The Rise and Fall of the Sino-Japanese Peace Movement
作者：程铭 编辑：罗志飞 翻译：鲁慧文
编者按：
这本书讲述的是国民党汪精卫先生和平运动始末。汪精卫，一个人品及其高洁、青年时因刺杀摄政王载沣一举成名，成为多少人高山仰止的对象。可为何？他宁愿“跳进粪坑”，不惜自污也要实现中日之间休止战争？原因就在他的初衷——反共。如果国民党不与日本媾和，拼个两败俱伤，最终将是中共渔翁得利，唾手取得天下，这是他绝不愿意看到的。与日本媾和，汪精卫先生不知道这是与虎谋皮吗？可为什么他犹豫、彷徨、涕泪滂沱，然而一次次艰难地走那条布满荆棘的道路？因为他知道，赤匪横行的中国大地，将是一个怎样的非人世界。
第一章 青年首相
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1936年除夕之夜，一种亘古流传、周而复始的天籁，回荡在日本列岛的上空。子夜时分，全国五万余所大小寺庙，僧侣们齐齐敲响了大钟。钟声苍茫、悠远，连绵不绝达一百零八响之久。在这响彻天际、启迪人间的钟声里，七千万日本人无不静坐家中，他们一边聆听着“除夜之钟”，一边祈祷着好年成、好雨水，祈盼家庭、社群、日本和苍生的好运道。
自从明治大帝颁行西历、废除春节，几十年来，日本人已渐渐习惯了新的除夕和元旦。比起来自中国的太阴历，西方的太阳历不仅更精确、更有规律可循，它也被视为一个国家文明开化的象征。然而，千年流传的习俗，却丝毫没有改变：除夕依旧被称为“大晦日”；钟声停歇的那一刻，大晦日就过去了，人们迎来了新年“正日”。在潦草一觉后，家家户户吃着新年的第一顿早餐，屠苏酒、荞麦面和砂糖芋泥。紧接着，男女老幼络绎不绝地前往神社，祭拜氏族神和土地神。
祭拜神灵后，是素食的、忙碌拜年的“三贺日”。新年的头三天，笃信佛教、神道教的日本人大多不食荤腥，但它丝毫无损新年的喜悦。在一个个街区、一处处町村，人们满面笑容、相互鞠躬、遍访亲友、饮酒唱歌，并以可掬的醉态开始了又一年的日子。除夜钟声的空灵、庄严，此时渐渐淡去，代之以市井的欢乐和凡俗的温情。
与几千年来没有什么两样，1937年元旦，千万日本人依旧以喜庆的态度，面对天地的新寿和人生的代谢。但，也是这一天，美国驻日本大使约瑟夫·格鲁却认为，“新年在一种不吉利的调子里开始了”。在列举了日本与英国、美国、苏俄关系的恶化后，他的元旦日记写道：“对中国已经变化了的新情况，日本似乎是最不能理解的一个国家。这是不可思议的，又是千真万确的。”（约瑟夫·格鲁，《使日十年》）
所谓“中国的新情况”，指的是1936年夏天以来一股突如其来、席卷全国的新气象。这一年8、9月间，“两广事件”的顺利平息，标志着这个分崩离析达20年之久的国家大致统一了。“而且，这次平定反叛基本上是和平的，使许多中国人相信南京当局并非只是一些军阀，并且相信蒋介石是一位英明能干的政治家”。紧接着，无论南方的水稻还是北方的小麦都获得了空前丰收，它结合一年前法币的成功发行，使四万万农民的当年收入骤然增加了45%，“农民开始购买1931年以来从不敢企望的工业品”。及至当年11月份，更为激动人心的消息传来了：傅作义将军在百灵庙击败了以日本人为骨干的内蒙叛军，此举不仅意味着日本在绥远省建立傀儡政权的企图化作泡影，它还是近十年来南京政府第一次对日本采取强硬姿态……凡此种种，都让千万中国人孕育着对未来日子的新希望，乃至一个古老民族再次复兴的悄然盼念。美国哥伦比亚大学教授纳撒尼尔-佩弗认为，“现在，中国人处于自信和爱国的热情之中”；《大公报》也谨慎地报道说：“在最近几个月内，国人的信心好像又死而复苏了。”（《大公报》，1936年12月13日）
但这一切不过是前奏。对这个经历了无数沧桑、近百年来希望一再落空的民族来说，似乎只有一种最极致的悲欢、最戏剧化的方式，才能引领着它告别过去，并跨入新命运的门槛。1936年年底，这样的悲欢、这样的戏剧性事件出现了，“西安事变”让四万万中国人共同审视着自己的命运，并集体地选择了一个民族的未来道路。
事变之初，许多人置身事外，许多人抱着看热闹的态度，一些人甚至感到幸灾乐祸。毕竟，在过去十年，蒋介石谈不上是一个受人欢迎的统治者；毕竟，他的倚仗武力、压制社会、禁绝学潮、控制舆论，都和现代观念特别是知识分子的所思所想格格不入。但不过一两天后，一种奇特的担忧、仿佛只有失去时才能感受到它的存在的空白感，就悄悄地出现了：没有蒋介石的话，这个国家会不会又一次陷入内战的沼泽地呢？没有蒋介石的话，又有谁能率领四万万人奋起抵抗迫在眉睫的日本威胁？……在短短十三天之内，这种担忧、这样的空白感就迅速蔓延开去，并化作一个古老民族的集体共识。那就是中国需要蒋介石，特别是一个代表着五千年和四万万、不再向日本出让尺土寸地的蒋介石。
此后十三天，千万中国人忐忑、疑虑、悲伤、恐惧。而12月25日深夜，当事变和平解决、蒋介石已乘坐飞机离开西安的消息传出后，这样的百感交集、这种对自身命运的深刻洞察，顿时化为一种情不自禁的狂欢：在武汉，鞭炮声、锣鼓声响彻了街头；在上海，几万市民拥出舞厅、咖啡馆，以一阵阵的欢呼将这个圣诞之夜推向极致；及至次日中午，当蒋介石乘坐的飞机降落在南京大校场机场时，“场内外伫立欢迎者，达四十万人”（《申报》号外，1936年12月26日）……所有人都心知肚明，中国的统一已经完成了；从此以后，不会再有那种不流血的葬送，日本要获得每一寸土地，都必须在蒋介石以及四万万人的共同抵抗下付出惨重的代价。
