Trial by Sound-Truck

"I have not been corrupt," insisted one honest Shanghai druggist. "I don't care how long you investigate. You can shoot me if you like, but I am not going to confess." It did him no good. The "masses present," said Shanghai's Communist Liberation Daily, merely became angry; they demanded his arrest anyway. "Thus was one more stubborn tiger sniffed out and exterminated."

Earsplitting Indictment. Tiger, in China's current Communist jargon, means corrupt capitalist. But last week, as Red China's tiger hunt (TIME, March 17) screamed into new heights of shrill persecution, the quarry seemed less like vicious beasts of the jungle than treed and terrified house-cats. Chinese Communism has developed a new weapon to rout out it's bourgeois enemies, a weapon unthought of by less imaginative dictatorships: trial by sound-truck. Like baying hounds at the foot of a tree, Communism's sound-trucks last week planted themselves in the streets outside of tradesmen's shops and called their "crimes" to public attention in ear-splitting indictment. Panicked merchants, businessmen and petty public servants raced from their hiding places by the thousand to seek doubtful sanctuary in public confession or to join the hue and cry, and hunt with the hunters.

One Shanghai shop assistant last week tried for a while to protect his employer. "The boss has been very kind to me," he explained. "When I was not feeling well, he gave me money and told me to go home and take a rest. It would be against my conscience to denounce him." A pack of Communist terriers yelped that such kindness was merely an old capitalistic trick of tempting with favors. "After being thus educated," said Shanghai's People's Daily, "the shop assistant immediately denounced his boss for ten offenses."

Unsurpassed Prosperity. No such education was needed for the seven employees of Chang Kuo-liang, known for years in Shanghai as the Lungyen King. At his Unsurpassed Prosperity Shop at the corner of Canton and Fukien Roads, Chang had long sold the best dragon's-eyes or lungyen nuts (something like lichees) in the city, together with two patent medicines of his own invention: Ginseng Lung-yen Tonic Syrup and another lungyen tonic for menstrual troubles. Through wars, revolutions and even the Japanese occupation, Chang had prospered, planting his profits in Shanghai real estate and running his business on traditionally paternalistic lines. His seven employees had all been with him since their teens, learning the business thoroughly. After proper education at Communist hands, it made them useful informers.

Sound-trucks moved into Canton Road opposite Chang's Prosperity Shop. "Hey you, Dragon's-Eye King," they began blaring. "How about all that money you made from the sweat of your employees? You'd better step up and confess before it's too late!" Frightened Chang hastened to the campaign headquarters and confessed to a few shady deals and some tax evasions. Next day the sound-trucks were back again. "Hey, Lungyen King," they shouted, "your confessions have not been thorough! How about those miserable wages you paid? You'd better admit all or else! . . ." Chang raced to headquarters and confessed some more, but it was still not enough. Next day and the next and the next, the loudspeakers were back to hurl more accusations. Chang confessed and confessed, to no avail. "Lung-yen King Chang," the speakers roared in finality, "we know of more than 80 crimes you have committed. Come and confess them all!"

There Chinese Communist papers left the story of the Lungyen King. In Hong Kong last week, new refugees from behind the Bamboo Curtain told the rest. This is their account:

Huddled helpless in his Unsurpassed Prosperity Shop, the King of Dragon's-Eyes at last reached a decision. All right, he announced, he would make a full, complete, thorough confession, and in honor of the occasion he would stage a great feast. The banquet was spread. To the table Chang brought his wife and five children, all seven of the employees who had been his chief accusers, their wives and their children. It was a solemn occasion, with wine and toasts. But there were no after-dinner speeches. Before the meal was half over, all the banqueters were dead. The Lungyen King had killed them all, and himself as well, with a liberal seasoning of potassium cyanide.

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