by Daniel Kalla
“No, Hannah, Ernst is not coming tonight,” Esther said.
“When will we see him again?”
“Soon, liebchen,” Franz said. “Sometimes artists become consumed by their work.”
Hannah giggled. “You mean his paintings are eating him?”
“Something like that.” Franz smiled. He treasured such small moments of naïveté; they were fewer now. In a month, Hannah would turn ten. Lean and lanky—she was destined to be tall like her mother—her face had already shed most of its childlike roundness. She was maturing into a lovely girl with poise and confidence. Where did my little child go?
Lotte gathered up Hannah’s sheets of music and rose from the chair. “I am to meet Aunt Clara for lunch. I must be going.”
Franz checked his watch, surprised to see that it was almost noon. “Yes, me too. I have to go to the hospital.”
“It’s Sunday, Papa. I thought we were going to the market.”
“Later, liebchen, but first I need to check on my patients.” And, since Sundays were the only days that Franz didn’t have duties at the Country Hospital, he often ran an afternoon clinic for new patients at the refugee hospital.
After goodbyes, which included an awkward hug with Lotte in front of Esther and Hannah, Franz headed out. He intended to walk, but the streets were soaked from the latest downpour. He had not seen the sun in weeks. None of the locals could remember a damper spring. Concerned that the passing cars might soak him with sprays of filthy water, Franz opted against taking a rickshaw and splurged instead on a taxi.
As the cab wove through the traffic of Frenchtown, the International Settlement and finally Hongkew, Franz realized how familiar Shanghai’s streets had become. Night soil men balancing loads on bamboo poles, corpses abandoned on the curbs, natives wandering the sidewalks in pyjamas and street dentists extracting teeth in public were all second nature to him. Even the aromas and stenches barely registered. Shanghai was still not home—he doubted it ever could be—but it felt more comfortable than he would have once dreamed possible.
The taxi driver dropped him off in front of the refugee hospital. Franz headed to the staff room. Sunny sat at the small table, using chopsticks to pick at a bowl of rice. “Good afternoon, Franz.”
“Oh, hello, Sunny.” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”
She smiled in the distant way that she had taken to since her father’s murder. “I promised Miriam I would cover her shift. It’s her son’s birthday.”
Franz slipped off his wet coat and hat and hung them on the rack. As casual as he tried to appear, he was aware of his pulse speeding. Though he had seen Sunny often over the past year and a half, she had only recently begun to emerge from the mourning that enshrouded her like a dense mist.
Sunny had returned to work within two months of her stabbing but, traumatized and heartbroken, she functioned more like an automaton. Almost a year passed before she approached Franz about accepting his offer to apprentice under him. It took months more before the sparks of her former self reappeared. When she emerged, it was like a bud blossoming. His attraction to her was stronger than ever; they were bound by grief now.
“How are the patients today?” Franz asked.
“Mr. Irving’s wound infection has improved. And I suspect Mrs. Klein could go home today.” She continued to list off the status of each of the patients.
“Good,” Franz said. “Sunny, on Tuesday Mrs. Kolberg is scheduled to have her gallbladder removed.”
“Would you like me to assist you?” “No.”
She jerked her head back. “No? Fr—Dr. Adler? Did I do something to …”
Franz fought back a smile. “I intend to assist you on this particular operation.”
Her face lit up. “Do you think I am ready?” “I am eager to find out.”
“I would like that,” she said quietly. “Very much. Thank you.”
“It’s time,” Franz said, drinking in her gratitude.
Sunny stood from the table. “I brought you something from home.” She rummaged through the bag at her feet and extracted a square leather box that Franz recognized as a Kodak Brownie box camera. “My father bought this seven or eight years ago. He claimed he never could find the time to use it.” She grinned. “Truth is, I don’t think he was much of a photographer. The few images I saw of his were almost too dark or blurry to identify.”
She held the camera out to Franz, but he waved it away. “Sunny, I couldn’t.”
Her cheeks flushed but she didn’t lower her hand. “I have no use for it, Franz. I would not even know which end to point. And I thought you used to enjoy photography in Vienna.”
He wavered, admiring the Brownie’s black-and-burgundy design. “Are you certain?”
“My father hated wastefulness,” she encouraged. “He would be very pleased to know that it might bring you some pleasure. So would I.”
“It will. Thank you, Sunny.” The weight of the camera in his hand filled him with excitement.
Sunny cocked her head. “Have you seen Dr. Feinstein today?”
“No. Is he in the laboratory?”
She bit her lip. “He does not look right, Franz.”
“Perhaps I should speak with him.”
Franz found Max hunched over his microscope in the cramped laboratory. When the internist looked up, his eyes were red and his face as pale as his lab coat. “What is it, Max?” Franz asked.
“Rachel,” Max gulped. “My daughter, Rachel.”
Max had not spoken of her in over a year. Rachel’s situation—trapped with her family in Germany after her husband had gambled, and lost, on the hope of landing an American visa—was tragically common among the relatives of the refugees in Shanghai. “There is news?” Franz asked.
Max nodded despondently. “We received a letter from a neighbour. A Gentile widow who was … was always kind to us. The SS … they took them away—Rachel, Erik and the children, all of them—to a ‘relocation camp.’ The letter was dated almost six months ago.”
“Perhaps …” Franz started but he couldn’t conjure any words of reassurance. “Oh, Max, I am so sorry.”
Max merely nodded and turned back to the microscope.
Franz trudged down the hallway to the makeshift clinic Simon and his men had constructed at the back of the building. Golda Hiltmann was already waiting with files neatly stacked on her desk. Frau Hiltmann had volunteered at the hospital ever since recovering from her ruptured ectopic pregnancy, but she would not be continuing the role for much longer.
“How are you today, Golda?” Franz asked.
