Race the Rising Sun: A Chinese University's Exodus during the Second World War

Race the Rising Sun A Chinese University’s Exodus during the Second World War

Chiao-Min Hsieh Jean Kan Hsieh

Hamilton Books A member of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group

Lanham • Boulder • New York • Toronto • Plymouth, UK

Copyright © 2009 by Hamilton Books 4501 Forbes Boulevard Suite 200 Lanham, Maryland 20706 Hamilton Books Acquisitions Department (301) 459-3366 Estover Road Plymouth PL6 7PY United Kingdom All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America British Library Cataloging in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Control Number: 2008931132 ISBN-13: 978-0-7618-4148-7 (paperback : alk. paper) ISBN-10: 0-7618-4148-2 (paperback : alk. paper) eISBN-13: 978-0-7618-4268-2 eISBN-10: 0-7618-4268-3

⬁ ™ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48—1992

Contents

Acknowledgments

v

Introduction

vii

1

Racing Ahead, The Time before the War Changes & Chinese Education My Path to Zhejiang University: Chiao-Min Hsieh’s Story My Path to Zhejiang University: Jean Kan-Hsieh’s Story Zhejiang University On Campus as a Freshman: Chiao-Min’s Story Leaving Zhejiang: Exodus of the Freshmen Class

1 1 2 5 10 15 21

2

The Japanese Invasion The Japanese Storm Cloud and Qiantang Bridge Sentiments toward the Japanese: Chiao-Min’s Story

28 29 31

3

The Desperate Migration of Zhejiang University On to Jiangxi: Chiao-Min’s Story From Jiangxi to Ji’an to Taihe (December 1937–September 1938): Chiao-Min’s Story Escaping from a Brutal Death: Chiao-Min’s Story from Taihe to Yishan In Yishan: Chiao-Min’s Story Bombing of Our Temporary Campus 1939, Student Contribution to the War Effort Encounter with Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek Yishan to Zunyi (December 1939–February 1940): Chiao-Min’s Story

33 33

iii

37 41 46 50 51 53 55

iv

Contents

In Zunyi: Jean’s Story The Boys & The Girls: Chiao-Min’s Story The Boys & The Girls: Jean’s Story Surviving: Chiao-Min’s Story Demonstrating Our Manners: Jean’s Story Sticking to Studying & Its Incentives: Chiao-Min’s Story Bandits at the River Political Life & Consequences on Campus The Japanese Threat at Zunyi Exams: Chiao-Min’s Story

57 60 60 63 64 66 69 70 74 74

4

After the War Jean & Chiao-Min: Chiao-Min’s Story Jean’s Interpretation of the April Fools Joke Chiao-Min’s Reaction to the April 1st Joke Zhejiang University

81 81 84 86 90

5

Conclusion Effect on the Inland Communities Significance of Zhejiang University Today

95 97 100

6

A Sample of Outstanding Faculty Members during the War of Resistance Chancellor Zhu Humanities Faculty Science Faculty Education Faculty Engineering Faculty Agriculture Faculty

103 103 106 119 134 135 140

Epilogue

143

Appendix A: Organization of Zhejiang University

147

Appendix B: The Lectures of Zhu Kezhen

149

Appendix C: Two Stone Tablets Erected as the University Departed

159

Appendix D: Exemplary Alumni: The Reason the Whole Effort Was Justified

163

Index

183

About the Authors

193

Acknowledgments

We both feel very honored and fortunate to have been accepted by one of the most prestigious universities in China, Zhejiang University. We enjoyed the university environment and being located in the beautiful city of Hangzhou, and felt proud of the new university leadership of Harvard-educated scholar Dr. Zhu, together with a group of leading scholars as professors. Then in the fall of 1937, when Chiao-min was a freshman, the Japanese armies invaded China and approached the city of Hangzhou, forcing the University to move to the interior. Three years later, Jean, then a freshman, joined the University’s westward journey, which lasted eight years and spanned one thousand miles. We both became refugee students, facing constant fears of air raids and suffering from malnutrition, rampant disease, and abject poverty. Despite the difficulties of our student life during this war, our spirit to resist the Japanese invasion and our ambition to be useful citizens sustained us. We saw it as our responsibility to be honest and diligent in our studies. We hope that our story of Zhejiang University will be recognized on a wider scale and be appreciated by all as important in the preservation of Chinese culture. It is not easy to write a book as complex as this one, and so we would like to acknowledge the people who helped us along the way. Our sincere thanks go to the authorities of Zhejiang University who supported this project by supplying information and encouragement. Special thanks go to Chairman Zhang Junsheng, Committee of the Development of the University, General Secretary Zhang Xi, Chancellor Yang Wei, Executive Vice Chancellor Yi Mingjiang, Ms. Zhang Meifeng, Director of the Alumni Office, Mr. Li Jun, Director of Public Information, and Wu Yong Zhi, the Curator of the University. We also thank Professor Wang Jianzhong who translated the two tablets at Yishan and Zunyi, and the six lectures of Chancellor Zhu’s speeches during the war. v

vi

Acknowledgments

We also would like to thank Professors Richard Seckinger and Laurence A. Glasco of the University of Pittsburgh who read the manuscript and Dr. Xinmin Liu who provided valuable suggestions. Special thanks go to Dr. David A. Whaley of West Virginia University who provided very valuable editorial assistance. My son An-ping Hsieh and daughter Eileen Hsieh both Yale graduates and attorneys, expended great effort in assisting with revisions. The most valuable assistance was from Dr. Jane Pizzolato of the University of Pittsburgh who helped to turn the book into a memoir-style account and to complete a polished, publishable manuscript. We owe her a great debt of gratitude.

Introduction

Founded in 1897, Zhejiang University is one of the oldest universities in China. Today, it is the largest and one of the most prestigious universities in the country. The University is located on the outskirts of the city of Hangzhou, the capital of Zhejiang province, but during the Song Dynasty 800 years ago, Hangzhou was the capital of all of China. The city has great natural beauty including hills, lakes, rivers and seacoast. Ancient temples, pagodas and beautiful gardens combined with modern resorts dot the landscape and attract tourists from around the world. Before the war with Japan, Hangzhou and the University were calm. Then, in the winter of 1937, the armies of Japan conquered Nanjing, China’s capital, and marched southeast, torturing civilians, raping women, bombing towns, burning farms, and destroying factories, homes, schools and libraries. After intense fighting, the invading force turned toward Hangzhou, so the University moved inland to safety. In desperate haste, many universities evacuated the students, faculty, staff and their families to the remote interior for their safety. These people became refugees. They also carried with them laboratory equipment and the contents of the libraries, including priceless cultural treasures, packed in crates, boxes, sacks or whatever they had, as they moved inland over a long distance across the heart of China. We were students at Zhejiang University at this time, and so this book recounts our story of trekking across China, facing constant fear due to malnutrition, rampant disease, abject poverty, the death of loved ones, and enemy air strikes. Together with our University, we carried with us the resources and materials of Zhejiang University, as well as one of China’s great library treasures Wenlan Ge. This work consists of over 70,000 volumes, comprising the vii

viii

Introduction

fine works of culture in Chinese history since before the time of Christ. Compiled during the Qing Dynasty by a few hundred scholars, this great encyclopedia included the subjects of philosophy, history, literature, astrology, and technology. The encyclopedia became one of the great achievements of the Qing Dynasty. At first, the encyclopedia was maintained and stored in the capital of Beijing. For safety purposes, however, the government made seven copies of this treasure, and housed each copy in one of seven different cities. One copy of the Wenlan Ge was kept in Hangzhou where it remained safe, despite multiple challenges. For example, in 1861 when the Taiping Rebellion led to the occupation of Hangzhou, Wenlan Ge books were scattered all over the city and taken by the inhabitants after the building housing the volumes was destroyed. The entire copy of Wenlan Ge was restored after twenty years only through the efforts of the Ding brothers who collected the scattered copies of the encyclopedia either by purchasing or by re-copying them. This Wenlan Ge collection was assigned to the provincial library of Zhejiang province to maintain and manage these valuable assets.

The building Wenlan Ge at Hangzhou before the war

Introduction

ix

Wenlan Ge stored in a cave in Guizhou province

When the war with the Japanese approached Hangzhou, the books, with the help of Zhejiang University—especially the director of the library, Chen Xunci1—were packed in crates, boxes, burlap sacks, anything we had, and carried inland by car, boat, train or by the refugees themselves. Thus began the critical move across the heart of China that could be likened to Mao’s “Long March,” except that instead of a northern march for political survival, this was a western flight with tools of renewal and hope. The journey lasted eight years and spanned over 1000 miles.2 Although we faced many struggles, by becoming the stewards of books, we became caretakers of China’s culture and history. And in the end, we would survive to help revitalize a devastated nation. Perhaps one of the greatest undertakings of cultural preservation and advancement in recent history, this event remains virtually unknown to the Western world. With the proposed history by Zhejiang students who lived through the journey, the story of the War of Resistance, and the Chinese commitment to education during a time of war, will hopefully be recognized on a wider scale, and be appreciated by all who see the point in risking everything to preserve the intangible property of knowledge.

x

Introduction

NOTE 1. Chen was born in 1901 in Zhejiang Province; his older brother, Chen Pu-Lei served as the general secretary of Chiang Kai-Shek. Chen graduated from Southeastern Normal University (now Nanjing University), majoring in history. After graduation he served as a compiler at the commercial press. Later he was on the faculty of Zhejiang University, where he was a classmate of Chang Chi-yun, the Chairman of the Department of History & Geography. Both were former students of Chancellor Zhu when he was at Southeastern Normal University. In 1932, Chen was appointed as the Chief Librarian of Zhejiang Provincial Library. During his tenure, he did a great job publishing Library Journal and having a library exhibition in 1936, which attracted over 80,000 visitors. In 1937, when the Japanese occupied Manchuria, it was reported that they moved the encyclopedia from Shenyang to Tokyo. Later, when the Japanese occupied Beijing they also were interested in taking the encyclopedia to Japan. When Shanghai fell to the Japanese in 1937, Chen was very worried about the safety of Wenlan Ge. When the Japanese approached Hangzhou, he tried to move it out of there before the Japanese were able to get it. Owing to Chen’s vigilance, when the Japanese purportedly sent nine agents to Hangzhou to look for Wenlan Ge, it already had been moved out of the city and to China’s interior. It is important to note, however, that Chen’s efforts were not easy. The Commissioner of Education in Zhejiang Province was not supportive, which forced Chen first to pay moving costs out of his own pocket, and then to collect funds from his friends. When he asked Chancellor Zhu to support his effort, he received the Chancellor’s warm support. Though the books suffered some water damage, they were restored through some time drying in the sunshine. 2. The Wenlan Ge took a different route from the movement of Zhejiang University, for it was moved not only along the railroad, but also by major waterways by boat. After five months of moving over 1000 miles, the books at last joined together with Zhejiang University. These books were then stored in the suburbs of Guiyang city. There they were hidden away in an underground cave. On June 23, 1939, Chancellor Zhu, together with some education officers of the Guizhou provincial government, came to investigate the state of the Wenlan Ge. They discovered that even though there were only two servants as bookkeepers, the books remained in good condition, despite all their travel. During this visit, the visitors decided that the books should be put out in the sunshine twice a year and they also added some security to the cave. Because of these efforts, all the books remained in good condition.

Chapter One

Racing Ahead, The Time before the War

CHANGES & CHINESE EDUCATION Toward the end of the Qing Dynasty, the aim and purpose of education was gradually shifted from emphasis on the classics and the national heritage to the promotion of the modernization of China. At first, the new school system was directly borrowed from Japan and indirectly inspired by French and German models. Later, the American model prevailed. Emphasis was also shifted from the education of the elite to mass education. After the establishment of the Nationalist government in 1927, the Ministry of Education was founded. This Ministry managed the national universities, colleges, and technical colleges. The number of institutions of higher learning increased from 74 in 1928 to 108 in 1937; the number of students grew from 25,198 in 1928 to 41,922 in 1937. The Japanese invasion in 1937 put a stop to China’s efforts and plunged Chinese education into a grave crisis. As war extended to southern China, many universities were devastated by the Japanese bombing. During this precarious time, some suggested that higher education should be suspended so that the students and teachers could enlist in the armed forces, while others took the long term view that education should not be interrupted. The reasons for the latter group’s beliefs were based on the fact that higher education had never been much developed in China. For every ten thousand citizens, there was only one college student, a figure much below that for advanced European and American countries. To build self-reliance, to keep up the war effort, and to prepare for national reconstruction, China had to maintain the current level of higher education. It followed then that the college students were exempt from the draft. 1

2

Chapter One

Within several months after the outbreak of war, northern China, the coastal cities, and the lower Yangtze valley were lost to the enemy. All these areas had harbored many centers of higher education and, in the face of war, these schools evacuated to safer areas across China. No school endured a harder move then Zhejiang University, which moved from Hangzhou in Zhejiang, to Jiande and Taihe in Jiangxi, then to Yishan in Guangxi and finally to Zunyi in Guizhou, with a branch in Meitan. These moves may not have covered the longest distances, but Zhejiang University students and faculty, unlike those at other universities, moved on foot. On this journey, we suffered much. When speaking of this time in history, Chinese people usually say that the living conditions of the universities either were paradise, human or hell. The universities like Zhejiang University are said to have been in hell during the war. But before we could even begin this harrowing journey, we had to endure the hardship of getting into the University. At the time when we were preparing for college, neither of us had any idea what experiences we would have in college, and neither of us could have predicted just what we were about to experience as we trekked across China.

MY PATH TO ZHEJIANG UNIVERSITY: CHIAO-MIN HSIEH’S STORY My time as a high school student started off badly. The youngest of four children, I spent the first twelve years of my life being coddled by a loving and over-protective mother. I was the baby of a family with three much older siblings and several siblings who had not survived childhood. When I left home for the famous boarding school, Chenghui High School, about ten miles south of my hometown of Shangyu, I was not prepared for the transition into this six-year school that was to prepare me for possible admission to a university. Because I’d been babied at home, I began the 1931 school year expecting special treatment that I did not receive. Life at Chenghui was intense, structured, and exhausting. Every morning at 5:00 A.M. we students were expected to rise and perform a rigorous set of exercises meant to energize us for the coming day. We then attended four hours of classes until noon, enjoyed a lunch break of two hours, and then went back to class for two more hours, until 4:00pm, when we were expected to participate in additional strenuous outdoor exercises. After one semester, it became obvious that my difficulties acclimating to the intensity of Chenghui had the potential to ruin my chances for a successful future, or at least others recognized this unfortunate possibility. I’d

Racing Ahead, The Time before the War

3

failed my first set of classes, and my behavior—talking out of turn, interrupting, and not paying attention—was considered a major hurdle that had to be overcome, and overcome quickly. In the Chinese educational paradigm, behavior was just as important as academic scores. Of the three heavily emphasized areas—academics, behavior, and athletics—I excelled only at athletics, but athletics was not emphasized heavily enough to carry me on to success when I was so badly lacking in the other two. By lucky coincidence, Wang Shuzhi, the principal of Chenghui High School had been a classmate of my eldest brother Shi-yen, when they both attended Tokyo Normal University in Japan. Wang alerted Shi-yen, who became very concerned about my problems at school. You see, all my other siblings had gone on to achieve respectable careers. Shi-yen Hsieh was now a professor at Beijing National University—China’s equivalent of Columbia University. Pao-chin Hsieh, my second-oldest brother, had become a businessman in the rice trade like our father. He was not rich by any means, but he was doing well enough. Jing-he, my sister, had recently graduated from a teacher’s college and married a professor at the College of Social Sciences at Wuxi. Consequently, I had a great deal to live up to, and my brother Shi-yen wanted to make sure I did—for the family’s sake and also for my own sake. High marks from a high school as well-respected as Chenghui could contribute to acceptance into one of China’s top five universities. An education from one of these universities could lead to a career as a leader—in business, education, or politics. To stumble, even at such an early age, would have a negative snowball effect on my future. Failing in high school would likely lead to a menial job that paid little and offered no chance of advancement. I would be forced to work that menial job for the rest of my life. Because I was clearly not making the transition to high school well, and because the stakes were so high, my eldest brother resolved to visit me in person, sit me down, and have a serious talk. Shi-yen knew he had to figure out a way to get through to me so I would understand the gravity of the situation. Something had to snap me out of my spoiled childishness. Something did, but not the way Shi-yen had hoped. As he was preparing to depart for Chenghui, an urgent telegram reached him. Our mother had died. The death of our mother, Hsieh Cheng, stunned the family, but perhaps none were as affected as I was. Suddenly the cold workings of the world became all too real. Childhood was over. When Shi-yen did come to speak with me about my problems at school, I listened. Six years later, in 1937, at the age of 19, I graduated at the top of my class. Graduating at the top of a prestigious high school was considered a worthy achievement, but it did not guarantee admission into one of the country’s top five universities. Acceptance into one of these universities depended largely

4

Chapter One

upon a series of entrance exams. These exams, sponsored by the country’s top five universities—those I wished to take—were far more difficult than the exams I’d encountered in high school. The top five universities in China were all located along the eastern seaboard of the country—even today, none of their central branches are located any farther than 100 miles west of the China Sea. Qinghua and Peking are the established “high end” universities to the north, and centrally located Wuhan, Nanjing, and Zhejiang Universities remain the major universities along the eastern coast. They were, and still are, China’s equivalent of Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Brown, and MIT. Every high school graduate dreamed of acceptance into one of these schools, but only a miniscule fraction—less than one quarter of one percent—would score high enough on the entrance exams to achieve that dream. The entrance exams for the top five universities were given in August each year. Once the weeklong examination period ended and the scores were posted, students who didn’t make the cut then applied to any number of other standard universities, police schools, or military schools. As I traveled about 180 miles by train from my hometown of Shangyu in Zhejiang province, to the capital city of Nanjing, I hoped against hope that I wouldn’t have to worry about choosing another school after this testing period ended. After arriving in Nanjing, I dropped off my few belongings in the dormitory where I would be spending the next week’s worth of evenings, and spent a turbulent night trying hard to relax, without success. Every aspect of my future was at stake. After drifting off into restless slumber, I woke early the next morning before dawn. An hour later, I walked across the street and entered the massive hall where the examinations were held for several thousand students. At several other cities across the nation, other locations were administering the same examinations at the same time to many thousands of other students. The stakes were high. The tension among the several thousand students (80% male) seated at the low wooden tables, was heavy, reflecting an imposing silence. Some wept quietly, tears streaming down their faces as they waited for the first test to begin. As the exam papers were placed in front of me, I took the top one in my hand and stared at it for a long moment. Before the examination, we were to rank the five listed universities in order of preference, and state the department (field) in which we wished to enroll. When I could bring my hand to move, I picked up a pen and wrote, without hesitation, “First choice” next to Zhejiang University, and then I added “Geography.” The next week was one of constant inner turmoil, stress, fatigue, and nervous energy. Many of the test takers became physically ill under the strain. The subjects of the tests ran the gamut—Chinese Classics, English Literature,

Racing Ahead, The Time before the War

5

Mathematics, Sciences, Chinese Geography, Chinese History—one after another for eight hours a day. The tests pushed each student, no matter how good, to the limit. Although the entrance exams mattered much more than high school class ranking when it came to acceptance into a major university, the skills necessary to achieve that high class ranking helped me a great deal during the testing process. Even so, after the final day of testing I still had no idea whether those skills had been enough. About a month after the testing week, every newspaper in the country published a list of the students who had passed the entrance exams of the five major universities. Education was valued highly across the nation, and each year’s admitted students were celebrated as leaders of the future. The list was talked about far and wide in every province. The issues of the newspapers for that day quickly sold out. It was by purchasing one of these papers early in the morning that I learned that I was one of only two students from Chenghui High School to pass the tests. Zhejiang had accepted me into its History and Geography Department. I would have time to return home for a few days. Then I would leave for Hangzhou, about 100 miles from my native city, and take up residence at Zhejiang University. I was not entirely prepared for the freedom and teaching I would experience at Zhejiang, but then, what entering freshman can be prepared for an entirely new experience. What I did know as I left for Hangzhou was that I was quite proud to be on my way to the University. Merely being accepted to a prestigious university set me apart from the vast majority of my high school classmates—despite the fact that I attended a well-respected high school. Once I arrived at the University, I would be given a badge that would make me visibly stand out and pronounce me a Zhejiang University student. The honor was nearly unimaginable.

MY PATH TO ZHEJIANG UNIVERSITY: JEAN-KAN HSIEH’S STORY My maiden name was Kan Chia-ming, but I’ve chosen to be called Jean Kan Hsieh. My story of arriving at Zhejiang University is different from Chiaomin’s, in part because I was a girl, and in part because my family life was more complicated than that of a privileged male child. I came from a gentry family in Hefei in Anhui province. My great-grandfather was an official in the government of the late Qing dynasty; he served as the mayor of the city of Jinan, the capital of Shandong province. He earned this position at the age of 40 after he passed the Imperial Examination in Beijing. When he retired from

6

Chapter One

this position, my great-grandfather chose to retire in the town of Zhegao, a town that was about 80 miles from his native city of Hefei. In Zhegao he bought quite a lot of property—both land and houses. The houses owned by my great grandfather were so numerous on one street that the townspeople called the street “half-Kan street,” for my great-grandfather. It was in one of these great mansions that I lived with many other people, including my uncle, aunt, cousins, and many servants. Adding to the grandeur of the home, flags flew in front of the home to signify the Kan family. When my great-grandfather died, my grandfather became something akin to a gentleman or heir in modern Western society. He enjoyed the riches and fame associated with the family name. Although he was a learned man and enjoyed books and paintings, he never worked as an official. Instead he spent most of his time engaging in bad habits—particularly smoking opium and enjoying his five concubines. Despite these bad habits, my grandfather did have a good side. He loved children, and I became the favored one. When I was young, he held me in his arms as much as possible, and always wanted to comfort me when I would cry. I’m sure that being the oldest of his grandchildren helped make me special to my grandfather. But I believe that my personality also had something to do with my favored spot in my grandfather’s eyes. When I was young, I showed my intellectual talent by naming all the relatives easily and, with the number of uncles, aunts, grandmothers, and cousins around, this was quite a feat for a toddler. I also knew all the sounds that animals made, and would happily mimic these sounds for anyone who asked. Because of this, the adults all liked to have fun with me by getting me to talk. I was certainly a well-loved child. I always had new clothes, many candies, and lots of affection from family members and servants. This happy period in my childhood, however, was not long-lived. My own father died at the age of 26, when I was only five years old, leaving behind my mother, my younger brother, and myself. Before my father’s death, he had graduated from Peking University and held a position as a junior professor at the local science and technical college. His own educational experience spurred on his strong belief in the importance of education. Unsurprisingly, he strongly advocated for education, and hoped not only for my brother to achieve academically, but also that I would become an educated young woman. His belief in the importance of educating his children regardless of their sex led him to include a provision in his will that I should receive a modern education. Although my father thought he was protecting my right to an education, my opportunity to become educated looked bleak once he died. My grandfather was extremely conservative and strongly opposed the idea that girls should be educated, especially when his money was involved. Fortunately for me, my mother was insistent, and continued to advocate for my

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education, insisting that my father’s will be carried out. Time and time again, however, she was rejected as my grandfather and other family members refused to entertain her requests. In the face of such opposition, my mother felt it necessary to resort to an extreme act to prevail. One night, at a banquet at a Kan family gathering, she cut off a section of her left forefinger with a cleaver to demonstrate her loyalty to me and her determination. This earned the respect of her husband’s relatives, and she was awarded a part of the family property, enabling me and my brother to go to school, and later to higher education. Although my mother appeared strong when she stood up for me and my right to be educated, per my father’s wishes, my father’s death took a great toll on my mother. She was only a young woman when my father died, and to be left alone with his family made her feel extremely isolated. Shortly after my father died, my mother’s isolation and helplessness were on display when she tried to commit suicide by jumping into the river. Fortunately, she was rescued by relatives. After her attempted suicide, my mother was alive, but she required much consolation and time to figure out how and why she should continue to live. Through her reflections she came to believe that she needed to continue on for my brother and me; she committed to raising us well and making sure that we were well-educated just as my father had wanted. It was this commitment that motivated my mother to stand up to my grandfather for my education. After confronting my grandfather, my mother was allowed to send me to school, and she received part of our family’s property. We moved out from the big family home then, and into a small house. Although our home was smaller than the one of my early childhood, and there were significantly fewer people in it, we had a loving home. And even if our home had been larger, I’m not sure I would have spent much time in most of the rooms; my brother and I spent each evening around the table working on our school assignments. My mother usually hovered over us, sewing clothing, and just getting great joy out of watching us study and grow. We knew she had staked much on our education, lived for us, and hoped against hope that we would be exceptional scholars. My mother was always supportive and encouraging of our academic pursuits, and clearly enjoyed watching us study. That said, her life was hard and she was not always happy. I have a clear memory of once getting up in the middle of the night and finding my mother downstairs. She had scattered coins all over the floor and was wandering around picking them up. I was so surprised by this that I just stood still and watched. As soon as she saw me, my mother rushed over, and hugged me close to her and cried. At my young age I wasn’t quite sure what this meant, but looking back on it, I can see that my mother was lonely and depressed, and trying to pass time, even if it meant

8

Chapter One

creating chores for herself. Still, my mother was a determined woman. She managed everything in our small family. She cooked, washed, shopped, but she did decide she needed to hire someone to help out with the land taxes and business. In the conservative Chinese society we were living in, widows were always watched and criticized, and so my mother thought it wise to be careful. Throughout the time after my mother stood up to my grandfather, I attended Hefei Girls’ School. I performed well there. I was diligent and received better grades than my younger brother, and so my mother was especially proud of me. After graduating from Hefei Girls’ School, I then went on to senior high school. But the high school was dissolved during my first year there, due to the Japanese invasion. I was 16 years old when the school closed, and so I returned home. The Japanese were approaching fast, and there were rumors of horrible fates we would face if we stayed. There were Japanese airplanes overhead, and we were all extremely scared and uncertain. After the New Year festival of 1938, we received a letter from one of our uncles who invited us to his home, about 100 miles away from Hefei. On the road there were cars, horses, donkeys, and people. The roads were jammed with people trying to flee the approaching Japanese despite the fact that we were out in the cold and were all on our way to places that were remote and more wild than what we were used to. The difficulty of the journey is just beyond description. Fortunately, however, we arrived at my uncle’s house, where we packed ourselves in along with our cousins and other relatives who were trying to find a safe haven. It was cramped at my uncle’s house, and there was a cloud of tension over the home because we had no news of what had become of our own homes. Needless to say, we warmly greeted any good news that came along. The good news that was most exciting to me was the news that arrived about school. The Anhui provincial government decided to set up a temporary high school, and to recruit the refugee students from Hefei. Even more exciting was the fact that with this news came word that one of my uncles was appointed the head teacher. Good news, however, rarely came without some bad news too, and this time the bad news was that if my brother and I were to recommence our studies at this new school then we would need to travel to the school, leaving my mother and relatives behind. After three days of walking in the early spring weather, my brother and I reached the town of Liupo Zhuang—a tea-market town. Inhabited by 100 families, the sudden gathering of about 400 students made for a tight squeeze in the town. We students occupied all the Buddhist temples and ancestral halls, and any other empty space we could find. We were young, full of energy, and enjoyed being back to our studies, despite the living conditions. I

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must admit that, although we were living in cramped quarters, the town itself was quite magnificent. There was a river that flowed through the town, and in some places the river whirled into rapids, or dropped over waterfalls. When we weren’t studying, we enjoyed going outside and exploring all the beautiful sites of the town. It was on a beautiful summer morning that our peace was interrupted. We were in class when we suddenly heard an airplane flying overhead. We never would have believed that the Japanese would bomb this tiny little town until we heard the staccato of guns and the sound of a bomb detonating. We automatically rushed under our desks. After a while, the noise disappeared and we waited as the silence spread. Carefully, we came out from under the desks, and checked in with each other. Fortunately there were no casualties among the students, but such luck did not apply to the local citizens. A number of the townspeople had died in the bombing. In a daze from the suddenness and scariness of the event, no one seemed to know quite what to do with themselves. Later that same afternoon, we heard another airplane approaching. This time, however, the noise was louder than what we’d imagined. When we looked up we could see a good dozen of Japanese airplanes approaching the town. I ran frantically to a house so that I could get out of the street. Once inside, I slid under a bed, and was surprised to find that I wasn’t the only person under that bed. My aunt and two other classmates were there too. I held onto my aunt as tightly as possible and quietly whispered to her that I was afraid. My aunt’s hands were trembling, but she tried to reassure me with her voice, telling me not to be afraid. After everything had become quiet again we all came out to the streets again, trying to find out who was hurt, who had perished, and where everyone was. In this chaotic and emotional scene, I learned that three of my classmates had died, as well as the mother of my friend Yao. Again, it was the townspeople, however, who paid the greater price. There were dead bodies strewn about in the street, all innocent local citizens. After the bombing, we all discussed what the school should do. Knowing that the Japanese were trying to obliterate Chinese culture, and that they consequently saw schools as a threat, we knew that we were at least a part of the reason why this small tea-market town had been targeted. Because of this we decided that we could no longer stay in this town, and needed to move to the interior of Hunan province. The move to the interior was the right and necessary thing for the school to do, but each family who had come to the town so their children could go to school needed to think about the move themselves. Our family held a family meeting chaired by my uncles. At this meeting they made the decision that the older generation and the women would all return to the family’s homes in Hefei, and that the younger men and women would join the high school on

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their journey to the interior of China, so that the children could continue their studies. On the day of our departure we had a family feast with roast chicken, but no one was very hungry. Everyone was thinking about the ensuing separation and the journeys we would all take—in opposite directions. After dinner all of us about to move to the interior lined up to kiss the rest of our relatives goodbye. My younger brother and I had to say goodbye to our beloved mother. We all cried as we hugged, and unlike other times we’d embraced, this one was tighter and more extended. We didn’t know when we’d see each other again. Our separation proved to be for eight years, but at the time we did not know when the time for a reunion would come. After we said our goodbyes, we started our long journey into the interior. At the beginning we were excited by the landscapes, but after climbing mountain after mountain, we become significantly less interested in the scenery, and were mostly consumed with being tired. Along with us for this trip was my friend, Yao, who had lost her mother in the first bombing. With her were her two younger brothers. The oldest of these two was in middle school and traveled reasonably well, but the younger brother was only seven, and he was not prepared for such a long, difficult journey. Throughout the walk, he would tug on her arm and say to her, “Sister, I really cannot walk anymore.” Or “Sister, I want my mother!” Yao was only 17 at the time, and was still mourning the loss of her mother as well, and so she struggled to continue to encourage her younger brother to continue, as she fought back her own tears when he brought up their mother. I wanted to help her, but I did not know how. No one did. We all walked along with tears in our eyes as we listened to Yao and thought about our own families. Over the next two years, I followed relatives and teachers fleeing from one place to another, and completed my high school diploma under these stressful and uncertain conditions. All in all, we’d traveled more than 300 days before we’d even set up National Number Eight High School, the school from which I graduated. In 1940, I passed the entrance examinations to Zhejiang University, and was admitted to the Department of History and Geography, where I chose to specialize in geography.

ZHEJIANG UNIVERSITY As we prepared to make our way to Zhejiang University, the University itself was preparing for many changes itself. In 1937, the year of Chiao-min’s graduation from high school, Zhejiang University permanently appointed as Chancellor Zhu Kezhen [Chu Kochen, also known as Coching Chu], a dis-

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tinguished Harvard-trained meteorologist and professor at Nanjing University, and the Director of Meteorology at Academia Sinica. This was one of many changes Zhejiang University had undergone since it was established in 1897 as Qiushi Academy.1 Zhu’s appointment as Chancellor came on the heels of strife between the students and the previous university administration. The students were demonstrating against their then chancellor, Guo Renyuan. At the time, there was immense concern about the imminent threat of a Japanese invasion. Guo Renyuan was an American-trained psychologist who believed that all attitudes and behaviors were learned and, stemming from this conviction, any man could train to be a strong man, even a soldier. Guo Renyuan then decided to do his part and turned the University into a military academy of sorts, taking for himself the role of dictator general. The students were mostly upper

The founder of Qiushi Academy, Lin Chi

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class, intellectual young men who were unaccustomed to a rigorous military life, and they were quite angry at being forced to lead one. The campus was in chaos. Students refused to go to class. Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek was concerned, for the University was located in his home province. On January 21, 1936, Chiang Kai-shek flew in himself to make an appraisal of the situation. He lectured the students, but they remained opposed to Guo’s leadership. In fact, during Chiang’s lecture a student stood up and said, “The President, Guo Renyuan, is a dictator, he does not have the students’ interests at heart, and he has pulled non-distinguished cronies into the faculty to the point where good faculty have chosen to resign.” (This student, my classmate Sze Ping, following the 1949 Communist revolution, became the top man of Eastern China Normal University in Shanghai.) Chiang Kaishek realized that the only solution was to replace Guo, but who would be the new chancellor? During that time, scholars in China carried a great deal of weight, especially those who had been educated abroad. A friend of Zhu’s, Weng Wenhao, had graduated in Belgium with an advanced degree in geology and became a cabinet minister in Chiang Kai-shek’s government. Weng suggested to Chen Pulei, Chiang Kai-shek’s General Secretary, that Zhu replace Guo Renyuan as Chancellor. The President’s Secretary approved, partly because his younger brother, Chen Xunci, a history professor, was also Zhu Kezhen’s former student and had attested to Zhu’s character and brilliance as a professor. Chiang Kai-shek interviewed Zhu Kezhen in Nanjing. Zhu made a good impression and Chiang offered him the job. At first, however, Zhu was not willing to accept the position because he was more interested in meteorology. He discussed this with Cai Yuanpei, the President of Academia Sinica, the leading research institute in China. Cai suggested to Zhu that he give the position a half-year trial. Zhu had a great deal happening at his current post, but his wife and students all encouraged him to take the position. Zhu decided to accept on the following three conditions:

Chancellor Zhu Kezhen

1. He must have specific and reliable financial support.

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2. He must have authority to appoint professors and staff without regard to politics. 3. He would accept the position temporarily, for one year. On April 21, 1936, Zhu came to the provincial capital of Hangzhou to assume his position at the University, bringing with him two former students, one as his secretary, and the other as the manager of general (financial and business) affairs. On his first day at the University, he had a reception for all the professors and staff, carried out a general inspection of the campus, and held a meeting to address the students. There were about 600–700 students, with only one classroom in good shape, and a few acceptable buildings in the Agricultural Department. Most of the old houses and buildings used by the University, including the physics laboratory and university library, were in very poor condition. Zhu began dynamically outlining his ideas in an hour-long lecture about his plans for the future of the University. The lecture had three points. The first main point hinged on the question: What is the goal of the University? He urged students and staff to understand their own national history and cultural background, and at the same time, encouraged them to learn from the West in order to adjust to the modern world.

The College of Humanities and Sciences at Hangzhou before the war

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He gave as models two great scholars from Zhejiang province, Wang Lizhou and Zhu Shenshui. About three hundred years ago, the Ming dynasty was terribly corrupt, and the Mongols threatened the country. Under this corruption and political chaos, Wang and Zhu worked diligently through lecturing and otherwise educating people to maintain a patriotic spirit for their country. In other words, their lectures, research and publications influenced not only their region, but the whole country, and not only for their time, but for years afterward. Zhu Kezhen wanted the students at Zhejiang University to preserve the national culture while adjusting to the modern world. He would go on to train not only engineers and agriculture specialists (the technical experts), but also leaders dedicated to maintaining the national spirit. The second main point involved the University programs, the foundation of which was good professors. From there, he wanted to build a good library, and to accept intelligent, qualified students, especially students who were not financially privileged, and he would provide scholarships for them. In his major house cleaning that followed, Zhu retained several of the professors who had been on the faculty when he arrived, and who were already leaders in their fields. He also brought in his classmate, Hu Gongfu, a Harvard graduate, and Zhu’s former students from the universities where he had taught. He brought in skilled teachers from Christian universities as well. This was unusual, as in the Chinese peoples’ minds at the time Christianity was associated with Western oppression. Yet Zhu had an open mind, and as long as the person was a qualified professor, he did not care about their religious affiliations, where they were from, or where they were educated. He believed that a university was not made successful mainly by its students or resources, but by its faculty. With a strong faculty, good students and resources would follow. The third main point was that Zhu wanted to change the students’ attitudes and behavior patterns. He wanted to teach them how to think and make their own judgments. His standard for character was sincerity, and a willingness to serve society, not just the pursuit of material gain. Zhu hoped to build a kind atmosphere, a free, democratic society within the University. If that training was successful, the students could then go out into society after university, and be beacons for creating a free, democratic society in all of China. At the end of his first year as Chancellor, the post was offered to him for an indefinite period. He accepted and systematically continued to implement his vision for the University. Over the next few years under Zhu’s administration, Zhejiang University’s three colleges grew into sixteen, and sixteen departments grew to twenty-five.2 Five research institutes were created, and a branch university was founded in Longquan. In 1937, there were only 633 students, 460 of whom moved inland during the war. By 1946, just after the

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war, the number of students had swelled to 2,243. For the first time, in 1946, foreign students from India came to study mathematics and zoology. The faculty grew from 70 professors in 1937 to 309 in 1946. Zhu not only recruited the best professors, but also paid attention to the university library.3 He believed the saying, “A good library means a good university.” He realized that, in comparison to the millions of books at Harvard, Oxford, and Berlin, the biggest library in China, at Qinghua University, had only 280,000 volumes, while the National Peking University in Beijing had only 230,000. When Zhu arrived, the Zhejiang University Library contained only about 65,000 books. By 1946, in spite of the remote location of the University during its flight inland, that number had grown to 100,000 volumes. He accepted and systematically continued to implement his vision for the University, where students were a part of a democratic society when attending the University and were allowed freedom to learn responsibility.

ON CAMPUS AS A FRESHMAN: CHIAO-MIN’S STORY Shortly after arriving in Hangzhou in the fall of 1937, Chancellor Zhu summoned a conference to introduce some leading administrators and professors to the freshmen. This conference served as an orientation to the key people at the University. Although I didn’t know it at the time, I was about to meet the people who would substitute for my family in the coming years. Five of these professors stood out to me that day: Professor Cheng Xiaochang, a well known educator and Director of Academic Affairs, Zhang Shaozhong, Chairman of the Department of Physics, Su Buqing, Mathematics Chairman, and Fei Gong, who later became our Director of Student Affairs and Professor of Political Science. Knowing the struggles that had recently occurred between the students and Guo Renyuan, the previous Chancellor, we students also knew that there had been trouble brewing among the faculty, and many had resigned during Guo’s tenure. These five faculty members that I had just met were a part of that group. They were considered “old timers” of the University—even then—and they did not agree with Guo’s policies because they were taking the University away from its academic mission. And so when Zhu became chancellor, he called them back and granted them even more important positions. The professors he brought to Zhejiang were amazing in both their accomplishments and the abilities they demonstrated in the classroom. One of them, Dean Hu, my physics professor, was most impressive in his estimation abilities. He was an extremely exacting person with a knack for being able to measure things by looking at them. Once he looked into a room he was immediately able to

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approximate length, width, and height to an amazingly accurate extent. Funny enough, however, he had no sense of time and would run on and on during classes or whenever you bumped into him outside of the classroom. You could never have just a quick conversation with Dean Hu. In addition to these renowned professors, there were newcomers as well— all part of Zhu’s planning to increase the status of Zhejiang by securing high quality professors.4 Although I was being introduced to professors and not movie stars or famous athletes, in China and especially to those of us who had spent our childhoods studying and preparing to become a university student, these professors were celebrities. We’d spent years hearing about these great scholars, and now we were getting a chance to meet them. They were magnificent looking. They weren’t necessarily handsome or in good shape. In fact, some of them were fat. But they were a sight to behold. Some of them were in ties and fancy outfits and leather shoes. Others were in their academic gowns; they wore these flowing robes with the colors of their discipline not just on celebratory days like today, but to teach as well. I was overjoyed when I was accepted to Zhejiang University, but now that I was here and meeting my intellectual heroes it was almost too much to stand. The celebration was shortlived, however, as we got down to work right away. Our classes were intense and new, and although hard, I truly was excited to be learning in this environment. I quickly noted differences between my high school education and the one that I was receiving at Zhejiang. At Zhejiang, I learned from many Western-educated professors and developed different relationships with them as they taught about democracy, as well as more traditionally Chinese ideas. These professors joked while they taught and they encouraged us to Professor Fei Gong, Political Science, Director of Student Affairs learn in new ways. Typically in

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China, students were supposed to learn theories in class from listening to their professors, but many of our professors took a different approach, teaching us to think for ourselves and to solve problems rather than just listening. Despite the new, more hands-on learning we were experiencing in some of our classes, university life demanded rigorous study, and the stakes were high for those of us who earned our way into the University. For every one student who earned admittance, there were many who were turned away. Everyone wanted in—the fact that the University was in a constant state of flux didn’t matter. Failure at the University meant an end to any college education, and therefore any hope of economic advancement. Beyond that, my classmates and I genuinely wanted to learn. Therefore, most of us studied far into the night. There was no electricity, and the only form of affordable light came from the minute, dull glow of burning incense sticks. Eyestrain and premature blindness were common among students. Fei Gong, our professor of political science, came up with a simple but effective solution to the lack of lighting. He invented a covered oil wick lamp that provided far greater illumination, then took money out of his own salary to provide each student with one. These “Fei Gong lamps” became immensely popular, and allowed us to study for longer periods of time without damaging our eyesight. With the help of my Fei Gong lamp, I worked hard to be in the good graces of my exciting, but demanding, professors. Despite the hard work expected of my classmates and me, as university students we were considered among the privileged few. Many students who had grown up poor, undernourished, and sick now found themselves with a monthly living allowance provided by the University, free meals, and a resident physician. I was reminded of my privileged status every Sunday, the one free day of the Fei Gong lamp

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week. Most of the students would leave and explore outside the university grounds. I remember that the freshmen often would not be lucky enough to get a rickshaw cart and usually had to walk everywhere, as most of the older students and faculty members were the first choice customers for the rickshaw boys who stood waiting outside the University.5 When I was a freshman, if we were lucky enough to get a rickshaw, four or five of my friends and I would have to ride in a rickshaw together to afford a ride to downtown Hangzhou to see a movie. There also were many restaurants near the University, serving the cuisine of many different regions, and we would sometimes eat before or after the movie. Vendors and small business owners, aware of the allowance the University provided for each student, often set up shop directly beyond the wall’s great double doors. For the equivalent of a few dollars, I could choose from a variety of lunches or dinners prepared while we watched, then eat at one of the small outdoor tables. When we would go out to see a movie, we would usually return around eleven and the insignia on our breast pocket of our Zhejiang uniform would allow us admittance back onto the beautiful university grounds. A national guard on watch at the gate would check the insignia, salute, open the gate for both students and faculty, and then step aside. The freshmen had never been treated with such respect before. There was no alarm at 5 A.M., so we could sleep in late if we chose, especially if we were out late at night with friends. In so many ways, life at Zhejiang was a breath of fresh air. Like almost every university in China, Zhejiang was completely enclosed by a tall wooden wall, but for me and most freshmen, university life brought a sense of freedom and opportunities not available in high school. Not all of our experiences at Zhejiang University, even before the war, were pleasant, but even in those difficult times we learned to work together. A classmate, Chao Lung-hua [Zhao Longhua], lost his eye while studying at the University. Chao was a devout Christian. On a sunny day, he was playing tennis with a classmate. Facing the sun, he had difficulty seeing the other end of the court clearly. Without warning, his classmate served the ball. The ball came rapidly toward him, and he felt a great pain in his right eye as his glasses fell to the ground. His classmate, whose name was Sun, was very scared. Chao cried out in pain and, as he prayed, Chao heard deep within himself that he was not to be angry, not to hate his friend, who was innocent. Sun was not a Christian, and Chao was to keep sharing his faith with him. Later, as he lay in the hospital, this friend came to see him, unsure of what he should say, and how Chao would respond. Chao told him not to worry. After all, Chao said, “I still have another eye with which to see the world.” Four months later, Sun himself became a Christian. In Chao’s mind, it was a worth-

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while thing to exchange one eye for another person’s whole soul. Since then, they have become bosom friends for life. Despite the occasional accident on the field, Zhejiang University boasted top-notch athletics. Our athletic prowess was certainly aided by our physical education program. We took physical education twice a week. During class we exercised outdoors, practicing the gamut of sports from basketball to wrestling. We also worked individually on chin-ups, pushups, and high jumps. For each activity there were minimums one had to pass in order to pass the course. If we did not pass the class, we could not graduate. Consequently we took our physical education quite seriously, and we were all familiar with our physical education professor, Shu Hong.6 Shu taught us athletic skills, but he also bred good habits in us—regular exercise, proper hygiene, and overall self-discipline. Shu had a habit of hitting us on the rear end when we disobeyed, but he also would cheer us on when we performed well. All in all we respected him greatly, but we were a little afraid of him and, as freshmen, we were not at all excited by his showering beliefs. He believed that taking a hot shower immediately followed by a cold shower was stimulating and would improve our health, and he made this showering practice a requirement for freshmen following each physical education class. Some of us tried to sneak out early to avoid the cold shower, but Shu was always waiting outside to shove us back to the cold showers. Fortunately, our dislike for these showering practices did not deter us from enjoying physical activity. Competitive sports were popular across campus, but basketball was a favorite sport at the University, with games between different departments. It was difficult for us to get sports shoes and socks. Thus, most of the students played Professor Shu Hong, Physical Education basketball in bare feet. One

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day, our team had the opportunity to play the Air Force Academy team. Everyone knew that the Air Force Academy team was even stronger than ours, and that they would probably win. They had bigger, faster, more powerful players, who had been through the rigors of military training. But we had our physical education professor and coach, Shu, who had served as a referee for the basketball competition at the recent Berlin Olympic Games. He was highly thought of, a skilled and knowledgeable sportsman. He had been educated in America, and was a tough, demanding coach. He also had learned a new game strategy for the game from America, which had not been used in China before. In traditional Chinese basketball, every time a player scored, a jump ball would follow. This made the game much slower than it is today. In addition, the five players played zone defense and stayed in their own positions. So Shu Hong decided to surprise the Academy players by using the typical American strategy. We would play one-on-one defense, matching each one of our players with one of the Academy team players, playing the man rather than the position. This strategy ended up being very successful that day. The public showed up in droves. The gymnasium was fully packed on that warm sunny spring day. Some of the referees couldn’t even squeeze into the room because it was so packed. In fact, Chancellor Zhu himself was unable to squeeze in; he had to settle for listening to the game being broadcast outside the room. It was estimated that over three thousand people were present. Only two referees actually made it into the gymnasium to officiate at the game. Our team held our warm-up practice in a secret place away from the packed gymnasium, to practice our new maneuvers. Our coach’s new strategy caught the Air Force team by surprise, so our team gained an early lead—moving ahead by twelve points. The man-to-man defense was tough on our players but the audience cheered exuberantly, exhilarated by our performance. It wasn’t long, however, before the Air Force team realized what we were doing, and changed their players, gradually matching our strategy. For thirtyfive minutes we held onto our twelve-point lead, but we weren’t in as good physical shape as they were, and our players were becoming exhausted as we slowly began to lose ground. With five minutes left in the game, our players pushed themselves to the limit, trying to hold on to the advantage they had gained through the element of surprise, but slowly, our strength began to fail. Somehow we managed to hold on. At the finish, the score was 48-44. We had defeated the Air Force Academy for the first time ever, by a slender margin of four points. The crowd went absolutely wild, yelling and screaming for joy. We had made basketball history in Zhejiang province and in the whole country of China.

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After the game, the crowd spilled out into the streets, where a carnival spirit prevailed. Some of the brash young men on our side, feeling the prowess of the moment were unwisely insulting the Air Force team, and a scuffle ensued. The Air Force players wore belts that they took off to use against the crowd, which was pressing on them and foolishly provoking a response. A few days later, Chancellor Zhu invited the Chief of the Air Force to Zhejiang University to play a game of tennis. It was Zhu’s way of smoothing over the incident and saying “Let’s forget about this.” This pleasant life is what it would have been like for me during my years at Zhejiang University, but on July 7, 1937, Japan invaded China. The Japanese conquered Beijing; the following August 13 Shanghai fell. Then the Japanese army and tanks turned further south toward Hangzhou.

