: Hoover Institution, 1959), p. 53.
92. Israel and Klein, Rebels and Bureaucrats, op. cit., p. 108. See also, Sun Sibai,
‘White-haired Old Men on the December 9th Movement’, Hongqi, no. 23
(1 December 1985); Joint Publication Research Service, 86-002 (23 January
1985), p. 56.
93. ‘Report on Experience’, in Selected Works of Liu Shaoqi, op. cit., p. 251.
95. Ibid., pp. 116–17.
96. Ting Wang, ‘ “Twelve-nine” and “People’s Vanguards” ’, op. cit., pp. 9, 16.
97. Bo Yibo, ‘A Historic Contribution by Comrade Liu Shaoqi’, Renmin ribao, 5
May 1980; Summary of World Broadcasts (BBC), FE/6422/B11/4.
99. A. Titov, ‘The December 9 Movement of 1935’, Far Eastern Affairs, no. 4
(1976) and no. 1 (1977), pp. 103–4.
101. Coble, Facing Japan, op. cit., p. 300.
102. Lloyd E. Eastman, ‘Nationalist China during the Sino-Japanese War,
1937–1945’, in Eastman et al., The Nationalist Era, op. cit., p. 118.
2 Release from the Guomindang Prison, 1936

1. This translation appears in Warren Kuo, Analytical History of the Chinese
Communist Party, vol. 3 (Taipei: Institute of Internation Relations, 1970), p.
263.
2. Cultural Revolution sources include ‘Selected Edition on Liu Shaoqi’s
Counter-Revolutionary Revisionist Crimes’, Selections from China Mainland
Magazines, 651 (1969), pp. 1–9; ‘Inside Story of the Traitorous Group of Liu
Shaoqi, An Ziwen and Bo Yibo’, Classified Chinese Documents: A Selection
(Taipei: Institute of International Relations, 1978), pp. 136–47; ‘Overthrow
Liu Shaoqi – Boss of a Big Clique of Renegades’, Selections from China Main-
land Magazines, 182 (1967), pp. 25–38; ‘Utterly Smash Liu Shaoqi’s Rene-
gade Clique’, Survey of China Mainland Press, 3951 (1967), pp. 1–6. Post-1978
accounts include: Chen Yeping and Han Jingcao (eds), An Ziwen zhuanlue,
(Taiyuan: Shanxi renmin chubanshe, 1985), pp. 14–23, and translated
excerpts in Lawrence Sullivan (ed.), ‘The Biography of An Ziwen and the
History of the Organization Department’ Chinese Law and Government, vol.
21, no. 4, (Winter 1988–89), pp. 15–25; Bo Yibo, Qishi nian fendou yu sikao,
vol. 1 (Beijing: Zhonggong dangshi chubanshe, 1996), pp. 129–96; Xiong
Huaiji, Tiandi you zhengqi: Caolanzi jianyou douzheng yu ‘liushi yi ren an’
(Beijing: Beijing dichu geming shi, Beijing chubanshe, 1982), pp. 22–100;
Wu Linquan and Peng Fei, Caolan chunqiu, (Beijing: Renmin chubanshe,
1988), pp. 53–192; Yang Xianzhen and Guan Shan, ‘Ru Caolanzi jianyou
qianhou’, Geming shi ziliao, October 1990, pp. 15–23; Yan Jiaqi and Gao
Gao, Zhongguo wenhuadageming shinian shi [Ten Year History of China’s
Cultural Revolution] (Tianjin: Tianjin renmin chubanshe, 1986, pp. 160–4,
and the English version, translated and edited by D. W. Y. Kwok, Turbulent
Decade: A History of the Cultural Revolution (Honolulu: University of Hawaii
Press, 1996), pp. 140–3.
Unless otherwise noted, biographical data on the sixty-one in this chapter
and descriptions of their life in Caolanzi prison are drawn from these
post-1978 accounts.
3. See ‘Lifting the Black Curtain of the Puppet “Kiangsu Reformatory” ’, Zhui
qiongkou [Pursue the Tottering Foe], 7 June 1967; Survey of China Mainland
Press, 4030 (28 September 1967), p. 4; Wang Fanxi, Memoirs of a Chinese
Revolutionary (New York: Columbia University Press, 1991), p. 164.
4. ‘Lifting the Black Curtain’, op. cit., p. 5.
5. Ibid., p. 4.
6. Bo Yibo, Preface to ‘Collection of Works Commemorating Comrade Liu
Yaxiong’, Renmin ribao, 17 February 1989; Foreign Broadcast Information
Service, 24 February 1989, p. 28.
7. Yan and Gao, Zhongguo wenhuadageming, op. cit., p. 162.
8. Bo Yibo, Qishi nian, op. cit., pp. 148–9. In his July 1932 statement, Chen is
alleged to have said, ‘I am a scholar who joined the GMD party and . . . I
then joined the CCP. I studied communism. Personally I believe that com-
munism is not suitable to China’s conditions so I am willing to turn over
a new leaf.’
9. Ibid., p. 134.
10. ‘Overthrow Liu Shaoqi’, op. cit., p. 28. Liu, a Hui (Muslim) from Hebei, was
active in minorities affairs in the post-1949 era. He was a member of the
8th and 9th Central Committees.
12. ‘The Biography of An Ziwen’, op. cit., p. 23.
13. Liu’s plight was brought to the attention of the Beijing liberal Wang
Zhuoran, whose personal connections with the GMD helped bring about
Liu’s release. Despite this, during the Cultural Revolution Liu was accused
of renegadism. See Harold Isaacs, Re-Encounters in China: Notes of a Journey
in a Time Capsule (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1985), pp. 95–100.
15. Wang Fanxi, Memoirs, op. cit., p. 171.
17. Wu and Peng, Caolanzi chunqiu, op. cit., p. 165.
18. See for example the chapter by Tony Saich, ‘Writing or Rewriting History?
The Construction of the Maoist Resolution on Party History’, in Tony Saich
and Hans van de Ven (eds), New Perspectives on the Chinese Communist
Revolution (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1995), pp. 299–338.
19. Bo Yibo, ‘Respect and Remembrance – Marking the 60th Anniversary of the
Birth of the CCP’, Hongqi, no. 13 (1 July 1981); Joint Publication Research
Service, 78817 (24 August 1981), p. 100. The 28 January reference is to
Japan’s attack on Shanghai in 1932; the citizens of Shanghai, together with
the 19th Route Army, managed to hold out for a month.
20. Ibid.
21. Chen and Han, An Ziwen, op. cit., p. 21; Yang and Guan, ‘Ru Caolanzi’, op.
cit., p. 20.
23. See Liu’s third Cultural Revolution confession, translated in Chinese Law
and Government, vol. 1, no. 1 (Spring 1968), p. 76. Ke Qingshi had been
engaged in underground work since the early 1920s. In his post-1949 career
he held the prestigious post of mayor of Shanghai from 1958 until his death
in l965. Although he died before the onset of the Cultural Revolution, he
was strongly identified with the radical elite.
25. Bo Yibo, Qishi nian, op. cit., p. 185.
26. ‘Overthrow Liu Shao-ch’i’, op. cit., pp. 35–6. Confirmed in post-1978
sources, for example Wu and Peng, Caolan chunqiu, op. cit., p. 183.
27. Liu Shaoqi nianpu 1898–1969 [Chronicle of the Life of Liu Shaoqi,
1898–1969] (Zhongyang wenxian chubanshe, 1996), pp. 154–5.
28. See for example, ‘Inside Story’, in Classified Chinese Communist Documents:
A Selection (Taipei: Institute of International Relations, 1978), p. 138. Con-
firmed in post-1978 sources, for example Wu and Peng, Caolan chunqiu, op.
cit., pp. 179–91, and Bo Yibo, Qishi nian, op. cit., pp. 184–96.
29. Liu Shaoqi nianpu, op. cit., p. 154; Xiong Huaiji, Tiandi, op. cit., pp. 111–12.
30. Bo Yibo, ‘Preface to Report on Zhang Wentian’s Proposal on Opening Up