这是中国历史上最奇特的时刻之一。直到此时，蒋介石也没有在那份解决事变的协议书上签字，而四万万人对他离开西安的内幕更一无所知，但似乎无须多言、不必沟通，四万万人就和他们之间最具权力的那个人达成了一种默契。那就是蒋介石肯奋起抵抗日本的蚕食、侵略、种种无理要求的话，他们将拥戴他为全民族的最高领袖；而倘若他首鼠两端、继续妥协的话，那么，抗议将空前激烈、内战将彻底爆发，而类似的叛乱或许也会一再上演。这一天，这份心理契约已经达成了，大半年后，蒋介石告诉德国驻华大使陶德曼，倘若再签订丧权辱国的条约，“革命将爆发，南京政府将被公众舆论的浪潮所击垮”（约翰·亨特·博伊尔，《中日战争期间的通敌内幕》）
对这个划时代的转折，所有的西方观察家都一清二楚。几天后，它就被众多西方媒体评为堪与西班牙内战、墨索里尼占领俄塞俄比亚、柏林奥运会和美国经济复兴等相提并论的年度最重大新闻了。而对这个事件所蕴含的兼有悲剧和史诗意味的命运色彩，唯一不那么明白的，恐怕真的只有日本人了。约瑟夫-格鲁写道：“中国人表示决心，不再屈服于日本的压力，以致日本全国皆有晴天霹雳之感。它就像一个惶惑不安的人那样，正在搔首踟蹰，不知今后如何是好。报上已有一些议论，提到要改变对华政策，但是朝哪个方向改，目前还看不到什么形迹。”（约瑟夫·格鲁，《使日十年》）
而对中国新情况的这种无法理解、“搔首踟蹰”，与几十年来日本人特别是日本陆军的中国观密切相关。
日本陆军的中国认识，从1884年10月开始。这一年，25岁的青木宣纯被派驻广州担任领事馆武官，“至此，军部内才诞生了第一个‘中国通”。这个出身于藩士家庭、自幼爱读《三国志》的青年，几乎集大成着后来几代中国通的共同特征。他刻苦、勤奋。以语言为例，他原本学的是北京官话，到广州后难以开展工作，“于是下苦功夫学成一口流利的广东话，顺利地完成了情报搜集工作”。他温和、谦卑、有着巧言逢迎的天才。以他在1897年结识的袁世凯为例，直到贵为大总统时，袁世凯还人前人后地谈道：“青木是唯一可靠的日本人。”他深谙人性之弱并且极善于收买、利用。以他在日俄战争期间组织的“特别任务班”为例，这个仅有几十名日本军官、浪人参与的团体，在短短几个月内就啸集了几万关东马贼，使搜集情报、破坏铁路、焚毁粮草、袭击小股部队等工作有声有色，以至于日语产生了一个描述谋略军官的新词汇，“特务”……
在长达28年的驻华时光里，青木不仅赢得了众多中国权贵的信任，他还形成了自己特定的中国认识，“非国论”。他认为，中国是一个基于文化认同而形成的泛政治体。无论“五胡”、蒙古人还是满族人，只要他们征服了农耕文明区，并接受了以儒家学说为核心的中国文化，那么，他们就可以被视为历代兴替的正统王朝了。中国丝毫没有以血缘、种族为基础的近代民族国家特征，它迟早会像宗教势力没落后的欧洲那样，分裂成盎格鲁-撒克逊人、雅利安人、日耳曼人、俄罗斯人等众多民族国家。更不必说，伴随着工业文明的兴起、几十年的西风东渐，那种基于农耕优越性的文化共识，早已是最落伍、最应该被抛弃的东西了。
青木宣纯的“非国论”，后来成为日本大陆政策的起点。如果说，这个观点以晚清中国为背景，并且包含了将中国分裂成汉人区、满人区、蒙古人区和穆斯林区等要素的话，那么，在他之后担任驻华使馆武官、被视为第二代“中国通”代表人物的坂西利八郎，却以军阀混战作为自己的认识依据。他的观点可以归结为“劣种论”。
与青木宣纯一样，坂西深得北洋军阀的信任。他历经袁世凯、黎元洪、冯国璋、徐世昌、曹锟、段祺瑞等七任总统而不衰，始终被视为最可靠的外国顾问，由此赢得了日本舆论“七代兴亡的不倒翁”的赞誉；但在目睹了无数次党争、政潮和内战之后，他也形成了自己的中国看法，那就是中国已沦为一个劣等民族，日本才是东方精神的真正代表。他说，一次次的政权兴替、耀武扬威的登场，“我已经看多了”；无论立宪、共和还是联省自治，都不可能让中国凤凰涅槃，“建设只能是一场梦，事态正朝着破坏的方向发展”。而对这个观点，他的助手、后来的关东军参谋长斋藤恒有着更为直截了当的表述：“中国人缺乏组织国家的能力……要使他们具有国家观念，比等待百年黄河变清还要难……”（《斋藤恒史料》）
那么，在这种泥石俱下、恍若末世的中国图景里，该怎么为日本攫取最大的利益呢？
坂西利八郎认为，在德国战败、俄国发生革命后，分食中国这道大餐的，只剩下英国、法国、美国和日本了；日本无力向英法美同时挑战，但它可以通过扶持利益代言人乃至傀儡的方式，期待着在欧洲巨变后一举控制中国。他说：“不管是革命党、北洋派还是什么派，只要是在希望发展日中关系的理念上采取行动的人，我皆视之为同志。我想，应该以这样的态度来处理事情。”他的另一个助手林与三吉说得更为露骨：“不管中国掌握军权者是土匪与否，既然他们是中国社会必要的一员，而且在诸多事情上掌握实权，那么在推行现行政治时，控制和操纵他们，甚至诱导他们为帝国尽忠是极为必要的。”
1927年2月，在十八年的驻华生涯后，坂西利八郎发表了告别演说，从此退出军界。但这个时候，在“七代兴亡不倒翁”的声誉之外，他还取得了另一个更为重大、但当时无人觉察的成就，那就是他的“坂西机关”已培养出了一大群后来赫赫有名、执掌日本国政的第三代“中国通”。他们的代表人物，包括板垣征四郎、土肥原贤二、松井石根、矶谷廉介等人。
与前代相比，几乎刚刚踏上历史舞台，第三代“中国通”就面对着更加难以判定的形势、几乎前所未见的中国景象。这一年，从珠江流域出发的国民革命军不仅攻克了武汉、九江、安庆等长江重镇，他们还受到沿途民众欢欣鼓舞、一路挥舞着青天白日旗的夹道欢迎。对这股新兴势力，第三代“中国通”心情复杂、百感交集。以观察员身份一路跟随北伐军北上的佐佐木到一谈道：“这一考察的结果，我得出的结论是旧军阀已非国民革命军的对手，上海、南京不久就会被占领……从九江出现的多数传单和宣传画来判断的话，希望恢复国权的气息浓厚，共产主义的色彩也极为浓厚。”而时任参谋本部中国课课员的永津佐比重也认为：“显然，南方的革命行将唤醒沉睡着的中国，并承担起建设未来国家之重任……在青年中，特别是南方青年中，救国意识正在增长。”（转引自波多野澄雄，《日本陆军的中国认识》）