LEAVING ZHEJIANG: EXODUS OF THE FRESHMEN CLASS After the Japanese attack there was much debate on campus about what the University should do because the Japanese were not far away from Hangzhou and we knew that the University would be a target for Japanese attack. The administration considered all its options, and decided that the students, beginning with my 200-person freshmen class, should be evacuated from Hangzhou to a safer place inland. Because we were new and young, Chancellor Zhu decided that we needed to be put into a better area for better training; it would make it easier for us to be focused on our education if we were in a safer area. I had only been at Zhejiang University a very short time and this decision meant that I was going to abruptly leave my only recently adopted home at the University. On September 21, the freshman class was taken to the foothills of the Tianmu Mountain, west of Hangzhou. Tianmu Mountain sat in a peaceful spot where the air was refreshingly cool and the morning songs of birds wafted among the monk-cultivated gingko trees7 and thundering waterfalls. Tianmu has five separate peaks, of which the western peak is the most beautiful and famous in China. After being taken to the foothills of Tianmu Mountain, we began to walk. As we traveled toward the mountain, a temple seemed to rise up from the mist at the base of the mountain, as if an offering from the land. Built in ancient times, during the Eastern Jin Dynasty (317–420 CE), the Chanyuan Temple8 was surrounded by a red brick wall and could only be entered by way of a formal gate. Once within the wall, we climbed a seemingly endless flight of stone steps to the temple doors, at which a statue of the Buddha called our attention to

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Drawing of Chanyuan Temple at Tianmu Mountain, Hangzhou after the war

the center of the hall. The temple’s many windows gazed out upon the lush green backdrop of the surrounding landscape. One building’s name, “pick up green” (literal translation from the Chinese) provided us a clue as to just how integral to our education the landscape would become over the coming years. We took many classes in this building encased in a verdant blanket of trees and plantings. We lived at this idyllic spot for a few months, studying as we could have at the University itself. There was no electricity at the temple, so the night air was always interrupted by small oil lamps that guided us through the nights of study together in the large study room that also served as a dining hall in daytime. As we began to experience the wealth of great Chinese literature, we developed new perspectives for our lives, and we began to understand how critical our education was to us and the future life of our country. Our course with Zhang Yinling was instrumental to our new perspective. Zhang, a history professor, accompanied the freshmen to Chanyuan Temple, and taught us ancient history while we were there. He never came to class armed with a book or notes. Dressed in the traditional scholar’s long gown, he never carried anything with him but a piece of chalk. He would write Chinese classical pieces on the blackboard from memory and point out certain words in the text to which he wanted the students to pay special attention. Then he could tell the

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students to figure out the circumstances of the time period in which the piece was written. His intention was to give us a strong foundation in philosophy and logic as well as an understanding of history. The class became a debate for much of the period, at the end of which Zhang would analyze our discussion, explaining which students were correct and why. This method of discussion and analysis was unique, held our interest, and taught us much about how to form ideas and evaluate each other’s arguments. Not all our professors were Western in their classroom demeanor. Despite his Western education and political leanings, Fei Gong was a traditionalist by nature. Once he returned to China from his education and travels in Europe, Fei wore only the traditional scholar’s clothing, cloth slippers and a long robe, rather than the more progressive Western styles coming into fashion. In class, he always cracked jokes but expected students to smile, not laugh. He also demanded that female students sit in the front rows, males in the back. One day, when a male student rushed into class ten minutes late, the only seat not taken was in the front row with the girls. Try as he might to sit in the front row, Fei made the young man go to the back, without a seat, rather than allowing him to sit with the girls. We studied much at the Chanyuan Temple: Chinese, English, political science, economics, and physics—all mandatory classes for first year students. Aside from the setting, in many ways our lives at Temple were not that different from how they should have been at the original Zhejiang University campus. During the week, we had classes. We continued with our physical exercise and wore our uniforms with the name of the University written in red across the chest. And on the weekends, we took trips. Before, we took trips around Hangzhou. Now we formed groups to take trips on the mountain to see the trees and rocks at different elevations. What really made our lives at Chanyuan Temple distinct from our lives at Zhejiang University, however, was our closeness with the monks. Our lives were intertwined and we all were experiencing firsts just by observing each other. The university administration placed a set of parallel bars and other exercise equipment in the roofed courtyard of the temple so that the students could train. This was something entirely new for the monks. When the girls would swing on the bars in their uniforms, the monks would gather to watch them in the sunshine. And we also watched the monks when they would gather for prayer services, striking the gong and chanting. In fact, quite a few funny situations came out of the proximity of our different lifestyles. Even with hundreds of university students living at the resort temple, there was plenty of food to go around—unlike chapters to come later in our odyssey. One day as I was eating in a small restaurant in the village, I caught sight of a bald head popping up from a bowl. The shorn head belonged to a monk with

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whom I shared living quarters. The monks were all supposed to be vegetarians, but I had caught this monk secretly eating meat! Another night, walking through the woods surrounding the temple, I saw a monk dressed in robes, kissing a village girl by moonlight. Those days were enlightening and amusing for everyone, and I think all of us—students and monks—enjoyed the life we shared for some months. Although I still harbor fond memories of the monks today, one of the memories that sticks most strongly in my head is not a pleasant one. As I wandered into the large bathroom one day, I stumbled upon a sight I’d never before even imagined. A monk’s body swung there in the dark. I stood there for a long time. The urinals seemed to become a terrifying white, the Chinese color of mourning and death. I was frightened and shocked, and as I stood there taking in this suicide scene, I believe I learned as much about human life as I did during many hours of studying and rigorous course work. I learned that a human being is as fragile as the most delicate work of jade or glass, and that I was among this glasswork and needed to nurture my own strength and ability to guide others through a time of war and hardship. I was reminded of the importance of working to my potential and nurturing my gifts when Chancellor Zhu came to see our ‘campus’ and the freshmen. He gave a lecture. He said to us, “Hangzhou is under threat from Japan. But you students here—how nice it is for you.”9 He told a story about how in ancient China, 800 years earlier, when the Mongols had defeated the Song dynasty and set up their own Yuan dynasty, several hundred scholars fled to a remote area to set up a refugee academy where they taught young people about preserving their cultural heritage and instilled strong feelings of patriotism. So the situation we were living in at this time was very important to China’s survival and future. His words made us believe that we were part of something great, greater perhaps than a traditional education at the university would have been. Our moving away from the violence of war and our pushing forward in order to better educate ourselves became acts that were both literal and metaphorical. We were literally traveling inward through China; we were also traveling, figuratively, on a journey we would always remember and cherish despite its challenges. Because of Zhu’s admonition to be worthy, we worked very hard to live up to this responsibility. Zhu wanted to set up a tutor system for the students on the mountain. This was not a traditional form of Chinese education, but he was inspired by the system at Oxford, where students gathered in groups not only to learn technology or a craft, but also the lessons of history, as well as leadership and character. He believed that we should be trained as leaders of society, and leadership was based not just on technology but also on developing a strong personal ethic. Zhu formally set up the first tutor system in

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China right there on Tianmu Mountain. Students and professors were paired up by their choice to study together. Each professor had eight or nine students. The system was received very well by the students, and turned out to work particularly well given our situation. As we moved across China over the next years, this system kept us closely in touch with our studies, while also providing us with close-knit groups of students and professors. Then reports came to us that the Japanese were approaching Shanghai. In November, Shanghai fell. There were air raids on Hangzhou that were very dangerous for civilians. On November 5, the Japanese landed in Hangzhou Bay, 90 miles from the city. Bombs were falling. The city had started to evacuate. On the mountain, we heard rumors, and we held meetings day and night to come up with a plan. What should we do? We had no communication with the city and the rest of the University, so we did not know exactly what was happening there. There were big arguments at our meetings. Some argued for guerilla warfare and wanted to fight back. They did not see anywhere to retreat and thought that we could not allow the Japanese to invade our land and rape our women. Others thought fighting back was a stupid idea; we had very few weapons (though we had military instructors, and we had been taught how to shoot guns—I still remember how). People argued and yelled and then were quiet; no one knew really what we should do. Then we heard a report that the rest of the University was moving to Jiande, a small city nearby, and once we knew there was a destination, it was easy to decide to leave, because leaving meant we could reunite with the rest of the University. And so, about 300 students, professors, staff and their families began to move again. The girls and the families had some privileges, and they were taken much of the way by car. We boys put on our uniforms, took our guns, and left, some by boat, some walking. We had a little luggage, and we carried it with us as we walked. Altogether, we moved out of the temple, leaving the monks behind, with our thanks. When the Japanese reached this ancient temple, they completely destroyed it.10

NOTES 1. In 1903, that name was changed to the Zhejiang Higher Education Institute. By 1907, the school had grown tremendously; there were 29 faculty and staff and 319 students. In 1908, the school was divided into two parts, one for the humanities, and one for the sciences. Each branch invited an American as the head professor: Stanley K. Hornbeck (humanities), and P. D. Merica (sciences). The Chancellor of that time, Ling Chi, also invited four Japanese professors to teach music, physical education, geography, and history. The changes didn’t stop there. In 1910–1911, the Zhejiang

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Chapter One

Agricultural Institute was opened, and in 1911 the school added an Engineering Technology School. Every year the choice of course offerings was expanded. In 1927, the growing school assumed a greater importance in China’s educational structure when it became the Third Central University of China. In this way, it also assumed control of the local education system, which was the general practice in China at that time. The main academy began to cooperate more closely with the engineering and agriculture schools. And those divisions began to expand. The Engineering School developed programs in electrical, civil, and chemical engineering, and the Agriculture School had five departments: Forestry, Botany, Farming, Silk, and Labor. The Agriculture School also developed courses in agricultural economics. In 1928, the school’s name officially became National Zhejiang University, but although the name had been settled, the school’s programs were still constantly evolving. The humanities and sciences were joined together into a Liberal Arts College that included courses in Chinese and foreign languages (with emphasis on English), philosophy, mathematics, physics, chemistry, psychology, history, political science, physical education, and military training. The University also developed a medical school at that time. In 1929, the Liberal Arts Program was reduced to six separate departments, Foreign Languages, Chinese Language (and Literature), History and Political Sciences, Mathematics, Physics and Chemistry, and four new separate departments were added: Biology, Psychology, Economics, and Education. Later, as a reflection of the prevalent thinking of the time about emphasizing technology and de-emphasizing the humanities, the Departments of Psychology, History and Political Science and Economics ceased to exist, and the Engineering College added a Surveying Department. 1932 brought even more changes to the University structure, with the addition of a Mechanical Engineering program and the combining of the Surveying and Civil Engineering Departments. 2. Appendix A provides a chart showing the organization of the university. 3. Zhu believed that under his administration the salary of the faculty should never be over 70% of the overall budget, and that the library and equipment budget should be 15% at minimum. 4. Chapter 6 contains a wealth of information about the university’s faculty members. 5. Professors, especially, could afford a pleasant lifestyle. In those days a policeman might be paid the equivalent of nine dollars a month and a clerk fifteen. High school teachers were paid more, maybe between eighty and one hundred dollars a month. In comparison, professors would make three or four hundred dollars a month, and the University Chancellor made five hundred. The professors lived well. They had plenty of good food, and some of them hired rickshaw boys to pull them through the city. There was much prestige in being a professor at the university. 6. Shu Hong joined the faculty of Zhejiang University in 1934 as the Director of Physical Education. His faith was interesting to us all. Shu was a Christian. Because Christians were not in the majority in China, and because universities (including Zhejiang) often did not hire Christian faculty unless the university itself was Christian, his faith made him stand apart on campus.

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7. The gingko is the only surviving species in its class of gymnosperms. It has survived by cultivation for thousands of years by monks at Chinese temples. 8. At its maximum, the monastery associated with this temple contained over 1000 monks. In the last Qing Dynasty, Tianmu Mountain had a group of about 40 Buddhist temples, containing 500 rooms, together housing 1300 monks. In modern times, the Chanyuan Temple was evaluated as the fifth most important Buddhist temple in China. It was surpassed only by Wutai Temple in Shanxi Province, Putuo Temple in Zhejiang Province, Emei Temple in Sichuan Province, and Jiuhua Temple in Anhui Province. Chinese temples were usually built in beautiful mountainous areas. Because this Temple was a favorite pilgrimage site for Buddhists as well as a favored resort place for tourists, it attracted many visitors, especially in summer, who enjoyed the fresh air, scenery, climate, stands of bamboo, and vegetarian feasts provide by the temple. Also, Buddhist monks from neighboring countries, Japan, Korea, Vietnam, India, and Burma liked to make pilgrimages to this temple as a special class of tourists. During the later Song and early Yuan Dynasties, Japanese monks also visited this temple and copied the architecture, administrative system, and Buddhist literature to organize their own Buddhist monasteries and temples—also in beautiful surroundings. The Chanyuan Temple served as the original model for the development of Buddhist temples in Japan. There is a saying among Japanese Buddhists that you have to visit Chanyuan Temple to experience true Buddhism. The Japanese also imported the gingko tree found at Chanyuan Mountain, which was to become Japan’s national tree. During the Song, Yuan, Ming, and finally Qing dynasties, many emperors came with gifts for the temple complex, and had inscriptions carved in the local rocks to commemorate these gifts. 9. During the war, the government paid the expenses of students, because students were so precious and they would be more valuable to the country as scholars and leaders than if they had to go to the frontline and become a lost fragment of wartime memory. Tuition was around the equivalent of US $1600 per student per year, and the government paid this and also gave students about the equivalent of about US $250 for expenses per year. How fortunate we were. 10. Since then, the temple and supporting buildings have been completely rebuilt. Sixty years later, Chiao-min re-visited this rebuilt temple complex, and met the chief monk, Yue Chao, whose name means “shining moon,” and who is a renowned painter. He gave me a book of his paintings as a gift. The present temple and monastery complex contains many buildings, including a beautiful pagoda.

Chapter Two

The Japanese Invasion

On July 7, 1937, Japan first attacked China at Lugou Bridge, often called the Marco Polo Bridge, near Beijing. Because the invasion occurred on the seventh day of the seventh month, the invasion was named “qi-qi” because “qi” is Chinese for seven. Qi-qi thus means the seven and seven incident. The Japanese attackers understood patriotism in China, and knew that the universities housed the most idealistic and patriotic civilian groups in China. Consequently, the Japanese knew that in order to fully pacify China south of Manchuria, Japan would have to defeat the Chinese army and destroy the Chinese universities. Japan’s goal was economic self-sufficiency, combining occupation of predominantly agricultural China and an industrial Japan, so that the Japanese could sustain their exploding population with food and other resources. Fulfillment of the Japanese dream, however, would humiliate China. When attacked by Japan then, following the humiliation by western powers (e.g., the Opium War with the British), the Chinese felt that they had reached their limits with regard to foreigners wishing to control their affairs. In fact, the Chinese government summed up its attitude in these words of Chiang Kai-shek: “The government of China will not abandon peace until all hope of peace is gone; it will not talk of sacrifice until the last stage is reached, when sacrifice becomes necessary.” The Japanese, having taken Beijing in the north China plain, and Nanjing to the south, much closer to Hangzhou, were expecting a short war and a quick settlement before China could mobilize her power. In making their plans for a speedy victory, they failed to anticipate that the Chinese were prepared to totally focus their efforts and resist to the last breath. At that time, however, China had almost no navy, and her army was composed mainly of infantry, with few tanks, little artillery, and only slight air support. Shipping from her coastline was totally blocked by Japan, who had 28

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mounted its major attack from the sea, and so what little naval power China had was rendered useless. China’s few industrial cities, Tianjin, Shanghai, Guangzhou, and Ningbo were mostly located near or on the coast, and so were overrun. Railroads, navigable rivers, and main highways also fell into Japanese hands. Under these circumstances, China could only fight and retreat. Fortunately, the Chinese had a large hinterland to which they could retreat, and so they developed a policy of trading space for time. THE JAPANESE STORM CLOUD AND QIANTANG BRIDGE In my university town of Hangzhou, the people began to flee southward when the Japanese invaded nearby Shanghai on August 13, 1937. Standing in the way of escaping Hangzhou, however, was the Hangzhou Bay. Two years earlier, the government of Hangzhou had decided that a bridge across the bay was needed if it was ever necessary for refugees, soldiers, and equipment to have a clear, efficient path of escape to the south. At that time, the Hangzhou leadership thought that this bridge would be very important politically and militarily, as relations with Japan were already tense. Traditionally there would have been a foundation first, and then the laying of iron bars, but this time they needed to do everything at once. The lower two levels were to hold a railroad track, while the upper level would provide a highway and walking paths. Two years earlier, the plan had been to build the bridge in two and a half years time, but that was before the Japanese approached the region. Now the town was faced with a need to build the bridge they’d talked about, but at a faster rate than they anticipated. Construction, as designed by Mao Yisheng1 (a renowned Chinese engineer), was to proceed simultaneously for both the foundation and the upper structure. Once the Japanese invaded China, the bridge’s location was even more strategically valuable. The city of Hangzhou was located at the innermost point of Hangzhou Bay, which extended inland from the coast. There was a turning point in the Qiantang River near the city, where the upper part of the river, which ran fast and narrow, broadened out to a span of ten thousand feet and ran wide and slow, becoming Hangzhou Bay, which then fed into the ocean. The bridge was close to the original campus of Zhejiang University. Many who graduated from the engineering school helped to build it. Some students did practical work, while many simply went to watch. On Sundays, students would bike out to see it. The students continued to observe the construction until the bridge was complete. Later, sadly, some would stay to see it destroyed. The building of the bridge, however, was accompanied by many problems— sea waves, strong currents, and high winds—especially during the summer

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typhoon season when the water level along the coastal river areas would rise and massive waves were formed, driven upstream by the winds. There were other problems too, like the cost and the limited time left to construct and then destroy the bridge before the Japanese arrived. After the budget and design were worked out—with many residents donating money to help toward the cost—there were still more problems. The physical environment was not favorable to constructing this bridge. Further, the Chinese at that time lacked modern construction equipment. The designers wanted to make concrete boxes—nine foundation bases, each with 160 metal rebars extending upward to stabilize the superstructure. The plan was to put these concrete boxes with their protruding steel rebars onto steamboats, from which they could be lowered by crane to the bottom. Unfortunately, as they worked toward this goal, seasonal storms arrived, and they had to battle high waves, heavy rains, and high winds. A first attempt failed because of the winds. A second try followed, but proved too difficult because the river bottom was too firm to allow the concrete boxes to sink through 40 feet of sand to the bedrock. Clearly the engineers needed a new approach. Sinking the concrete boxes was the toughest problem. Workers finally managed to sink these massive foundations by placing the concrete blocks in a line along the river bank, building a railroad along the shoreline and a suspended bridge over the river carrying rail tracks. They then built gates for a lock to let the water push the concrete blocks onto a boat. One by one, a train then pulled the blocks part-way over the river on the suspended bridge, and dropped the block in place into the water. This tactic allowed the blocks to sink all the way to the bedrock. On September 19th, the foundations were laid; it took an additional eight days for the concrete to set underwater. On September 26th, the rest of the bridge was completed, and trains began to pass over it. Great throngs of people began moving southward across the bridge. Still, there was a new hurdle to cross. It was only a matter of time before the Japanese would reach the bridge and use it to pursue the people, soldiers, and equipment already across the bridge. At some point the bridge would have to be destroyed. Fortunately Mao Yisheng had foreseen this and planned for it. On November 16th, it was announced that the enemy was approaching Hangzhou. Chinese resistance could only hold them off for so long. The authorities commanded that the bridge be destroyed, but Mao pleaded for more time to get the refugees across, and managed to delay. To destroy the bridge was not a simple task. It had to be destroyed so badly that the Japanese could not repair it. Everyone worked at making explosives that could be wired to the bridge. They worked day and night to prepare to destroy the bridge. On December 20th, there was a tremendous flow of refugees, including three hundred automobiles

The Japanese Invasion

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and two thousand carts. The next day, at 1:00pm, the military order came through. The bridge had to go before the Japanese could take possession. By 3:00 P.M. on December 21st, everything was in place; the bridge was wired for demolition. K.T. Liu, one of my classmates, was a leader in placing the explosives on the bridge. Still, refugees were streaming across, even as time ran out. Over one thousand people crossed between 3:00–5:00 P.M. that afternoon. At 5:00 P.M., the Japanese were sighted approaching the bridge. Refugee crossing was halted and the bridge was destroyed.

SENTIMENTS TOWARD THE JAPANESE: CHIAO-MIN’S STORY Although many Chinese people and our University fled Hangzhou and sought safer refuge, our move away was not merely a retreat from attack, nor was it particularly popular. In fact, although university officials were level-headed enough to consider whether or not to stay in Hangzhou, we students were not for the administration’s decision to move to a new location. And we let the University know it through our words and our actions. Even at Chanyuan Temple, the students heard about the war. We knew about the ways the Japanese were terrorizing our country’s people. We knew that wherever they went, they brought with them tremendous devastation to both the land and the people. So even though we were protected from any serious physical threat, at Chanyuan Temple we were very aware of what was happening. And I and many of my peers harbored a deep hatred for the Japanese. When I thought of them I thought of their malicious acts, and I could barely contain the emotions such thoughts brought about. Just as they were bringing devastation to China, I wanted them to experience such tragedy. Furthermore, I wanted to be an active part of turning the Japanese on their heels and causing them pain. I wanted to kill the Japanese. What’s more, I was not the only person to feel this way at Chanyuan Temple or at Zhejiang University. Although our University was split between these two locations, many of us students were united in our hatred of the Japanese, and so we rose, on our separate campuses, at 4:00 A.M. for military training. Although I had despised getting up at 5:00 A.M. for mandatory physical activities in high school, I voluntarily arose before dawn now so that I could prepare myself to fight the Japanese. I exercised. I learned military maneuvers. I diligently practiced exercises with guns so that one day I could protect myself and my people from any further onslaught from the Japanese. The University backed our desire for military preparation to some extent. Military trainers were available to teach us all military skills and gun handling,

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and we were allowed space to debate what to do if the Japanese continued their press onto our lands. But we were all young and somewhat naïve. As much as we wanted to go off and join the army, it had never occurred to us that perhaps we weren’t all cut out for the military. Perhaps we had other duties that we were better suited to fulfill during the war. Instead we were hell-bent on avenging our country’s losses and were convinced that we were all to become widely acclaimed warriors on the battlefield. It wasn’t until Chancellor Zhu came and spoke to the student body that we even entertained the idea of doing anything other than fighting. Of course, there were students opposed to military actions throughout the time, but my friends and I had never considered that a viable option until Zhu enlightened us. Chancellor Zhu never just told us we were wrong. Instead he would tell us about options we had and then gave us space to reflect and make a decision about what we wanted to do and thought was the right thing to do. And so it was that he came to speak with us and tell us about how there were multiple duties and roles to be filled during a war. Certainly, it was important to have a strong and courageous army, but he also pointed out that a war was not merely about military battles. Not only must the land be preserved under Chinese rule, but the culture and history of the Chinese must be protected. To these ends, he described the ways in which scholars were important during wartime. Scholars were necessary as keepers of the books—people who would protect and preserve our culture for future generations. Thus, it seemed that there were ways in which we could fight against Japanese occupation without taking up guns ourselves. As we moved throughout the next years, we considered this not only a possible duty during a war, but our duty throughout our lives.

NOTE 1. Mao Yisheng received his Ph.D. in Civil Engineering in 1919 from the Carnegie Institute of Technology (later renamed Carnegie Mellon University) in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He was the university’s first Ph.D. graduate. Mao then returned to China to his alma mater, Jiaotong University, first as a professor, then as Chair of the Department of Engineering. Later he became the Chancellor of that university. He also taught at other universities, including Southeastern Normal University (today, Nanjing University) and Beiyang Engineering University. He taught engineering and mathematics. The most important contribution of his life was the design and building of Qiantang Bridge. He and his daughter (a pharmacist alumna of Zhejiang University) were interviewed in the course of research for this book. The interviews took place in 1979 when, under the auspice of the U.S. National Academy of Engineering, Mao came to Pittsburgh to be honored as a distinguished alumnus of Carnegie Mellon and to visit his daughter, who lived and worked in Pittsburgh.

Chapter Three

The Desperate Migration of Zhejiang University

Shortly before the Qiantang Bridge was destroyed, the rest of our University— faculty, staff, and students—left Hangzhou. The remaining upper-class students were divided into three groups and, on November 11, the first group of 200 students left Hangzhou at night. Night travel was necessary because too many bombs were raining down during the day for safe travel. Cars left in a continuous loop between the University and the river, and in the early morning a full boat departed. The same thing happened on the next two nights. It took one week to move everything from Hangzhou to Jiande—a city so small that the University occupied every spare space in the city’s homes, temples, and public buildings. Despite the crowded conditions, it was still better than being in Hangzhou amidst the chaos. It was quite lucky that the University’s evacuation by boat was orderly and organized despite this and the limited manpower available. In fact, most of the University’s equipment and resources also were saved. Small numbers of people packed up the library and the labs. Almost everything was put in wooden boxes, and only the very largest items had to be abandoned.

ON TO JIANGXI: CHIAO-MIN’S STORY In November of 1937, we freshmen began our trek down from Tianmu Mountain to join the rest of the evacuated members of Zhejiang University in Jiande. We met in this little town, and immediately increased the population exponentially. From the beginning, it was clear that we were not going to have a normal campus while in Jiande, but despite the crowded conditions, 33

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we were pleased to there because there we were safer from the Japanese than we were in Hangzhou. And unlike our time at Chanyuan Temple, we were a part of the whole University again. In order to accommodate all of us and our studies, we took over the entire city. The temples, churches, family homes, and schools served as residence halls, offices, and classrooms for us. There were fewer lectures here because space was so tight, but the University never even considered shutting down. Zhejiang University was open for business. Students were registered. Lectures were given. Food and shelter were provided for all in the Zhejiang University community—faculty, staff, and students alike. The food was limited, and our clothes were beginning to show signs of wear. We were never quite fully relaxed, as we were always in fear of Japanese bombers. It was a miserable time in many ways. Still, we were much better off than many others during that time. Our existence in small town Jiande could not go on uninterrupted forever, however. While the political landscape was changing around us, we stayed in Jiande for two months. When the Japanese advanced, it became clear that we needed to move again. Fortunately, the University had been preparing to move to the interior of China. On December 25th, we prepared to depart from Jiande, this time with the freshmen along. This time the move was more organized than before, if only because we were becoming experienced at it. Students were divided into groups, with a faculty or student leader serving as a tutor and accompanying each group. To get from Jiande to Jiangxi province, several hundred miles away, some people walked, some went by car, and some went by boat, though transportation was difficult to arrange because of the war. Trains did not run on schedule. It was difficult to keep track of everyone, but eventually everyone moved. It became somewhat routine because of the experience of moving the first time. Along the way, sleeping rooms and food were arranged for the travelers. One of the major concerns we all had was for the University’s resources. Although we all were moving in small groups toward the same destination, we were not entirely sure where the contents of the university library were. They were supposed to be shipped to us in Jiande, but had never arrived. Although we were initially upset by this, it turned out that they were on the waterway, and destined for Jinhua, a stop on our way to Jiangxi. Would they arrive when we were there? Would they be damaged? Would we be forced out of Jinhua before they arrived? All this was unclear to us, and as Chancellor Zhu had engrained in us our responsibility to preserve the cultural history of China, we were concerned that we might fail in our responsibilities. And on a more mercenary note, we were concerned about our own studies. Zhejiang

The Desperate Migration of Zhejiang University

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University was a renowned university, and Zhu had made it even better by so greatly increasing the library holdings. Without our books, much of his legacy would be lost, and our studies would likely suffer. Although these concerns weighed heavily on us all, I have to confess that more than anything else I was harboring some selfish woes. As we moved toward the interior of China, I was not only running from the Japanese and leaving my university campus further and further behind, I also was leaving behind my native province of Zhejiang. I’d missed my family due to the Japanese invasion, and now because of their pressure on us, I was also being forced to leave behind the only land I’d ever known in China. Zhejiang province is one of the smallest political units in China (102,000 kilometers square), about 1.06% of the country’s land area. It is about the same size as Kentucky or Virginia, but the population then was probably around 23,000,000 and Zhejiang was considered one of the most densely populated areas in China. Zhejiang’s dense population and culture of historical and economical significance gave it an importance out of proportion to its size.1 In this tiny, crowded space, I’d created all my life memories, and although I could carry them with me, I’d have to leave all the little reminders of the good and bad times, as I fled to safer environs. My only consolation was that the entire traveled together, and the more time we spent together, protecting ourselves and each other, and working together, the more we became a family. My classmates and I provided each other with much companionship, and we all knew that our professors could be called upon to help us during any difficult times along the road. Adding to our concerns, on our second day of travel, December 26th, as the University was passing through Jinhua, the Japanese planes bombed and destroyed houses and other buildings there. We were all terrified and leapt for cover. It was quite chaotic as we all sought for places to hide and to protect ourselves in an unfamiliar town. Fortunately, none of the university people were hurt, and not only was there merely minimal damage to the equipment and books we were carrying with us, but we also recovered the library materials that had been shipped down the waterway before the University fled Hangzhou. Still, the incident did make us very nervous. This was a terrible experience, our first encounter with the horror of trying to survive in an aerial bombardment. Now we were all directly experiencing the violence of war. This was a lesson not to be forgotten. Traveling was a very miserable experience for this leg of our journey. The weather was cold, and there was little food. Everything was falling apart because of the war.

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Waiting for the train in Jinhua was very difficult. We had to wait for a whole day, and then there was no train at all. The next day a coal train happened to come along, full of refugees. A group of students rushed to the train, first throwing their luggage abroad, then thrusting themselves onto the train. It was raining. There was no cover. There were no umbrellas. But there was a train and we were on it. The train ran a short distance, and then it abruptly stopped because of a lack of steam. The students and I started to come out and push the train. Then we were joined by other passengers until over a hundred people were pushing. Strangely, the train started to move, and eventually we arrived at a town. We were all very hungry and were looking for a place to eat and sleep, believing all the while that the train was waiting. But when we returned, the train had left us and gone on its way. Because of this experience, in later moments we were more attuned to what we needed to do to stay on our route. And from other early-on experiences, we also were more aware of how to cope with the air raids we experienced; we were much better prepared to protect ourselves. By that time, the Central Government had set up a system in the inland mountainous areas. At the top of the highest, most visible mountain near a city, as Japanese planes were approaching, a siren went off and two beacons on each such mountain were turned on, visible in the city below, as a first warning. As the planes approached close to the city, one beacon was turned off, leaving only one lit. Once both beacons were turned off you could expect bombs any minute. If you had not already hidden, you had to hide immediately. Meanwhile, more than 700 boxes of university equipment and books were also moving to the interior of China. It took 30 boats to move everything, and though there were some close calls when bombs fell near the boats, they always missed the equipment and books. Jiangxi province or “West River province” is different from Zhejiang.2 The province consists of a central basin, dominated by Poyang Lake, that is enclosed by hills on three sides, on the east, south and west. This lake functions as a reservoir for the Yangtze River. From this lake a major river, the Gan River, flows southward. The Gan is a major waterway; the major cities of the province are along this river. At that time, I had the impression that it was less prosperous and that there was more disease, including common infestations of head lice among young adults. Jiangxi had been the main base of the Chinese Communist movement. In 1927 the Communist party established its headquarters at Ruijin, in Jiangxi province. After years of fighting, the Nationalist troops, led by Chiang Kaishek, forced the Communist leaders Zhu De and Mao Zedong to evacuate Jiangxi, beginning the “Long March” to the north in 1934. When I was trav-

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eling in Jiangxi in 1938, I could still see the abandoned farms and deteriorated buildings.

FROM JIANGXI TO JI’AN TO TAIHE (DECEMBER 1937–SEPTEMBER 1938): CHIAO-MIN’S STORY The moving progressed at a snail’s pace. In ten days of travel from Jiangxi, we (the University) covered only 165 miles. Between December 24, 1937, and January 20, 1938, we were only able to cover about 20 miles every day, because the roads were jammed with soldiers, and bombs fell along the way. Because of this we were always anxious as we walked—keeping our ears open for the sound of planes. You could hear the sound even when the planes were a good distance off, so it was never clear whether the bombs were coming for us or not, but we were worried anytime we heard the noise. Fortunately, the government had devised a plan to help us discern whether we should run for cover or not. There were three red lights mounted up around the towns. When the lights were all lit, we were safe. But when only two or one were lit, it meant that the Japanese were on their way, and were getting ever closer. When they all went out, we ran for safety. Because of this kind of travel where we had to dive for cover all along the way, our clothing was a mess from all the travel, and we were weary. Finally, all the people and equipment arrived safely in Ji’an, an ancient city famous throughout China. Three of the male students took a boat and rowed along the Gan River all night before arriving in J’ian the next morning. Ji’an was a rather prosperous city with a good hotel. There these tired classmates of mine found a place to stay with a hot-water bath. They tried to have a relaxing time and to take baths. Since the temperature was low outside, there was a burning coal fire to keep the house warm. As a result, these classmates found themselves all falling to the ground because of the suffocating smoke from the burning coal. Fortunately, one of them fell outside of the door and was discovered by someone else who was able to help them out of the smoky room. Because it was “winter break,” the junior high schools and high schools in Ji’an were temporarily vacant, and so we moved in and had classes in those spaces. There also were classes at a very old junior teachers college. The rest of the winter term was held there from January 18 until February, when examinations were given. We stayed there for only a month, to finish the term and hold the final term examinations. One week after semester examinations were finished, the University moved another 80 miles south, to the city of Taihe. The most visible faculty

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member during this move was Dean Hu. We were fortunate enough to have faculty members who stepped into greater leadership roles to help us as we struggled during the move through China. Dean Hu was particularly special because he was a former Harvard classmate of Chancellor Zhu, and so they had a history together that allowed them to work well. In addition, because of his own high profile and reputation, Hu had friends and students scattered throughout the country. And so in planning our move to Taihe (as well as other moves) he was the faculty person to explore the new location and arrange the transportation and living arrangements. He was really the Chancellor’s right hand man, and should have been titled the Vice Chancellor. In the case of Taihe, Dean Hu knew one of his friends, Xiao, was from Taihe, and had his ancestral hall there. Xiao had been a classmate of both Hu and Chancellor Zhu when they were at Harvard and, through calling upon connections like this, Dean Hu was able to move us to Taihe and use his friend’s ancestral hall as a classroom space for us. The University stayed in this new location that Hu had scoped out, Taihe, in Jiangxi province until October 8, 1938. Shortly after our arrival in Taihe, we were most lucky to receive 139 boxes of the ancient volumes of the Wenlan Ge from the Zhejiang Provincial Library Collection. We were charged with keeping it safe on our journey through interior China. The faculty investigated the area and arranged the layout of the university functions. The area was a flatland flood plain along the Gan River. In earlier days, Jiangxi province was occupied by the Communists, and although their abandoned buildings were in need of repair, there was space enough for us to reopen the University. The faculty split the University, locating part in the city of Taihe, and part in Shangtian, a village suburb four to five miles away. The urban part was the major area for freshmen and the administrative offices. In the older part of Shangtian village were the labs and storage. In the new parts of the village were the library, academic meetings, the faculty dormitory, and other classrooms and dining halls. In another old academy were housed the agricultural classrooms and labs. Classes started March 18, 1938, and continued through to June 30. We studied furiously, day and night. We rose early for class and exercised outside in the spring sunshine. It helped that the landscape there was beautiful. Nonetheless, everyone had to work hard—to fulfill the exacting academic standards expected of us under these trying conditions. The conditions were hazardous to our health. In fact, walking home from the classroom one night, one of my classmates had trouble navigating the rugged road, and he fell into a small pond by mistake, but because he was so tired he died. It was wartime, and in those times, nobody paid too much attention to an extra body.

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Because of the war, we students were unable to return to our hometowns at the close of classes in June. Some students’ families were lost. For others, their families’ farmlands were appropriated by the Japanese, so their source of income was gone. Starting May 1, the government loaned money to students so that they would be able to stay in school, but only so much money as was necessary. Once, a female student had enough money to entertain relatives from out of town. When word got back to the University, her loan was canceled, because she seemed to have too much money. Students were also able work in University offices as typists. Typical salaries were equivalent to $0.10–0.25 USD per hour. Everyone was struggling, but at least the situation here was manageable, and while others had lost their homes and jobs, we had a way to earn some income. Wuhan was a place of considerable importance to both sides. The main railroad of China goes from Beijing in the north to Guangzhou in the south. It crosses the Yangtze River at Wuhan. Wuhan was also on the main east-west waterway artery of China, the Yangtze River. Wuhan was like the Chicago of China, a bustling crossroads in central China. The Japanese were doing their best to destroy it by bombing the city, and the Chinese were putting up an enormous effort to defend it. Despite the war raging in Wuhan, we were surrounded by beauty. Birds were singing and the farmers were planting fields of rice. In this environment, we students studied hard. We understood how lucky we were to be in the background, away from the carnage and brutality at the front. But as Chancellor Zhu reminded us when we were freshmen at Chanyuan Temple, it was our responsibility to be worthy of the privileges we were given. Although we studied hard and sought to be worthy scholars and students, because we were in our location long enough, and the conditions were peaceful enough, we, as a university, were able to act on our community responsibilities. The region was poor and in need of much help, but the people were full of sincere hospitality. To return the favor and give back to our host community, we students contributed to the local community to foster education by setting up a regional school. The local primary school lacked good teachers and equipment. The Education Department worked with the local government to create a school that included all student levels. We also tried to promote education locally and to encourage the adults to learn. The education students started a night school in a nearby village. This school met from 7:00–9:00 P.M. at night, and there were two sections of students, one for calligraphy and another for basic math. The university students also invited the school students and their parents to come together for discussions, as an attempt to solve some of the local problems. The university students

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themselves became educators; we learned to lead and organize a community, even one oppressed by the fear of war. Local health care was woefully inadequate, with disease, especially malaria and diarrhea, untreated dental and vision problems, and poor sanitation and hygiene. The University helped to improve the substandard health of the local people. The area was very poor. The University’s Medical School sponsored a children’s health exercise program and invited the local children to participate. Some of the professors’ wives were the judges. Sixty-two children competed and, according to the medical examination they were given, only three children passed the screening, while all the others failed as a result of poor nutrition and sanitation. The point of this competition was to educate parents about how to raise healthy children, that is, mainly to increase parent awareness of the importance of protecting their children’s health. To help the spirits of the local folk, who were mostly illiterate farm families, we put on plays around the city, on the streets and stages. Sometimes we erected temporary stages in the streets to perform. Many people would come to watch. Many of the plays were purposely educational or even bordering on propaganda, informing the farmers about the horrible actions of the Japanese and how important patriotism was—at all times, but particularly in this national crisis. As we worked on our own studies and on community reform, we also worked to support our nation. To these ends, we used our local performances to raise money for those fighting at the front. Although we worked hard, there was still time for fun. The University blocked the river to make a swimming pool, in part because the Chancellor himself liked to swim. The Physical Education Department widened part of the river and built wooden sides on the banks. Starting on June 19, boats blocked the river from 2:00 to 6:00 pm every day, forming a pool. Every day in summer, more than 300 people—mostly university students—would come to swim. Nobody drowned, and this was a pleasant diversion, one of the few available to students. Seeing that swimming was a popular activity, Shu Hong quickly seized the opportunity to organize a new system for grading us in physical education. Students were given three colors of swimming caps. The first was red, which meant that the student wearing a red cap was an assistant to Shu and a lifeguard. Yellow caps were for students who were passing the course and had basic swimming skills. The green caps were the lowest level, as green is a shameful color in China (symbolically connected to the slow turtle). Everyone worked hard to get out of the green caps and get promoted to yellow. Despite the good works of the University and the fun we were able to have, even in this peaceful location we couldn’t escape tragedy and death entirely.

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While Chancellor Zhu was traveling to Wuhan to raise money for the University, his wife in Taihe fell ill with diarrhea, probably from tainted food. The Chancellor had been educated in America and did not think diarrhea was a major medical emergency, but medicine was not available. His second son died on July 21st from the same illness. Shortly after the Chancellor’s hasty return to Taihe in the wake of his son’s death, his wife died on August 3. There was a huge memorial service for his wife and son on August 10th. They weren’t buried until September 15th—likely because of trouble finding a burial site or arranging a coffin. Several hundred people marched in the funeral procession, in a mass outpouring of emotion. Despite the outpouring of hospitality and the growing relationship between the local people and the University, we could not stay in Taihe for too long. The Japanese were pressing Wuhan, and the situation was becoming dangerous again. The Chancellor was planning ahead for the next move so it could occur smoothly. He began inspecting candidate sites in the interior of the country. People could use roads and railroads but there had to be a waterway so that the massive amount of equipment could travel relatively inexpensively and quickly. On August 17, 1938, Zhu arrived at Jiangxi to inspect possible facilities. Some sites that were suitable were far from the river, and some locations would require a move dragging on for a half year, so some locations were unsuitable. The Chancellor settled on Yishan as our next destination.

ESCAPING FROM A BRUTAL DEATH: CHIAO-MIN’S STORY FROM TAIHE TO YISHAN In July of 1938, neighboring cities fell to the Japanese Army, and Taihe was no longer a safe place for us to stay. The University set up a committee to organize the move to Yishan, in Guangxi province. Each student received the equivalent of USD $20 moving expenses, and each faculty member received $40 to $50. University employees whose salaries were below $30/month received $20 in moving expenses. The committee also organized the transportation of the University and Provincial Libraries. Staff members who helped with the equipment received an additional $1.50 a day. The committee divided the equipment and figured out how each person would travel. At each stage of the journey, when people arrived, food and lodging were prearranged, and the University had set up a temporary office there. Doctors and nurses were also provided to help people with health problems along the way. The first group of faculty and staff left on August 20, 1938 with their families. The female students left on September 15, and the University cars moved with them. Some went by land, some by water. The first group arrived

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in Yishan on September 8, and the first group of female students arrived on September 28. The last group of students arrived on October 8, and by the end of October, everyone had arrived safely. The river was not a direct route, so it took longer for the cargo to travel by water, and the libraries and equipment arrived last. Some people took cars, and some walked. Some small groups of students volunteered to walk and just set off on their own. Some people were only able to walk for short distances, while others walked for 40 days straight, over 1000 miles! There were many delays. Twenty five or more students in their school uniforms would be crammed into one train compartment, so tightly that we were not able to move. I remember sitting on a train all night one time, not able to move, and when we finally were able to stand up, I could not; my shirt was completely stuck to the seat from the sweat of being so closely packed into the car. There were logistical problems, as well. For male students, it was easy enough to go to the bathroom, but the women had a harder time. They had to be resourceful. They would use two bamboo poles to support a cloth drape, and the women would stand guard for one another. Sometimes male and female students would share a hotel room and would build a barrier, such as a line of bricks, down the middle of the room. The males and females were curious about each other, of course, but they kept apart. These inconveniences and trials, however, were nothing compared to the risk some groups faced as we traveled. One group of female students, chaperoned by Physical Education Professor Shu Hong, narrowly escaped death one night on their foot-trek from Taihe to Yishan. Weary from their travel, they sought lodging in a town where they hoped to rest for a night. They were having no luck finding a place to spend the night until they came to a coffin store, where they found some space upstairs. With the shopkeeper’s permission they slipped inside for the night. The young women bedded down for the night on the floor, but the professor was not entirely comfortable going to bed and leaving no one to keep watch. It was at his post against the door that one of the young women found him when she clambered toward the door in the middle of the night. Something was wrong with her feet. They were itching terribly, and she wanted to step out and find somewhere to wash her feet. Unsure of whether it was important enough of a reason to let one of his charges go out into the night without supervision, Shu Hong only allowed her to head out with words of grave caution and much reluctance. As she descended the stairs she could see that there were many people in the darkened shop, carrying the coffins out. Surprised and alarmed, she forgot her itching feet, and quickly turned and returned to report this finding to

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Shu Hong. After inspecting the situation downstairs, he roused the rest of the sleeping young women and moved them out of the building in the dead of night, despite their complaining. No sooner had they left the shop than there was a loud explosion. The coffins, it turned out, had been used to store bombs, and there was great activity because the Japanese had learned of this and were bent on destroying both the bombs and the shop that harbored them. My own trek across the province of Hunan was less scary, but nonetheless eventful. Without stopping for any great length of time, I passed through Hunan with its red-colored soil.3 For the first time in my young life, I began to observe non-Chinese ethnic groups, since various indigenous peoples occupied the more hilly countryside, and I was from the lowlands, settled by the Han Chinese. I was impressed with the strength of the accent I heard from the people of Hunan. But I was even more impressed with the people I met in Hunan. Since roughly over 90% of Chinese are Han Chinese, an ethnic name from the Han Dynasty (207 BCE-220 CE), distinguishing the non-Han minorities from each other is challenging, especially since there are 55 ethnic minority groups. Not only did I first encounter some of these people for the first time in my young life, but I was taken aback by their appearance and customs. While I was traveling through Hunan, I was told that there were about eight million Miao people in China, and that about 15% of them lived in Hunan. By lucky coincidence, I was able not only to see some Miao people while passing through Hunan, but also to spend time learning about them. My first impression of them was based on their clothing. We were all traveling in old, tattered clothes. There was nothing glamorous about our dress, but the Miao were impressive to see. The men wore short coats and trousers, again not very fancy, but the women were just the opposite. They decorated themselves with very dainty and dazzling skirts and jewels. Their skirts were beautiful and covered in patterns based on nature. One woman wore a beautiful floral patterned skirt of many colors. Another had a flock of birds stitched across her skirt. Compared to the female students, these skirts were quite amazing—especially in their weight. Some of their skirts had as many as forty pleated layers! And on their heads, both the men and the women wore spectacularly ornate headdresses. On a fine day, a dozen or so Miao girls came to the female students’ temporary residence. The Zhejiang women showed these women a hearty welcome, and then the Miao girls started a group dance. They were so graceful and pretty, as they danced to new rhythms that the Zhejiang women had never heard before. The Zhejiang students were captivated, and normally would have shown their appreciation by clapping excitedly at the end of the dance, but fortunately their translator had warned them against this seemingly normal

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practice, because clapping was not culturally appropriate with the Miao. Clapping would be considered insulting, as if the performance had not been enjoyable. And so instead, the Zhejiang women got together to sing songs after the Miao girls’ performance. Through their songs, the Zhejiang women were able to show their appreciation, while they also showed the Miao girls some of their own traditions. Although I wasn’t privy to the Miao girls’ dancing, I did have an encounter with the Miao myself. One night while in Hunan, I went walking after midnight with several other students. We were making our way along our own path when we looked up towards the mountains and saw several people walking along the mountain. The figures were hard to make out, because the only light was the small lamp these people were carrying, but it appeared to be a small procession of people in the mountains. We watched for quite awhile, wondering what they were doing. When we relayed this information to others they helped explain what we’d seen. Apparently a small procession after midnight is a Miao custom. If a Miao dies in a foreign area, the rest of the Miao people know that the person needs to be taken to his or her homeland. Even though the person is already dead at this point, the Miao priests pray over the corpse with mystical words until the dead Miao can stand up and walk. Then the Miao corpse silently falls into line behind the priests and is led back to the homeland, where the corpse will be laid to rest. Upon hearing this information, I couldn’t help but be amazed. I was keenly interested in other traditions of the Miao that seemed so different from my own cultural norms. My fellow students were equally as intrigued, and we spent a fair amount of time learning more about the Miao. As young Han men, we were particularly struck by one story of the Miao. We learned that Miao people supposedly had developed a medicine that could slowly poison people. In and of itself, this invention was not particularly exciting, as many cultures had poisons. What was interesting to us was that the Miao also had developed the antidote so that they could have the power to save or not save poisoned people. The purpose of these medicinal treatments was actually for the Miao women. Because Miao women sometimes would marry Han men who came to town, the Miao women worried much over whether or not the Han men would be faithful. And their worries weren’t merely over adulterous behavior, but instead were about abandonment. They understood that family was important, and so there would be times when their Han husbands would need to return to the east to spend time with their relatives, but there was always a fear that once their husband returned to their home communities, they would stay. Out of this fear came the creation of the poison and antidote, and in many Miao homes where there was a Han husband, you could find a jar in the corner of the kitchen. In the jar lived snakes and other insects—all con-

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On the refugee road to Yishan

tributing ingredients to the poison. And so when a Han husband was preparing to journey back east, the Miao wife would concoct some poison from the contents of the jar, and mix the poison into the husband’s dinner. After dinner on that night, she would tell her husband what she’d done, and tell him that if he did not return right away, he would die. If he returned from his visit on time, then she would mix an antidote, and save him from his otherwise certain death. After learning of this custom, my friends and I all took note, reminding ourselves that as much as we might be interested in gazing at girls, we wanted to be sure we didn’t send any signals to the Miao girls. We certainly didn’t want to risk being poisoned! Because Hunan has long been a main route between northern and southern China, it was a target area for the Japanese. While I stayed in Hengyang, in

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Hunan, there were many Japanese air raids. Hunan was also full of Chinese pilots. Being in close proximity to these men, I was able to observe how others treated them. The pilots got the best food, lodging, and attention of beautiful women. Their courage was respected because they were defending us and they could die any day.