the Market’, Renmin ribao, 26 August 1995; Foreign Broadcast Information
Service, 20 October 1995, p. 30.
31. ‘Overthrow Liu Shaoqi’, op. cit., p. 36.
32. Yan and Gao, Zhongguo wenhuadageming, op. cit., p. 163.
33. Bo Yibo, ‘Preface to Report on Zhang’, op. cit., p. 30.
34. ‘Inside Story’, in Classified, op. cit., p. 138. In the early stages of the Cul-
tural Revolution, when the so-called ‘61 Renegades case’ was exposed, it
was claimed that Liu Geping’s career had suffered because of his refusal to
obey the 1936 order. Certainly he initially benefited during the Cultural
Revolution, being appointed chairman of the Revolutionary Committee for
Shanxi Province, though he fell from grace in 1969.
35. ‘Utterly Smash Liu Shaoqi’, op. cit., p. 2.
36. Zhang Liangyun and two other prisoners whose sentences were anyway
brief (and one of whom subsequently defected) refused to recant and were
released when their term was up in the summer of 1937. Zhang died before
1949. See ‘Liu Geping tongzhi dui beiping fanxingyuan de huiyi’ [Comrade
Liu Geping’s Memoir of the Beiping Reformatory] in Liu Geping zhengwei
tong Liu-Deng hei silingbu de douzheng [Political Commissar Liu Geping’s
Struggle against the Sinister Headquarters of Liu (Shaoqi) and Deng (Xiao-
ping)], published by Shanxi dongfeng hongse zaofan bingtuan [the Shanxi
East Wind Red Rebel Corps]; Taiyuan shi yinshigongsi 1.19 wuchanjieji
gemingpai [the January 19th Proletarian Revolutionary Forces of the Taiyuan
Food and Drink Co.]; Shanxi dongfeng bingtuan taiyin fentuan [Shanxi East
Wind Corps, Taiyin branch], September 1967, p. 19.
38. Appendices vii and viii to ‘Overthrow Liu Shaoqi’, op. cit., pp. 37–8.
39. Ibid., p. 37; ‘Utterly Smash Liu Shaoqi’s Renegade Clique’, op. cit., p. 3.
41. An Ziwen (Xu Ziwen), Yang Xianzhen (Yang Zhongren), Dong Tianzhi
(Dong Xutou), Ma Huizhi (Feng Junchai), Xu Zirong (Xu Lirong), Liu
Lantao (Liu Huafu), Zhou Zhongying (Zhou Bin), Xian Weixun (Xia
Weixun) and Bo Yibo (Zhang Congbu).
42. Bo Yibo, Qishi nian, op. cit., pp. 198–204.
43. ‘Inside Story’, in Classified, op. cit., p. 140.
44. Kuo (using Red Guard tabloids) refers to 270 thus released (naming 169 who
were still alive at the start of the Cultural Revolution) from the Shanxi GMD
Reformatory, the Taiyuan Nationalist Army Prison, the Taiyuan Garrison
Headquarters, the Jiangsu GMD Penitentiary and Caolanzi. See Kuo, Ana-
lytical History, op. cit., pp. 275–83.
45. ‘What is Bo Yibo, Liu’s Faithful Running Dog?’, Jinggangshan [Jinggang
Mountains], no. 46 (13 May 1967); Joint Publication Research Service,
41858 (17 July 1967), p. 181. Hu Hua, Zhonggong dangshi renwu zhuan, vol.
20 (Taiyuan: Shanxi renmin chubanshe, 1984, pp. 59–61) insists that Wang
Ruofei’s release was unconditional.
46. ‘Utterly Smash Liu Shaoqi’s Renegade Clique’, op. cit., p. 3. For further
details of the party’s practice of maintaining such dossiers, see Chapter 3.
47. See respectively ‘In Deep Memory of Hu Xikui’, Foreign Broadcast Infor-
mation Service, 21 May 1980, L.9, and Qiang Zhiguang, Xu Disin, Ping
Jiesan, Xue Zizhang, Tong Xiaoping and Jin Cheng, ‘In Memory of the
Party’s Loyal Fighter Comrade Xu Bing’, Renmin ribao, 22 March 1980;
Foreign Broadcast Information Service, 21 May 1980, L.12.
48. ‘The Third Confession of Liu Shao-ch’i’, Chinese Law and Government, vol.
1, no. 1, p. 76.
49. Ibid.
50. Ibid.
51. Ibid.
53. Liu Ying, Zai lishi de jiliu zhong: Liu Ying huiyilu [In the Turbulent Current
of History: the Memoirs of Liu Ying] (Beijing: Zhonggong dangshi chuban-
she,1992), p. 165.
55. ‘Eliminate Closed-Doorism and Adventurism’, Selected Works of Liu Shaoqi,
vol. 1 (Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 1981), p. 39.
56. See Chapter 1 for references to the CCP’s demands for the release of politi-
cal prisoners. During the CCP–GMD negotiations after the Xi’an Incident,
the CCP, having demanded that the GMD unconditionally release all politi-
cal prisoners, rejected the GMD’s counterproposal that (1) the CCP provide
lists of their party members in the GMD prisons, and (2) that these cadres
would go through ‘supporting the government’ formalities prior to their
release. That the CCP should simultaneously reject any notion of condi-
tional release and at the same time secretly bid its members to do the exact
opposite is one good explanation of its subsequent need to keep this matter
under wraps.
57. Zhou Enlai zhuan 1898–1949 [Biography of Zhou Enlai, 1898–1949] (Beijing:
Renmin chubanshe, 1989), p. 368, refers to Zhou Enlai and Ye Jianying’s
successful efforts in August 1937 in Nanjing, resulting in the release of CCP
members, including Tao Zhu and Qian Ying. On the other hand, during the
Cultural Revolution Tao Zhu (CCP Politburo member and first secretary of
the Central South Bureau) was accused of recanting in order to be released
from prison. He died in November 1969 and was posthumously rehabili-
tated in December 1978.
59. Hu Hua, Zhonggong, op. cit., pp. 95–6.
60. Edgar Snow, Red Star Over China (London: Victor Gollancz, 1968), pp. 68–90.
61. Neither Zhang nor Wang had yet arrived in Bao’an in the summer of 1936,
but this does not mean that Mao was any the less preoccupied with the
threat they posed to his leadership ambitions.
62. Liu Ying, ‘Mourning Comrade Zhang Wentian with Profound Grief’,
Xinhua, 26 August 1979; Foreign Broadcast Information Service, 29 August
1979, L.11.
63. Comment by Van Slyke on my doctoral thesis, Political Rehabilitation in
Chinese Communism (Jerusalem: Hebrew University, 1997).
64. Wang Guangmei, ‘He Showed his Integrity in a Difficult Time, the Spirit of
Justice will be Preserved Eternally – In Memory of Comrade An Ziwen’,
Gongren ribao, 14 July 1980; Foreign Broadcast Information Service, 5 August
1980, L.11.
65. Bo Yibo, ‘Respect and Remembrance’, op. cit., p. 100.
66. See Benjamin Yang, From Revolution to Politics, Chinese Communists on the
Long March (Boulder, CO: Westview Press), p. 207.
68. Into the Great Wide Open, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers (MCA Records,
1991).
69. See Donald G. Gillin, Warlord Yen Hsi-shan in Shansi Province 1911–1949
(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1967), pp. 218–56.
70. Bo Yibo, ‘A Historic Contribution by Comrade Liu Shaoqi’, Renmin ribao, 5
May 1980, L. 6; Summary of World Broadcasts (BBC), FE/6422/BII/2-13 (17
May 1980).
71. ‘Report to the Central Committee on North China Work’, 18 September
1936, in Liu Shaoqi Nianpu, pp. 159–60.
72. Bo Yibo, ‘A Historic Contribution’, op. cit., L. 6.
73. Bo Yibo, ‘Shanxi United Front in Flames of War of Resistance Against Japan
– Preface to Book “Recalling Flames of War of Resistance” ’, Renmin ribao,
18 September 1995; Foreign Broadcast Information Service, 31 October
1995, p. 13.
74. Bo describes his recruitment of the widowed Liu Yaxiong in late 1936: ‘On
her arrival in Taiyuan in late 1936, she took up the post of political instruc-
tor of the 11th Company of the Shanxi Military and Political Training
Session. . . . At the end of 1937 she . . . organized a guerrilla detachment of
200 people under the leadership of the Dare-to-Die corps . . . in Southeast
Shanxi, she on one occasion took up the post of commissioner . . . of the
3rd Administrative District’. Bo Yibo, ‘Preface to Collection’, op. cit., p. 28.
75. Bo Yibo, ‘Shanxi United Front’, op. cit., p. 14.
76. Ibid.
77. Ma Huizhi and Li Chuli, ‘Huiyi Liu Shaoqi tongzhi zai beifangju’ [Remem-
bering Comrade Liu Shaoqi in the North Bureau], Renmin ribao, 14 May
1980. Liu Xiwu of the sixty-one also worked for the North Bureau imme-
diately after his release.
78. Lyman P. Van Slyke, ‘The Chinese Communist Movement during the Sino-
Japanese War 1937–1945’, in Lloyd Eastman, Jerome Ch’en, Suzanne Pepper
and Lyman P. Van Slyke, The Nationalist Era In China (Cambridge: Cam-
bridge University Press, 1991), p. 206.
80. Jack Belden, China Shakes the World (New York: Monthly Review Press,
1970), pp. 51–2. Song Shaowen, recently released from the Jiangsu GMD
Penitentiary, went on to become Chairman of the JCJ Border Region Gov-
ernment. Zhang Wenang had been released from a Shanxi GMD peniten-
tiary. Kuo, Analytical History, op. cit., 3, p. 278.
81. Henry G. Schwarz, Liu Shao-ch’i and “People’s War:” A Report on the Creation
of Base Areas in 1938 (Lawrence, KS: Center for East Asian Studies, Univer-
sity of Kansas, 1969), p. 16.
82. ‘Six Years of Work in North and Central China’, in Selected Works of Liu
Shaoqi, op. cit., p. 256.
83. Carol Lee Hamrin and Timothy Cheek (eds), China’s Establishment Intellec-
tuals (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe), p. 56.
84. See Van Slyke, ‘The Chinese’, op. cit., pp. 206, 263–4.
85. Donald W. Klein and Anne B. Clark (eds), Biographic Dictionary of Chinese
Communism 1921–1965, vol. 1 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press,
1971), p. 30.
86. For example writer Chao Shuli, who joined the Sacrifice League in 1937,
worked in the Taihang mountain area and joined the 8RA (see Belden,
China, op. cit., pp. 87–96); Shi Yizhi worked for the party organization in
Shanxi–Henan in 1940, was director of the Taiyue 4th Administration Dis-
trict and held the same post in the 1st District in 1943; Wu Guangtang,
magistrate of Yulin in Shanxi in 1937, held the same post in Wuxiang in
1940 and was appointed special commissioner of the Taihang 3rd Admin-
istrative District in 1943; Yan Xiufeng worked for the Shanxi Provisional
government under Yan Xishan as deputy director of the South Shanxi
Administrative Office; Wang Zhoru was South Shandong District Party
Committee secretary.
87. See for example, David Goodman’s description of the Taiyue base, which
although small was ‘important in two crucial ways for the CCP cause. The
first was its access to banking expertise and resources largely as a result of
the League’s activities. . . . The second major significance . . . was also in eco-
nomic affairs. Taiyue . . . was the granary of JinJiLuYu to some considerable
extent’. David S. G. Goodman, ‘JinJiLuYu in the Sino-Japanese War: The
Border Region and the Border Region Government’, The China Quarterly,
no. 140 (December 1994), p. 1016. Goodman also comments (p. 1022) on
the JJLY Border Region government’s tax reform and currency stabilization
programmes. See also Suzanne Pepper, Civil War in China: The Political Strug-
gle 1945–1949 (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1978), pp.
250–1, 373.
88. Zhang Wentian, ‘The Tasks of the Conference of CCP Delegates from the
Soviet Regions’ (2 May 1937), in Tony Saich (ed.), The Rise to Power of the
Chinese Communist Party: Documents and Analysis (Armonk, NY: M. E.
Sharpe, 1996), p. 789.
89. On 4 March 1937 Liu’s ‘Letter to the Party Centre Concerning Past Work
in the White Areas’ began plaintively: ‘I wrote three letters to you in the
past week. You must have received them.’ His letter analysed and castigated
the party for its generally ultraleftist line over the previous decade and
related specifically to blind activist or leftist mistakes in four spheres of
white area work: the relationship between open and secret operations; the
strategy for mass struggle; propaganda and agitation work; and inner-party
struggle. See Saich, The Rise to Power, op. cit., pp. 773–87. The Conference
of CCP delegates from the Soviet Regions was held from 2–14 May and Liu’s
opinions were discussed. The CCP leadership was prepared to admit that
although mistakes had been made this did not constitute an overall incor-
rect and leftist line by the party over the previous decade and certainly not
since the Jiangxi period from 1931. This was the message of Zhang
Wentian’s concluding report. Immediately after this conference, a second
one opened on party work in the white areas. Liu delivered a report in
person on May 17, reiterating his critical views, though muting his criti-
cism of the Jiangxi leadership and emphasizing work methods for the
future. His controversial views were discussed at work sessions held on
20–26 May. Participants felt that he was still exaggerating the ultraleftist
issue. On 2 June Liu spoke before the Politburo. Those elements of his opin-
ions which were deemed acceptable were incorporated into the concluding
report to the conference, delivered by Zhang Wentian on 9–10 June. Liu
Shaoqi Nianpu, op. cit., pp. 182–3.
90. ‘Developing the Revolutionary Movement and Preventing Sabotage by
Enemy Agents’ (1 October, 1936), Selected Works of Chen Yun (1926–1949),
vol. 1 (Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 1981), p. 49.
91. Ibid., p. 47.
92. Ibid.
93. ‘Zhongyang zuzhibu guanyu suowei zishou fenzi de jueding’, in Liuda yilai
dangnei mimi wenjian, vol. 1 (Beijing: Renmin chubanshe, 1952), pp. 145–6.
94. Kuo, Analytical History, vol. 4, op. cit., p. 126. (The article on ‘How to
Handle the Cases of Arrested Communists and the Question of Morality’
was by Yang Jing.)
95. Ibid., pp. 210–11.
96. ‘Reorganizing Party Organizations in the Great Rear Area and Expanding
Outside Activities Out There’ (December 1941), Selected Works of Chen Yun,
op. cit., p. 158.
97. Kuo, Analytical History, vol. 4, op. cit., pp. 76–7.
98. For a discussion of the 100 Regiments Battle (in which Dong Tianzhi of the
sixty-one was killed), see Van Slyke, ‘The Chinese’, op. cit., pp. 244–6.
99. Ibid., p. 249.
100. Kathleen Hartford and Stephen M. Goldstein (eds), Single Sparks: China’s
Rural Revolutions (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1989), pp. 113, 118.
101. Ibid., p. 119.
102. Hu Hua, Zhonggong, pp. 106–7.
103. Tetsuya Kataoka, Resistance and Revolution in China: The Communists and
the Second United Front (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1974),
pp. 280–1.
104. Kuo, Analytical History, vol. 4, op. cit., pp. 204–5. See also Van Slyke, ‘The
Chinese’, op. cit., p. 266.
105. ‘Jianchi you cuo bi jiu de fangzen’ [Uphold the Policy that Mistakes Must
be Rectified] (November 1978) in Chen Yun wenxuan, 1956–1985 (Beijing:
Renmin chubanshe, 1986), pp. 208–9 and notes 124–7, pp. 363–4.
106. Ibid., p. 209.
107. See Saich, The Rise to Power, op. cit., p. 667. See also pp. 1164–79 for a trans-
lation of the text of the resolution.
108. Kuo, Analytical History, vol. 4, op. cit., p. 520.
109. One of the sixty-one (who prefers to remain anonymous) informed me that
their 1936 release experience was not raised for discussion during the cam-
paign. While the sixty-one appear to have emerged unscathed from Kang
Sheng’s ‘rescue’ operation, in which ‘spies’ and ‘agents’ were sought out
among the party cadres from the early summer of 1942, not all ex-Caolanzi
cadres were as lucky. At least one of the 61ers’ former colleagues, Liu
Yaxiong, was severely victimized even though she had been amnestied
out of Caolanzi: ‘during the “rescue movement”, she was groundlessly
labelled as a traitor and was rehabilitated only two years later’. See Bo Yibo,
‘Preface to Collection’, op. cit., p. 28. One of the sixty-one, Liu Kerang, was
executed by the party before 1949, but it is not clear exactly when this took
place.
110. See Lowell Dittmer, Liu Shao-ch’i and the Chinese Cultural Revolution
(Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1974), pp. 20–4. See also
Frederick C. Teiwes, The Formation of the Maoist Leadership: From the Return
of Wang Ming to the Seventh Party Congress (London: Contemporary China
Institute, School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London,
1994), pp. 34–40.
111. See John Byron and Robert Pack, The Claws of the Dragon: Kang Sheng (New
York: Simon & Schuster, 1992), pp. 178–84; Peter Seybolt, ‘Terror and Con-
formity: Counterespionage Campaigns, Rectification, and Mass Move-
ments, 1942–1943’, Modern China, vol. 12, no. 1 ( January 1986), pp. 39–73.
112. For a study of Yan’an as the ‘moral centre of the revolution’, ‘a revolu-
tionary simulacrum’ and Mao as the self-anointed cosmocratic figure’, see
David E. Apter and Tony Saich, Revolutionary Discourse in Mao’s Republic
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1994).
113. ‘Looking Back at the Rectification Movement of the Central Party School
in Yan’an’, Renmin ribao, 27 July 1986, Joint Publication Research Service,
86070, pp. 46, 39.
114. Seybolt, ‘Terror and Conformity’, op. cit., pp. 47–8.
115. ‘The Biography of An Ziwen’, op. cit., pp. 27–8.
116. History of the Chinese Communist Party, A Chronology of Events (1919–1990)
(Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 1991), pp. 154–5.
117. See ‘Decision of the CC Concerning the Investigation of Cadres’, in Saich,
The Rise to Power, op. cit., p. 1155.
118. Ibid., p. 1154.
119. Mao apologized at least five times for the ‘excesses of the “rescue” move-
ment’ and on the first such occasion on 12 April 1944 at a Yan’an
higher Party cadres conference, Mao bowed three times ‘until applause
signified that the apology was accepted’. Teiwes, The Formation, op. cit.,
p. 57.
120. Bo has referred to this meeting on a number of occasions. See for example,
Bo Yibo, Qishi nian, op. cit., pp. 358–61; ‘Respect and Remembrance’, op.
cit., pp. 99–100; ‘Preface to Report on Zhang’, op. cit., p. 30. Liu Lantao
arrived in the winter of 1944 and Zhou Zhongying in January 1945. Both
claimed to have reported immediately and had their prison release history
entered in their dossiers. An Ziwen had spoken of it to prominent party
comrades, including Huang Jing after An’s arrival in Beijing in late 1936,
and to Zhu De, Yang Shangkun, and Peng Dehuai in south-east Shanxi in
1938. See Wu and Peng, Caolan chunqiu, op. cit., pp. 231–2.
121. History of the Chinese Communist Party, op. cit., p. 151.
122. Xiong Huaiji, Tiandi, op. cit., pp. 125–6.
124. Bo Yibo, Qishi nian, op. cit., p. 375.
125. Klein and Clark, Biographic Dictionary, op. cit., pp. 113–16.
126. See for example ‘Inside Story’, in Classified Documents, op. cit., p. 143, and
‘Utterly Smash Liu Shaoqi’, op. cit., p. 3.
127. Byron and Pack, The Claws of the Dragon, op. cit., pp. 188–90.
128. Liu Shaoqi, On the Party (Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 1950), p. 70.
129. Hamrin and Cheek, China’s Establishment Intellectuals, op. cit., pp. 58–9.
133. See Bo Yibo, Qishi nian, op. cit., pp. 380–460, for details of his role in land
reform, taxation policies, and industrial and commercial reform during this
period.
134. Ibid., pp. 461–524. Bo describes the shift of focus in party work from
rural to urban and the policies implemented for political and economic
stabilization.
135. ‘In Deep Memory of Hu Xikui’, op. cit., L. 9.
136. The ten who ‘sacrificed’ themselves before 1949 were Dong Tianzhi, Xian
Weixun, Yi Mingdao, Zhang Youqing, Zhang Manping, Zhao Bo, Wang
Yong, Xia Fuhai, Ma Yutang and Wang Zhenlin. See Bo Yibo, Qishi nian, op.
cit., pp. 195–6.
3 Levels of Power: Careers 1949–1966

