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details about the General. Heacted as if the Japanese had never been in China; he had really come to grab my father’s throat and, my father not being there, had settled on us. His questions to my mother were all about her family background and that of my father. He asked about the value of our house and my mother’s assets, giving a little snort to each reply as if he were ticking off a form. ‘Well,’ he said, appraising me with his yellow-speckled eyes, ‘you won’t have such things in the Soviet Union.’
    My mother asked him what he meant, and he replied with distaste, ‘She is the daughter of a colonel of the Russian Imperialist Army. A supporter of the Tsar who turned his guns on his own people. She has his blood. And you,’ he sneered at my mother, ‘are of little interest to us but of great interest to the Chinese, it seems. They need examples of what is done to traitors. The Soviet Union just needs to call home its workers. Its young , able-bodied workers.’
    My mother’s face didn’t change expression, but she gripped my hand tighter, squeezing the blood out of it and bruising the bones. But I didn’t wince or cry out from the pain. I wanted her to hold me like that forever, to never let me go.
    With the room spinning and me nearly passing out from the pain of my mother’s grip, Tang and the Soviet officer made their devil’s bargain: my mother in exchange for me. The Russian got his able-bodied worker and the Chinese man got his revenge.
    I stood on the tips of my toes, reaching upwards to the train window so that I could touch the fingertips of my mother’s outstretched hand. She had pressed herself against the window frame so that she could be near tome. From the corner of my eye I could see Tang standing with the Soviet officer by the car. He was pacing like a hungry tiger, waiting to take me. There was much confusion on the station. An elderly couple were clinging to their son. A Soviet soldier shoved them away, forcing the young man onto a carriage, pushing him in the back as if he were a sack of potatoes not a person. In the cramped carriage he tried to turn to look at his mother one last time, but more men were pushed in behind him and he lost his chance.
    My mother gripped the window bars and hoisted herself higher so I could see her face more clearly. She was very drawn with shadows under her eyes, but she was still beautiful. She told me my favourite stories over again and sang the song about the mushrooms to calm my tears. Other people were reaching their hands out of the train windows to say goodbye to their families and neighbours, but the soldiers beat them back. The guard near us was young, almost a boy, with porcelain skin and eyes like crystals. He must have taken pity on us for he turned his back to us and shielded our last moment from the view of others.
    The train began to pull away. I held onto my mother’s fingers as long as I could, side-stepping the people and boxes on the platform. I tried to keep up but the train gathered speed and I lost my grip. My mother was tugged away from me. She turned back, covering her mouth with her fist because she was no longer able to contain her own grief. My tears stung my eyes but I wouldn’t blink. I watched the train until it disappeared from view. I fell against a lamppost, weakened by the hole that was opening up inside me. But an unseen hand held me upright. I heard my father say to me: ‘You will seem all alone, but you won’t be. I will send someone.’

T WO
The Paris of the East
    A fter the train had gone there was a pause, like the interlude between a flash of lightning and the sound of thunder. I was afraid to turn and look at Tang. I imagined that he was creeping towards me, crawling as a spider does towards the moth it has caught in its web. There was no need to hurry, his prey was trapped. He could linger and savour the pleasure of his cleverness before devouring me. The Soviet officer would already be gone, my mother