“You are not safe here,” he added authoritatively. “It is too chaotic.”

  It was 1944 and rumors were running wild in the city: The Communist Party had gathered its troops and was heading toward the east; Shanghai had been infiltrated by communists who were working underground among the young intellectuals and working-class citizens in preparation for the battle of liberation; the Nationalist army troops were overwhelmed and powerless. With the Japanese invasion and the continuing subjugation of key cities by countries from all over the world following the Opium War, the nation’s future, if any, was dangling in the air. The national economy was in shambles. Paper money was devalued to the point that a person needed to carry a big bag of it to pay for a kilo of rice. Smart merchants started to deal only in gold and silver.

  Yan was little aware of the situation since she had lived a very sheltered life. The sincere look on the officer’s face struck her. Her nearness to a strange young man made her nervous. She kept twirling the end of her pigtail to keep herself calm. Prompted by the young officer, she became more aware of her surroundings. She saw kids with torn clothes come toward her. Their garments were so worn out that the patterns and colors were indistinguishable. Their dirt-smeared faces showed negligence on the part of their parents, if they had any. Their stick-thin arms reached out toward her, palms open, begging for money.

  Yan tried to shift her eyes away from the dirty urchins and she saw crowds of people dashing in all directions, holding their parcels and belongings. Down the street, she saw men hitting each other, fighting about something. They knocked down a vegetable vendor’s stand and sent everything flying in the air. But could she trust this young man to protect her and take her back to the home she was running away from? Where could she go if she didn’t leave with him? Could she think of some place besides home he could take her? Yan shook her head.

  The light began to disappear fast from the western sky and Yan felt exhausted both emotionally and physically. Fearful of the uncertainty she had brought on herself, she decided she had had enough adventure and silently acknowledged her escape attempt as a failure. She didn’t look the strange young man in the eye but simply complied with his offer by jumping onto the back of his bicycle. In a barely audible voice, she told him her home address. And that was the beginning and end of their conversation.

  The rest of the trip went in silence on both of their parts, covered by the din of the traffic. Yan held tightly onto his uniform while the bicycle raced along. Her mind raced with the bike. It had been half a day since she left the apartment. What had her adoptive mother been doing? Had she called the police? Would she hit her again with those bamboo chopsticks when she got back? Would she send her back to her real family? And on a scarier note, what if this young man was not taking her home? Where would he take her? Would she be in for more danger, even sold into child labor? What should she do?

  Her worries ended when he stopped, as she took in the familiar sight of the famous store under her apartment. She gave the young man one first and last long look right in the eyes, silently said “Thank you,” and walked home.

  Jin Lai didn’t hit her. She didn’t even punish her. When Yan entered the apartment, all the lights were on. Both her mother and father sat like puppets in their living room, surrounded by dead silence, as if expecting the arrival of their worst fears. Waiting anxiously for her to return, they were overwhelmed with feelings of shock, disbelief, betrayal, pity, and a sense of guilt, which eventually led them to search within themselves why this had happened. The more they thought, the lower their heads hung. The silence in the room turned into a form of torture no one knew how to break.

  Finally, the sound of footsteps roused them. Both pairs of tearful eyes looked toward the source, and both faces broke into smiles when they saw Yan. Her parents instantly got up and leapt toward her. They had never felt that she was so important to them.

  “Our daughter! Our daughter is home!” They hugged her with a sincerity and warmth she had never felt before. “We’re glad that you are back.”

  For some reason, they never asked her about her whereabouts that day. Her father only begged her not to go out by herself ever again without asking for their approval. “You made us terribly, terribly worried,” he simply said. The servant brought the dinner they had saved for her, and then her exhausted parents retired for the night.

  “Your mother was worried when you didn’t return by dusk,” the servant told her in a low voice as Yan hungrily devoured her dinner. “We searched the store downstairs from one end to the other. Then, your mother took out your favorite shoes and hung them on the wall to call you back.”