1. ‘Utterly Smash Liu Shaoqi’s Renegade Clique’, Chunlei, 13 April 1967; Survey
of China Mainland Press, 3951 (2 June 1967), pp. 5–6.
2. A. Doak Barnett, Cadres, Bureaucracy, and Political Power in Communist China
(New York: Columbia University Press, 1967), pp. 6–9, and Table 1, p. 456.
3. Frederick C. Teiwes, ‘Establishment and Consolidation of the New Regime’,
The Cambridge History of China, vol. 14 (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1987), p. 57.
4. See Harry Harding, Organizing China: The Problem of Bureaucracy 1949–1976
(Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1981), in which Harding analyses
four PRC approaches to bureaucratization: rationalizing, external remedial,
internal remedial, and radical.
5. See Hong Yung Lee, From Revolutionary Cadres to Party Technocrats in Social-
ist China (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1991), p. 334.
6. Ibid., p. 331.
7. See, for instance, ‘Inside Story’, in Classified Chinese Documents: A Selection
(Taipei: Institute of International Relations, 1978), pp. 142–3.
8. Unless stated otherwise, discussion on the Control Commission is drawn
from Paul Cocks, ‘The Role of the Party Control Committee in Communist
China’, Papers on China, vol. 22B (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 1969), pp. 49–96; Graham Young, ‘Control and Style: Discipline
Inspection Commissions since the 11th Congress’, The China Quarterly, no.
97 (1984), especially pp. 24–30; Franz Schurmann, Ideology and Organiza-
tion in Communist China (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1968),
pp. 145, 156–62, 339–64; Peter R. Moody, The Politics of the Eighth Central
Committee of the Communist Party of China (Hamden, CT: Shoestring Press,
1973), especially pp. 38–9.
9. A Great Trial In Chinese History (Beijing: New World Press, 1981), p. 157.
10. For a study of the Gao–Rao affair, see Frederick C. Teiwes, Politics at Mao’s
Court: Gao Gang and Party Factionalism in the Early 1950s (Armonk, NY:
M. E. Sharpe, 1990). In the early 1950s Gao Gang was the leading PRC
official in the north-east and Rao Shushi in the east. Not long after their
transfer to central posts in Beijing (Gao as head of the State Planning Com-
mission in late 1952 and Rao as director of the Central Organization Depart-
ment in early 1953) they were accused of forming an antiparty clique and
of building independent power bases (‘kingdoms’) in the north-east and
east. They were denounced in 1954. Gao committed suicide and was
posthumously expelled from the party in 1955. Rao, also expelled, spent
the next twenty years in prison or detention till his death in 1975.
11. Schurmann, Ideology and Organization, op. cit., p. 158.
12. Derek J. Waller, The Government and Politics of Communist China (New York:
Doubleday, 1971), p. 99.
13. Liu Xiwu and Liu Lantao were imprisoned in Caolanzi and Qian Ying
in the Nanjing Gendarmeries between 1933 and 1937. Li Chuli and Liu
Geping were in Caolanzi. Shuai Mengqi and Wang Weigang were impris-
oned from 1932 to 1937. Ma Mingfang was imprisoned in Xinjiang between
1942 and 1946. Gong Zirong was a 1930s Shanxi prison cadre. The paucity
of information on the lives of three members and one alternate member
from the late 1920s to the mid 1930s is a likely indication that these were
years spent in prison. (This also applies to deputy secretary Wang Congwu.)
Only three members of the entire Commission appear to have had a clearly
army and ‘red’ area past: Dong Biwu, Xiao Hua and Wang Weizhou.
14. Cocks, ‘The Role of the Party’, op. cit., p. 55. There is a certain irony to this
quote, in that the sixty-one were later to be accused of doing exactly this,
blindly obeying orders.
15. Ibid., p. 56.
16. Ibid., p. 61.
17. Including some more prison cadres – Liu Yaxiong, Zhang Jiafu, Wu Defeng,
Qiu Jin, Yang Zhihua and Zhang Zhiyi – and three of the sixty-one – Liu
Shenzhi, Wang Hefeng, Zhou Zhongying.
18. Liu Lantao, ‘The Communist Party of China is the Supreme Commander
of the Chinese People in Building Socialism’, in Ten Glorious Years (Beijing:
Foreign Languages Press: 1959).
19. Unless otherwise noted the information in this section is drawn from
the following: Chen Yeping and Han Jingcao (eds), An Ziwen Zhuanlue
(Taiyuan: Shanxi renmin chubanshe, 1985); Lawrence Sullivan (ed.) ‘The
Biography of An Ziwen’; Frederick C. Teiwes, Politics at Mao’s Court: Gao
Gang and Party Factionalism in the Early 1950s (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe,
1990); Roberta Martin, Party Recruitment in China: Patterns and Prospects,
Occasional Papers of the East Asian Institute (New York: Columbia Univer-
sity, 1981); Harold Hinton (ed.), The People’s Republic of China 1949–1979:
A Documentary Survey, vol. 1: 1949–1957 (Wilmington, DE: Scholarly
Resources, 1980).
20. Michel Oksenberg, ‘Getting Ahead and Along in Communist China: The
Ladder of Success on the Eve of the Cultural Revolution’, in John Wilson
Lewis (ed.), Party Leadership and Revolutionary Power in China (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1970), pp. 315–16.
21. Section 20 of the Special Procuratorate’s Indictment, A Great Trial, op. cit.,
pp. 168–9.
22. Teiwes, ‘Establishment and Consolidation’, op. cit., pp. 71–2.
23. An Ziwen, ‘The Consolidation of Party Organizations’, People’s China, 1 July

1953, pp. 7–8.
24. See for example ‘Chronology of Big Events Concerning the Counter-
revolutionary Revisionist Line for Party-building Formulated and Pushed by
Liu Shao-ch’i’, Ziliao zhuanji [Special Collection of Materials], November
1968, Survey of China Mainland Press, supplement 246 (12 March 1969), p. 12.
25. Martin, Party Recruitment, op. cit., p. 9.
26. An Ziwen, ‘The Consolidation of Party Organizations’, op. cit., p. 6.
27. ‘Chronology of Big Events’, op. cit., p. 12.
28. Michael Y. M. Kau and John K. Leung, The Writings of Mao Zedong
1949–1976, vol. 1 (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1986), pp. 230–1.
29. Liu Shaoqi, ‘Eight Requirements for CPC Membership’, Hongqi, no. 24 (16
December 1985); Joint Publication Research Service, 86-003 (5 February
1986), p. 35.
30. Teiwes, Politics at Mao’s Court, op. cit., pp. 96–9, 164.
31. See Bo Yibo, Ruogan zhongda juece yu shijian de huigu [Reminiscences
on Several Important Decisions and Events], vol. 1 (Beijing: Zhonggong
zhongyang dangxiao chubanshe, 1991), p. 313.
32. Chen and Han, An Ziwen, op. cit., pp. 101–2; trans. in Teiwes, Politics at
Mao’s Court, op. cit., p. 215.
33. Ibid., pp. 102–3; trans. in Teiwes, Politics at Mao’s Court, p. 216.
34. Harding, Organizing China, op. cit., pp. 73–5.
35. See for example ‘Utterly Smash’, op. cit., p. 4; ‘Chronology of Big Events’,
op. cit., p. 13.
36. ‘Utterly Smash’, op. cit., p. 4; confirmed by Chen and Han in An Ziwen,
op. cit., pp. 124–5.
37. COD report, 1 August 1955; see ‘The Biography of An Ziwen’, op cit.,
pp. 62–4.
38. Chen and Han, An Ziwen, op. cit., pp. 125–8; ‘Inside Story’, in Classified
Documents, op. cit., pp. 144–5.
40. Ibid., p. 62.
41. Hua Zuping, ‘Completely Discredit Big Renegade An Ziwen’s Renegade Phi-
losophy’, Wenhui renbao, 1 June 1968; Survey of China Mainland Press, 4206
(26 June 1968), p. 3.
42. ‘Inside Story’, in Classified Documents, op. cit., pp. 143–4; see also ibid.,
p. 5.
43. ‘Utterly Smash’, op. cit., p. 4.
44. Zhou Enlai, ‘Report on the Question of Intellectuals’, 29 January 1956, in
Hinton, The People’s Republic, op. cit., pp. 285, 294.
46. The term ‘readjusters’ is taken from the post-Great Leap slogan ‘Readjust-
ment, consolidation and raising standards’. See Kenneth Lieberthal, ‘The
Great Leap Forward and the Split in the Yenan Leadership’, in The
Cambridge History of China, vol. 14, op. cit., p. 322.
47. History of the Chinese Communist Party, A Chronology of Events (1919–1990)
(Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 1991), pp. 295–6.
50. ‘Crimes of Liu Shaoqi and Deng Xiaoping in Opposing Chairman Mao Con-
cerning the Cadre Line and Organizational Line,’ Liu Shaoqi zui xinglu [A
Record of Liu Shao-ch’i’s Crimes], September 1967, in Selections from China
Mainland Magazines, supplement 26 (27 June 1968), p. 20. Confirmed by
An Ziwen in ‘Build Up Our Party Successfully – In Memory of Comrade Liu
Shaoqi’, Renmin ribao, 8 May 1980; Foreign Broadcast Information Service,
30 May 1980, L.16.
51. In June 1961 Mao had suggested this at the Central Committee Work Con-
ference in Beijing; the Central Committee accordingly issued a directive in
September 1961.
52. For example ‘Cultivate and Train Millions of Successors Who Will Carry
on the Cause of Proletarian Revolution’, Renmin ribao, 3 August 1964, in
Hinton, The People’s Republic, op. cit., pp. 212–13; ‘Revolution Must be
Passed on from One Generation to Another’, Zhongguo qingnian [China
Youth], no. 15 (1 August 1964; Selections from China Mainland Magazines,
436 (28 September 1964), pp. 22–7.
53. ‘To Cultivate and Train Successors is a Major, Thousand-year Project in the
Cause of Revolution’, Hongqi, no. 14 (31 July 1964); Selections from China
Mainland Magazines, 433 (8 September 1964), pp. 1–6; An Ziwen, ‘Culti-
vating and Training Revolutionary Successors is a Strategic Task of the
Party’, Hongqi, nos 17–18 (23 September 1964); Selections from China Main-
land Magazines, 438 (12 October 1964), pp. 1–12.
54. ‘To Cultivate and Train’, op. cit., p. 6.
55. Ibid., p. 4.
56. An Ziwen, ‘Cultivating and Training’, op. cit., pp. 8–9.
57. Ibid., p. 12.
59. The information in this section is drawn from ‘Yang Xianzhen’s Philosophic
Criminal Case’, edited by Carol Lee Hamrin, Chinese Law and Goverment,
vol. 24, nos 1–2 (Spring–summer 1991), hereafter cited as Hamrin, CLG.
The issue contains a translation of Yang Xianzhen’s Wode zhexue ‘zui’an’
[My Philosophic ‘Criminal Case’, a collection of Yang’s writings], published
in 1981, and an introduction by Hamrin that complements her earlier
essay, ‘Yang Xianzhen: Upholding Orthodox Leninist Theory’, in Carol
Lee Hamrin and Timothy Cheek (eds), China’s Establishment Intellectuals
(Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1986), pp. 51–91; Yang Xianzhen zhuan [Biog-
raphy of Yang Xianzhen] (Beijing: Zhonggong dangshi chubanshe, 1996);
Michael Schoenhals, ‘Yang Xianzhen’s Critique of the Great Leap Forward’,
Modern Asian Studies, vol. 26, no. 3 (1992), pp. 591–608.
60. See previous note. Donald J. Munro, ‘The Yang Hsien-chen Affair’, The
China Quarterly, no. 22 (April–June 1965), pp. 75–82; Merle Goldman,
China’s Intellectuals (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1981),
pp. 95–101; Yang Xianzhen, ‘One Who Inspired and Guided the Party
School – In Memory of Comrade Liu Shaoqi’, Hongqi, no. 7 (1 April 1980);
Joint Publication Research Service, 75739 (21 May 1980), pp. 35–43; ‘The
Socialist Economy Should be Planned Diversified and Flexible’, Guang-
ming ribao, 23 May 1980, excerpts in Summary of World Broadcasts
(BBC), FE/6431/B11, pp. 3–4; Yang Xianzhen, ‘A Sinister Conspirator who
Butchered and Persecuted the Loyal and Innocent – Exposing Kang Sheng’s
Features of a Counter-revolutionary Double-dealer’, Hongqi, no. 1 (1 January

1981); Joint Publication Research Service, 77587 (13 March 1981), pp. 53–9.
61. See Hamrin, CLG, op. cit., pp. 29–30, for translations of Yang’s essays (1953,
1955) on this issue.
62. Hamrin and Cheek, China’s Establishment Intellectuals, op. cit., p. 65.
63. Ibid., p. 67.
64. Schoenhals, ‘Yang Xianzhen’s Critique’, op. cit., p. 595.
65. ‘Talks at the Wuchang Conference’ (21–3 November 1958), in The
Secret Speeches of Chairman Mao, edited by Roderick MacFarquhar, Timothy
Cheek and Eugene Wu (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989),
p. 481.
67. Ibid., pp. 603–4.
68. Hamrin, CLG, op. cit., p. 22, note 18.
70. Yang Xianzhen, ‘A Sinister Conspirator’, op. cit., p. 57.
71. Hamrin and Cheek, China’s Establishment Intellectuals, op. cit., p. 76.
73. Merle Goldman, ‘The Party and the Intellectuals: Phase Two’, The Cambridge
History of China, op. cit., p. 469.
74. The article, by Ai Hengwu and Lin Qingshan, appeared in Guangming ribao,
29 May 1964.
75. Hamrin, CLG, op. cit., p. 15.
76. Mao Zedong sixiang wansui [Long Live Mao Zedong Thought, 1949–1968],
Joint Publication Research Service, 61269-1.
77. See for example Yang’s ‘One Who Inspired’, op. cit., p. 41, and ‘Selected
Edition on Liu Shaoqi’s Counter-Revolutionary Revisionist Crimes’, pam-
phlet by the Liaison Station . . . attached to the August 18 Red Rebel Regi-
ment of Nankai University, April 1967; Selections from China Mainland
Magazines, 651 (22 April 1969), p. 29.
78. Yang Xianzhen, ‘One Who Inspired’, op. cit., p. 37.
79. Sources for this section include Bo Yibo, Ruogan, op. cit.; David M.
Bachman, Chen Yun and the Chinese Political System (Berkeley, CA: Institute
of East Asian Studies, University of California, 1985); Parris H. Chang, Power
and Policy in China (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University,
1978); Roderick MacFarquhar, The Origins of the Cultural Revolution, vols. 1–3
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1974, 1983, 1997); Audrey Donnithorne,
China’s Economic System (New York: Praeger, 1967); Frederick C. Teiwes with
Warren Sun, China’s Road to Disaster (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1999);
Teiwes, Politics at Mao’s Court, op. cit.; Nicholas R. Lardy, ‘Economic Recov-
ery and the 1st Five-Year Plan’ and ‘The Chinese Economy under Stress
1958–1965’, in The Cambridge History of China, op. cit., pp. 144–84, 360–97.
80. Bachman, Chen Yun, op. cit., p. 107.
81. Bachman’s views on economic policy making in the 1950s – especially those
expressed in his book Bureaucracy, Economy, and Leadership in China: The
Institutional Origins of the Great Leap Forward (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1991) – have provoked sharp critical comment. See
for example Frederick C. Teiwes, ‘Leaders, Institutions, and the Origins of
the Great Leap Forward’, Pacific Affairs, vol. 66, no. 2 (Summer 1993), pp.
244–53; Alfred L. Chan, ‘Leaders, Coalition Politics, and Policy-Formulation
in China: The Great Leap Forward Revisited’, Journal of Contemporary China,