IN YISHAN: CHIAO-MIN’S STORY Passing out of Hunan province, at the end of October 1938, I arrived at Guilin City in Guangxi province.4 As I entered this region of China, my geographer’s imagination was blown away by the changes in the landforms. Ahead of me I saw formations rising out of the ground that I’d not only never seen before, but could never have even imagined. They were diverse—from stone forests to sinkholes, caves and ditches. Although different, I learned that they were all a part of “karst” topography. This type of landscape was created through long-term interactions between the climate and the bedrock of the region. The thick, pure limestone that is native to the land had undergone continual dissolution from the high heat and copious rainfall. Together these factors led to the creation of the variety of topographical structures I saw all around me in Guilin and the rest of the Guangxi region. As a budding geography scholar, seeing these structures and being able to take day trips to investigate the karst formations more thoroughly certainly were rewarding experiences during an otherwise stressful time. In addition to interesting topographical features, Guilin also boasted an interesting people and culture. Here again I encountered another Chinese ethnic group I’d only read about before. Although the Zhuang were, and remain, the largest minority group in China, I had never encountered a Zhuang person before. In the Guangxi region, however, all that changed since 90% of the Zhuang population lived in this region. My time here afforded me the opportunity to learn about the Zhuang people from observing them as well as taking in the sights of some of their most well-known artifacts around the region. Two of these experiences were most outstanding: seeing the Rock Cliff Wall Painting, and the bronze drum. From my experience with the Zhuang people and their artifacts, I learned much about them, and their worship practices. Prior to being exposed to their practices and those of the other ethnic minority groups I met along my journey with Zhejiang University, I’d known mostly about Confucianism and Buddhism, and had an understanding of Christianity. But from the Zhuang I learned about polytheism, where the holy objects worshipped ranged from large rocks to tall trees, and dragons, as well as ancestors. And in culturally diverse Guilin, I was exposed to a wide range

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of thinking on just about every topic, and so I learned to be more aware of the influence of culture on thinking and beliefs. As the cultural center of region, in addition to the usual suspects in such a place (artists, writers, and poets), the city was also full of politicians and at the time, this meant that there was a sizable underground Communist faction dedicated to Communist ideals and to recruiting like-minded people. One day, when two of my classmates were in Guilin city, on a break from classes in Yishan, they met a young man about their age. Although they did not know this man, they struck up a friendly conversation with him about the common topics of the day—the war with the Japanese, and the governments. They were all tired of the Nationalist Government, and with the idea that they shared the same ideals, this new acquaintance of theirs suggested that they leave the University and join the Communists. Full of animated zeal, he stressed the immense opportunity this was and how much they could contribute as the Communist movement built. My classmates listened, but did not rush to commit, and so their young acquaintance kept going, telling them that they could register with the movement in an underground office. My classmates talked seriously and extensively then and upon their return to Zhejiang, wondering if they should commit, or if there was still something important about their opportunity to study as part of Zhejiang University. Ultimately they decided to commit themselves to their professors and studies, and not join the Communist movement. In Yishan, where our University was temporarily housed, our lives were considerably less exciting than when we went into Guilin. Although Yishan was the eighth largest city in the province, it still had trouble accommodating the entire University. We occupied peoples’ houses and the Confucian temple. Nearby there was a large military training compound, and the University occupied that area as well. The city housed the university offices, the faculty and family dormitory, and the women students—for their safety. In the suburban area and the training camp, some buildings were used for dining rooms. The University built temporary classrooms, with mud floors and bamboo and rice straw walls. We used them from September 8, 1938 to May 1939. Ye Liangfu, a geologist, was one of the professors in these classrooms. His training in America had taught him to rely on the scientific method to make hypotheses and then test them in the field. He insisted that we do the same, and so we began to engage in problem-based learning. This was a lot to ask of university students like me and my classmates, as we were young and inexperienced, but Ye spent time with us helping us design our studies individually. He encouraged us to follow our own curiosity. His teaching style led to many individual conversations with Ye. My classmates and I developed an enjoyable relationship with him, and even began to

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test him. His lab was brimming with carefully labeled rock samples, and one day we tried to trick Ye. There must have been hundreds of samples, all different, and to our young, untrained eyes, we thought it impossible to actually be able to identify these samples without the help of labels. And so we took off some of the labels and asked Ye to identify the rock types. When he went about correctly identifying each and every one, we were dumbfounded, and somewhat embarrassed at our own undeveloped skills. We paid more attention to him after that. In fact, following my own curiosity was, I believe, what led to my working so closely with Ye. I was, to be honest, not generally the most motivated student at the University, and while I worked hard, generally lectures did not interest me much. But one day Ye gave a lecture which I found fascinating. He spoke about isostasy and continental drift, and I found this idea very compelling—so compelling, in fact, that I went to the library to read more about the topic. I found a book in English and read it from start to finish. At the end of the term, there was a question about isostasy on the final examination, and of course I was able to write a very thorough answer for it. In general, Ye was a tough grader and gave low marks, but I received a score of more than 90% on that examination. I think that, after this, Ye was quite impressed with me as a student. In Yishan, the tutor system continued. The tutors met together with the students at least once a week and conversed in some depth with them. All the tutors met together monthly to compare experiences, plan their teaching strategies, and discuss problems they encountered. Usually one tutor would be responsible for twelve students, and the older students chose professors from their own department as tutors. The concept was that the University had a responsibility not only to train students in technology, but to cultivate their personalities and characters as well. The tutor was considered essential in molding students’ values and coaching them with leadership skills. The tutor system also helped us cope better with the condition of our own lives at the time. Many of us were homesick. We were young men, away from our families, with bombs falling all the time. One of our classmates had lost his mother in the war. We were all nervous for ourselves and our families, and we were angry with the Japanese. You can imagine that these strong emotions could have inhibited our studies and our personal well-being. Fortunately we were surrounded by caring professors who helped us during this time. Ye, our geology professor, invited us into his home often. His wife always cooked food for us, even though the family was poor and there was never enough food for anyone in those days. Ye shed tears with us in sympathy when we received bad news about our families. He listened to our

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anger, but he urged us to stay calm. He taught us not just geology, but also how to interact with others. Ye was also particularly important to me, because he helped me reconcile my own diverging desires. On the one hand I wanted to work hard and excel in school, but at the time I was also drawn to playing basketball, swimming, and playing Chinese chess. The latter activities were much more exciting to me than being in the library all day long in those days. So many people were sick and malnourished; diarrhea was common, and many students developed tuberculosis. Sitting hunched over books in the cold, with a rumbling stomach, just to try to be number one in the class in school, did not seem to be a good way to improve my health. Ye used his own experience, having been number one and now unable to go out into the field because of poor health, to caution us, “Study is a whole life pursuit.” He meant that we did not have to learn everything right then. We had a lifetime to learn, and in the long run we would be able to learn more if we remained healthy. He approved of my choices to spend time outdoors being active, instead of staying in the library all of the time. Going outdoors, however, wasn’t always so safe, and I got myself into more than a few scrapes when I ventured out. You see, in those days the military was on constant alert for Japanese spies scouting out areas for future bombings. And so one day as I wandered out with only a book and a map in my hand a security officer approached me suspiciously, reasoning that I might be a traitor, reading and checking a map on the route near Yishan in Guangxi where there were many air raids. Here I was, happily enjoying a book—Xu’s diary and map5—and suddenly I have to explain myself to an uneducated, hostile policeman. At this distance in time, the incident seems humorous, but at that time, I had to do some serious explaining. There is a Chinese saying that “A scholar never can explain his reasoning to a soldier—the gap is too wide.” It was never more true than on that day. After all, I was just being a typical student with his head in the clouds. I wanted to retrace the steps of Xu, a scholar I’d been reading about, and I knew I was near many of the places he so vividly described in his diary. Being a student of geography, it only made sense to me that I would go out and see the landforms he described. But being a security officer, any boy wandering around with just a map and a book seemed like trouble. It took quite a long time for me to explain myself to this soldier, and it was only through showing him the book and explaining over and over that I was a student at Zhejiang University—which was now a refugee university—that I was able to persuade him to let me go on my way. You see, I grew up in the Yangtze delta, where Xu lived over three centuries ago. When Zhejiang University was fleeing the Japanese invasion, we had

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traveled from Hangzhou in Zhejiang province, through Taihe in Jiangxi province and Hengyang in Hunan province, and through Yishan in Guangxi province, to Zunyi in Guizhou province. Thus, I passed through approximately the same regions that Xu visited in the 1630’s, except that Xu finally traveled to the Yunnan plateau to investigate the source of the Yangtze River, while I went to the Sichuan Basin to join the Institute of Geography. Although my motives for making my journey were quite different from Xu’s, my method of traveling was much the same as his, mostly by walking. As a student of geography, I was able to observe many of the phenomena that Xu described in his diary. As a young geographer, I really became enthusiastic about Xu’s diary. I was often surprised by the accuracy of his observation of the landscape, and charmed by the beauty of his written words. I enjoyed carrying Xu’s diary with his attached map, to check the accuracy of his writing. For example, he had written that half a mile after a particular landmark, there was a temple. In my walks, I did find that temple, as described, as well as other landmarks from the diary.

BOMBING OF OUR TEMPORARY CAMPUS Although I did find some moments of quiet solitude and joy during our trek to the interior, such moments were not the common theme of the journey. On March 5, 1939, eighteen Japanese heavy bombers hit the dormitories in an abandoned suburban military training compound. This spartan collection of broken down, makeshift buildings built of bamboo and rice straw, with clay floors and concrete bunkers, felt the full fury of the ravages of war. The compound was located a few miles east of the city. All male student dormitories, which had housed 330 students, and 22 classrooms were destroyed. A piano that had been brought all the way from Hangzhou was also destroyed. Amazingly, no people were hurt. The compound was bordered, just about one hundred twenty feet away, by the Long (Dragon) River. Along the rocky banks of this river were limestone caves. When the bombers first arrived, they passed over the compound, circled around it and strafed the area with machine guns, followed by bombs. Within one hour, they dropped over one hundred twenty bombs, covering an area of 500 square feet, in a symmetric checkerboard pattern. When the air-raid sirens began to wail, the students, who had no prior experience with such an attack, ran either to the bunkers or to the river, not finding any other cover. The air raid sirens signaled again when the planes left, but ten minutes later the bombers returned. This time many ran to the caves. Finally, when the attack was over, people began to emerge from hiding, from the rocks, caves, bunkers, and the river. Some students were covered

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with dirt and debris. Someone spotted a foot sticking out of the ground, and they dug out its owner. He came out of the ground lamenting that he had lost his foot until the others pointed out that he was whole. Feeling a little sheepish, he laughed heartily. We students then immediately lined up for a head count—our typical procedure after a bombing. Only two were injured, no one had died. Although we were mostly physically intact, fires were raging through the military compound campus, and all of our belongings were going up in flames. So we lined up from the river, each carrying a face-washing basin, passing water from one man to the next, like a great human water pump. We brought the fire under control, but not before our belongings—bedding, clothing, books, etc., were all destroyed. That night the moon was bright and it was not too cold. Faculty wives brought rice straw for bedding, with blankets and pillows from our female classmates. Everyone then gathered to sing songs, mostly about moonlight and the barbaric Japanese. We joked about the female students whose pillows we were using. Another student who had been having mental illness problems and who had been put in a room for special care seemed to have been cured by the attack, perhaps shocking it out of him; his behavior became normal again. Later, the people of Yishan told us that the bombing had killed thirty people in the town and wounded fifty more. There was great anger because the Japanese had savagely attempted to destroy the University. Students were precious in China because they were so few and held the promise of leading the nation in the future. Students were never sent to the front to die; although most students went through military training and became officers in status, those few who became active soldiers did so by their own choice. The students taught the farmers patriotic songs against the Japanese.

1939, STUDENT CONTRIBUTION TO THE WAR EFFORT We Zhejiang University students were not the only young people to focus our wartime efforts on educating ourselves and others. Due to Confucian influence and a huge population, intellectuals, including college students, would not be sent to a war front. But students in all the refugee universities were enraged by stories of Japanese torturing and murdering their countrymen, raping their women, bombing their cities and demolishing their cultural centers, including temples, universities and libraries. A number of students dropped out of university to join the national armed forces. Even Chancellor Zhu’s eldest son jumped out of the window, leaving home against his parents’ wishes to fight for his country.

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The Zhejiang University Student Association decided that they could go to the front to perform services to support those who were fighting, to serve as nurses, repair shoes, write letters, sing songs to rally the troops and publish news from the war front. Twice they did this. From January 8 to February 4, 1939, eighty members of the Student Association went to the war front and not only brought towels, toothbrushes, shoes, stationery, and writing implements but staged shows, such as one for the Chinese New Year which was attended by two thousand people and was the happiest event of that year. On November 15, 1939, the Japanese landed at the southern coast of Guangxi in the Gulf of Tonkin, and occupied the city of Nanning, where the gate of Kun Lun was of strategic importance. For this battle, the Japanese mobilized their best soldiers—the “Steel Army”—and China mobilized its most mechanized forces. There was a terrible battle at this gate, or fort, and victory went first one way and then the other, with the gate being captured and then freed nine times. This was a serious battle because the inland war capital of China was not far away. It was during this time of horrific fighting that the Chinese would celebrate their winter holiday, and this year the Student Association would again bring that holiday to the war front. On January 18, 1940, another group of sixty students, who intended to bring about 30,000 pairs of straw shoes for the soldiers, gathered together at the Confucian Temple at Yishan for a dedication ceremony before going to the front. Chancellor Zhu gave a farewell address and dedicated their flag for the journey. The flag was five feet long. It was made of cloth and bore white calligraphic characters in a blue field. The students all had insignias on their sleeves that showed that they were from Zhejiang University. They left in separate groups, each group having made its own arrangements for traveling, some by boat, some on foot, and so on. This student organization was led by both a male and a female student. Once there, they began to care for the soldiers. The women were there to do laundry and help the soldiers mend the straw shoes that they were wearing. The male students went to help cheer up the soldiers and help them write letters to their families. While the Zhejiang students were at the front, the Japanese suddenly attacked. There was some confusion as students and soldiers scattered about, and one of the students went the wrong way. When the student group returned to us later, they were without this particular student. “What became of him?” we all wondered. After the Japanese left, a friend of his went back to look for him, to see if he could find his body, or whether he was captured by the Japanese—the conclusion to be drawn if his body was not found. The smell of that place was terrible. The bodies were all there, strewn across

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the earth, and because they were rotting, the stink was almost unbearable. This friend spent long hours making his way through the bodies as he searched for the missing student’s body. To help him cope with the smell, he smoked, but even that did not entirely mask the smell of death all around him. Finally he came upon a body that looked like his friend’s. Because of the decay and mess, it was hard to be sure, but the body seemed to be wearing what looked like a Zhejiang uniform. With a heavy heart, this student returned to our makeshift campus in Yishan to inform us that we’d lost one of our fellow students to the Japanese. We all mourned the loss of this student, and the University organized a memorial service. At this service, the whole campus came together to honor the student’s patriotism. We talked about his sacrifice, and we cried together. He was not the first student who’d become a casualty of the war, but his death touched us all. Time passed, and then one day we saw a male student walking across campus who looked like our missing friend. Could it be? It seemed quite unlikely and there was talk that the missing student’s ghost had come to the campus. But when pressed, the ghost told us he was no ghost at all, but actually the missing student. “What happened?” we all wanted to know. And then he told us his most interesting story. He was indeed captured by the Japanese, and by coincidence, one of his Japanese captors had been a university student himself, before being sent off to war. The two made friends with each other, and the Japanese captor took our student to Shanghai, where a puppet government was in place, controlled by the Japanese. Shanghai also happened to be where this student was originally from, and where his family still resided. With some help from his Japanese captor, he was eventually released and allowed to return to the University. And so it was that he came back to us.

ENCOUNTER WITH GENERALISSIMO CHIANG KAI-SHEK Zhejiang’s wartime efforts were not without recognition by those in charge. On January 19, 1940, a group of twenty students arrived in Dadun in southwest Liuzhou city. After supper, three of the students wandered out by the highway. Suddenly two black cars stopped about 100 feet from them. Three military men came out and looked around them, sizing up the terrain. One of them was a tall, thin man wearing a cape. He looked very much like pictures they had seen of Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek; then they were sure, it was him. Behind him were two high ranking generals, who they later realized were Zhang Zhizhong and He Yaozhu. Recognizing them, one student was bold enough to slowly move towards General

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Zhang and, as he approached the general, he reported that his companions and he were a student group from Zhejiang University on their way to serve on the front. He asked whether his group might report to the general for inspection. The general nodded to the student to wait, and consulted with Chiang Kai-shek. After a moment’s consideration, he lightly nodded his head, waiting in place. Then the general turned to the student leader and said they would receive them and instructed them to line up. The three students rushed back to their group and all twenty lined up, flag held high, ten feet before General Zhang Zhizhong. Chiang Kai-shek saw this and approached them slowly and with great dignity. He spoke with a strange accent, had very piercing eyes, and spoke with them personally. He asked whether any of them were from Zhejiang province; most said yes. He asked about whether damage was done to the province when it was bombed the year before. They reported about the destruction of the buildings, but said that most of the people were unharmed. He inquired about their food supply—whether they had enough to eat, and they answered that they were all right. When he reached the end of the student line, he turned around again and said, “Good, good.” He also said, “It is good for you to come to the front where you can learn many things you can never learn from books.” Having shown his approval, the three men returned to the cars, and dashed off down the road. The students were very excited and felt great pride and honor due to this unexpected encounter with their national leader. After the encounter with these important officials, the group was very tired. When they arrived at the front, the commander invited them to stay for dinner. The food was very good. One of the women students stood up and said, “We came to the front to suffer and work; we didn’t expect you to provide such a wonderful dinner.” The commander realized that the students were earnest, honest, and patriotic. It was known that this army division had lost about two thirds of their soldiers, with many more wounded. The students washed the soldiers’ clothes, wrote letters home, and published the news of the front for them. The soldiers had seen great troubles, and there had been some tension between the army and local farmers. So to lift everyone’s spirits, the students, together with some very talented high school students, produced a highly effective stage show that made everyone feel better. There were bright, festive lights, and the soldiers sat in front, local farmers in the back seats. During the intermission, the farmers brought about seven pigs for the celebration. The soldiers killed and cooked the pigs, and the feast they had together improved relations between the soldiers and the farmers. It was the students who catalyzed this peacemaking.

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YISHAN TO ZUNYI (DECEMBER 1939–FEBRUARY 1940): CHIAO-MIN’S STORY On November 26, 1939, the Japanese occupied Nanning, the capital of Guangxi province, and air raids began in Yishan. The University could not stay any longer, and beginning on that same day, November 26, we started to move to Guizhou province. Guizhou was one of the poorest provinces in the country—in part because the rugged terrain isolated the province and communication systems were poor. Because of he rugged terrain, the move there was even more difficult than the earlier moves had been. The small Shan River went to the city, but it was not navigable, so most of the equipment had to travel by car through the mountains. No trucks were available. At last, after traveling 1000 miles, Zhejiang University, with its 800 students, professors and their families, science laboratories, library books, and storage arrived in Zunyi,6 the second largest city in Guizhou, with a population at the time of about 100,000, we began to set up the University. It was in this place—a place referred to as a place with no level land within three miles, no pleasant weather for more than three days and no people with more than three cents—that the University remained from 1940 until the end of the year in 1946.

Faculty and students of the College of Humanities at Zunyi. Front row: far left, Professor Chang Chi-yun; fourth from left, Professor Mei Guangdi. Third row: far left, Professor Fei Gong. Fourth row: third from right, Chiao-min Hsieh

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Zunyi was a city like nothing I’d ever seen before. “City” is perhaps an exaggeration when describing Zunyi. The city was divided in two by the Xiang River. A bridge connected the two areas—the new city and the old city. The new city was full of factories that produced all kinds of goods such as noodles, silk, embroidery, tung oil, and even anesthesia. The new city also housed the entertainment district, consisting of only two theatres: one for the Chinese opera and the other, a movie theater. The movie theatre was also the largest gathering place in the city. Because the river was not navigable, everything had to travel by the unpaved roads through town. The streets were consequently jammed with all kinds of traffic from jeeps, to cars, to rickshaws, to carts pulled by oxen. Needless to say, when the weather was dry, the traffic kicked up huge clouds of dust that covered everything. There was a single city newspaper. There were only five high schools in the area. For adults, all the education available was a community education center. All of Zhejiang University poured into this little city, and we were not alone. Three other institutions also came to Zunyi seeking shelter: the highest ranking military university, the Army’s Institute of Foreign Languages and

Basketball team of Zhejiang University at Zunyi (Chiao-min Hsieh is in the second row, third student from the right)

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the infantry Academy. Every space in the small city was used in some way by the universities. The Colleges of Humanities and Engineering, and the Teachers’ College were all located in Zunyi, along with the women’s dormitory and the administrative offices. We used Buddhist and Confucian temples, and the University also built dormitories, dining rooms, and laboratories. As a geography student, I often went with my peers to visit Meitan. Meitan was a quaint place where the highest building was a three-story hotel. The Meitan River ran through town with a picturesque bridge crossing it. All around the back was an alluvial plain. The area was full of farms where local people grew cotton and potatoes in the local soil. More than the beauty of the place, however, I appreciated the peacefulness of Meitan. After a long journey dodging bombs, it was good to settle into my studies. Classes were held in a Confucian temple in the town and afterwards we students would take our books out into the countryside to read and study. Professors, in their long gowns, walked in the sunshine and read classics and recited outdoors. Water wheels brought water from lower elevations to higher, and the sound of the rushing water was very calming. All kinds of birds lived in the area, and at sunset the birds would flock to the forests on the edges of the cultivated fields. Pears, peaches, and even kiwis grew on trees and students walking by could pick the fruit. The war seemed so far away then; there were no airplanes flying overhead, and few rumors about the war penetrated Meitan. While at Zunyi, one of my professors mobilized graduate students and professors to publish a report of Zunyi, which described the land masses, the weather, the regional climate, the soil, the population, the history, and the manufacturing in the region. This was a very useful collection for the University, which was first published in Zunyi and then in Hangzhou in 1948.

IN ZUNYI: JEAN’S STORY Even using every space, Zunyi could not accommodate the whole of Zhejiang University, so again we spread into the surrounding areas. Meitan, a nearby town, housed the science and agriculture departments and a new high school set up by the University. The university freshmen were located in Yongxing, another city about one hundred miles away. I lived at all three locations during my college years. The women faced some particular challenges. Running back and forth every day between the women’s dorm and the classes in Zunyi was practically impossible unless you were really good at the hundred meter dash. The most difficult thing to cope with was the fact that the classrooms on Hejia Alley had no toilets. After a breakfast of three bowls of thin rice gruel, trying to

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Women’s volleyball team of Zhejiang University at Zunyi (Jean is in the second row, third from the right)

sit through three classes in succession was virtually impossible for anyone. We often had to resort to stopping off at the homes of locals for a bathroom break. All in all, during the War of Resistance, the food, clothing, shelter, and transportation for the students of Zhejiang University were really miserable, but somehow everyone managed, which was probably due simply to the victory of mind over matter. We were able to think in the face of distractions not only by blocking out the war, but also blocking out the daily life of the town while studying. In Zunyi, two of the classrooms were next to the street, and across the street lived some poor families. One day just as we were about to start class, two women from across the street started to shout and curse at each other. At the time, the weather was hot, so the doors and windows were wide open. Their shouting made it impossible for us to start class, whereupon our teacher, Mr. Liu, who was about to start lecturing, yelled over at them to stop fighting; but they were at the peak of their shouting and going at it with all their might, and what did they care whether you held class or not? They paid no attention. After a while the fighting had still not stopped, so Mr. Liu stuck his head out of the window and shouted loudly at them “Hey, you two had better stop fighting. If you don’t I’ll call the military police to take you in.”

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At these words, the women stopped fighting, turned the muzzles of their guns out their windows, and, with a deafening roar, shook their fists and stamped their feet while cursing Mr. Liu. They startled him so much that he hurriedly drew his head back in and slammed the window shut. By this point my friends and I could not help breaking out into laughter, and I immediately took out a piece of paper and dashed off a note that she gave to the student sitting next to me saying “Woman Wang curses the street and disrupts the school, but Mr. Liu’s shouts aren’t worth a penny.” When my friend read those two lines, she immediately covered her mouth with her hand but still could not help bursting out in laughter. The dormitories were crowded but also fun. In order to save space, all had upper and lower bunks, with wooden plank beds, and plank desks, but we managed to get along. Despite the living conditions, our lives were filled with basic joys denied during our journey from Hangzhou. For example, after supper, people liked to walk along the town wall or along the river. Sometimes after dinner we would go out walking in single-sex groups on the city walls of Zunyi or Meitan. The groups would try to pass each other and say hello, but they never were closer than that. Consequently, whenever there was the least little possibility that someone might have been seen with a member of the opposite sex, and that the two were seen alone, the rumors spread like wildfire! I certainly found this to be true, because one day I was spotted walking with a boy while sharing an umbrella. Everyone began talking about this sighting and speculating as to whom the boy with me might be. The rumors were much juicier than the actual truth: it was only my brother who was visiting me at the time. Still, the fact that the rumors spread so quickly and were so widely interesting demonstrates just how crazy we were about boy-girl romances. Well. What I should say is that while we were very interested in the opposite sex at that time, most of us were far too conservative to ever make any sort of physical advances. There was no kissing or hand-holding, but we wanted to see each other for sure. There was one female student who experienced physical contact with a male during those days. Unfortunately, we all believed at first that it was unwanted physical contact. The female students had a curfew and were required to be in their dormitories at midnight. Although the idea of a curfew likely strikes modern minds as strange, it seemed quite reasonable in those days, because it was put into place to protect the women, who were much less likely to be assaulted if they were inside under the protection of the University than out and about in the town. So when a nightly check of female students revealed a missing student, the whole University panicked and feared the worst. It would not have been too much of a leap to assume that she’d not made it back to the dormitory because she’d been kidnapped along the way home. The fact

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that this seemed a reasonable assumption shows how unstable the times we were. We quickly organized a search for the girl, and we set out calling her name into the dark night air. Over and over we called. And round and round we searched. As time passed in our search, we became more nervous that something horrible had become of her. Fortunately, our worst fears did not turn out to be true this time, and we found her hunkered down in the grass, her lips voluntarily locked onto those of a boy student. She’d not been kidnapped or assaulted after all, she’d just lost track of time with a boy student. So while most of us wouldn’t even dream of walking alone with a member of the opposite sex, our conservative lives were occasionally jarred by the few of our peers who were more daring and liberal than the rest of us.

THE BOYS & THE GIRLS: CHIAO-MIN’S STORY My interest in the women students, however, did not mean that my male peers and I were always nice to them. There were relatively few female students, and we boys were always giving them a hard time and teasing them. We also spent a lot of time watching the women walk from the dormitory to the dining room. To get from one to the other the women had to traverse a steep, unpaved slope. When there was rain everything became quite slippery and muddy. Walking down to dinner, the women would slip and fall into the mud from time to time. We male students watched for this through the dormitory windows, laughing and joking when the women fell. That said, we also found that while it was okay with us to make fun of the female students, we did feel some responsibility to protect them from the overly curious eyes of local boys. You see, the local teenage boys were forever attempting to peek through the cracks in the walls of the dressing room huts at the local swimming area. They wanted to see our female students changing. When this would happen, the women would scream, and we male students would run to their rescue, ferociously chasing the younger local boys away. One day, the University students were in pursuit of one of these boys and had almost caught him, when the boy turned around to face the students, “Why do you chase me?” he asked. “I saw everything already.” Faced with this logic, the University students felt they had no choice but to let the boy go.

THE BOYS & THE GIRLS: JEAN’S STORY In turn, the University seemed to see that it was their responsibility to protect the women students from the male students, even though they wouldn’t dream

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of doing anything reprehensible, or even slightly salacious. When a male student came to visit, he first had to relay his request to Old Zhao, after which Old Zhao would go to the back of the courtyard and yell out “Miss so-and-so, you have a guest.” The windows of the guest room directly faced the dormitory behind, so a lot of people soon knew who it was that had come to visit this time, and he simply had to stiffen his back until the reply came back down, sometimes in Miss so-and-so’s voice, “So-and-so isn’t in.” Horrors! Hopes dashed, the dejected victim could only lower his head and walk out. For a period of time, the Office of the Dean of Students apparently gave the male students a hard time by making those who came to visit sign their full names on something like a register, then state whom they were visiting, after which Old Zhao would take the slip of paper to go look for the person.Thus the Dean’s office would be informed and there would be a record. At this point, some of the men, waiting until Old Zhao had disappeared into the rear building to find the woman being called, would reach down on the table and tear off the file stub they had signed, thinking that after they had talked and left, there would be no entry in the register and no trace of their having visited. Little did they know that Old Zhao was a clever old fox and that after they had left, he would quietly fill in the two names again. I heard that, later, it was too much bother for Old Zhao, and this system was simply eliminated. Such phenomena occurred really because there were too few women students, and since that which is scarce becomes highly valued, of course, the women could become arrogant. There was a female student who, because she had had smallpox when little, unfortunately had lost her sight in one eye and had pockmarks over her whole face. I do not know who it was that cleverly gave her the nickname “the sky studded with stars and one round bright moon.” (This nickname was indeed a work of superb skill. One could say it contained the qualities of truth, expressivity and refinement.) While she was at Zhejiang University, she received a love letter, and once someone asked her for a rendezvous under the moon. Many years later someone brought this up, stating with a sigh, “the male students at Zhejiang University were really no good. Even such a ‘surplus product’ as ‘the sky studded with stars and one bright moon’ was wanted by someone.” In fact, it was not a case of being no good, but simply that the demand was much greater than the supply, so that the value of the women students was increased by some ten-fold. Some of the women were really lacking in virtue. When they received a letter from one of the men, if they were unhappy for any reason, they would send it back unopened. Others would parade their rejections in public, and some would even add comments in red ink, all of which was really unbearable. One

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of the men who considered himself highly talented was good at writing love letters. He thought he had read a lot of foreign materials and to show off, filled the page with quotes from Tolstoy, Maupassant, etc. When the woman received his letter, she picked up her pen and wrote the following comment: “A whole page covered with Maupassant, how sad! You have not read all the Four Books and the Five Classics; the ‘classics’ of Kropotkin is empty madness. Tolstoy’s alright, but don’t forget Su Dongpo and Du Fu. Foreign things are difficult to appreciate, better to read Laozi and Zhuangzi in your leisure. No matter how great foreign authors are, if you forget your roots and ancestors, you go astray. Alas, your efforts are in vain! Copying a Tang poem would have been better than this.” This tease was really embarrassing and excessive, but it demonstrated the general situation of the times. Despite the relative peacefulness of our lives, I have to say that our lives were still not easy. We had two main enemies during the war. The first— bombs and machine guns—which we had now left far behind and, the second, the fleas and other bugs, which were harder to escape. These latter critters came out at night and bit everyone, making sleeping very difficult and unpleasant. The most common way of killing the bedbugs was to carry the bed planks outside to sun, or else to soak them with boiling water. Then you could get some peace for a few days, but after a little while when you lifted up your bedding, there on the bed boards would again be a number of wriggling, crawling, stinking bedbugs. Fleas were also very annoying. These guys were very alert and quick, unlike the crawling bedbugs, and thus were very hard to catch. In the middle of the night after you were fast asleep, you would feel an itch on your leg; when you immediately sat up in bed, there was already nothing to see. I had a friend who had a real talent for catching fleas. She would hold the oil lantern in her left hand and swat at a flea with her right. She would swat the bed with her palm, pull her hand back, and when she lifted it up between her thumb and her middle finger there was always a flea. In one night she could catch ten or more and would frequently catch them for us. Later my friends and I all called her “Lady Flea,” at which she got mad, washed her hands of this task and would not help us any more. Life was also unpleasant because few university people had truly adequate clothing during the war. The men students usually wore their school uniforms, and in winter they would cover this up with a long robe. No one looked very stylish in the winter, because we were all trying so hard to keep warm. There were no leather shoes, only cotton slippers, and stockings quickly grew holes in the heels and toes. In the winter rain, our feet would get soaked and stay cold. Even the professors’ long gowns were patched together and shabby. They looked more like beggars than distinguished scholars.

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We women students looked a little better, generally, because we knew how to knit and could repair our clothes. We also made many of our clothes ourselves, such as the suits we swam in during the summer. Most of us wore long navy blue dresses, which were easier to keep clean than light colored clothes, and no one wanted to wear black, because it was gloomy. We also knitted ourselves wool scarves. If one woman got material or clothing in the mail, she would share it with her friends. But even for all the sharing and mending, the clothes the women wore were far from stylish. Style was not a luxury anyone could indulge in during the war. Forget about styles of fabrics; if we had anything to wrap around our bodies it was considered highly fortunate. Most of the male students usually wore a plain cloth shirt and trousers, and if any of them could wrap an old cotton quilt around his body in winter he would attract sidelong glances. It was somewhat easier for the girls to not have to resort to wearing a quilt because they could sew and mend, so such phenomena as “raising a sleeve and seeing an elbow,” having a hole in the sleeve of your clothes so that your elbow showed through, or “empty in front and torn in back,” when the front and back of cloth shoes and socks were worn through, were quite rare. But some of the solutions were quite fascinating. After wearing a pair of socks, mending them and mending them again, they would finally reach the point where there was no way to mend them again, and then they would cut off the bottoms of the socks and sew a piece of cloth for new bottoms which would last for a while longer. For those who were not so good at sewing there was still another method, which was to pull your socks forward and just fold them over so there were no longer ‘holes in front and empty in back.’ But this way your stockings got shorter and shorter until finally your ankle was no longer covered and you had to throw them out. In those days, not only the women students could handle needle and thread, there were even some of the men students who could sew, and no one laughed at them for being strange.

SURVIVING: CHIAO-MIN’S STORY Only at night did people dress up. I remember walking at night with a lamp to get food. A classmate had put on a suit to have fun, and he wore a tie and jacket, looking very stylish. Later his clothes were stolen by a thief and he never saw them again. In summer, the women wore brighter colors and their dresses showed their figures better. In winter, bundled up, it was harder to tell who was prettier, but summer was definitely the better time for sizing up the women.

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Winter was miserable. There was no heating system, so the temperature inside was the same as outside. Even in classrooms, we wore hats and scarves. We studied hunched over in our dark clothes, with wet feet. I remember playing basketball barefoot. I had only a few pieces of clothing—a cotton gown, a uniform, undershirts—and did not wash them very often. No one washed often, though it seemed that the women washed their clothes more often than the men. Looking back, I honestly don’t know how I survived. People were sick from malnutrition, and many developed goiter. I don’t know how I remained so healthy. In the interior, I ate no seafood, which would have prevented goiter. There was so little food. The men and women students had separate dining rooms. There were square tables, and no chairs. Everyone stood around the table to eat, pulling food from communal bowls with their chopsticks. There was always a huge mess by the end of meals, and food had been spilt on the floor—wasteful when there was so little of it. At breakfast, as people pushed to get food, porridge would end up all over the place, even stuck in my hair. The men all jockeyed to get more food. They would eat the first bowl of rice very quickly, in order to come for more. It was hard to get enough food, because there was so much crowding. Eight people would stand at one table, and there were small dishes of peanuts and salt-preserved vegetables. Sometimes people would eat more than their fair share of the peanuts—which was the best food, along with hard candy—so that others would become angry. It was considered reprehensible to take more food than one’s share, but some people did it. Still, our eating habits were horrifying to the women, and Jean still reminds me of this when she describes how those two small plates of vegetables and meats were distributed at a table of eight men. It really was a situation beyond the imagination. Once one of the male students really could not endure it any longer, and at breakfast while eating oil boiled peanuts, he finally had the nerve to start “eating one to one,” thus provoking the anger of another of the students at the table who deliberately took the plate of peanuts and placed it in front of him, at which the two started to fight so fiercely it was practically a war. One male fellow student also once told Jean that other than the corpse of a dead man or a fly, he would eat anything, so that when he saw a side of pork in the food market he wanted to take a bite out of it raw, so pitiful was his situation!

DEMONSTRATING OUR MANNERS: JEAN’S STORY As for eating, the women again had it somewhat easier. At Zunyi, the women students volunteered to supervise the meals. Our eating manner was compar-

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atively better. We were polite and generally understood in our hearts the portion of food due to each, holding to the rules such as “like a dragonfly sipping water” and “eating six to one.” We managed to consume somewhat equally the (scarce) vegetables and meats. “Like a dragonfly sipping water” meant that when the vegetables and meats arrived you must not take one big mouthful after the other, that it was only proper to eat like a dragonfly sipping water (daintily). For example, when the fermented bean curd was served, you must only take a little bit with the tips of your chopsticks. “Eating six to one” meant that you should take six mouthfuls of rice before one of the vegetables and meats, and the six mouthfuls of rice must be divided into two sizes of helpings, one large mouthful and five small, only after which could you take a bit of vegetables and meats. In this way sometimes there would even be a little bit of soup or broth left over, which as soon as we had left our table, would always be stolen clean by the men. Rice was the main staple food, but the rice we got was not good rice. It was not clean; sand, clay and moths would be mixed up with the grains. This made eating rice difficult and unpleasant. We also ate a lot of beans, because they offered the best nutrition. There were tofu, bean sprouts and bean cakes. There was seasonal fruit from the trees, and we also ate earth melon, which was sort of like sweet potato, and could be eaten raw as a fruit, or cooked as a vegetable. Meat was rare, so lard was a very important substitute. Sometimes lard would be mixed with rice and salt as a dish. During the war, that counted as good food. Delicacies were also very rare. Since cows were used to plow the fields, beef was not eaten very often. Eggs were scarce as well. Egg fried with rice and lard was considered very good food, and egg and tomato soup was the best. Most often, when we had meat, it was pork, and no part of the pig went to waste. Ears, tongue, tail, blood, liver—we ate it all. A chicken was the best food for a party, and occasionally someone would buy a chicken for a get-together, and serve peanuts and watermelon seeds as well, but this did not happen often. Once, someone said he had coffee, and everyone was very excited in anticipation. In reality, he had boiled soybeans and added water and sugar. The result looked like coffee, but tasted nothing like it. He had cheated us, and everyone was disappointed. It wasn’t only the students who suffered. The quality of life to which our professors were accustomed changed abruptly when we began our sojourn into the interior of China. We all struggled together. Physically the professors were taxed, just as we were, trekking through across our native country. And like us, they had few resources to help make their lives more pleasant. Privileges were hard to come by. Just as not all the students survived the journey, so did professors become victims of circumstances. Mei Guangdi,7 Professor

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of Chinese and Western Literature, was one of the casualties. In the winter of 1944, while we were hunkered down in Zunyi, Mei began having heart trouble that likely had its roots in a combination of his life of smoking and the privations of university life during both the harrowing move to the interior and at our current working location. Although all possible efforts were made to treat him, he passed away from heart failure. As a university community we mourned the loss of this great scholar and colorful character. As a faculty member, he’d always been known as somewhat of a loose cannon. Despite his attraction to Confucianism, he had trouble being socially diplomatic, and often flew into temper tantrums, letting others know exactly what he thought or felt about a choice, comment or action he disagreed with—regardless of the status of the person at whom he directed his comments. His absence from the university was noted, as there were far fewer critical comments flying about.

STICKING TO STUDYING & ITS INCENTIVES: CHIAO-MIN’S STORY Despite the quality of life we were leading and the loss we were experiencing, we all worked very hard at our studies. We lived packed together, many to a room. In my own case, I lived with in a house with three classmates and both Dean Hu and Dean Cai and their families. Except to sleep, no one spent time in these rooms. Most dining rooms were oversized and had kerosene lamps, so they could be used as study rooms. Books were scarce and the library was always crowded. We would arrive well before the library opened and rush in and find a seat as soon as it opened every night after dinner. We loved to study, but sometimes it was difficult to find the space for it. And if we could not find space in the library we were left to study at home. Although it might seem like we should have been able to study at home, it was much more challenging that you’d expect, especially with so many people trying to have their private lives at home. And living with Dean Hu was no picnic. He had three children and would lecture to them about physics at night, and when they would not understand one law or another he would get upset and say, “It is so simple, why can you not understand!” My classmates and I just had to all laugh when these things happened, since after all, Dean Hu’s children were just that, children. They weren’t meant to understand complex physics just yet. So you can see, studying at home was challenging. For my male peers and I, there were other incentives for leaving the house, studying, and being a good students, as well. Women students would never look at a bad student as a good prospect for marriage. And unlike at Ameri-

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can universities today, there was no other way to gain a reputation at school, except by being a good student. Athletics, for example, were not a road to status on campus. In this atmosphere, everyone was anxious and worked diligently to get high grades. I think the very best place to study in those days was at a tea house. There were tables alternating with bamboo chairs to sit upon along opposite walls, or one could recline on these chairs. The tea house was very cozy. Tea was inexpensive, maybe 25 cents, and that bought endless hot water through the day—all cups of tea were bottomless. One could sit and study from morning until midnight, when the tea houses closed. Tea houses were also good places to socialize. More men than women went to the tea houses, so they were a good place to play chess, to chat, and to discuss politics and women. The students could also discuss issues brought up by their studies and current events. The floor would be covered with husks and shells from watermelon seeds and occasional peanuts the men brought with them. Some people ate snacks of rice and noodles there, or little cakes. The occasional magistrate could be observed taking money under the table. Local merchants would haggle there and make deals; sometimes the tea houses even served as informal courts to settle disputes justly, often presided over by some respected older man. In some of the more expensive tea houses, there was even entertainment. So the tea houses became something of a combination theater, night club, place for bribery, studying place, shopping center and court. To students, including me, the tea house was the very best place to spend time. There was also a lot of pressure to study that came from the university professors and policies. The professors were very tough graders during the war, and if a student did not achieve high scores on examinations, he had to leave the University. The professors were very strict, and the examinations were hard. As a result, this period produced many distinguished scholars, scientists and engineers; graduates which added to the University’s already excellent reputation. After all, it was the excellence of the graduates produced at this time, to become leaders for the future, to be able to mend a broken nation, which was the principal reason for all the sacrifice of this odyssey inland. And it was not just the existence of exams and other threatening experiences that taught us to study hard and achieve much. We had as role models many professors who were more than devoted to their studies. Zhang Yingling was one of these people. He was a scholar before anything else. Zhang always went to bed very late, studying long after midnight. He never got up before 10 A.M. in the morning. Unlike other scholars who research what they write, Zhang would read all the materials he needed the night before. As soon as the last page was read, he pulled the blanket over his head and went straight to sleep without putting pen to paper. He would then wake

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up mid-morning, skip breakfast, and go right to writing. Zhang followed Hemingway’s pattern of composition, which was broken down into three stages. First, before one writes the story, one must go to bed thinking and organizing. The next morning one must begin immediately, standing at one’s desk and writing quickly. Last, one sits down and edits. His writing was a simple, factual style, like “smooth unstoppable rocks sliding down the mountainside.” It was a difficult style of living. He rarely slept adequately and ate poorly. He sacrificed his health for the sake of his dream. In fact, the four material aspects of life, or “Yi shi zhu xing”—clothing, food, shelter, and transportation—went largely ignored, except for eating. The one thing Zhang did pay attention to was food—he was very interested in eating. In China, Cantonese food is the best. And Zhang was from Guangzhou. He loved food, and was a cook himself. His salary was spent largely on food. The rest went to books. In Zunyi at that time, there was only one Cantonese restaurant. He went there every day armed with a big appetite. He was known to eat an entire chicken in one meal. Zhang spoke excellent Mandarin, so people often forgot that he was Cantonese with Cantonese habits. The exception was that most Cantonese love to bathe and Zhang did not. He showered once a month. Although we were encouraged to focus on our studies, and we did heavily schedule our time around our studies while in Zunyi, this doesn’t mean that we didn’t observe our surroundings as well. And in these surroundings, I learned much about a local ethnic minority group—the Yi people. By looks alone, the Yi people were striking. They were tall and dark—quite different from the Han Chinese—that I and my friends all were. Although we were different, we also learned that there was some history between the Yi and the Han. The Han were responsible for driving the Yi into the high mountains, and as a result there was some animosity from the Yi toward the Han. In fact, the Han had a place in their hierarchical societal structure; the Han were considered slaves. You see, the Yi were a slave society, dividing themselves into two main groups, but the actual categories were more complex than that, with some slaves being allowed to farm their own land and own slaves of their own. But the two main groups were the “black bones” (the nobility) and the “white bones” (the slaves).8 The two groups were not to mix at all, and women who slept with a slave were punished by death, as per the strict societal rules that the Yi lived by.9 I should note here that although the Yi had guns they obtained through the sale of opium, the Yi did not believe in wasting bullets when the death penalty was called for. Instead, the condemned were stripped of their clothes and left, naked, in the wild forest mountains where they would either freeze to death or starve in the mountains. As for the white bones, they were not usually of Yi origin, but were instead captives taken

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from a battle with the Han Chinese or other minorities like the Miao or Tibetans. Whenever a Han or other person was captured by the Yi, he would never have a chance to escape. The terrain was too rough, and so even if he did escape the Yi, he would not survive a trek down out of the region without food or water, and with extreme temperatures. Telling you a bit about the Yi character and environs explains just what our conditions were like while we were in Zunyi. As a people, the Yi are noted fighters. Much of this reputation certainly comes from the fact that they are strong in body and spirit, and so are tremendous warriors. That said, a contributing reason to why they’ve never been defeated or conquered is likely also their location: living in the high mountains, surrounded by deep forest, and without a way to communicate with the outside world. The terrain itself made it challenging to survive in the region. And yet, right there is where we were all living while Zhejiang University bided its time in Zunyi.

BANDITS AT THE RIVER Although the journey to the interior of China had ended for us, the journey was replayed over the years because before retreating from Hangzhou, Zhejiang University opened a branch at Longquan, south and a little bit west of Hangzhou, in a place so remote that the Japanese never bothered the area. Each year, then, once the freshmen had finished their studies, they would travel inland from Longquan to Zunyi to connect with the rest of the university. In about 1943, a group of freshmen headed for the University in Zunyi. There were about twenty-one men and nine women. They had rented a boat and taken it on the small, shallow Fuchun River, poling the boat upstream along the sandbars by the shore. It was a beautiful, balmy spring day, with sunlight dancing on the water. They had reached an area where the river cut through mountains. Suddenly, on the far side of the river, a booming voice called out to them “pull the boat ashore.” The students were very worried, knowing that this could be a harbinger of danger. Something was wrong, and they hesitated to obey, trying, instead, to move more quickly upstream along the river. A gunshot resounded through the air and a loudspeaker warned them, again, to turn the boat to the far shore. Uncertain of the origin of these signals, they feared they might be robbed or come to some other harm, and hesitated again. When a second shot sounded, the students reluctantly turned the boat to the far shore, as ordered.

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As they pulled the boat around, suddenly a group of seven bandits appeared. The leader, a man in his late twenties, wielded a gun. He was accompanied by two older men, in their thirties, one of whom carried a rope, and others, the youngest of whom were perhaps seventeen or eighteen years old. The bandits searched all the students for money and searched their belongings and the rest of the boat, then tied up each of the young men. They ran out of rope before they could also tie up the women students. One of the older bandits demanded that one of the attractive woman students come with him. This caused a great fear among the students for her safety. One of the bound men students knelt before the leader of the bandits, appealing urgently for them not to take the woman student. Soon, all the other students were also pleading for them to take all their property, but to leave the young woman. Their leader considered the situation, realizing that taking the woman along might pose problems for their group, in making a rapid escape over rough terrain. The leader quickly made a decision and ordered the bandit with the young woman to bring her back. At this the young woman ran back quickly to join the other students. Quickly the bandits then disappeared into the mountains with their ill-gained goods, leaving the woman with her classmates. Though it had cost them all their belongings, the students were safe. One male student had been wearing a ring of great value and when the bandits appeared, he had removed it quickly and inserted into a tube of toothpaste which the bandits took to be of little value and left behind. The young students ultimately made their way safely to Zhejiang University in Zunyi. The story became widely known on campus, and the woman who was rescued from the bandits by her classmates became a local heroine.

