Zhang Li, I could see, was circling, reluctant to close in on a subject that was still painful no matter what he said about time and memories. “You came back after the Japanese surrender,” I said, helping him circle. “You’d been living in Hongkew, in the Jewish ghetto, is that right?”

“Yes.” He looked at me curiously. “How did you know that?”

“We’ve spoken to your brother. Mr. Zhang, why didn’t you tell me about him yesterday?”

“You came to ask whether my cousin had been offered Aunt Rosalie’s jewelry. What reason would we have to mention my brother?”

Asked directly like that, I couldn’t think of one, but it still felt weird. Maybe Mr. Zhang saw that in my face, because he said, “My brother brought us to America. For that we will always be grateful. But since our arrival-and it is now many years-we haven’t been close in the way of families. At first I tried to involve myself in his activities, and him in ours. But neither I nor my cousin has ever felt comfortable in his presence. I tried to ignore my feelings and extend the hand of friendship as family ought, but we never forged the bond I know my brother was hoping for.”

“He told me that. He still regrets it.”

“For that, I’m sorry.”

In the pause that followed, Bill rubbed out his cigarette but didn’t leave the windowsill. With a small sigh, Zhang Li resumed his story. “In early 1943, the Japanese ordered the Jewish refugees to relocate to Hongkew. Uncle Kairong had been arrested, then released, and had left Shanghai. Grandfather Chen tried to intercede on Rosalie’s behalf-she was pregnant, you see-but the Japanese wouldn’t hear him. I, of course, did not have to go to the ghetto, and Grandfather Chen would have preferred that I stay with him; but I had been entrusted to Aunt Rosalie by my mother, and she refused to leave me. I doubt”-he smiled-“that a Chinese daughter-in-law would have defied Grandfather Chen as Aunt Rosalie did. But she sat with him and argued, matching him point for point, in the way of her tradition. And one morning she and Uncle Paul packed boxes, hired rickshaws, and trundled me off to Hongkew.”

“Why did your grandfather let it happen?”

“Things had gotten steadily worse for Shanghai’s Chinese. The alliance with Germany had hardened Japanese hearts, never warm toward Chinese to begin with. But the Japanese respected the Jews. They created the ghetto but refused what to the Germans was the logical next step: extermination. They kept strict control over the ghetto with identity cards and curfews, but they managed Hongkew with a lighter hand than they did the International Settlement. Wealthy Chinese like my grandfather were in danger of being arrested, their property confiscated. My grandfather had already lost his factories and warehouses, as the Japanese took what would aid their war effort, or what their commanders fancied. Aunt Rosalie made the argument that I was safer in the ghetto than with him.”

“Was that true?”

“How am I to know? I did survive the war, so perhaps she was right. So did my grandfather, but not without being jailed twice. He paid large bribes to secure his release. What would have become of me if I’d been there, either to be taken away with him or left with the one remaining houseboy, I don’t know.

“In any case, soon after we set up house in Hongkew, my cousin was born, at a hospital the Jewish refugees had built for themselves. Although my grandfather’s own life grew more and more difficult, he sold family treasures on the black market to help look after us. For Hongkew, our quarters-four people in two rooms, with cold running water and a flush toilet under the stairs shared with just two other families-were luxurious. He sent food also, and books, and he came to see us. But he could not bring us out of the ghetto.

“Then in 1945 the Japanese surrendered. The ghetto was opened. Uncle Kai-rong came back and moved us to the villa. He left again, returning every few months. Until finally he came home for good, at the civil war’s end.”

Zhang Li refilled our teacups, rising to take the pot to Bill. When he sat again, I thought maybe he’d circled enough. “Mr. Zhang?” I asked. “The Shanghai Moon?”

He nodded and again looked off into nothingness. “By the war’s last days, wild chaos reigned. Shanghai was one of the last cities to fall to Mao’s army and therefore one of the last refuges of the desperate remnants of Chiang’s. Nationalist soldiers rampaged through the steets. They stole food because they were hungry, money to buy passage to Taiwan, clothing so they could discard their uniforms. They stole anything. They burned, they smashed, they beat, ravaged, and killed.

“It was a matter of time until our villa was struck. Three armed men…” He stopped to swallow some tea. In a voice creaky and fast, he said, “They burst in. Rags hid their faces. They rounded us up-Grandfather, Uncle Paul, Aunt Rosalie, Lao-li, the old houseboy, and myself-and demanded our precious possessions, even as they gaped at the empty walls and bare floors.”

Zhang Li’s unsteady hands clinked the lid off his teacup. “Forgive me. This is the first time I’ve spoken of that day. As children, even allowing ourselves to think about it put Lao-li and myself in terror of calling down more bad luck, of causing the loss of someone else dear to us. We’ve never spoken of it, and I’ve done everything I could to avoid revisiting it in my own mind. The oddness is this: Through the years that day has come back at times, unbidden, as terrible moments will. I’ve always thought every detail engraved on my memory so deeply that I’d never forget a single sight, a single sound. But when I look closely, to try to explain it to you, events appear jumbled and confused. Sounds evade my hearing, sights are inexplicable. I find only fragments.” After another moment: “I remember this: Grand father ordered the intruders out. There was shouting. Their leader swung at Grandfather with his rifle butt. Grandfather slumped and there was blood… Uncle Paul ran at them, screaming they could see for themselves we had no riches, everything was gone. One of the men punched his stomach, knocked him down. Lao-li was shielded, as I was, behind Aunt Rosalie, but at the blood, the blows, the shouts, Loa-li began to scream.

“In my next memory, one of the men has seized Lao-li and is slapping him repeatedly. Aunt Rosalie threw herself on him, this man. A second man tore her away, but she didn’t stop shrieking and struggling. It took both the men to force her to the ground. All this time the leader was beating Grandfather and shouting for treasures.

“Then the old houseboy-Number One Boy, who had been with the Chen family for decades, a thin man made skeletal by hard times-Number One Boy lifted a stool and smashed one of the men holding Aunt Rosalie down.

“The man crumpled. The other released Aunt Rosalie and ran at Number One Boy. Aunt Rosalie, hair wild and clothing torn, scrambled to her feet.

“The leader shouted, spun around, and fired.” Zhang Li’s eyes closed. He was silent so long I thought he’d finished, and I wondered whether I should say something, but Bill caught my eye and shook his head. Finally Zhang Li spoke again.

“Aunt Rosalie fell. Everyone turned to stone. Then Number One Boy seized the fallen man’s rifle and fired at the leader. But he was a houseboy, not a soldier. He missed his mark. The leader shot back, also wide, splintering a chair. The fallen man crawled to his feet. Their leader shouted an order, and they all turned and ran. Number One Boy chased after. I heard more shots, and finally silence. Number One Boy didn’t return.

“After that… I have a picture in my mind of myself and my cousin kneeling beside Aunt Rosalie, in silence. I thought he’d reach for her, try to embrace her, start to cry. He did none of those things. He didn’t move at all. I recall Uncle Paul saying in a soft voice that Grandfather was alive, then taking Aunt Rosalie’s hand. But I’d reached her first, and I knew she was not.