no. 8 (Winter–Spring 1995), pp. 57–78. Both scholars criticize Bachman for
de-emphasizing Mao’s and Chen Yun’s roles and stature in economic policy
making, and for overemphasizing the role of institutional interests and
oversimplifying the relationship between the ‘financial coalition’ and the
‘planning and heavy industry coalition’ (as defined by Bachman).
82. See ‘Down with Three-Anti Element and Big Renegade Bo Yibo, Sinister
Despot on the Industrial and Communications Front’, Dongfang hong [The
East is Red], 15 February 1967; ‘Forty Charges against Bo Yibo’, Hongweibing
bao [Red Guard Journal], 22 February 1967, in Current Background, 878 (28
April 1969), pp. 1–15, 16–19, respectively.
83. For a discussion on broad and narrow, deep and shallow power bases, see
Lowell Dittmer, ‘Bases of Power in Chinese Politics: A Theory and Analysis
of the Fall of the Gang of Four’, World Politics, vol. 31, no. 1 (October 1978),
p. 41.
84. Former prison cadres and Bo associates appointed to institutions under Bo’s
auspices include Liu Zijiu, Li Yu, Song Shaowen and Yang Fangzhi (to the
Finance and Economic Committee in 1949); Kong Xiangzhen, Gu Mu,
Wang Heshou, Liu Xiufeng, Liu Yumin, Fu Yutian and Li Yu (to the State
Construction Commission in 1954); Gu Mu, Song Shaowen, Sun Zhiyuan,
Liu Daifeng, Guo Hongtao and Zhou Zhongying (to the State Economic
Commission in 1956); Ma Huizhi, Peng De, Kong Xiangzhen and Liang
Yingyong (to the State Council Third Office in 1961).
85. Donald W. Klein and Anne B. Clark (eds), Biographic Dictionary of Chinese
Communism 1921–1965, vol. 2 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press,
1971), p. 740.
86. Teiwes, Politics at Mao’s Court, op. cit., p. 64.
87. Kau and Leung, The Writings of Mao Zedong, op. cit., pp. 363–71. Mao spoke
on 12 August 1953.
88. Teiwes, Politics at Mao’s Court, op. cit., p. 66.
89. Ibid., pp. 199–200.
90. Ibid., p. 200.
91. Kau and Leung, The Writings of Mao, op. cit., p. 365.
92. Xiong Huaiji refers to a report written by Bo in 1953 which details his prison
release experience. If so, this was likely to have been in the framework of
a self-criticism. Xiong Huaiji, Tiandi you zhengqi: Caolanzi jianyu douzheng
yu ‘liushi yi ren an’ (Beijing: Beijing dichu geming shi, Beijing chubanshe,
1982), p. 127.
93. Bo Yibo attributes these words to Mao at a secretariat meeting to which Bo,
Liu and An Ziwen were invited. See Bo’s ‘Comrade Chen Yun’s Achieve-
ments and Style Live Forever – Written to Mark the First Anniversary of the
Death of Comrade Chen Yun’, Renmin ribao, 10 April 1996; Foreign Broad-
cast Information Service, 24 April 1996, p. 28.
94. Lardy, ‘Economic Recovery’, op. cit., p. 158.
95. Ibid., p. 159.
96. Teiwes, ‘Establishment and Consolidation’, op. cit., p. 124.
97. Bachman, Chen Yun, op. cit., p. 66.
98. Bo Yibo, ‘Respect and Remembrance – Marking the 60th Anniversary of the
Birth of the CCP’, Hongqi, no. 13 (1 July 1981) in Joint Publication Research
Service, 78817 (24 August 1981), pp. 97–108.
99. Jerome Ch’en (ed.), Mao (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1969),
pp. 66–8.
100. Mao Zedong, On the Correct Handling of Contradictions Among the People
(Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 1967), p. 165.
101. MacFarquhar, The Origins, op. cit., vol. 1, p. 297.
102. Teiwes and Sun, China’s Road to Disaster, op. cit., p. 61.
103. Donnithorne, China’s Economic System, op. cit., p. 462.
104. Teiwes and Sun, China’s Road to Disaster, op. cit., pp. 73–6.
105. See Frederick C. Teiwes, ‘Mao Texts and the Mao of the 1950s’, Australian
Journal of Chinese Affairs, no. 33 ( January 1995), p. 146; Chan, ‘Leaders’,
op. cit., p. 75.
106. Chang, Power and Policy, op. cit., p. 106.
107. ‘Down with Three-Anti Element’, op. cit., p. 16.
108. Bo may have felt something of a personal vendetta against Peng Dehuai,
who had apparently supported Gao Gang’s position on red military cadres
versus white area cadres, and had particular antipathy towards Liu Shaoqi,
Bo Yibo and An Ziwen. See Teiwes, Politics at Mao’s Court, op. cit., pp. 105–6.
110. Kjeld Erik Brodsgaard, ‘Paradigmatic Change: Readjustment and Reform
in the Chinese Economy, 1953–1981’, Part 1, Modern China, vol. 9, no. 1
( January 1983), pp. 49–53.
111. Bo Yibo, ‘Strive to Carry Out the Great Task of the Technical Transforma-
tion of Agriculture More Swiftly’, in Ten Glorious Years, (Beijing: Foreign
Languages Press, 1959), pp. 268–9.
112. Chang, Power and Policy, op. cit., p. 128.
113. MacFarquhar, The Origins, op. cit., vol. 3, pp. 86–9.
114. Chang, Power and Policy, op. cit., pp. 135–6.
116. ‘Down with Three-Anti Element’, op. cit., p. 2.
117. Brodsgaard, ‘Paradigmatic Change’, op. cit., pp. 48–53, 58, 72–3.
118. Ibid., p. 72.
119. Lucien Pye, The Dynamics of Chinese Politics (Santa Monica, CA: Rand
Corporation, 1981), pp. 146–8, 197–219.
4 Prison Again – the CCP Version

1. ‘Celestial Troops Pound at the Liu Shao-ch’i Clique of Traitors’, Shanghai
hongweibing zhanbao [Shanghai Red Guards Combat Bulletin], 15 August
1968, part 2; Selections from China Mainland Magazines, supplement 30 (30
October 1968) pp. 9–17. This is a reprint of a report by the ‘18 August’
Nankai University Red Guards, part 3 of which appears in Selections from
China Mainland Magazines, supplement 31 (18 November 1968), pp. 23–30.
See also Michael Schoenhals (ed.), China’s Cultural Revolution 1966–1969:
Not a Dinner Party (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1996), pp. 95–101.
2. ‘Erecting a Monument in Bringing Order out of Chaos – A Posthumous
Account of How Comrade Hu Yaobang Led in Rehabilitating Those in the
“61-People Case” ’, Renmin ribao, 1 June 1989; Foreign Broadcast Informa-
tion Service, 8 June 1989, p. 22.
3. Unless noted otherwise, the data on and discussions of the Cultural Revo-
lution are drawn mainly from Harry Harding, ‘The Chinese State in Crisis’,
in Roderick MacFarquhar and John King Fairbank (eds), The Cambridge
History of China, vol. 15 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), pp.
107–217; Stuart R. Schram, ‘Mao Tse-tung’s Thought from 1949–1976’, in
The Cambridge History of China, op. cit., pp. 1–104; John Byron and Robert
Pack, The Claws of the Dragon: Kang Sheng (New York: Simon and Schuster,
1992); Lowell Dittmer, Liu Shao-ch’i and the Chinese Cultural Revolution
(Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1974); William A. Joseph,
Christin P. W. Wong and David Zweig (eds), New Perspectives on the Cultural
Revolution (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991); Yan Jiaqi and
Gao Gao, Turbulent Decade: A History of the Cultural Revolution (Honolulu:
University of Hawaii Press, 1996).
4. Information and comment on the Central Case Examination Groups (CCEG)
are drawn from Schoenhals, ‘The Central Case Examination Group 1966–79’,
The China Quarterly, no. 145 (March 1996), pp. 87–111. The CCEG started
out in May 1966 as the Central Examination Committee (CEC) and included
among its personnel Liu Shaoqi and An Ziwen. Initially the CEC designated
five separate case groups to investigate the cases of Peng Zhen, Lu Dingyi,
Luo Ruiqing, Yang Shangkun and Tian Jiaying (Mao’s secretary). Tian’s group
was dissolved after his suicide. The Luo Ruiqing Group ‘was subordinate to
the Central Military Commission’. The CEC became the CCEG, accountable
not only to the Politburo but also directly to Mao. The personnel had rapidly
changed, some of them, such as Liu and An, becoming objects of investiga-
tion. The CCEG became a radical elite stronghold. Subordinate to it were the
first, second and third offices, each heading a number of case groups.
5. See, for example, Yan and Gao, Turbulent Decade, op. cit., pp. 140–3.
6. Schoenhals (‘The Central Case Examination Group’, op. cit., pp. 110–11)
raises the point that Cultural Revolution violence has until recently been
perceived chiefly as the domain of mass Red Guard activity, whereas in fact
state violence towards party cadres appears to have been no less serious and
possibly more so. The latter was simply less public, and details of it have
taken longer to emerge.
7. Dittmer, Liu Shao-ch’i, op. cit., p. 63.
8. ‘Bombard the Headquarters – My Big-Character Poster’, which without actu-
ally naming Liu Shaoqi and Deng Xiaoping, criticized them for their work
team efforts. See Jerome Ch’en, Mao Papers (London: Oxford University
Press, 1970), p. 47.
9. Harding, ‘The Chinese State in Crisis’, op. cit., p. 111.
10. See Dittmer, Liu Shao-ch’i, op. cit., p. 95; Ch’en, Mao Papers, op. cit., p. 123.
11. Lawrence Sullivan (ed.), ‘The Biography of An Ziwen’, p. 97.
12. Byron and Pack, The Claws of the Dragon, op. cit., p. 344.
13. See ‘The Biography of An Ziwen’, op. cit., p. 97.
14. Byron and Pack, The Claws of the Dragon, op. cit., p. 345. Liu Shaoqi’s widow,
Wang Guangmei, later confirmed that ‘a report on the case about the
formalities of the discharge of 61 persons from prison was suddenly circu-
lated in August and September 1966’ (Wang Guangmei, ‘He Showed
his Integrity’, Gongren ribao, 14 July 1980; Foreign Broadcast Information
Service, 5 August 1980.
15. See Kenneth Lieberthal, Central Documents and Politburo Politics in China
(Ann Arbor, Mich.: University of Michigan Press, 1978), p. 159.
16. See Schoenhals, China’s Cultural Revolution, op. cit., pp. 97–8.
17. ‘Celestial Troops’, op. cit., part 2, p. 10.
18. Ibid.
19. Ibid. In December Xu Bing, who had been so instrumental in the 1936
release arrangements, wrote to Kang Sheng and Vice-Premier Li Fuchun
reminding them of the Central Committee’s role at the time. But ‘His letter
was like a rock tossed into the ocean’ (Yan and Gao, Turbulent Decade,
op. cit., p. 140).
21. Bo Yibo, ‘Cherish the Deep Memory of Esteemed and Beloved Comrade
Zhou Enlai’, Renmin ribao, 8 January 1979; Summary of World Broadcasts
(BBC), FE/6014/B11 (12 January 1979), pp. 2–5.
22. See Stuart Schram (ed.), Mao Tse-tung Unrehearsed (Harmondsworth:
Penguin, 1974), pp. 268, 274; Huang Zheng, ‘The Beginning and End of the
“Liu Shaoqi Case Group” ’, in Michael Schoenhals (ed.), ‘Mao’s Great Inqui-
sition: The Central Case Examination Group, 1966–1979’, Chinese Law and
Government, vol. 29, no. 3 (May–June, 1996), pp. 7–9.
24. Ibid. According to the NURGs, Zhou Rongxin and others had ‘suppressed’
the materials. Zhou had worked closely in the Northern Bureau and GAC-
FEC with Bo Yibo.
25. In the chapter entitled ‘Annihilate Every Renegade’ (Schoenhals, China’s
Cultural Revolution, op. cit., p. 99), 12 November is the date given for the
first dazibao unmasking of the 61, and 19 November as the date when the
NURGs’ investigative report on the 61 was submitted.
26. Selected Works of Zhou Enlai, vol. 2 (Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 1989),
pp. 472–3.
27. Ibid.
28. See Dittmer, Liu Shao-ch’i, op. cit., pp. 145–6.
29. ‘Former Jilin CCP Leader Zhao Lin Rehabilitated’, Changchun, Jilin Provin-
cial Service, 7 February 1979; Summary of World Broadcasts (BBC), FE/6039/BII
(10 February 1979), p. 4.
30. Yan and Gao, Turbulent Decade, op. cit., p. 140.
31. See ‘A Document of the Central Committee of the Chinese Communist
Party Zhongfa (1980) No. 25’, Issues and Studies, vol. 16, no. 11 (November
1980), editor’s note, p. 70; Huang Zheng, ‘The Beginning and End’, Chinese
Law and Government, vol. 29, no. 3 (May–June 1996), p. 12.
32. See for example Liu Ying, ‘Mourning Comrade Zhang Wentian with Pro-
found Grief’, Xinhua, 26 August 1979; Foreign Broadcast Information Service,
29 August 1979, L. 8.
33. The January Power Seizure refers to the ousting of the Shanghai Municipal
Committee by radical groups, heralding the exit of other local party author-
ities and their eventual replacement by three-in-one ‘Revolutionary Com-
mittees’ (composed of military, party/state and mass representatives).
34. ‘Celestial Troops’, op. cit., part 2, p. 16; part 3, pp. 27–8.
35. Hongqi Combat Group of the Ministry of Agriculture, ‘Thoroughly Reckon
with Big Renegade Liao Lu-yen’s Towering Crimes in the Ministry of
Agriculture’, Survey of China Mainland Press, 4001 (15 August 1967), pp.
9–15.
36. ‘Selected Edition on Liu Shaoqi’s Counter-Revolutionary Revisionist
Crimes’, Selection from China Mainland Magazines, 651 (22 April 1964),
p. 13.
37. Yan and Gao, Turbulent Decade, op. cit., pp. 140–1.
38. According to the NURGs’ account in ‘Celestial Troops’, op. cit., part 3, p. 26,
their own ‘theoretical’ articles, such as ‘Angrily Denouncing the Traitors’
Philosophy’ and ‘Down With the Traitors’ Philosophy’, were published in
the Renmin ribao, Guangming ribao and Wenhui ribao (no dates given).
39. Harding, ‘The Chinese State in Crisis’, op. cit., pp. 175–6.
40. Speech at a reception of representatives of the Jiangsu Revolutionary Rebel
Committee for Seizure of Power, 8 February 1967, Survey of China Mainland
Press, supplement 238 (8 November 1968), p. 28.
41. See for example ‘A Great Struggle to Defend Party Principles – Revealing the
True Nature of a Major Political Incident, the February Countercurrent Con-
cocted by Lin Biao and the Gang of Four’, Renmin ribao, 26 February 1979;
Foreign Broadcast Information Service, 28 February 1979, E.7–20.
42. In earlier drafts of this chapter, Zhou was viewed in a somewhat more, but
not totally, sympathetic light as having tried to steer the Cultural Revolu-
tion away from chaos. Michael Schoenhals’ comments and interpretation
(especially in his article ‘The Central Case Examination Group, 1966–1979’,
op. cit., pp. 87–111) of Zhou’s behaviour have done much to disabuse me
of such a viewpoint. The US-based Chinese scholar, Song Yongyi, who on
a recent visit to China was arrested and then deported for meddling with
so-called ‘state secrets’, was researching the Cultural Revolution with spe-
cific interest in Zhou Enlai’s role. See Jonathan Mirsky, ‘Research on China’s
Cultural Revolution is not Espionage’, International Herald Tribune, 7 January
2000.
43. Harding (‘The Chinese State in Crisis’, op. cit., pp. 177–9) compares this to
the Lushan conference of 1959 in that it had a similar political effect – the
mass campaign, instead of being wound down as intended, was ‘reradical-
ized’ because of Mao’s pique at being criticized for his intent and handling
of the campaign in question.
44. ‘Some Decisions of the CCP Central Committee and the State Council on
Ensuring Security of Confidential Documents and Files’, Current Background,
vol. 852 (6 May 1968).
45. In early January, Qinghua University students ‘brought’ Bo Yibo back to
Beijing.
46. The report, ‘Initial Investigation into the Problem of the Voluntary Sur-
render [Recantation] and Betrayal by Bo Yibo, Liu Lantao, An Ziwen, Yang
Xianzhen et al.’, was subsequently (and officially) attached as an appendix
to Zhongfa 96 (1967), ‘Zhonggong zhongyang guanyu yinfa Bo Yibo, Liu
Lantao, An Ziwen, Yang Xianzhen deng chuyu wenti cailiao de pishi’
[Instruction of the CCP Central Committee Concerning the Printing and
Distribution of Materials on the Problem of the Release from Prison of
Bo Yibo, Liu Lantao, An Ziwen, Yang Xianzhen et al.]. Other appendices
included a photocopy of the Huabei ribao announcement of 31 August 1936
with pseudonym signatures; the signatories of the 22 September issue; and
descriptions given by Liu Shenzhi and Liu Xiwu of the ignominious release
procedure (see this volume, Chapter 2).
47. ‘Overthrow Liu Shaoqi – Boss of a Big Clique of Renegades’, Hongqi, 8 March
1967; Selections from China Mainland Magazines, 182 (11 May 1967), p. 36.
48. Bo Yibo, ‘Preface to “Report on Zhang Wentian’s Proposal for Opening up
the Market” ’, Renmin ribao, 26 August 1995, in Foreign Broadcast Informa-
tion Service, p. 31.
49. Zhang and his wife were placed in ‘protective custody’ on 16 May 1968,
separately but in the same building. In October the following year they were
transferred together to Zhaoqing, Guangdong. Zhang was permitted to con-
tinue writing and studying. In May 1975 they were transferred to Wuxi.
Zhang died in 1976.
50. Until May 1968 the CCEG continued to exert pressure on Zhang Wentian
to retract his statement that the Central Committee was involved and that
the matter was entirely Liu’s responsibility; see Xiong Huaiji, Tiandi you
zhengqi: Caolanzi jianyu douzheng yu ‘liushi yi ren an’ (Beijing: Beijing dichu
geming shi, Beijing chubanshe, 1982), p. 132.
51. History of the Chinese Communist Party, A Chronology of Events (1919–1990),
(Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 1991), p. 336.
52. Huang Zheng, ‘The Injustice Done to Liu Shaoqi’, Chinese Law and Govern-
ment, vol. 32, no. 3 (May–June, 1999), pp. 49–51.
53. ‘Chairman Mao and other Central Authorities’ Criticism of Liu Shaoqi’s Evil
Book on “Self-cultivation” ’, Selections from China Mainland Magazines, 582
(3 July 1967), pp. 20–31.
54. Qi Benyu, ‘Patriotism or National Betrayal – Comment on the Reactionary
Film Inside Story of the Qing Court’, Hongqi, 31 March 1967; Summary of World
Broadcasts (BBC), FE/2430/B (4 April 1967), pp. 37–52.
55. Ibid., p. 51.
56. Harold C. Hinton (ed.), The People’s Republic of China 1949–1979: A
Documentary Survey, vol. 3 (Wilmington, DE: Scholarly Resources), pp.
1703–4, 1707.
57. Wang Hsueh-wen, ‘The Nature and Development of the Great Cultural Rev-
olution’, Issues and Studies, vol. 5, no. 12 (September 1968), pp. 11–12. Wang
Li later commented that there was no planned strategy to the Cultural Rev-
olution and that ‘the Chairman made no strategic deployment at all . . . it
was a process of groping ahead step by step’ (‘An Insider’s Account of the
Cultural Revolution: Wang Li’s Memoirs’, in Michael Schoenhals (ed.),
Chinese Law and Government, vol. 27, no. 6 (November–December 1994),
p. 56.
58. ‘Thoroughly Eradicate the Big Poisonous Weed “Self-Cultivation” ’, Beijing
Home Service, 5 April 1967; Summary of World Broadcasts (BBC), FE/2434,
p. 10. For further examples of official attacks on Liu. See ‘Bury the Slave
Mentality Advocated by the Khrushchev of China’, Renmin ribao, 6 April
1967; Summary of World Broadcasts (BBC), FE/2435/B, pp. 1–6; ‘Condemna-
tion of “Traitor’s Philosophy” ’, New China News Agency, 10 April 1967;
Summary of World Broadcasts (BBC), FE/2436/B, pp. 20–21.
59. ‘Betrayal of the Dictatorship of the Proletariat is the Essential Element in
the Book on “Self-Cultivation” ’, Hongqi and Renmin ribao, 7 May 1967;
Summary of World Broadcasts (BBC), FE/2460/B, pp. 12–19.
60. ‘CCP Organization Department Director An Ziwen Tortured’, Sankei, 8 May