但这种认为中国青年已具有民族意识、这个古老国家将很快复兴的观点，不过是昙花一现。1927年4月，几乎刚刚攻克上海，蒋介石就宣布“清共”，此举意味着国民革命阵营彻底瓦解了；紧接着，在武汉的汪精卫和在南京的蒋介石也进入了对抗状态，国民政府分裂成了两个部分。此后几个月，桂系、粤系、孙科系、“西山会议派”……形形色色的国民党派系都出现了，旧的军阀割据已经死去，新的军阀混战又已诞生。它让第三代“中国通”如释重负，并愉快地承认了自己的错误。佐佐木到一说：“面对一系列事件，我的梦想完全破灭，必须认识到广东时代的我还年轻。”而青木宣纯的女婿、第三代“中国通”核心人物之一矶谷廉介更断言：“支那毕竟是支那，将其视为日本简直是痴心妄想。”
而在作出“支那毕竟是支那”的结论后，他们提出了未来的中国设计。与前辈们相比，这个设计不仅更为清晰，它还被视为日本“国运”的兴衰关键。他们希望，依靠这个设计，日本有一天能够登临大陆，成为东亚的主人；他们更相信，在一代人的践行后，日本将像此前的蒙古人、满洲人那样，以入主中国的身份永载史册。这当中的唯一区别是，并非日本、大和民族被中国同化，而是代表着工业、近代文明、崭新亚洲精神的日本同化中国。
他们的这些观点、这个设计，其核心是“分治合作”。
所谓“分治合作”，从青木宣纯的“非国论”、坂西利八郎的“劣种论”出发，并结合蒋介石雄踞长江的现实，被视为一种最适合中国的政治体制：既然中国并非近代意义上的民族国家，那么，满洲、内蒙、新疆、西藏当然要分裂出去，中国最多只能拥有这些区域的宗主权；既然中国人自私、愚昧、永远也不可能获得真正的统一，那么，关内中国也应该分成彼此独立、互不统属的几个部分，比如华北以北洋军阀为主，西南几省留给本地军阀，而西北的马步芳、马鸿逵等人也不应允许南京染指他们的内部事务……在他们看来，再也没有另一个这么适合劣等民族并符合日本利益的中国景象了。这个广土众民、有着五千年历史与四万万民众的古老民族，将永远也不可能对他们形成挑战。
这不仅是一种设计，更不是什么臆想的图景。远在1928年4月，应济南领事馆武官、第三代“中国通”重要人物酒井隆的要求，日本就出兵山东，以阻止国民革命军对华北的“二次北伐”；两个月后，在关东军高级参谋河本大作的策动下，一小群日本军官又炸死了不太驯服、决心在名义上归顺南京国民政府的张作霖，以确保日本在满洲的特权……毫无疑问，这些都为了将南京政府限制在长江，以避免中国的统一和不可遏制。
可惜事与愿违，这些手笔大多有损而无益。以炸死张作霖为例，不过几个月后，身负杀父之仇的张学良就宣布“易帜”，一个半自治的、以奉系和冯玉祥系为主的中国北方出现了。至少在表面上，从珠江到黑龙江、从山东半岛到天山，处处都悬挂着青天白日旗了。
但是，伴随着世界性大萧条的爆发，日本内忧外患，第三代中国通已经将“分治合作”视为日本的唯一生路。而且，与前辈相比，他们敢想敢做、重在实行。于是，1931年9月，在石原莞尔以及两大“中国通”板垣征四郎、土肥原贤二的策动下，关东军占领了东北四省、建立了以爱新觉罗·溥仪为傀儡的伪“满洲国”。几代日本人的梦想、似乎遥不可及的“满蒙生命线”，几乎一夜之间就变成现实了，它让日本为之举国狂欢。此后十余年，大约166万日本居民移居满洲，在伊通河边的一片温润平原上，他们建起了日本帝国的未来首都。这个首都有一个大气磅礴、充满梦想色彩的名字——新京。
1935年6月，同样以酒井隆为主角，几个日本军官以冒名讹诈的方式，勒逼何应钦将第2师、第25师、复兴社、河北省党部等南京势力撤出华北，从而揭开了“华北自治”的序幕。紧接着，土肥原贤二又出现了。他先是要求南京撤销军委会北平分会、行政院北平政务整理委员会等派出机构，继而又成立了以冯玉祥旧部宋哲元为首的“冀察政务委员会”。而当年12月25日，在游说宋哲元以及拉拢山西阎锡山、山东韩复榘先后失败后，他又迫不及待地抛出了以殷汝耕为首、包括河北22县与察哈尔3县的“冀东防共自治政府”，作为未来“华北五省自治政府”的样板。及至1936年5月，关东军参谋田中隆吉一手炮制的、以德王为首的“蒙古军政府”，也在察哈尔嘉卜寺顺利开张了。日本战史这样记载田中隆吉的计划，“根据工作的进展，扶植其势力伸向绥远，然后向外蒙、青海、新疆、西藏等地区扩大之……真是一个庞大的泛蒙设想”。
短短几年之内，这些“中国通”就以兵不血刃的方式，取得了这样惊人的成就，它足以让青木宣纯、坂西利八郎瞠目结舌了。要知道，在青木的时代，担任驻华武官还被视为二流人物的选择，那些陆军大学的第一流毕业生总是以派驻欧洲为荣；要知道，坂西利八郎耗费了十八年的时间，才让西方人勉强承认了日本在中国的“特殊利益”，而没有获得尺土寸地，即使1914年占领的、后来引发了“五四运动”的青岛最终也还给了中国。更不必说，那些日本以无数伤亡、尸山血海换取的台湾、朝鲜和“关东州”，加起来也不足满洲、冀东和内蒙的七分之一。
这是日本开国以来最显赫的功业。在这样的功业中，一些“中国通”得意忘形，乃至毫不掩饰自己的图谋了。1935年7月，松井石根公开说：“领土广大、民情自然不同，支那现在立刻由南京政府国民党政权实现完全统一、建立中央集权国家是非常艰难的，恐怕只是一场梦。作为支那统一的过渡，最好是将北、中、南、外部分成四种地方，采取所谓联省自治、中央统制的形式，（这样）比较自然吧。”而次年4月，在东亚调查会上，土肥原贤二也抱怨说：“过去日支亲善政策的失败，是因为将全体支那作为统一的一个国家而处理造成的。和各个政权合作，并让各个政权进行适当的调和，才是向着最为实际的合作之途迈进的方法。”（《东京日日新闻》，1936年4月14日）
