One Friday night, a group of us gathered in the workers’ dormitory to play darts. A knock came at the door, and two police officers stepped into the room. They spoke to my friends, who then turned to me, faces pale, and said, “Mr. Erica, the policeman wants you go to police station.”
I looked anxiously from my friends to the police officers. “Why?”
“To make paperwork.”
I looked at my watch: nine o’clock. It seemed like a bad idea to go off with these officers at night, “to make paperwork.”
“Please explain that I would be pleased to come to the police station on Saturday morning or on Monday morning,” I said. “But I cannot go with them at nine o’clock on a Friday night.”
This was translated to the police officers. The officers spoke again to my friends, and my friends turned back to me.
“Mr. Erica, you are going to the police station—now.”
Han Lin and I were driven to the police station in the back seat of a police car, accompanied by another man from the dormitory.
“They can’t do anything to us,” he whispered, though his eyes darted nervously toward the men in the front seat. “China is different now.”
I wasn’t sure about that, but I certainly hoped it was true.
At the police station, they directed us to a waiting area, where we sat on green couches and whispered to one another. I still had no idea what they wanted from me, what “paperwork” needed my urgent attention.
At about ten o’clock, they called us down a hallway. I followed Han Lin, but they directed her into a room on the left and steered me toward one on the right. Cold fear spread over me as the space between us widened.
I found two police officers waiting for me behind a gray metal table. One of them was dressed in civilian clothes, and the other wore his police uniform. A single bare light bulb dangled from a wire, and on the table sat a pack of Marlboros. I knew from my Chinese friends that American cigarettes were in high demand, so I assumed that the officers meant the cigarettes as a friendly gesture.
The walls were concrete, and the room contained nothing but the metal table, a filing cabinet, an empty chair, and the cigarettes.
They shut the door.
I sat in the chair, and one of the officers pulled out a lighter. He politely urged a cigarette on me. I declined. Then the questions began:
“What brings you to China?”
“I came to study and to learn,” I said.
“You like it here?”
“I like it very much. The Chinese people have been very friendly. I’ve learned a lot.”
“Who got you job here in Beijing?”
“My friends and my colleagues at the company,” I said. “I help during the day and teach a class in the afternoons.”
“Do you have work permit?”
I wondered if that was the problem or if my friend had done something wrong in helping me secure the teaching job. I decided to answer simply and honestly, “No.”
“What you teach them?”
“English.”
“Teach anything else?”
“Grammar.”
The officer shifted in his chair and leaned toward me.
“Who in the class ask questions about American government?”
My pulse ticked up a notch, and I thought about how to respond.
“Who in the class ask questions about freedom of speech?” the officer pressed, impatiently.
“I have different students on different days,” I explained, carefully. “Many discussions about many subjects.” It would be hard for me to say with certainty what any particular student had asked about any particular subject.
The room grew hot. I heard Han Lin crying across the hall, and I wished I could rush out to help her.
The officer in civilian clothes glared at me. I tried to reassure myself that I wasn’t in danger. I was a nineteen-year-old kid in their eyes—not worth an international incident. But my friends had jobs they needed and dreams of going to America, and I didn’t want to put those jobs or dreams in jeopardy.
“Why you teach English in this company?”
“What you do during day at company?”
“You have friend at company?”
The questions kept coming, and I tried my best to answer without jeopardizing my friends. Around midnight, I could feel myself getting fatigued. I said to the man dressed in civilian clothes, “It has been a pleasure speaking to you for two hours. I have done the best that I can in answering your questions. Now I think we should call the American embassy.”
The officer pulled out a yellow softbound book with red writing on the cover. He ran his finger across several lines of Chinese text and then pointed at me. “You have broken the Chinese law. You must punish.”
I held out my hands in a gesture that said I’d meant no harm.
Again he stabbed the page with his finger, his face growing ruddy. “You have broken the Chinese law. You MUST punish.”
The air grew heavier as the gravity of the situation hit me. “I understand what you are saying,” I told him. “And we can continue to talk, but I would like to call the American embassy, if possible.”
In his broken English, the interrogator said to me, “If we must, but only to strike the Americans.”
Was this a threat? Or was he having trouble with his English?
“I am so sorry, my friend,” I said. “I don’t understand exactly what you’re saying.”
“We can call American embassy, but only if you are hit.”
That seemed like a bad deal.
The officer grew flustered. He was sweating and smoking and struggling with his English. Eventually, I understood that they’d only call the embassy if an American had been hit or injured in Beijing. They had no obligation to do so otherwise. I was in China. They were free to question me for as long as they liked.
I asked for water. They brought a glass, and we went back and forth a while longer. Finally, the questioning came to an end. They took my passport and explained that they would keep it until Monday, when I could return and pick it up.
I felt glad to leave but worried for Han Lin and my friends. Would they get in trouble for being in my class? Would they still be able to go to America one day? To my relief, Han Lin and my other friend were also released, and together we walked back to the dormitory. We tried to talk. I apologized to Han Lin. I thought this was my fault. She said she was embarrassed. She felt that she had been a bad host. I asked if everything was going to be okay. Han Lin said, “Yes,” but she was exhausted, and so was I. We walked the rest of the way in silence.
On Monday I returned to the police station and paid a fine of roughly nine dollars. They made me sign a number of papers—all in Chinese—before I could take my passport. For all I knew, I could have been signing a receipt for the fine or declaring myself an enemy of the Chinese state. But I signed. I got my passport, and with the passport I could get home.
Several days later, I boarded a plane back to the United States. Security was different then, and inside my backpack I had the nunchucks, the kung fu sword, and—wrapped inside a pair of socks—the film canister with the photographs from Tiananmen Square. I also had a greater understanding of what those photographs meant, of the ideals for which those students had stood. I’d barely faced down two courteous police officers who’d been unlikely to harm me. Those kids—my age—had faced guns and tanks.
In security, they confiscated the weapons. A kind stewardess said, “I cannot allow you to bring these with you to your seat, but you can pick them up from me at the end of the trip.” She gave them back when we landed. No one mentioned the film. Also tucked deep into my pack was the Australian outback adventure hat.
I left a lot of my naiveté in China. I also left a lot of my fear. I’d met ordinary people who’d acted heroically, and it now felt possible for me to do the same. On the flight home, I thought less about choosing an adventure and more about choosing a path with purpose. I began to think that I’d been born at the right time after all.