Zong Ying stepped out of the villa and waited in the garden outside.
Looking up, she could see the pristine glass windows of the second-floor drawing room. The heavy curtains blocked nearly all the sunlight, allowing only a thin sliver to struggle through.
She lowered her gaze and finally had the chance to pull out a cigarette case and light one.
The summer trees were lush, and the cicadas chirped tirelessly. The mansion seemed to exist in an isolated tranquility, maintaining its own rhythm regardless of the outside world.
Yet contrary to expectations, the drawing room upstairs was filled with anxiety, anger, and long-held grudges—many conflicts on the verge of erupting.
Sheng Qingrang had made it clear that the war in Shanghai was inevitable. Acting on behalf of the relocation committee, he was attempting once more, through personal connections, to persuade his eldest brother, Sheng Qingxiang, to move the Sheng family factories in Yangshupu, Nanshi, and the International Settlement to the interior.
This was far from the first time Sheng Qingrang had broached the subject. His eldest brother had gone from complete indifference to being overwhelmed by the chaos, yet he still couldn’t bring himself to commit to relocating the factories—
After all, it was a monumental undertaking, entirely different from an ordinary family’s evacuation.
For a household, moving merely meant packing a few suitcases, boarding a train or ship, and finding temporary lodgings upon arrival.
But for a factory of such scale, the word "relocation" encompassed dismantling machinery, crating, transportation, securing workshop leases inland, and resuming operations—none of it remotely simple. Not to mention the countless personnel and financial issues that would arise.
In wartime, rashly moving such a massive factory inland was uncharted territory. Just the thought of it seemed fraught with peril, the outcome uncertain.
The ashtray lay lifeless on the floor, and Second Sister’s Husband’s cigarette had gone out. Without fresh smoke curling upward, the room seemed to stagnate.
The eldest brother’s portly frame sank into the leather sofa as he listened to Sheng Qingrang continue explaining the "relocation subsidy regulations." His eyelids drooped slightly, fatigue evident on his face.
Perhaps it was already too late, he thought.
Rather than gambling on so many unknowns and risks by moving the factories inland, why not take a chance? Maybe the war wouldn’t last long. Or perhaps the Sheng ancestors would watch over them, sparing them from the worst of the bombings.
Having made up his mind, the eldest brother found Sheng Qingrang’s voice increasingly grating.
He furrowed his brow and snapped, "Enough! Get out!"
Sheng Qingrang didn’t rise but fell silent, his sickly pallor masking a quiet resignation.
Qinghui, sensing the tension, interjected, "Third Brother, let’s go out for coffee."
Instead of responding, Sheng Qingrang placed several tickets he had been holding onto the coffee table. "Rajputana—sailing to Hong Kong on the 17th. Five berths. The family might find them useful."
His voice was calm, devoid of any edge, spoken purely out of goodwill.
Second Sister, who had remained silent until now, let out a cold scoff. "British ship tickets? What’s the meaning of this? Showing off your connections at the Municipal Council?"Sheng Qingrang stood up with his briefcase, feeling light-headed as he walked to the door. With his back to the room full of people, he spoke softly, "The factories in Yangshupu are directly exposed to enemy fire and are the most vulnerable. If there are any losses, prepare the documents to nominally transfer ownership to the Germans. Just backdate the paperwork and register it at the German consulate. This way, we can at least apply for some compensation from the Japanese military to mitigate the damages."
After speaking, he opened the door and stepped out, only to bump into his young nephew after a few steps.
The child looked up at him and deliberately dropped a glass marble onto the ground, hitting Sheng Qingrang’s foot.
Sheng bent down to pick it up, gripping the marble tightly in his hand. He only said to the child, "Don’t throw things around," before stepping past him and heading downstairs.
Outside, the sun blazed mercilessly, and there wasn’t a hint of wind.
Zong Ying stood by the door smoking a cigarette. As Sheng Qingrang approached her, the abrupt scent of milk mixed with the smoke rushed into his nostrils.
