“What’s happening?” Alisa asked, raising her voice to be heard over the rain. “I thought there was a purge. Why aren’t they afraid?”
Her blond hair was plastered to her neck and shoulders. Juliette was not faring much better; at least she hadn’t bothered with finger waves, so it was only black locks stuck to her face, not pomade running in a sticky mess.
“Because you cannot kill everyone in one day,” Juliette replied bitterly. “They went for their most prominent targets using the element of surprise. After that, the workers still hold the numbers. As long as people at the top are putting out the call, there will be people at the bottom ready to answer.”
And answer they did. The farther Roma, Juliette, and Alisa walked—delving deeper into the city and closer to the Bund—the more the crowds thickened. It became startlingly clear that those on the streets were all congregating in one direction: north, away from the waterfront and in the direction of Zhabei. It wasn’t only students anymore. Textile workers were on strike; tram conductors had abandoned their posts. No matter how powerful the Nationalists had grown, they could not hide the news of a purge. No matter how much fear the Scarlet Gang once incited, they had since lost their grip on the city. They could not threaten its people back into submission. The people would not stand for murder and intimidation. They would be heard.
“No one is going in our direction,” Alisa noted as they turned onto a main road. Here, the numbers were almost paralyzing. If the back gave one rough push, the crowd would gridlock. “Won’t we get caught leaving by sea?”
Roma hesitated, seeming to agree. That slight moment of pause had him almost colliding with a worker, though the worker hardly blinked—he merely resumed with his call: “Down with the imperialists! Down with the gangsters!” and continued onward.
“We have to take our chances,” Roma said, his eyes still tracking the worker. When he turned away, he caught Juliette’s gaze, and Juliette tried for a small smile. “There is no alternative.”
“What about the countryside?” Alisa kept asking. Her pace faltered. “It is chaos here!”
They were coming upon the Bund. The usual picturesque buildings rose into view—the Art Deco pillars and tall, glowing domes—but everything looked muted in today’s light. The world was covered in a sheen of gray, a cinema picture that had been filmed with a lens not wiped clean.
“Alisa, darling,” Juliette said, her voice soft. “We’re already under martial law. The Communist leadership is scrambling to run, and the Nationalist leadership is scrambling to eliminate. By the time we skirt into the countryside and reach another treaty port for escape, the Nationalists will have taken over there, too, and we will be stopped. At least here, we can take advantage of the chaos.”
“So where are they?” Alisa asked. As they arrived at the Bund, coming within sight of the Huangpu River’s rocking waves, Alisa looked around, searching beyond the protesters, beyond their shouting and sign-waving. “Where are the Nationalists?”
“Look at where everyone is going,” Juliette said, inclining her head. North. With so much freshly spilled Communist blood on the ground, the Kuomintang were focusing their attention on newly vacated police stations and military headquarters, ensuring they had their people behind the desks. “The Nationalists are off straightening all their bases of power. The workers will go there too—will flock to those bases in hopes of making some difference.”
“Don’t get too relaxed,” Roma added. He turned his sister’s face, nudging her chin until she looked upon a particular tense spot in the crowd. “Though there are no Nationalists, they have placed Scarlets.”
Juliette gave a small intake of breath, mostly lost when a clap of thunder came over the city. She brushed Roma’s elbow, and his hand came to grasp hers. The both of them were soaked to the bone, as was the string around their ring fingers, but Roma held on gently, like they were merely reaching for each other on a morning stroll.
“Come on,” Juliette said. “With all these people, let’s find a good place to wait.”
In Zhabei, the surviving leadership of the General Labor Union were shouting over one another and banging their fists against the tables. People in suits mingled with people in aprons. Celia sat back and looked on, her face utterly impassive. They were occupying a restaurant refashioned into a stronghold, tables and chairs pushed into clusters, with one large cluster in the middle leading the work. She couldn’t comprehend how anybody was being heard over the uproar, but they were—they were communicating and acting as fast as they could.
A petition was being drawn up. Return of seized arms, cessation of the punishment of union workers, protection for the General Labor Union—these were collated into demands and then rolled up, prepared to be brought to the Nationalists’ Second Division headquarters. Even if it killed them, the Communists did not accept defeat.
“Up and at it, girl!” someone bellowed into her ear. They were bounding through the crowd and screaming at others before Celia could even turn and see who it was. The workers pumped their fists into the air and yelled at one another, chants ringing from their mouths before the demonstration through the city could even begin.
“No military government!” they roared, laughing as they tackled one another, bursting onto the streets and into the pouring rain. “No gangster rule!” They joined the crowds already present in west Shanghai, merging into one, unearthly procession larger than life itself.
Hands pushed at Celia to rise, and then she was up, her head still ringing.
“No military government!” the old woman beside Celia yelled.
“No gangster rule!” the child in front of Celia yelled.
Celia stumbled out from the restaurant, onto the pavement, and into the rain. The streets had come alive. This wasn’t the glittering, glimmering old money of Shanghai: bright lights and jazz music shining from the bars. This wasn’t red lanterns and golden lace trim on the dresses of dancers in the burlesque clubs, one swish of fabric that pulled the crowds into exuberance.
This was animation from the gutters of the city, rising amid the ash of low-ceilinged factories.
Celia raised her fist.
It was the new set of footsteps entering the office that finally forced Benedikt to perk up, shaking himself out of the near trance he had put himself in to remain quiet. It was the way the sound came in: shoes dragging, deliberate.
Benedikt didn’t have to see Marshall to know that it was him. Nor did he have to see him to guess that Marshall had his hands stuck in his pockets.
“The cars that Lord Cai sent are here,” Marshall said. He was feigning casual, but his voice was tight. “They’re ready for everyone.”
Benedikt listened hard, trying to gauge how many Nationalists were pulling their coats off the backs of their chairs and filtering out of the room. The office hadn’t been that full to begin with, yet he didn’t hear enough footfalls exiting. Indeed he was right when another conversation started up between General Shu and someone else, debating their next move for the Communists who had escaped.
“Érzi,” General Shu said suddenly, summoning Marshall to attention. “Where are the letters for central command?”