First (and Last?) Election

Last week China had two firsts: her people went to the polls in a national election, and her currency dived to a new low --it now took more than $100,000 (Chinese) to equal $1 (U.S.) The two events, one symbolic of hope and the other of despair, were intimately connected in Chinese minds, in world politics and in the U.S. conscience.

Missing Words. The U.S. was involved because, sensibly or not, it had insisted upon Chinese reforms before further aid. U.S. Lieut. General Albert C. Wedemeyer had made that condition painfully clear to all Chinese last summer, though at first most of Nationalist China had read a far different significance into the Wedemeyer visit. They thought it implied, at last, U.S. readiness to help. Their morale soared. Their dollar had steadied at about 45,000 to one U.S.

But by last week, the dramatic Chinese achievement of holding the promised elections in the midst of economic and military crisis had not been matched by any such dramatic action on the U.S. side. Before taking off for the German treaty talks in London, U.S. Secretary of State Marshall had indeed promised certain limited aid--beginning next April. But to the Chinese, the absence of moral support drained much of the political effect from the promise. Every U.S. dollar was cut in value because the grudging tone of U.S. promises encouraged the Reds and discouraged the Nationalists.

Missing Territory. As winter set in, China's northeast (Manchuria) was more than nine-tenths gone already. The columns of Communist General Lin Piao were pulling back a few dozen li after a punishing six-week offensive there. The Communists had not attempted to storm cities like Mukden and Changchun. They had been satisfied with attrition and wreckage. Along 150 miles of Manchuria rail lines they had warped rails to uselessness over bonfires of railroad ties. They had carted away the Manchuria harvest, disrupted coal and electricity supplies. The winter of 1947-48 would be bitter in Mukden and Changchun.

In North China, too, the Communists now held most of the territory, as well as unquestioned military initiative. Last week they were moving on Paoting, 90 miles from Peiping.

The Communists had even cracked south into Central China, after giving the bonfire treatment to long stretches of the vital Lunghai railway. One-eyed Communist General Liu Po-cheng and some 100,000 men were snug in the rugged Tapieh hills, just northeast of Hankow--a constant menace to the Yangtze valley.

Hofei X 1,000. After a trip up the valley last week, TIME Correspondent Frederick Gruin reported:

"The suburbs and walls of Hofei bristle with defense works Chinese style. Mud-brick pillboxes, screened with briars and entwining tree branches, flank the gates at every compass point. Behind the barricades is fear and hate.

"At Liuan there is the memory of one of Liu's raids. In 16 days of occupation the Communists milked the area: 20,000 bags of rice, 6,000 bolts of cloth, 800 drums of kerosene, piles of padded winter garments, all paid for in I.O.U.s marked 'Democratic Hsien Government.' Impressed barrow-men and mule carts lugged the loot into the hills. Wherever young men were found, they were carried off as 'recruits.' "

This, multiplied 1,000 times, was China's lot last week, from which neither military nor economic recovery--much less a stable democracy--was possible without U.S. help.

"Who Shall Speak for Me?" The elections which Nationalist China held, like the Chinese military situation, left much to be desired. All men & women 21 and over, literate or illiterate, were eligible to vote, provided they had never been convicted of treason, political corruption or opium smoking. But since the election was the first of its kind in Chinese history, and since no polls were open in Communist areas, the turnout was rather small. Finally, since more than 95% of the Chinese people can neither read nor write, many a voter had to accept help in marking his ballot from friendly fellows who hung around the polls. It was going to take a week or ten days to tabulate the results.

Shanghai's Shun Pao distributed an unusual circular "To Our Dear Readers." It said: "Since all readers of our newspaper are excellent, refined citizens, we are willing to recommend our leader Mr. Pan Kung-chan. . . . Our slogan is: Every reader of Shun Pao in Shanghai will please vote for the editor of Shun Pao, Mr. Pan Kung-chan."

One Shanghai woman asked her college-educated daughter to explain what elections were all about. She was told: "For instance, the alley is dirty. You elect a man who will speak of it before the National Assembly and have it cleaned up."

"But whom shall I ask to speak for me before the National Assembly?" the woman persisted. Several names were suggested. She shook her head: "Oh, leave it. I'm not going to vote for anybody I don't know." Right away, it appeared, Chinese voters were having the kind of trouble Western voters had known since elections got beyond town-meeting stage.

At some polling places children presented the proxies of their parents, servants those of their masters. Premier Chang Chun himself had to scold the curious who pressed around to watch him write his choice: "This isn't right. We must vote in secret." But, as the Premier added, it was "the first time." Chinese hoped for improvement. Said scholarly, bespectacled Tseng Chi, head of the Chinese Youth Party: "Perhaps six years from now, at the next general election, we'll know more."

The catch was that, if the Communists won the war, there would be no more free elections.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.