  At the time, people believed in the magic power of hanging a pair of shoes on the wall to bring a person back from wherever he or she was.

  The servant also told her in secret that when her father came home after work and was told of her disappearance, he criticized his wife for being too harsh to their new daughter and blamed her for not giving Yan enough motherly affection. Yan felt comforted by her new father’s understanding and decided to give up running away—for now. It was running away to nowhere anyway.

  Chapter V

  A Brother Bought with Gold

  Yan stood in front of her window enjoying a splash of warm sun on a cold winter day as she watched the shoppers passing underneath her. She heard the phone ring in her parents’ room, and her mother picked it up.

  She was unusually cheerful and loud. “Yes, hello, how are you Madame Wong? You found one? Already pregnant? Just a student? Oh, I understand.”

  Yan’s ears perked up. Who was Madame Wong? Pregnant student? Her curiosity drew her away from the window. Stealthily as a mouse, she hid in the corridor and listened.

  “What does her family want in exchange? Gold? How much? Let me talk with my husband and call you back.”

  The phone conversation puzzled Yan. She wished she knew what was going on, but she knew better not to ask her father or mother because she shouldn’t have eavesdropped on a grownup’s conversation in the first place, especially her mother’s. If Jin Lai found out, it would be a disaster. Her mother liked to grab nearby objects and hit her with them as punishment. Yan had been hit by a copper bowl, a handful of chopsticks, and even the handle of a feather duster. Once Jin Lai threw a pot at her and missed her by just a couple of inches. Another time she poured a bowl of hot porridge over her left foot, leaving her with a big scar. Yan shuddered as she thought about those times and decided not to ask about the mysterious phone call. That night, after they went to bed, she heard her parents through the wall, talking for a long time in low voices.

  A few weeks later, her mother made a sudden announcement: “Get dressed. We’re going to the Dragon and Phoenix Tailoring Shop this afternoon. We’ll pick out some fabric for our ceremonial clothes.”

  At that time, adults never bothered to explain themselves to children and servants, but Yan found out what was going on soon enough.

  Having failed to conceive any children of their own, her father convinced Jin Lai to adopt Yan, hoping that a child in the house would open Fortune’s door and bring more of their own. That was the old Chinese wisdom people followed to help a childless couple.

  Yan did not bring them luck, though, and after several more years of what seemed to be a losing battle, Jin Lai reluctantly let her husband take a second wife. Through word of mouth, they found out about a pregnant high school student. In exchange for a stack of gold coins, the girl’s family struck a deal to let their daughter marry Ho De. The hope was that to outsiders, the child, hopefully a boy, would be seen as the legitimate heir to the Gu family. And their mutual understanding was that the marriage would dissolve as soon as the child was born. The only time the high school girl would ever appear with the family was at the wedding banquet in a local restaurant, attended by all the Gu relatives and friends.

  At the feast, Yan was amazed at the sight of this girl, only a few years older than herself, marrying her dad. On the receiving line, she patiently waited for her turn to greet the new bride.

  “Congratulations, Second Mother. Long live Second Mother.”

  As Yan mouthed what her adoptive mother had coached her to say, she had a close look at the bride, a beautiful girl dressed in a traditional red satin wedding gown that was loose enough to keep her physical condition hidden, but stylish enough not to arouse any suspicion or gossip. Is she the pregnant student I have heard about? Yan wondered. She certainly doesn’t look pregnant. Yan knew her father had paid a lot of gold for her—her third “mother” since she was born. But she couldn’t understand why her father needed to get married again and have two wives.

  After the ceremony, the new bride was escorted into a black taxi and sent back home with her parents. She never set foot in her “husband’s” house. Soon enough, Yan forgot all about the lavish banquet and her father’s new marriage.

  Seven months later, on a bright, windswept autumn afternoon, Yan and her parents were returning from a church service when their maid greeted them at the front door in a loud, panicky voice: “Master! Mistress! Madame Wong phoned so many times. She wants you to go to Second Wife’s home as soon as possible.”

