Throughout history, countless lives have been shaped and shattered by war. Espionage, betrayal, and shifting political allegiances have often determined not just the course of history, but also the fates of individuals caught in the storm. Two women — Zheng Pingru and Guan Lu — were among those who took on the perilous role of spies during World War II, working within Wang Jingwei’s puppet government.
Both women were tasked with targeting high-ranking collaborators, but their missions and ultimate fates were starkly different. Zheng Pingru, working for the Nationalists, attempted to assassinate a notorious traitor but was executed before she could complete her mission. Guan Lu, a Communist agent, played a more subtle game, infiltrating the puppet government’s intelligence network to extract critical information. Yet, despite her loyalty and years of service, she was abandoned, persecuted, and ultimately destroyed by the very Communist Party she had helped.
The rise of Wang Jingwei’s puppet government
Wang Jingwei had once been a prominent figure in the Chinese Nationalist government, serving as a close ally to Sun Yat-sen and holding the position of vice chairman in the Kuomintang (KMT). However, as the Second Sino-Japanese War intensified, he lost faith in China’s ability to resist the Japanese invasion. In 1938, he fled to Hanoi, Vietnam, where he secretly negotiated with Japan to establish a new government that would collaborate with the invaders.
In 1940, with full Japanese support, Wang returned to China and set up a puppet regime in Nanjing, claiming it as the legitimate Nationalist government. Though it maintained the appearance of autonomy, the so-called Reorganized National Government of China was nothing more than a tool for Japanese imperial control. The regime was widely despised as treasonous, and its intelligence arm, led by figures like Li Shiqun and Ding Mocun, became notorious for hunting down and eliminating resistance fighters.
It was into this world of spies, traitors, and shifting allegiances that Zheng Pingru and Guan Lu were sent — one to assassinate, the other to infiltrate.
Zheng Pingru: The Nationalist spy who died for her cause
A life of privilege turned to espionage
Born in 1918 in Nagoya, Japan, to a Chinese father and a Japanese mother, Zheng Pingru grew up in a privileged household. Her father, Zheng Yue, was a respected legal scholar who served in high-ranking government positions in Shanghai. Due to her mixed heritage, she was fluent in both Chinese and Japanese and moved comfortably within elite social circles. Her striking beauty and poise made her the subject of magazine covers, and she once dreamed of becoming an actress.
But war had other plans. When the Japanese invaded China, Zheng’s privileged life turned into one of resistance. With her fluency in Japanese and connections among the Shanghai elite, she was recruited by the Nationalist intelligence agency to infiltrate Wang Jingwei’s puppet government. Her mission: to assassinate Ding Mocun, one of the regime’s most notorious figures.
A ruthless enemy in familiar company
Ding Mocun was no ordinary collaborator — he was the head of the secret police for Wang Jingwei’s puppet regime, overseeing a brutal network of spies and enforcers. Under his command, the secret police hunted down anti-Japanese resistance fighters, employing torture, surveillance, and assassination to crush dissent. He had once been affiliated with the Nationalists, but had switched allegiances and was now one of the most feared men in Shanghai.
But for Zheng Pingru, he was also a familiar figure. Years earlier, he had been the headmaster at Mingguang Middle School when she was a student there. This past connection provided the perfect cover — Zheng could plausibly reconnect with Ding under the guise of an innocent meeting between an old headmaster and a former student.
Once again, Zheng was introduced to Ding Mocun at a high-profile gathering of Japanese military and puppet government officials in Shanghai. Her beauty and charm immediately caught his attention, and after exchanging pleasantries, Ding invited her to meet for tea at a café to reminisce about old times.
At their meeting, they spoke of the past — Zheng played the role of the admiring former student, praising his career and showing great interest in his work. Flattered and intrigued by her attentiveness, Dingsoon became enamored with her. He began inviting her to social events, luxurious dinners, and even private gatherings, eager to spend more time with the young woman who had so effortlessly captivated him.
Zheng’s charm and intelligence gave her an opportunity few spies had — direct access to one of the most powerful men in Wang Jingwei’s government. She gained his trust with each encounter, positioning herself for the perfect moment to strike.
The failed assassination and tragic execution
Zheng’s handlers recognized the rare opportunity before them. Killing Ding Mocun would be a significant blow to the puppet regime’s intelligence network, disrupting its ability to track and eliminate resistance fighters. Plans were made, and her first attempt came in August 1939.
One evening, Ding escorted her home as usual, and as she stepped out of the car, she asked him to walk her to her door. Just as he was about to exit the vehicle, he spotted shadows moving toward them through the window. Sensing danger, he immediately ordered his driver to speed away, narrowly escaping an ambush.
Undeterred, Zheng tried again a few months later. She convinced Ding to take her shopping for a fur coat at a boutique in the French Concession, a seemingly harmless outing. The plan was simple — two assassins would follow them inside and open fire once they were close enough. But Ding, ever cautious, noticed two unfamiliar men lingering suspiciously outside. Instead of stepping in, he shoved a wad of cash into Zheng’s hands, told her to pick whatever she liked, and hurriedly fled.
