Pei Min

Shanghai saw much rain, and even more in winter. Threads of rain always hung in the sky, while the ground was forever damp. In ordinary times, on weather like this, one could warm a pot of yellow wine, eat some seasonal delicacies, sit before the floor-to-ceiling window in a warm room and sip a little, watching the gray haze outside. It had its own special charm.

But in Shanghai in 1938, there were probably not many people in the mood for such enjoyment. And if there were, they were likely about to be sent to their deaths.

Inside an apartment on Changchun Road in Hongkou, Xia Changuo, his face battered and bruised, stood by the window in loose, comfortable pajamas, a glass of red wine in hand, watching the torrential rain beneath the night sky.

In truth, he could not see outside clearly. The fierce downpour kept battering the windowpanes before streaming down them, and through the curtain of rain, he could see only the dim glow of lights outside. Yet he persisted in looking, because the collision between the raging storm outside and the warmth indoors filled him with a feeling he found intoxicating.

He lifted the glass to his lips and took a small sip, feeling the tartness as his tongue met the crimson wine. His sleeve slipped down with the movement, exposing arms covered in dense scars.

Last November, the Battle of Shanghai had come to an end. The Nationalist army had retreated across the board, and the Nanjing Government had become the Chongqing Government. Apart from the British and American International Settlement and France's French Concession, Shanghai had fallen.

The Japanese had come prepared, and their speed in taking over Shanghai had exceeded many people's expectations. More than two months had passed, and by February, Japan