  Ho De and Jin Lai looked at each other, and instantly understood that the moment they had been waiting for had finally arrived. They immediately went back downstairs, leaving Yan with the maid. Ho De found a man leaning against a wall by his rickshaw. “Want a fare?” he asked. “I’ll double the fare if you can run the whole way.”

  The rickshaw raced through the city streets, flying past pedestrians, trolleys, and pedicabs. “Hey! Out of my way!” the man shouted in between gasps, his face bright red, bulging veins gathering around his sweaty temples. In less than a quarter hour, Ho De and Jin Lai arrived at their destination, a nondescript house crammed between modest two-story dwellings.

  “Want me to wait, mister?” the rickshaw driver volunteered. “I’d be happy to.” He grinned from ear to ear as he held his double fare and generous tip.

  “Please do,” Ho De said, smiling. “And by the way, your load may be a bit heavier on the way back.”

  Madame Wong, their matchmaker, interrupted them from a second-story window: “Mister Gu, Mister Gu!” She signaled for them to come inside. Ho De and Jin Lai soon found themselves in a small living room, its blinds drawn and smelling of incense.

  “So, where is the baby?” Jin Lai asked. “Is it a boy?”

  “It’s a boy all right,” Madame Wong replied, her eyes staring at the rough wooden floor. “It was a boy.”

  “What do you mean ‘It was a boy’?” Jin Lai demanded.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Gu, the boy was a stillborn. He’s dead!”

  Ho De stood like a log, his head hung low. Jin Lai looked at her husband and then Madame Wong.

  “The girl’s family has asked for a humble burial fee before they terminate the marriage contract.”

  “They have not delivered us an heir. Now, they want a burial fee? How about paying us back the wedding expenses!” Jin Lai screeched.

  Ho De took out his wallet and left five gold coins on the table before pushing his wife out the front door.

  After gulping in some fresh air, Jin Lai calmed down and turned to the marriage broker. “Madame Wong, you need to find us a boy, a new-born boy tonight. I don’t care what you have to do or how you do it. I want a son tonight.”

  “If you want a boy so quickly, you’ll have to pay a lot to the family for the boy, and, of course, to me for a finder’s fee, expenses, plus an express fee …”

  Ho De dropped a stack of gold coins into her palm. “Consider this a deposit.”

  “No problem, no problem. It’s always a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Gu.”

  Very late that night, the phone rang. Within minutes, Madame Wong came by in a black taxi and picked them up.

  Somewhere in the northern part of the city, Ho De and Jin Lai stepped out of the taxi and picked their way through a pile of rubble to a broken-down tenement. The broker knocked on a splintery door and pushed it open without waiting for an answer. No lights were on and they were greeted by the smell of old sweat and something powerfully, sickeningly sweet. Jin Lai made a face and covered her nose with her scarf.

  “Light the kerosene lamp, woman,” a man yelled. “We have guests.”

  Under the dim, flickering light, a newborn boy lay swaddled in soiled rags waiting to be sold. The baby was alert and smiled at Ho De. Ho De smiled back.

  “Show me your money first before you touch my child.”

  Ho De saw a man lying on a bed, his stick-like arms supporting an opium pipe. He went over and dropped a stack of gold coins next to the man. The man took a coin and bit into it.

  “We are not thieves. We’re here to do business,” Madame Wong cooed as she scooped up the baby. “Of course the coins are real. Now, give us the boy’s birth certificate.”

  “No need. My boy is as good as your gold.” The man smiled, revealing his crooked black teeth. He looked Ho De up and down and sensed he could squeeze more money out of him. “By the way, my wife would make a very good wet nurse.” He grabbed Ho De’s sleeve to get a reaction. “Just give me five more coins. Take them both and I’ll give you my eight-year-old girl child for free.”

  Ho De pulled hard to free himself. He felt disgusted. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Jin Lai pinched her nose and ran out of the house, followed by Madam Wong holding the baby, and then Ho De. They stumbled into the darkness.

