Ma Sicong was a musician renowned both in China and abroad. Throughout his life he loved his country, supported socialism, and consistently stood with the Communist Party. He served for twenty-six years as president of the Central Conservatory of Music. Yet during the Cultural Revolution he was struggled against. Unable to endure the humiliation, he fled to the United States, was labeled a “traitor who defected to the enemy,” died overseas, and his relatives were implicated and persecuted. Because he was the first high-ranking official to flee during the Cultural Revolution, Mao felt that this musician might carry significant weight at the Jade Emperor’s tribunal, and thus requested an audience with him.

Mao began directly: “I launched the Cultural Revolution. Mass movements inevitably go too far. You did not jump from a building like Luo Dayou and end up crippled for life, but you fled China instead. For twenty years you could not return, died in a foreign land, and your relatives were implicated. When the Cultural Revolution began, how were you struggled against?”

Ma replied, “When it began, I was labeled a ‘reactionary academic authority’ and a ‘big vampire.’ My home was ransacked. I was sent to a training camp, where every morning and evening we had to sing collectively ‘The Song of Ox-ghosts and Snake-spirits,’ with lyrics such as ‘I am an ox-ghost and snake-spirit, I am guilty, I deserve to die…’ If you didn’t sing well, belts would lash down on you. The music world said, ‘This is the darkest string of notes in human musical history.’ I was dragged out for public humiliation, wearing a tall dunce cap, beating a broken gong as a ‘funeral bell’ while marching. I was forced to crawl on the ground, beaten with spiked shoes, threatened with knives amid howling crowds, isolated for labor, made to sweep the streets daily, and forbidden to go home.”

Mao said, “The Red Guards were truly vicious.”

Ma answered, “But I also understood that the students were young and ignorant. They were rebelling on orders. You were the playwright and chief director; Jiang Qing was the executive director. I told myself not to blame the Red Guards. Yet it was still unbearable.”

Mao asked, “How did you later decide to flee?”

Ma said, “My youngest daughter knew I could not endure it. She secretly returned to Beijing and urged me to go to Hong Kong for medical treatment. At first I refused—we argued for two hours. Later she suggested going first to Guangzhou for treatment and then assessing the situation. I reluctantly agreed. At that time my wife had already fled to Nanjing. The Red Guards pursued her there, so she fled again to Guangzhou.”

Mao asked, “How did you escape to Hong Kong?”

Ma replied, “I hid in the countryside for three months. My daughter found a smuggler. We crossed by motorboat at night, paying twenty thousand yuan. After arriving in Hong Kong, we borrowed money from relatives to pay the fee.”

Mao said, “Being able to find a smuggler and cross safely was fortunate. Many tried to swim and drowned at sea.”

Ma said, “Yes. Chen Duxiu’s daughter tied two large soy-sauce jars to herself and drifted for ten hours to reach Hong Kong—she was lucky too. She had worked in obstetrics in Guangzhou. Because her father was struggled against during the Cultural Revolution and she could not endure it, she fled to Shenzhen and crossed over. Even in Hong Kong she feared being recognized and repatriated, so she later went into exile in the United States. She died in 2004, left unclaimed in a morgue for over a month. Compared with her, I was much luckier.”

Mao said, “After your whole family fled to Hong Kong and they couldn’t catch you, what happened domestically?”

Ma replied, “I escaped, but my relatives suffered. The central authorities set up a special case to arrest people. Dozens of relatives were detained. My second elder brother jumped from a building and killed himself. My mother-in-law, niece, and cook were persecuted to death. Several others were sentenced to prison.”

Mao said, “Your relatives paid dearly. After reaching Hong Kong, how did you go to the United States?”

Ma replied, “We felt Hong Kong was still too close to China and unsafe, so we approached the U.S. consulate. They were very helpful, handled the paperwork, and even assigned a consul to accompany us on the flight to America. At the time China and the U.S. had no diplomatic relations, and I had no passport. The consulate feared incomplete documentation might cause trouble at customs. Some say I liked America and not China—that is not true. In fact, in 1948 Stuart Leighton invited my whole family to the U.S., but I refused and went to Beijing instead. I regret that deeply.”

Mao said, “You served the motherland for over twenty years, contributed greatly, created much music, performed widely, and trained many talents. I see that you always loved your country.”