1967 (Beijing, 7 May 1967), Daily Summary of the Japanese Press, 9 May 1967,
p. 4.
61. ‘Exposure of Traitor’s Clique’, Ceskoslovenska tiskova kancelar (Czecho-
slovak News Agency), 15 May 1967; Summary of World Broadcasts (BBC),
FE/2467/C, pp. 1–2.
62. History of the Chinese Communist Party, op. cit., pp. 336–7.
63. See Yan and Gao, Turbulent Decade, op. cit., pp. 145–7; Wang Li, ‘The First
Year of the “Cultural Revolution” ’, in Richard Siao (ed.), Chinese Law and
Government, vol. 32, no. 4 (July–August 1999), pp. 89, 94.
64. ‘Lifting the Black Curtain of the Puppet “Kiangsu Reformatory” ’, Zhui
qiongkou, 7 June 1967; Survey of China Mainland Press, 4030 (28 September
1967), pp. 4–9.
65. ‘Down With Peng Chen! Smash the Renegade Clique of the Former
Peking Municipal Committee!’, Zhui qiongkou [Pursue the Tottering Foe],
7 June 1967; Survey of China Mainland Press, 4030 (28 September 1967),
pp. 1–3.
66. ‘Strike Down Big Renegade Gu Mu’, Youdian zhanbao [Post & Telecommu-
nications Combat Bulletin], 28 June 1967; Survey of China Mainland Press,
supplement 210, pp. 20–21.
67. ‘Dig out the Economic Black Line of the ‘30s and its Backstage Boss – Liu
Shaoqi, China’s Khrushchev’, Tianjin, Weidong, 15 June 1967; Survey of
China Mainland Press, supplement 206, pp. 20–36. The article lists a number
of people in the economic policy sphere who were imprisoned in Zhejiang
in the 1930s, including Xue Muqiao and Sun Yefang.
68. Zhou Enlai had been directly involved in the release negotiations between
the CCP and Zhang Zhichun, the GMD Xinjiang governor.
69. A Great Trial in Chinese History (Beijing: New World Press, 1981), p. 176.
70. Zhongfa 200 (67), ‘Notification on Catching Traitors’, Current Background,
864 (16 October 1968), p. 6.
71. Liu’s third self-criticism in Chinese Law and Government, vol. 1, no. 1 (Spring
1968), pp. 75–80.
72. ‘Scheming to Betray the Party is Aiming to Usurp the Party,’ in Selections
from China Mainland Magazines 592 (11 September 1967) p. 3.
73. Zhongfa 251 (67); Survey of China Mainland Press, 4057 (11 October 1967),
pp. 6–7.
74. CRG officials who had been sent to Wuhan to convey central support for
radical organizations in conflict with local military forces were kidnapped
by local ‘conservative’ groups with the support of the local PLA garrison.
Zhou Enlai engineered their release. PLA forces intervened. Hundreds were
killed, thousands wounded and violent radicalism escalated and spread to
other provinces, and Beijing.
75. Classified Chinese Communist Documents: A Selection (Taipei: Institute of
International Relations, 1978), pp. 34–40. See also Li Tien-min, ‘Examina-
tion Report on Liu Shao-ch’i’s Crimes’, Issues and Studies, vol. 5, no. 7 (April
1969), pp. 11–17.
76. Classified, op. cit., p. 39.
77. Wu Linquan and Peng Fei, Caolan chunqiu (Beijing: Renmin chubanshe,
1988), pp. 270–94.
78. Carol Lee Hamrin (ed.), ‘Yang Xianzhen’s Philosophic Criminal Case’,
Chinese Law and Government, vol. 24, nos 1–2 (Spring–Summer 1991),
p. 119.
79. ‘The Biography of An Ziwen’, op. cit., pp. 97–101.
80. Schoenhals, ‘The Central Case Examination Group’, op. cit., p. 95.
81. Ibid., p. 98.
82. Wu and Peng, Caolan chunqiu, op. cit., pp. 234–58.
83. Wu and Peng’s account of Bo Yibo’s horrendous experience (ibid., pp.
248–56) is translated as ‘Bo Yibo has an Attitude Problem’, in Schoenhals,
China’s Cultural Revolution, op. cit., pp. 122–35.
84. ‘Summary of the Major Unjust, False and Wrong Verdicts Reversed Since
the Third Plenary Session of the 11th CCPCC’, Dangshi yanjiu ziliao: neibu
cankao ziliao [Party History Research Materials: For Internal Reference],
vol. 4 (Chengdu: Party History Research Centre, Museum of the Chinese
Revolution, 1983), trans. in Issues and Studies, vol. 21, no. 6 (June 1985),
p. 156.
85. ‘The Biography of An Ziwen’, op. cit., p. 98; Richard Siao (ed.), ‘Deng
Xiaoping (I)’, Chinese Law and Government, vol. 28, no. 2 (March–April
1995), p. 78.
86. Xiong Huaiji, Tiandi, op. cit., p. 143, quoting from Bo Yibo’s 28 000-
character appeal.
5 Rehabilitating the Sixty-One

1. Hong Yung Lee, From Revolutionary Cadres to Party Technocrats in Socialist
China (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1991), p. 92. This
chapter draws on Lee’s book and on the following for rehabilitation policy
during and after the Cultural Revolution: History of the Chinese Communist
Party, A Chronology of Events (1919–1990) (Beijing: Foreign Languages Press,
1991); Victor Falkenheim (ed.), Chinese Politics From Mao To Deng (New York:
Paragon House, 1989); Avery Goldstein, From Bandwagon to Balance-of-Power
Politics (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1991); Harry Harding,
Organizing China: The Problem of Bureaucracy 1949–1976 (Stanford, CA:
Stanford University Press, 1981); Hsi-sheng Ch’i, Politics of Disillusionment:
The Chinese Communist Party under Deng Xiaoping, 1978–1989 (Armonk,
NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1991), pp. 11–13; Roderick MacFarquhar, ‘The Succession
to Mao and the End of Maoism’, in The Cambridge History of China, vol.
15 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), pp. 305–401.
2. Lee, From Revolutionary Cadres, op. cit., p. 93, fig. 1.
3. See for example ‘Have Faith in the Majority’, Selected Works of Mao Zedong,
vol. 5 (Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 1977), pp. 505–6.
4. Roderick MacFarquhar, Timothy Cheek and Eugene Wu (eds), The Secret
Speeches of Chairman Mao (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989),
p. 140.
5. ‘Rectify the Party’s Style of Work’, Selected Works of Mao Zedong, vol. 3,
op. cit., p. 50.
6. See for example Lee, From Revolutionary Cadres, op. cit., pp. 87–8;
MacFarquhar, ‘The Succession to Mao’, op. cit., pp. 336–8. Harding,
Organizing China, op. cit., p. 297, uses ‘leftist’ rather than ‘radical’ and
‘moderates’ for survivors and rehabilitated.
7. See MacFarquhar, ‘The Succession to Mao’, op. cit., pp. 305–401; Harding,
Organizing China, op. cit., ch. 10.
8. Lee, From Revolutionary Cadres, op. cit., p. 133.
9. Resolution on CPC History 1949–1981 (Beijing: Foreign Languages Press,
1981), pp. 32–47.
10. Lee, From Revolutionary Cadres, op. cit., pp. 130–1. The Renmin ribao edito-
rial of 24 April 1972 was entitled ‘Punish for Future Use, and Cure the
Disease to Save the Patient’.
11. Harding, Organizing China, op. cit., p. 306.
12. MacFarquhar, ‘The Succession to Mao’, op. cit., pp. 354–5.
13. ‘Comrade Wang Hongwen’s Report at the Central Study Class’, Issues and
Studies, vol. 11, no. 2 (February 1975), p. 101.
14. Ibid., p. 102.
15. See Wang Dongxing’s report to a Special Case Work Conference in ‘Taiwan
Paper Publishes Mainland Rehabilitation Criteria’, Central Daily News
(Taipei), 13 March 1974; Foreign Broadcast Information Service, 24 March
1975, E. 5–6.
16. See for example History of the Chinese Communist Party, op. cit., p. 364.
17. MacFarquhar, ‘The Succession to Mao’, op. cit., pp. 351–2.
18. ‘ “Liushiyi ren an” pingfan zhaoxue de qianhou’ [Before and After the Reha-
bilitation of the Sixty-One Man Case], in Dangshi xinxi bao [Information on
Party History], 1 March 1996, p. 2; see also Tan Zongji, ‘The Third Plenum
of the Eleventh Central Committee is a Major Turning Point in the History
of the Party Since the Founding of the People’s Republic of China’, in ‘Deng
Xiaoping (II)’, edited by Richard Siao, Chinese Law and Government, vol. 28,
no. 3 (May–June 1995), pp. 21, 68.
19. See, respectively, Lawrence Sullivan (ed.), ‘ The Biography of An Ziwen’,
p. 99; Carol Lee Hamrin (ed.), ‘Yang Xianzhen’s Philosophic Criminal Case’,
Chinese Law and Government, vol. 24, nos 1–2 (Spring–Summer 1991), p.
159; ‘Erecting a Monument in Bringing Order out of Chaos – a Posthumous
Account of How Comrade Hu Yaobeng Led in Rehabilitating Those in the
“61-People Case” ’, Renmin ribao, ‘June 1989; Foreign Broadcast Information
Service, 8 June 1989, p. 25.
20. See Wu Linquan and Peng Fei, Caolan chunqiu (Beijing Renmin chubanshe,
1988), pp. 258–9.
21. Xiong Huaiji, Tiandi you zhengqi: Caolanzi jianyu douzheng yu ‘liushi yi ren
an’ (Beijing: Beijing dichu geming shi, Beijing chubanshe, 1982), pp.
143–4.
22. Ibid.
23. Ibid. See also ‘Summary of the Major Unjust, False and Wrong Verdicts
Reversed Since the Third Plenary Session of the 11th CCPCC’, Issues and
Studies, vol. 21, no. 6 (June 1985), pp. 151, 154.
24. Michael Schoenhals, ‘The Central Case Examination Group, 1966–1979’,
The China Quarterly, no. 145 (March 1966), pp. 108–9. Other prominent
Cultural Revolution victims whose verdicts were similarly reaffirmed
included Yang Shangkun in November 1975 and Lu Dingyi the following
month.

27. ‘Heroic and Combat-Worthy, Adamant and Unyielding – In Memory of
Comrade Ye Ting’, Renmin ribao, 3 August 1977; Foreign Broadcast Infor-
mation Service, 4 August 1977, E. 2–7. Ye Ting (commander of the New
Fourth Army), Qin Bangxian, Deng Fa and Wang Ruofei were killed in a
plane crash in April 1946 en route from Chongqing to Yan’an.
28. See for example ‘Mao’s Role in Chungking Negotiations Described’, New
China News Agency, 18 September 1977; Foreign Broadcast Information
Service, 19 September 1977, E. 13–15.
29. ‘Loyal and Indomitable Fighter’, New China News Agency, 6 August 1977;
Foreign Broadcast Information Service, 10 August 1977, E. 9–11.
30. ‘Chairman Hua’s Political Report to the 11th National Congress of the CPC’,
New China News Agency, 22 August 1977; Foreign Broadcast Information
Service, 22 August 1977, D. 21.
32. Renmin ribao, 28 September 1977; Foreign Broadcast Information Service,
30 September 1977, E. 2–11.
33. ‘Correct the Question of Right and Wrong in the Line on Cadres Upset By
the Gang of Four’, Renmin ribao, 7 October 1977; Summary of World Broad-
casts (BBC), FE/5637/B (11 October 1977), pp. 10–11.
35. ‘Correct the Question’, op. cit., p. 7.
36. Ibid., p. 10.
37. See ‘Erecting a Monument’, op. cit., p. 23.
38. Nanchang, Jiangxi Provincial Service, 24 November 1977; Foreign Broad-
cast Information Service, 29 November 1977, G. 6–7.
39. ‘Chairman Mao’s Cadre Policy Must Be Seriously Implemented’, Renmin
ribao, 27 November 1977; Foreign Broadcast Information Service, 28
November 1977, E. 2.
40. See for example ‘Criticize the Counter-revolutionary Double-dealer Yao
Wen-yuan’, Renmin ribao, 31 March 1977; Foreign Broadcast Information
Service, 4 April 1977, E. 18–19; ‘A Sinister Gang Formed by New and Old-
line Counter-revolutionaries’, Renmin ribao, Hongqi, New China News
Agency, 26 April 1977; Foreign Broadcast Information Service, 27 April
1977, E. 3–7.
41. ‘ “Liushiyi ren an” pingfan zhaoxue de qianhou’, op. cit., p. 2.
42. ‘Erecting a Monument’, op. cit., p. 24.
43. Ibid.
44. Ibid., p. 25.
45. ‘ “Liushiyi ren an” pingfan zhaoxue de qianhou’, op. cit., p. 2.
46. See ‘Guanyu “liushiyi ren anjian” de diaocha baogao’ [Investigation
Report on the Case of the Sixty-one], in Sanzhongquanhui yilai: zhongyao
wenxian huibian [Since the Third Plenum: Collection of Important Docu-
ments], compiled by Zhonggong zhongyang wenxian yanjiu shibian
[Documentation Institute of the CCP CC] (Renmin chubanshe, 1982),
pp. 25–35.
47. Ibid., p. 28.
48. Ibid., pp. 31–3.
49. Ibid., pp. 34–5.