让这些得意忘形的人理解“中国的新情况”，不是笑话奇谈吗？要他们以及七千万日本人觉察到“西安事变”所折射的人心潮流和历史变奏，不是对牛弹琴吗？他们认为，中国人不过是虚张声势，以对抗华北的“自治”。哪怕蒋介石胆敢诉诸武力，他所建立的抗日同盟也将在大日本皇军的赫赫武功之下迅速瓦解。这样的事情不是发生过许多次吗？以1927年为例，几乎刚刚夺取了长江流域，自私而愚昧的中国人就开始了内部火并，而国民党也分崩离析成了众多派系……
当然，在这样的声潮中，也夹杂着一些不同的声音。1937年年初，一股“中国再认识论”的舆论潮流，在日本国内渐渐兴起了。此后几个月，它吸引了众多日本观察家和知识分子，并引发了一场引人瞩目的论战。
The Rise and Fall of the Sino-Japanese Peace Movement
By Cheng Ming
Editor’s Note:
This book recounts the full course of the peace movement led by Mr. Wang Jingwei of the Kuomintang. Wang Jingwei was a man of exceptional integrity. As a young revolutionary, he became famous overnight for his attempt to assassinate the Prince Regent Zaifeng, and for a time, he was held in the highest regard by countless admirers.
But why—why would such a man “jump into a cesspit,” willingly defile his own name, in pursuit of peace between China and Japan? The answer lies in his original intention: to oppose the Chinese Communist Party. If the Kuomintang refused peace and chose instead to fight Japan to the bitter end, both nations would be devastated, and the ultimate victor would be the CCP—swooping in like a fisherman profiting from the struggle of clashing forces. This was an outcome Wang Jingwei could never accept.
Did he not realize that negotiating with Japan was akin to bargaining with a tiger? Of course he did. Yet why did he hesitate, falter, weep bitter tears, and still, time and again, walk that thorn-laden path? Because he knew what kind of inhuman world would emerge from a China overrun by red tyranny.
⸻
Chapter One: The Young Prime Minister
1
On New Year’s Eve of 1936, a sound as ancient as time itself echoed across the Japanese archipelago—a heavenly music that recurs year after year. At the stroke of midnight, in over fifty thousand temples throughout the nation, monks struck giant bells in unison. The tolling was solemn and distant, a resonant drone that rolled on for precisely 108 peals.
As the sonorous chimes filled the sky and awakened the hearts of the people, seventy million Japanese sat silently at home. They listened intently to the “Bells of New Year’s Eve,” praying for a good harvest, favorable rains, family blessings, communal peace, and prosperity for all of Japan.