Ma replied, “Thank you for your praise. In 1949 I composed the Workers’ Suite; in 1950, Ode to October and the Yalu River Cantata. Later I composed the Young Pioneers’ Song, the Asia-Africa-Latin America Anti-Imperialist March, and the Motherland Cantata, and in 1966 my last work, Elegy for Jiao Yulu. All followed your artistic line, serving politics. My Nostalgia and Lullaby were written earlier and became very popular overseas. Nostalgia was once the opening theme for broadcasts to Taiwan and overseas. After 1966 it was replaced by The East Is Red, and the audience diminished. My Tibetan Tone Poem and Inner Mongolian Suite were also warmly received.”

Mao said, “I remember you were a frequent guest at Zhongnanhai. You were China’s foremost violinist. Sometimes I would spontaneously ask you to perform. I also recall discussing music and literature with you. Zhou Enlai was even closer to you.”

Ma replied, “Zhou Enlai was very informal. Once he pulled Chen Yi and me together and told Chen Yi, ‘The three of us studied in France, but only he learned something; you and I did not.’ In 1957 Zhou protected me so I was not labeled a Rightist. But in 1958, during the campaign against the ‘white flag,’ I was still criticized. A country that mistreats musicians like this is unique in the world.”

Mao asked, “How did you survive in America?”

Ma replied, “I joined my younger brother who had already settled there, and supported myself through music composition and teaching.”

Mao asked, “Did you live well during your long stay in America?”

Ma replied, “I lived quietly. Besides composing music, I mowed the lawn in spring and summer, raked leaves in autumn, and shoveled snow in winter. But I could not endure my homesickness. You can change houses if you tire of one, but there is only one motherland. Once my wife and I listened to Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 and burst into tears. I once inscribed for the conservatory newspaper: ‘Wholeheartedly be a willing ox for children’—that was also my own wish.”

Mao asked, “Did you compose works about China while in America?”

Ma replied, “I set six poems of Li Bai and eight Tang poems to music to ease my homesickness. One I remember is Li Shangyin’s: ‘Meeting is hard, parting is hard; the east wind is weak and a hundred flowers fade; the silkworm spins till death its thread is done; the candle weeps till burned to ash.’ It expressed my sorrow at having a home I could not return to. Finally, I composed the dance piece Evening Glow based on a touching story from Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio and sent it back to China. I do not know what became of it.”

Mao said, “Your longing for home is deeply moving.”

Ma continued, “In 1985 I received a rehabilitation notice from the Ministry of Culture on Lunar New Year’s Eve. Our whole family felt both grief and joy and set off firecrackers in celebration. I wrote: ‘Spring has returned; the motherland draws near.’ I exclaimed: Su Wu herding sheep for nineteen years! That same year I received a letter of repentance from a former Red Guard who had once assaulted me, and a letter from Young Pioneers addressed to ‘Grandpa Ma,’ which deeply moved me. Earlier I had also received messages from Hu Yaobang and Deng Xiaoping welcoming me back. I had long suffered from heart disease but managed conservatively. By 1987 I grew anxious, wanting a complete cure so I could travel home. Unexpectedly, I went onto the operating table and before the anesthesia was even fully administered, I was gone. In 2007 my son escorted my wife’s and my ashes back to Guangzhou. Our souls returned home and were buried at the foot of Baiyun Mountain, as we had wished.”

Mao asked, “Did you maintain contact with the conservatory you founded?”

Ma replied, “In 1985, on the thirty-fifth anniversary of its founding, I inscribed: ‘Ritual harmonizes the multitude.’ In 2012, on the centenary of my birth, large commemorative events were held in my hometown of Haifeng in Shanwei City. In Princeton, New Jersey, a memorial concert titled ‘From East to West: A Master of Music’ was held. In West Chester, Pennsylvania, another concert was organized, and the mayor proclaimed my birthday ‘Ma Sicong Day.’ Later generations compiled my writings into From a High Place, the Sound Carries Far, published in 2000. In 2004, the Writers’ Association Press published A Chronology of Ma Sicong. In 2006, Ye Yonglie published The Biography of Ma Sicong.”

Mao said, “You can be said to have left your music to the nation—evergreen through winter and summer, fragrant for centuries, eternal through the ages. You have no regrets. Do you feel there is any remaining issue?”

Ma replied, “My personal matters are small. What I regret most is that to this day you have not confessed your guilt, as if everything were merely the Red Guards running wild. In truth, they were minor actors. The playwright and chief director was you. Now they have become scapegoats while you roam free. That is unjust and intolerable to heaven’s principles. You must thoroughly repent, reflect on your faults, and publicly confess to the people.”

As Ma finished speaking, Mao rose to take his leave and bid him farewell.

NEXT: 87. Yan Fuqing (1882–1970)