50. Ibid.
51. ‘Jianchi you cuo bi jiu de fangzen’ [Uphold the Policy that Mistakes Must
be Rectified] (November 1978) in Chen Yun wenxuan, 1956 –1985 (Beijing:
Renmin chubanshe, 1986), pp. 208–10.
53. Beijing Review, no. 52 (29 December 1978). The original text of the 22
December communiqué appeared in the Renmin ribao, 24 December 1978.
Hua Guofeng, who had tried so hard to avoid dealing with the ‘renegades’
case, apparently met Bo, Liu, An and Yang and tried to convince them that
their rehabilitation was all his own doing. Bo Yibo is said to have remarked
sceptically that ‘Hua was trying to claim even Heaven’s credits for his own’.
See Tan Zongji, ‘The Third Plenum’, Chinese Law and Government, vol. 28,
no. 3 (May–June 1995), p. 22.
54. Text of Deng’s speech at the 25 August 1979 memorial meeting, Xinhua, 25
August 1979; Foreign Broadcast Information Service, 27 August 1979, L. 2–4.
55. Yang Shangkun, ‘Holding Firmly to the Truth. He devoted his Loyalty
and Mental Resources to the Fullest – Reminiscences of Comrade Zhang
Wentian’, Renmin ribao, 9 August 1985; Foreign Broadcast Information
Service, 20 August 1985, K. 5. See also Deng Liqun, ‘Be Persistently Loyal
and Profoundly Affectionate Toward Communism – Marking the 85th
Anniversary of the Birth of My Teacher, Comrade Wentian’, Hongqi, no. 16
(16 August 1985); Joint Publication Research Service, 85-021 (15 October
1985), pp. 30–42.
56. Liu Ying, ‘Mourning Comrade Zhang’, Xinhua, 26 August 1979; Foreign
Broadcast Information Service, 29 August 1979, L. 7–15.
57. Zhongfa 25 (1980), in Issues and Studies, vol. 16, no. 11 (November 1980),
pp. 70–93.
58. Lowell Dittmer, ‘Death and Transfiguration: Liu Shaoqi’s Rehabilitation and
Contemporary Chinese Politics’, Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 40, no. 3 (May
1981), p. 471. See also Summary of World Broadcasts (BBC), FE/6381 (27
March 1980), B. 3–18, for a collection of NCNA reports on Liu’s activities
in 1925–29, refuting the renegade charges.
59. Dittmer, ‘Death and Transfiguration’, op. cit., p. 467.
60. Ibid., p. 468. ‘Restore the True Qualities of Mao Zedong Thought’, Renmin
ribao, 16 May 1980; Summary of World Broadcasts (BBC), FE/6423/B11 (19
May 1980), pp. 1–7. See also an earlier speech by Deng (16 September 1979)
to the CCP CC Administrative Office, Issues and Studies, vol. 16, no. 10
(October 1980), p. 82: ‘Of course, like everybody else Comrade Shaoqi was
a human being and not a god. Therefore, it was unavoidable that he made
mistakes and had defects.’
61. ‘Restore the True Qualities’, op. cit., p. 3.
62. See for example ‘Inside Story’, in Classified Chinese Documents: A Selection
(Taipei: Institute of International Relations, 1978), p. 136.
63. See for example ‘An Extremely Treacherous Man Assumed a Loyal Look –
Ripping Off Kang Sheng’s Mask’, Xinhua, 21 December 1980; Foreign Broad-
cast Information Service, 24 December 1980, L. 16; ‘Xie Fuzhi Cannot
Escape Trial By History’, Xinhua, 22 December 1980; Foreign Broadcast
Information Service, 29 December 1980, L. 18. The Central Committee
posthumously expelled Kang and Xie in October 1980 and annulled their
funeral eulogies.
64. ‘Beijing Memorial Service held for Public Security Minister’, New China
News Agency, 2 December 1978; Foreign Broadcast Information Service, 4
December 1978, E. 11–12.
65. ‘Leaders at Memorial Service for Peng Dehuai and Tao Zhu’, Beijing Home
Service, 24 December 1978; Summary of World Broadcasts (BBC), FE/6004/B11
(30 December 1978), p. 3.
66. ‘Yang Xianzhen Talks about Marxist Theory’, Liaowang [Outlook], no. 44 (4
November 1985); Joint Publication Research Service, 86-009 (20 January
1986), p. 34.
67. See ‘Former Jilin CCP Leader Zhao Lin Rehabilitated’, Changchun, Jilin
Provincial Service, 7 February 1979; Summary of World Broadcasts (BBC),
FE/6039/B11 (10 February 1979), pp. 3–5.
68. Schoenhals, ‘The Central Case Examination Group’, op. cit., p. 109.
69. Graham Young, ‘Control and Style: Discipline Inspection Commissions
since the 11th Congress’, The China Quarterly, no. 97 (1984), p. 30.
70. Hung-mao Tien, ‘The Communist Party of China: Party Powers and Group
Politics from the Third Plenum to the Twelfth Party Congress’, ‘Occasional
Papers/Reprint Series in Contemporary Asian Studies, 1984.
71. Lucien Pye, ‘An Introductory Profile: Deng Xiaoping and China’s Political
Culture’, The China Quarterly, no. 135 (September 1993), p. 419.
72. Tony Saich, ‘The Fourteenth Party Congress: A Programme for Authoritar-
ian Rule’, The China Quarterly, no. 132 (December 1992), p. 1155.
73. In July 1979 Bo was reinstated as vice-premier on the State Council and
member of its Financial–Economic Committee under the chairmanship of
Chen Yun. He also served as chairman of the 5th NPC Budget Committee.
Bo was minister of the State Machine Building Ministry Commission from
February 1980 until 1982, and from then until 1988 he was vice-minister
at the State Commission for Restructuring the Economic System.
74. Bo Yibo, Ruogan zhongda juece yu shijian de huigu, vols 1 and 2 (Beijing:
Zhonggong Zhongyang dangxiao chubanshe, 1993); Bo Yibo wenxuan
(1937–1992) [Selected Works of Bo Yibo, 1937–1992] (Beijing: Renmin
chubanshe, 1992); Bo Yibo, Qishi nian fendou yu sikao, vol. 1 (Beijing:
Zhonggong dangshi chubanshe, 1996).
75. Interview in Liaowang, 20 October 1983; Foreign Broadcast Information
Service, 25 October 1983, K. 3.
76. Ibid.
77. Su Shaozhi, ‘A Decade of Crises at the Institute of Marxism–Leninism–
Mao Zedong Thought, 1979–1989’, The China Quarterly, no. 134 ( June
1993), pp. 335–51.
78. Alan P. Liu, ‘Politics at the Party Center: From Autocracy to Oligarchy’,
Issues and Studies, vol. 23, no. 12 (December 1987), p. 110.
79. Su, ‘A Decade of Crises’, op. cit., p. 345.
80. Ibid., p. 346.
81. Bo Yibo, ‘A Basic Summary of Party Rectification and Further Strengthen-
ing of Party Building’, Xinhua, 31 May 1987; Foreign Broadcast Informa-
tion Service, 2 June 1987, K. 11.
82. Ibid., K. 14.
83. Ibid., K. 16.

84. Suisheng Zhao, ‘Deng Xiaoping’s Southern Tour: Elite Politics in Post-
Tiananmen China’, Asian Survey, vol. 33, no. 8 (August 1993), p. 754.
85. Saich, ‘The Fourteenth Party Congress’, op. cit., p. 1141, refers to a 24
August 1992 session of the CAC in which Chen Yun delivered a critique of
Deng’s economic programme, which Chen only conditionally endorsed –
with very many reservations or suggestions for amendments.
86. South China Morning Post, 4 March 1993; Foreign Broadcast Information
Service, 4 March 1993, p. 10.
87. See for example Bo quoting Deng’s speech of 24 December 1990: ‘Both a
planned and a market economy are necessary’, in ‘Preface to “Report on
Zhang Wentian’s Proposal on Opening up the Market” ’, Renmin ribao, 26
August 1995; Foreign Broadcast Information Service, 20 October 1995,
p. 32; and Bo’s comments in ‘Beijing Political Situation’, Xinhua, 30 Sep-
tember 1994; Foreign Broadcast Information Service, 30 September 1994,
pp. 26–7.
88. ‘CPC Sounds Alarm of its Doom’, Zhengming, 1 November 1994; Foreign
Broadcast Information Service, 18 November 1994, pp. 14–16. See also ‘Bo
Yibo Discusses Party Building Questions’, Xinhua, 10 November 1994;
Foreign Broadcast Information Service, 28 November 1994, pp. 26–34.
89. ‘Li Xiannian Attends Memorial Meeting for Rehabilitated Officials’, New
China News Agency, 25 January 1979; Summary of World Broadcasts (BBC),
FE/6033/B11 (3 February 1979), pp. 6–8.
90. See for instance ‘Memorial Service for Former Trade Union Leader Liu
Wenwei Held in Xi’an’, Gongren ribao, 13 July 1979; Foreign Broadcast
Information Service, 25 July 1979.
91. Lowell Dittmer, ‘Death and Transfiguration’, op. cit., p. 477.
92. Bo Yibo, Liu Lantao, Cheng Zihua and Nie Zhen ‘In Deep Memory of Hu
Xikui, Loyal Fighter of the Party’, Renmin ribao, 3 April 1980; Foreign Broad-
cast Information Service, 14 May 1980, L. 8–10.
93. ‘The Boat Sails in the Midst of Spring Breeze and Triumphant Music – Learn
From Comrade Xu Zirong’, Renmin ribao, 5 April 1979; Foreign Broadcast
Information Service, 1 May 1979, L. 14.
94. Ibid., L. 16.
95. Ibid., L. 17.
96. Bo Yibo et al., ‘In Deep Memory of Hu Xikui’, op. cit., L. 9.
97. ‘Cherishing the Memory of Comrade An Ziwen’, Renmin ribao, 15 June
1985; Foreign Broadcast Information Service, 21 June 1985, K. 9–10.
98. ‘Li Xiannian Attends Memorial Meeting’, op. cit., pp. 6–8.
99. ‘Be Good at Summing Up Experiences, Be Bold in Opening Up the Future’,
speech by Bo Yibo at a national conference of party history research offi-
cials, 3 April 1993, Qiushi, no. 17 (1 September 1993); Foreign Broadcast
Information Service, 4 November 1993, p. 29.
6 A Prejudiced Conclusion
1. Bo Yibo, Qishi nian fendou yu sikao, vol. 1 (Beijing: Zhonggong dangshi
chubanshe, 1996), p. 137.
2. ‘Scheming to Betray the Party is Aiming to Usurp the Party’, Hongqi, no.
13 (17 August 1967); Selections from China Mainland Magazines, 592 (11
September 1967), p. 2.
3. ‘Speech to the Seventh Party Congress’ (24 April 1945), in Tony Saich (ed.),
The Rise to Power of the Chinese Communist Party: Documents and Analysis
(Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1996), p. 1241.
4. Frederick C. Teiwes, Politics at Mao’s Court: Gao Gang and Party Factionalism
in the Early 1950s (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1990), p. 6.
5. Ibid., p. 263: ‘Report on the Gao Gang, Rao Shushi Anti-Party Alliance’ (21
March 1955).
6. ‘How Should One Understand “Recruiting Deserters and Accepting Muti-
neers” ’, Gongren ribao, 1 November 1979; Foreign Broadcast Information
Service, 20 November 1979, L. 3–4.
7. ‘The Twelfth CPC National Congress will Lead Construction to Victory –
on Understanding and Mastery of the Laws’, Hongqi, no. 20 (16 October
1982); Joint Publication Research Service, 82391 (6 December 1982), p. 3.
8. Ibid., pp. 3–4.
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Index
Note: the notes and references have not been indexed.
Time-frames:
–1936: historical background – the Japanese threat; the united front negotiations;
the state of the CCP in northern China; the arrest, imprisonment and eventual
release of the sixty-one from the GMD Caolanzi prison and the roles of Liu
Shaoqi and Zhang Wentian in their release.
1936–49: from the release of the first batch of the sixty-one until the establish-
ment of the People’s Republic of China; Party work by the sixty-one in northern
China following their release from Caolanzi; the rectification campaign in
Yan’an; the nomination of delegates to the CCP 7th Party Congress in 1945.
1949–66: from the establishment of the People’s Republic of China in October
1949 until the beginning of the Cultural Revolution; overall survey of careers of
the sixty-one; dossier access; events and issues in the careers of Liu Lantao, An
Ziwen, Yang Xianzhen and Bo Yibo.
1966–78: the Cultural Revolution experiences of the sixty-one until and includ-
ing their rehabilitation in December 1978; official and unofficial investigations
into the 1936 release; official condemnation and public repudiation of the sixty-
one; their arrest and imprisonment by the CCP; release into internal exile in May
1975; Hu Yaobang, the Central Organization Department and changes in reha-
bilitation policy.
1979–: the post-Cultural Revolution era; survivors among the sixty-one and the
Central Discipline Inspection Commission and the Central Advisory Commis-
sion; Bo Yibo; eulogies for the deceased sixty-oners and the posthumous reha-
bilitation of Liu Shaoqi.
1st Army 77 Agricultural Producers’ Cooperatives

2nd Army 77 107, 112, 119, 128
4th Route Army 84 Agriculture Ministry 143
8th Route Army 76–7, 84 Ai Qing 155
129th Division 76 Ai Siqi 118–19, 121, 136
13th Brigade 77 An Ziwen 2, 15–16, 20–1, 49, 100–6,
‘18th August’ group 142 125, 127, 193–4
29th Army 46, 49, 76 1930–36 35–6, 38–40, 44, 52,
51st Army 46 56–8, 61, 65–7, 70
1949 Case Group 143 1936–49 49, 75–7, 83, 86–7,
88–91
Academy of Sciences 122 1949–66 94–7, 106–18, 113–14,
action committees 35 120–1, 135
253
254 Index
1966–78 141–4, 146, 148–9, Central Case Examination Group