Since Emperor Meiji had issued the imperial decree to adopt the Western calendar and abolish the Lunar New Year, the Japanese people had gradually grown accustomed to their new year traditions. Compared to the lunar calendar from China, the solar calendar of the West was not only more precise and predictable—it also symbolized the modern enlightenment of a civilized nation.
Yet centuries-old customs endured undisturbed. New Year’s Eve was still called Ōmisoka. And at the final toll of the bell, Ōmisoka passed, and the first day of the new year—Ganjitsu—had arrived.
After a brief sleep, families gathered for their first breakfast of the year, enjoying toso (spiced sake), soba noodles, and sweet mashed taro. Soon after, crowds of people, young and old, began making their way to local jinja (Shinto shrines) to pay their respects to clan gods and guardian deities of the land.
After paying respects to the gods, the Japanese entered the Sanganichi—the first three days of the New Year—marked by vegetarian meals and the bustle of festive visits. During these days, devout followers of Buddhism and Shintoism typically abstain from meat, yet this in no way diminished the joy of the new year. In neighborhoods and rural villages alike, people greeted each other with broad smiles and respectful bows, made rounds to visit relatives and friends, drank sake, sang songs, and began the new year in cheerful, if somewhat tipsy, spirits. The ethereal and solemn tolling of the New Year’s Eve bells gradually faded, giving way to the joy of ordinary life and the warmth of everyday human connection.
On January 1, 1937, as on countless New Year’s Days before it, millions of Japanese people welcomed the dawn of a new age and the renewal of life with celebration and reverence. Yet on this very day, Joseph Grew, the U.S. Ambassador to Japan, noted in his diary that “the new year has begun under an ominous tone.” Listing Japan’s deteriorating relations with Britain, the United States, and the Soviet Union, he wrote: “Of all the nations, Japan seems to be the least able to understand the new developments in China. This is both incredible and entirely true.”
(Joseph C. Grew, Ten Years in Japan)
The “new developments in China” referred to an unexpected wave of change that had swept across the country since the summer of 1936. In August and September, the peaceful resolution of the “Two Guang Provinces Incident” signaled that the Chinese nation—fractured and warlord-ridden for over two decades—had finally achieved a rough semblance of unity. “Moreover, the suppression of the rebellion was largely bloodless, which led many Chinese to believe that the Nanjing government was more than just a clique of warlords, and that Chiang Kai-shek might actually be a capable and enlightened statesman.”
Soon after, the southern rice harvest and the northern wheat crops both reached unprecedented yields. Combined with the successful issuance of the fabi (legal tender) a year prior, the income of China’s 400 million peasants rose by an astonishing 45% in a single year. “Peasants began buying industrial goods they hadn’t dared dream of since 1931.”
Then came even more thrilling news in November: General Fu Zuoyi had defeated the Japanese-backed Mongolian rebel forces at Bailingmiao. This not only shattered Japan’s ambitions of establishing a puppet regime in Suiyuan Province—it also marked the first time in nearly a decade that the Nanjing government had stood up to Japan with genuine resolve.
All of this began to nourish a new hope in the hearts of millions of Chinese: the fragile, yet stirring dream of a national revival. Nathaniel Peffer, a professor at Columbia University, observed, “The Chinese people are now filled with self-confidence and patriotic fervor.” Ta Kung Pao cautiously reported, “In the past few months, the national morale seems to have risen from the dead.”
(Ta Kung Pao, December 13, 1936)
But all this was merely a prelude. For a nation that had endured endless tribulations and a century of shattered hopes, only the most extreme of joys and sorrows—the most dramatic of events—could usher it out of its past and into the threshold of a new destiny.
At the end of 1936, that dramatic turning point arrived. The Xi’an Incident compelled four hundred million Chinese to examine their collective fate—and to make, together, a decision about the future path of their nation.
At first, many viewed the incident as a distant spectacle, with some adopting a wait-and-see attitude, and others even gloating. After all, over the past ten years, Chiang Kai-shek had hardly been a popular ruler.
After all, Chiang Kai-shek’s reliance on military force, his suppression of civil society, his bans on student movements, and his control of public opinion all stood in stark contrast to modern ideals—particularly those cherished by intellectuals. But within a day or two, a strange sense of unease began to surface—an anxious void, the kind of absence that one only feels when something vital is on the verge of being lost.
Without Chiang Kai-shek, would the country once again slip into the quagmire of civil war? Without Chiang Kai-shek, who could possibly lead four hundred million people to resist the looming Japanese threat?
In just thirteen days, this anxiety, this feeling of emptiness, spread rapidly and crystallized into a collective consensus across the nation: China needed Chiang Kai-shek—specifically, a Chiang who stood for five thousand years of civilization and four hundred million souls, a Chiang who would never again yield even an inch of land to Japan.
Over the following thirteen days, tens of millions of Chinese lived in apprehension, doubt, sorrow, and fear. Then, late on the night of December 25, when news broke that the crisis had been resolved peacefully and that Chiang Kai-shek had boarded a plane and departed Xi’an, all these tangled emotions and deep insights into the nation’s fate erupted into spontaneous jubilation.
In Wuhan, firecrackers and drums filled the streets with sound. In Shanghai, tens of thousands of citizens poured out from ballrooms and cafés, their cheers turning Christmas night into a celebration of historic proportions. And by midday the next day, when Chiang’s plane landed at Nanjing’s Daxiaochang Airfield, “more than 400,000 people gathered inside and outside the airport to welcome him.” (Shen Bao Extra Edition, December 26, 1936)
Everyone understood what it meant: China’s national unification had been completed. From this moment forward, no more bloodless concessions would be made. Every inch of land that Japan desired would now come at a terrible price—paid in the lives and resistance of Chiang Kai-shek and four hundred million Chinese.