  Yan suddenly had a new brother. The boy was named Chon Gao, meaning “Worshipping Noble Heights.”

  Like Yan’s new name, which had been changed from Ai Zhu (“Loving Pearl”) to Chon Mei (“Worshipping Beauty”), Chon Gao’s name also included the Chinese word “Chon,” which had to be given to every child of this family’s generation as dictated by their ancestral book of names. Although neither Chon Gao nor Chon Mei carried any direct blood of the family, Chon Mei was at least a distant relative. Chon Gao was bought with gold to inherit the family name.

  After the second wife supposedly gave birth to a boy, all the relatives were notified with a bright red card engraved with the “Double Happiness” character in gold, accompanied by an invitation to celebrate the birth. Such an event had to be orchestrated carefully to take place exactly nine months after the wedding and hide the inconvenient fact that the boy was already two months old. Baskets of boiled eggs, dyed bright red, were given out to relatives, neighbors, and friends—everyone who had an interest in the Gu family’s good fortune.

  “What a good-looking baby!”

  “How adorable!”

  “Truly noble-looking!”

  Everyone praised him and coddled him, making sure never to call him a “boy” since boys were valuable and could be snatched by evil spirits. A girl was less valuable than a boy and less likely to interest any discerning demon. So, for the first year of his life, Chon Gao would be raised as a girl to fool the evil spirits. By then, he would be strong enough to live as a boy. The Gu family wasn’t taking any chances with their precious heir. For his first public appearance, Chon Gao lay in the arms of his “mother,” dressed in a pink silk garment and sporting two little pigtails wrapped in red silk.

  Chon Gao was a lucky boy. A wet nurse was hired to take care of him. Tins of infant formula from America streamed into the house to boost his growth. His mother and father always gave him their undivided attention. He became the center of the Gu household.

  Yan was twelve when Chon Gao was brought home, too young to make sense out of what was going on but old enough to know that her baby brother was not really a Gu by blood. She was more a Gu than he was—after all, her own real family surname was Gu! Nevertheless, all the relatives thought he was the true Gu heir, while she was adopted. She carried that secret burden for the rest of her life and never revealed the truth to her brother, even though he hurt her on so many occasions throughout her life.

  When conflicts arose, he often pointed out: “You are not my real sister. You are just a distant relative and have no right to tell me what to do.”

  To a certain degree, Yan had a lot of empathy for Chon Gao, for just like her, he also had two sets of parents and would never again get to live with his real father and mother. Being twelve years older, she also felt obligated to protect him and shelter him from unnecessary suffering. After all, they were each other’s only brother and sister. She pampered him, amused him, washed his diapers, fed him, witnessed his first steps and words, and told him stories.

  Then came a hot, humid summer night when their parents went out overnight to play Mahjong. The air was stifling and still. No wind, not even a slight breeze, passed through the open windows. During the summer, Yan had a habit of sleeping on the top of a mahogany dresser because she liked how the dark wood kept her cool. She fell asleep quickly, lulled by the dull rhythms of the fan across the room where the servant woman slept with Yan’s two-year-old brother. In a dream, Yan heard noises, people screaming, things falling, and crackling noises that sounded like firecrackers. Wait … what was that? Yan heard the sound of a gong. It must be something urgent. She needed to find out what.

  Then, someone was tapping her. She opened her eyes. It was the servant. “Miss, there’s a fire outside. Should we run with the little master?”

  So, it was not a dream. She jumped down and headed toward the window where the sounds of a growing commotion were pouring in. She could see the flames and smell the smoke. What should she do? Her little brother, awakened by the noise, started to cry and search for his mommy. When he couldn’t find her, he became frantic and started to scream. The servant stared at Yan, waiting for directions. Yan didn’t know where her parents were. For a fourteen-year-old, she was cool. “We cannot go out right now. We have no place to go. It’s now midnight and it’s safer here at home as long as the fire does not reach our building.”