One day, Mao’s wandering spirit drifted to Nanjing. He recalled that when Sun Yat-sen died in Beijing, those constantly at his side were Soong Ching-ling, Wang Jingwei, and Chen Bijun. Today, the Sun Yat-sen Mausoleum stands in grandeur, yet Wang Jingwei has vanished without a trace—his ashes even blown away by Chiang Kai-shek with a blower. Was Wang truly worthless?

Mao remembered the era of the First United Front during the Great Revolution (1925–1926). Wang had twice nominated Mao Runzhi as Acting Minister of Propaganda, placing great trust in him. Later, during the War of Resistance against Japan, they had no real conflict of interests; Mao had even sent Pan Hannian to contact him. It was unlike his lifelong enmity with Chiang. Thinking of this, Mao felt a twinge of sorrow.

As he thought of Wang, Wang appeared. At midnight, Wang Jingwei suddenly stood before him, accompanied by Chen Bijun.

Mao greeted them first: “Eighty years have passed. How have you both been?”

Wang Zhaoming was his real name; Jingwei was his pen name. Yet people forgot the real name—just as Sun Yat-sen’s real name was Sun Wen. Sun always signed “Sun Wen.” Wang always signed “Wang Zhaoming.”

Wang replied, “It is rare that we meet in the underworld.”

Mao said, “You were ten years my senior, truly an elder brother. You were also Chairman—Chairman Wang. How did you know I was here?”

Wang answered, “I learned from the Jade Emperor that you came to Nanjing to see Sun Yat-sen’s spirit and wished to see me. Bijun and I came to greet you.”

Mao said, “You died in exile at sixty-one. I heard it was related to the assassination attempt in 1935, when you were shot three times.”

Wang replied, “Yes. One bullet remained lodged in my body, causing pain. In 1943, surgery revealed spinal inflammation. Treatment in Japan failed, and I passed away there in 1944. Some say I was killed by Tojo for refusing to send troops to defend Japan. That suspicion lacks proof, though it would have been easy for him.”

Mao said, “They call you an assassin for attempting to kill the Qing regent, yet Chiang had you assassinated. It was unfair. I heard your body was returned and buried near Sun Yat-sen’s Mausoleum. After the war, Chiang ordered your tomb destroyed, your corpse burned, and ashes scattered. Too heartless.”

Wang said, “My remains do not matter. My political essays do not matter. But my poetry does. Poetry expresses one’s will. I asked that only my poems be preserved, to be judged by posterity.”

Mao replied, “I read your Shuangzhao Tower Poems. I admire not only your literary talent but your patriotic fervor. Your prison poem after the failed assassination—‘With passion I sang in Yanshi; calmly I became a prisoner of Chu; drawing the blade brings swift joy, not betraying my youthful head’—inspired countless young revolutionaries. Your later poems mourned mountains and rivers, lamented the people’s suffering, grieved over honor and disgrace, always containing the “Jingwei complex”: ‘Carrying stones in obsessive resolve, sorrowing over the vast sea.’ Like the mythical bird trying to fill the sea—impossible, yet persistent.”

Wang said, “I wrote poetry to express my heart and record my state of mind.”

Mao recited another poem from 1939, written on a ship returning from Japan to Tianjin, when Wang was about to establish a government in Nanjing. Despite his apparent success, the poem carried no triumph, only sorrow—“China once again sinks for a hundred years.”

Wang praised Mao’s own poetry.

Mao replied, “My poetry differs. Mine is imperial poetry. In ‘Qinyuanchun,’ I scorn Qin Shi Huang, Han Wudi, Tang Taizong, Song Taizu, Genghis Khan—declaring that true heroes are yet to be seen, and they are me. I do not speak for the common people; they serve me. Such poetry cannot take root among the people. Your ‘Jingwei’ spirit may endure.”

Wang said, “Yet I still bear the label of ‘traitor,’ which troubles me.”

Mao responded, “Chiang always saw you as an enemy. But in truth, your Nanjing government acted as a buffer between Japanese forces and the occupied populace, mitigating harm. The people could survive rather than descend into chaos.”

Chen Bijun interjected, thanking Mao for his fairness. After the war, Chiang imprisoned her and demanded a confession. She argued Wang had not sold the country; the occupied territories were under Japanese control. Wang had reclaimed authority from the enemy, not surrendered land. In 1949, Soong Ching-ling and He Xiangning sought Mao’s help. Mao proposed she write a confession for a pardon. Chen refused, choosing prison over humiliation, upholding what she saw as Chinese integrity.

Mao admitted the confession would have been a formality. Chen insisted on her principle.
Mao then spoke candidly:

“During the war, our real enemy was Chiang, not Japan. My policy was ‘one part resistance, two parts pretense, seven parts development, ten parts propaganda.’ We prioritized expanding our strength for future power.”

Wang asked if Mao coordinated with Stalin.

Mao explained Soviet strategy, the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact, and the Soviet–Japanese Neutrality Pact. Moscow informed Yan’an, even authorizing contact with Wang’s regime if useful against Chiang. Mao sent Pan Hannian to Shanghai and Nanjing for intelligence work. Secret channels were maintained directly under Mao’s orders.

Wang recounted Pan’s eventual arrest in 1955 after confessing to meeting him. Mao acknowledged it was true; Pan’s death was inevitable to avoid political fallout.

They discussed how Japanese forces targeted Chiang’s troops more heavily than Communist bases, giving Mao room to expand. Mao recounted telling Japanese Socialist leader Sasaki Kozo in 1964 that without Japanese invasion, the CCP could not have seized power. Japan had been, ironically, a “great teacher.”

They discussed Zhang Xueliang and the Xi’an Incident as another turning point that saved Mao.

They analyzed Japan’s and Hitler’s strategic mistakes in 1941—attacking the U.S. and the Soviet Union respectively—errors that altered global history. Mao speculated on an alternate world divided among four great powers.

Finally, Mao asked how Wang truly died.

Wang replied that he had indeed been killed by the Japanese in 1944 after refusing to send Chinese troops to defend Japan as U.S. forces approached.

Mao sighed: “I was too stubborn in life, ruled alone, alienated many. Tens of millions died. My faults have been covered for forty years, but they cannot be concealed forever. One day I will be reassessed. As for you, within fifty years, you may be rehabilitated in history.”

Wang replied modestly, “History will judge.”

Feeling enlightened by the night’s conversation, Wang and Chen bid farewell and slowly faded away.

NEXT: 21. Soong Ching-ling (1893–1981)