Noticing his arrival, Zong Ying quickly stubbed out the cigarette. Her tongue instinctively licked her dry lips, tasting the smoky sweetness lingering there.
"Ready to go?" she asked.
"Let’s go." Sheng Qingrang watched as she clenched the extinguished cigarette in her palm. He hesitated to say more but ultimately lowered his head and walked ahead.
Uncle Yao opened the gate for them, and the two got back into the car. The interior now carried the stifling heat of the sun, the temperature noticeably higher.
The driver asked, "Where to next, sir?" Sheng Qingrang replied, "33 Sichuan Road."
With that, he closed his eyes. Zong Ying didn’t know he was heading to the Relocation Committee to report back, but she didn’t ask, sitting quietly as she gazed out the window. The car moved forward, the streets passing by in a blur. Though desolate, at least it was peaceful.
When they reached Suzhou Creek, the car was forced to stop. The driver turned around and said, "Sir, we can’t get through."
Sheng Qingrang opened his eyes, and Zong Ying leaned forward to look. The narrow bridge was piled high with machinery and equipment awaiting transport, while the opposite shore was crammed with workers and refugees fleeing from the north side of Suzhou Creek, leaving almost no room to pass.
Their only option was to take a detour.
After a long detour, they finally arrived at 33 Sichuan Road by noon. The sixth floor of the building served as the temporary office of the Relocation Committee.
Even as they reached the fifth floor, the sound of hurried footsteps from above was already audible—busy and chaotic.
Zong Ying stopped. "If my presence is inconvenient, I’ll wait downstairs. I’m actually hungry and could grab something to eat."
Sheng Qingrang didn’t stop her, only advising her not to wander too far before heading upstairs alone.
True to her word, Zong Ying went downstairs and walked north along Sichuan Road. She finally found a food shop still open, bought some biscuits and candy, and stood inside by the glass door, tearing open the biscuit packet. She ate half, her mouth dry and parched.
Stepping back outside, the sun was even harsher. A faint buzzing sound filled the air, almost like tinnitus.
She returned to No. 33 and waited downstairs for a while. When Sheng Qingrang still didn’t come down, she decided to head back up.
On the sixth floor, every office door was wide open. People hurried back and forth in the hallway—inspectors flipping through stacks of documents, accountants clacking away on abacuses, and telephones ringing incessantly.Someone hurried by with a water cup in hand, head bowed over some documents, nearly bumping into Zong Ying. Luckily, she dodged quickly, but water still sloshed out from the cup due to inertia, splashing onto the floor and leaving a wet patch. The person mumbled a hasty apology without even looking up, turned, and disappeared into a room.
In such urgent times, almost everyone was immersed in their work, forgetting themselves—only Zong Ying sat like an outsider, silent on the bench at the end of the hallway, eating one piece of candy after another.
It was already five in the afternoon when Zong Ying saw Sheng Qingrang again.
She straightened up and looked at him, pulling out another candy. Without a word, she unwrapped it and handed it to him. "Mr. Sheng, your blood sugar must be very low right now."
Sheng Qingrang took the candy, quickly turned away, and said, "There’s still one more place to go before dark. Let’s go."
So Zong Ying followed him downstairs again, hailed a taxi, and headed to the next destination.
The place wasn’t in the International Settlement but in "Little Tokyo"—the Japanese expatriate enclave. Along the way, they saw Japanese women in kimonos, carrying luggage and holding children, seemingly also preparing to evacuate Shanghai.
The car finally stopped in front of a residential house—a two-story building that looked neglected.
Only an elderly servant came out to open the door. Seeing Sheng Qingrang, he said, "You’re back, sir."
Sheng Qingrang asked, "Uncle Xu, have the bags been packed?"
The servant called Uncle Xu shook his head helplessly. "The master refuses to leave."
As they spoke, the three of them entered the house. In the south-facing living room was an opium bed, where a man in a long robe lay smoking, the windows tightly shut, filling the room with a foul stench.
The man on the opium bed suddenly coughed violently, shattering the murky silence.
Uncle Xu frowned and said to the man, "The young master has returned."
