T he late afternoon light slowly streaked into my room , past the wooden shutters and onto my inky hair and midnight eyes . Refreshed after my afternoon nap , I stretched contentedly . There was a deep hush around me like a comforting blanket wrapping me in familiar routine . Our old house was still and quiet as it usually was , with just the two of us here . I knew Father would be scribbling busily in his notebooks , working on his latest story for the Shanghai Times newspaper at the large battered desk in his study downstairs .

Father and I lived here in the French Concession in the unique atmosphere that was so special about this area . In Father ’ s opinion , the buildings around us were much more interesting and full of character compared to the Chinese huitongs in other areas of Shanghai . We loved the sight of the warm earthy bricks that gave the houses their unique European flavour . Father and Mother had met when they were both studying in Paris , France and when they returned to Shanghai , they chose to make their new home in the Eastern French Concession . They said that there , they felt as if they were back in France , yet , they could still see the Huangpu River , the Bund and the famous landmarks of the hometown that they loved too .

My classmates used to tease me , “ Oh , you live with those European people , don ’ t you ”, “ Hey , you must be really rich and too good for us !”, “ Why don ’ t you go to a school with the Europeans !”

But we were not rich . We had a medium-sized house in the eastern area which had this amazing view . All I knew was that this was the place that my Mother and Father loved . It was our home .

Leaning on my windowsill , I gazed over the ancient wall which surrounded the Concession , part of which bordered our garden full of yulan trees , which you could see in many gardens here in the French area . Their branches were bare now but soon , in early spring , the white yulan flowers would bloom like bursts of hope for the springtime . When I sat in the garden in the Spring , the scent of the yulan flowers would make me feel all new and refreshed me . They would comfort me , too . The sight and fragrance bringing reminders of my mother and how she loved to tend the yulan trees before she went away .

My gaze tracked over the ancient wall and followed the shimmering , snaking Huangpu River in the near distance . I could just make out the bustling crowds strolling down the Bund . I imagined laughing families enjoying afternoon tea in the luxurious , glamorous Peace Hotel to the sounds of the string quartet , whilst dancing couples waltzed past .

It was so special when Father took me there for tea on my tenth birthday . The only dark cloud that marred my memorable occasion was when Father spotted some signs outside the hotel . They said that dancing was “ foreign ” and “ decadent ” and would be forbidden by the new Communist regime in Shanghai . I had never seen my light-hearted Father be as serious as when he bent down to me and said , “ Lily , since you were little , your Mother and I have tried to teach you to be free and believe only what you want to believe . Don ’ t let anyone or anything change your beliefs . You must follow your heart and not others ” I didn ’ t really know what “ decadent ” meant back then , so I didn ’ t really know what all this meant or how to make sense of it all . Now , I understand what he was trying to tell me .

My nostalgic memory was suddenly interrupted by the sound of voices outside our garden . That was followed by the sound of an automobile engine and slamming doors . I looked outside towards the noise and glimpsed the back of a man being dragged by two hefty men , one on each side gripping the man ’ s arms in a menacing lock . One of

Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 12 | Page 259