We took to the street, supporting my grandmother between us so she, too, could witness this moment. Hastily made bamboo victory banners thrust in the air, more and more firecrackers launched with every step we took. When we passed the racetrack, the speakers were broadcasting the emperor’s surrender, crowds cheering with each replay. And when the Americans rolled in on their tanks—my goodness. How they were applauded, their white teeth shining, soldiers handing out chocolate and gum to children with barely any clothing. Some of the Americans hoisted a rickshaw puller into his own rickshaw, then pulled him around, delighting in their strength to spare, hooting at their vitality, their ability to end a world war.

At home, we were finally able to draw back our heavy black curtains. They had remained closed to prevent bombers from seeing the light in our homes. Sunlight fell into the pencil company for the first time in years, illuminating the swirling dust, graphite mixed with isolation.

The Nationalists were to return to power, and the members of the puppet government were fleeing. Mr. Gao came by with a huge bag of white rice, only to be topped by Ah-shin who returned with meat and vegetables taken straight from the homes of those who had fled. We ran to our old school. Many of our classmates were there. We laughed and hugged and dreamed of what might come next.

We were eighteen years old. The last eight years of our lives had been spent in constant fear of the Japanese, and the past four, under actual occupation.

“Do you think you’ll leave Shanghai?” I asked.

“No,” you said. “Shanghai is my home now.”

We spent the afternoon with our former classmates, learning who had fled, who had stayed, and who had cooperated with the puppet government only to be punished now. It made me appreciate what our mothers had accomplished. Our family and the company were intact. It had been so long since we had seen the boys in our school. All of them had grown tall, if skinny from lack of nutrition. They laughed loudly and attempted to charm you.

One of them asked you out that very day. I was jealous at first—I was always jealous of you, you must know that—but that feeling quickly gave way to mirth. I saw you redden as the boy stared at you so eagerly, watched you glance away, glance at me, then focus only on the ground.

“She’ll go on a date with you if you buy a pencil,” I said. I took an unsharpened one from my bag. I had nothing in mind at that point, only an urge to tease him, and to embarrass you, and to bring back the story of a business transaction I was sure your mother would enjoy.