THE WHITE FILES: THE MANY

LIVES OF LU HERUO, TAIWANS

FIRST LITERARY TALENT 

Chapter Five: Lü Heruo’s Ideological Shift to the Left

20

Chiayi. Night was falling, and dark clouds covered the sky.

Lü Heruo stood by the window, gazing at the distant railway tracks outside. His heart was churning with an indescribable sense of grief. A gentle breeze stirred the curtains, and tiny particles of dust floated through the light. The stillness of the night stood in sharp contrast to the anguish within him.

He lowered his head, his fingers unconsciously tapping the windowsill. The faint tapping sounds seemed like invisible symbols connecting him to the violence and oppression of this turbulent era.

In his mind, the image of Chiayi Railway Station from his memory emerged. The railway tracks gleamed coldly under the dim yellow lights, and only a few figures could be seen on the platform.

Lü Heruo had received the news that the painter Chen Cheng-po had been publicly executed by firing squad at the traffic circle in front of the railway station. Chen Cheng-po, an artist full of creativity and talent, had fallen into a pool of blood, his life mercilessly taken away.

The scene in his memory played before his eyes like a sequence of film shots. Chen Cheng-po, dressed in plain clothes, gazed resolutely into the distance, seemingly bidding a final farewell to the world. Several armed soldiers stood beside him, their stern faces devoid of any expression.

Lü Heruo slowly closed his eyes, his heartbeat almost coming to a halt. Waves of dizziness swept over him, as though he himself had been drawn into this nightmare.

“How could this happen?” he murmured to himself, his voice hoarse. “What exactly had Chen Cheng-po done to deserve having his life ended in such a brutal manner by the authorities?”

Just then, the wind stirred the newspapers on the platform. One newspaper was lifted by the breeze and gently landed at his feet. He bent down and picked it up. Its headline read:

“Chen Cheng-po Arrested and Publicly Executed by Firing Squad at Chiayi Railway Station.”

He stared at the article for a moment, stunned, contemplating a chapter of history that could never be undone.

21

Lü Heruo returned to his apartment in Taipei.

“Heruo, what’s wrong? You’ve been distracted all day.” Su Yulan stood by the doorway, her expression full of concern. She noticed that Lü Heruo’s face was pale and his eyes vacant. She walked over and gently touched his shoulder.

Lü Heruo did not answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed outside the window. He took a deep breath and spoke in a low voice.

“Yulan, Yang Kui has been arrested, and Chen Cheng-po has been executed by firing squad...”

Before he could finish, his emotions suddenly overwhelmed him. Both his hands clenched into fists.

Su Yulan froze, a trace of fear flashing across her eyes.

“What? How could this... How could this happen?”

She walked over and gently grasped Lü Heruo’s wrist. Her voice began to tremble.

“Heruo, we cannot just sit here and wait for our fate to be decided. We cannot stand by and watch our friends disappear one after another.”

Lü Heruo turned around and looked at her, his eyes filled with helplessness and anguish.

“I know, but... what can we do? They have already done what they believed was right. But what about us? What can we do?”

His voice was almost a murmur, as though he were searching for an answer within himself.

Su Yulan held his shoulders tightly, her eyes resolute.

“You have always taught me that art is expression, a voice, a source of strength. We can use our own means to express where we stand. Even if our voices are weak, we must still speak out.”

Lü Heruo remained silent for a moment. Slowly, he unclenched his fists and spoke softly.

“I know. I’m just afraid. I’m afraid that what lies behind all this is not simply the weakness of our own strength.”

22

At night, Lü Heruo walked out of his home alone and wandered aimlessly along the streets of Taipei.

The streetlights were dim, and pedestrians hurried past him. The hustle and bustle of the city seemed to have nothing to do with him. His footsteps grew heavier with every passing moment, and with each step, the anguish in his heart deepened.

He lowered his head and noticed newspapers scattered on the ground. They contained reports about the February 28 Incident. The blood-soaked words caught his eye.

