Chapter 1 Prologue

  It was an August morning in Brookings, a small coastal town on the West Coast of the United States. Roses were blooming outside the only bakery on Main Street, not because they had forgotten the season, but because this place was warm in winter and cool in summer, with all four seasons like spring.

  Like many small towns around the world, this place has a slow pace of life and simple folk customs. Going to the bakery in the morning is enough for many old neighbors to complete an efficient social activity.

  Let's take this August morning, for instance. People who had bought their breakfast bread lingered, either standing or sitting, and chatted about a piece of news in the local Brooklyn newspaper. The news reported that an elegant elderly couple from China had passed away together the night before - yes, together, within less than half an hour of each other. This was not a murder or suicide case as you might imagine, but reality is even more dramatic - their long and fortunate lives ended on this day, as if they had made an appointment to depart together.

  These were two elderly women, both over eighty years old, who were found on a hill overlooking the sea. One was quietly sitting in her wheelchair while the other leaned against it, just as many people had often seen them before. It is said that their weathered faces looked very peaceful, and what they faced was the endless Pacific Ocean.

  "Perhaps they are gazing in the direction of their homeland - China." said Hanna, the owner of the bakery.

  "That makes sense." Someone chimed in.

  "Do you know?" said Mr. Peadon, the principal of the town's only private school, "I like the way the newspapers described them - 'two brave anti-fascist fighters'. You see, the anti-fascist war is a world war, in which nations and races are irrelevant."

  "Did they both participate in the war?" Old Jack exclaimed, a World War II veteran who was extremely sensitive to the word "war".

  Many others also looked at Pae Tton together, and it was clear that many people did not know much about the two old neighbors who had been together for decades.

  "Not bad, during World War II these two Chinese old ladies, no, at that time they should still be two young girls, were active on the Chinese battlefield, stubbornly resisting the invasion of Japanese fascism."

  In the small bakery, there was another murmur of admiration, including some neighbors who had previously been ambiguous about their sexual orientation, and now they also sincerely rose up with a thread of respect.

  This brief silence was soon broken by my mother and me entering the bakery, where she still politely greeted everyone while trying to hide her exhaustion. Almost immediately, almost everyone opened their arms to us, this is a Western nation that does not shy away from physical contact, people want to use a hug, a kiss, a "condolence" to share some of someone else's pain and memories.

  "Thank you, Hannah. Thank you, Michael. Thank you, Jack..." The mother hugged everyone one by one. "My two mothers passed away very peacefully, they can be said to have left with a smile," the mother's voice was not loud, but calm and clear.

  Not bad, these two Chinese old ladies are my family members, to be more precise, one is my Yu outer grandmother and the other is my Jin outer grandmother. They left the world on a warm summer night in the year 2000, when humanity entered a brand new century, and people of all ethnicities, rich or poor, noble or humble, temporarily forgot their differences and celebrated this historic moment together. On New Year's Eve, I, at the age of 17, accompanied my two grandmothers to watch the fireworks by the sea, and I still vividly remember the happy and contented smiles on their faces under the reflection of the fireworks in the sky. For a brief moment, I had an illusion that I saw two young and beautiful faces smiling sweetly at each other on a night when fireworks were blooming...

  After the funeral, my mother and Aili spent a long time sorting out their belongings, mostly books, clothes, and some nostalgic trinkets. One day, my mother sat down beside me with several old books in her hands.

  "These, I want to give to you." My mother's voice was a little heavy. Since my birth, she insisted on speaking Chinese with me at home, even though she grew up in the United States herself. But Mother said we cannot forget this ancient language that has been passed down for thousands of years.

  "What is this? Grandma's thing?" I took it over and flipped it in my hand.

  Those weren't books, but several sheepskin notebooks that looked like they had been carefully protected by their owner. They were a bit old, with paper that was yellowed to varying degrees.

  "That's right, this is an unpublished autobiography co-written by two grandmothers."

  "Grandma's Autobiography?" I turned to the first page, where it was written: To our descendants. Spring 1974.

  That was the familiar handwriting of my grandmother, elegant and powerful. Further flipping through, it was indeed the intertwined handwriting of two people. They say that one's writing reflects their personality, and my grandmother's writing embodied a strong yet gentle elegance with a hint of subtle emotions and a carefree spirit.

  "Take good care of it, take a look when you have nothing to do, maybe you'll get some inspiration." My mother rubbed my hair.

  I nodded, which was tantamount to agreeing, but as for what kind of inspiration I would get, I didn't seem to have high expectations.

  When everything returned to calm, I left Brookings and went back to school. The autobiography of my two grandmothers was also brought back by me. At first, it was out of curiosity that I flipped through it when I had nothing to do, but somehow, those stories seemed to have a kind of magic power, attracting me to read on day and night until a month later when I finished reading all of them. I even felt a kind of melancholy after finishing the book, and I thought that in the past seventeen years, I had never been so close to my two grandmothers.

  This is too crazy!

  These few notebooks not only brought me closer to my two grandmothers, but also made me feel that the distance between myself and China, and that period of history, suddenly narrowed! You see, "China" for me, born here, was just an ancient country on a distant eastern land. I knew I had black hair, black eyes, and yellow skin, my mother and grandmothers often spoke to me in Chinese, I liked eating the Chinese food they made... but I never had any idea of going there to take a look; as for history, it was the subject that interested me least - things that happened so long ago, with everyone having different opinions, I used to stubbornly think that all history books were biased, we didn't need to delve into those uncertain old affairs...

  An idea was born, either accidentally or inevitably. I want to go to that distant eastern country, which is said to be the birthplace of our black-haired and yellow-skinned race, to take a look and find the traces of my grandmothers' youth.

  I told this idea to my mother over the phone, and Aili was also sitting beside her, listening to my almost crazy ideas with a handsfree key.

  Her mother was silent for a moment and asked: "Do we need to go with you?"

  "No need, mom, thank you. I think I can handle it myself." I declined my mother's offer, wanting to have this trip all to myself.

  In November, after all the formalities were completed, I embarked on this journey that has been haunting my dreams alone. My destination was an ancient capital called Nanjing. The plane would land in Shanghai, where I would search for the places where my maternal grandmother used to live, as well as Bailian Road, now known as Changning Road, and the ruins of a noble girls' school called Saint Mary's. Then, I would take the train from Shanghai to Nanjing, to find the place where two grandmothers met, fell in love, and promised to be together until death, to look for their stories. If they were still with me in spirit, they would surely accompany me on this revisit of old haunts, I thought.

  On the plane, I reopened this story. It doesn't start with birth like a traditional autobiography, but chooses this turning point that is extraordinary for them:

  "On November 9, 1920, the Saturday after the beginning of winter, on the battered railway from Shanghai to Nanjing, I sat alone in a first-class carriage of the 'Blue Steel Express'..."

  Crossing the Pacific was a long process, and before I knew it, I had fallen asleep with my laptop in hand. In my dream, I vaguely saw two grandmothers who seemed to be about my age, smiling at me from afar. They were wearing cheongsam dresses from the Republic of China era, with their hair styled in a side bun, looking elegant and refined.