POLITICAL LIFE & CONSEQUENCES ON CAMPUS Danger was not something just encountered by students traveling from Longquan to Zunyi. Political beliefs and suspicions brought danger to the Zunyi campus. Politically based suspicions and discipline were common until Chancellor Zhu dealt with them head on by appointing Fei Gong as the Director of Student Affairs. Traditionally, this director worked under the guise of providing guidance, structure, and support to the student body, but students believed (and ample evidence has since suggested) that the Nationalist government of Chiang Kai-shek used this position at universities across China as a way to learn of the political activities of students. Until Fei’s appointment, all Directors of Student Affairs at Zhejiang had been strident Nationalists. Communism was strictly outlawed and any students found harboring Com-

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munist sympathies were punished severely by either dismissal from the university or being arrested, jailed, and tortured. Since many students were in fact underground Communists, the relationship between them and the Director had traditionally been strained. When Fei stepped into his position, he made daring and idealistic changes. In his inaugural speech before the university body, Fei was his characteristically blunt self, proclaiming, “I come here not as a police chief. I am your teacher, your friend, your father, your brother. I am here to help you.” Although initially still suspicious in spite of Fei’s words, the students of Zhejiang were ultimately convinced of Fei’s sincerity as he showed significant kindness toward and dedication to enhancing the quality of life for students at Zhejiang rather than focusing on policing student political activities. Fei and Zhu were tested when unrest broke out in early 1941, which led to a series of incidents that pushed me to further recognize both the greatness of Chancellor Zhu and my own dislike of politics. Although there was little communication between Zunyi and the world outside of the surrounding mountains, we students heard a story about Madame Kong’s flying dog. At that time, Kong Xiangxi was the most important government officer in Hong Kong. He also happened to be Chiang Kai-shek’s brother-in-law. Seeing that the Japanese were approaching Hong Kong, Kong and his officials began to pack everything from the treasury into crates. They loaded everything into private airplanes and flew it all to the mainland. Among the baggage, it was said, was Madame Kong’s small dog. Now, perhaps no one would have faulted Kong for saving his dog, if he had not left behind all of the scholars in Hong Kong, among them Chen Yinque, a famous professor. But, as it was, Dagong Bao, one of the most widely circulating newspapers in China, made a comment about the exodus in the editorial page. The paper criticized Kong for not being enough of an intellectual and not caring about China’s scholars. The story spread rapidly, and as happens with such stories, perhaps the facts were somewhat exaggerated. University students everywhere became angry at the perceived snub. In those days, most students were already angry at the Japanese and at the corruption of Chiang Kai-shek’s government. This new story further inflamed their unrest. The students did not pay much attention to those who tried to remain more rational. For example, Zhang Jiao, the Minister of Communication, who carried a lot of weight in the government, did not believe the story about the flying dog. According to him, Madame Kong did not even like dogs, so the story could not possibly be true. But it didn’t matter. Kong was not popular, and the story became an excuse to protest against corruption and nepotism. By then, Zhejiang University was in Zunyi, but reports of

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the story had reached students even in that remote location. One afternoon, at a predetermined time, the students all walked out of classes and gathered to demonstrate in the streets. The last thing the military wanted in the middle of the war was student demonstrations, of course, and so all the guards and police also took to the streets and lined up to prevent the students from having a demonstration. The students lined up and faced them. Chancellor Zhu found himself in the middle. He felt responsible for his students and worried that in the heat of the moments someone would get hurt. He tried to calm the students down. He walked directly up to face the students. Zhu had a great deal of authority and the students let him speak. “Please don’t demonstrate,” he pleaded with them, “It is too dangerous. You must be calm.” Then one of my classmates, a woman named Wang Hui, stood up. “Dear Chancellor,” she began, “You are not being faithful to your teaching. You have always encouraged us to seek the truth, and now you are trying to stop us from demonstrating at this critical moment. You are betraying your teaching.” At this, the crowd exploded, and furious students began to walk out into the street. Zhu was so worried that something bad would happen that he walked out in front of the advancing students, hoping that he would be able to protect them. For two hours everyone marched, winding around the city, and nobody was hurt. Later, Zhu was criticized by the central government for letting his students demonstrate, even though he had tried to prevent them. Although this demonstration ended peacefully, it had lasting consequences for Wang Hui. She was a very intelligent student and my classmate in the History and Geography Department. She wrote Chinese exceptionally well, I remember. She was also a very emotional young woman; her emotions had led her to speak out at the rally. Because of her speech, however, the secret police began to watch her, suspecting that she was a Communist. Eventually they arrested her. They took Wang Hui to a station of the secret police, and then made her walk to a ‘re-education’ camp (concentration camp) in a remote area far from any city or town. A young secret agent walked in front of her the whole way with a bundle of her belongings on his back. When they finally reached the camp, Wang Hui was detained. She was not the only student ever to be taken from the University. The secret police of the (Nationalist) Kuomintang were very uneasy about Communist infiltration among the idealistic university students. They were constantly watching and had spies in Zunyi keeping abreast of student activities. In fact, while Wang Hui was at the camp, another student from Zhejiang University, He Youliang, was also there. He had been majoring in Chinese lit-

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erature. He came from a very poor family in Ningbo, and his beliefs were far to the left. He had written many articles favoring the Communist ideas while he was in school, and unlike Wang Hui, he really was a Communist. He confessed as much at the camp and was punished more humanely than had he not confessed. It was an irony of the system that those who confessed to being Communists were treated more gently than those who denied membership in the party. But, in fact, it was rare that anyone confessed, for fear of retribution against their friends and family. Then, one day, He escaped from the camp. But due to the remote location, he had nowhere to go and was captured again. The guards took him to the authorities and he was executed. Another student in my department, Wang Tianxin, was blacklisted by the authorities when they became suspicious of him. I don’t know whether he was actually a Communist or not, but he was a close friend of one of my friends. This mutual friend happened to overhear that Wang was wanted, and he sent Wang a message to tell him to leave as quickly as he could. With the help of this friend, Wang went to the house of Geology Professor Ye. Ye gave the distraught young man dinner and sat down with him to discuss his options. While Wang was there, incidentally, Chang, the Department Chairman, came to visit Ye. Chang was against the Communists and strongly supported Chiang Kai-shek, but he was helpful to Wang. He invited the student to come to his home, and Wang had to go as a mark of respect to his professor. Even though it went against his political beliefs, Chang helped Wang escape arrest. In later years, Wang became a high school teacher and ran a bookstore. Meanwhile, the woman student, Wang Hui, was still in the concentration camp. Chancellor Zhu became very worried about her. Despite the authorities’ suspicions, he did not believe she was a Communist, so he tried to help her. Over sixty years old, he traveled the long distance to the camp on foot. The area of the concentration camp was very remote, and it was a difficult trip for the elderly man to make. Fortunately, because of his respected position, the guards let him in to see her when he arrived, and when the young woman saw the chancellor whom she had so boldly confronted, she burst into tears, as if he had been her father. Through his many efforts, Zhu managed to arrange her release, and the fact that he was able to help her was seen as proof by many that even the authorities knew she was not really a Communist. It seemed that their real reason for imprisoning her was as a warning to other students to keep a low profile. Later, proving her innocence became easier, but at that time everything was just dangerous rumors. Wang Hui never came back to Zhejiang University. She transferred to Fudan University, where she finished her degree. Later, she married, had children and taught high school.

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It was a very dangerous time for students to be involved in politics. We are glad, looking back, that we never had any interest in politics. Seeing what happened to more politically active classmates was enough for us.

THE JAPANESE THREAT AT ZUNYI Although we’d made a long journey from the east to the interior of China to evade the Japanese, even in Zunyi we did not entirely escape worrying about Japanese attacks. Zhu learned that the Japanese had advanced to the border between Guangxi and Guizhou provinces and were approaching Guiyang, the capital of Guizhou, threatening both Zunyi and the wartime national capital, Chongqing. Now, the government and universities that had fled there found their backs to the wall. The Minister of Education in Chongqing considered the options, then ordered Zhu to move Zhejiang University to Chongqing and combine Zhejiang and Central University (today Nanjing University) into a single university, dangling a promotion to Zhu to be Chancellor of the combined university. Here, Zhu stood his ground, refusing to comply and began planning for guerilla defense of Zunyi and Zhejiang University. In those days of war, murder and destruction, many leaders of high schools and other educational institutions were known to have escaped, abandoning their students and faculties to the cruelty of the Japanese. Zhu was firm in his principles. He would not flee; he would, instead, prepare to fight. Fortunately, a large contingent of the Nationalist army arrived and turned the Japanese back. When the large numbers of army personnel appeared later in the streets of Zunyi City, whether in cars or walking, Zhejiang University students welcomed them and offered teas, cakes, and even clothes. The soldiers and students mixed together with laughter and conversation, expressing their patriotic emotions. When Chancellor Zhu came walking down the street, the students lifted Zhu overhead and paraded him around as a fond expression of their admiration.

EXAMS: CHIAO-MIN’S STORY During my senior year in 1941, the Minister of Education in Chongqing, Chen Lifu got the idea that the Central Government needed to exert quality control on the many scattered students of all these relocated universities—to make sure that the quality of education had not suffered during all these moves. He passed down a dictum that all graduates of that year must pass a standard examination to be given at all universities, in order to be allowed to

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graduate. This was during the war, when there were few reference books and other facilities. The students, however, were emphatic that this examination was nonsense and would have no meaning. We believed that the purpose was an attempt to control students’ attitudes and activities, typical of Minister Chen’s dictatorial style. So the senior class of students, not only at Zhejiang University, but also at National Southwest Associated University in Kunming and Central University (today Nanjing University) in Chongqing (the wartime capital) united to try to get these examinations cancelled because we saw them as a useless bureaucratic intrusion into the academic process. We also learned that Chancellor Zhu had also expressed his disapproval to the Ministry of Education. But Chancellor Zhu’s judgment did not sway Minister Chen. When the order came down from the Ministry of Education to hold the examinations, that order also specified that students who did not participate in the examination could not graduate and would not receive their diplomas! The situation was so threatening that the senior classes of the three universities discussed their options frequently by telephone and mailings. But these discussions had no effect. The examination date arrived, eventually, and the seniors lined up to participate, most unwillingly. However, the situation became more complicated when the lower classes also showed up and tried to prevent the seniors from entering the examination room. At this critical moment, Chancellor Zhu arrived, walking with a cane, which in China is a symbol of dignity for a distinguished, older gentleman or scholar. He asked the audience why he had not been informed of this gathering. One student said that it was too early in the day to disturb him with a report of the event. Zhu answered that he rose every morning at 7 A.M. This impressed the students, that their Chancellor had a very self-disciplined life style. Another voice in the audience said that Zhu usually teaches that we must be honest and keep to the truth, since truth is our University’s motto. “Today, where is the truth?” they asked, “We know that our Chancellor does not agree with this examination, but under pressure, you have not kept to the truth, and have decided to obey the Minister’s order.” This really sent a shiver through the crowd. The Chancellor had been asked a tough question. Zhu answered with a parable: “If a widow, after her husband dies, was considering committing suicide by jumping in a river, should she ask other women’s opinions about her idea?”10 Zhu continued, “This is not the way to seek the truth. If you of the senior class believe that this examination is a worthless exercise, then you should decide not to take it, whether or not you would then be graduated. Now, you are also expecting the senior classes of other universities to deal with their antagonism to this examination, without input from your opinions.” He repeated, “This is not the way to seek the

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truth.” That is, he was saying that asking others their opinions was not the way to act on an issue of truth. Your actions should be based on your own ethics and judgment. He continued that he had tried to have truth prevail, but had been forced to yield to higher authority, an authority who would not acknowledge the truth, but overrode it. Chancellor Zhu’s words made sense. The crowd was quiet. Chancellor Zhu then ordered the seniors to enter the room and take the examination. The examination had been prepared by the officers of major universities. At Zhejiang University that year, everyone passed, which perhaps did prove that the examination was useless, as well as contentious. But the incident did demonstrate that Chancellor Zhu had the wisdom and quick mind to deal with dicey situations. He could think on his feet when it counted. And we all learned an important lesson about how to handle contentious situations with grace, and to seek truth in appropriate ways. I have to say we were lucky it was Zhu who came to us that morning. Professor Zhang, the Director of Academic Affairs, had the habit of roaming around the classroom and watching over students taking exams. He was very serious about examinations. If he caught any student trying to cheat, he would immediately humiliate them by publicly writing their name on the board, and dismissing them from the University. The freshmen easily committed mistakes, because they did not yet know the University’s rules. After the final examination, Zhang always asked the professors to hand the results into his office promptly. He used these data to analyze and research the effectiveness of faculty teaching techniques and to follow students’ progress. He was very serious about these activities and kept careful records. He consulted with faculty about the quality of their teaching; he was not concerned with each professor’s degrees or reputation, but rather with their teaching abilities and their depth in their respective fields. He was indeed “Tian Mei Wu Shi,” meaning the iron face that was all business and had no pity. Examinations were the most important point in the education system. An accomplished student had to pass many tests, which would truly strain even the most talented and dedicated student. Professor Zhang tried to help students with poor records, as well as encourage the good students, but he had extremely strict rules about how examinations should run, and as the Director of Academic Affairs, his rules were the law. Just because there were rules, however, did not mean that all went smoothly. During the final examinations during a hot summer, students wore shortsleeved shirts. An engineering student sat next to a beautiful young female student from the Humanities College. Their tables were so close that the student’s arm touched that of the girl. The electricity made the boy very excited

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and he could not concentrate on the examination. As a result, his test scores were not very good. But his experience was far better than that of another of his peers. This more unlucky male student entered the examination room, and in front of his seat there was a female student who had a nice figure. In order to see her face, which was covered by her hair, he half stood up and turned his head. Unfortunately, at that moment Professor Zhang came from behind with the words, “What are you doing? Were you trying to see the answers?” The student was shocked by this serious question and did not know how to explain. He stood there blubbering nonsense because he was so scared; Professor Zhang suspended him for a half a year. Given Professor Zhang’s seriousness, this student was lucky not to be dismissed. The final examination room had a special layout. The student seats were personally assigned, purposely, so as to not seat students of the same year and major near one another. But it took time to make these arrangements, especially since there were no computers to help. It was Professor Zhang who spent time creating the seating arrangements. Because of the seriousness of the examination system, Professor Zhang was the person to be afraid of, for young people did not like tests. Some students even hated him. One day a student put his own excrement on Zhang’s office table. This became big news on campus. Zhang asked to hold a conference. Students expected him to be very angry and surely find the student who did that to him. Instead, Professor Zhang did not show his anger but said that this incident did not hurt him at all, for the servant had cleared his desk immediately. “You have to know that in society, there must be many rules. I guide peoples’ activities. It was true. I have made many rules and put them to practice very seriously. If you don’t violate the rules, everything will be all right. I will continue to make examinations strict and it will benefit everyone.” From then on, there was less funny business when it came to exams, but they still were dreaded by the entire student body. NOTES 1. Zhejiang Province is located between the mountains and the oceans in the southeast part of China. The Zhejiang or “zig zag river” is so named because of its winding course. Historically this region of China has been noted for its wealth. Since the construction of the Grand Canal (constructed during the Sui Dynasty, 605–618 CE), Hangzhou has been connected to Beijing. The Canal stimulated economic and cultural development in the region, and Hangzhou became a commercial center. And when Marco Polo reached Zhejiang in the 13th century, he noted the wealth of the region.

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Archeological evidence suggests that Zhejiang also has a long history, with an archeological excavation at Hemutu, along the Hangzhou Bay, unearthing the Neolithic remains of pigs, dogs, buffalo, bone spades, rice husks, and pottery dating back 7000 years. This discovery of rice cultivation and pile-dwelling settlements revealed that Southern China in the Hangzhou area had active settlements in the Neolithic Period. 2. The Chinese came to Jiangxi relatively late. Only by the mid-18th century was the province gradually settled. Earlier, the neighboring province of Hunan had contained the main north-south travel route of the interior. But after the 18th century, because of the growth of major tea cultivation and mining of silver, Jiangxi became prosperous and a major north-south travel route. 3. Hunan derives its name from its location south of the lake. Dongting Lake is rather similar to Poyang Lake in Jiangxi province, because both lakes serve as reservoirs of the Yangtze River. Also, both lakes are surrounded by flat land, ideal for agriculture. Hunan province has produced many military and scholarly leaders such as Chairman Mao and patriotic poet Qu Yuan. Hunan province is also famous for its strongly spiced food that features hot peppers. 4. Guilin is a beautiful tourist center because of its karst landforms. It is also a cultural center, with many artists, singers, painters, poets and literary people. Guangxi is the only one of China’s five autonomous regions with an outlet to the sea. It is the homeland of the Zhuang people. Guangxi was a flash point for the Taiping Rebellion involving the Hakka and Zhuang people. Between 1926 and 1937 Guangxi was controlled by military leaders, the so-called Guangxi clique, who made some effort to modernize the region. As a student, I still felt the tension of the rigid military training of young people. Yishan is located in Guangxi Autonomous Region, in a remote area, geologically mostly limestone. The Zhuang, a minority people, live there. There are many caves and limestone plateaus. The soil is poor, as is the weather. At the time we were there, agriculture was limited and transportation to the area was scarce. In Guangxi, people worked very hard to survive. There was rampant malaria and many people were sick and debilitated from it. Because the area was so far from the sea, there was no seafood, and people tended to develop goiter from lack of iodine. The local people also had many other medical problems. 5. A famous geographer of three hundred years ago named Xu Xiake [Hsu Hsiake] (1586–1641). At the age of 21, in 1607, Xu started traveling until his death at the age of 55. In early years, he visited almost all of eastern coastal regions of China. His ambition, however, was to see the southwest part of China and to find the true source of the Yangtze River. During his day, people believed that the source of the Yellow River was far to the west in central Asia, while the source of the Yangtze River was the Ming River in the province of Sichuan, which he did not believe. As an explorer, not only did he cover great distances and endure much hardship, but also he kept a careful daily diary of his travels. He traveled nearly always on foot and carried almost no equipment. The diary reads like a 21st century field surveyor’s notebook. Also it contains innumerable poetic passages describing the landscape which was actually published later as a model for composition. Xu’s diary will live on not only as an early scientific document, but also as a classic of Chinese travel literature. Xu’s main con-

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tributions to Chinese geographical knowledge may be summarized as follows: his discovery of the sources of many rivers in southwest China, especially the Yangtze River. His diary served not only as a text of travelling literature, but also as a source for map compilers and surveyors. His diary provided the first professional account of karst landforms. Xu’s contributions were sufficiently important to Chinese geography and his route of travel so resembled the route of Zhejiang University’s odyssey, that the University held a conference on Xu’s work in Zunyi to commemorate this pioneer’s work. Xu’s traveling route ran from the Yangtze delta, near his hometown of Jiangyang, not far from Hangzhou, then southwest to Jiangxi province, passing through Ji’an and Taihe, then westward through Hunan province, then to Tushan (near Yishan) in Guangxi (today an autonomous region), then to Zunyi in Guizhou province, to Guiyang, the capital of Guizhou province, then on to the Yunnan plateau, a point further west than Zhejiang University eventually moved. All the earlier Chinese explorers and travelers had set out for political or religious reasons, either by order of the Emperor or to further the mission of Buddha. Xu was the first Chinese to make long treks in the interest of scientific discovery and geographical studies. Xu’s trek, which lasted four years, resulted in important discoveries and achievements, but it also brought Xu much hardship and suffering which authorities of Zhejiang University especially understood and appreciated. 6. Zunyi was the regional center in the north of the province, and it was known for being the site at which Mao Zedong had emerged as the leader of the Communist Party conference in 1935, and the place where he had planned his strategy for the civil war to come. Guizhou, the province in which Zunyi is located, is relatively undeveloped and thinly populated. As an ethnic frontier, Guizhou is the home of many minority peoples, at least thirty groups. The Miao tribe is the largest of these minorities. The thirty minorities gathered together their accounts for one fourth of the population of the province. Economically this province is one of the backward areas of China. Local agricultural products, including rice, sweet corn, rapeseed, tobacco, and silk. Silk produced in this area supplies the local textile industry. 7. Mei was already a leading literary figure of his time, although still young, when China opened to the West. He went to America to study. Tied to tradition, yet eager to learn Western literature, he appreciated the literary canons of both the old Orient and the new worlds. After faculty stints at Southeastern University (now Nanjing University), Harvard University, and a deanship at Nanjing, he came to Zhejiang University as vice dean of the College of Arts and Sciences. In the beginning, Mei did a great deal of work for Zhejiang. And in 1937 he was selected by the Nationalist government to attend the National Political Consular Conference, which was attended by the leading figures in a variety of fields. During this conference, Mei wrote two proposals. One proposal suggested that Chinese universities should establish a department of oriental languages, including indigenous languages of Tibet and Mongolia. The second proposal was for more exchange programs with foreign countries, which would enable foreign scholars to come to China and lecture while Chinese scholars went abroad. These two proposals were adopted by the conference and given to the government. The Nationalist government of Chiang Kai-Shek implemented both.

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Mei was a man with a broad span of knowledge, but he published little, mostly in the early years of his career. Although Mei’s publication record is slim, his primary legacy was the richness of the breadth and depth of his knowledge which he imparted to his many students, both in China and America. 8. The Yi also divided time into their own categories as well. They created their own calendar dividing the year into ten months depending on the climate features such as the flowers in blossom, birds singing, and appearance of snow to regulate the cultivation of crops. 9. Another such strict rule governed dining rules for newly married couples. When a man and woman were wed, she left her own family and moved in with her husband’s family. Even then, however, she was not permitted to eat at the same table as her in-laws until she had borne a child. 10. In earlier times, when a man of stature died, his widow would often take her own life as well, as a gesture of respect for her husband.

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When the War with Japan was finally over, Zhejiang University was finally able to move back to its home city of Hangzhou. However, the University left behind a constructive legacy for the people of the Zunyi region. Among its contributions, the University contributed some property and equipment to the municipal governments of Zunyi and Meitan, and donated part of its library to the local schools. The University also donated a kerosene engine to Zunyi, which led the local government to build a municipal electric power plant. The houses vacated by the University were donated as school houses. Upon leaving the Zunyi region, the University erected a stone tablet.

JEAN & CHIAO-MIN: CHIAO-MIN’S STORY After graduation, I went to the Institute of Geography—a research center in Beipei, a town near the wartime capital of Chongqing, Sichuan. Many research institutes, universities and other cultural institutions were assembled there including the Institute of Geography and the Institute of Meteorology. Zhu was not only the Chancellor of Zhejiang University but also the Director of the Institute of Meteorology, which he visited about four times a year. Since I had been a geography major under Zhu and his compatriot from the same county, I could easily understand subtle nuances of his local dialect. On a Sunday or other holiday, Zhu would usually call me to go out to the field. Zhu loved to climb mountains in order to measure their height. Naturally, we became very close friends. One day, we had climbed to see some of the gorges from the top of some nearby mountains, above the well-known resort called “north spring” which attracts many visitors in peacetime, in eastern Sichuan province. I boasted of 81

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my geologic knowledge to my former professor, Chancellor Zhu, who just listened to me patiently, without even raising his head. Suddenly, he asked me, “What causes the formation of the hot springs under these foothills?” I did not know the answer, but did say that there was a research report published by our Institute of Geography on the subject. Zhu asked me to obtain this report for him to read. Later, he commented to me that this article contained considerable errors in calculating the temperatures. This gave me a jolt—that our Chancellor was not only a great teacher and administrative leader at our university but also a sincere scientist. His desire to seek accurate knowledge impressed me. Although my time in Beipei was intellectually interesting, socially it was not a very good place to be living at that time in my life. We were located in a very remote area because that was where we needed to do our research. But on the weekends, it was terrible for a young guy. The town had restaurants and bookstores. So one beautiful Sunday, I walked to a bookstore. Suddenly, a group of my classmates from Zhejiang wandered into the bookstore together. There were about 8–10 of them—boys and girls together—and one of them whom I knew from school called out to me to say hello. What really caught my attention, however, was not this friend of mine hollering out my name, but the sight of Jean. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen her, but our only previous meeting hadn’t been at all conducive to getting to know each other. We were a number of years apart in school and, during the war, the freshmen were located at a different campus from the rest of the University students. Because we were so far apart in school then, the first and only time I met her was when I’d gone to the freshmen branch of the campus to give a lecture. At the time, I was a senior student and thought myself quite important when I went to speak. And although Jean was a good-looking, popular, and bright student, when we first met each other, she left no impression on me at all, as I was too caught up in myself. But now, now I saw her and wanted to get to know her. One of my male classmates introduced her to me, but he and the rest of the students in Jean’s group were not hopeful that I’d make any headway in getting to know Jean any better. She wasn’t in town to look at books or to meet me, she was in town because another guy had chased after her. Jean was conservative when it came to relationships, and so when the boy had become aggressive, she immediately ended her associations with him. Consequently, her friends had brought her to town to cheer her up, not to fix her up with a new boy. So I was quite fortunate that my friend would introduce me to Jean at all. We played some games together as a group, but there was no thought of giving me any time alone with Jean. The idea of such a possibility was just out of line with all of Chinese culture at the time.

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Chinese culture or no, I couldn’t stop thinking about her after I’d gone home that night and so, after one week, I went back to town, from where I could make my way to the city where Jean was teaching. Although it was quite an ordeal for me to get to this city because it required a boat trip of 2–3 hours, I didn’t think twice about it. When I arrived at the school where Jean taught, however, I became much more nervous because our mutual friends had said that there was another guy who was now interested in her. We had talked about it for awhile, and we were all nervous because we had no idea if she would be interested in me, given the appearance of this other suitor and the fact that I lived so far away. But I was young, and when you’re young, you tumble forwards in spite of fear and hope for the best. I saw her that day—in a group of other former Zhejiang students—but when I left, all I could do was hope that she might have some interest in me. My hopes began to come true when I received a letter from Jean a little while later. Of course, given societal norms and Jean’s own conservative nature, it was not a love letter of any sort. In fact, it wasn’t even a letter just to me. Instead it was a letter to me and my work colleague. Jean was writing to inquire about obtaining some maps for her high school classroom. She wrote that since we worked with maps, it seemed like we might have a map we could send her. Even though the letter was about maps and was to another person in addition to myself, I was just over the moon that she’d written at all. I quickly wrote back and we began to correspond. Gradually, very gradually, her letters came without my colleague’s name on them as well. We began to write letters just to each other. Because I was making practically no money, we had to rely on letter writing as our primary source of communication, because I could not afford to take the boat to town all the time. But as time passed, I was so smitten, I decided to borrow money to take the boat to visit her. When I began making the trip regularly, the Director of the Institute called me into his office. “You’re young,” he said, “You should do research—focus on research and be a productive scholar—don’t mess with girls right now.” The Director was very serious as he told me about where my energies should be focused. My colleagues at the Institute all laughed at me for being lectured at, but I wasn’t interested in having to live by such standards, “Forget it!” I said, “When you were young, you chased girls just like I am doing now.” And so I continued to visit Jean. Interestingly, she was getting similar messages about career over romantic relationships from her own boss. Her principal was an unmarried lady, and the female teachers were all young. The principal of the high school kept stressing that they were to think about lessons not future husbands, and for the most part, the staff talked about lessons. Still, I kept visiting.

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Finally, one day in spring, I was able to get her to come out with me in a smaller group than previously. I invited her to go out on a picnic with me. Her conservative nature precluded her from going with just me, but she agreed to go if I brought another friend along. So one of my male friends came with us. We had a fabulous time together that day. We picnicked among the flowers. When my friend and I dropped her back off at the school later that day, I felt like the day had been an enormous success. The next morning, two of Jean’s colleagues unexpectedly arrived at my doorstep. “Do you know what happened to Jean?” they asked me with furrowed brows. “What?” I wanted to know. And as they told me about what happened to her after coming back from the picnic, how sick she’d gotten, and how she was in desperate need of medical care, my heart collapsed. I could not believe that something so terribly had befallen her so quickly. I wondered if I had given her something to eat that had made her sick. As I arrived at her place that morning with her two colleagues, even I was amazed at how quickly the happiness turned to sadness. I talked with her friends about what to do, and they told me that the hospital in town was not very good at all. I was not about to let Jean go to any hospital but the best. Unfortunately, to get to a good hospital, I’d have to walk 200 miles, accompanying her along the whole way. It would be an arduous task, but at the time I would have been willing to walk 2000 miles for Jean, and so I jumped up to take her to this good hospital so far away. As I ran off, however, I heard our friends just burst with laughter. I couldn’t understand what on earth could possibly be funny about this situation, but then they told me it was all joke. “April Fools,” they hollered through their peals of laughter (for that day was April 1).

JEAN’S INTERPRETATION OF THE APRIL FOOLS JOKE I was born into a conservative and old-fashioned family. That fact, coupled with the fact that I was the only daughter of my widowed mother, meant that I never had smiled before at a strange man, let alone spent time talking and sitting with a man I did not know well. I remember quite vividly how my mother protected me from men making forward actions while my family and I evacuated our hometown when the Japanese bombing began. One soldier on the road smiled at me and approached me gradually. When my mother noticed this situation, she came flying up and pushed the soldier away from me. When she did that, I was so surprised because I’d always thought of my mother as demure, and although not weak, I had no idea where she summoned the strength to push the strong solider away. But she did it, and after shaking it off, the soldier shyly walked the other way.

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Then when I entered Zhejiang University, I began to learn more about male-female relations. There were far fewer female students than male students. In fact the ratio was roughly one to ten, females to males. So we, the female students, could have easily had many boyfriends. Just walking around and going to classes I could feel the eyes on me. I knew that I was noticed. I also felt respected and admired by the boys. Even though the boys teased us sometimes, I knew that they were just interested in us, and in our interactions I felt like the boys respected us. Consequently, as I made my way through college, I learned to be proud and self-confident. I might have interacted with boys, but it was always in a student-to-student relationship, and never in an intimate relationship. It was with this history that I made sense of the advances Chiao-min made toward me. In traditional China when young people were interested in someone of the opposite sex, they tried to feel out how the other person felt. It was like a guessing-game where the two young people played music or wrote poems to show their feelings. These kind of romantic games helped the young person learn about how the other person felt. For me and Chiao-min things weren’t this old-fashioned or conservative, but we weren’t like the young people today. We sent letters and notes to each other. But just because we did this didn’t mean that we wrote love letters and immediately found that the other person was just as interested in us as we were in them. In fact, whenever a male classmate sent me love letter I immediately rejected it and would not be his friend. We might walk together in a group of people, but we never walked alone. Some male students had tried to befriend my younger brother in order to gain my approval, but I just never paid attention to them. I had been rather proud of myself that I never easily gave away my inner feelings. But then I met Chiao-min. He was slender, tall, energetic, and a talkative young fellow. He wasn’t bad looking, but he seemed a little foolish. I had no ill-feelings toward him, in fact, I was somewhat attracted to him. He was a young research scholar, and he was my classmate, but still I didn’t know him well, so I knew I had to be careful. Still Chiao-min’s affection for me came out so straight and so strong, that I didn’t know how to face him. I didn’t know how to accept these advances. But I also had no idea how to refuse them. I had nobody to consult with, as I was far away from both my mother and my brother at that time. The only people I could try to talk with were my teaching colleagues, so since they’d met Chiao-min, I tried to find out how they felt about him. No one thought there was anything really wrong with him, actually they thought he was smart and good-looking. Even so, I knew that I had to be careful with my feelings toward him. My friend had asked Chiao-min, “Who does Jean Kan belong to, since she has so many male admirers?” Chiao-min beat on his chest, and said, “Jean belongs to me!” I was

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so surprised, and thought that he was being rather foolish, but in my heart I was also touched. He was being honest, brave, and sincere, but also laughable. My feelings were gradually growing toward him. After that April 1st event, I started to feel true love for Chiao-min. One day when we were at the high school I taught at, Chiao-min asked me to go to the outside field instead of the city, because the city was always crowded. He wanted to take a walk together. I kept silent. It was sunset. Darkness was gradually covering the ground. The air was fresh and no one was around. Then I felt it. Chiao-min had reached over and was holding my hands. I was trembling. My heart was racing. But when I looked at Chiao-min I could see he was also very nervous. We were both nervous, but we were also both excited. We’d never touched each other before. My heart beat like crazy and felt like it was going to jump out of my chest. Even though I was nervous and excited, I felt safe with him, and the romance led to an overwhelming feeling of happiness.

CHIAO-MIN’S REACTION TO THE APRIL 1ST JOKE Although the joke was on me that day, it turned out to be a good thing, because Jean was quite impressed with how upset I was to learn she was sick, and how committed I was to ensure that she get good medical care—even if its acquisition required challenges on my part. In fact, after that incident, the letters came more frequently. As we continued to exchange letters, I fell more and more in love with her. Unfortunately, I did not have enough money to keep visiting her all the time. But we all know that love does crazy things to one’s mind, and so I started concocting crazy plans to try to get us to live in the same town. Jean was a high school teacher and also a stellar geography scholar. I had two ways to try to help her get a job in my town, though I have to admit that this “help” was not help that she asked for, or that I told her I was giving. I was just being crazy in love and trying to create a more ideal situation. One day I found the National Institute of Compilation and Translation in my town of Beipei, and I heard there was a vacancy for compiling a textbook on geography. What’s more, I knew my director knew the director of that Institute, and so I thought, “I’ll bring Jean to Beipei.” Then I started thinking about this more, and I realized I had no idea how to connect with this Institute and alert them to Jean’s candidacy for the job. Like a madman, I rushed out and hunted down my director. He was at home, ready for bed, but I couldn’t contain myself and barged in on him at his residence, flustering the poor fellow. “What do you want?” he wanted to know. And so I began to explain, “I have a girlfriend who needs a job here. She has a degree in geography from Zhejiang University and she’s a high school teacher now. I found an opening at another Institute, and I want her to come work here. You know the

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director, could you introduce us. Could you help me?” I blurted all this out as my director gazed at me trying to take everything I said all in. When I finally stopped talking, the director looked at me in a bemused way, laughed, and said he would help. With that he told me, “Go away.” I went. Beaming. Although that option did not pan out, I did eventually find another job that was a better fit for Jean. After the war ended, Jean left her teaching position and went back to visit her mother after being away from her for eight years. I returned to Shanghai to visit my relatives. In 1945, with the Sino-Japanese war over, everyone was eager to return to eastern China. Taiwan, a Japanese colony, reverted back to China and was in need of scholars who could assist in the transition of the education system from the Japanese model back to a Chinese model. My older brother Shi-yen had studied in Japan earlier and became a professor at Taiwan Normal University and a founding member of that prominent university. I also received an invitation from the university to serve as a lecturer in geography. Once I started there, I also found a high school teaching position near Taipei for Jean. So in 1947, I returned to Jean’s hometown to ask her to marry me and come to Taiwan to teach. She agreed, and we set off to Taiwan together. We were happy together in Taiwan, and our positions in the educational system there were exciting. At the time, Taiwan was coming out of Japanese rule, and we were all busy trying to revise the educational system in Taiwan so it fit better into the goals and structure of traditional Chinese education. Although our lives were pleasant in Taiwan, I was not sure if it was a place we wanted to stay forever. I felt like I needed to think about what was the best professional move for me, as well as what would help me achieve the quality of life I wanted to enjoy and provide for my own family. A few years earlier, as I thought about my future professional plans, I had gone to visit Chancellor Zhu at his office in Beipei. I told him that I would like to have a chance to study abroad, especially in America. Zhu then asked me if I had funds to study abroad. As a refugee student, I certainly lacked the funds to do so. Then Zhu said it would be difficult. We were discussing the challenges, when he suddenly asked my why I wanted to study abroad. Obviously, at that time every serious young scholar wanted to go abroad to study for the status that was conferred upon returning to China. I answered that, after graduation from the University, if I remained in China, even if I served as a teaching assistant for eight or nine years, it would be difficult to obtain a promotion to become just a lecturer, but after returning from studying abroad, I was likely to be hired immediately onto faculty as an assistant professor. That is, thinking of my family’s welfare, I was looking to further my career. On hearing my response, Chancellor Zhu’s face changed. He became very angry, and with great gravity replied that my attitude toward study was seriously wrong—I wanted to go abroad for the wrong reasons. My approach was

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too practical, lacking in ideals. He reiterated my lack of ideals and the wrong assumptions I had of how to rise in my profession—an unfortunate value on which to base my lifestyle. I was so stunned at this severe reprimand that I almost wept. When he noted this, Zhu said at last: “The purpose of studying abroad is to seek the new knowledge. As a matter of fact, in our Institute of Meteorology there is a good library which has been established much more recently and may be much better than the library of your institute (of Geography).” Zhu said he would ask Professor Huang, the Director of the Geographic Institute, to allow me to come to the Meteorology Institute for a whole day each week to study. I certainly greatly appreciated his kindness and encouragement. But I thought that it really depended on me to determine my own future. At that time, only a very high score on a government examination would provide a scholarship to study abroad. I studied hard and more diligently in seeking knowledge of my field and fields related to it. Fortunately, not too long after this encounter with Chancellor Zhu, there was an open examination offered in all fields to send the students who scored highest abroad for study. I received the second highest score of 64.4 in that examination. The highest was score 64.8. The highest scoring student was sent to France to study physical geography and, since my score was so close to his, I was selected to go to America to study human geography, the impact of humanity on geography. When I learned of my selection to study abroad, I immediately sent my good news to Chancellor Zhu, who was also just about to go to the U.S., that I now had the chance to study in the U.S. I asked him for help in recommending a university to which I should apply. Many months passed without any response. One day, I received a package of mail from the U.S. It was notice of my admission to Harvard, due to Zhu’s recommendation. Zhu had helped me tremendously, even without informing me, which I found very moving. I then discovered that the Geography program at Harvard was a small one and not the leading one in the U.S., even though Harvard was a very noted university. The only professor in geography there, Professor Whittlesey, specialized in Europe, which did not correspond to my interest. I had learned in the meantime that Syracuse University had the leading Department of Geography in the U.S. with the Chair, Professor George B. Cressey, specializing in the China and Soviet Union and two other internationally known faculty, Preston E. James, specialist in cultural geography and Latin America, and Robert E. Dickenson, specialist in Europe and urban geography. This department was huge, with over 50 graduate students. There were two other American universities with leading Departments of Geography, University of Wisconsin in Madison and Clark University in Boston. So it was among these three that I selected to study at Syracuse, where Professor

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Cressey was both a specialist in the geography of China and a personal friend of Chancellor Zhu, who was kind enough to recommend me to Cressey. Zhu and Cressey had been friends for many years. In December 1947, I was about to leave for graduate studies at Syracuse University to begin the next month. But first, I visited Hangzhou to see Chancellor Zhu. He had aged, and looked tired. I remember vividly his lament that students at that time were not the same as when I was a student, studying hard despite the dangers of war and the privations of the odyssey inland. Rather, most wanted to be political activists, rallying at demonstrations, giving speeches, writing articles which tried to incite the Communist rebellion. It was as if he had lost control of student attitudes and behaviors. It was my impression that he had a very trying role, attempting to instill the value of study in such a politically charged atmosphere. My purpose of this visit was to thank Zhu from my heart for all that he had done for me, inspiring me, teaching me and recommending me to Harvard and to his good friend, Professor Cressey at Syracuse. Typical of Zhu, he downplayed my heartfelt thanks, and went on to other subjects. Always like the father, he asked me to take some notes. “When you go to America, you should contact various Zhejiang University alumni who are studying in America—develop ties with them.” He then provided me with the names of Guo Xiaolan who was studying meteorology at University of Chicago and Hsiung Chuan-chih, studying mathematics at Michigan State University, in East Lansing, and others. Before leaving for America, Jean’s mother sent her son from Hefei to Shanghai, from where I was departing, to see me off. With her son, she sent about 200 dried chicken livers for me to eat on my long boat journey to America. Earlier she’d seen me eat chicken livers, and noticed the gusto with which I devoured them; they were one of my most favorite foods. As a sign of her love for me, she’d made 200 of these items for me, and sent her son to deliver them. Unfortunately for us both, her son arrived in Shanghai, but never passed off the chicken livers because my ship left early, and he had trouble getting up in the morning and did not make it in time. In the end, I wasn’t the only one to go on to America to study. Jean also came for graduate studies at Syracuse one year later.1 We will never forget the kindness Chancellor Zhu showed to both of us. Upon receiving her Master’s degree from Syracuse, Jean assisted a professor in making maps at Dartmouth College for a year. Next year, she became an assistant researcher at the Center for International Studies at M.I.T., where she remained for two years. Following this, she taught geography at Trinity College in Washington D.C, at National Taiwan University, as associate professor, and also at the Chinese Culture University in Taipei, as a professor.

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She also writes widely acclaimed poetry in the classical style, and she published an atlas with me.

ZHEJIANG UNIVERSITY As for the University, struggle and change continued even after the retreat of the Japanese and the return of Zhejiang University to Hangzhou. In 1948, China was in internal upheaval. The Japanese were gone, but the Communist army had defeated Chiang Kai-shek’s army, time after time. Although the government was still nominally Nationalist, and the University operated under its umbrella, there was great disquiet at the University because many students were members of the Communist underground, and others, not official Party members, were sympathetic. Arguments were frequent and heated; emotions ran high. Zhu Kezhen had a very difficult role in this turmoil of the Communist-Nationalist civil war. He was officially an officer of the Nationalist Government, having been given his job by Chiang Kai-shek. Like his students, Zhu, too, was an idealist, but realized how dangerous it was to openly take either side. Many pressures were put upon him to lean to the ‘Left’ or to the (Nationalist) ‘Right.’ He always answered that he would lean in neither direction, but that the University must continue ‘straight ahead’ in its missions of teaching and research, neutral and independent of politics. Finally, in 1949, as the Communists emerged as rulers of mainland China, Zhu became very depressed. He was always being accused of taking political sides, when in reality he was very carefully avoiding taking sides. As a result, Zhu left Hangzhou and hid in Shanghai, to leave behind all the conflicts of his role as Chancellor. Although he was offered important positions in Nationalist Taiwan, he never accepted, preferring to stay in the Mother Country, despite its dangers. Then, once the Communists had prevailed and established the national capital in Beijing, they invited him to assume the esteemed position of Vice President of the Chinese Academy of Sciences in Beijing. He accepted this position, to be responsible for developing the Division of Earth Sciences, a position he held until his death in 1974 at the age of 84.2 Not everyone from Zhejiang University had lives that turned out as well as mine and Jean’s, or Chancellor Zhu’s. Fei Gong, our beloved Director of Student Affairs and political science professor, was one such person who did not come to nearly as pleasant an end. Although Fei was tremendously popular at Zhejiang, he was also known for flying off the handle from time to time. Fei never hesitated to stand up and denounce a viewpoint he disagreed with, regardless of who that viewpoint belonged to. Thus, even Zhu bore the brunt of

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Fei’s verbal assaults every now and again. Still, we loved and respected him because he took good care of us. And we were amazed at how staunch a supporter of democracy he was given that he was also the grandson of a Chinese emperor. Despite Fei’s own warnings to us to be careful how much we aired our political opinions, it seemed that he could not follow his own advice, and so we were worried for him when he was invited to spend a sabbatical year at Fudan University in 1942. As one of Fei’s closest friends and colleagues, Professor Wang Jiawu urged Fei not to go, but to stay in Zunyi, where he was admired and safer. Chongqing was the center of Nationalist power, and, since Fei had been outspoken in criticism of the Nationalist regime, Wang felt that Fei was in danger if he left the sanctuary of Zhejiang University to go to Chongqing. Unfortunately, Fei did not follow his friend Wang’s advice. He took a sabbatical from Zhejiang, leaving us in the midst of our exile from Hangzhou, to make his way toward Fudan. Because the war was still raging on, the journey was not as quick as it might have been. Fei first went to Chongqing, the inland Nationalist capital during the war. From there, Fudan University was 5–6 hours away by boat. For the entirety of his journey, Fei was to be accompanied by one of his students, Shao Quansheng, who had been closely associated with him under the tutorial system at the university. Shao was majoring in English Literature, and he had great respect for Fei. For his part, Fei thought Shao very diligent, and the two were quite friendly with one another. Upon arriving in Chongqing, Fei dined with the Minister of Education, Chen Lifu, a strident ideologue anti-Communist. Having to dine with Chen, and listen to him wax on about his views, really got under the skin of Fei. In fact even the idea of having to dine with Chen irritated Fei. But Fei also knew that such an invitation could not be turned down in Chinese etiquette. There was no way to refuse an invitation from a high government official. And so Fei attended the dinner, knowing full well that it was a dangerous invitation, given not only their differing views, but also the way in which the government worked to weed out those they did not like. The following morning, Fei and Shao walked through the dark streets of Chongqing together from their hotel to the port. So that they could see their way, Fei carried a lit candle in a paper lantern with his name inscribed on it. Fei had long been fond of this lantern, and so it bought him some peace after an unsettling dinner the evening before. The boat to Fudan from Chongqing was to leave in the early morning darkness, and so Fei and Shao arrived at the dock at 4 A.M. Since the boat was not yet ready for boarding upon their arrival, the two men waited there on the dock. As they stood waiting, Fei remembered that he’d left something back at the hotel. Shao volunteered to fetch the item, and so he dashed off, leaving Fei standing along on the pier. By the time he returned to the dock, Shao could see that he’d missed the boat.

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It must have departed while he was traveling back from the hotel, and so Shao made plans to take a later boat, and in the meantime he called Fudan University to make sure the professor had arrived, which the university confirmed. Unfortunately, Fei was a somewhat common name in China, and in fact Shao’s professor had never arrived in Fudan. Something had happened to him, and neither Shao nor anyone else would see him again. Fei’s disappearance caused quite an uproar in the capital. People searched for him, and the news was in all the papers. People were very nervous, and the government was in a tight spot. Initially the security chief in Chongqing denied that anything had happened to Fei, and so no suspects were arrested. Rumors spread. Some people said they had seen Fei, living as a monk in a monastery; others believed that he must have fled to America. Or perhaps he had drowned in the river. Without any evidence at all, however, the case remained open, and the longer the case remained open, the more nervous the government became. The Americans, always trying to push for democracy, started to put pressure on Chiang Kai-shek to solve the case. The Communists also demanded to know what had happened and hinted that the government itself had done away with Fei. Fei was very liberal politically, and he did have sympathies with the Communist underground, especially because of his work with university students. In fact, he had signed a petition circulated by the Communist party that registered dissatisfaction with Chiang Kai-shek’s government. For people in the know, it was not very difficult to imagine that the government was involved somehow with Fei’s mysterious disappearance, especially since the night before his disappearance, Fei had dined with the Minister of Education. By hosting this dinner at his house, Minister Chen, could be sure that Fei was physically in the capital. Had Chen tipped off the government about when Fei would be waiting for the boat? When Shao went off to fetch the forgotten item then, Fei was alone, in the dark, in the Nationalist capital. It would be easy for the government to have surreptitiously arrested Fei then. Officially, of course, the government said it knew nothing about the case. Still, with all the pressure, officials had to give a good show of trying to solve the case. Unfortunately for Shao, he was the only witness, and he became the target of the investigation. After all, the best possible outcome for the government would be to have someone confess to having murdered the professor. Then all suspicion would be diverted from Chiang Kai-shek and his government. Consequently, Shao was arrested. The government held and tortured him and his family and friends in the hope that he would admit he killed his professor. After being subjected to so much physical and psychological pain, one day when he was under water torture, Shao admitted to having murdered Fei, purely because he could no longer stand the torture.

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“Why did you do it?” they asked him. “Because he was a very strict professor,” Shao said, “and I didn’t do my work. He was angry with me. So I pushed him into the river.” Making such an admission should have meant execution, but at that time Shao was suffering so much that dying meant nothing to him. He just wanted the ordeal to end, one way or the other. But there was to be no easy ending. As with any government, there was inter-agency conflict among Chiang Kaishek’s circle, similar to the kind of tension that exists today in America between the FBI and the CIA. Although most people were happy to accept Shao’s confession and hope the case would blow over, the chief of another agency, a man named Tai Li, a well-known secret police chief during the war, would not let it rest. He was jealous of the chief who had forced the confession out of Shao and wanted to garner favor himself. Tai came to interrogate Shao himself. He clomped into the room in his heavy boots and sat down. He asked Shao to sit. “Shao,” he began, “Did you really kill Professor Fei?” “Yes,” Shao answered. Having confessed, of course he wasn’t going to change his story. “Why,” Tai asked. “He had scolded me,” Shao responded. “I was angry with him.” “How did you kill him?’ Tai asked. “I pushed him into the water,” Shao said. Now, everyone knew that Fei had not drowned off the pier. The water there was shallow and the current was weak. Besides, the body had not turned up there, or downstream. And with many passengers on the boat, no one at the site of his disappearance had noticed anyone falling into the water. The whole affair stank of a cover-up. No one would believe this story without having a strong political incentive to do so. Tai pushed a little harder; “Shao, are you really telling the truth?’ Again, Shao said “Yes.” Tai leaned forward and looked Shao directly in the eyes. “Shao, you can die easily. We can shoot you, and you will die quickly. But, here Tai lowered his voice, “If you die, what about your parents and grandmother? What will happen to them?” At this Shao began to weep, and he took back his confession. He admitted to Tai what the officer already knew; he had not killed Fei. Shao was not executed, but he was kept in jail, though everyone understood that he was innocent. He could not be released, however; no one dared mention the case to Chiang Kai-shek or demand Shao’s release. Shao spent a couple of years in prison, until 1948 or 1949. In the end, it was Chancellor Zhu who had the courage to approach Chiang Kai-shek. He gathered as much evidence of Shao’s innocence as possible, and he went to see Chen Bulei,

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Chiang Kai-shek’s general secretary and a famous alumnus of Zhejiang University. This is how Shao was finally released from prison. After his release, Shao returned to Hangzhou as a professor at a local teachers’ college, and he remained there for a few years. He told the above story when Chiao-min was in Hangzhou. As for Fei, its was discovered after the Communist Revolution—when nobody was paying attention, because everything in the country was falling apart—that Chiang Kai-shek’s secret police had captured him as he stood alone on the pier. They arrested him and tortured him, and after they killed him, they put his body in a barrel of acid so that no trace of him remained as evidence. And so died a great humanitarian and democrat, the sort of man China could have sorely used to help stitch its broken pieces together after so many years of war and political upheaval.