This was one of the most extraordinary moments in Chinese history. Even then, Chiang had not yet signed the agreement that officially resolved the crisis, and the true story behind his departure from Xi’an remained unknown to the people. Yet somehow, without words or communication, a mutual understanding had formed between the four hundred million and their most powerful leader.
That understanding was this: If Chiang Kai-shek were willing to rise up and resist Japan’s encroachments, invasions, and unreasonable demands, the people would support him as the supreme leader of the nation. But if he continued to vacillate or to compromise, protests would erupt on an unprecedented scale, civil war would explode, and similar mutinies would likely occur again and again.
On that day, this psychological contract was sealed. More than half a year later, Chiang told German Ambassador Oskar Trautmann that if another humiliating treaty were signed, “revolution would break out, and the Nanjing government would be swept away by a tide of public opinion.”
(John Hunter Boyle, China and Japan at War: The Politics of Collaboration)
All Western observers clearly recognized the epochal significance of this turning point. Within days, the Xi’an Incident had been ranked by major international media outlets alongside the Spanish Civil War, Mussolini’s occupation of Ethiopia, the Berlin Olympics, and the U.S. economic recovery as one of the year’s most important global events.
As for the tragic and epic undertones this event carried for China’s destiny, perhaps the only people who failed to grasp its full meaning were the Japanese. Joseph Grew wrote: “The Chinese have declared their determination not to yield to Japanese pressure, and the entire nation of Japan feels as if struck by thunder from a clear sky.”
Japan, at that moment, resembled a restless and bewildered soul—scratching its head in hesitation, uncertain of what lay ahead. Some commentary had already begun to appear in the press, suggesting a possible shift in China policy. Yet, as Ambassador Joseph Grew wrote, “it remains unclear in what direction this change might occur—no concrete signs have yet emerged.”
(Joseph C. Grew, Ten Years in Japan)
This inability to comprehend the new reality in China—this scratching of heads and halting indecision—was closely tied to how the Japanese, especially the Imperial Army, had long perceived China.
The Japanese military’s understanding of China began in earnest in October 1884. That year, a 25-year-old officer named Aoki Nobumitsu was dispatched to Guangzhou as a military attaché at the consulate. With his appointment, the Army welcomed its first true China hand.
Aoki, born into a samurai family and a devoted reader of Romance of the Three Kingdoms since youth, embodied the traits that would come to define generations of “China experts” within the Japanese military. He was diligent and tireless. For example, though he had studied standard Mandarin, he found it useless in Canton and thus applied himself rigorously to mastering the local dialect, eventually achieving fluency in Cantonese, which enabled him to complete his intelligence-gathering assignments effectively.
He was gentle, humble, and possessed a genius for flattery and persuasion. Take, for instance, his relationship with Yuan Shikai, whom he befriended in 1897. Even after Yuan rose to the presidency of the Republic, he continued to say publicly and privately, “Aoki is the only trustworthy Japanese.”
Aoki also had a keen understanding of human weakness and exceptional skill in manipulation and subversion. During the Russo-Japanese War, he organized a so-called “Special Missions Unit”—a group of only a few dozen officers and rōnin (masterless samurai)—that quickly mobilized tens of thousands of bandits in Manchuria. In mere months, they were conducting effective sabotage: gathering intelligence, blowing up railway lines, burning supply depots, and ambushing small enemy units. Their effectiveness was so remarkable that a new Japanese word entered the military lexicon: tokumu (special duty), used to describe officers skilled in covert operations and strategic manipulation.
Over 28 years spent in China, Aoki not only earned the trust of many Chinese elites but also developed a distinctive worldview of China known as the “non-national theory.” He believed that China was not a modern nation-state in the Western sense, but a pan-political entity held together by cultural identity. In his view, whether it was the “Five Barbarians,” the Mongols, or the Manchus, any group that conquered the agrarian heartland and adopted Confucianism as its ideological core could be seen as a legitimate Chinese dynasty. China, he argued, lacked the racial and ethnic cohesion that defined modern European nation-states. Sooner or later, it would splinter—just as Europe had fractured into Anglo-Saxons, Aryans, Germans, and Russians following the decline of religious authority.
Moreover, Aoki contended, with the rise of industrial civilization and the influx of Western ideas over decades, the traditional agrarian cultural consensus in China had become obsolete—something backward and destined to be discarded.
Aoki Nobumitsu’s “non-national theory” would go on to form the conceptual foundation of Japan’s continental policy. While his ideas were rooted in the twilight of the Qing dynasty and envisioned China’s fragmentation into separate zones—Han, Manchu, Mongol, Muslim—the worldview of his successor, Sakai Toshihachirō, a military attaché and the leading figure of the second generation of China hands, was built upon the warlord chaos that followed. His theory could be summarized simply as the “inferior race thesis.” Like Aoki Nobumitsu before him, Sakai Toshihachirō also won the deep trust of the Beiyang warlords. Over the course of seven presidencies—those of Yuan Shikai, Li Yuanhong, Feng Guozhang, Xu Shichang, Cao Kun, Duan Qirui, and others—he remained an indispensable figure, regarded as the most reliable foreign adviser. Japanese media dubbed him “the untoppled tumbler of seven dynasties.” Yet after witnessing endless party struggles, political turmoil, and civil wars, Sakai too developed his own theory of China: that the nation had degenerated into an inferior race, and that Japan alone stood as the true spiritual representative of the East.