Once again, the images resurfaced in his mind: Chen Cheng-po lying in a pool of blood, Yang Kui and his wife arrested and imprisoned, and Taiwan’s intellectual and cultural elites disappearing in a merciless purge.

His heart ached repeatedly, as though the entire world were collapsing at that very moment.

He stopped, raised his head toward the distance, and took a deep breath. The world before him remained quiet and indifferent. Only the voice within him continued to reverberate:

“Is all of this really worth it?”

23

Taipei. A rainy, overcast morning.

Lü Heruo stood by the window, his gaze resting on the street below. Outside, countless streaks of rain fell like sharp swords piercing the earth. Puddles reflected the dilapidated houses lining both sides of the street.

The busy thoroughfare appeared unusually deserted. Pedestrians hurried past with their heads lowered, as though everyone were trying to avoid a direct confrontation with this corrupt society.

A trace of disdain and anguish flashed in Lü Heruo’s eyes.

As a journalist who had once been filled with ideals and passion, he had witnessed firsthand the corruption of government officials, the suffering of ordinary people, and the increasingly severe social injustices.

His convictions were gradually beginning to waver. The beliefs he had once held became increasingly blurred, and the hopes he had once placed in the nation’s future were gradually being replaced by disappointment.

Inside the office of the Guangming Daily, Lü Heruo sat at his desk, surrounded by piles of manuscripts awaiting processing.

He lowered his head and looked at the pen in his hand, gently rubbing its barrel with his fingertips as he struggled intensely within himself.

The confident lines of writing on the pages were filled with criticism and accusations against the authorities and their policies. Every word and every line revealed his dissatisfaction with the current state of affairs.

He knew that everything he was doing might bring disaster upon him, but he had already reached the point of no return.

Just then, the office door suddenly opened, and a young colleague walked in.

She was a newly hired reporter at the Guangming Daily. Her name was Chen Yuwei, and her eyes were full of curiosity and enthusiasm.

“Mr. Lü, what are you writing this time?” she asked with a smile, her voice carrying a hint of curiosity.

Lü Heruo looked up and managed a faint smile.

“Just some... well, articles about social issues.”

He gently put down his pen and glanced over the documents on his desk.

“But whether these articles can actually change anything, no one knows.”

Chen Yuwei leaned closer to the desk. When she saw the article titled Government Incompetence Leaves the People Living in Misery, she could not help frowning.

“This... don’t you think it might be a little too radical?”

Lü Heruo stared at her, his expression serious.

“How can people hear about certain things if we don’t speak out forcefully? If we don’t speak up, this society will never change.”

Chen Yuwei looked into his eyes and suddenly felt a sense of pressure. She instinctively took a step backward.

“But...” She wanted to say something, but ultimately remained silent.

Lü Heruo was silent for a moment, then sighed.

“We cannot simply stand aside and watch.”

He turned his head toward the rainy scene outside the window. A voice within him was crying out:

“If this society does not change, then I would rather fight to bring about that change.”

24

Late at night in Taipei, the streets were completely silent. Only the occasional sound of a speeding car broke the stillness.

Inside Lü Heruo’s printing workshop, the yellowish light illuminated the room as the machines continued to rumble. He stood beside the printing press, his gaze focused, his fingers skillfully operating the machinery.

Each sheet of paper emerging from the printing press carried the fresh scent of ink, quietly unfolding like an invisible battlefront.

Several trusted workers stood beside him, all working in silence.

In the corner of the room lay piles of Chinese Communist Party propaganda materials and documents. The revolutionary ideas circulating clandestinely were spreading through Taipei’s underground networks by way of this concealed workshop.

“Mr. Lü, are you sure you want to do this?” one of the workers asked in a low voice, his words revealing his concern.

Lü Heruo stopped what he was doing and raised his head, his gaze resolute.

“There is no turning back from revolution. We cannot wait any longer. We cannot continue tolerating all this corruption.”

There was not the slightest hesitation in his voice, only calm determination.

Then he gently patted the printing press.

“Keep going.”