NOTES 1. She had been recommended by Professor Chung Wang Tu; Tu was a former student of Professor Cressey. 2. During this time, Zhu became very active professionally. He seemed rejuvenated by being able to continue his life as a productive scientist. In addition to his responsibilities at the Chinese Academy of Sciences, he also was given responsibility to set up and chair a comprehensive Committee to Study the Natural Environment of China, for each region of the country. This meant, at his advanced age of 77, he was back to fieldwork. For example, in Inner Mongolia, near Baotou, he set up a station to study the process of desertification, the spreading of the desert. After Zhu passed away in 1974, in 1984–1985 I had the pleasure to visit the professionals operating the station he had founded in Inner Mongolia, to learn of their work, and to lecture at a number of universities on geography. This center in Inner Mongolia developed ground breaking methods to arrest the spread of desert, by planting a special hybrid of grass and other techniques; these methods proved quite successful. People abroad, especially in Africa, were most interested to learn how to arrest the spread of the desert. Zhu published a comprehensive article in Chinese in Wen-Wai, a journal on ancient China studies, which compiled his research on 5000 years of climate change in China. I had the honor of assembling a condensed version of this article and publishing it in English, together with his biography, in The Geographical Journal of the Royal Geographical Society, London UK, in July 1976. Also, while at the Chinese Academy of Sciences, Zhu co-authored a small book with a woman researcher, Wan Mingwei, on how farmers could recognize the changes of season to determine the best times for planting, harvesting, and so on. This was intended to provide scientific knowledge to the general public. For example, it alerted farmers to particular flowers which bloom, heralding the spring, at a time when one should plant.

Chapter Five

Conclusion

During the War of Resistance against Japan, many young Chinese scholars studied at Zhejiang University. To mention Zhejiang University now brings to mind the beautiful West Lake, its lovely hills and clear waters—a paradise tapestry of fishing and rice-growing villages. However, during the terrible War of Resistance, as we moved from place to place, our surroundings were anything but idyllic. But as we suffered along our journey around China and into the interior, we continued our studies and together—with the faculty—we and the University all matured. Today, Zhejiang University is among the best known universities in China; when her name is mentioned, many nod their heads recalling that, especially during those wartime years, Zhejiang University was brilliant in many ways. In fact, when English scholar Joseph Needham visited China, following his observation of the painstaking spirit and conditions of study, he remarked that this university, Zhejiang, was the Cambridge of China. In speaking of the students at Zhejiang University, you really can say that we students possessed the essence of ‘rusticity,’ of which we were quite proud. Under those conditions, a student with a so-called foreign air had a hard time maintaining his position. Jean remembers that there was one student named John X who was from Shanghai. Two students from her hometown despised him and made a special point of picking on him. Whenever they were around him they would say “Hey, John X, how come your hair is black?,” “Hey John X, here’s a bottle of blue color ink, why don’t you take it and dye your eyes with it?’” Poor John X. He took a lot of insults. Actually Chiao-min knew him quite well. He was a kind person and a conscientious scholar. Unfortunately he had a foreign name, and thus was always insulted by others. Perhaps this was a consequence of the atmosphere of those times, especially of our generation which was born in worry and grew up in war, our heads full of nationalism that created a certain kind of atmosphere at Zhejiang 95

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University. For example, if someone should be in a happy mood thinking about something foreign and, seeing you in the morning, should call out a cheery “Good Morning” (in English), that person would be likely to be greeted with eyes askance, and “Ai. Eat Chinese rice. Why the foreign farts?” In this way, anyone with a “foreign air” was attacked. Zhejiang students would not tolerate “reverence for all things foreign” or “obsequiousness to foreigners” but Zhejiang University did not hold extreme attitudes, like the earlier Boxers. On the contrary, the new learning absorbed at Zhejiang University was on par with that at any school. Many of our textbooks were in English. In the Biology Department there were two Indian students who could not pronounce Chinese, and sometimes one of the students would speak to them in English, and if he could not understand them, someone else would try, and at times like this no one would dare ridicule someone by calling them a foreign fart. Zhejiang University also had one Jewish women teacher who taught German, and when she took her little boy out for a walk along the river, no one ever said anything about her blond hair and blue eyes, and everyone greeted her with smiles. To say that Zhejiang University did not stress English is not necessarily true, but it did place special emphasis on our own native Chinese language. The Geography and History Department had a student who put our announcements or communications only in four or six character couplets, which everyone really appreciated. One of the female students received two invitation cards to parties; one was written with a fountain pen, giving the date and address, while the other was written in formal (Chinese) characters with a brush, at the very end of which was written “respectfully await the pleasure of your arrival.” This student declined the former invitation, her reason being, “Anyone who writes such awfully distorted characters must be like that himself. Who would want to spend time with them?” This of course was prejudiced, but it also displayed a charming “rustic” quality. The “rustic” quality of the women students at Zhejiang University had already become a custom. No matter how wealthy a family she came from, no matter how important her father was, once she entered the gates of Zhejiang University, and put on a plain blue Chinese dress she became another person from head to toe. A number of the women had trunks filled with beautiful dresses and high heeled shoes, but most of the time they never wore them, until sometimes, in the evening when there was nothing to do, someone would suggest “Let’s get dressed up.” At such a time a few good friends would laugh and giggle, put on red lipstick and new dresses, and have fun within the confines of their room. Once when quite a few of the women students were just passing time in the dormitory, discussing the problems of life, one question asked was “What kind of person would you like to marry?” Among all the students, not one said “I would like to marry someone with money or position” or said “I want to

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marry a foreigner.” When it came to Jean’s turn, she said, “I want to marry someone who is like a knight of old, who can ride a horse and shoot a bow.” They all stared and laughed wildly, replying “Quick, go find yourself a nomadic herdsman.” (Heaven knows, Chiao-min cannot even pull a bow, and jumps when he sees a snake.) Returning to the male students, they were charmingly “rustic.” You do not have to go any further than to ask how many of them, at that time, could dance? Who many could tie a tie? How many of them would dare cock their head and whistle? How many could use a knife and fork? But none of them cared. They would reply that this was all insignificant. Who would deny that this group of people were “country hicks”? Still, this group of country hicks was also a group of incredible people. We’d survived the war. Throughout those years on the run, we’d made do with very little, and we’d learned much—about our studies, about each other, and about the importance of sharing knowledge. In our lives after the years we’d spent at Zhejiang University, many of us went on to accomplish great things—and often through the help of each other and our faculty at Zhejiang who continued to be our greatest allies as we made steps forward.

EFFECT ON INLAND COMMUNITIES Prior to the arrival of Zhejiang University and its students, the southwest part of China was relatively culturally backward, isolated, and economically stagnant. This part of China was lacking modern technology and many modern ways of thinking. As we made our stops around the interior of China, we contributed to the region and helped break the isolation these people were experiencing, both teaching and learning many new things with them. For example, before Zhejiang University moved to Zunyi, the city did not have any electric lighting. Local people never heard of “electricity” or “engine” before we came to town. On June 6th of that year, the Zhejiang University College of Engineering held an exhibition festival—somewhat like a science fair that Americans have. The engineers showed the people of Zunyi the telephone, the electric light, the automobile engine, and the airplane engine. Given that all this was brand new to the people of Zunyi, the exhibition caused quite a stir, and interest in learning more about these products was high. Electricity and electric products were not the only thing that we introduced to Zunyi. The chemical engineering department taught the local people how to make soap in order to increase the hygiene in the community. This interested the citizens a great deal. The student body of Zhejiang University was largely from the province of Zhejiang, with a smaller number of groups from Jiangsu province. These two

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provinces are among the most developed regions in China and many of the Zunyi residents marveled at us. But as we moved across the interior of China, we too grew in ways that we never would have expected as we learned much about the ways of life of people outside our own provinces and experiences. In fact, when the war finally ended and the university moved back to Hangzhou, many alumni and faculty remained in or returned to the interior to continue work to benefit the local areas that had welcomed them and protected them during the war. You see, throughout our trek in China we’d learned not only from books but from people. Under the fine leadership of Chancellor Zhu we’d been schooled in giving back to those who gave us refuge in their towns. We learned that to help others was important, and that one way we could improve Chinese society was to use our intellectual skills and culture to craft ways of enhancing the everyday lives of those around us. When we were in Taihe, there was no newspaper, so we used the radio to stay in touch with the news. We also circulated the Zhe-da (abbreviation for Zhejiang University) daily newspaper, in which students printed reports they heard on the radio. The main news concerned the location of the battlefront and the direction in which the Japanese were advancing. The paper was printed in the morning. Although the paper was often only a page or two, it was an effective means of spreading news. The university sponsored the paper, and it was free to readers. The newspaper also collected money to forward to the front. Students put on performances, so that the money collected from tickets could be sent to the front. One time, we were able to collect $900 in donations to send to Wuhan, then the frontlines of the Resistance. We also worked with the provincial government to build a dike to control flooding around the Gan River. The floodplain was very flat, and once or twice every year the river would flood during the monsoons, destroying crops. As the water rushed over the land, however, it also deposited fertile silt. So if the flooding could be controlled this fertile farmland could be reclaimed. The engineering students, and some of their classmates worked with the government to construct a dike. Students surveyed the area, and starting on April 28th, extended the existing dike 15 additional miles to improve flood control. At times, any passerby could find up to 800 local people working on the project with the students. With oversight by the Department of Civil Engineering, and funding from both the university and the government, the dike extension was finished by the end of June and, in honor of the work of the University, the dike came to be known as Zheda Dike, where Zheda is an abbreviation for Zhejiang University. As scholars, promoting the local schools was also important to us all. We set up schools throughout our journey in China, but we were not there just to educate the children, we wanted to be able to reach the older generations too. Many of these people had not had the benefit of schools and were illiterate. In order to teach them, students put on performances for local families to en-

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joy. The subject of the show was always to educate others to be patriotic and be aware of ways they could fight back against the cruel Japanese. Assistant Professor Liu Zhiyuan was invited by Professor Ye Liangfu to be his assistant to teach geology & geomorphology classes. His main job was to lead the students to the fields to identify rock formations, rocks, their structures, and the development of landforms. During his time in the field in 1941, Liu discovered that the area of the Tuan creek in Zunyi contained magnesium (Mn) mineral resources, which is the main source of the steel industry. After careful analysis by the laboratory in the Department of Chemical Engineering, this manganese ore was found to be of good quality and the rich reserve amounted to millions of tons. After more field surveys, Liu reported his findings in the Journal of Economic Development in 1946. His discovery laid the foundation for the development of mining of manganese in southwest China. During the war, this became one of the major contributions of Zhejiang University. In 1985, the manganese industry became the most important mining industry in all of China. Through our Agricultural School we helped the farmers in Taihe to put the land to better use. Much of the land was not fit for cultivation; it had been damaged in the war and farmers had abandoned it. Meanwhile, refugees were pouring into the area which, combined with a curtailed farmland capacity, resulted in a shortage of food. The agricultural students surveyed the land, divided it into plots of so many acres. They recruited 80 new farmers to farm the rehabilitated land, and then another 140. As we were studying from books at the university,

The dike of Zhejiang University at Taihe

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we were also studying the practice of community service. We began to take our role as participants in our host communities very seriously. We were growing to feel responsible and accountable to the local people with whom we were working. Similarly, when we were in Meitan, the College of Agriculture set up a program for promoting the production of potatoes, tomatoes, vegetable seeds, and tested the cultivation of watermelons, while also experimenting with ways to prevent insects or disease from taking over the crops. As a result, the province now harvests many watermelons and other produce. Guizhou was also famous for their cultivation of opium and wheat. With the help of the faculty and students, however, the local people were able to select seeds better and cultivate larger, healthier crops of wheat. And with this crop the people then learned to produce noodles. Given that we’re talking about China, one crop especially worth mentioning is the tea seed. With collaboration between the University and the people, Zunyi produced even more spectacular red tea and green tea—well known now in the international tea market. On a more specifically scholarly note, the Department of History and Geography completed a new gazette of Zunyi. Covering the topics of landforms, climate, soils, population, land use, production, and many other topics, the volume became the most important reference for the entire city. Not only were material achievements left behind by Zhejiang University throughout its refugee flight across China, but also a tradition of giving back was established by the University, led especially by Chancellor Zhu. He encouraged us to seek truth in our studies, and to be honest, diligent, and respectable people, and in turn we aimed to leave this legacy wherever we went.

SIGNIFICANCE OF ZHEJIANG UNIVERSITY TODAY One of the most important accomplishments that lives on today was the timely and carefully planned move of the Wenlan Ge, the national treasure of China. Without Zhejiang University’s work to preserve this treasure, many cultural artifacts of China would not have been preserved. During the war, like other universities, Zhejiang University had to struggle very hard just to survive from day to day, and constantly try to avoid the Japanese air raids. Due to severe limitations in material resources, housing and equipment were quite inadequate, and students and teachers eked out a bare living. The hardships that they sometimes had to endure defy imagination. Most of the buildings consisted of no more than thatched roofs over mud walls. Libraries and laboratories were poorly equipped. Morale, however, remained high throughout the war years. Teachers and students were resolute in their determination to confront adversity and to overcome all difficulties.

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The present campus of Zhejiang University at Hangzhou

One objective measure of the quality of Chinese wartime education is found in the performance of its products in the U.S. Many of that generation of Chinese students have since distinguished themselves in various fields in America. The war, the constant coping with close, substandard quarters, and the fear fostered a spirit of unity, self-sacrifice, austerity, and forbearance. In such a milieu, all constructive endeavors, including education, thrived.

The present campus of Zhejiang University at Hangzhou

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The present campus of Zhejiang University at Hangzhou

To value education has always been a Chinese tradition. No matter how poor a family is, priority is always given to the education of the young. Similarly, the government in wartime China allocated for education a large number of resources—second only to that for defense. Zhejiang University is one of the top-ranked education centers in China. Its advanced research and high teaching standards will contribute to the economic development and social progress of China and, along with the work of the world’s most renowned universities, to the establishment of peace and progress. At present, the University has cooperative projects with over 100 universities in the world—and each year more than 200 foreign students from about 90 countries register for classes at Zhejiang. There are more than 300 international scholars teaching and conducting joint research on the campus. In 2005, the total student body was 44,000 with 24,000 undergraduates, 11,000 Master’s degree students, and 6,000 doctoral students. The total number of faculty and staff members was 8,400 of which, 4,181 were teachers and researchers, 1,100 professors, and 2,400 associate professors. There are 108 undergraduate programs, 274 Master’s degree programs, 212 doctoral programs, and 39 post-doctoral programs. We take no credit for the magnificence of the university today, but we take much satisfaction in knowing that our struggles and sacrifices helped preserve a tradition of excellence at Zhejiang, even in one of the most difficult times in Chinese history.

Chapter Six

A Sample of Outstanding Faculty Members during the War of Resistance

CHANCELLOR ZHU Through many parts of this book, we have recounted the enormous contributions of Zhu Kezhen [Chu Kochen, also Coching Chu] to the development of Zhejiang University, his virtuous character, the reverence that students developed toward him, and his unyielding patriotism and commitment to science. He led an extraordinary life that is worth recounting in additional detail, with vignettes provided by people who remember his actions and attitudes. Zhu was born on March 7, 1890 in Shaoxing county of Zhejiang province. Zhu’s ancestors were hard-working farmers who tended rice paddy fields. Zhu’s father was the first to break from family tradition to become a merchant. He opened a store that traded in rice. Zhu’s mother was a local girl who married his father when she was twenty years old. They had three sons and three daughters. Zhu Kezhen was the youngest. His father used to carry him on his shoulders into town. By the time Zhu was three, he had memorized all the names of the shops in town. He was recognized as a bright child and the favorite of his parents. In the Chinese tradition, they wanted to cultivate him as an intellectual, not as a farm laborer. His parents saved money in order to send Zhu to Chen Zhong, a famous private school in Shanghai. This school had produced many graduates who had entered university and had gone on to become important scholars. In 1909, Zhu entered Tang Shan Mining College, near Tianjin, and majored in civil engineering. About this time, China was defeated in the Boxer Rebellion. America decided that for war reparations, China was to award scholarships for promising young Chinese students to study overseas. Only seventy students were awarded the competitive Boxer Scholarships, and Zhu, at 19 years old, was number 28. He came to America at the age of 20, and studied 103

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at the University of Illinois as an agronomist for three years. However, he was not interested in the subject, and decided to go to Harvard to study meteorology. This was an acceptable compromise; China was interested in agriculture, and Zhu was interested in science. Meteorology allowed him to pursue his passion for science, as well as develop expertise that would benefit Chinese agriculture. He went on to receive a Master’s degree in agriculture at the University of Illinois, then a Ph.D. under Professor Robert D.C. Ward at Harvard. In his doctoral dissertation, Zhu classified a new category of typhoon in the Far East. In the autumn of 1919, Zhu returned to China and became the first Professor of Geography, a part of the field of meteorology, at the Normal University of Wuchang (later to become Wuhan University). His monthly salary was about the equivalent of US $250, which was fairly high for the time. In the winter of that year he went to Shanghai for the holidays, where he married Zhang Xiawen of Hunan province. She came from an upper class family. In 1920, Zhu became head of the Department of Earth Sciences at Southeastern Normal University (later to become Nanjing University). Zhu trained a substantial number of leading geographers, geologists, and oceanographers— all from fields related to meteorology—as well as a number of leading meteorologists. Up until this time, all meteorological observation and activities had been carried out by foreigners. Zhu took over a major weather station located in Shanghai which had been under a westerner named Gherzi. During his time in Shanghai, he also began publishing about China’s weather in professional journals, as well as collecting and publishing on a large volume of basic data about rainfall, temperature, weather conditions, etc. in China. This database was to become the basis of China’s meteorological monitoring and prediction system. The events that led to Zhu’s appointment as Chancellor of Zhejiang University were interesting. In the beginning of his tenure, some of the senior professors were suspicious of Zhu because he was connected with Chiang Kai-shek’s government (widely recognized as corrupt)—through his wife’s sister. As time passed, they realized that Zhu did not depend on his connections of influence, but on his good character, ability, and relationships with others. Zhu had the ability to recognize and judge candidate professors’ character, recruit them, treat them courteously, and nurture their professional growth and leadership. He knew how to select qualified professors, and how to draw them into his vision. The campus was transformed from a military institution into a democracy, for under Zhu the professors were allowed to have a voice in matters. It was Zhu’s belief and policy that the University should be governed by the professors; everything was decided by faculty conferences.

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Zhu also was a wise voice for the students in times of crisis, specifically during the imminent Japanese invasion of China in World War II. Student views became seriously divided during this war. Some of the students, hearing of the cruelty of the Japanese invaders, were incensed by the stories of the suffering of the Chinese people. These students did not want to study the classics, but yearned to become soldiers to defend the country. Many of these left to join the army, but many others stayed after hearing Zhu’s impassioned speech about the importance of cultural preservation and scholarship. One student said that during those eight years of war, the reason they never died of cold, starved to death or died of illness was because of Zhu’s leadership. Zhu devoted his life to the survival and morale of the University’s students and faculty. In the thirteen years under Zhu’s administration, Zhejiang University greatly expanded its courses, research facilities, library and, most importantly, its recruitment of noted professors. Zhu believed that, under his administration, the salary of the faculty should never be over 70% of the overall budget, and that the library and equipment budget should be 15% at a minimum. Additionally, there was a large increase in students registered at the university as well. The three colleges grew into sixteen, and sixteen departments grew to twenty-five. Although sometimes difficult for others to understand, Zhu’s fairness and the nobility of his character won over the students. He taught not only by his words but also by his deeds. There were many instances that demonstrated why Zhu was so respected by his students. While the University was at Zunyi, there were many air raids. China had an Air Force Academy but almost no planes. The Japanese had many warplanes, so they controlled the sky. There were several military colleges in the area of Zunyi. All the leaders of those schools, as well as the mayor and other municipal officials, had personal cars. Whenever the warning of an impending air raid came, all these military and local authorities would rush in their cars to nearby caves for cover. But not Zhu. As Chancellor, Zhu also had a personal car, but when the air raid siren sounded he ran with the students for cover as a pedestrian, carrying his small children under his arms. Chiao-min really came to know Chancellor Zhu personally after he graduated from Zhejiang University and worked as a research assistant at the Institute of Geography at Beipei, a cultural center during the war which was about a two-hour drive from the war capital of Chongqing. Director and Professor Huang Guozhang of the Institute of Geography once called Chiao-min to his office, saying that he was perplexed and frustrated—that several times he had invited Chancellor Zhu to give a lecture at the Institute but had always been politely refused. He did not know why Zhu was refusing. He

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asked Chiao-min to invite Zhu again personally, since Chiao-min was a close friend and former student of Zhu. So one day Chiao-min asked Zhu to offer a lecture at the Institute and asked why he had so often refused such an invitation. Zhu answered seriously that the organization where Chiao-min worked was an important research institute. To give a lecture is a serious business, and needs preparation. He agreed that three months later, when he had finished preparation for his lecture, he would speak at the Institute. So, at the appointed date, Zhu arrived and offered a lecture on the ‘Study of Geography and the Second World War.’ The talk was meaningful and valuable. It gave Chiao-min another lesson, that Zhu would not lecture casually, but only with serious preparation and only after careful, deep thought. He was a true scholar. His lecture was published in the Journal of the Institute, after Chiao-min had drafted the article and received Zhu’s approval. As with many well-known scientists, Zhu remained devoted to his professional work until the last day of his life, reminiscent of Madame Marie Curie (1869–1934), who also worked her last day in the laboratory. On Wednesday, February 5, 1974, Zhu entered in his diary “fine day, cloudy, ice, wind from the east 1–2 meters/minute lowest temperature -7°C, highest -1°C.” The next morning at 4:00 am, he stopped breathing. Beyond his contributions to science, Zhu is remembered for the way he built the faculty of Zhejiang University. The subsequent sections acknowledge some of the impressive work of the faculty under Zhu’s administration.

HUMANITIES FACULTY Mei Guangdi, 1890–1945, Chinese and Western Literature Mei Guangdi was one of the best literary figures in modern China, but he was too relaxed. Unlike some of his contemporaries, he did not become a public scholar who communicated with society at large and academicians through lectures and publications. He was content with his knowledge and teaching. Mei was born on January 2, 1890, in Xuancheng of Anhui province. He valued his origins and his ancestors. The Mei family was a very prosperous, prominent family in Xuancheng, with roots reaching as far back as the writer Mei Songyu of the Song Dynasty and a noted mathematician in the Qing dynasty. He took pride in his birthplace; of the 40,000 natives of Xuancheng during his lifetime, about 100 of them were leading scholars. At age 18, Mei entered Anhui High School to prepare for college. In 1911, Mei won one of the Boxer Rebellion scholarships and came to America. He first registered at the University of Wisconsin to study literature, and then transferred to Northwestern University in Chicago. Mei moved on to Harvard for his graduate

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Professor Mei Guangdi, Dean of Humanities

work, specializing in Western literature under Professor Irving Babbitt, a leading American humanist scholar of the day. By the time Mei returned to China in 1920, his old friend Liu Boming had risen to prominence in the Southeastern University (later to become Nanjing University). Liu invited Mei to become the Chairman of the Western Languages Department. Liu chose Mei to help create more depth and interest in classical Chinese studies of the humanities, in order to balance the program better. Mei, Liu and another scholar, Wu Mi, started a journal called Xue Heng—for the study of balancing scholarship in China—Western and Eastern. The objective of the journal was to show that China needed to acquire Western culture’s insights and concepts while not abandoning traditional Chinese culture. Mei thought it was crucial to preserve and perpetuate traditional

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culture as well as to adapt to the new Western influences, and sought a balance between the two. Mei was most productive when he first returned to China and published articles critical of the then current exclusive emphasis on Western culture which was “new” to China. He described Western humanities to a Chinese audience. The three men hoped this journal would help China understand the West. In 1924, Mei left Southeastern University (later Nanjing University) to teach Chinese language and literature at Harvard. He later returned again to China and became acting Dean of Humanities at Nanjing, before returning once more to Harvard as an associate professor teaching American students Chinese culture and language. Then in December 1936, Mei decided to accept an offer to return to China as Vice Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences at Zhejiang University. Zhu Kezhen had just become Chancellor at Zhejiang University when Mei arrived. From the beginning, Mei did a great deal of work for the university, holding two posts. In the year 1939, Mei was selected by the government to attend the National Political Consular Conference, which was attended by the leading figures in a variety of fields. During this prestigious conference, Mei wrote two proposals. One proposal suggested that Chinese universities should establish a department of oriental languages including the indigenous languages of Tibet and Mongolia. The second proposal was for more exchange programs with foreign countries, which would enable foreign scholars to come to China and lecture while Chinese scholars went abroad. These two proposals were adopted by the conference and given to the government. The Nationalist government of Chiang Kai-shek implemented both proposals. In 1938, The College of Arts and Sciences at Zhejiang was separated into the College of Literature and Humanities and the School of Sciences. Mei became the Dean of the Literature and Humanities College. Although Mei wrote well, he was not a good speaker, and was honestly not interested in everyday people. Mei also had the bad habit of criticizing people of whom he disapproved, in front of others, although he would then immediately admit his wrongs. So Mei was something of a loose cannon, letting his firm values hold sway above being socially diplomatic. Mei’s main published legacy was a number of articles addressing a subject of national interest: the “New Chinese Scholars.” These articles represented Mel’s goals for his own life; he wanted to be his own ideal and set an example for China’s modern scholars to be well-read in literature, philosophy and history, as well as current events. Mei was a very ambitious scholar. His priorities for study included the academic atmosphere in the Ming dynasty and ancient military strategy. He sought out elderly scholars who still remembered times past, to record their knowledge and insights. Also, he wanted to analyze the struggle between the political parties of the China of his day. Fur-

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ther, he wanted to analyze the national examination system, which had allowed the very bright of even humble origins to rise to major responsibilities in government—a system which had been in place for thousands of years, remained in place in Nationalist China, and would continue on into the era of Communist China. He was interested in a comparative study of Western philosophies. He even tried to theorize about innate genius by analysis of the lives and writings of at least twenty Western scholars. After struggling with failing health for almost a year, Mei died of a heart attack on December 27, 1945. Upon Mei’s death, his second wife brought their four children to America. Guo Binghe, 1900–1987, Comparative Chinese Literature Guo Binghe was born in May of 1900 in Jiangyin County of Jiangsu province along China’s eastern seacoast. He came from a well educated family, and enthusiastically studied literature even at a young age. At age 17, he entered Nanjing Normal University (today Nanjing University). In 1922, he graduated from Hong Kong University with a bachelor degree, having studied under the British Professor G. M. Orme. It was under the guidance of this professor that Guo learned that Western literature originated from Greek and Latin, so he studied these ancient languages. Once he passed his final examinations, he was sent to study abroad from 1927 to 1930 on a Jiangsu Provincial Government scholarship, under which he studied at Harvard with Professor Irvine Babbitt, a leader of humanism in American literature. Guo also studied French in addition to English, Greek and Latin. In 1930, he went to England to study at Oxford University for a year. In the spring of 1931, Guo returned to China to teach at Northeastern University (in the city of Shengyang, in Manchuria), at Qinghua University (in Beijing), and at Central University (in Nanjing, today Nanjing University). In 1937, he received an invitation to become a professor at Zhejiang University. He had received broad, in-depth training in Western literature, as well as in Chinese classic literature; he was also an eloquent speaker and talented administrator. He won great respect from Chancellor Zhu, who made him Chair of the Department of Foreign Languages, and, for a while, Chair of the Department of Chinese Language and Literature. Zhu felt that the faculty of foreign languages should also be well versed in classical Chinese literature. In addition, Zhu believed that the faculty of classical Chinese studies also should be able to read and appreciate the literature of other major languages. So Guo was clearly the man to lead such faculty. Guo moved to the interior of China with the University in 1937. During this move, he suffered much, along with many other faculty and students,

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from inadequate food, clothing and shelter, yet performed his job in stellar fashion. Guo was fond of saying to his students that to study Chinese literature required a deep and broad understanding of philosophy, Western and Eastern. He urged his students to study diligently, to be able to understand the layers of meaning within the treasures of foreign literature—and that this understanding was at the heart of the mission of the Chinese Language and Literature Department. He also wanted them to be able to translate these foreign treasures into good Chinese. He studied Plato, and translated five volumes of Plato’s works into Chinese. He also translated Utopia, by Thomas More. Even foreign, English-speaking visitors were impressed by Guo’s command of English when discussing literary and philosophical topics. When Zhejiang University’s Dean of Humanities Mei Guangdi died, Chancellor Zhu had to appoint a successor. There were two outstanding candidates, Guo and Chang Chi-yun [Zhang Qiyun], a geographer who had just returned to China from being a visiting professor at Harvard. Chang’s field was human geography—geography as affected by human activities. Chang had been Zhu’s student back in the days when Zhu was still teaching. Chancellor Zhu chose Chang for the now vacant Deanship of Humanities, passing over his friend and admirer, Guo. When this happened, Guo left Zhejiang University to teach at Nanjing University. On September 14, 1987, he died at Nanjing, at the age of 87. Qian Mu, 1895–1990, History Qian Mu was a well-known historian in China. Born to a poor family in Wuxi, he had no formal education as a child beyond primary school, nor was any of his own family members educated. He began his career as a primary school teacher prepared with the limited knowledge he was taught, and supplemented it with what he had acquired through personal study. He then was invited to teach middle school, and gained renown through his teachings on the history of Confucian philosophy. In 1926 he published a book on Chinese classics. He was the first to systematically analyze Chinese studies, and this book was assigned as a textbook during the May 4th Movement. In 1930 he published an important article entitled Biography of Liu Xiang, Father and Son. This article caught the eye of well-known historian Gu Jiegang, who invited Qian to teach at Yanjing University. At thirty-six years old, his theories were already popular in academic circles. While he was teaching at Yanjing University in Beijing, Chancellor Stuart invited the new faculty members to a dinner party to ask them their impression of the campus, which was a source of considerable pride to him. The Chancellor asked Qian Mu his impression; the new faculty member stood up

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and said: “As I understand, Yanjing University is considered to follow the Chinese style the most among the Western Christian universities, but I was surprised to come here and find that all the buildings’ names were Western. It amazed me that although we are in China, the buildings are all named in English.” His criticism prompted the authorities to hold a conference on the subject, and they decided to change the names of the buildings to Chinese. Another time, the Board was trying to decide on a name for the lake on campus, for it had never been given one. Many suggestions were made, but no one was satisfied. Qian then said “Why not ‘Wei Ming Hu”‘—meaning no-name lake? And so the lake is called to this day. He was next invited to teach at Peking University. During the War, he taught at Lian Da (a consolidation of Peking University, Qinghua University and Nankai University), located in Kunming. In 1940, during the Japanese invasion, he wrote a very important book called Outline of Our Nation’s History, which is considered one of the best historical books on China. In most history books, the authors only write about the Han Chinese, but Qian’s book included the influence that foreign dynasties and minorities had in the development of Chinese history. After a brief stint at Sichuan University in Chengdu, Qian joined the Zhejiang University at Zunyi in the Department of History and Geography. He was invited by Chairman Chang Chi-yun [Zhang Qiyun], an admirer of Qian’s accomplishments. Qian was a very intelligent man who wrote well. Chang placed great trust in Qian. However, when asked to head the department, Qian was hesitant, saying he was about 99% sure he would stay. Eventually he left, citing that 1%. It seemed that Qian was more interested in pursuing his scholarly studies and teaching than in administering an organization, although his life story shows several instances of his founding an educational institution. In 1949, he came to Hong Kong as a refugee fleeing the Communists. There he started the New Asia College. Eventually, this college became one of the three parts of the modern Chinese University of Hong Kong, one of Hong Kong’s major universities. It was Qian Mu who suggested the name, “Chinese University” for this new university. His life was that of a typical Confucian scholar. He read very thoroughly, and as a personal choice, he focused on Han Yu (by a Han dynasty writer), and Zhen Guo Fan (written in the Qing dynasty). He had a good home and a good life. He retired in 1987. Then, unfortunately, Taiwanese politics changed. Chang Chi-yun [Zhang Qiyun] died, and the new president Chen Shui-bian (still President today) forced Qian to move out of his house. Qian Mu was very frustrated and grew sickly. He died in Taipei on August 30, 1990, at the venerable age of ninety-six.

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Wang Jiawu, 1900–1982, Chinese Literature Wang Jiawu, also named Wang Huanbiao, was born in a scholar’s family in the city of Nantong, in Jiangsu province. As a boy, along with other children, he learned classical Chinese literature under the mentorship of his uncles, who recognized that he was remarkably intelligent as well as industrious. Later, he easily passed the entrance examinations for the local primary and then middle schools, ranking first in both. In middle school, Wang was favorably noticed by his teacher for his knowledge of Chinese literature and phonology. On graduating from middle school, and later from high school, Wang entered Nanjing Normal College (today Nanjing University), where the faculty included such luminaries as Zhu Kezhen, Mei Guangdi, and Wang Baihang. The last one of these was highly effective in influencing Wang Jiawu in his study of, and later career in, Chinese literature, philosophy and history. Two especially important positions which Wang held in his professional life were as Curator and Managing Editor of the Records of the Mausoleum of the Ming Emperor Zhu Yuanzhang and of other books at the Jiangsu Provincial Library for seven years and as professor of Chinese literature at Zhejiang University. In 1937, he was invited by Chancellor Zhu, his former professor, to the faculty of Zhejiang University. When Zhejiang University left in the same year for the inland, Wang followed with the University. His students admired him; he treated them with the same respect and honor as he treated his own children. During his teaching career, he became well known for his ardent patriotism. He wrote many poems, biographies, essays and treatises, most of them expressing his deep love of his Motherland and strong anger against atrocities of the Japanese invaders. In class, he often recited classics, for example from the Tang and Song dynasties, by heart, with great dramatic effect. He also wrote very effectively. Wang was very humble and when people would praise his work, he always attributed his successes to the efforts of the professors with whom he had studied in his early years. On the departure of Zhejiang University from both Yishan (in Guangxi province) and from Zunyi, the University left behind an upright stone tablet, inscribed with an essay of thanks to the community and in memory of the University’s time there. Each of these essays were composed by Professor Wang, and dedicated by Chancellor Zhu. Following the move of the university back to Hangzhou at the end of World War II, Wang became very productive, extensively publishing monographs on the literature preceding the Qing dynasty, such as books on fables, and critiques of the works of authors, especially from the Tang and Song dynasties. Following his death in 1982, his children began publishing a number of his works. This process continues.

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Huang Ye, 1903–1944, Psychology Huang Ye came from a well-to-do family in Xiamen, in Fujian province. People said he was a child genius. At the age of five, he was already trying to write essays, and by thirteen he was accepted at the Qinghua School in the provincial capital. He studied there for seven years, then attended Nanjing University for one year. He went to America in 1925, where he studied child psychology at Stanford where he received his Master’s degree. When he was at Stanford, he studied under a famous teacher, Kurt Koffka. Then he went to Yale for his Ph.D. under Arnold Gestalt, a ground-breaking child psychologist. Huang Ye became the only Chinese student at Yale to study under Gestalt. When he returned to China, he joined the faculty of Zhejiang University. At that time, he was their youngest professor. He spent the rest of his life teaching at Zhejiang University. When Huang first entered the faculty at Zhejiang, he was located in the Department of Education. There he set up a laboratory and recruited young children to take part in studies, recording and analyzing their attitudes and behaviors. In 1939 he started to publish his studies. He wrote seven papers, and as it was difficult to publish psychological research in China, he had them published in America. He not only researched, but also taught widely in the field of psychology. He was a professor who could blend Western knowledge and methodology, with practical experimentation in China to make a contribution. Huang Ye was a great educator and an excellent researcher. When Hangzhou was invaded by Japan in 1937, Huang Ye returned to his home in Fujian. While in his hometown, he helped refugees there escape. He worked very hard to help them, fed them, and gave them medicine. Later on, he went to Yishan via Hong Kong to join up again with Zhejiang University. There he found himself in a difficult situation. He had three children to support and very limited resources. It was harder to meet expenses, but he has still devoted to his work. In 1943, he was diagnosed with cancer. He was miserable, and worried about the welfare of his children. He was forty-one years old, and destitute from hospital bills. It was very difficult for him to face each day, for he knew he had no chance of survival. In Fujian, they take drinking tea very seriously, and had very precise ceremonies for this activity. Professor Huang was very particular about his tea and loved the attendant ritual. When he had at last accepted that he would not survive, he took out two boxes of the tea that he had been saving—Du Hong Pao and Shui Xian, two of Fujian’s best brands of tea. He carefully brewed two pots and sat down to enjoy it with his wife. He swallowed the last cup, and died. His family was left poor. Huang Ye had left behind nothing but books and reports. He wife could not find a job. Before he died, Huang had asked Chan-

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cellor Zhu, Fei Gong and quite a few other faculty members to help him. All the faculty members tried to help. The French Professor, Wang Zhengsheng, took on an extra job for him. Zhejiang University was the only university in Zunyi, but there was also a military foreign language school. Wang taught French there for a year and gave his entire salary to Huang Ye. Chancellor Zhu spoke at Huang’s memorial service. He praised Huang for his continuing scholarship, even in poverty, and that, even in an environment of war and infirmity, he had kept to his principles. He never valued the material life, and bravely faced his death. Chang Chi-yun, 1901–1985, History and Geography Chang Chi-yun [Zhang Qiyun] was the first chairman of the Department of History and Geography at Zhejiang University. Chang was a walking contradiction. What he appeared to be on the surface, or what people might have expected of him, was often the exact opposite of what really happened. Chang was a very difficult man to pigeonhole. For example, in a time when studying abroad was almost essential to be an academic success in China, Chang never left the country to study, and had no foreign degree. And yet, he not only became a full professor in China, but was eventually a visiting lecturer at Harvard. Eventually, he even founded his own university. Similarly amazing, although he had no experience in government in a time when officials were expected to climb through the ranks, Chang became Minister of Education in Taiwan. Even stranger perhaps was that he was never active in politics though he had been appointed by Chiang Kai-shek. Chiang Kai-shek had been his patron, and at that same time Chang had received a letter of appreciation from the Communist leader Zhou Enlai—who, everyone thought, should have nothing to do with him—for Zhou respected and enjoyed Chang’s writing when it published in the most popular newspaper in China. Truly, describing all of the contradictory positions Chang took in his lifetime is very difficult. It seems almost impossible that the same man could have done so many widely different things. Paradoxically, at his foundation, Chang was a simple man with really only one interest—the written word. Chang’s interest in writing began at an early age. He was born on November 9, 1901 in Ningbo in Zhejiang province, a place known for its seaport and businessmen. In 1913, Chang began to attend the local primary school. Although he had grown up speaking the Ningbo dialect, he became a very fluent and expressive writer; people would describe his writing as “beautiful.” At the Ningbo High School, Chang had very good teachers in the Chinese classics, and in those early years of his education he focused mostly on be-

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coming a good writer. He also learned how to read and write in English in those years, though he never became a fluent speaker. In 1919, Chang entered the Southeastern Normal University, which later changed names several times, eventually becoming Nanjing University. During his college years, Chang was influenced primarily by three professors. The first was Liu Boming, the philosopher who influenced Chang’s thinking and writing. The second professor who worked with Chang was Liu Yizheng, a history professor. Under his tutelage, Chang read many basic historical books, and this experience influenced some of his later work, as well as how he thought about the fields of history and geography. In fact, Liu was responsible for Chang’s presence at the university in the first place. Part of the entrance examination for the university was a physical inspection. Even at a young age, Chang spent all of his time reading and writing. He never played any sports or exercised, so he had failed the physical examination for entrance, which ought to have kept him out of the university. But Liu had seen the young man’s writing, and he urged the administration to make an exception in Chang’s case because he showed so much potential. Luckily, Liu argued his case persuasively, and Chang was allowed into the university. The last professor was Zhu Kezhen, who later became the Chancellor of Zhejiang University, though Chang met him early in Zhu’s career, when he was still a professor. Chang majored in geography, and he was first in his class. Immediately after graduating, however, he left university life and went to work in publishing. He became an editor at a commercial press in Shanghai. Still, he was not able to leave his studies behind. While working at the press, Chang devoted himself to writing a geography textbook. In it, he divided China into twenty four regions, which was a new way to classify the country. For each region, he brought together information about history, geology, geography, and other aspects of the province. Upon publication, this textbook became very popular, and Chang’s reputation grew. He returned to Southeastern University (by then called National Central University) and spent the next ten years there. He began as a lecturer and was steadily promoted, until finally he became a full professor. Meanwhile, he was also doing fieldwork. In 1931, before Japan invaded Manchuria, Chang spent two months in Manchuria in the summer; in 1934, he traveled to Gansu province. Students accompanied him on each trip, and each time he published a report of his findings. He became very well known throughout the country and, at the age of 35, he was appointed as a councilor at Academia Sinica upon the recommendation of Ting Wen-kiang [Ding Wenjiang]. He was the youngest councilor ever to be appointed without having a degree from abroad.

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In 1936, after Zhu became Chancellor, Chang came to the faculty of Zhejiang University. There he set up a new department as chairman, joining the fields of history and geography. Joining disciplines together in academic departments is relatively common today, but back then this was very unusual. In 1937, when the University began to move inland, Chang came along and was very helpful to the Chancellor. As a geographer, he would go ahead in search parties to screen possible new locations for the University. He gave frequent reports to Zhu about the terrain ahead and the best way to move everything. During this time, Chang also founded a journal, the title of which could be translated as Time and Thought. He wanted to stimulate broader discussions of the current times across all fields. Many professors read the journal and contributed to it. It became a very influential publication. Even Chiang Kaishek approved of it. At the end of World War II, the U.S. State Department invited six Chinese professors, representing six universities, to visit America. Zhu selected Chang to represent Zhejiang University, and he spent two years at Harvard as a visiting professor. When Chang returned to China, he succeeded Mei Guangdi as Dean of Liberal Arts. In 1949, during the Communist takeover of China, Chang followed Chiang Kai-shek to Taiwan, where he would remain for the rest of his life. First, Chang became General Secretary of the Nationalist party. Then, from July 1954 to August 1958 he served as Minister of Education. During these four years, Chang changed many things. He kept publishing, of course, and started new magazines and reviews. Chang also rebuilt the education system in Taiwan. In that time, Taiwan had not recovered from the Japanese occupation and had very few universities. Chang reconstituted many of the universities. He also offered free primary education to all citizens for nine years. Under Chang’s leadership, Taiwan Normal College became National Taiwan Normal University. The first Ph.D. program in Taiwan was begun. Chang set up international exchange programs with America, France and Japan. He opened a National Academy for the Arts. In addition, using donations he solicited, he opened a number of museums, such as the National Science Museum and an Education Information Museum. In 1958, Chang stepped down from the Ministry of Education and became Director of the National War College training program for military and civilian leaders. This was a little bit of a step down, but it was also a very influential job. In about 1956 he led a group from the National War College to visit America, Japan and Canada for two months. While he was there, he received an honorary degree from St. John’s University, New York City. But Chang was not very happy with the job. He did not enjoy the duties that he was ex-

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pected to perform as an official. He refused to serve as an official witness to marriages, and he never met visiting officials at the airport, as was the custom. Instead, he remained in his office, always working. Then, in 1961, Chang had the idea that he would like to devote the rest of his life to studying all of Chinese history, and write a book covering it. He wanted to produce 32 volumes over 10 years. But he completed only nine volumes, then became ill and stopped working on this massive project. Chiaomin remembers a conversation they had when he was still working. Chiaomin asked him what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. “What can I do?” he asked. “I would like to set up a newspaper, so I could write.” “Why would you do that?” Chiao-min asked him. They had that kind of relationship where Chiao-min could be honest with him. “You don’t have any experience running a newspaper.” In that time in Taiwan, there were many primary schools and the high schools that produced graduates who had few options of universities to attend. “Why don’t you open a university?” Chiao-min asked him. He looked at Chiao-min for a long time, and maybe he seriously considered the idea. Then he laughed and brushed Chiao-min off. “Bad idea,” he said. “Who would sponsor me? Where would I get the money? You’re talking nonsense.” But he must have tucked that idea away, because years later he had a meeting of overseas Chinese and proposed the idea, and after that dinner a donor gave him USD $ 50,000. Chang took the money to Chiang Kai-shek and got approval to start a university, which initially was named the College of Chinese Culture and then, in 1986, became the Chinese Culture University. It is now the biggest university in Taiwan with an annual budget of USD $ 20 million and a student enrollment of over twenty thousand students. Chang ran the university until his death on August 25, 1985. Then, his son, who had been a professor in Hawaii, returned to Taiwan to become Chairman of the Board. Zhang Yingling, History Zhang Yingling was born in Guangdong province, and studied in Beijing. At the age of 16, he went to Qinghua University and attended a Chinese history class taught by Liang Chichao, the most famous scholar of the period specializing in that field. Zhang always raised his hand to correct Liang’s mistakes during the lectures, which greatly impressed Liang. Liang recognized in Zhang’s writing a talent uncommon for his young age. Zhang read widely as a young man, and read very quickly, especially enjoying his passion, history. He also wrote well and was published in journals and magazines. While he

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was a young man, he had already published one million words. His name spread all over China. Zhang went to the United States after graduation to study at Stanford University, where he majored in history. His other concentrations were in philosophy and sociology. He was very interested in Chinese history and wanted to make a contribution to the scholarly literature. When he returned to China he was invited to teach at his alma mater where he was asked by the administration to write a general text on Chinese history. In 1937, the Japanese invaded, and Zhang left Beijing to join the faculty of Zhejiang University. During the war, Zhang left Zhejiang University for a short while to go to Southwest University in Kunming. Zhejiang University by then had moved to Zunyi, and the Chairman of the History and Geography Department, Chang Chi-yun [Zhang Qiyun], invited Zhang Yingling back. Both Zhang Yingling and Chang Chi-yun were young men, in their thirties. They admired each other, and during this time became friends. Zhang Yingling had only been teaching for two years when he suddenly died on October 24, 1942. His friends and the faculty had been very worried about his serious illness, but since it was wartime there was a lack of physicians. Zhang Yingling’s good friend Chang Chi-yun rushed to Chongqing by car to get a doctor. When he was halfway there, he received the message that Zhang had already died. Saddened, he turned back to Zunyi to mourn this loss with the rest of Zhejiang University. Unfortunately, Zhang Yingling only finished the first chapters of his great historical work commissioned by Zhejiang University. His teaching had an impact on many students, and his legacy has continued to be strong. The academic world mourned his early death. Fei Gong, 1905–1942, Political Science One of the most beloved professors in residence at the time was Fei Gong, a small, balding, round-faced man who looked much older than his 32 years. Behind his back some students affectionately referred to him as “The Old Gentleman.” Fei was a man of firm convictions who really cared for the students, an affection which, sadly, would cost him his life. Fei married into wealth when he wed the granddaughter of the Yuan Shi-kai, the first President of the Republic of China. As a result, he had the financial means to study abroad. As the nation continued to shift toward modernization, studying abroad was highly favored for students interested in furthering the country’s call for experts in Western trends and technology. Fei, after carefully researching the pros and cons of the many universities willing to accept him as

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a student, chose Oxford. There he earned a degree in Political Science in 1931, and also grew enamored of the British parliamentary system. For the rest of his life, he would follow a philosophy founded upon the principles of democracy. After graduating, Fei returned to China. In 1933 he gained dual positions of associate professor and Director of the Registrar’s Office at Zhejiang University. That same year, he published his first book, The History of Constitutions, a 250,000-word comparative study of world constitutions. This was the first time someone had introduced the concepts of Rule of Law, as enshrined in a constitution, to which all, including rulers, must bow. He was only 28 years old. Three years later, Zhu Kezhen, then forty-six years old, was appointed Chancellor of Zhejiang University. Zhu and Fei were quite different. Fei never hesitated to stand up and denounce a viewpoint he disagreed with, regardless of whose viewpoint that was. Thus, even Zhu bore the brunt of Fei’s verbal assaults from time to time. Once during a faculty meeting, Zhu commented on some subject, whereupon Fei immediately stood up and declared, “You’re a meteorologist, you always look to the sky, but not to the people, while I study political science dealing with the forces affecting peoples’ lives. That’s the difference between you and me.” The room grew deathly still. Everyone looked at Fei in horror, then allowed their gaze to travel over to Zhu. As usual, Zhu smiled and said nothing. Never once during his entire career at Zhejiang did anyone ever see him lose his temper. A level head was, in the eyes of many, the quality of a born leader. Fei and Zhu became fast friends. Fei Gong was a tremendously popular professor at Zhejiang University. Professor Fei taught political science and economics, at a time when Zhejiang University did not have an economics department but rather a Department of Agricultural Economy. Fei also was one of three important administrative directors. The students respected him because of the actions he had taken to make life better for them. Fei was also a strong supporter of democracy. That he was the grandson-in-law of a would-be emperor only made his political views more remarkable. But his views eventually led to his murder by the government. And so he died a great patriot, humanitarian, and democrat.