152–4, 156–9, 166–7, 170, 174 (CCEG) 2, 139–40, 142, 149,
1979–80 179–80, 187–8 152, 158–9, 166–7, 170, 172, 174,
antirightist campaign 114–15 181
Armed Forces’ Military-Legal Central Commission for Guiding
Department 44 Party Rectification 181
Central Committee 1, 2, 5, 14–17,
Beijing 195
Aeronautical Institute 152 1927–36 20, 31–8, 40–1
Party 48 1936–49 51, 53, 55, 60–4, 67, 70,
Party Municipal Committee 140 88–91
Political Affairs Council 45 1949–66 111, 113, 120, 125, 130
Student Association 47 1966–78 139, 143, 146–7, 150–3,
Beiping City Committee 29 157–8, 167–8, 170, 173
Beiping Party 29 1979– 177, 179–80, 183
Bo Yibo 2, 15, 20–1, 26, 72, 98, 101, Central Control Commission 101
118, 120, 187–90 Central Organization Department
1929–36 34–8, 43–4, 49, 51–2, 108, 114–15, 174, 176
55–66, 69 General Office 99–100
1936–49 73–8, 87, 91–2 Qualifications Committee 88, 175
1949–66 94–8, 109–10, 123–36 Work conference (1966) 144–5
1966–78 141–4, 146–9, 151–4, see also Politburo
157, 159, 166–7, 174–6 Central Case Examination Group
1979– 179–80, 182–6 (CCEG) 139–40, 142, 149, 152,
158–9, 166–7, 172, 181
Cadre Examination Office 100, 111 Central Control Commission (CCC)
cadre management 111–14 100, 101–6, 181, 193
cadre screening 79–85 Central Discipline Inspection
Cai Hesen 32–3 Commission (CDIC) 177,
Cao Diqiu 155 181–2, 184
Cao Yi’ou 119 Central Examination Committee
Caolanzi (GMD) prison (Military (CEC) 139, 143
Personnel Self-Examination Central Executive Committee 69
Centre of Beiping) 27, 42–4, Central Higher Party School 94
49–50, 52–73, 75, 87–8, 92, 94, see also Party School
96, 100–1, 107, 116, 123, 159, Central Organization Commission
174–5, 182, 186–8 88
amnesties 55 Central Organization Department
GMD re-education 53–4 18, 79–81, 83–4, 91, 94, 98–100,
Liu Shaoqi 67–9 103, 105–6, 121, 136, 142, 149,
living conditions 54, 57–8 163, 177, 181, 193
party organization 56 Hu Yaobang 171–6
prisoners’ debates 61–2 investigation report on the sixty-
release arrangements 62–5 one 174–6
release procedures 65–7 see also Organization Department
study 58–60 Central People’s Government Council
Zhang Wentian 70–3 124
Central Advisory Commission (CAC) Central Political Bureau 94
181–5 Central South Bureau 148, 181
Index 255
Central State Organs Committee arrest, imprisonment and further

99–100 CCEG interrogation of the sixty-
Central Work Conference one 158–9
(1965) 118, (1966) 135, (1978) Bo Yibo: post-Cultural Revolution
176 182–6
Chang Ch’un-ch’iao 165 dossier access 99, 101, 105, 107
see Zhang Chunqiao CCEG and Red Guard
Chen Boda 14, 17, 89, 136, 140, investigations of the sixty-one
157, 166 138–50
in Caolanzi 40, 55 official condemnation of the sixty-
Party School 118–19 one 151–4
Chen Bozhong 167 public repudiation 157
Chen Duxiu 32, 35 release into internal exile 166–8
Chen Geng 41, 89 rehabilitation of the sixty-one
Chen Lifu 26 179–81
Chen Paichen 155 Cultural Revolution Group 140–1,
Chen Shaoyo see Wang Ming 143, 145, 147–8, 150, 153–4,
Ch’en Ts’ung 138 157–8
Chen Yuandao 36–8, 40–1, 44,
55–6 Dare-to-Die 75–7, 123
Chen Yun 79, 81–4, 88, 130, 133–4, December Ninth student movement
164, 170, 176, 179–82 25, 47
and Bo Yibo 124, 128–9, 131, 183, ‘Decision on How to Handle So-called
185 Confessants’ 80, 113, 176
Chen Zaidao 164 ‘Decision on the Screening of Cadres’
Chiang Kai-shek 4, 22–8, 45–7, 50, 87
68–9, 73–4, 76, 89, 156, 194 demilitarized zone (DMZ) 45, 46
Chinese National Liberation Deng Fa 86, 88
Vanguard 47–9 Deng Wenyi 26
Comintern 25–6, 30–2, 36–7, 71 Deng Xiaoping 76, 110–11, 115–16,
Seventh Congress 60 133, 141, 159, 162, 164–6, 168,
Commission for Guiding Party 170, 173–4, 177, 179, 182–6, 193
Consolidation 183 Deng Zihui 128
Communist Youth Corps 48 Department of Construction 77
Communist Youth League 42 Dimitrov, G. M. 60
Confucianism 13, 18, 31, 81 Dittmer, L. 9, 177, 186
Congress Dong Biwu 92, 101
Seventh CCP Congress 90 Dong Tianzhi 56, 66, 74
Eighth CCP Congress 114 Dong Yan 172
Construction and Engineering dossier access 98–101, 149
Ministry 127–8
Control Commission (Central) 15, East China Bureau Coutrol
121, 178 Commission 148
Cultural Revolution 2, 13–18, 26, East Hebei Anti-Communist
34, 52–3, 55, 62–4, 67–8, 70, 80, Autonomous Council 46
84, 86, 90, 92, 94–8, 108–9, East Hebei Autonomous Anti-
112–14, 116, 119, 122–4, 134, Communist Zone 22
136, 161–3, 169–73, 175, 181, Education Ministry 155
186–8, 193–5 ‘Eight Criteria’ 107–9
256 Index
Eighth (CCP) Central Committee First and Second Machine Building

94, 119 Ministry 128
Eighth Plenum (1959) 120 ‘First Ten Points’ 121
Tenth Plenum (1962) 115 Five Year Plans 127, 129, 134
Eleventh Plenum (1966) 135, Fourth Plenum (Sixth CCP Central
140–2 Committee) 37–8
Twelfth Plenum (1968) 158 Fourteenth (CCP) Central Committee
Eighth (CCP) Congress 104, 113–14, Fourth Plenum 185
119–20, 131, 146 Fourteenth (CCP) Congress 182, 185
Eleventh (CCP) Central Committee: Fu Ping 92
First Plenum (1977) 169 Fu Yutian 74, 88, 95, 148, 179–81
Third Plenum (1978) 2, 18, 160, Fuel Ministry 127
174, 176
Fourth Plenum (1979) 179 Gang of Four 17, 101, 162, 165–6,
Fifth Plenum (1980) 177 168, 170–1, 173, 178, 194
Eleventh (CCP) Congress (1977) Gao Gang affair (Gao Gang-Rao
168, 170 Shushi affair, Kao-Jao group) 16,
Political Report 171 88, 101–2, 109–11, 125–7, 193
Emergency Committee (Hebei) Gao Tingkai 92
39–40, 56 Gao Yangyun 142–4, 146
Emergency Preparatory Committees General Office 99, 103, 181
37 General Political Department
Engels, F. 59 (People’s Liberation Army) 103
Gong Zirong 66, 100, 103
Fairbank, J. K. 20 Government Administration Council
Fang Yizhi 122 (GAC) 124, 127
Fang Zhimin 169 Financial and Economic Committee
‘February Adverse Current’ 150, 158, 124
179 Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution
Feng Jiping 55, 74, 100–1 (GPCR) 140
Fifth Administrative District 76 see also Cultural Revolution
Fifth Chinese People’s Political Great Leap Forward 16, 98, 104,
Consultative Conference 107, 114–15, 119–21, 130–1,
Standing Committee 180 135–6, 179
Fifth National People’s Congress 180 Bo Yibo 124, 131–3
Finance and Economic National Work Gu Mu 147, 155
Conference 109–10 Gu Shunzhang 5, 41, 43–4
Finance and Economic Small Group Guan Feng 140, 148–9
134 Guangxi Zhuang Autonomous Region
Finance Ministry 126 148
Financial and Economic Committee Guo Yaxian 41–4
(North China People’s Guo Yufeng 143, 149, 172
Government) 91–2, 124 Guomindang (GMD) 1–2, 5–6,
Government Adminstration 13–15, 17, 19–20, 22–6, 32–4,
Council 124, 127 36–7, 39–40, 42, 44, 47, 51, 53–5,
First Administrative District 76 82, 85, 89, 91, 95, 101, 103,
First Five Year Plan 127 109–10, 153–5, 158, 168–9,
First National Conference for 171–3, 175, 177, 181, 187, 190,
Organization Work 108 193–4
Index 257
Central Executive Committee 69 Institute of Agricultural Science 144

Military Police 3rd Corps 46 Institute of Marxism-Leninism-Mao
Second Central Committee Fifth Zedong Thought in the Academy
Plenary Session 27 of Social Sciences 183
Fifth Central Committee Third Interior Ministry 100
Plenary Session 28 Internal Affairs Office 100
‘Internationalists’ 36
Hamrin, C. L. 121–2 Isaacs, H. 57
Han Jun 74, 77, 92 Israel, J. 48
Hangzhou conference 131
Hao Jinbo 92 ‘January Power Seizure’ 147
Harding, H. 162 Japan 1–2, 9, 20–8, 45–7, 49–50,
He Chang 35–8 60–1, 69, 71–2, 74–5, 79, 83, 126
He Mengxiong 35–8 Jia Suping 138
He Yingqin 45–6, 55 Jiang Qing 14, 140, 147, 154–5, 166,
He Zhiping 78, 92 173, 195
He-Umezu agreement 22, 61–2, 68 Jiang Zemin 185
Heavy Industry Ministry 127 Jiangsu Provincial Committee 5
Hebei Jiangxi Provincial Party Committee
-Chahar Council 49 180
-Chahar Political Council 22, 46 Jilin Party Provincial Committee
Committee 41 146
Emergency Committee 38 Jin-Cha-Ji ( JCJ) 77, 91
Provincial Committee 29, 40, 60 Jin-Ji-Lu-Yu ( JJLY) 76–8, 83, 89, 91,
Provincial Mutual Assistance 174
Committee 40
Henan Party 36 Kang Sheng 14, 17, 86–91, 147, 155,
School 120 178
Hong Yung Lee 99 Central Case Examination Group
Hou Zhenya 74, 95, 107, 159, 186 139–40
‘How to be a Good Communist’ 1, Central Organization Department
116, 139, 152, 159 149
‘How to Handle the Cases of Arrested Central Organization Department
Communists and the Question of investigation (1978) 174, 176
Morality’ 81 Cultural Revolution Group (CRG)
Hu Egong 40–2 140–3, 145, 147
Hu Fu see Liu Shaoqi Eleventh Plenum of the Eighth
Hu Hua 70 Central Committee 140–1
Hu Jingyi 95, 100 incrimination of the sixty-one
Hu Xikui 21, 43, 56, 59, 64–5, 67, 142–5
78, 92, 95, 144, 157, 159, 186–8 official condemnation of the sixty-
Hu Yaobang 170–6, 181, 183–6, 188 one 151–3
Hua Guofeng 162, 169–71, 176 Yang Xianzhen 118–19, 122, 136,
Huang Fu 45 180
Kao-Jao group see Gao Gang affair
Industry and Communications Staff Ke Qingshi 62–3, 67, 153, 172, 175,
Office 124 195
Inner Mongolian Autonomous Kenye Company 39
Government 22 Khrushchev, N. 153
258 Index
Klein, D. W. 48 Liu Ningyi 40

Kong Xiangzhen 42–4, 52, 55–6, 63, Liu Shaobai 41–2
74, 92, 158, 166, 174, 179, 181 Liu Shaoqi 1, 3, 7, 18, 76, 167, 173,
appeal for reinvestigation of 61 175–6, 178–9, 186, 193, 195
(1977) 171–2 1928–36 9–12, 20, 29, 32–5, 45,
Kuai Dafu 140 48, 50–3, 61–5, 67–73
1936–49 73–4, 77, 79, 82, 84–6,
Labour Ministry 180 88, 90–1, 93
Lai De 40–2 1949–66 102, 108–10, 113–16,
Lenin, V. 59 119, 121–2, 128–9, 133
Leninism 10–11, 19, 31, 48, 97 1966–69 17, 94, 96, 136, 140–5,
see also Marxism-Leninism 147–56, 158
Li Baohua 164, 174 posthumous rehabilitation 18,
Li Chuli 44, 56–7, 59, 75, 78, 88, 163, 177–8
92, 95, 100, 103, 107, 111, 142, Liu Shenzhi 65, 75, 88, 95, 100, 148
159, 167, 179–82 Liu Taifeng 77
Li Chun 36 Liu Wenwei 186
Li Dazhao 29, 35 Liu Xiwu 21, 44, 56, 65, 92, 95, 103,
Li Degui 34 144, 159, 186, 188
Li Fuchun 125, 129, 134 Liu Yaxiong 40–1, 55, 74
Li Jingquan 164 Liu Ying 68
Li Jukui 44, 78 Liu Youguang 74, 76, 95, 174,
Li Liguo 74 179–80
Li Lisan 30, 33–8 Liu Zhao 49–51, 75
Li Mengli 100, 107 Liu Zhidan 73
Li Weihan 37 Liu Zijiu 56, 59, 78, 88, 90, 92,
Li Xiannian 128, 131, 162, 179–80, 179–80
186 Liu Zunqi 57, 59
Liao Chengzhi 164 Long March 3, 8, 21, 24, 31, 165
Liao Huaping 34, 43–4 Lu Dingyi 179
Liao Luyan 59, 74, 77, 94–5, 143–4, Lu Zhenyu 26
148, 159, 186, 188 Luo Ruiqing 179, 187
Liao Mosha 155 Lushan conference 132
Lin Biao 145, 154, 162–6, 172, 194
Gao Gang affair 110 Ma Hong 132
‘renegade’ cliques 157 Ma Huizhi 56, 66, 75, 88, 92, 95,
Lin Feng 122, 147 148, 174, 180–1
Liu Bocheng 76 Ma Mingfang 103, 155–6
Liu Geping 56, 64–5, 103 MacFarquhar, R. 162, 164–5
Liu Kerang 92 Mao Zedong 16–17, 19, 95, 98,107,
Liu Lantao 2, 15–16, 20–1, 118, 111, 166–8, 170–1, 174–5,
120–1, 180 179–80, 190–3
1929–36 42–4, 52, 56, 63, 66 1935–36 7–11, 24–5, 27, 41, 47,
1936–49 78, 88, 90, 92 60–1, 70–2
1949–66 15, 94–8, 101–6, 110, 1936–49 74, 84–9, 91
135–6, 142 1949–66 102, 104–5, 108–10, 116,
1966–78 144, 146, 148–9, 152, 119–6, 128–36
154, 157–9, 166–7, 174 1966–76 140–3, 145, 147, 149–52,
1979– 179–80, 182, 187 154–5, 157–9, 161–9
Index 259
‘Mao Zedong Thought’ 105, 109 North China Army 50

Mao Zemin 155 North China Bureau 1, 9, 32–7,
Maoism 3, 81, 103, 116 35–6, 39, 44, 52, 55, 62–4, 68–9,
Marx, K. 59 73–5, 77, 89, 92, 98–122, 101,
Marxism 59 103, 123–4, 160, 174–5, 195
Yang Xianzhen 119–23 Liu Shaoqi 3, 35, 48, 50–1, 61,
Marxism-Leninism 1, 7, 13, 19, 85, 79
105 North China People’s Government
Marxism-Leninism-Mao Zedong 91–2, 124
Thought 185 North China Revolutionary
Marxist-Leninist Institute 184 University 92
May Fourth Intellectual revolution North Regional Committee 32
29 Northeast Bureau 156
May Thirtieth movement 30 ‘northeast renegades’ clique 154–5
Mif, P. 36–7, 40 Northeastern Army 46, 55
Military Northern China and the CCP 28–9,
Affairs Commission (GMD) 46, 32–9
(CCP) 88, 149, 152, 158, 164 Northern Military Committee 29
Committee (Shunzhi Provincial) Northwest China Bureau 15, 96,
34, 38 104, 144, 146
Police 3rd Corps (GMD) 46 ‘Notice on the Question of Criticism
Morgan, L. H. 59 and Repudiation by Name in
Mukden incident 22 Publications’ 157
Municipal Committee (CCP Beijing) ‘Notification on Catching Traitors’
75 156
Mutual Assistance Committee 42
official condemnation of 61
Nan Hanchen 62 (March–May 1967) 151–4
Nanjing Military Commission (GMD) ‘On the Correct Handling of
55 Contradictions Among the
Nankai University Red Guards People’ 130
143–6, 148–9, 155 ‘On the Ten Great Relationships’
Nanning conference 131 129
National Conference on Financial ‘ordinary statement’ 27
and Economic Work 109, 125 see also ‘non-anticommunist
National Defence Science and statement’
Technology Commission 180 Organization Department
National Organization Work An Ziwen 15, 106–18
Conference 109–10, 115 Central 100, 103, 123, 125, 148–9,
National Salvation 20, 23, 27, 50, 75 156, 178
National Salvation through Sacrifice Beijing Municipal Committee 75
League 49, 75–6 Central South Bureau 148
New Army 75, 77 Chen Yuandao (Temporary Hebei
Nie Rongzhen 91, 170 Provincial Committee) 38
Ninth (CCP) Central Committee Liu Lantao (North China Bureau)
164 92
Niu Yinguan 77 North Bureau 35
‘non-anticommunist statement’ 27 see also Central Organization
see also ‘ordinary statement’ Department
260 Index
Pan Hannian 26 Rao Shushi 110, 125

