About This Novel
In January 1932, it was surprisingly cold in Shanghai, but there was no snow, only wind. On both sides of the Huangpu River, homeless people died of cold and starvation every day, and were thrown into the river by Indian policemen wearing turbans. As the tram passed by, the handsome young man wrapped in a coat let out a long sigh. He is not wearing a hat. The black hair was not neatly combed, and the serious, youthful face looked a little tired and slack. He got off at an unknown station. There was no one around, and the noise of the motor was all that was heard. This is the territory of the French Concession, and large Paulownia trees are planted densely on both sides of the road. More than four months have passed since September 18th. Not to mention how weak and incompetent the Nationalist government is, it is now seen that Shanghai, the largest city in the Far East, is about to follow the footsteps of the three eastern provinces and fall into the hands of the Japanese. Isn't this biting cold wind just the smoke of desolation?
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