SCIENCE FACULTY Hu Gangfu, 1982–1966, Physics, Dean of the College of Sciences Hu Gangfu was born in the city of Wuxi of Jiangsu province. The first four children—Hu’s oldest brother Hu Dengfu, sister Hu Bingfu, second oldest brother

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Hu Mingfu, and himself—were all educated in America. This was very rare for that time. All of his younger sisters graduated from university, as well. Hu’s family believed strongly in science, democracy, and technology, and pushed for the modernization of China. On a Boxer Rebellion scholarship, Hu went to America and attended Harvard University. He received his master’s degree in 1914, and his Ph.D. in 1918, under Physics Professor William Duane. That year, when he was thirtysix years old, he returned to China and began his academic career. At that time, there were no modern physics departments in Chinese universities. There were poor research facilities, antiquated laboratories, poor libraries, no equipment, no funds, and dilapidated classrooms. Under these conditions, Hu

Professor Hu Gangfu, Dean of Sciences

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Gangfu managed to be a pioneer in physics. When he first returned to China, he taught at Southeastern University (Nanjing University today). In 1925, Hu became Chairman of their Physics Department, and two years later, he became the Dean of the College of Science. In the meantime, he was a research fellow at the Academy Sinica. By 1931, he was also teaching at Jiaotong University and Datong University (that his brother had founded) where he was again Chairman of the Physics Department. Hu Gangfu pioneered the establishment of a physics department in China. He and his students built their own laboratory, and were also involved in exchanging laboratory equipment and teaching aids among various Chinese universities. In 1936, his Harvard classmate, Zhu Kezhen, became the Chancellor of Zhejiang University and asked Hu to join him, offering him the job of Dean of Liberal Arts and Sciences. Hu hesitated for a while, then promised Zhu that he would relocate to Zhejiang University. During the years of retreat to the interior, Hu played a very important role. He tried to modernize the physics, chemistry and biology departments despite the unexpected events that befell all the universities and their faculties due to Japan’s brutal invasion. Hu’s effort was instrumental in the moving of the university to the interior. He devoted all of his energy to help Chancellor Zhu with this monumental task. During the time of Zhejiang University’s refugee migration, Chiang Kaishek’s Central Government honored three professors at each of China’s universities by naming them Administrative Professors in their specialty areas. Hu was one of the three professors so honored at Zhejiang University. On May 26, 1966, Hu died from complications of kidney stones. Zhou Houfu, 1902–1970, Chemistry Zhou Houfu was a genius when it came to studying chemistry. During his childhood, he proved to be alert and clever, and loved mathematics and sciences. In 1927 Zhou graduated from Southeastern University (today Nanjing University) with a degree in chemistry. He was first in his class. He was able to go to France for his graduate studies and he graduated from the Sorbonne, University of Paris with a Ph.D. in chemistry. After graduation, he moved to Germany to study applications of chemistry to the military. He stayed in Europe about four years, during which time he studied hard and strove to gain further useful knowledge. In 1933, he returned to China and became a professor at Zhejiang University, later being promoted to Chairman of the Department of Chemistry. In 1943, during the War of Resistance, he had the opportunity to travel to London to lecture and conduct research. The next year, when he returned to

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China, he began to suffer some symptoms of mental illness which continued for almost thirty years. When Zhou returned to China, the war with Japan was still in progress. Bombings were not the only threat from the Japanese at the time; they also dropped poison gas. Zhou put his training in military chemistry to use by inventing a lamp that could test for the presence of this gas, to serve as a warning. Zhou was a leading researcher and an excellent lecturer. The subject of chemistry can be very dry—formulas to memorize, calculations to make, equations to balance, complex organic syntheses to learn, and so on. Nevertheless, most of his students remember that chemistry classes with Professor Zhou were really enjoyable. Zhou’s lecturing showed an extraordinary ability to bring different, complex topics together in his understandable way, so that students would appreciate the important principles of chemistry. On March 17, 1970, Professor Zhou died of a heart attack in Taiwan. Ye Liangfu, 1894–1948, Geology and Geomorphology Ye was an expert, a pioneer who had introduced the study of geomorphology to China. He had been carefully trained and identifying rocks was not difficult for him. After all, even as a child, he had always been interested in rocks and never developed any other serious hobbies. He studied at the Nanying High School in Shanghai and his primary interest was in science. Fortunately, he came of age at just the right time to join the growing field of geology in China. Ye became the chief compiler on the National Geological Survey, and in 1919 he completed the volume called the Beijing Western Mountain Geology Survey. This was the first authoritative geological survey of an original area on a small scale to be published by a Chinese group that had gone directly into the field. The book laid the foundation for understanding the local geology and gave a thorough explanation of the mineral resources of the area. It became a classic geological work in China. After the book’s publication, Ye was sent to America to study. He spent two years at Columbia University, studying under D. W. Johnson, a geomorphologist. In 1922, after receiving his degree from Columbia, Ye returned to China. He continued to work at the National Geological Institute, and he also taught some courses at Peking University. During the next five years, he worked with colleagues in the field all over China. In 1923, he spent time in Anhui province. In 1925, he surveyed the Yangtze River. In 1926, he analyzed the stratification of iron deposits in Anhui. All of this field work was published by the journal of the National Geological Survey.

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Ye also held a series of distinguished academic positions during this time. In 1927, he went to Guangzhou to become the Chair of the Department of Geology at Sun Yat-sen University. Next year he was appointed to the Academia Sinica in Beijing, the most important research institute in China. Then he was invited by J.S. Lee, a well-known scholar who had become the Director of the National Institute of Geology within Academia Sinica, to become the Chief Research Fellow of this Institute of Geology. Lee, who had been educated in England, was very busy, always going to conferences as an invited speaker. Ye stepped in to take charge when Lee was absent. Ye was soon named Associate Director of the Institute of Geology. From 1928 to 1934, Ye did a tremendous amount of work in the field. He did a famous study of iron ore in Daye, in Hubei province. It was during this time that he came to Hangzhou. In China, it was traditional for people to sign letters not by hand but with a stamp incised with their signature. These stamps were made of stone, symbols were carved in the rock and then the stamp was dipped in ink to make a signature imprint on a letter. The best stamps, it was said, came from the Qingtian county in Zhejiang. Ye came to study what made this rock so special. He discovered that the distinctive quality of this rock resulted from its formation during volcanic eruptions. The rock was hard, but it could also be carved without undue difficulty. Ye’s studies brought him great recognition. He was not only an excellent field researcher, but also an excellent writer. He was a born scientist, always double-checking his data carefully. His work was recognized as first-class. Later in his career, as the number of trained geologists in China was growing, and as a mark of the respect of his colleagues, he was elected President of the National Association of Geologists, which, by then, was a group of over one hundred Chinese geologists. Unfortunately, in 1936, Ye discovered that he had contracted tuberculosis, which put an end to his days in the field. He was no longer able to walk, climb, survey and collect specimens. At the invitation of Chancellor Zhu of Zhejiang University, Ye returned to Hangzhou to rest and to become a Professor of Earth Sciences in the Department of History and Geography. Ye enjoyed teaching, and his students were very fortunate to have the chance to work with him. When the war with Japan ended, Ye returned to Hangzhou and continued teaching. After eight years, he took a sabbatical, during which time he wrote a college geology textbook. After 1946, the University reorganized again, and history and geography became different departments. Ye was made Chairman of the Geography Department. He was excited about the work, but the position brought responsibility for chairing meetings, developing curriculum, and

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overseeing faculty. It was too much for Ye, and he became exhausted. He died on September 19, 1948 at the young age of 56. Chen Jiangong, 1893–1971, Mathematics Chen was born in 1893 in Shaoxing city in Zhejiang province to a poor family. At the age of four, his father sent him to a private school sponsored by a local rich family. Chen had a quick mind and good study habits, which made the other students jealous. So his father moved him to another school established by a traditional scholar who emphasized patriotism and development of good character, where Chen learned a great deal. In 1910, when Chen was 17 years old, he was admitted to a teachers college in Hangzhou. It was in this school that Chen particularly learned to love mathematics, and became top among his classmates in the subject. After three years, when he graduated, his father wanted Chen to become a local primary school teacher, in order to help the family to raise his six sisters. But Chen was very ambitious, and insisted on continuing to study mathematics and going abroad to study. Since Chen was the only son and so eager to continue his studies, his father finally allowed him to travel to Japan for further

Professor Chen Jiangong, Mathematics

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undergraduate education, where study was less expensive than in Europe or America. In 1923, Chen graduated from Northwest Imperial University with a B.A. and returned to teach at the Zhejiang Engineering School. The next year, he was invited to join the Wuhan University faculty of mathematics. After three years, in 1926, Chen went to Japan again for graduate work at the Northeast Imperial University, also in Tokyo. He concentrated on the field of number theory. Within two years, he published more than ten papers in Japan’s mathematical journals. In 1929, Chen completed his Ph.D. in Science. Chen was the first foreign student to receive the high honor of a doctoral degree in Japan, an achievement so unique at the time that his name became well known through the newspapers and radio. Also in 1929, when Chen had returned to China from his second period in Japan, he received invitations to the faculties of three universities, Peking, Wuhan and Zhejiang. This presented Chen with a very difficult decision. While Peking and Wuhan Universities were offering better pay and had greater library resources, he chose Zhejiang University in order to be near his home town and family. He also loved the peacefulness of strolling along the beautiful West Lake in Hangzhou. Up to this time, Chen had worked and studied at a number of different places, but for the rest of his career he remained on the faculty of Zhejiang University. Chen devoted his full energy to his teaching, which was well prepared, highly organized and logical. Upon entering the classroom, he first made an outline on the board of what he would be addressing, then systematically and clearly explained each point in turn. He would work up a sweat, as he covered the board with symbols and equations, and his clothes would become covered with chalk dust. He would often wipe the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, and swat the chalk dust from his clothes frequently during the class, though it always continued to accumulate. No wonder the students relished his classes, and deeply admired him. During the migration of Zhejiang University inland, from 1937 to 1946, Chen moved with the university, while his wife stayed in their hometown in Zhejiang. In 1938–39, as the university moved to Yishan, suffering greatly under Japanese bombing raids, faculty and students would flee to the nearby limestone caves, waiting there for several hours at a time for the air raid to be over. During these events, Chen was prepared and made use of the time; he would bring along reading and lunch, to prepare his lectures. This diligence was not unnoticed by his students. In 1945, when Taiwan was returned to China from the Japanese, the education system of Taiwan needed to change back from the Japanese to the Chinese model. Chinese scholars who had been educated in Japan were recruited

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to Taiwan to ease the transition. Professor Chen was one of those brought to Taiwan, first as Dean of Academic Affairs, and later as Provost, at National Taiwan University. One year later, he returned to Hangzhou. In 1956, Professor Chen and Professor Su and their graduate student Chen Minde, as well as other leading mathematicians attended the Russian Mathematics Conference. When their graduate students published their research articles, Chen was invited to add his name as a co-author. Chen usually refused, and even joked that “if you dared to put my name on your article, your paper might not be published.” This is very different from most universities in the U.S. today, where faculty also put their names as authors on their graduate students’ published research. A Chinese scholar’s relationship to his graduate students was rather like a father-son relationship. Chen always felt that his students should receive full credit for their original work. In the terrible times of the Cultural Revolution, starting in 1964, intellectuals were considered “useless.” The authorities said that over centuries of Chinese history, many emperors were illiterate, but were good leaders. Professor Chen took umbrage at this, saying, “An emperor may not read books, but we intellectuals have to read books.” This statement became a main feature of his “crimes,” for which he was labeled a “rightist”—a very dangerous charge in those times. One of Chen’s students was also classified as a “rightist.” The authorities had labeled this student as a “bad horse, who infects the entire herd,” but Chen defended this student, answering, “I deeply respect this horse.” This showed that Professor Chen was honest, brave and unselfish, and was not trying to save his own skin at the expense of others. On the morning of April 2, 1971, Chen finished his diary entry, then suddenly felt dizzy and bled a large amount. He was rushed to the hospital, but the hospital had no bed for him, so he was forced to sit in a waiting room. He needed blood transfusions, but there was no matching blood available—the Cultural Revolution was still in high gear. Over a nine-day period, he suffered many medical problems, then died. The hospital did not have a doctor, and had only one nurse. Under these deplorable conditions, he died quietly on April 11, 1971. What a tragedy that a man of such significant contributions to society should be treated so shoddily at his moment of need. Su Buqing, 1902–2003, Mathematics Su Buqing was born in 1902 in Wenzhou city of Zhejiang province. In 1919, upon graduation from high school, he traveled to Japan to study at the Northeast Imperial University in Tokyo, where he majored in mathematics, graduating in 1927. He continued graduate studies there, and received his doctoral degree in mathematics in 1931.

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Su joined Zhejiang University as an Assistant Professor, and promoted in only one year to full Professor, and, at Chen’s recommendation, was made Chairman of the Department of Mathematics. In 1935, he and Chen united to found the Association of Chinese Mathematicians, and Su was elected as the editor of the mathematics journal which the Association began to publish. From 1938 through to 1946, Professor Su followed Zhejiang University inland. His wife was a Japanese citizen, who bore him six children, and the entire family came inland with him. Their life as refugees was not easy, especially since she was Japanese. Su was on the Zhejiang University faculty for five or more years before Zhu Kezhen was brought in as the new Chancellor. At first, Su was among the faculty who mistrusted Zhu because Zhu had relatives who were high officials in the Nationalist Government, brought in classmates from Harvard as new faculty, and recruited his own former students from Nanjing University to be chairs and professors in several departments. But, as the war broke, and the university moved inland, Su gradually changed his view of Chancellor Zhu. One day before the University began to move from Hangzhou to the interior, Chancellor Zhu had obtained an order from the Governor of Zhejiang, Zhu Jiahua, to protect Su’s Japanese wife from questioning by the authorities. This was a very thoughtful action by Zhu, and typical of the way he encouraged and protected his faculty. This order prevented a lot of troubles down the road, as the university continued its journey to the interior in the succeeding months. In 1946, Su and his family returned to Hangzhou with the university. In 1949 Su was appointed Provost of Zhejiang University. After the government reorganization of higher education in 1952, along with the Department of Mathematics, Su was moved to Fudan University in Shanghai, becoming Provost. In 1958, he established the Institute of Mathematics at Fudan University, and was promoted to become the university’s Vice Chancellor in 1978, then Chancellor in 1980, at which time he founded a new journal of mathematics, for which he was the chief editor. During the twenty years from 1932 to 1952, the Mathematics Department under Professor Su as Chair produced 106 mathematics graduates, among whom 25 moved on to become Chairs and leading professors in mathematics. Su’s influence upon mathematics in China was immense. He died at the age of 101 in 2003. Tan Jiazhen, 1909– , Genetics From an early age, Tan was his parents’ favorite child. He was intelligent, patient, and good natured. He also loved to study. At the age of six, he began to follow his father into the city to attend primary school. When he was twelve, he returned to the local primary school. Then, in 1921, Tan had the opportunity to

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transfer into a Christian high school. The school was run by missionaries, and part of the curriculum focused on religion. Students were required to recite passages from the Old and New Testaments, an exercise Tan did not particularly enjoy. In fact, despite the missionaries’ efforts, Tan never became a Christian. He did, however, learn to speak English well, a skill that proved advantageous later on in his career. In 1925, Tan transferred to a different non-missionary high school, where he became very involved with student activities. During the May 4 Movement in the 1920s to simplify and modernize the Chinese language, he demonstrated in the streets with other students—moved by the desire to make China stronger and more modern. In 1926, Tan’s high school supported him in his application to university. In fact, he was such a strong student that he was not even required to take the entrance examinations. He entered Suzhou (missionary) University. He had an American professor there who was very impressed by Tan’s studiousness and gave the young man extra assignments in chemistry, biology and genetics. Tan enjoyed the work. When he first encountered Darwin’s writings and understood the theory of evolution, he became very excited. He believed that he had found the answer to a question he had often pondered: where did humans come from? Suddenly everything seemed to make sense, and he decided to devote his life to the study of genetics. Under his mentor, Tan completed his course work and earned a bachelor’s degree in biology. In 1930, Tan became a graduate student at Yanjing University in Beijing. He chose genetics as his major topic of study, spending the majority of his time working with insects. He worked fifteen or sixteen hours a day, observing these animals, running tests, and analyzing his results. He was so interested in the work that he barely slept during that time. He finished his thesis within six months and earned his Master’s degree. His advisor was amazed at how fast Tan had worked, and that he had not cut any corners. He had collected a tremendous amount of data, read numerous references, and arrived at sound conclusions. Tan’s thesis was published in a professional journal; his professor was very pleased with this work. In 1933, Thomas Hunt Morgan received the Nobel Prize for his studies in genetics. He was the world’s best known living biologist at the time. T. H. Morgan pioneered experimental embryology, and established the chromosome theory of heredity, identifying specific gene mutation loci on the giant chromosomes of the fruit fly. Morgan heard of Tan’s work and invited Tan to join him. In 1933, Tan traveled to the California Institute of Technology. In 1938, at the age of twenty eight, Tan received his Ph.D. from Cal Tech, and after one year of post-doctoral work, returned to China.

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Tan’s mentor at Suzhou University wanted him to come back and teach there, but Tan was more interested in the possibility of teaching at a national university. Chancellor Zhu had heard of Tan, of course, and offered him a position at Zhejiang University as a full professor with a salary of US $300 a month. To be offered such a position before the age of thirty was truly impressive, and Tan was greatly respected by his colleagues when he arrived in Hangzhou. During the war, Tan moved inland with the university. He worked very hard in Meitan. His lab there was in an old temple, a very primitive setting. And yet, even under such circumstances his experiments produced valid results, and his work became internationally known. After 1950, when Zhejiang University reorganized under the Central Government, Tan left for Fudan University in Shanghai. There, he became the Director of the Institute of Heredity and Genetics, and also its Vice-Chancellor. Wang Jin, 1888–1966, Chemistry and Administration Wang Jin was born January 7, 1888, and died in an accident on December 28, 1966, when he was seventy-nine years old. Wang was awarded one of the coveted Boxer Rebellion scholarships and came to the United States as only a teenager. After he received his degree from Lehigh University, he returned to China in 1915 to teach at Nanjing Normal University. Next, at the age of twenty-nine, Wang went to America again to study at the University of Minnesota. Two years later, he received his Master’s degree in chemistry, and then returned to China in 1932, touring through Europe on the way. He first taught at Sichuan University and then, in 1937, joined the faculty of Zhejiang University. Wang himself was first a chemist, second an editor. He promoted the Chinese Chemistry Society in his early days. He was a pioneer in chemical analysis. For example, in 1927, he studied water analysis of the Yangtze River. He compiled a textbook of chemical analysis, and also translated many Russian chemical books and articles into Chinese. Wang Kan-chang, 1907–1998, “Father” of China’s Atomic Bomb When Wang Kan-chang [Wang Ganchang] graduated from primary school at age thirteen in 1920, his grandmother and eldest brother sent him to Pudong High School, a well-known school in Shanghai. Pudong High School had excellent facilities and teachers. Wang excelled in mathematics, chemistry and English; he became a diligent student and also enjoyed the exercise in his physical education classes. In 1925, Wang passed the entrance examinations and was admitted to Qinghua University. Wang received endorsements from

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Professor Wang Kan-chang, Physics, father of China’s atomic bomb

two of his professors, Ye Chiseng and Wu Youxun, which led to a scholarship from Jiangsu province to study in Germany. In 1930, Wang arrived at Berlin University for graduate study in physics under Professor Lise Meitner (1878–1968). In 1934, he returned to China at the age of 27 to become a professor of Physics at the University of Shandong in the city of Qingdao. In the April of 1937, he was invited by Chancellor Zhu Kezhen to join the Physics faculty at Zhejiang University. He accepted and then followed Zhejiang University in its odyssey to southwest China. In 1940, Zhejiang University was finally in Zunyi, and the science schools were located nearby in beautiful Meitan, but lacking adequate laboratories. His laboratory did not have electricity and was located in an ancient but very poor temple. For their work, the students used a car to generate electricity. Wang later reported that he had been very productive during this period and immediately following the war. Upon the establishment of the People’s Republic of China in 1949, Wang left Zhejiang University for a position at the Chinese Academy of Sciences in Beijing. By 1951, he had become Vice Director, then in 1953, Director of the Institute of Physics. During this period he studied the Russian language, so

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that he could go to Russia to further his research. In September 1956, Wang traveled to Moscow to conduct research as a senior fellow and Deputy Director of the Joint Institute for Nuclear Research. By 1960, many international physicists from the Soviet bloc were in this program. In 1959, when Russia and China broke all scientific relations, China began to go it alone on the bomb project. In 1963, Wang traveled to the Tibetan plateau, 14,000 feet high, to direct the top secret project on the Chinese atom bomb. China detonated its first bomb in 1967. Professor Wang’s contributions were critical. On December 10, 1998, he died in Beijing at the age of 91. Zhang Shaozhong—Physics & Director of Academic Affairs Zhang Shaozhong was born in Jiaxing city of Zhejiang province. In 1920 he received government support to go to America to study physics at Harvard under Nobel-winning Professor P. W. Bridgeman. He returned to China in 1934 to teach at Amoy University, in the city of Amoy. About 1935, Professor Zhang came to Zhejiang University to start setting up the Physics Department and became its Chairman. Later Professor Zhang did not agree with then Chancellor Guo’s dictatorial style so he resigned to teach at Nankai University in Tianjin. Then, in 1936, he was reappointed to Zhejiang University by the new Chancellor Zhu. It appeared that Professor Zhang had not received any advanced degree in America. He only mentioned “studied in America for seven years, specializing in physics” in University guidebooks for students. Students jokingly added “with the exception of mechanics, optics and acoustics.” Professor Zhang contributed much to the development of Zhejiang University, following the University on its journey during the war years and devoting his career to the quality of education. Tu Changwang, 1906–1962, Meteorologist Tu Changwang’s education was in the Western style, because his father was a priest, but even growing up in a Christian environment, Tu never worshipped Western culture. He loved Chinese culture, was devoted to his mother country, and contributed greatly as a scientist to China. He was admitted to Huazhong University, but transferred in 1926 to Shanghai University as a physics and chemistry major. There, he became the student of America’s leading geographer George B. Cressey of Syracuse University who, armed with his new Ph.D. degree from the University of Chicago, was a visiting professor in Shanghai. At the age of 24, in October 1930, Tu had a chance to go to England for advanced degrees. First, he registered in London University to study economic

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geography for one year, and then he transferred to Imperial College to specialize in Meteorology. During that time, weather forecasting was just rising as a subject in the science of meteorology, and Britain, Germany, and the Soviet Union had developed various theories. Tu studied hard and wrote an essay on “Rainfall in China and World Climate” which was published by the Royal Society in London. This contribution impressed his professor and helped him receive his Masters degree. As soon as Tu completed his studies in England, he was invited by Zhu Kezhen as a research fellow at the Institute of Meteorology in the Academia Sinica. Later on, he was on the faculty in the Department of History and Geography at Zhejiang University. In 1936, Tu published the “Classification of China’s Climate” which improved Zhu’s method of classifications. While Zhu was the founder of modern meteorology in China and the founding director of the Institute of Meteorology in Academia Sinica, Tu was the pioneer of China’s weather forecasting. After the People’s Republic of China was established in 1949, Tu was appointed as the first director of Weather Bureau in Beijing. Tu emphasized the weather forecasting technology in the Bureau. In 1965, China’s weather information and air analyses were made public on the radio to the world and received high praise internationally. In 1958, Director Tu discovered that he had a brain tumor, but he continued to work hard to submit proposals on how to improve the Weather Bureau’s business and to compile “The Outline of China’s Climate” with his former student Zhang Hansong. In June of 1962, Tu died in Beijing at the age of fifty-six, and received great honors from the whole country. In 1982, the Society of Meteorology Science held a memorial service to honor the 20th anniversary of his death. Many of Tu’s colleagues, students, and friends attended and paid respects to his accomplishments. In short, Tu was a great, patriotic, and devoted researcher and an able administrator. His contributions to China were tremendous. Bei Shizhang, 1903– , Biologist Bei Shizhang was born on October 10, 1903 in Zhenhai in Zhejiang province. In 1921 he went to study in Germany and, seven years later, he received his Ph.D. in Life Sciences. He returned to China in 1930 and taught at Zhejiang University for twenty years as professor, chairman, and dean. In 1950 he became the Director of the Institute of Biophysics in the Chinese Academy of Sciences in Beijing. In 1955, he was elected as Academician. At the age of 80, he retired and served as the honorary director for the Institute. When he returned to China from Germany, Professor Bei devoted himself to teaching and research. In 1932, while in Hangzhou, Professor Bei investigated farmland where he found a phenomenal new form of cells in some in-

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Professor Bei Shizhang, Biology, at his home in Yishan, with his two children

sects. Based on this new discovery, Bei believed that this would be an interesting area of study in the field of biology. He published his early studies, and these studies went on to become classics. Professor Bei became a geneticist, biochemist, and cell biologist. In 1953, Bei was a member of a delegation to visit the Soviet Union to understand the biological sciences in that country. In 1972 he led a group of scientists to visit England, Sweden, Canada, and the U.S. He served as Associate General Editor of Sciences in China, and as the Vice Chairman of the Committee of Encyclopedia Compilation in Beijing. In 1983, Bei published five papers in Sciences of China which were considered important contributions to biology internationally. Later, he also published a volume of Reconstructed Cells, including 25 essays, printed by the Science Press in Beijing. For about half a century, Professor Bei spent his life in Meitan, either in the classroom or in the research laboratory. After 85 years, he still is doing research

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work in biology in the suburbs of Beijing. In 2003, in honor of his 100th birthday, an asteroid was named after Professor Bei

EDUCATION FACULTY Zheng Xiaochang, 1892–1979, Education Zheng Xiaochang was born in September of 1892 in Haining, a county within Zhejiang province. In 1912, he graduated from Qiushu Academy College, which was later to become Zhejiang University. In 1914, he graduated from Qinghua University in Beijing, majoring in the humanities. Following this, he traveled to America, first to the University of Wisconsin, and later on to Columbia Teachers’ College, receiving his Master’s degree in Education there. Upon his return to China, he taught at Southeastern University (later Nanjing University). He also became the principal of a girl’s school in Zhejiang, and was later promoted to Dean of the School of Education at Southeastern University. He became a professor at Zhejiang University in 1929. First, he was appointed the Chair of the Education Department, and invited many famous educators to teach at the University. Over the next ten years, this Department played an important role in China’s education system. Then in 1938, when Zhejiang University moved to Taihe, and established a Teachers’ College, Zheng became its Dean. Zheng Xiaochang was a very fragile person who experienced considerable hardship during the war because of the bombing. He could not handle the stress of air raids and became the Director of the freshman campus at Longquan, in southeastern China, an area not completely controlled by the Japanese. In 1943, he returned to the main university to set up a graduate school for Zhejiang University in Meitan and became the Chair of the Department of Education, as well as the Dean of the College of Education. He devoted his entire career to education. He taught many students and wrote many books. He also contributed many articles to education journals, specializing in the theory and techniques of education. He was famous for translating Little Women by Louisa May Alcott into Chinese. In March 12, 1979, he died at the age of eighty-eight. Shu Hong, 1894–1964, Physical Education In addition to emphasizing academics, Zhejiang stressed the importance of physical education. Professor Shu Hong played an important role. Shu Hong was born in Zhejiang province. In 1917, he studied at St. John’s University in Shanghai, where he learned English. The next year he had an opportunity to go to Paris to be a physical education instructor. From there, he went to the

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United States and studied at Springfield College, majoring in physical education and receiving a Master’s degree in health education. By this time, his English was excellent. He returned to China and taught at several different universities, including Shanghai University, Tong Ji University (in Shanghai) and Southeastern University (in Nanjing). In 1934, he joined Zhejiang University as Director of Physical Education, and was later temporarily the Director of General Affairs (one of the three administrative posts at the university, in charge of all the business aspects of the University). Shu not only required physical health, but good sportsmanship as well. If the team won, he did not want them to act proud. If they lost, he refused to let them be depressed. His code for sportsmen was that they must obey the referees, cooperate with the team, never try to hit other people, and do their best. In addition to being a good physical education professor, Shu Hong spoke English well enough that he served as an English language secretary to Chancellor Zhu. Interestingly, while basketball was considered a Western sport, Shu never used English basketball terms when refereeing basketball games in China (although when in the same role in the West, he used English). He was very patriotic. In the last year of the war, 1946, the University returned to Hangzhou. As the fighting between the Nationalist government and the Communist forces escalated, the government hired some troublemakers to come on campus to interfere with student meetings that were being held. Shu Hong told the students to fight back in order to maintain order at the university. He was much respected, and the students obeyed. Liberation was in 1949, and in 1952 the victorious Communist regime reorganized all university systems. Shu left Zhejiang University in 1959 to teach at a teachers’ college in Hangzhou. In 1960, he became President of the Hangzhou Physical Education Institute. Later that year, he was promoted to Vice-President of Zhejiang Teachers’ College. In 1959, he was the chief referee at anational athletic conference. Despite his dedication to good health and fitness, Shu Hong contracted cancer, perhaps from his habit of smoking cigars, and died in July of 1964, at the age of 70.

ENGINEERING FACULTY Li Ximo, 1893–1975, Electrical Engineering, Later Dean of Engineering College Li Ximo was from Jiashan, a city in Zhejiang province. He graduated from Jiaotong University, then studied in America for seven years. In 1918, he received his Master’s degree from MIT, and received his Ph.D. from Harvard in

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1921, both in the field of electrical engineering. Upon returning to China, he was among the first group of “liu xue shen,” students returning from abroad. In 1928, Zhejiang University included the College of Engineering, and he was appointed as Dean. In 1932, Li left Zhejiang University to visit Europe and to acquaint himself with engineering education there. On returning to China, he accepted a new position as a Provost of Jinan University in Shanghai, where he was living when Zhejiang University moved to the interior of China to escape the Japanese invasion. In 1939, while Zhejiang University was temporarily located at Yishan and badly in need of engineering professors, Chancellor Zhu Kezhen sent Professor Wang Guosong of the Electrical Engineering Department to convince Li to rejoin Zhejiang University. Li was hesitant because Shanghai was safe under the foreign concessions rules, and life in the interior was tough and subject to Japanese bombing raids. After considering this invitation for a while, Li agreed to join the University at Yishan and assume the deanship of the College of Engineering again. Li added a new department to the College of Engineering, Aviation Engineering. Li Ximo not only fulfilled the very important role of Dean of Engineering, but also helped the Chancellor during the war, looking for new campuses, solving problems of transportation, and devising solutions to all kinds of other problems. In those days, Zhejiang University had five Colleges, Humanities, Sciences, Engineering, Agriculture and the Teachers’ College. Among them, students at the Engineering College comprised a full half of the total number of students at the University—so Li’s role was very important. In 1942 Li left Zhejiang University for Chongqing, Professor Li Ximo, Dean of Engineering

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the war capital, where he became the top administrator at Jiaotong University, his alma mater. After the war was over, he moved to Shanghai to become Director of the Education Bureau of that city. Then in 1949, Li left mainland China for Taiwan. That same year, he was appointed Vice-Minister of Education. On February 26, 1975, Li invited two of his former students to a dinner at a well-known restaurant, to discuss some private business. The students arrived on time, for Li was known to be very punctual. As the students relaxed with drinks, an hour passed, and still Li had not arrived. At this point the students called Li’s home; a servant answered that “Li was gone.” Now, this expression in Chinese can mean two things, either that the person had left for another place, or that he had died. It turned out that Li had gone to bed the previous night and died peacefully in his sleep, at the age of eighty-two.

Li Shouheng, 1898– , Chemical Engineering Li Shouheng was the first professor of chemical engineering in China. He devoted almost his entire professional life to Zhejiang University, as Chair of the Department of Chemical Engineering. Before his arrival, the subject had been taught in China as a part of the field of applied chemistry. But he changed the field to the more modern concept of chemical engineering. Li taught chemistry, initially both at his alma mater, Jinling College and at Southeastern Normal University (today Nanjing University), both in Nanjing. But he was finding Jinling and Southeastern to be too limited for development of a program in chemical engineering. He wished to become involved in an institution with a full program in engineering. In 1927, Zhejiang Technical School at Hangzhou had an opening for a professor of chemical engineering. He was offered the position and accepted. He left the two institutions in Nanjing and moved his family to Hangzhou. About 1928, the Technical Engineering School changed its name to the Engineering College and was incorporated into Zhejiang University. Under Li’s leadership, the Department of Chemical Engineering became a model in the field for the entire country and was guided by two principles. First, Li believed that students were more important than the faculty, a highly American idea. He actively recruited the very best students interested in this field. This was a revolutionary idea at that time, when Chinese culture placed professors as far superior and more important than students. Second, he believed that students of chemical engineering in China should be aware of worldwide developments in the field, particularly in America, and aware, as well, of what was needed for chemical engineering in China. Li was responsible for producing a large number of leaders in chemical engineering in China from among his students.

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Qian Zhonghan, 1911–2002, Mechanical Engineering Qian Zhonghan was born in 1911 in the city of Wuxi, Jiangsu province, to a well-educated family. In 1929, when he was 18 years old, Qian entered Jiaotong University to study electrical engineering. In class, he was so intelligent that he always challenged his professors. He graduated in 1933 at the top of his class. Following graduation, Qian had the opportunity, with support from a Jiangsu scholarship, to travel to England to study at the Imperial College in London. In 1936, he traveled also to Sweden to study engineering and practice his engineering at local factories for a few months. In 1937, when he was only twentysix years old, he returned to China to teach at Zhejiang University. His specialty was electrical engineering, but there was a position available only in mechanical engineering, so he taught that instead. Qian had a very inquisitive mind, and could teach both subjects easily.

Wang Guosong, 1902–1983, Electrical Engineering, Later Dean of Engineering Wang Guosong was born on June 29, 1902, in the city of Wenzhou, in Zhejiang province. In 1909, Wang started provincial school. Two years later, he entered primary school, where he proved his intelligence by studying hard and winning the praise of his teachers. In 1913, Wang entered the Wenzhou county school and met a teacher named Mr. Ling. Wang came to Ling’s attention by solving difficult mathematical problems. The teacher was impressed and became a sort of mentor. In 1915, at the age of thirteen, Wang passed all the primary school examinations with the highest score in his class. Despite his scholastic achievements, Wang’s father wanted him to continue the family business and help with the family’s financial problems. His father made Wang work at the forge, melting and hammering jewelry. Wang also helped with the accounts. His father was very pleased that his son had inherited his talent and could take over. Even as Wang Guosong was working in his father’s shop, he was thinking about studying. Wang’s grandfather had different plans for him. He wanted his grandson to be well-educated. After a lively family discussion, it was decided that Wang could go back to school. The county-sponsored school he would attend decided that if Wang stayed at least number three in his class, his tuition fees would be waived. Wang quickly rose to the top of the class. When he finished junior high school, Wang was accepted at the most famous high school in Wenzhou. About the time Wang graduated from high school, Wang’s father was part of a sort of cooperative community bank. The extended family pooled their funds and took turns using the money as it was needed. This was how Wang

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Guosong afforded tuition. He unexpectedly fell ill just before the college entrance exam and there was no chance for a retest. Fortunately for him, there was a university in Zhejiang that was giving the examination later than the other schools. Wang took the test at the School of Science and Technology (which later became Zhejiang University). He was not only accepted, but earned the highest score in the tested group. He became a student in the Department of Electrical Engineering. In summer of 1925, he graduated from the School of Science and Technology at the top of his class. Upon graduation, he had many job opportunities, but he insisted on teaching at the School of Science and Technology, where he had trained. It turned out that his entire adult career would be spent on this faculty. He began as a teaching assistant, then a professor, later department chairman, and finally a Dean of the University. He especially devoted his time to the Department of Electrical Engineering. On July 1, 1928, the School of Science and Technology officially changed its name to Zhejiang University. From 1925 to 1930, Wang taught mathematics, physics, molecular engineering and materials science. He was an excellent researcher, and a respected professor. Then in June of 1930, Zhejiang University encouraged Wang to apply for a grant to study abroad. Wang left for Cornell University in August 1930. In 1931, he received his Master’s degree, and in 1933 his Ph.D. in electrical engineering. He then returned to China at the age of thirty-three to accept a position as an assistant professor in the Department of Electrical Engineering at Zhejiang University. In 1936, Zhu Kezhen became Chancellor of Zhejiang University, and the next year Wang was promoted to Chair of the Department. He was not only active in teaching, but was also devoted to research. During that time, he was one of the promoters for the National Association for Electrical Engineering. While the University was in Zunyi, it was plagued by lack of reliable electricity. The engineering laboratories needed electricity to function. Wang had brought an old hand-operated generator from Hangzhou, so the lab had light. Despite the poor facilities and awful conditions, many leading engineers were educated during these war years. From August 1950 onward, Wang Guosong’s career was that of an administrator; he no longer worked directly in his field. In 1957, when he was almost sixty years old, he was honored by the Science Association. It was the peak of his career. Yet in that same year the Cultural Revolution began, and Wang was labeled a “you pai,” meaning a “rightist.” At sixty, he was stripped of all his positions and sent to a rural area for re-education.” He was cleared in 1962, but in 1967 he was sent again, and this time did not recover his rightful title until “Ping Fan” was declared in December of 1978.

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In 1980, Wang developed intestinal bleeding, and was diagnosed with colon cancer. He died on December 3, 1983. After his death, there were a number of ceremonies in his memory, bringing many people together in his honor. He had nurtured thousands of students and devoted his life to education. He rose by his own talent and efforts from a poor young jeweler to become an accomplished man of science. Wu Chongwei, –1966, Civil Engineer Wu Chongwei was born in Wuching of Jiangsu province and graduated from the former Jiaotong University and received a Master’s degree from Cornell University in America. Since returning to China he taught for several universities, but mostly at Zhejiang University. The Department of Civil Engineering was started in 1927, and Professor Wu was the Chairman for more than twenty years until 1949. He resigned as Chairman and became a professor. During his tenure, Professor Wu worked hard and produced many outstanding graduates working on highways and bridges.

AGRICULTURE FACULTY Liang Chingchen, 1904–1994, Agricultural Economist He was born in Zhongshan of Guangdong province. He graduated from Southeastern Normal University, and in 1929 he went to the U.S. to study at Harvard University, where he received his Ph.D. in 1935. After he returned to China, he became a professor and Chairman of the Department of Agricultural Economy. Professor Liang devoted himself to teaching and research. He also started the Zhejiang University Journal of Agricultural Economy. In 1942, he established the Institute of Agricultural Economy at the University. Chairman Liang emphasized the importance of field surveys in agricultural economy. He led the students to the rural areas of the province to interview farmers and analyze the results. About 1943, he was invited to be the Director of Economic Surveying at China’s Agricultural Bank. And in 1946, he went to the World Bank in Washington, D.C. where he served more than 23 years before retiring. Professor Liang’s only hobbies were reading and going to church.

Lu Shougen, 1896–1988, Agronomist Lu Shougen was born February 27, 1896 in Yuyao County of Zhejiang province. He attended Zhejiang Agricultural College in Hangzhou and later

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entered Beijing Agricultural University, graduating in 1918. During the next seven years, he worked at the Zhejiang Provincial Agricultural Agency, conducting laboratory research while also continuing to work at the Zhejiang Agricultural College. During his time there, the College was reorganized, and Lu became director of a program to study experimental farm cultivation of rice. In 1930, he traveled to America to attend Cornell University on a provincial government scholarship and received his Ph.D. At Cornell, he studied agronomy, with a focus on the breeding of rice and wheat seed and the physiology of vegetation. In 1935, he had established a group studying rice and wheat cultivation in the area of southwestern China, including Guangxi, Guizhou and Yunnan provinces. In 1936, Lu was invited by Chancellor Zhu to become Dean of the College of Agriculture and Chair of the Department of Agronomy at Zhejiang University. When Lu was Dean, he conducted a great deal of fieldwork in farms, to gather rice seeds, harvest rice and wheat, and combat insect pests. He functioned both as a practical agriculturist and a scientist. Lu was a qualified and dedicated scholar, but was not very interested in administrative work. So when Zhejiang University moved to Yishan in 1937, he resigned as Dean but remained Chair and Professor of the Department of Agronomy. Once released from such responsibilities, he had more time to devote to the study of rice, cotton, wheat and vegetable cultivation. When the Japanese were defeated in 1945, Lu went to Taiwan, to become the first Director of the Sugar Study Institute, where he remained for over eight years, during which time he greatly improved sugar cultivation and production. Once again, from 1954 to 1973, he retired from administrative responsibilities and became Professor of Agriculture at Taiwan University. He became an active consultant and guest lecturer, and wrote many articles on rice and sugar cultivation, and on breeding of vegetables. He also translated many foreign articles from English to Chinese and published them in one volume in 1976. He died 1988, at the age of 92. Cai Banghua, 1902–1983, Agriculture, Specialist in Entomology Cai Banghua was born on October 6, 1902. He was an economic entomologist— a ‘man of insects.’ In 1925, he followed his brother to study agriculture in Japan, returning to China in less than a year, to teach at Beijing Agriculture School. In 1927, he returned to Japan again to attend the Imperial University in Tokyo to study insects of interest to agriculture. Then in 1928, he returned to China to teach at Zhejiang University. In 1930, he went to Germany to study in Munich at the Institute of Zoology on insect physiology. He returned to Zhejiang University in 1932. Five years later, he became Director of the Zhejiang Provincial Bureau of Insect Studies. When Lu Shougen retired as administrative Dean, Cai

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was made Dean of the College of Agriculture, upon Lu’s recommendation. Unlike Lu, Cai was very aggressive, and a good, able administrator. His students became experts. He published many articles on various insects. He oversaw the publication by the College of a journal called Ping Zhong Zhi Si, or “knowledge of insects.” He left Zhejiang University in 1952 to join the Institute of Entomology at the Chinese Academy of Sciences in Beijing. Later, he became the Vice Director and Research Fellow at the Institute of Zoology at the Chinese Academy of Sciences, Beijing. He was also President of the Association of Vegetation Protection. He died in August of 1983, at the age of eighty-one. Wu Ken-min, Professor of Horticulture, 1896–1992 His name “ken min” in Chinese means “farm people.” He was a senior professor in horticulture at Zhejiang University. At the age of 15 he entered high school and was selected to become Lu Xun’s student. In 1914, he passed the examination to enter Beijing’s agricultural college. It was then that he changed his name from Shen-chang to Ken-min. In 1917 when he graduated, his alma mater sent him to Japan to study at the famous “Sing Jian” horticulture laboratory center as a graduate student for three years. There he concentrated on the cultivation of fruits and vegetables, and their preservation. He was invited to be a lifetime member of Japan’s association of horticulture. In 1920, he returned to China and accepted the position of associate professor at Southeastern Normal University. In 1929, he was sent to Europe, and was able to visit England, France, Belgium, and Sweden. He was educated in America, and became an authority on the subject of horticulture, the science or art of cultivating plants. From 1933 to 1939, he served different positions in the field of horticulture and in 1940, he came to Zhejiang University as a professor and the Chairman of the Department of Horticulture. He retired in 1987, but continued his study of the field. Yang Shou-cheng, 1888–1975, Agricultural Chemistry Yang graduated from Peking University with a major in chemistry. He later went to the U.S. for graduate study at the University of Illinois. After that he received his Ph.D. from Ohio State University in Chemical Engineering. In 1938, he joined Zhejiang University as Chairman in the Department of Agricultural Chemistry. In 1948, Professor Yang went to Taiwan to become the director of a sugar factory for twenty years. He retired in 1967. He died on November 15, 1975 at the age of 87.

Epilogue

The setting was a hotel in Hangzhou. The date was May 21, 2007. The event was a great celebration of the 110th anniversary of the founding of Zhejiang University. It was a glorious event celebrating the history and potential of one of China’s most prestigious universities, and the largest of all Chinese universities. It was a busy and colorful day. Among the many people at the event was an elderly man. This elderly man attended many presentations, exhibits, lectures, and banquets. He especially enjoyed the elaborate stage productions the university produced. As he moved from event to event, he was amazed by the size and glamour of the celebration. He appreciated all that Zhejiang University was doing to celebrate this important anniversary, but in the midst of all the festivities he couldn’t help but think back to another day—September 20, 1937—when he was a nineteen-year old high school graduate who had been accepted by Zhejiang University and was just coming to Hangzhou as a freshman. This elderly alumnus was Chiao-min. Seventy years was a lifetime ago and had passed too quickly but Chiao-min remembered the way the years had unfolded quite vividly. The events of 1937, when the Japanese were starting their invasion of China, the city of Hangzhou was in danger, and 200 freshmen were moved to Tianmu Mountain—at the behest of Chancellor Zhu Kezhen—felt much more recent. Chiao-min recalled his life there with the monks, and how this was only the beginning of what became a long series of moves that spanned over 1000 miles, crossed seven provinces, and lasted for eight years. It wasn’t until 1946, after the war was over, that Zhejiang University returned to Hangzhou. As a freshman, Chiao-min had left his native city and his family and thought he was just setting off to become a college student. Instead he became a fleeing refugee as well. During the inland trek, the university became his family. His professors became his fathers and his classmates were his brothers. Together 143

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they studied and lived as a large family. When he and his peers wanted to join the army and fight the Japanese, it was the wisdom of his professors and the Chancellor who reminded them of their mission as students, and their role in cultural preservation. During those refugee years, Chiao-min, and later his future wife, Jean Kan, suffered very much from malnutrition. They lived in fear of what might befall them at the hands of the Japanese, and they lived without material comforts. Still, together they lived by Chancellor Zhu’s aims—that the purpose of education was not just to improve the individual but to contribute to society. With other university members, Chiao-min and Jean contributed to the flourishing of communities through which the university preserved itself in spirit and in kind as they fled the Japanese and worked to protect Chinese culture. Under Zhu’s leadership, Zhejiang University increased from six or seven hundred students in 1937 to more than 2000 students in 1946. With the increasing numbers came greater talent and productivity of university members—students and faculty members alike. When British scholar Joseph Needhan visited Zhejiang University he was so impressed with its research and teaching achievements that he praised the university by calling it China’s answer to Britain’s Cambridge University. Despite the hardships Zhejiang University faced during the Japanese invasion, the university, under Zhu’s leadership, nonetheless continued to grow and improve. After graduation from Zhejiang University, marriage and teaching stints in Taiwan, Chiao-min and Jean enrolled at Syracuse University where Chiaomin received his Ph.D., and Jean a Master’s degree. During the 1950s, it was hard for a foreigner to get a teaching position at an American university. Through strong recommendations from his professors, Chiao-min obtained a teaching position at Dartmouth College, followed by a research associate position at M.I.T. He subsequently taught at Catholic University for ten years and was a visiting lecturer at Leeds University in England and Columbia University in New York City. In 1968, he permanently settled down as a full professor at the University of Pittsburgh, where he taught for more than 30 years before retirement. After his official retirement from the university, Chiao-min continued to publish geography books and to lecture at universities across China. He has been a Fulbright Research Fellow three times, a Senior Fellow of the National Endowment for the Humanities, an honorary visiting professor at Peking University, and an advisory professor at Zhejiang University. While Jean taught geography and cartography as a lecturer at Trinity College, as an associate professor at National Taiwan University, and as a professor at the Chinese Culture University, her reputation as a classical Chinese poet is what she is most well known for in China. She has been called the “jewel” of all women poets in modern China.