Party Central Archives 100 recruitment policy 107–9
Party School 77, 86, 88–91, 116, Rectification Campaign 192
118–19, 121, 171–2, 180, 183 see also Yan’an
Committee 120–1 Red Guards 2, 15, 17, 65–6, 68–9,
North Bureau 98 92, 94–5, 101, 107, 109, 111,
Yang Xianzhen 15, 118–23 113–14, 123, 135, 139–7, 149,
Peng De 59, 88 151–5, 157, 159
Peng Dehuai 114, 121, 132, 151, Preparatory Committee for
176, 179 Smashing the Liu Shaoqi
Peng Fei 159 Renegade Clique 152
Peng Zhen 18, 33–4, 49, 86, 140, see also Nankai University Red
143, 146–7, 179, 190, 192 Guards
Gao Gang affair 110 ‘Regulations on Industry Mines and
North Bureau Organization Enterprises’ 133
Department 77 rehabilitation 2, 16–18, 67, 87,
rehabilitation 179 161–6, 168–70, 194
Special Case Group 151 Central Organization Department
People’s Bank of China 124 investigation report 174–6
People’s Liberation Army 103–4, Hu Yaobang and the Central
106, 164 Organization Department 170–4
Personnel Bureau 100 Liu Shaoqi 177–8
Personnel Ministry 100 the sixty-one 176, 179–81
Po I-po 94, 158 Ren Bishi 88–9, 91
see Bo Yibo ‘Report on the Organization
Politburo 37, 77, 85, 90, 101, 105–6, Department on Improving the
109–10, 113, 119–20, 125, 152, Education and Management of
166, 176, 179, 181, 193 Party Members’ 115
Bo Yibo 94, 124, 129, 184–5 reregistration of party members
Standing Committee 70, 164 111–14
Political Affairs Council (GMD) 46 Rescue Campaign 6, 192
Political Bureau 71 ‘Resolution on Certain Historical
Political Department 76 Questions’ (1945) 84, 88
Presidium 90 Resolution on Party History (1981)
Propaganda Department 118 178–9
Provincial Committee (Temporary ‘Returned Students’ 36
Hebei) 39 Revolutionary Committees 158
Public Security Bureau and Ministry ‘revolutionary double-dealing policy’
100, 178, 187 see ‘white skin, red heart’
Pye, L. 12, 182
Sacrifice League see National
Qi Benyu 140, 148, 153, 157 Salvation through Sacrifice
Qian Ying 103 Saich, T. 8
Qiao Mingfu 66, 100, 107 Sanfan movement 96, 108, 125
Qin Bangxian (Bo Gu) 36, 70, 88 Schoenhals, M. 17, 121, 140
Qiu Shaoshang 92 Schurmann, F. 102
Qu Qiubai 30, 32–3, 36–7 Second Central Committee Fifth
Qualifications Committee 88, 175 Plenary session (GMD) 27
Index 261
Secretariat (CCP) 16, 70–1, 83, Song Zheyuan 22, 44, 46–51, 62,
88, 90, 94, 101, 103, 119–20, 68–9, 75, 175
152 ‘South China renegades clique’
Seventh (CCP) Central Committee 154–5
Secretariat 90 Soviet Union 18, 22–3, 25, 31, 155,
Seventh (CCP) Congress 16, 41, 86, 184
88, 112, 146, 174, 192 Stalin, J. 59
Shandong Provincial Party State Construction Commission
Committee 181 127, 155
Shanxi 73–9 State Council (SC) 94, 100, 127,
Alliance for Sacrifice and National 130, 141, 143, 150, 157–8, 166
Salvation 75 Industry and Communications Staff
-Chahar-Hebei area ( JCJ) 77 Office 124
GMD Penitentiary 66 Internal Affairs Office 100
-Hebei-Henan-Shandong region Third Office 134
( JJLY) 76 Finance and Trade Office 134
Military and Administrative State Economic Commission (SEC)
Training Committee 75 94, 124, 129, 134, 180
Workers’ Committee 75 State Planning Commission (SPC)
Sheng Shicai 155 124–5, 127–9, 134
Shuai Mengqi 100, 103, 107, 181 State Procuratorate Indictment 101
Shunzhi Military Committee 43 Stranahan, P. 31
Shunzhi Provincial Committee student movement 47–9
32–3, 35, 37–8 Sun, Madame (Song Qingling) 27
‘Six Articles’ 113–14 Sun Yefang 132, 155
‘sixteen-point decision’ 141 Supervision Ministry 100
Sixth Administrative District 76
Sixth (CCP) Central Committee Taiyuan Nationalist Army Prison 66
Fourth Plenum (1931) 37–8 Taiyue
Sixth (CCP) Congress (1928) 33–4, District Committee 92
180 Military Area Command 76–7
Sixth Chinese People’s Political Special Zone 77
Consultative Conference 180 Tan Zhenlin 164
Sixty-One (the Sixty-One ‘Renegades’) Tang Fanglei 74, 174
2, 14–19, 21, 26–8, 40, 43, 191–2, Tanggu Truce 45
195 Tao Zhu 176, 179
1931–36 52, 60, 65, 68 Teiwes, F. 98, 193
1936–49 74–6, 78–9, 83–5, 87–90, Temporary Committee 39
92–3 Temporary Hebei Provincial
1949–66 94–6, 100–1, 103, 112, Committee 38
119, 136–7 Tenth (CCP) Central Committee
1966–78 139, 142–4, 146–54, Third Plenum (1977) 168
156–9, 163, 165–8, 170–9 Tenth (CCP) Party Congress 164
1979– 179–82, 186–8 Tenth Plenum (1962) 104
Snow, E. 70 Third Administrative District 76
Socialist Education Movement 116, Third Military Police 55
134–5 Regiment 61
Song Qingling 23 Third Office 134
262 Index
Third Plenary Session of the Fifth Wang Qimei 78, 95, 159, 174, 186,
Central Committee 28 188
Third Plenum Wang Ruofei 59, 66
1930 Sixth CCP Central Committee Wang Ruoshi 118
36 Wang Weigang 103
1978 Eleventh CCP Central Wang Xianmei 173–4
Committee 179, 181 Wang Xinbo 78, 159
Third Staff Office 127 Wang Yongbin 44
Thirteenth (CCP) Party Congress Wang Zhen 164
(1987) 184–5 Wayaobao Conference 61
Tiananmen incident (1976) 176 Wayaobao report 47
Tianjin Security Bureau 40 Wei Wenbo 54–5, 181
Trade Union Federation 40 white area (cadres and work) 2,
Twelfth CCP Central Committee 7–11, 14–15, 17–19, 34, 62, 68,
Politburo 179 70–2, 78–9, 83–9, 97, 99, 105,
Twelfth (CCP) Central Committee 136, 146, 155, 172, 174, 181,
Second Plenum (1983) 183 188, 190–5
Fourth Plenum (1985) 184 Gao Gang affair 102–3, 110–11,
Twelfth Party Congress (1982) 182 125–6
‘twenty-eight Bolsheviks’ 36, 40 ‘white skin, red heart’ 11, 82–5
‘white terror’ 4, 187–8
Ulanfu 164 Wu Han 140
Umezu, General 46 Wu Hao Incident 154, 190–1
united front 1–2, 9, 15, 20–2, 24–31, Wu Linquan 159
44, 51, 53, 57, 60–1, 69, 71, Wu Yunpu 88, 159, 186
73–6, 78, 92 Wufan movement 108, 125, 127
United Front Work Department 144,
180 Xi’an Incident 24
United Jinggangshan Regiment Xian Weixun 66
147 Xiang Ying 70
Xiang Zhongfa 33, 37–8, 41
Van Slyke, L. 72 Xiao Hua 103
Xie Fuzhi 147, 178
Wang Caowen 34 Ximenghui (Sacrifice League) 75
Wang Congwu 103, 121–2, 174, 181 ‘Xinjiang renegades’ clique’ 154–5,
Wang De 56, 75, 88, 95, 100, 107, 178
148, 181 Xu Bing 52, 63, 67, 74, 144, 158,
Wang Dongxing 165, 174, 181 172
Wang Guangmei 72, 147, 153, 156, Xu Haidong 73
177–8 Xu Lanzhi 38, 40
Wang Hefeng 44, 74, 77, 92, 95, Xu Zirong 66, 75, 92, 94–5, 100,
100, 179, 181 159, 186–8
Wang Heshou 134, 174, 176, 181
Wang Hongwen 164–5 Yan Wenhai 62
Wang Jiaxiang 36, 88, 164 Yan Xishan 24, 26, 50, 66, 69, 73–7,
Wang Kequan 40 92
Wang Li 140 Yan’an 3, 6–8, 10, 12, 19, 91, 191–2
Wang Ming (Chen Shaoyu) 36–7, Delegate qualifications for CCP
60, 71, 85 Seventh Party Congress 88–90
Index 263
Rectification Campaign 7, 58, Zhang Jingren (aka Zhang Mutao)

85–88 37–8
Rescue Campaign 6, 192 Zhang Kaiyun 36, 40
Yang Hucheng 24, 26–7, 48 Zhang Liangyun 64
Yang Jijing 179 Zhang Manping 78
Yang Shangkun 18, 88, 100, 176–7, Zhang Wentian 17–18, 52–53, 62,
179, 185 68, 70–3, 80, 88, 147, 150–2, 157,
Yang Shiren 55 159, 166–7, 172, 174–5, 177, 195
Yang Xianzhen 2, 15–16, 20–1, 27 Zhang Xi 78, 92, 94–5
1927–36 40–2, 52, 56–60, 65–6 Zhang Xueliang 24, 26–7, 33, 44–5,
1936–49 74, 76–7, 89–91 48, 50, 55, 69–70, 156
1949–66 90–1, 94–8, 116, Northeastern Army 46
118–123, 135–6 Zhang Youqing 56, 75
1966–78 143–4, 146–7, 152, 154, Zhang Zhaofeng 35
159, 166–7 Zhang Zhiyhi 181
1979–96 CDIC and CAC 179–80, Zhang Zuolin 29
182, 184 Zhao Bo 56, 78
Yang Xiufeng 66, 78 Zhao Lin 56, 74, 87, 95, 157, 179,
Yang Yong 164 181–2
Yao Wenyuan 140 Zhao Mingxin 78, 88
Ye Jianying 162, 170–1, 174, 180 Zheng Daiyun 164
Ye Ting 168–9, 172 Zhou Enlai 17, 26–7, 36–7, 44–5, 69,
‘yellow’ unions 30 70–2, 76, 88, 91, 125–6, 131, 133
Yin Jian 21, 40, 41, 44, 56, 59, 63, 1966–76 139–41, 143–52, 155,
92, 172 157, 164–5, 168–9
Wu Hao incident 154, 190–1
Zeng San 100 Zhou Zhongying 39, 44, 54, 66, 74,
Zeng Yanji 26 77, 88, 95, 167, 174, 179, 180–1
Zhang Chunqiao 140, 173 Zhu De 91, 110, 168, 179
Zhang Guotao 32, 39–40, 71–2 Zhu Zemin 49, 75, 78, 92, 144, 174,
Zhang Hanfu 155 179

The Chinese Communist Party During The Cultural Revolution The Case of The Sixty-One Renegades

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The Chinese Communist Party During The Cultural Revolution The Case of The Sixty-One Renegades

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St Antony’s Series

General Editor: Richard Clogg (1999– ), Fellow of St Antony’s College,

Recent titles include:

Customer Services Department, Macmillan Distribution Ltd, Houndmills, Basingstoke,

1. Zhongguo gongchandang–History. I. Title. II. Series.

1 1936: On the Eve of War and Freedom 20

2 Release from the Guomindang Prison, 1936 52

3 Levers of Power: Careers 1949–66 94

4 Prison Again – the CCP Version 138

December 1966 to February 1967 147

5 Rehabilitating the Sixty-One 161

6 A Prejudiced Conclusion 190

Appendix: The Sixty-One 196

Notes and References 197

I would like to express my gratitude to the following foundations and

Israel, and Irene Eber introduced me to Chinese history and culture.

APC Agricultural Producers’ Cooperatives

First, he has a high communist morality . . .

What could be more humiliating for a dedicated Chinese communist

united-front work in its previous incarnation (1923–27) and in urban

former but by respectfully acknowledging and painting in details of the

a signiﬁcant degree of disagreement between central and local leader-

The usual suspects

Betrayal was a huge problem. For whatever reason – fear, disillusion-

Re-education was followed by release usually on condition that the

Red simplicity: white complexity

Certainly, differing socioeconomic backgrounds supplied ample fuel for

as communists, party cadres were to lend their organizational and

thousands of times more difﬁcult than work in a liberated base area,

of principle, there could and should be life-preserving ﬂexibility in

There are always several possible solutions to concrete and practical

of the terms ‘unyielding’ and ‘remained faithful’ indicated the antithe-

A surrender is a surrender, and no surrender is phoney. As far as a

These words encapsulate the uncompromising perspective of the Cul-

The Chinese Communist Party’s ambivalence towards its white area

Central Committee resolution exonerating the sixty-one in 1978.42 Had

Many of the communist cadres who emerged from the Guomindang

I arrived in Tianjin in spring, 1936. The task assigned to me by the

The common enemy

Since Japan’s occupation of Manchuria after the Mukden incident of

negotiate with Japan and avoid confrontation he might beneﬁt

This signiﬁcant readjustment to CCP public policy came in the wake

The CCP in northern China

What remained of our Party organizations in the White areas? Our

Comintern senior partner – were no less responsible. Internecine strife,

working-class backbone to the party’s membership and less reliance on

No less amazing than individual allegiance was the organizational

provincial secretary for Shunzhi.40 (Peng, whose prison experiences in

employed in its Shanghai-based communications network, transferring

self-criticism: ‘I made shameful mistakes . . . I failed to provide positive

An, Yang, Bo and Liu under arrest

order to organize the elimination of Zhang Kaiyun.62 His arrest pre-

Shunzhang may have provided basic information on the CCP’s north-

Beijing under threat80

Chinese police authorities not hostile to Japan were supposed to main-

between their government and that of Chiang Kai-shek. They seized

The party and the students

Vanguard (CNLV) was inaugurated as a legal ‘extension of the Com-

Risk assessment: Song, Liu and the sixty-one

Throughout 1936 Song Zheyuan had staggered precariously along a

Japan grew increasingly belligerent, maintaining its pressure on Song

Based on the party’s immediate and future needs in terms of party

We are grateful for the Government’s leniency in pardoning our