The second failed attempt heightened Ding’s suspicions, making the situation dire. Zheng prepared for one final attempt, bringing a concealed pistol to a dance at the Shanghai West Ballroom. But under heavy surveillance, she found no opportunity to strike. Realizing she had lost her chance, she threw the gun out of a restroom window, wrapped in a handkerchief.
That night, she was arrested. To protect her comrades, she refused to confess to being a Nationalist spy, instead claiming her assassination attempt was a crime of passion. Her defiance, however, did not save her. In February 1940, at the age of 22, she was taken to an open field and executed by gunfire.
Though she died young, her sacrifice was not forgotten. Years later, she was honored by Chiang Kai-shek, and her name was enshrined at the Taipei Martyrs’ Shrine as a patriot who gave her life for China.
Guan Lu: The Communist agent betrayed by her own party
From literary star to undercover agent
Born in 1907, Guan Lu — whose real name was Hu Shoumei — seemed destined for a life of poetry and literature. She had a sharp mind, a gift for words, and a talent that earned her recognition in Shanghai’s cultural circles. Her poems were widely read, and her lyrics for the hit film Crossroads (1937) theme song became an instant classic. She was a woman of ambition, moving seamlessly between the worlds of writing, theater, and film, but fate had other plans.
Her younger sister, an ardent Communist, first introduced her to leftist circles, and by the early 1930s, Guan Lu had fully embraced the CCP’s cause. The world of literature soon faded as she was drawn deeper into underground work. Then came her most dangerous assignment yet — winning the trust of Li Shiqun, Wang Jingwei’s feared intelligence chief.
Unlike Zheng Pingru, who was tasked with assassination, Guan Lu’s mission was one of patience and persuasion. The Communists needed someone who could infiltrate Li’s inner circle and extract valuable intelligence. With her sharp mind and charisma, Guan Lu was the perfect candidate. By 1939, she had succeeded. Li welcomed her into his fold, providing her with a monthly stipend, unaware that she was feeding every detail of his plans back to her Communist handlers.
Walking the thin line between survival and betrayal
For years, Guan Lu operated in the shadows, passing on crucial intelligence about Japanese military actions and Wang Jingwei’s puppet regime. The information she provided helped the Communists avoid ambushes and outmaneuver their enemies. She facilitated secret meetings between Communist leaders and Wang’s top officials, helping the party maintain backchannel communications even as they fought a brutal war.
However, there was an unspoken truth about Guan Lu’s position — her loyalty to the Communists did not guarantee their loyalty to her. While she believed she was working toward a greater cause, her value to the Party was conditional. In the world of Communist espionage, usefulness determined survival.
Then, in 1945, everything changed. Japan surrendered, and Wang Jingwei’s regime collapsed. The Nationalists began rounding up collaborators, and Guan Lu was among those arrested. Expecting the CCP to intervene, she waited — but no rescue came. To the world, she was a traitor, and the Communists made no effort to clear her name. She was a pawn who had outlived her purpose.
Betrayed by her own party
Believing she would find safety in Communist-controlled territory, Guan Lu eventually made her way to the new regime. But instead of being welcomed as a hero, she was met with suspicion. The CCP never publicly acknowledged her work, and whispers of her past associations followed her wherever she went.
In 1955, she was accused of having ties to an “anti-Communist clique” and subjected to intense political scrutiny. A year later, she was arrested again, this time as part of a broader purge. Each time she was imprisoned, she waited for the Party to vindicate her. Each time, she was abandoned.
The worst was yet to come. When the Cultural Revolution erupted in 1966, the Party finally turned on her completely. Branded a traitor and an enemy of the people, Guan Lu was dragged through public denunciations, humiliated, and imprisoned yet again. She endured eight years behind bars, her health deteriorating with each passing year.
She was a broken woman when she was released in 1975. Her once-sharp mind was ravaged by illness, her hands trembled uncontrollably, and her once-powerful words failed her. She spent her final years in obscurity, her past erased by the regime she had served. In 1982, the Party issued a formal statement “rehabilitating” her name — a meaningless gesture that came too late. That same year, alone and forgotten, she ended her own life.
A stark contrast in fate
Zheng Pingru and Guan Lu both walked the path of espionage, but their allegiances sealed their destinies. Zheng Pingru, though misunderstood in life, was honored after her death, enshrined as a martyr who died fighting for her country. On the other hand, Guan Lu was betrayed by the very Party she had served, enduring decades of imprisonment, humiliation, and neglect.
The tragedy of Guan Lu is not just the story of a woman abandoned — it is the story of how Communist regimes consume their own, discarding even their most loyal followers when they are no longer useful. In the end, she was not defeated by the enemies she spied on, but by the system she dedicated her life to.
Translated by Chu BC
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