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Chiao-min and Jean have a daughter and a son, both Yale graduates and attorneys who in turn have produced five grandchildren. They look back on their lives—having been raised and educated in China, and then journeying to America for advanced degrees and careers teaching at American universities—and realize that the label bestowed by one of Chiao-min’s colleagues, “a specimen of Chinese literati and American academia,” is truly a label worthy of pride. Whenever Chiao-min and Jean look back on their lives, these formative years spent along with the westward journey of Zhejiang University always appear like sparkling gems shining through the clouded memory of times gone by. It was a critical time for their country, as she resisted the Japanese invasion, and for the development of young people like themselves as patriotic and useful citizens. Two thousand years ago, Mencius, the Sage, said that when a man was given the chance to have great responsibility, such responsibility would come only through tests of will during difficult times. He has to be hungry. His body has to be tired. Only through challenging conditions will he be trained to be a great man and leader, and to accomplish a great mission. It was during the difficult war years that Chiao-min and Jean hardened their resolve, carried out their studies, and took strides toward their career goals. Among the students who trekked across China with them during the war of resistance were young men and women who became outstanding scholars, engineers, scientists, and agriculturalists. Education has always been important in China. Through the war of resistance, it was education that developed the Chinese national leaders and internationally renowned scholars of the 20th century. Today, with China’s continued efforts in the same spirit, emphasis on education, and evolving prosperity, its educational system is sure to produce young people who will play an important role in world affairs of the 21st century. In the near future, Joseph Needham’s successors may even be saying that Britain’s Cambridge is the Zhejiang of the West. As he stood in his hotel room in Hangzhou, Chiao-min reflected on how the forces of history had produced his generation’s outstanding alumni, but it was and is Zhejiang alumni who have continued to forge the successful paths of modern China.

Appendix A

Organization of Zhejiang University

In Chancellor Zhu’s planning of Zhejiang University, his first priority was to have good professors. Zhu was quite successful when it came to recruiting, because his personal character was simple and straightforward, and his academic achievements were many. He seemed like a good man to work for, and so he was able to recruit a large number of professors of great distinction in their fields. The faculty came from the best universities within China and from around the world. They devoted their lives to excellence in teaching and research, and they worked well together with the mission of constantly raising the quality of the university. When Chiao-min was a freshman at Zhejiang University, the University had only three colleges, or schools: the College of Fine Arts & Sciences, the College of Engineering, and the College of Agriculture. The deans of these three Colleges had all studied in American universities for their graduate degrees. The Dean of Fine Arts & Sciences, Hu Gangfu received his Ph.D. in physics from Harvard, the Dean of Engineering was Li Ximo, with a Ph.D. in electrical engineering from MIT, and the Dean of the College of Agriculture was Lu Shougen, who received his Ph.D. in agronomy from Cornell University. In addition to key faculty deans, there were also leading administrators under Chancellor Zhu: the Director of Academic Affairs, who was in charge of student registration, course arrangement and scheduling, research plans, and faculty appointments. The Director of Student Affairs was responsible for student behavior, living conditions, and character development. And the Director of Business was in charge of the University’s budget and spending. The second two positions were frequently changing hands, but as the University moved to the interior during the war, they stayed impressively stable. The organization of the University and key faculty are outlined in figure A.1. 147

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Appendix A

Zhejiang University Organization during the War of Resistance

Appendix B

The Lectures of Zhu Kezhen

THE MISSION OF UNIVERSITIES, SEPTEMBER 28, 1942 Zhejiang University headquarters at Zunyi mainly consist of the colleges of Liberal Arts and Engineering, with some additions. Many professors have come from other places to serve on our faculty. Shortly I will introduce them to you. Several hundred cases of new equipment have been imported from Burma, over the Burma Road, more than half of which belongs to Zhejiang University. There are three missions of universities. First, to make a perfect man. A perfect man should be endowed with three merits: wisdom, benevolence and bravery, all embodied in the various arts. A benevolent man loves people, so benevolence is the first quality of virtue, and faith comes second. The defect of European and American universities is the neglect of moral education. Decorum and modesty seem but minor things in one’s behavior, yet they are true expressions from the heart. Second, a man should have some special knowledge and skill, and the foundation is laid in universities. Of course, college students should have a good command of all kinds of fundamental knowledge. In European and American colleges there are not so many courses of really special knowledge, but numerous courses of general and fundamental knowledge. It is more extreme in German colleges, where there are quite a few compulsory specialized courses. In China, even though we modeled our system from America, we have way too many highly specialized, very practical courses. Today’s American colleges have been much improved, in both trimming specialized courses and adding courses of judgmental knowledge. But Chinese colleges remain the same, unchanging, providing numerous fragmented, unrelated courses, resulting in a waste of energy. Goethe covered wide ranges 149

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and variations in his reading, perusing all the works of Shakespeare, and went on to attain great achievements. Pasteur first devoted his efforts to fundamentals of chemistry, and later, because his country was threatened by war, turned to study microbiology as well, and achieved successes in both fields, all due to his good command of both fundamental understanding and some specialized knowledge and learning. Third, a student should make himself a thinking man, not merely copying every word and thought from his teacher. Thinking, like muscle, is developed through much training and effort. Goethe quite esteemed Napoleon just because he believed there was nothing in the world that Napoleon could not do, and his military tactics were well guided by precise thinking. Editor’s note: An excerpt from the weekly records published as “School News” in the Zhejiang University Journal, resumed edition, No. 112, October 10, 1942. The title of this excerpt is supplied by the editor. THE FUTURE OF OUR COUNTRY’S HIGHER EDUCATION, SEPTEMBER 23, 1945 After the victory of the war with Japan, due to America’s military campaign in the Pacific and dropping of two atom bombs on Japan, the important question arises: How shall we run our universities? In my opinion, three essential problems need a rapid solution: (1) Which policy should be adopted, the policy of positive guidance or the policy of broad-minded management? (2) Is higher education is morally or intellectually oriented? and (3) Is higher education universal education or technical education? When the first of these three problems is solved, our general policy of running higher education will be clarified. When the second problem is settled, then presidents, professors, and tutors will be appropriately chosen, and the arrangement of the academic department offices of particular disciplines and areas of study will be settled easily. When the third problem is resolved, there will be no further disputes about which is more important, theory or practice, quality or quantity. I will present my explanation in the following. 1) Though it should not be put under political influence, a university must be accommodated to its social environment and conform to national policy. During the recent period of war, our country’s slogan was “the country is most important; the nation is most important.” The “nation” is the sum total of the people; the interests of the people are the interests of the nation. But after the war, what shall be our country’s policy: which is most important, the people or the country? In the doctrines of Confucius and Mencius there is no concept of nation; for them, an ideal world is one of universal harmony. Men-

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cius supported the improvement of human rights and espoused equality and democracy. After the nation was invaded twice first in the Song Dynasty, then in the Ming Dynasty, patriotism and the awareness of resisting foreign invasion arose among the people. But allegiance to kings was above patriotism. Christianity of the West is a transnational religion. In 18th century France, Rousseau and Montesquieu advocated civil rights. Rousseau, like Mencius, maintained that human nature is good, that there should be equality among people, and that the people are more important than the nation. After Napoleon conquered Germany, in 1808, Goethe first met Napoleon and called him “My Monarch.” So we can see that, at that time, Europeans’ concept of nation was not strong. The German philosopher Hegel first proposed the doctrine of “national sanctity,” in which national interest is more important than the interests of the people. After the mid-19th century, such doctrines began to prevail. Just before the Second World War, the countries of the world war divided into two political systems. One attached supreme importance to the nation, while the people are but the tools for the development of a nation, and the significance of individual life depends on its contribution to national development. An individual should sacrifice everything for the sake of the nation. Such nations, in order to carry out five-year plans to lay a foundation for heavy industry, do not care for the loss of thousands upon thousands of human lives. On the contrary, the other system considers human welfare as the first consideration. To ensure the greatest happiness of the majority of people is the reason why a nation should exist. Under these different political systems, the policies of running universities are accordingly different. Under the system of putting the nation above the people, there is a standardization of universities, a uniformity of courses, and a restriction of thought. Higher education should correspond to the current needs of the nation; as national policies change, the aims of cultivating particular kinds of students will correspondingly change. Under the system of putting the people above the nation, universities can develop their peculiar character, there is the greatest freedom of academic research, and private and state-owned colleges can co-exist, as long as human welfare is not to be harmed. In such universities as in Britain and America, there is a strong atmosphere of academic freedom, except during a period of war. Changes of parties in power and political figures will never affect the policy of running higher education. 2) The goal of a university, according to the traditional idea of our country, is to cultivate morality. In the chapter of the Great Learning of the Book of Rites by Confucius, it is clearly stated that the way to great learning is to know good morality, to care for the people, and to reach the pinnacle of goodness. The pinnacle of goodness includes benevolence of kings, reverence of

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subjects, kindly love of fathers, filial obedience of sons and daughters, and good faith towards friends. In the Song and Ming Dynasties, although there was dispute between the two schools of learning, that is, the school of Zhu Huian and the school of Liu Zijing, yet the scholars’ claims were the same, that is, to be sages, the “wise ones.” Wang Yang-ming, therefore, maintained that to learn is to attach importance to virtue, and that, in schools, the important thing is to attain good morality which can lead to the improvement of skill and ability. Cheng Yichuan held that everybody can be a sage, that a scholar’s aim is no other than to be a sage. So we can see clearly since ancient times in our country, to learn is to learn good morality, and the sages have always been the examples to follow. This is different from the traditional view in Europe. Aristotle in his Ethics declared that perfect life is to enjoy the truth. Plato in his Philebus also stated that men of intellect are certain to rule and reign. The Roman philosopher Cicero held that the first thing in human life, besides satisfying the desires of living, is to seek truth. He disregarded whether knowledge gained would benefit human society. European universities in recent times have remained consistent to the spirit of ancient Greece and Rome. In the mid-19th century, Cardinal Newman in his writing, The Nature and Sphere of Higher Education, said that higher education has as its aim to cultivate intellect rather than morality. In general, the goal of British higher education is to bring up British gentlemen. A gentleman, as it is, should be benevolent, intelligent and courageous. In the present day, teachers at Oxford, Cambridge, Harvard, Yale and the like consider the intellect of students as most important, while in our universities morality is emphasized. European universities were first set up between the 9th and 10th centuries, when the power of education was absolutely held in the hands of the Christian Church, that is, priests and monks. In European universities the right to teach or give lectures was granted by the Pope or Church; this situation continued up to the 12th century. Universities supplied the gaps in education left by the Church. Morality was concerned with the soul, considered the Domain of the Church, and not concerned with the body. Therefore, morality was not considered the domain of universities, whose task was to cultivate intellect. With the advancement of modern sciences, the Chinese universities have amply developed, yet still not going beyond the domain of intellect. Our higher education is a complete copy of the European and American system. The curriculum is an all inclusive mixture of courses. Teachers are employed when they have some skill or capability in spite of their eccentric temperament of behavior. Many people criticize our universities for only imparting knowledge, rather than cultivating good morality. The fundamental cause is the defect of the present system of higher education, which lays emphasis on

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imparting knowledge. To cultivate good morality is not to be achieved by words alone but in deeds and with conviction. For the present professors, besides teaching, research is their focus. They do not want to be tutors nor have they the interest. So, for seven or eight years, the system of tutorship in most Chinese universities has been totally ineffectual. In the cultivation of morality, the family, the society and the government are more powerful than colleges. This is because the family, the society and the government teach mostly by deeds. Owing to widespread corruption in society and the unfairness of punishment or commendation by the government, a pure youth will be changed in such society not long after graduation. During the short period of four years in college, the influence of intellectual cultivation in unrivaled. However, I maintain that intellectual cultivation is beneficial to improvement of morality. A man with an intelligent and judicious mind, with a strong conscience, will not be changed by the corrupted society and political unfairness. Only with an ardent heart for the truth, can one be most benevolent and courageous and commit his life to the search for truth. Socrates in Greece, Wen Tianxiang and Shi Kefa of China are eminent models of good morality and will be immortal in human history. Many people are so selfish, corrupted and base, blindly following the bad current, just because they have no clear understanding of things. The ultimate goal of universities is to seek the truth. The truth involves intellect as well as morality. Therefore, to learn is to cultivate good morality. 3) Which in higher education should be emphasized, the liberal education or the technical education? This problem elicits heated debate in America today. That is, because a few leading American educators, in order to rectify over-emphasis in American universities on specialized knowledge, such as the Dr. Hutchenson, President of the University of Chicago, maintain that universities should generalize the courses and students should read ancient classics. This may be going too far, but it is based on good reasoning. After the Second World War the celebrated universities, such as Harvard and Massachusetts Institute of Technology have provided more general courses, such as Problems in International Relations, History of Science, History of Literature, and so on, and reduced specialized courses. Following the War with Japan, our country needs a large number of professionals of specialized knowledge and skills. To establish light and heavy industry in backward conditions, it is most urgent to train a large number of engineers. In view of this, its seems that technical education should be emphasized, but the problem is not so simple. In the Qing Dynasty, Zeng Guofan advocated establishing industry and dispatched students to America to learn the skills of fabricating guns and ships. From that time to the eve of the Japanese War, seventy or eighty years passed,

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yet our science still lagged behind, and our industry was still backward. This is worth our serious examination. There is a general belief that modern civilization is just physical civilization, the product of Western utilitarianism. That view is wrong. Zhang Yinling, in his writings on history, On the Difference between Chinese and Western Cultures, says that in the past two or three hundred years Westerners have made amazing developments on the basis of flourishing industry, and many Chinese, feeling far behind, have asserted that Western civilization is purely a utilitarian civilization. They claim that China has fallen behind because the Chinese have paid little attention to utilitarian considerations. Such an opinion, according to Zhang Yinling, is thoroughly wrong. He thinks that the Westerners have been able to make more and more utilitarian achievements just because they do not put practical activities above purely intellectual activities, that is, they have supported basic research without immediate practical use, then, later, found ways to apply this basic knowledge to meet practical needs. In contrast, Chinese universities are currently emphasizing teaching practical knowledge and skills, with little regard to advancing fundamental knowledge, through basic research. So, the Chinese put fostering pure intellectual activities under a much lower priority than practical applications and, therefore, have been unable to make significant advances in utilitarian achievements. Confucius said that a man of noble character cares for truth more than for food. The Westerners sought the truth and then produced the atom bomb. In what direction basic scientific understanding and inventions will lead often cannot be predicted, but basic, groundbreaking research should cover all subjects, even if only considering the value of such research from the utilitarian point of view. If we put applied science in the most important position and neglect pure science and the humanities, this would not be the road for seeking truth, but, rather, seeking only food. As early as the Period of the Warring States, China had already developed the philosophy of utilitarianism. The Chinese philosopher Mozi proclaimed a doctrine which sets as a governing principle: learning is only of value if it can be put to practical use. Han Feizi was an extreme utilitarianist. He said that become a rich country a nation must rely on agriculture; and, to resist an enemy, it must rely on soldiers. Yet, in China, many men of letters embracing utilitarianism are, today, held in highest esteem. In rebuttal, I would say that utilitarianism, as a governing national principle can never create a strong nation. Contemporary Chinese society is still beset with such utilitarianist college courses, without much consideration of the cultivation of intellect. University students choose colleges and departments not from their interest, but based on considerations about their future careers and salaries. When they choose their majors, they do not consider their value, but whether they can be useful for their future jobs.

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As a matter of course, university should emphasize both liberal and technical education. Therefore, under the present system of higher education in China, there is a need of re-adjustment of the courses. There must be an increase of basic courses, and a reduction of compulsory courses of departments, so as to attain the object of intellectual cultivation. For training a large number of technicians or lower workers on engineering, this function can be undertaken by higher institutes of industry or agriculture, or specialized training classes at universities. The supreme guideline of our education is the “Three Peoples’ Principles,” that is, Nationalism, Democracy and the Peoples’ Livelihood. The country is owned and governed by the entire people, and its interests are shared by all the people. As the people are given the most important position, doubtless, universities should have the spirit of academic freedom. The goal of universities is to seek truth; and to seek truth, it is important to train a refined mentality, so as to be able to distinguish between true and false, right and wrong. The safety of the world depends on whether the people of the world can distinguish between truth and falsehood, right and wrong, and especially on whether they have the courage to uphold and follow the good, and resist unjustified gain. Those who follow a middle course between right and wrong have no sense of righteousness, nor have they a right and clear mentality. The September 18th Incident of 1931 was obviously sheer invasion by Japan of northeastern China. Whether it was right or wrong is quite clear. But the then powers all took a neutral stand, except for a verbal protest by Stinson, the American Secretary of State. Aggression was therefore unchecked and at last expanded to the Second World War. Now the United Nations has reorganized China’s status in the world, since China has now shaken off its earlier semi-colonial status, and become one of the Five Great Powers, China, the U.S., the USSR, France and England. Looking both backward and ahead, we hope there will be not Third World War. Otherwise, with the great destructive power of modern weapons, mankind will disappear like the dinosaurs from the earth and become occasional fossils as materials for inspection and study by another species. If higher education can really enable people to have a rational and judicious mentality, it will greatly help to lay the foundation for world peace. Therefore, to seek truth should not be merely the goal of our universities, but the common target of all the universities of the world. Editor’s note: This article was published in Da Gong Daily, Chongqing, the Second Edition, September 23, 1945.

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COLLEGE EDUCATION AND DEMOCRACY, APRIL 1, 1947 Address to Teachers and Students Today is the 21st anniversary of the founding of our school, also the 51st anniversary of the Truth-Seeking Academy of Classical Learning: the forerunner of our school. I have strong feelings to celebrate this day at this place. My first concern is about the present situation of the world. Since the Victory about two years and a half have passed, and the world is divided into two blocs, struggling against and suspicious of each other, so the people of the world are thrown into endless fear lest the Third World War would break out one day. The second problem is the situation of our nation. Since the Victory there is still no promise of peace. The old constructions have been damaged, and the new constructions are difficult to start, so production is hindered, and the people are poverty stricken. The school even suffers worse from financial shortage; to develop is really difficult. Though things are so bad, however, we cannot say there is no hope of remedy. We must know the primary thing for a country should be the hard working spirits and peace loving heart of the people. Though China’s present conditions are difficult and dark, yet a bright prospect is before us. To reach a brighter situation, education is a necessary means, and we in the school, more than other people, should unswervingly be devoted to it, not merely in words but in deeds. In the 19th century the American scholar Horace Mann said to the effect that education is a brilliant lamp in the darkness and the beacon to guide navigation through the wild sea. The educators of ancient China, the Confucian theory of the Pre-Qin Period, were quite democratic. Confucius said that ‘people can be made to follow, but not to know.’ Mencius said that ‘those who use mind govern, and those who labor are governed.’ Here we can see in their doctrines there is still a dividing line between the literate and the illiterate. Lincoln said that nobody or no group of persons can be shrewd enough to govern others without their permission. This is even more democratic. Professor John Dewey thought that democracy bases its beliefs on the wisdom of common people, which is the road to progress, while totalitarianism believes wisdom is only to be found in a few leaders. This idea is expressed in his work, The Public and Its Life. The Spanish educator Artega, writing about the mission of universities, gives a brief definition of the university: “the mission of universities has a basic principle that education should serve as a means for a speedy and determined achievement of a rational style of life.” College administrators should hold the belief that the majority of students can be guided along the right path.

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In the universe there are two kinds of power: one kind is love, the other is hatred. These two sides of love mark the distinction between democratic and totalitarian countries. For democratic countries, the starting-point is love, they think most people have conscience and wisdom. For totalitarian countries, the starting-point is hatred, they think that only a few possess wisdom, that whoever disobeys these few people of wisdom will be discarded. The two powerful countries of the present world, the Soviet Union and America, believe that wisdom is a possession of only a few, though they both call themselves democratic countries. Marxist communism derives from Hegelianism. Hegel believed that in a certain period of history there will inevitably appear a country that must undertake the mission of giving guidance to the whole world. Therefore, he thought that aggression and war cannot be avoided between countries. Marxist theory replaces struggles between countries with class struggle, but the Soviet Union in its foreign policy often shows an aggressive manner; for example, it refuses to resign its claim to Lushun and Dalian as invaded and taken away by the Russian Tsar. In America, the reign of capitalism enables the wealthy minority to lord it over the majority of people, and Negroes and mixed tribes of black and white in the South even have no right to vote. Since the Incident of Lu Gou Bridge, when Japan invaded China, America, though giving loans to China, at the same time, has been selling gasoline to Japan, again showing the capitalist policy of economic aggression. Now in Europe and the Near East there is a constant struggle between the Soviet Union and America, and an ever deepening hostility and fear among countries of the world. To save the world from destruction by a Third World War, only love can be used to achieve it. But on the political stage of the world has love ever demonstrated any power? Whether love has even demonstrated any power can be shown by the example of Gandhi. With a meager physical stature, Gandhi used non violence and succeeded in eradicating from India the 190 year colony established by Britain. Gandhi also managed, temporarily, to calm the hatred between the Muslims and Hindus by means of fasting. Gandhi spent a long time in prison, where he performed many wonderful diplomatic feats. Gandhi’s success was not achieved by chance, it came from love. He once said that he would rather be deceived by one whom he believed in than disbelieve him without any reason. Before he was assassinated, he had been warned many times, but he did not mind these warnings. Even when he was shot by the assassin and fell to the ground, he still put his hands to his forehead to show the assassin his forgiveness. Bernard Shaw commended Gandhi as the only pre-eminent man to appear in a thousand years, and said that to save the present world, only a few prominent men like Gandhi are enough. Mr. Sun Yat-sen ever advocated benevolent government and rejected the way of might. Benevolent government has power in love, while

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the way of might depends on hatred and fear. For two thousand years, the sages in the East or in the West, like Confucius, Jesus, Buddha, all hold up benevolence; to this day, the world is still filled with hatred, violence and jealousy, and the way of might gets out of control. That is because education of benevolence is not popular. The university is the place where future leaders in all fields are trained and cultivated. Educators should believe that everybody can be made good, and should try to make young students get away from suspicion, jealousy, hatred, and make progress in learning with an impassioned heart, so as to serve the public in the future. Only when education of benevolence is popular, can there be hope of eternal peace in the world. Now we come to Zhejiang University. Since the War with Japan, for more than ten years, though our school has been in distress and difficulty thanks to the efforts of all the professors, research and teaching have never ceased. In the first election for academicians recently held at the Central Academy of Research, four professors of Zhejiang University were chosen, only next to Peking University and Qinghua University. Graduates from Zhejiang University are well-known for their sense of responsibility. More and more students of Zhejiang University have received government tuition and scholarships to study in Europe and America. Recently, Oxford University has recognized seven universities in our country, and Zhejiang University is one of them. But the trouble is that teachers and other personnel earn but a meager living, and those with a large family can hardly support themselves, so they have to get some other jobs or to write for journals or newspapers. In such a situation, how can they settle down to their teaching and research? Because of a recent political disorder, students have refused to attend classes. To show concern for the country is necessary for students, but is not the right way to show their patriotism by refusing to attend classes. In the last year, the students have absented themselves from class for eight weeks, amounting to one quarter of their school hours for that year. This is a very sorry thing for everyone who cares deeply about education. As we look back and think of the future, the most important problem facing present higher education is how to improve the living conditions of teachers and students and ensure the stability of our colleges. Editor’s note: This speech was published in National Zhejiang University Journal, No. 179, Resumed Edition (following the War), April 12, 1947. The title and date of the speech can be seen in the Chancellor’s diary.

Appendix C Two Stone Tablets Erected as the University Departed

Translations of the two stone tablet essays, erected in Yishan and Zunyi upon the departure of Zhejiang University, composed by Professor Wang Jiawu, and signed by Chancellor Zhu Kezhen.

1 AN ACCOUNT OF ZHEJIANG UNIVERSITY CAMPUS AT YISHAN, AUGUST 1939 Isn’t it from learning that people gain energy and strength to rise against the sworn enemy, recover the lost land and rebuild the nation? In the fall of 1937, the Japanese invaders rushed in full brutal force into China, and within three years more than ten provinces had sunk under their domination, extending as far as Hebei and the northeast and southwards to Fujian and Guangdong. However, our officers and soldiers are fighting with an ever braver spirit in the fields, the common people, moving away from their homes, migrating with increasing confidence, and the teachers and students, scorning to stay under the invaders’ dominion, have traveled several thousand miles to the southwestern areas, never ceasing from teaching and studying, ever cherishing a firm hope that the final victory will be ours. What can sustain them in such difficult circumstances if not for all the teachers and the works of ancient masters of profound learning, from which they absorb and drink in all that is helpful in cultivation of a judicious sense of public and self identity, right and wrong, national and foreign, which, when an adverse situation arises, shows a strong influence and force? In April, in the same year, immediately after the Japanese invasion, Zhejiang University, because of the impending menace, moved away to Jiande with all its outfits and possessions; two months later to Taihe, when Tonglu was threatened; and further away to Yishan in July, when 159

Stone tablet at Yishan

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the Japanese aggressors attacked Jiujiang. Yishan is an important city of Guangxi province, conveniently connected with Guizhou province; not a few officials and citizens of Yishan are highly cultured and well informed, and, therefore, delighted with the arrival of the teachers and students of the University. The temple to Confucius in the city, the barracks in the eastern suburbs, and the reformatory school were soon set apart as buildings for Zhejiang University. After a thrifty renovation with not much hard labor and no wasteful use of materials, these old building were cleared out and cleaned, and well defended from wind and rain. After that, on some unused land, scores of new humble houses with thatched roofs were erected as teachers’ residences and students’ dormitories and classrooms, as library, laboratories and rooms for equipment, as offices of the Chancellor and other administrators, as workshops for electricians and mechanics, recreational places, and kitchens. Thus more than one thousand teachers and students are well accommodated so that they can afford to employ their time and energy in academic endeavors. It is hoped of all the staff of our school that we should be shrewd and wise when dealing with changeful circumstances and keep calm and self-possessed in times of troubles and plights, to eradicate the evils of the enemy and raise aloft the voice of the Chinese nation that our country will forever stand in the world. Signed: August 1939, Chancellor Zhu Kezhen

2 AN ACCOUNT OF ZHEJIANG UNIVERSITY CAMPUSES IN GUIZHOU PROVINCE, JUNE 1945 When the Japanese invasion plunged the country into troubles, the capital was transferred to Chongqing, and most schools moved away to the interior. Young students who had the misfortune to be in the invaders’ areas often escaped through dangers and hardships to the interior, where more schools were established and more teachers employed for their education, and provided with satisfactory salaries. In the southwestern areas, either in large cities or in small towns and sequestered retreats, school buildings were built, resonant with the musical voices of students reciting classics in Chinese and English. As all things are hurriedly prepared, it is only natural that there is a shortage of well qualified teachers and books. Zhejiang University has moved several times from one place to another until it came to Zunyi city in Guizhou Province, where the freshmen were placed at Qingyan, the College of Sciences and the College of Agriculture at Meitan, the College of Liberal Arts and the College of Engineering at Zunyi, and the Normal College in between.

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Meitan has a township called Yongxing, where the freshmen were later transferred. In Guizhou province, Zhejiang University has stayed for six years, expanding into five colleges, with twenty five departments, one research institute, five farms, and primary, middle and high schools. Altogether, there are three thousand students and teachers, including their families. By using the temples and a lot of well kept residential houses, the school rooms, bedrooms, conference rooms and offices, amounting to more than one thousand in number, as well as playgrounds and kitchens are all provided without a waste of materials nor much exertion of labor. The library had a store of more than 50,000 volumes, covering liberal arts, sonics, optics, electricity, chemistry, mathematics, agriculture, and engineering. There are 30,000 pieces of equipment, over 700 machines, and 12,000 (biological and geological) specimens. The entire staff of the school now have apartments for living and places to work, and the faculty and students have rooms for learning. Though these provisions are only meagerly provided, as we are in periods of troubles, they have received not any criticism but, on the contrary, much commendation. Yet I have some fear, things often change and may happen unexpectedly, learning is abstruse and may defy a thorough command of it, and in following the teachings of the ancient sages and even going deeper so as to be able to cope with unexpected situations, there may still be a possibility of failure. When we have weathered through all the plights and survived and entered a world of competition in matters of intellect and competence, with only a scarcity of equipment and books, no more than what we have possessed, how can we do otherwise than attribute it to prudence and careful thought! Zhejiang University was formerly located in Hangzhou; in the Qing dynasty it was called the Truth-Seeking Academy of Classical Learning, later changed to the Truth-Seeking Institute of Higher Learning, and in 1927 it adopted its present name. Truth-seeking is the important byword of Zhejiang University. Now I wish to share with all the staff its significance! Ever since the Japanese invasion, Zhejiang University first moved away to Jiande, next to Taihe, then to Yishan, and last to Guizhou province, where we have stayed much longer than in other places. An account thereof is most necessary, hence the present one as a reminder to the following generations. Signed, June 1945, Chancellor Zhu Kezhen

Appendix D Exemplary Alumni: The Reason the Whole Effort Was Justified

Selecting which stories of the many eminent alumni to describe has been very difficult. We have arrived at the following operational guidelines for selection. We have limited the sample to those undergraduates at Zhejiang who were a part of the migration and received their Bachelor’s degrees from Zhejiang. This includes both individuals who are living and deceased, as of the writing of this book. Further, this sample was somewhat skewed toward those whom we knew personally and those to whom we were referred by our friends. We have tried to represent a broad sweep of fields of accomplishment and expertise in this sample. We have also leaned towards including those who, in their adult careers, have continued being supportive of Zhejiang University. Whenever possible, we have used these contacts to obtain critical details of their professional, and sometimes personal, lives for this book that are not to be found in official publications. This involved numerous phone calls to individuals and written correspondence with people all over the world. However, many of these helpful individuals provided us with far more information than is appropriate for this book, so we were required to practice some substantial editing to keep these interesting submissions within the parameters of the mission of this book. In mainland China, many alumni have engaged in research, especially at the Chinese Acedemy of Sciences. Many others have been teachers at universities or high schools or served with distinction as public servants. With few exceptions, as the authors of this book note, it was very difficult to cover the many accomplishments of the Zhejiang alumni. In Taiwan, Zhejiang engineering graduates have populated well-developed industries such as food processing, petroleum, aluminum, salt, fertilizer, and alkalis. The agricultural sector has benefitted from the presence of many 163

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alumni whose expertise in agronomy, horticulture and agricultural chemistry has helped in the production of rice, sugar cane, and fruits. The achievements of our fellow graduates have been far too numerous for us to adequately give credit. Zhejiang University alumni have spread their talents far and wide. Many settled in Taiwan, Hong Kong, Indonesia, Thailand, and the Philippines. Others have been among those who have been sent from Taiwan to Africa to teach local farmers to farm more efficiently. In both Canada and the U.S., many Zhejiang graduates have served in various industries, taught at diverse universities, and researched at many institutions. Many prominent alumni whose accomplishments are publically known are not included here. During the Qiushi period, for instance, Zhejiang University produced eminent alumni such as Chen Duxiu, founder of the Chinese Communist party; Chen Pulei, the general secretary to Chiang Kai-shek; Zheng Xiaochang, the Dean of Academics at Zhejiang University; and Hu Jiaomu, the secretary of Mao Zedong, who graduated in 1938. In more recent times, there was Lee Tsung-dao [Li Zhengdao], the Nobel Prize winner who was educated at Zhejiang University and who admitted he learned much from Professors Shu Xinbei and Wang Kan-chang. The reputations of such alumni are well-established. HUMANITIES Qiu Ke’an, 1920– , English and Chinese Literature Qiu Ke’an was born in 1920 to a middle class family in his ancestral home, the city of Hangzhou, in Zhejiang province. His father was a geodetic surveyor for the provincial government of Zhejiang. Qiu Ke’an graduated from (Christian) American Missionary Weylan College in Hangzhou in 1937 and from Zhejiang University in Chinese and English literature in 1941. He and Chiao-min were roommates, and graduated together. In 1944, Qiu won a British Counsel Scholarship for graduate studies at Oxford University, England, where he pursued his studies from 1945 through 1947. In 1948, Qiu was recruited into the People’s Republic of China Foreign Ministry, mainly to serve as an interpreter and translator. His career spanned from 1950 to 1991, except during the ten gruesome years of the Cultural Revolution, 1966–76, when he was deprived of any serious work. He served at the Chinese Embassy in London from 1980 to 1982. During 1986–1988, he took part in the founding of Ningbo University, in Ningbo city of Zhejiang province, and served there as professor and Vice Chancellor. In the years before he retired, he served as an English Specialist for the Foreign Ministry.

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While in the Foreign Service, Qiu had little time to study for research or for creative writing. However, he did occasionally translate Chinese poems into English and English poems and essays into Chinese, for his own pleasure. In 1984, Qiu had a part in founding the Shakespeare Society of China and became one of its Council members. A few years later, he assumed the longterm task of Chief Editor of the Annotated Shakespeare Series, a task which continues to this day. The complete series is intended to consist of 41 slender volumes, i.e., all of Shakespeare’s plays and poems, each with an introduction, English text, and notes in English or Chinese. As of 2006, 30 volumes of this Series have been published by the Commercial Press, of which he wrote the notes for eight and reviewed the notes by other Chinese scholars. In addition, he has translated five Shakespeare plays into Chinese, including King Lear. He also has published a number of articles on Shakespeare studies. Hu Pingching, 1920–2007 Hu Pingching was born in Shaoxing, in Zhejiang province and graduated from the Department of Foreign Languages at Zhejiang University in 1944. She continued her studies in Paris where she became a scholar of French literature. At the invitation of Chang Chi-yun, she later became a professor of Western Literature at the Chinese Culture University in Taipei where she was an influential faculty member. Professor Hu spoke excellent English and French and was well versed in Chinese Literature. During her long career in Taiwan, she devoted herself to writing and translation, including The Short Account of French Literature (Hua-Kang Publishers), The Study of Western Literature (Commercial Press), and The Life of Li Ching-Chao (New York, in English). Liu Chaonan, 1917–1993 Liu was born in Wuxi, Jiangsu province. In 1937, he entered Zhejiang University, majoring in Chinese literature. He and Chiao-min both went to Tianmu Mountain as freshmen, but he left for home during the war. He rejoined the University soon after and graduated in 1942. Liu was short, wore glasses and a long gown, and spoke with Wuxi dialect. He always recited Chinese classics and poetry. Classmates called him “Lao Fuzi” or “Old Confucius.” When he was young, he acquired a good foundation in ancient Chinese literature, including Tang poetry and the classics. While at Zhejiang University, he studied not only Chinese literature but also foreign languages (English and

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Japanese), algebra, geometry, physics and chemistry. He thus acquired a broad knowledge of the natural sciences, especially mathematics, in addition to excelling in classical literature and poetry. Once he graduated, he taught Chinese literature at Hangzhou University, a separate university from Zhejiang University. Liu devoted his entire life to teaching and writing. He was a productive scholar, publishing essays on the development of Chinese mathematics, research on Li-Xiao (the oldest Chinese poet), and critiques of novels from Shui hu zhuan (All Men are Brothers) to Dream of the Red Chambers. He was an outstanding poet, essayist and novelist. He was Jean Kan Hsieh’s good friend and both are famous in the field of Chinese poetry. Liu’s writing numbered hundreds of thousands of words in magazines and journals, and he published 15 books. His most important book is Gushu yu Kexue (Old Books and Modern Science) published in Chinese in 1990. Ancient Chinese books contained tremendous information dealing with philosophy, history, and literature, as well as the natural sciences, such as astrology, hydrology, and technology. It was Liu, with his extensive knowledge and ability, who interpreted such works from a literary and scientific perspective. Some critics praised Liu’s accomplishments by saying that Liu had worked hard all his life, using the depth of knowledge, his sound and clear ideas, and his careful examination of the truth to reach a larger audience through his numerous publications. Wen Huanran, 1920–1990 Wen Huanran was born in Hunan province. He studied at the Department of History and Geography of Zhejiang University and graduated in 1944, the same year as Jean. While at the University, he was quiet, unathletic, and not very social. And he was very shy with girls. Even though they were classmates, Jean had few conversations with him. He was a typically studious student. While in Zhejiang University, he was deeply influenced by Professor Tan Qixiang, a leading historical geographer who was famous for producing the series, China’s Historical Atlas. As a student, he clearly decided that he would devote himself to the study of historical changes in natural geography in China. China’s wealth of written records provided a trove of data for this pioneering study. After Wen graduated from Zhejiang University, he had the chance to join the Institute of Geography, Academia Sinica to work in the Historical Geography Department as a research fellow. For more than forty years, Wen diligently devoted himself to the field by taking notes and searching material to trace the distribution patterns of forests,

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bamboo, and citrus fruits, as well as animals such as Chinese alligators, peacocks, parrots, Asian elephants, giant pandas, horses, donkeys, camels, gibbons, rhinoceroses, etc. The factors that affected the shift and distribution were analyzed and explored. This research involved paleontology, archaeology, Chinese historical and literary documents, and scientific methods such as pollen analysis, etc. Wen published his first research article on the Qin-Han Dynasty, Qin-Han Dynasty, The Middle-Yellow River Climate Changes. This piece was the first to document physical landscape changes in China. He then went on to publish further results of his work in numerous research journals. Wen became a leader in China’s field of changing physical environment. His contribution was recognized by the Chinese scientific circle and internationally. Wen’s son, Wen Rongshen, edited a volume of his lifetime of research which was published in 1995 by Chongqing Publishing House. The reference book has proven useful in the fields of geography, botany, forestry, zoology, ecology, natural history, and environmental sciences. Wen was a true scholar. He lived in his research world, studying day and night, just as the Chinese describe in their saying, “devoted for decades as one day.” He rarely attended social parties or public lectures, and he never mastered Renshiguanxi, or “social relations.” China respects this scholar. Huang Shenzhang, 1920– Huang Shenzhang was born in Hunan province. While he was very young, he learned from his grandfather the ancient Chinese “Qingwen,” which helped him develop his later study of Chinese historical geography. He graduated from the Department of History and Geography at Zhejiang University in 1944, about the same time as Jean. After graduation, he entered the Academia Sinica, Institute of Geography, to engage in the study of Chinese Historical Geography. With his ability to understand classical Chinese, he produced many important essays and maps with new discoveries. His academic works were appreciated by Guo Murou, the authority of Chinese ancient civilization and the president of the Chinese Academy of Sciences in Beijing. Among Huang’s voluminous publications are three volumes of Asian Civilization, for which he was chief editor, and which were published between 1992 and 1995 by Anhui Educational Publications. They included articles on China’s historical changes in Tai Lake, the Northwest area, the Silk Road, and cultural exchanges between China and other Asian nations. Huang also published two important books, The Collected Essays of Historical Geography and On History, Geography, and Archeology by People’s Publications in 1982, which summarized more than thirty years of Huang’s

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research on Chinese historical geography and included valuable historical maps. Huang was the pioneer in promoting the study of oases in China. He contributed an article on “Oasis Studies” in A Collection of Essays on Chinese Geography and History (Zhejiang University Press, 2007) which Chiao-min edited. In this article, Huang described the oasis of Xinjiang as an example of one of the earliest oases in China. The well-known Loulan Kingdom in the Lower Tarim River has now become ruins. What caused the environmental changes in the past? Huang offered analyses of these changes as a good lesson for future development.

SCIENCES Hsiung Chuan-Chih (CC), 1916– , Mathematics Hsiung’s family was highly educated. CC was accepted to Zhejiang University in Hangzhou, graduating in 1936, with a major in mathematics. His mentor was Su Buqing. At Zhejiang, he discovered his passion for mathematics and met his future wife, Yu Wen-chin, who came from Guiyang city in Guizhou province. She majored in physics, graduating in 1938. During 1935–1943, CC worked on a project of differential geometry under Professor Su Buqing. He married Wen-chin in 1942, and they both applied for graduate studies at Michigan State University under Professor V. Guy Grove. Due to the war, they were not able to arrive at Michigan State until 1946, after which he obtained a teaching assistantship. Wen-chin received her Master’s degree in physics from Michigan State. Their only child, Nancy, was born in America in 1947. CC finished his dissertation on rectilinear congruences within two years under Professor Hassler Whitney. Since 1952, CC has been a professor at Lehigh University, where twenty students had received Ph.D. under his supervision (as of 2006). At Lehigh, he became an international authority on differential geometry, and has authored about 100 scholarly articles, and written or edited a number of books. He founded the Journal of Differential Geometry in 1967; the influence of this Journal has been to expand the scope of differential geometry and topology into an active branch of mathematics. CC retired from teaching in 1984, but continued as the active editor of the Journal. In 1989, an endowment fund was established at Lehigh to honor him. In 1981, he published the book A First Course in Differential Geometry and in 1995, published Almost Complex and Complex Structures. He also has published an anthology of 64 of his most important papers.

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Yang Chung-tao, 1923–2005, Mathematics Yang was born in Pingyang city, Zhejiang province. He was the only child in his family to be educated beyond elementary school. His education was repeatedly disrupted by the chaos of World War II, and by his family’s limited financial resources. After junior high school, at age 14, he worked as a teacher at the local primary school to earn money to attend high school. He graduated high school at the top of his class. He wanted to attend Zhejiang University, but because of the Japanese invasion had to move among different campuses to get his degree, which he received in 1946. In 1950, he received a scholarship for graduate study in mathematics at Tulane University in New Orleans, and he finished his doctoral degree in just two years. He taught two years at the University of Illinois, Champaign-Urbana, then became a visiting member at the Institute for Advanced Studies at Princeton. He became an assistant professor at the University of Pennsylvania in 1956, was promoted to associate professor in 1958, and rose to full professor in 1961. In the early 1970s, he was Chair of the Graduate Program, and, as of 1983, Chair of the full department. Chow Yuan-shun, 1924– , Mathematics and Statistics Chow was born in the city of Xiangyang, in Hubei province, on September 1, 1924, the son of a local militia leader. In 1929, the family moved to Wuhan, the capital of Hubei province. At the new location, his extended family of fifteen people could not make a living, so they returned to their hometown, but Yuan-shun stayed to continue high school. Later, he journeyed, partially on foot, to the distant, interior wartime capital of Chongqing to finish high school. Upon graduation from high school, Chow’s performance had been so extraordinary that he was admitted to the mathematics program at Zhejiang University without an entrance examination. After the war, by the time the Peoples’ Republic was established in 1949, Chow had already begun teaching at the University of Taiwan in Taipei. In 1954, he traveled to America for graduate work at the University of Illinois, Champaign-Urbana, where he obtained his Ph.D. in 1958 in probability under the renowned probabilities professor, J.L. Doob. In 1956, computers were just beginning to become important tools in probability research. Chow was among the first to be trained at U. of Illinois in the use of this new tool. From 1962 to 1968, he served on the Purdue University Mathematics Department faculty. From 1968 until retirement in 1993, Chow served as professor of mathematical statistics at Columbia University. He also was Director of the

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Mathematics Institute of the Academia Sinica of Taiwan. He has published numerous professional papers, and co-published two books, Great Expectation— The Theory of Optimal Stopping Rules and Probability Theory, a book which has been re-issued in three times. His principal professional achievements involve martingales, optimal stopping rules and sequential theorems. Cheng Kaijia, 1918– , Field Commander for Testing China’s Atom Bomb Cheng Kaijia’s grandfather had two wives, but together, they gave him only one son. In those days, having a son in the family was very important, and this still is so to some extent in China. The grandfather hoped that his son would be an academic achiever, but unfortunately the son did not excel academically and was no good in business. Since his only son had deeply disappointed Kaijia’s grandfather, the grandfather had his son marry a girl from an intellectual family, hoping this would produce a grandson. Unfortunately for the grandfather, this daughter-in-law only produced six daughters. This depressed the grandfather, but he never gave up hope. Eventually the grandfather let his son have a second girl as a concubine. This second girl came from a poor but honorable family. She had worked as a servant for a prosperous family. She was looked down upon by all the grandfather’s family members because of her low social standing. This girl’s only hope was to achieve status in the family by satisfying her father-in-law’s dream to produce a grandson who would become a scholar. When she found out she was pregnant, the father-in-law became very excited in anticipation. Grandfather had already decided on the boy’s name: Kaijia, literally translated as “opening the degree,” meaning the grandson had the potential to be the first one in the family to have a university degree. Unfortunately, the grandfather died one day before Cheng was born. People said that grandfather died without closing his eyes, for he was always waiting for a grandson who would be a university graduate. At first, Cheng did not want to study but, in 1931, Cheng entered a nearby high school which was sponsored by American Christians. In high school, Cheng particularly excelled in two areas, mathematics and English, in part due to his excellent teachers. These skills would help him considerably in his future career. In 1937, Cheng passed the highly competitive university entrance examinations for the top five universities, and was admitted to Zhejiang University, majoring in physics. Thus Cheng had the chance to fulfill his grandfather’s dream to receive academic honors. Chiao-min first met Cheng at the Tianmu Mountain when they were both freshmen. The Department of Physics at Zhejiang University was well-known

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for its highly respected professors. Two of these professors were a considerable influence on young Cheng, Shu Xingbei and Wang Kan-chang. Both of these were very young professors of about the same age—around thirty. Shu was educated in England under the direction of Albert Einstein. Wang had trained under another well known refugee, German Physics Professor, Dr. Meitner. Professor Su became so close to his student Cheng that not only was Cheng’s advisor for his Master’s thesis, “The Effect of Starks in Relativity,” but he also asked Cheng to become his research assistant after his graduation in1941. Four years later, when the war with Japan ended, he went to England to study at Edinburgh University. An astonishingly short two years later, he received his Ph.D. in Physics. Following this, he returned China in 1950 to teach at Zhejiang University and Nanjing University as Associate Professor. Later he joined a Central Government Bureau with the improbable name of the “Second Mechanical Ministry,” as Deputy Director of its Institute of Nuclear Research, and later as Director. He then was appointed Deputy Commander of Field Technician for China’s Atomic Bomb. Thus, he became one of the pioneers of China’s Atomic Bomb Project. Fong Ping-guang, 1920– , Physics Fong Ping-guang, or Peter Fong, was born in Jinhua, Zhejiang province. He studied at the Department of Physics of Zhejiang University and graduated in 1944, the same year as Jean. He then received a national scholarship to study Physics at the University of Chicago and received his Ph.D. in the field of Nuclear Physics. He served as a research associate at M.I.T., then as a professor of Physics at Emory University. His research work mainly involved the theory of nuclear fission which is based on the two concepts: the statistical approach which deals with the overall general characteristics, and the nuclear shell structure which deals with a particular specific mechanism. Fong tried to put the two lines of thought together to arrive at a systematic theory. Sun Guanghan, 1913–2005, Chemistry and Physics Sun was born in 1913 in Shaoxing County of Zhejiang province, and graduated from Zhejiang University in 1936, majoring in Chemistry. He went to the U.S. to study at the University of Pittsburgh, where he received his Master’s degree in Chemistry in 1938, and his Ph.D. in Physics in 1948. He worked first at Kodak Film Company as a researcher, then, in 1955, at Westinghouse Company in Pittsburgh, where he served as the director of the nuclear laboratory until he retired in 1980, with thirty-five years of service. He published more than 130 articles and received more than 40 patents.