The man acted as if he hadn’t heard. After a long pause, he suddenly erupted in a hoarse, furious voice, "What are you here for?! To drag me to the Settlement or to Hong Kong?!" He coughed violently again. "I won’t go! I won’t go anywhere! Tell him to get out!"
Sheng Qingrang stood silently in the room for a long time without saying a word.
Amid the swirling smoke, the window grilles fragmented the setting sun’s glow, much like his shattered childhood—
His birth mother had no status. He was taken to the Sheng family as an infant, only to be adopted by his childless uncle soon after. Both his uncle and aunt were opium addicts, squandering nearly all the family assets they had inherited.
When they smoked too much opium, they beat him. When they had no opium, they beat him. When they lost at mahjong, they beat him too.
Too young, too weak—he barely had the strength to find a way out.
Cold sweat beaded on Sheng Qingrang’s forehead, his palms grew colder, and his eyelids drooped heavily. Suddenly, he closed his eyes, stepped outside, and Uncle Xu followed.
He handed Uncle Xu a thick envelope. "The boat tickets, money, and permits are all inside."
Uncle Xu took it, gripping it tightly with both hands, then bowed his head. "The master is in such a state now—your arrangements might end up being in vain. I’ll try to persuade him again."
The sky darkened further. Sheng Qingrang said nothing more and sat in the car for a long time. When the driver asked where to go next, he didn’t answer.
Zong Ying spoke up beside him. "Mr. Sheng, if there’s nowhere else to go, should we return to the apartment?"
Sheng Qingrang suddenly snapped out of his thoughts. "Apologies," he said, then added, "Let’s go back, then."The car started, and the sky gradually blended with the streets as sparse streetlights flickered on, with few pedestrians in sight.
Heading to Apartment 699 felt like a ship returning to harbor—no matter how long the journey, it was ultimately a return home.
Zong Ying leaned against the window and slowly exhaled, then turned her head to see Sheng Qingrang's profile again. His lips were pressed tightly together, his eyelids shut, his condition visibly poor.
When the car passed Sichuan Road once more, Zong Ying caught sight of the temporary office of the Relocation Committee, its lights still on in the night.
Suddenly, as if compelled by some unseen force, she spoke: "Why?"
Hearing her voice, he opened his eyes and countered, "Miss Zong?"
She turned back to look at him in the shadows and asked, "Why do something so thankless?"
Sheng Qingrang also noticed the still-lit building. After a long pause, he replied hoarsely, "China's industries are like seedlings in the snow—fragile to begin with. In a city as vast as Shanghai, with five thousand factories, if they're destroyed by war or fall into enemy hands, it would be a devastating blow to the industrial sector. Besides... without the support of industry, how can there be any hope of victory in war?"
Zong Ying fell silent, her hand slipping into her pocket to touch her cigarette case.
Then Sheng Qingrang suddenly said, "Miss Zong... you don’t need to hold back on my account."
After a moment’s hesitation, she pulled out the case and took a cigarette, striking a match to light it. It was pitch black, with only a thin gold band and the words "BLACK DEVIL" printed on the filter.
It burned in the darkness, its sweet smoke curling in the air. Frowning, Zong Ying asked, "Then, is there anything I can do to help you?"
Sheng Qingrang clearly hadn’t expected her to suggest such a thing.
"Miss Zong, this is not your era. I don’t want you to take risks," he said, his voice almost a sigh. "You know as well as I do—this is Shanghai’s last day of peace."
Author’s Note:
A few clarifications:
After the July 7th Incident in 1937, the Nationalist government, under immense pressure, had no choice but to prepare for war. One of their initiatives was establishing a Technical Cooperation Committee under the National Resources Commission (NRC), divided into 12 groups—mechanical, electrical, chemical, civil engineering, public utilities, finance, economics, law, etc.—each with five members, totaling 60 people.
On August 17, hundreds of British citizens boarded the Rajputana bound for Hong Kong.
"This is Shanghai’s last day of peace" was written by Harmsen, a French journalist working for Agence France-Presse.
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