At the front door, their hostess was helping her mother into her coat. “I wish I could do more to help,” the woman said.

“It helped just talking to you, Jialing,” her mother replied. She clasped the woman’s hands. “No one else understands what it’s like to live in fear.”

When they got home, her mother slammed the front gates shut and leaned her back against them. “You were very good, Lian,” she said, her eyes shut. “Very obedient. Thank you.”

“The lady with the kittens,” Lian said. “Can we go back some other time? After we come back from Hangchow?”

Her mother didn’t seem to be listening. “Oh, those women, Lian. They didn’t want to let me in the door, but they didn’t want to miss the opportunity to look me over either.”

That was when Lian realized her mother was crying.

They boarded a train the following day. Once they’d settled in their compartment, Lian’s mother locked the door. She wouldn’t let Lian explore the rest of the train, not even walk to the dining car. Lian could only go out of their compartment to use the toilets. Lian read the few books she’d brought and gazed out the window at the wintery countryside, stripped bare of greenery.

Her mother lay down on the opposite seat, a wool shawl pulled over her legs, but her eyes were wide open. At noon the porter knocked on the door and Lian let him in to fill their teapot with boiling water from a huge kettle. Then Lian’s mother roused herself and brought food out from their wicker picnic basket. They ate a small meal of hard-boiled eggs with rice, a dash of soy sauce to add flavor. They shared a tangerine.

“Let me show you something,” her mother said, after putting away their food. She opened her travel case and took out a large brown paper envelope. She unfolded a document stamped with multiple red seals. “This is who we are now.”

Lian frowned as her mother ran her fingers down the words and read out loud. Hu Yinglien. Status widowed. Dependent, Hu Lian, daughter. Her own name, “Lian,” was the same. But their family name was “Jin,” not “Hu.” And her mother’s name was “Beihua,” not “Yinglien.” And her mother’s birth date was wrong. So was hers.

“Those aren’t our names,” she said, “someone made a mistake.”

“It’s not a mistake,” her mother said. “We’ll be using different names when we get to Peking.”

“Aren’t we going to Hangchow?” she asked.

“That’s what I told everyone, Lian,” her mother said, “so that if anyone looks for us, they’ll go to Hangchow instead of Peking. Peking is a huge city. We’ll be safe there.”