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He was the first person to utilize scintillation counter methods to test nuclear elements in the universe. Also, he was a pioneer in using meteors to measure the self-lightening of the moon. In American science communities, Sun was called “Sun’s Sun.” In 1959, Sun was appointed as the first director of the Nuclear Research Institute by Chiang Kai-shek’s government in Taiwan. Dr. Sun was an honest scientist, but also a humanist. He was well known in Taiwan for his help to writer Pei Yan to get him out of prison, because Sun was against the dictatorship on the island. Yang Shih-lin, 1919– , Chemistry Yang Shih-lin was born in Wu county in Jiangsu province. He studied at the Department of Chemistry of Zhejiang University and graduated in 1941, the same year as Chiao-min. After graduation, he stayed at the University as a teaching assistant. In 1949–1951, Yang had the opportunity to study Organic Chemistry at the Science and Industry University of Copenhagen in Denmark. In 1963–1966, he became a visiting scholar at the University of Liverpool in England. After returning to China, Yang has been Professor and Chairman in the Department of Chemistry of Zhejiang University and then Vice Chancellor and Chancellor for two years, from 1982–1984. Yang has devoted his teaching and research efforts to chemistry and since 1961 has specialized in higher elements of chemistry and organic chemistry. Since 1979, Yang has traveled abroad as part of cultural exchanges with Japan, Australia, Germany and the U.S. During his tenure as Vice Chancellor and Chancellor, Chinese universities suffered greatly due to the Cultural Revolution. Yang made great contributions in restoring order at the University, raising the quality of basic teaching courses and promoting research projects. In 1991, Yang was awarded an honor by the Council of the Central Government for his efforts in promoting Chinese higher education. Yang’s wife, Chu Guo-ying, also was a Chemistry major and alumna of the University, and a good friend of Jean Kan Hsieh. Cheng Jiajun, 1925– , Chemistry and Pharmacology In 1937,when the Japanese invaded, Cheng’s family moved from Zhejiang province to Chongqing, the wartime capital of China, and Cheng studied at the well-known Nankai High School. After graduation, he entered Zhejiang University where he majored in Chemistry and graduated in 1948. The next year, he went to America to study organic chemistry at the University of Texas and in 1954, he received his Ph.D. He did post-doctoral work at Prince-

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ton University and the University of New Mexico, and in 1978, he became a professor at the University of Texas Medical School and the director of the Cancer Institute. For more then 40 years Dr. Cheng devoted himself to the study of organic chemistry, medical chemistry, pharmacology. His most important discovery involved his break-through research on the design of DHAQ, the structure of N-O-O triangle design cell related to cancer. Cheng’s design of the DHAQ formula was tested in hospitals in the U.S., Canada, Europe, and Japan which affirmed that his design was able to control the spread of certain cancer elements. While conducting his research at the National Institute of Health in 1987, the formula and program were stolen by one of his employees and sold to the Lydils Medical Company, for profit. This case was in court for ten years before Chen and NIH lost. Although the medical industry made money from the formula, the medicine was widely used by the public, for which the professor feels rather satisfied. Shi Yafeng, 1919– , Geographer and Glaciologist Shi Yafeng was born in 1919 in Haimen County, Jiangsu province to a middleclass family. He graduated from Zhejiang University with his Bachelor’s degree in 1942 from the Department of History and Geography. He then received his Master’s degree from Zhejiang University in Geography, with a thesis on the “General Hydrology of Mid-Yangtze Basin.” He was a passionate patriot. He would have graduated a year earlier, but took a year off from the University to join Chinese fighters in guerrilla warfare, then came back to finish. During later field work in Hubei province, near the Yangtze River, he explored the two sides of a glaciated mountain—on the north observing abundant melted water nourishing rich pasture land, herds of cattle and sheep, and many Mongolians, while the south slope, lacking a glacier, had no water, pasture land or inhabitants. The profound ecological effect of glaciers so impressed him that he changed the thrust of his career from geomorphology to glaciology, the study of glaciers. What followed was a long and distinguished career of leading expeditions to document the size, position, motion and glacial melt capacity of many of China’s glaciers. For example, a survey of the glaciers of the Qilian mountains published in 1980, comprised of studies on 2,859 glaciers, a total area of 1972 square km, with 81.3 billion cubic meters of frozen fresh water reserve. Shi’s career has resulted in the informal title of the “Chinese Father of Glaciology.” In 1965, he was appointed leader of the Institute of Glaciology, Geocryology and Desert Research at the Chinese Academy of Sciences in Lanzhou of

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Gansu Province. When the Central Government wanted to construct a ChinaPakistan highway, it appointed him to lead a survey of the giant Batura Glacier in the Karakorum area of Pakistan. An earlier highway through this area had been destroyed by glacial melt floods of the Hunza River in 1972 and 1973. The new highway was to go near the glacier, and the two governments needed to know the likely short- and long-term activity of the glacier, in order to place the highway where it would be minimally disturbed by glacial movement and melt runoff. While they made a number of scientific measurements of glacial behavior, including a stereo photographic survey, they also interviewed elderly residents in the area for information on the recent episodes of motion and runoff from the glacier. The team’s proposal for locating the new Sino-Pakistan highway was accepted, and the highway was constructed in 1988, and has operated reliably ever since. The report of this study was awarded the National Natural Science Prize of the Chinese Academy of Sciences in 1982. A further study of the glaciation of eastern mountains in China led to another prize from the Academy in 1991. All in all, Shi Yafeng has published over 200 professional articles, edited 20 monograph volumes and published many popular papers on such topics a geomorphology, ecological trends, water resources, natural disaster prevention and the very timely subject of climate change. Chen Shupeng, 1920– , Geographer and Cartographer, China’s “Father” of Remote Sensing Chen was born on February 28, 1920, in a mountain village near the city of Pingxiang in Jiangxi province in southern China. He was originally trained as a high school teacher. However, later he discovered his passion for earth sciences. He graduated with a Bachelor’s degree in Geography from Zhejiang University in 1944 (in Jean’s class), and a Master’s degree in 1947. During the Cultural Revolution, Chancellor Zhu helped Chen to hide in a place where he could safely and privately continue his research in field reconnaissance, photogrammetry, remote sensing and cartography. He introduced computers to cartography in China. Chen authored the book, Natural Atlas of the People’s Republic of China (1965), as well as 20 other books and about 300 academic articles and other documents. He directed a series of experiments on airborne remote sensing, both the imaging principles and transmission technologies, as well as on global positioning systems. He also helped develop virtual reality technology and computer-assisted mapping of China, integrated with use of the Internet. He has focused his career on the exploration of earth sciences, the training of earth

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scientists and the specification and standardization of geo-referenced data. He is also editor of three international journals on Geographic Information Systems (GIS), and was elected a member of the Chinese Academy of Sciences. On the practical side, he has used his technical expertise to lead development of a warning system for river flooding, dam safety, water logging (flood damage) evaluation, geothermal resources and geo-analysis of earthquake and other natural disasters. He has been instrumental in developing a dynamic (real-time), remote sensing (mostly satellite), environmental monitoring system for such matters as forest fires, droughts, floods, snow disasters, insect plagues, endemic diseases, earthquakes, and desertification. Also, these technologies allow scientists not only to reconstruct the geography, weather, oceanography etc. of the past, such as identifying ancient river courses, but also to forecast disaster events and project likely geo-referenced configurations in the future. Chen Jiyu, 1921– , Geographer and Hydrologist Chen Jiyu was born in 1921 in Jiangsu province. He graduated from the Department of History and Geography in 1946, majoring in Geomorphology. He received his Master’s degree in 1947. He first taught at his alma mater as a lecturer. Then, in 1956, when the country reorganized the universities of the whole country, Zhejiang University also moved certain departments to other universities. For example, the Math Department went to Fudan University in Shanghai, and the study of geography moved to Huadong (East China) Normal University, where Chen became a faculty member at that university. In 1956, a Soviet hydrologist came to the University to lecture on the study of river estuaries, which inspired Chen to establish a research center at the University to study the mouth of the Yangtze River. This research center became the first in the study of river mouths by unifying theory and practice, geography and engineering, strategy and policy. As a result, Chen became the founder of China’s coastal studies and a pioneer who united the knowledge of geosciences with practical engineering. In 1985, Chen received an award from the Shanghai municipality. In 1999, Chen was elected as a member of the Academician of the Institute of Engineering. Chen was the first geographer to be accepted in the high-tech field of engineering. Chen is well respected by his colleagues and friends. Chang Jen-hu, 1927– , Geography Chang Jen-hu was born in Ningbo of Zhejiang province, the only son of Professor Chang Chi-yun, who was the Chairman of the Department of History and Geography at the University. Young Chang graduated from the same department

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in 1948. Then he went to America to receive his Ph.D. from Clark University in 1954. He has worked at the weather station at Harvard University, was a research associate at Johns Hopkins University, and has been a professor at University of Hawaii. He has published many studies on climate classification, atmosphere circulation, and agricultural production, such as Climate and Agriculture and Atmospheric Systems and Climates, which was published in the U.S. in 1984. When his father, Professor Chang Chi-yun died, he resigned from the University of Hawaii and moved to Taiwan to succeed his father as the Board Chairman of the Chinese Culture University. He continued to publish, including the book, Word Resources and Environment in 2002. He may be the rare university administrator who continues to research and publish academic books in Taiwan. ENGINEERING Tang Y.C. (Tom), 1917– , Chemical Engineering Tom Y.C. Tang’s mother passed away when he was very young. His father was a banker and in the salt business. Tang did his undergraduate studies at Zhejiang University for four years, then stayed at the University for another four years as a teaching assistant and graduate student. While there, he met his classmate, Wen-jin Yao, who majored in education. They married while the University was still at Zunyi. Tang’s major was chemical engineering, and his dream, at that time, was to acquire a chemical production factory. Always the entrepreneur, Tang pooled $300 of his own money with funds from his classmates in order to set up a factory to produce a new type of soap which was much superior to the old-fashioned soap used by people in Zunyi. This venture was quite successful, so Tang set up a second factory in Guilin, to produce soap, toothpaste, perfume and leather goods as well. When the Japanese army approached Guilin in 1944, Tang gave up this second business. In 1945, the U.S. Lend Lease Act recruited more than one thousand technical personnel in China to practice their professions in America, in order to gain field experience in industry. Tang was selected. After one year of such work in America, he began attending the University of Pittsburgh and received his Master’s degree in Chemical Engineering there. Meantime, his wife, Wen-jin Yao also arrived in America and did graduate work at the University of Pittsburgh, where she received her Master’s degree in Education. They then relocated to New York City, where Tang continued his graduate work at Columbia University and his wife obtained a position at the United Nations devoted to the education of children. Not only did Tang study relevant technology, but he made a point of learning many other business skills regarding management, human relations, ac-

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counting, etc. He also was able to fit into American society easily, where he was well accepted. In 1949, he obtained a position at the Standard Packaging Corporation, which had 28 distribution branches and 30 production factories. Tang’s position was at the Brooklyn branch in New York City where his talent, technical expertise and hard work to a series of promotions, first to personnel manager, then to technical manager, and eventually, in 1967, to General Manager. It was rare in America for a Chinese person to be promoted so far and so fast. He attributed his engineering expertise to his education at Zhejiang University. It helped his career that he also had made the effort to become familiar with business management skills—making him a well rounded businessman. Tang joined with some friends to collect enough funds to purchase the company, changing the company name to Tekni-Plex. Tang became the Chairman of the Board. Tekni-Plex expanded into a variety of new products. It was especially successful in the packaging of medicines, enhancing the safety and convenience of purchases of medications. In 1970, Tang established a second company in Somerville Pennsylvania, producing packaging for a wide variety of foods. Although the company was in keen competition with these larger competitors, it succeeded where they failed because of very strict quality control and the small scale of its business. By May 1993, the Business Journal of New Jersey ranked the Tekni-Plex Company 40th out of the 50 top performing small private businesses in the state. By the next year, the Business Journal moved its ranking of Tekni-Plex to 24th. The company’s performance was accelerating rapidly. By about 1994, the total assets of Tekni-Plex was valued at US $ 45 million. Also in 1994, the Japanese Fuji Bank and the American Morgan Stanley bank both tried to buy Tekni-Plex under favorable purchasing conditions. After a long series of negotiations, Tang agreed to sell, based on the fact that he was 76 years old, with not enough time left of his productive years to further develop the company. With the successful sale of his company, Tang donated in 1996 about US $ 100,000 to his Nanyang Model High School in Shanghai. In 1997, Tang donated US $ 125,000 to the Department of Chemical Engineering at Zhejiang University to expand its program. He also donated US $ 2,400,000 to build a building the Tang Student Activities Center in 1998. In addition, he contributed about another US $ 2,400,000 to create a Mathematics Institute at the University. His wife, Wen-chin Yao, had been devoted to the education of children for forty years. She also contributed about US $ 300,000 to Zhejiang University to create a program for Chinese dance and music.

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Tang and his wife feel that their experience can encourage other Chinese who are considering immigrating to America. Tang and his wife, together, have been the top private contributors to their alma mater, Zhejiang University. This custom of private philanthropy is unfamiliar in Chinese society today. No other Chinese university has received private donations of such scale. Liu Kue-te, 1914– , Mechanical Engineering K.T. Liu was born in northeastern China, once called Manchuria, in June of 1914, in Dalian, Liaoning province. His father was a manager of the county tax bureau. Before K.T. was born, his parents had three daughters. With the arrival of this son, his parents were very pleased, giving him the name of Kuete meaning “number one.” Thirteen years after his birth, his parents had a fourth daughter. His father’s managerial positions frequently moved to different cities within Liaoning, causing K.T. to attend a series of schools. In 1934, K.T. entered Nankai University in Tianjin city, majoring in physics. The next year, he transferred to Jiaotong University in Shanghai. Also, in 1935, he passed the entrance examinations for acceptance to Zhejiang University, where he majored in electrical engineering. On September 18, 1931, the Japanese army attacked Shenyang, the capital of Liaoning. This portentous event was thereafter called the 9-18 incident, and remembered with great anger, much as 9-11 is remembered in America. By January of 1932, the Japanese had occupied all of Manchuria and set up a puppet kingdom called Manchukuo, under the last Chinese Emperor, Pu Yi. As a result of the Japanese occupation, Liu (K.T.) witnessed many brutalities and cruelties to his native people at the hands of the Japanese. During his student days at Zhejiang University, K.T. was active on the basketball team, and participated very successfully in the game against the Air Force Academy students’ team (see Chapter 1). This made him a hero among the students, especially since he was short of stature and could jump quite high, giving him the nickname of “Little Tiger.” While K.T. was at Zhejiang University, he and the other engineering students helped with the construction (and subsequent destruction) of Qiantang Bridge for the evacuation of Hangzhou city (see Chapter 2). During the war with Japan, he was so angry with the Japanese that he left the University in 1938 to join the Mechanical Automobile Training Center of the Chinese Fifth Army, where he trained in tank and other vehicle operation and maintenance. In 1943, the Chinese Nationalist Army deployed his group to the area of the Burma Road, to protect China from a Japanese invasion from the West. On the afternoon of March 3, 1943, K.T. led a group of soldiers which engaged the

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Japanese in fierce fighting, and prevailed to capture of the local Japanese Headquarters. The Army decorated him for bravery. The Japanese had fled in such haste that they left behind their official seal, which he confiscated. In 1940, K.T. returned to Zhejiang University in Zunyi to complete a degree in Mechanical Engineering. K.T. was highly regarded as both an outstanding student and a talented and brave man. On August 5, 1945, the Japanese surrendered, and K.T. returned to his homeland in northeastern China. In May 1949, K.T. was drafted to Taiwan to serve at a military vehicular maintenance organization. The next year, he retired from military duty at the age of thirty-six. He then joined the industrial world as an engineer and manager at the Summit Company, founded by three Chinese graduates from Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT). In 1998, K.T. retired from the Summit Company at the age of 84 years. He then donated about US $3,000,000 to Zhejiang University for the construction of a Center for International Education, dedicated to and named after Chancellor Zhu Kezhen. Like Chiao-min, K.T. held Chancellor Zhu in exceedingly high regard. Construction was completed in May 20, 2000, and the University has honored him for his philanthropy. Li Chengsong, 1924– , Mechanical Engineering Li was instrumental in the construction of the Penghu-Taiwan Bridge which was vital to the development of Taiwan. This became the most complex construction project for the island in its modern history. It took about five years, starting in 1965. The most important engineering experts were alumni of Zhejiang University, and the very most important one being Li Chengsong. Li devoted all his energy to solving the difficulties of this project, including high sea currents, strong winds, and limited funds. To build the bridge, Li collaborated with other alumni of Zhejiang University, including F.C. Chow, L.C. Chang, and P.R.Yak, among others. Because of all the challenges, its successful completion rested on the cooperation among the builders, military soldiers, and public laborers in design, testing, and accuracy. This 10,000-foot bridge linking the two islands cost only two and a half million dollars, and when the project was completed, Chiang Kaishek interviewed Li and bestowed him with great honors.

AGRICULTURE Shih Shou-chao, 1922–2002, Agronomist Shou-chao Shih obtained his B.S. in agronomy from Zhejiang University in 1944, and graduated in Jean’s class. He took the “Gao Kau” examination for

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placement in government service after graduation, placing number one in the country in agriculture that year. He received his M.S. and Ph.D. in agronomy and genetics from West Virginia University in 1959 and 1961 respectively. He served as Director of the Taiwan Sugar Research Institute from 1970 until his retirement in 1987. He also was the founder and co-chair of the Taiwan Agricultural Training Center. Previously, he worked at West Virginia University (1961–1970), the Taiwan Sugar Experiment Station (1946–1957), Academia Sinica’s Botanical Institute in Shanghai (on sabbatical from TSES in 1948) and Sichuan Provincial Agricultural Research Institute (1944–46). Dr. Shih’s contribution can be divided into two areas—research and leadership. In research, Shih contributed significantly to understanding the chemistry used by cold-hardy plants to resist cold temperatures and developing ways to enable noncold-hardy plants that only grow in hot weather to thrive through freezing winters. Shih found cold-hardy plants to have high levels of water soluble proteins in their cells and those proteins enable cold hardiness by slowing down metabolism and protecting the cells chemically. His extensive research on cold hardiness—though done in the US—won him a Top Ten Scientist/Engineer Award from the Ministry of Education in Taiwan. However, the research that Shih took the greatest pride in concerned sugar cane, because this body of work had the greatest impact. The new sugar cane varieties he discovered are now known to the world and account for 99% of all sugar cane grown in Taiwan. His research was important because when sugar prices were dropping and the best lands were being shifted to grow other more profitable crops, these varieties enabled the sugar industry to compete and thrive. Shih and his research team received the highest research award from the government in Taiwan for developing these sugar-cane varieties. In leadership, Shih made important contributions in three areas. He paved the way via research to diversify the Taiwan sugar industry when the importance of sugar to the Taiwanese economy started to decline. Shih founded the Taiwan Agricultural Training Center which provided training to over 50,000 people from Taiwan and South Asia, including India. He also nurtured and developed the next generation of researchers and leaders in agriculture. As Director of the TSRI, Shih made a strong and continuous effort to identify, recruit, and mentor the best talent. He sent numerous outstanding young researchers to the U.S. to pursue Ph.Ds. All returned to Taiwan after getting their advanced degrees and quite a few have held or are now holding key leadership positions in Taiwan. Yu Tsung-yong, 1922– , Horticulturist Yu was born in Fujian province and attended several universities until finally graduating from Zhejiang University, majoring in horticulture. Since

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Chiao-min at the Museum of the Movement West during the War, at Zhejiang University in Hangzhou

1947, when he went to Taiwan, he has served at the provincial agricultural test institute in Fongshan working on the cultivation of vegetation and fruits. After he retired in 1975, when he retired he started his own company to produce vegetable seeds, which later expanded into the southeast Asia, Korea, and Japan. The high temperatures and heavy rainfall environments favored the cultivation of seeds. With other friends, he invented new types of seedless watermelon, a big success in his field of horticulture. To improve the quality of watermelon and to promote the local production of watermelon with more taste, Yu discovered a kind of watermelon with a sugar content of 12%. This melon was easy to cultivate, store, and transport. This sweet, seedless watermelon became the most popular in Taiwan. Taiwan soon became the highest exporter of watermelon, boosting its foreign exchange, enriching the rural Taiwanese, and enhancing the reputation of Taiwan’s agriculturists. Not only did Yu become a hero of agriculture in Taiwan, but his name spread into southeast Asia. In July 1960, he was sent to Vietnam as a government representative to improve that country’s agricultural production. Yu first suggested to the Vietnamese that they should cultivate new types of potatoes and onions at higher elevation plateaus, which became the “CIM: Crop Improvement Mission.” The Vietnamese then cultivated these crops in

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large quantities and called it “Yu’s Model.” They were particularly happy about this because it meant that they did not need to rely so much on France for imports. Yu’s interest in writing and photography culminated in his book, Cultivation of Vegetables which includes excellent photographs of all activities in the vegetable field.

Index

Academia Sinica, 115, 123, 132, 166 Agricultural School, 99–100 agriculture faculty: Cai Banghua, 66, 141–42; Liang Chingchen, 140; Lu Shougen, 140–41, 147, 148; Wu Ken-min, 142; Yang Shou-cheng, 142 air raids, coping with, 36 alumni, exemplary: accomplishments of, 163–64; Chang Jen-hu, 175–76; Cheng Jiajun, 172–73; Cheng Kaijia, 170–71; Chen Jiyu, 175; Chen Shupeng, 174–75; Chow Yuan-shan, 169–70; Fong Ping-guang, 171; Hsiung Chuan-chih, 89, 168; Huang Shenzhang, 167–68; Hu Pingching, 165; Li Chengsong, 179; Liu Chaonan, 165–66; Liu Kue-te, 178–79; Qiu Ke’an, 164–65; Shi Yafeng, 173–74; Shou-chao Shih, 179–80; Sun Guanghan, 171–72; Tang Y.C., 176–78; Wen Huanran, 166–67; Yang Chung-tao, 169; Yang Shih-lin, 172; Yu Tsung-yong, 180–82 Anhui province, 5, 8, 106 Aristotle, 152 athletics. See physical education atomic bomb, Chinese development of, 129–31, 170–71

Babbitt, Irvine, 109 basketball, 19, 135; man-to-man defense of, 20; traditional Chinese, 20; Zhejiang University’s team, 56; Zhejiang v. Air Force in, 20–21 bedbugs, 62 Beijing National University, 3 Beijing Western Mountain Geology Survey (Ye Liangfu), 122 Beipei, 82, 86, 87, 105 Bei Shizhang: career of, 132–34, 133; education of, 132; Reconstructed Cells by, 133 Berlin Olympic Games, 20 Biography of Liu Xiang, Father and Son (Qian Mu), 110 bombing: fires from, 51; of Jinhua, 35; universities devastated by Japanese, 1; of Zhejiang University’s Yishan campus, 50–51 bombs, coffins used to store, 43 Boxer Scholarships, 103, 106, 120, 129 Bridgeman, P. W., 131 Cai Banghua, 66, 141–42 Cai Yuanpei, 12 Cantonese food, 68 Chang Chi-yun, 110, xn1; career of, 114–17; Chinese Culture University 183

184

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started by, 117; education of, 114–15; Hsieh Chiao-min’s relationship with, 117; Time and Thought started by, 116; Zhang Yinling’s relationship with, 118 Chang Jen-hu, 175–76 Chang Wang Tu, 94 Chanyuan Temple, 21–22, 22; Japanese completely destroying, 25; as model for Buddhist temples in Japan, 27n8; news of war at, 31; as pilgrimage and tourist site, 27n8; rebuilding of, 27n10; similarities between Zhejiang University and, 22–23; students closeness with monks at, 23–24; teachers at, 22–23; tutor system proposed by Zhu Kezhen at, 24–25 Chen Bulei, 93–94 Chenghui High School, 2–3, 5 Cheng Jiajun, 172–73 Cheng Kaijia, 170–71 Cheng Yichuan, 152 Chen Jiangong: career of, 124, 125–26, 127; education of, 124–25 Chen Jiyu, 175 Chen Lifu, 74–75, 91–92 Chen Minde, 126 Chen Pu-Lei, 12, xn1 Chen Shui-bian, 111 Chen Shupeng, 174–75 Chen Xunci: birth of, 12, xn1; as Chief Librarian of Zhejiang Provincial library, xn1 Chen Yinque, 71 Chen Zhong, 103 Chiang Kai-shek, 12, 28, 70, 92–93, 108, 114, 121; brother-in-law of, 71; Communist leaders forced to evacuate by, 36; Communists defeating, 90; corruptness of, 104; encounter with, 53–54; in Taiwan, 116 China: education as priority in, 102, 145; industrial cities in, 29; military

of, 28; ninety percent Han Chinese composing, 43; patriotism, 28–29; top five universities in, 4 Chinese culture, preservation of, 32 Chinese Culture University, 117 Chinese society, conservative nature of, 8 Chongqing, 74–75, 81, 91, 105, 118, 136, 161 Chow Yuan-shan, 169–70 Christianity, 14, 151 Chu Kochen. See Zhu Kezhen Cicero, 152 Coching Chu. See Zhu Kezhen College of Agriculture, 100 Communist(s): Chiang Kai-shek defeated by, 90; Fei Gong sympathizing with, 92; He Youliang as, 72–73; Jiangxi as main base of, 36, 38; leaders forced to evacuate by Chiang Kai-shek, 36; Marxist theory and, 157; Wang Hui suspected of being, 72–73; Wang Tianxin suspected of being, 73; in Yishan, 47; Zhejiang University outlawing, 70–71 concentration camp. See re-education camp concubines, 6 Confucianism, 51, 150–51, 154, 156 Cressey, George B., 88–89, 94, 131 Cultural Revolution, 126 Dadun, 53 Dagong Bao, 71 Daye, 123 democracy, in education, 104, 156–58 Dewey, John, 156 Dickenson, Robert E., 88 Ding Wen-jiang. See Ting Wen-kiang Director of Academic Affairs, 76–77 Directors of Student Affairs of, 70, 90 Dongting Lake, 78n3 dormitories, 59, 61 Duane, William, 120

Index

Eastern Jin Dynasty, 21 education: behavior as important as academic scores in Chinese, 3; of Bei Shizhang, 132; of Chang Chiyun, 114–15; of Chen Jiangong, 124–25; democracy in, 104, 156–58; of Fei Gong, 118–19; future of Chinese, 150–55; of Guo Binghe, 109; of Huang Ye, 113; of Hu Gangfu, 119–21; Japanese invasion and crisis in, 1; of Mei Guangdi, 106–7; physical education in Chinese, 3; as priority in China, 102, 145; of Qian Mu, 110; quality during War of Resistance, 101–2; of Shu Hong, 134–35; of Tan Jiazhen, 127–28; of Wang Kan-chang, 129–30; of Ye Liangfu, 122; of Zhang Yinling, 117–18; of Zhou Houfu, 121; of Zhu Kezhen, 103–4 education faculty: Shu Hong, 19, 19–20, 26n6, 40, 42–43, 134–35; Zheng Xiaochang, 134 engineering faculty: Li Shouheng, 137; Li Ximo, 135–37, 136, 147, 148; Qian Zhonghan, 138; Wang Guosong, 138–40; Wu Chongwei, 140 entrance exams, 4–5; high school class rankings v., 5; Hsieh Jean-kan passing, 10; newspapers publishing results of, 5 faculty. See professors Fei Gong, 23, 70–71, 114; career of, 119; Communists and, 92; death of, 92–94; education of, 118–19; The History of Constitutions by, 119; political leanings of, 90–94; Zhu Kezhen’s relationship with, 119 fire, from bombing, 51 fleas, 62 flooding, of Gan River, 98 Fong Ping-guang, 171

185

Fuchun River, 69–70 Fudan University, 91, 127–28 Gandhi, 157 Gan River, 36, 37, 98 Geology, 47–48 Gestalt, Arnold, 113 gingko trees, 21, 27n7 goiter, 64, 78n4 Grand Canal, 77n1 Guangdong province, 117, 140 Guangxi province, 46–47, 52, 74, 78n4, 112, 140, 161 Guangzhou, 68, 123 Guilin, 46–47, 78n4 Guizhou province, 55, 74, 79n6, 100, 140, 162 Gu Jiegang, 110 Gulf of Tonkin, 52 Guo Binghe: career of, 109–10; education of, 109 Guo Renyuan, 11–12 Guo Xiaolan, 89 Haining county, 134 Han Chinese: China composed of ninety percent, 43; Yi animosity toward, 68–69 Hangzhou: bay, 25, 29; evacuation of, 29, 33; Japanese invasion of, 25, 113; Qiantang bridge in, 29–31; before war with Japan, vii; West Lake of, 125; Zhejiang University campus today in, 101–2, 102; Zhejiang University returning to, 81 Harvard, 88, 106, 108, 131 health care, 40 Hefei Girl’s School, 8 Hegel, 151 He Yaozhu, 53 He Youliang, 72–73 high school class ranking, 5 The History of Constitutions (Fei Gong), 119

186

Index

Hong Kong, 70–71, 111 Hornbeck, Stanley K., 25n1 Hsieh Cheng, 3 Hsieh Chiao-min, 2–5; April Fools’ joke on, 84–86; on basketball team, 56; career of, 143–45; Chang Chi-yun’s relationship with, 117; Chanyuan temple revisited by, 27n10; death of mother of, 3; entrance exams passed by, 5; exams of, 74–77; as freshman, 15–21; Hsieh Jean-kan’s romance with, 82–86; at Institute of Geography, 81–82; Japanese sentiments of, 31–32; journey to Ji’an to Taihe of, 37–41; journey to Yishan of, 41–46; marriage of, 87; at Museum of the Movement West during the War, 181; survival of, 63–64; after war, 81–84; in Yishan, 46–50; Zhejiang as native province of, 35; Zhejiang History and Geography department and, 5; Zhu Kezhen’s relationship with, 87–89, 105–6; in Zunyi, 55–57, 60, 63–64, 66–69, 74–77 Hsieh Jean-kan, 5–10, 81–84; April Fools’ joke of, 84–86; career of, 144–45; eating manners of, 64–66; education pushed for by mother of, 7; entrance examinations passed by, 10; father of, 6; grandfather of, 6; Hsieh Chiao-min’s romance with, 82–86; interior of Hunan province moved to by, 9–10; Japanese invasion cutting short high school education of, 8; letters of, 83; marriage of, 87; new job of, 86–87; path to Zhejiang University of, 5–10; rusticity of, 97; studying abroad, 87–89; on volleyball team, 58; Yao as friend of, 9–10; Zhejiang History and Geography department and, 10; in Zunyi, 57–63, 58, 64–66 Hsieh Jing-he, 3 Hsieh Pao-chin, 3

Hsieh Shi-yen, 3 Hsieh Siyen, 87 Hsiung Chuan-chih, 89, 168 Huang Shenzhang, 167–68 Huang Ye: career of, 113–14; education of, 113 Hubei province, 123 Hu Bingfu, 119 Hu Dengfu, 119 Hu Gangfu, 14; career of, 120, 121, 147, 148; children of, 66; as classmate of Zhu Kezhen, 38; education of, 119–21 humanities faculty: Chang Chi-yun, 110, 114–17, 118, xn1; Guo Binghe, 109–10; Huang Ye, 113–14; Mei Guangdi, 65–66, 79n7, 106–9, 107, 110, 112, 116; Qian Mu, 110–11; Wang Jiawu, 91, 112; Zhang Yinling, 22–23, 67–68, 117–18 Hu Mingfu, 120 Hunan province, 9–10, 78nn2–3, 166–67; red soil of, 43; as target area for Japanese, 45–46 Hu Pingching, 165 India, foreign students from, 15, 96 Institute of Geography, 81–83, 105 Institute of Meteorology, 81, 88, 132 James, Preston E., 88 Japan: Chanyuan Temple as model for Buddhist temples in, 27n8; hatred of, 31–32; Hsieh Chiao-min’s sentiments of, 31–32; spies of, 49; Steel Army of, 52; student captured by, 53; Wenlan Ge sought by, xn1 Japanese invasion, 1, 8, 21, 155, 159, 178; Chanyuan Temple completely destroyed during, 25; divided student view during, 105; first attack at Lugou Bridge, 28, 157; of Hangzhou, 25, 113; Hunan province as target area during, 45–46; motivation for, 28; Nanning occupied

Index

by, 52, 55; poison gas dropped in, 122; students’ contributions against, 51–53; Zunyi threatened by, 74, 105. See also War of Resistance Ji’an, 37–41 Jiande, 25, 33, 34 Jiangsu province, 97, 109, 112, 119, 165 Jiangxi province: Hsieh Chiao-min travelling to, 33–37; as main base of Communists, 36, 38; settlement of, 78n2; Zhejiang v., 36 Jiangyin province, 109 Jiashan, 135 Jiaxing city, 131 Jinhua: bombing of, 35; library materials recovered in, 35; trains in, 36 Johnson, D. W., 122 karst topography, 46, 78n4 Koffka, Kurt, 113 Kong Xiangxi, 71 Kun Lun gate, 52 Kunming, 111 Kuomingtang, 72 Lee, J. S., 123 Liang Chichao, 117 Liang Chingchen, 140 library materials: committee to organize transportation of, 41; recovery of, 35. See also Wenlan Ge Li Chengsong, 179 Lin Chi, 11 Li Shouheng, 137 Liu Boming, 107, 115 Liu Chaonan, 165–66 Liu, K. T., 31 Liu Kue-te, 178–79 Liupo Zhuang, 8–9 Liu Yizheng, 115 Liu Zhiyuan, 99 Li Ximo, 135–37, 136, 147, 148 Long March, ix, 36 Longquan, 14, 69

187

Lugou Bridge, 28, 157 Lu Shougen, 140–41, 147, 148 Manchuria, 115 manganese industry, 99 Mann, Horace, 156 Mao Yisheng, 29–30, 32n1 Mao Zedong: Long March of, ix, 36; in Zunyi, 79n6 Marco Polo, 77n1 Marco Polo Bridge. See Lugou Bridge Marxist theory, 157 Mei Guangdi, 65–66, 79n7, 112; birth of, 106; career of, 107, 107–9; as Dean of Humanities, 107, 108; death of, 110, 116; education of, 106–7 Mei Songyu, 106 Meitan, 129, 133, 162; farming in, 100; geography and, 57; property and equipment donated to, 81 Meitner, Lise, 130, 171 Mencius (sage), 145, 150 Merica, P. D., 25n1 Miao people: clothing of, 43; dancing of, 43–44; midnight funeral procession custom of, 44; number of, 79n6; poison of, 44–45 military training, 31–32 Ming dynasty, 14 Ministry of Education, 74–75, 91–92 Ministry of Education, founding of, 1 minorities. See non-Chinese ethnic groups modernization, 1 Morgan, Thomas Hunt, 128 movie theatre, 56 Mozi, 154 Museum of the Movement West during the War, 181 Nanjing, vii, 4 Nanjing University, 4, 107, 109–10, 112–13, 115, 121, 134 Nanning, 52, 55 Nantong, 112

188

Index

national examination system, 109 National Geological Survey, 122 National Institute of Compilation and Translation, 86 Nationalist Government, 47; Directors of Student Affairs of, 70, 90; establishment of, 1; students detained by, 72–73 National Number Eight High School, 10 National Political Consular Conference, 108 Needham, Joseph, 95, 145 New Asia College, 111 Newman, Cardinal, 152 New Year festival of 1938, 8 night travel, 33 Ningbo, 114 non-Chinese ethnic group(s): Miao, 43–45, 79n6; Yi, 68–69, 80n8; Zhuang, 46, 78n4 Office of the Dean of Students, 61 Old Zhao, 61 opium, 6 Orme, G. M., 109 Outline of Our Nation’s History (Qian Mu), 111 Oxford, 24 Peking University, 4, 6, 111 Peter Fong. See Fong Ping-guang physical education, 3; grading system for, 40; Shu Hong as professor of, 19 plays, 40 polytheism, 46 Poyang Lakea, 36 professors, outstanding during war: Cai Banghua, 66, 141–42; Chang Chiyun, 110, 114–17, 118, xn1; Chen Jiangong, 124, 124–26, 127; Fei Gong, 23, 70–71, 90–94, 114, 118–19; Guo Binghe, 109–10; Huang Ye, 113–14; Hu Gangfu, 14, 38, 66, 119–21, 120, 147, 148; Liang Chingchen, 140; Li Shouheng, 137;

Li Ximo, 135–37, 136, 147, 148; Lu Shougen, 140–41, 147, 148; Mei Guangdi, 65–66, 79n7, 106–9, 107, 110, 112, 116; prestige of, 26n5; Qian Zhonghan, 138; Shu Hong, 19, 19–20, 26n6, 40, 42–43, 134–35; strict grading by, 67; Su Buqing, 126–27, 168; Tan Jiazhen, 127–29; Tu Changwang, 131–32; Wang Guosong, 138–40; Wang Jin, 129; Wang Kan-chang, 129–31, 130, 171; Wu Chongwei, 140; Wu Ken-min, 142; Yang Shou-cheng, 142; Ye Liangfu, 47–49, 73, 122–24; Zhang Shaozhong, 76, 131; Zhang Yinling, 22–23, 67–68, 117–18; Zheng Xiaochang, 134; Zhou Houfu, 121–22; Zhu Kezhen appointing, 70–71, 106, 108–10, 121, 123, 127, 129–30, 132, 136, 138, 147 Qian Mu: Biography of Liu Xiang, Father and Son by, 110; career of, 110–11; education of, 110; Outline of Our Nation’s History by, 111 Qiantang bridge: destruction of, 30–31; engineering school graduates building, 29; problems building, 29–30 Qian Zhonghan, 138 Qingdao, 130 Qing Dynasty: shift in purpose of education during, 1; Wenlan Ge encyclopedia of, viii Qinghua University, 4, 117, 129 Qingtian county, 123 qi-qi, 28 Qiu Ke’an, 164–65 Qiushi Academy, 11 Reconstructed Cells (Bei Shizhang), 133 re-education camp, 72, 139 regional school, 39–40 remote sensing, 174–75 rice, as staple, 65 rusticity, 95–97

Index

science faculty: Bei Shizhang, 132–34, 133; Chen Jiangong, 124, 124–26, 127; Hu Gangfu, 14, 38, 66, 119–21, 120, 147, 148; Su Buqing, 126–27, 168; Tan Jiazhen, 127–29; Tu Changwang, 131–32; Wang Jin, 129; Wang Kan-chang, 129–31, 130, 171; Ye Liangfu, 47–49, 73, 122–24; Zhang Shaozhong, 76, 131; Zhou Houfu, 121–22 Sciences of China, 133 Shanghai: fall of, 25, 29; puppet government in, 53; Zhu Kezhen in, 104 Shangtian, 38 Shan River, 55 Shao Quansheng, 91 Shaoxing county, 103, 165 Shi Yafeng, 173–74 Shou-chao Shih, 179–80 Shu Hong, 19; career of, 135; as Christian, 26n6; death narrowly escaped by, 42–43; education of, 134–35; grading system developed by, 40; as Olympic basketball referee, 20; as physical education professor, 19 Sichuan province, 50, 81 Spies, 49 Steel Army, 52 stone tablet(s): at Yishan, 159–61, 160; at Zunyi, 161–62 students: community responsibilities of, 39–40; curfew for, 59–60; demonstrations by, 72; desire to fight Japanese of, 32; evacuation resisted by, 31; government support for, during Japanese invasion, 27n9; Indian, 15, 96; Japanese capturing, 53; Japanese hated by, 31–32; money raised for soldiers by, 40; nationalism of, 95–96; Nationalist Government detaining, 72–73; relationship between monks at Chanyuan Temple and, 23–24; river bandits accosting,

189

69–70; rusticity, 95–97; typist jobs for, 39; unable to return home in summer, 39; war contributions of, 51–53; Zhu Kezhen as wise voice for, 105. See also alumni, exemplary Su Buqing, 126–27, 168 Sun Guanghan, 171–72 Sun Yat-sen, 157 Suzhou University, 128–29 swimming pool, 40 Syracuse University, 88–89, 131, 144 Sze Ping, 12 Taihe, 37–38, 98–99 Tai Li, 93 Taipei, 87, 111 Taiping Rebellion, viii Taiwan, 87, 114, 116–17, 125–26, 163, 179–81 Tang Shan Mining College, 103 Tang Y.C. (Tom), 176–78 Tan Jiazhen: career of, 129; education of, 127–28 teahouse, studying at, 67 tea seed, 100 Tekni-Plex, 177 Third Central University of China. See Zhejiang University Tianjin, 103 Tianmu Mountain, 21, 33, 143, 170 Time and Thought, 116 Ting brothers, viii Ting Wen-kiang, 115 travel: logistical problems of, 42; night, 33; risks during, 42–43 Tuan creek, 99 tutor system, 24–25, 48 United States, study abroad in, 87–89 universities: evacuation of, vii; Japanese bombing devastating, 1; top, in China, 4 Vietnam, 181–82 volleyball team, 58

190

Index

Wang Baihang, 112 Wang Ganchang. See Wang Kan-chang Wang Guosong, 138–40 Wang Huanbiao. See Wang Jiawu Wang Hui, 72–73 Wang Jiawu, 91, 112 Wang Jin, 129 Wang Kan-chang: career of, 130, 130–31, 171; education of, 129–30 Wang Lizhou, 14 Wang Tianxin, 73 Wang Yang-ming, 152 Wang Zhengsheng, 114 Wan Mingwei, 94 War of Resistance, ix; education quality during, 101–2; end of, 58, 81; importance of scholars in, 32; miserable conditions during, 58; students’ contributions to, 51–53 Wen-chin Yao, 176–77 Weng Wenhao, 12 Wen Huanran, 166–67 Wenlan Ge, vii–viii; Japanese agents looking for, xn1; restoration of, viii; shipment received in Taihe, 38; storage of, vii–viii, viii, ix; Zhejiang University protecting, ix, 100, xnn1–2 Wen Rongshen, 167 Wenzhou city, 126, 138 Western oppression, Christianity associated with, 14 West Lake, 125 Wuhan, 39, 98 Wuhan university, 4, 104 Wu Ken-min, 142 Wu Mi, 107 Wuxi, 110, 119, 165 Wu Youxun, 130 Xiang River, 56 Xuancheng, 106 Xue Heng, 107 Xu Xiake, 49–50, 78n5

Yang Chung-tao, 169 Yang Shih-lin, 172 Yang Shou-cheng, 142 Yangtze River, 36, 39, 49–50, 78n5 Yanjing University, 110–11, 128 Ye Chiseng, 130 Ye Liangfu, 47–49, 73; Beijing Western Mountain Geology Survey by, 122; career of, 122–24; education of, 122 Yi people, 68–69, 80n8 Yishan, 133; bombing of, 50–51; communism in, 47; Hsieh Chiao-min and, 41–50; refugee road to, 45; stone tablet erected at, 159–61, 160; tutor system in, 48; Zhejiang University’s temporary campus at, 47–51, 112, 125, 136, 159–61, 160 Yongxing, 57, 162 Yuan Shi-kai, 118 Yue Chao, 27n10 Yunnan, 50, 140 Yu Tsung-yong, 180–82 Yu Wen-chin, 168 Yuyao county, 140 Zeng Guofan, 153 Zhang Hansong, 132 Zhang Jiao, 71 Zhang Qiyun. See Chang Chi-yun Zhang Shaozhong, 76, 131 Zhang Xiawen, 104 Zhang Yinling, 22–23, 67–68; career of, 118; Chang Chi-yun’s relationship with, 118; education of, 117–18; educational philosophy of, 154 Zhang Zhizong, 53–54 Zheda Dike, 98, 99 Zhejiang Higher Education Institute. See Zhejiang University Zhejiang province, 77n1, 97, 103, 114, 124, 126, 131–32, 134–35, 138, 140, 164; Hsieh Chiao-min’s home in, 35; importance of, 35; Jiangxi v., 36; rock in, 123

Index

Zhejiang Provincial library, xn1 Zhejiang University: Agricultural School of, 99–100; alumni and faculty remaining in interior, 98; basketball team of, 20–21, 56; boat evacuation of, 33; bombing of, 50–51; as Cambridge of China, 95, 145; Chinese v. English at, 96; College of Agriculture, 100; College of Humanities and Sciences of, 13, 55, 57; committee to organize move to Yishan of, 41; communism outlawed at, 70–71; concerns over resources of, 34–35; as democracy, 104, 156–58; difficulty entering, 2; dormitories of, 59, 61; evolution of name of, 25n1; Hangzhou returned to by, 81; hardships endured by, 2, 100–101; History and Geography department at, 5, 10; Hsieh Jeankan’s path to, 5–10; inland communities influenced by, 97–100, 99; library expanded by Zhu Kezhen of, 15; Longquan branch of, 14; mission of, 149–50; moved to Jiande, 25; Museum of the Movement West during the War at, 181; newspaper of, 98; Office of the Dean of Students of, 61; 110th anniversary of, 143; as one of oldest universities in China, vii; organization of, 147, 148; present campus of, 101–2, 102; significance of today, 100–102, 101–2; similarities between Chanyuan Temple and, 22–23; Teachers’ College of, 57; top-notch athletics at, 19; volleyball team of, 58; after war, 90–94; Wenlan Ge protected by, ix, 100, xnn1–2; westward journey of, vii–ix, 21, 33, 143, 145; Yishan temporary campus of, 47–51, 112, 125, 136, 159–61, 160; Zhu Kezhen appointed Chancellor of, 10–13, 104; Zunyi

191

temporary campus of, 55–56, 55–57, 112, 161–62. See also students Zhejiang university, 4 Zhejiang University Student Association, 52 Zheng Xiaochang, 134 Zhenhai, 132 Zhongshan, 140 Zhou Enlai, 114 Zhou Houfu: career of, 121–22; education of, 121 Zhuang people, 46, 78n4 Zhu De, 36 Zhu Kezhen, 10–11, 12, 20, 112, 114–15, 148; accurate knowledge sought by, 82; active professionally, 94n2; Air Force relations smoothed over by, 21; attitudes and behaviors of students and, 14; birth of, 103; at dedication ceremony, 52; as Director of Institute of Meteorology, 81; education of, 103–4; faculty appointed by, 70–71, 106, 108–10, 121, 123, 127, 129–30, 132, 136, 138, 147; Fei Gong’s relationship with, 119; future plans for Zhejiang University of, 13–14; gorilla defense planned by, 74; Hsieh Chiao-min ‘s relationship with, 87–89, 105–6; Hu Gangfu as classmate of, 38; lectures of, 24, 105–6, 149–58; legacy of, 144; memorial service for wife and son of, 41; meteorology studied by, 104; re-education camp traveled to by, 73; in Shanghai, 104; Shao’s release gained by, 93–94; son of, joining army, 51; student demonstrations handled by, 72; students convinced not to fight by, 32; tutor system proposed by, 24–25; as Vice President of the Chinese Academy of Sciences, 90; as wise voice for students, 105; Zhejiang Chancellor position accepted by,

192

Index

10–13, 104; Zhejiang University library expanded by, 15; against Zunyi examinations, 75–76 Zhu Zhenshui, 14 Zunyi: bugs in, 62; Cantonese food in, 68; electricity in, 97; exams at, 74–77; food at, 64–65; Hsieh Chiaomin’s story of, 55–57, 60, 63–64, 66–69, 74–77; Hsieh Jean-kan’s story of, 57–63, 58, 64–66; inadequate clothing at, 62–63;

Japanese threat at, 74, 105; journey to, 55–57, 69–70; Mao Zedong in, 79n6; other institutions in, 56–57; political life at, 70–74; property and equipment donated to, 81; report of, 57, 100; romances at, 59–63; stone tablet erected at, 161–62; studying in, 66–69; Tuan creek, 99; Yi minority of, 68–69; Zhejiang University’s temporary campus in, 55–56, 55–57, 112, 161–62

About the Authors

Hsieh Chiao-min (Jimmy) graduated from Chenghui High School, and then Zhejiang University’s Department of History and Geography. After a lectureship at Taiwan Normal University in Taipei, Chiao-min received a Chinese National Scholarship to study in America, and entered Syracuse University for graduate work in geography, receiving his Master’s degree in 1950 and Ph.D. in 1953 under the mentorship of the well-known geographer Professor George B. Cressey. He served as researcher at China’s Institute of Geography in Chongqing, and at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Chiao-min has taught at the University of Leeds, England, at Peking University in China and at Catholic University in Washington, D.C. He is the recipient of the 1974 Senior Fellowship of the National Endowment for the Humanities and three Fulbright Research Fellowships. He was awarded a grant for Geography and Cartography by the Rockefeller Foundation in 2002. He is the author of China: Ageless Land and Countless People, Atlas of China, China: A Provincial Atlas, and Analytical Slope Map of Taiwan. Chiao-min joined the faculty of the Department of Geography at the University of Pittsburgh in 1968, where he is now an emeritus faculty member. Hsieh Jean Kan (maiden name: Kan Chia-ming) is from a gentry family in Hefei, in Anhui province. Jean graduated from Zhejiang University, Department of History and Geography in 1944. After a short stint as a teacher, she married Chiao-min and followed him to the U.S. She taught at the National Taiwan University and at the Chinese Cultural University as professor of Geography and Cartography. She graduated from Syracuse University with a Master’s degree in geography. She published two geographical monographs 193

194

About the Authors

and participated in the development of many maps, including maps in her husband’s book, Atlas of China, published in 1973. She later co-authored a book with Chiao-min on maps of China’s provinces entitled China: A Provincial Atlas, published in 1995. She has published a volume of literary essays entitled Ssu ch’un chi and has had a variety of articles published on current events and her travels in Chinese newspapers and magazines. She also writes widely acclaimed poetry in the classical style. Today she lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania with her husband Chiao-min. Chiao-min and Jean’s daughter and son, Eileen and An-ping, and their daughter-in-law, Sarah, are Yale graduates and attorneys. Chiao-min and Jean have five grandchildren. The oldest, Jessica, is eighteen years old and has just been admitted to Yale.

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