The ship had entered Hangchow Bay. Passengers crowded the port side railing, pointing at the shoreline as the freighter surged through the bay’s muddy waters. Lian stood at the bow, scarf wrapped around her head and chin tucked into her fur-lined collar. Soon the waters turned even muddier as the freighter swung into the mouth of the Yangtze River and steamed its way toward Shanghai. The river traffic grew heavier at the confluence of the Yangtze and Huangpu Rivers, a sign that they were just around the bend from Shanghai.

The other sign that they were closer to Shanghai was the grim debris being carried out to sea. Human corpses, some wrapped in shrouds, others just floating naked. Lian turned away with a gasp at the sight of a child’s bloated body.

“River burial is the cheapest,” Dr. Mao said. “Poor families who want to do the right thing for their loved ones say a few words, burn a stick of incense, then slide the body into the river.”

“Aren’t there any cemeteries? Crematoriums?” Lian said.

“Shanghai’s crematories burn day and night these days,” he said, “and the poor can’t afford it. Every morning, cleaning squads pick up the bodies of those who’ve died overnight on the streets and in camps. Disease runs rampant in some of those camps. Last week it was cholera.”

“Tell me more,” she said. “Tell me what to be prepared for.”

“Chinese coming in or out of the Settlement are searched by Japanese soldiers,” Dr. Mao said. “Even when cars belonging to foreigners drive through checkpoints, their Chinese drivers must get out and bow to the soldiers.”

Rents were exorbitant, with landlords renting out by the room. Families of eight or nine crowded into one small space, cooked on charcoal braziers out on the sidewalk, emptied their chamber pots in the sewer drains. The doctor was lucky to have a room to himself, a single room he used as both office and home.

Dr. Mao fumbled inside his coat and pulled out a card. “I must get my baggage now, but if you are ever ill, Miss Hu, please come see me.”

LIAN PUSHED HER way down the gangplank to the wharf, where the grand European buildings of Shanghai’s famous Bund dominated the waterfront. She ignored the shouts of vendors, touts offering cheap lodgings, promising well-paid jobs. She was no gullible country peasant, ready to be swindled. She walked away quickly from the wharf with a display of great assurance, both arms firmly wrapped around the carpetbag Mrs. Deng had given her. It was new and more than adequate to hold her few belongings, but Lian missed her rucksack.

The city looked so normal. Men in business suits hurried along the sidewalks. Women in high-heeled shoes strolled together arm in arm, some wearing Western-style coats and hats, others the formfitting qipao dresses that Shanghai women wore so alluringly.