He remarked, with weary contempt, “I’ve seen it all before—regimes rising and falling, swaggering onto the stage.” In his view, whether constitutional monarchy, republicanism, or provincial autonomy, none of these could bring about China’s rebirth like a phoenix from the ashes. “Construction is nothing but a dream; the tide is moving steadily toward destruction.”
His assistant, Saitō Tsunetake—later Chief of Staff of the Kwantung Army—was even more blunt:
“The Chinese lack the ability to organize a state… To cultivate in them a concept of the nation would be harder than waiting a hundred years for the Yellow River to run clear.”
(The Historical Papers of Saitō Tsunetake)
Given this collapsing, apocalyptic picture of China, the question arose: how could Japan extract maximum benefit from the chaos?
Sakai believed that after Germany’s defeat and Russia’s revolution, only four great powers remained at the table to feast on the “banquet of China”: Britain, France, the United States, and Japan. Japan, he admitted, lacked the strength to confront all three Western powers simultaneously. However, it could still stake its claim by cultivating proxies—advocates of Japanese interests or outright puppets. The hope was that after the great upheaval in Europe, Japan might seize the chance to dominate China in one bold move.
He said:
“Whether they are revolutionaries, Beiyang cliques, or any other faction—as long as they act on principles aimed at developing Sino-Japanese relations, I will consider them allies. I believe this is the proper attitude to take in dealing with China.”
His other aide, Hayashi Tomokichi, put it more baldly:
“It doesn’t matter whether the Chinese who control the military are bandits or not. Since they are a necessary part of Chinese society and wield real power, it is absolutely essential that we control and manipulate them, even seduce them into loyalty to the Empire.”
In February 1927, after eighteen years in China, Sakai delivered his farewell address and officially retired from the military. But by then, in addition to his reputation as the “untoppled tumbler,” Sakai had achieved another, far greater legacy—one that few noticed at the time: his so-called “Sakai apparatus” had trained a whole new generation of China experts who would go on to dominate Japanese policy and power. These third-generation China hands would include such names as Itagaki Seishirō, Doihara Kenji, Matsui Iwane, and Isogai Rensuke.
Unlike their predecessors, the third generation faced a China more complex and unprecedented than ever before. As they stepped onto the stage of history, they were immediately confronted with a reality that challenged all of their assumptions.
That year, the National Revolutionary Army, advancing from the Pearl River basin, captured key Yangtze cities—Wuhan, Jiujiang, Anqing—and was met with overwhelming popular support. Civilians lined the roads, waving flags of the Blue Sky with a White Sun, cheering their arrival.
To this rising force, the third-generation China hands reacted with conflicted hearts and mounting unease.
As an observer accompanying the Northern Expedition Army northward, Sasaki Tōichi remarked:
“From what I’ve observed, I’ve concluded that the old warlords are no longer a match for the National Revolutionary Army. Shanghai and Nanjing will soon be taken… Judging by the leaflets and propaganda posters circulating in Jiujiang, there is a strong atmosphere of national restoration, and a heavy influence of communism.”
Nagatani Saburō, then an officer in the General Staff’s China Section, also noted:
“It is evident that the southern revolution is about to awaken the sleeping China and take on the responsibility of building a future nation… Among the youth, especially those in the south, a sense of national salvation is clearly growing.”
(Cited in Sumio Hatano’s The Japanese Army’s Perceptions of China)
But this optimism—that Chinese youth had developed a sense of national identity and that this ancient country was on the verge of revival—proved to be short-lived. In April 1927, almost immediately after taking Shanghai, Chiang Kai-shek launched a “purge of the Communists,” signaling the complete collapse of the united front. Soon after, a schism erupted between Chiang in Nanjing and Wang Jingwei in Wuhan, splitting the Nationalist government into two rival factions. In the ensuing months, a profusion of Kuomintang cliques emerged: the Guangxi Clique, the Guangdong faction, the Sun Ke group, the “West Mountain Conference faction”… The old era of warlord rule was dead, but a new era of warlord infighting had just begun.
For the third-generation China hands, this development came as a relief. They freely admitted their earlier misjudgments. Sasaki Tōichi sighed,
“Confronted with these successive events, my dream has completely shattered. I must admit that I was still young during my Guangdong days.”
Isogai Rensuke—son-in-law of Aoki Nobumitsu and a central figure among the third-generation—was even blunter:
“After all, China is still just China. To think it could become like Japan was nothing but a foolish fantasy.”
And having reached this conclusion—“China is still just China”—they unveiled their grand vision for its future. Compared to their predecessors, this vision was not only more detailed, but came to be seen as critical to Japan’s national destiny. Through it, they believed Japan could one day ascend to dominate the continent and become the true master of East Asia. Like the Mongols and Manchus before them, Japan would carve its name into the annals of history as the next conqueror of China—but with one vital difference: this time, Japan would not be absorbed by China, but rather, China would be assimilated by Japan, the bearer of industrial progress, modern civilization, and the new Asian spirit.
The core of this vision was “Divide and Collaborate” (bunji kyōdō).
The idea of “Divide and Collaborate” built on Aoki’s “Non-Nation Theory” and Sakai’s “Inferior Race Theory,” and took into account the reality of Chiang Kai-shek’s control over the Yangtze region. It was considered the most suitable system of governance for China: since China was not a modern nation-state in the Western sense, then regions like Manchuria, Inner Mongolia, Xinjiang, and Tibet ought to break away. At most, China could retain nominal suzerainty over them. And since the Chinese people were viewed as selfish and ignorant—forever incapable of achieving real unity—the inner provinces of China should also be divided into mutually independent, non-subordinate regions: the north dominated by the Beiyang warlords, the southwest by local military factions, the northwest by Muslim strongmen like Ma Bufang and Ma Hongkui, free from any Nanjing interference…
In their eyes, no political configuration could better suit an inferior race—or better serve Japan’s interests. A vast and ancient land with a five-thousand-year history and four hundred million people would never again pose a serious threat to them.
