WHEN CHANCELLOR ZHAO called an assembly, Shao suspected it was to announce their evacuation. Some of the students in the large auditorium grumbled, especially the ones whose hometowns were now occupied by the Japanese. They wanted to stand their ground. Some of Shao’s classmates had already dropped out and enlisted. Angry voices around Shao echoed his own hatred and feelings of helplessness.

The army would never let Nanking fall, it’s our nation’s capital.

I don’t care what my parents say, I’m enlisting. I can join our defenses at the city walls.

Women are volunteering too. First aid, couriers, emergency services.

In Tientsin, the Japanese had bombed Nankai University, then set fire to what remained of the campus. During a press conference with foreign journalists, the Japanese press officer had insisted it had been necessary to target Nankai University because it was an anti-Japanese base. In fact, they considered all Chinese universities anti-Japanese bases.

When Chancellor Zhao took the stage, a respectful but reluctant silence replaced the clamor. The announcement was as they’d expected. The Ministry of Education had ordered universities to get out of the enemy’s path. The government wanted students to continue their education in safety, far from the front lines. Schools must evacuate to cities inland where the government was setting up temporary campuses.

Minghua’s interim campus, they were told, would be in the city of Chengtu, deep in central China. They would take only what they could carry on this journey of a thousand miles.

A traveling campus, Shao thought. No, a refugee campus.

Then Chancellor Zhao cleared his throat. “I know how badly some of you want to enlist and defend our country. But war threatens not just people and places. It destroys knowledge, culture, and history. If we want China to have a future, we must save our cultural and intellectual legacy.”

“He’s going to tell us to stay in school,” the student beside Shao muttered.

Murmurs of protest rose from the audience then faded when Zhao held up a hand for silence. He paused to take a deep breath and Shao realized the elderly gentleman was trying to hold back tears.

“My dear young friends,” the chancellor said, “I can’t forbid you to enlist, but I ask you to consider that your educated minds will be the most valuable resource you can give our nation once this war is over.”

Exiting the auditorium, the students were quieter and more thoughtful than they’d been fifteen minutes earlier. Shao found the chancellor’s uncharacteristic display of emotion disturbing because it meant the situation was more dangerous than they’d all chosen to believe.