The third most important man in Communist China, who was the Number Two during the war with Japan, is Chou En-lai. His name is pronounced “Joe-n-lie.” Like “Mousy-dung,” the name has given rise to considerable amusement. Chou himself, unlike Mao, never failed to be highly entertained when Ambassador Hurley saluted him with the familiar “Hi, Joe!”
The Party’s most polished envoy, Chou is practically the only one capable of meeting foreign dignitaries with ease. He is wily, clever at negotiation and, like the Property Man of Chinese drama, set the stage for the spectacular performance before a world audience of the talks with General Marshall in 1945. As “Chief Front Man” and one of the directors of foreign propaganda, Chou did such a consummate job that Ambassador J. Leighton Stuart told friends, “He presents his case better than anyone I have ever encountered, clearly, forcefully, urbanely.” Chou was urbane, certainly, for at a large cocktail party he charmed the peace negotiators of all three parties, including Stuart and Marshall. The tired “diplomats” sought respite in small chow and small talk, and for an hour Chou showed himself the polite, intelligent, agreeable mixer that he is. Stuart, a scholar and an intellectual, told me in Nanking: “Whenever I cannot get a point across to Chou, I talk the matter over with some of my students at Yenching University. They discuss it with Chou and a solution is arrived at immediately.”
It is no secret that the young intelligentsia of the Chinese Communist Party were reared and fostered under Stuart’s faithful hand, as President of Yenching University, near Peking. He gave his best and his all to represent the United States, yet he was an old and tired man, and his ideologies and hopes for the Chinese people were wrapped up in a belief that the salvation of their country lay in Socialism. The only group capable of carrying out these ideals was the Chinese Communist Party, which, like its dictator, was ready to prostitute Socialism and replace it with its own brand of dictatorship.
Following the cheerful little get-togethers, the negotiators would return to their arguments, hammer and sickle, and Chou’s charm was abruptly turned off. On one or two occasions, however, this charm caused the Hierarchy embarrassment. For instance, he was recalled to the “Ivory Tower” in Yenan once because Mao felt that he had gone too far in his talks with Marshall; that he had appeared to be making too many concessions, even though he told a comrade he had not the slightest intention of ever living up to any of them. Moreover, he seemed to be getting too friendly with Marshall. Chou spent many unhappy hours in the Chinese Communist dog house in consequence.
After he confessed, with mock solemnity, to the error of his ways and promised “Papa Mao” to be a “good boy,” Chou was sent back to Nanking to continue the negotiations. (Mao had to send him back anyway, because he was the only man in the Chinese Communist Party at the time who could do the job). To prove that he was now “reformed,” Chou let out a series of blasts against the United States Government that were more violent and vitriolic than any that had yet come from Communist Headquarters. Among other things, he accused President Truman of fomenting the civil war and of trying to turn China into an American Colony.
As an individual, Chou En-lai appears to many by far the most personable of all the Chinese Communist leaders. Of medium height, he is well built and well groomed. At press interviews he has a nervous habit of removing and replacing his black-rimmed glasses as he talks. His broad, handsome face is distinguished by thick eyebrows and clear cut features. He speaks English in a well-modulated, yet vibrant and dramatic voice, undoubtedly cultivated while acting in amateur theatricals in college in Tientsin. There he frequently took the feminine lead, because of his facial beauty and willowy figure, and it was there that he first learned to speak English.
I had several conversations with Chou En-lai in Nanking, always speaking through an interpreter. Once, after several hours of laborious questions and answers, I said: “Will you ask the General if he came through Moscow on his return to China from Europe?” At this, Chou threw back his head and laughed heartily. “Heck no,” he said in plain American, “I couldn’t speak any Russian then!” I should have realized that nearly all Chinese pretend they understand no English, hoping they may catch you off guard.
Chou’s grandfather was a high official in the Manchu Dynasty, his father a school teacher, and his mother an unusually well-read woman. Reared as an intellectual, if not moneyed, aristocrat, he early rebelled against the corruption of Chinese politicians. He went to France in 1920, and in Paris two years later founded the Chinese Youth Group, a branch of the Chinese Communist Party. Returning to China, he became a secret organizer of workers in Shanghai and Nanking, successfully engineering two revolts. Because of his ruthlessness he was called “Executioner,” a title that certainly belies his suave appearance.
The Nationalists always considered Chou one of their cleverest foes, and they are said to have offered $80,000 for him once, dead or alive. During the war he never actually soldiered, although he “assumed” the title of “General.” He did help to organize and served for a time with the Chinese Red Army in several minor operations in the capacity of Chief Political Commissar. With a magnificent flair for political education and propaganda, he won his present outstanding position as a member of the Politburo, which rules the Red-blighted areas wherever they may be. He learned much from Michael Borodin, Russian-born Communist, and also from Chiang Kai-shek’s one-time Russian advisor, Gallen, who later, as General Bleucher, commanded the Russian Far Eastern Army.
Chou is not afraid of work. Toiling late at night, he writes articles for the press and prepares lengthy speeches for the radio. He has been able to convert many U. S. State Department officials to the view that in helping Chiang, we were backing the wrong horse and should, instead, have put our money on the Red. From Earl Browder, to whom he wrote in 1937, we learn this: “Comrade, do you still remember the Chinese comrades who worked with you in China ten years ago?”—in 1927!