This was not just a theoretical blueprint or wishful fantasy. As early as April 1928, at the request of Sakai Takashi, military attaché in Jinan and an important third-generation China hand, Japan deployed troops in Shandong to block the National Revolutionary Army’s second Northern Expedition. Two months later, senior Kwantung Army officer Kawamoto Daisaku orchestrated the assassination of the uncooperative Zhang Zuolin—who had only just nominally aligned with the Nanjing government—to secure Japan’s interests in Manchuria.
But these efforts often backfired. Take the assassination of Zhang Zuolin: only a few months later, his son Zhang Xueliang, driven by the vendetta, declared allegiance to the Nationalist government. A semi-autonomous north, largely under the Fengtian and Feng Yuxiang factions, now flew the Blue Sky with a White Sun flag. From the Pearl River to the Heilongjiang, from the Shandong Peninsula to the Tian Shan Mountains, the symbols of a unified China seemed omnipresent—at least on the surface.
Yet when the Great Depression struck, and Japan found itself gripped by crisis at home and abroad, the third-generation China hands clung to “Divide and Collaborate” as Japan’s only path forward. Unlike their predecessors, they were men of action—bold and unflinching. Thus, in September 1931, under the direction of Ishiwara Kanji and two prominent China hands, Itagaki Seishirō and Doihara Kenji, the Kwantung Army seized the four provinces of Manchuria and established the puppet state of “Manchukuo,” with Aisin Gioro Puyi installed as figurehead. Generations of Japanese dreams—the once far-off “lifeline of Manchuria and Mongolia”—had suddenly materialized, sparking jubilant celebrations across Japan. In the next decade, around 1.66 million Japanese settled in Manchuria. Along the banks of the Yitong River, on a mild and fertile plain, they began building the future imperial capital. It had a grand and dreamy name: Xinjing, or “New Capital.”
In June 1935, again with Sakai Takashi as a key player, Japanese officers used forged documents and threats to force He Yingqin to withdraw the 2nd and 25th Divisions, the Blue Shirts Society, and the Kuomintang provincial branch from Hebei—thus initiating the “North China Autonomy” movement. Soon after, Doihara Kenji reappeared. He demanded the dissolution of the Military Commission’s Beijing branch and the Executive Yuan’s local governance office. In their place, he installed the “Chahaer-Hebei Political Council” under Feng Yuxiang’s former subordinate Song Zheyuan. On December 25 of that year, having failed to sway Song, Yan Xishan, or Han Fuqu of Shandong, Doihara moved quickly to unveil the “East Hebei Anti-Communist Autonomous Government,” led by Yin Rugeng, encompassing 22 counties of Hebei and 3 from Chahar—envisioned as a prototype for a broader “Five-Province North China Autonomous Government.”
By May 1936, Kwantung Army staff officer Tanaka Ryūkichi had helped establish the “Mongol Military Government” under Prince Demchugdongrub (De Wang) at Chahar’s Bailingmiao. The Japanese war chronicles described Tanaka’s plan as
“a vast Pan-Mongol vision: once consolidated, expand its reach to Suiyuan, then outward to Outer Mongolia, Qinghai, Xinjiang, and Tibet…”
In just a few years, these China hands had accomplished what once seemed unthinkable—virtually without firing a shot. Even Aoki and Sakai would have been astonished. After all, in Aoki’s era, being posted to China as a military attaché was considered a second-tier assignment—top graduates of the Army War College always vied for postings in Europe. Sakai, despite 18 years of effort, had barely managed to convince the West of Japan’s “special interests” in China, and had not gained an inch of land. Even Qingdao, seized in 1914 and a trigger for the May Fourth Movement, was eventually returned to China. Not to mention that Japan’s earlier conquests—Taiwan, Korea, the “Kwantung Leased Territory”—were smaller in total than Manchuria, East Hebei, and Inner Mongolia.
This was the most glorious feat in Japan’s modern history. Drunk on success, some China hands no longer hid their ambitions. In July 1935, Matsui Iwane publicly declared:
“Given China’s vast territory and natural diversity, the immediate realization of full unification and a centralized government under the Kuomintang is extremely difficult—probably nothing but a dream. As a transitional phase, it’s best to divide China into northern, central, southern, and frontier regions, adopting a form of provincial autonomy under central coordination. That would be more natural.”
In April the following year, during a meeting of the East Asia Research Council, Doihara Kenji complained:
“The failure of previous pro-China friendship policies stemmed from treating China as a unified nation. Working with various regional governments and harmonizing their relationships is the only practical path to cooperation.”
(Tokyo Nichi Nichi Shimbun, April 14, 1936)
Expecting these intoxicated schemers to grasp “the new reality in China” was like telling jokes to a stone. Hoping they—or the seventy million citizens of Japan—would comprehend the shifting currents and historical resonances reflected in the Xi’an Incident was no more than playing music to a cow. They believed the Chinese were simply posturing in protest of “North China Autonomy.” Even if Chiang Kai-shek dared use military force, any anti-Japanese alliance he formed would be quickly shattered under the mighty blows of the Imperial Army. Had this not happened many times before? In 1927, almost immediately after taking the Yangtze region, the selfish and ignorant Chinese had turned to internal strife. The Kuomintang itself had splintered into countless factions…
Of course, amid this tide of triumphalism, a few dissenting voices emerged. At the beginning of 1937, a wave of “re-evaluating China” began to rise in Japan. Over the following months, it attracted many observers and intellectuals, sparking a notable debate.
Editor: Luo Zhifei
Translator: Lu Huiwen