“Wonderful.” Beaming, she patted the bulge of her abdomen that rose above her desk. “Only four more weeks to go.”
“So close.” He summoned a smile. “How many patients do we have today?”
“Six.” She gestured toward the closed door of the examining room as she handed him a chart. “The first patient is already inside.”
Without even glancing at the name, he opened the door and stepped into the room. The man in the navy three-piece suit stopped in mid-pace and turned to face him. The sweet smell of pipe tobacco hit Franz like a slap.
Schwartzmann! Hans? No … Hermann. Hermann Schwartzmann!
Franz barely even noticed the slender woman who leaned forward in the chair behind Schwartzmann. The diplomat offered Franz a contrite smile. “You remember me from the Conte Biancamano, correct, Dr. Adler?”
“I remember you,” Franz said coolly.
Schwartzmann’s lip and moustache twitched together. “How have you been?”
Franz’s expression was stone. “I am still here.”
“Good, good. Yes. I’m glad to see it.” Schwartzmann swung an arm to the pale silent woman behind him. “My wife, Edda. We have been in Shanghai all this time too. The longest stint yet.” He laughed nervously. “Not even sure whether I would recognize Germany anymore. Especially now, with the war measures at home. All things considered, Shanghai is probably a safer pla
ce to be during such uncertain times …”
Franz stood silently with arms folded across his chest, allowing the man to trip over his stream of words. “What do you want, Mr. Schwartzmann?” he finally asked.
Schwartzmann looked down at his feet. “I need your help.”
“My help?” Franz was too stunned for outrage. “Do you have any idea where you are?”
Schwartzmann looked back up at Franz with hands held open. “A hospital.”
“A hospital built for and run by the Jews your government drove out of Germany.”
“That … that is not my business,” Schwartzmann stammered.
Franz was dumbfounded. Schwartzmann waved a hand in front of his chest. “Please, Dr. Adler. I did not mean it that way. What I meant to say was—”
Franz regained his equilibrium and jerked his finger toward the door behind him. “My colleague has only just learned that his daughter, her husband and their three children were all dragged away by the SS for who knows where!” He tasted the bile in his mouth. “Do you suppose he will ever see them again?”
Schwartzmann shrugged. “I … I don’t know.”
“And you have the gall to come here to ask for our help?” Franz’s voice rose with each word.
Schwartzmann looked up at him with plaintive eyes. “Edda is sick,” he said hoarsely.
Franz glanced over to the woman again. She was not so much pale as yellow. She was clearly suffering from jaundice. “That is not my business,” Franz said, but the words felt wrong even as he spoke them.
Schwartzmann cleared his throat. “Edda has a tumour in her bile duct. It is obstructing her liver. The doctors call it a ‘cholangiocarcinoma.’ Without surgery, they say she will not …”
Franz looked over to Edda again. Eyes downcast, she remained motionless. He turned back to Schwartzmann. “There are several Gentile surgeons in Shanghai. Even some capable Aryan Germans.”
Schwartzmann’s shoulders sagged. “They were the ones who told me you were the only surgeon who could give my wife a fighting chance.”
Franz had not resected a cholangiocarcinoma in well over two years, but he had once held the reputation as Vienna’s best at the procedure. It was a challenging operation under the best of circumstances, and the refugee hospital lacked the delicate tools required. Franz shook his head. “It’s impossible.”
“Dr. Adler, I have no right to be here. By rights, you should throw me out by my coattails.” He motioned to his wife again. “My Edda is a good woman. She has never harmed a soul. For her sake, not mine. I am begging you, as a doctor and a human being … please.”
Franz stared at the man for a long moment. As he was about to speak, Edda pushed herself up with considerable effort. She smoothed her coat out and then took a halting step toward her husband. “Come, Hermann, we have taken enough of the doctor’s time,” she said in a gravelly voice. She turned to Franz with a weak but apologetic smile. “Please excuse us, Dr. Adler. I told Hermann it was an ill-conceived idea to come.” She glanced over at her husband, and her eyes filled with the kind of disapproving affection that only a lifelong spouse could muster. “He wouldn’t listen to me.”
Schwartzmann’s head dropped. “Yes, yes. Of course, dear.” Without looking at Franz, he said, “Thank you for your time, Dr. Adler.” He took his wife’s arm and turned for the door.
Franz looked down and studied his hands as the couple shuffled past him. “Please, Mrs. Schwartzmann,” he said, indicating the examining table. “Won’t you have a seat?”
CHAPTER 25
Breakfast time was the hardest. Before her father died, they had eaten together every morning. Sometimes they exchanged only a smattering of words, preoccupied by traded sections of the newspaper and their days ahead, but breakfasts without him were beyond lonely. Sunny had tried skipping them altogether. It didn’t help; the anguish would catch up to her later in the morning anyway, along with a headache.
Yang felt the emptiness too. The once quiet housekeeper had taken to filling in the sorrowful silence with incessant chatter. “Look at you, Soon Yi,” she said as she piled sticky rice dumplings and steamed fish onto the plate. They both knew Sunny would only peck at the food. “What man would want a skeleton for a wife?”
Sunny had always been slight, but she had not weighed under a hundred pounds since her fifteenth birthday. While she had pulled out of the worst of her grief, her appetite had yet to recover. The scale read ninety-seven pounds. Sunny didn’t care, but to appease Yang she forced down a few bites.
“Your auntie sends more letters,” Yang muttered.
Kingsley’s sister, Bing-Qing, had written to insist again that Sunny move in with her and her husband in their apartment in the International Settlement. Bing-Qing’s own children were married and long flown from the nest. Kingsley had never had much time for his older sister. Though raised under the same roof, as adults they were night and day in terms of their attitude and lifestyle. As much as Kingsley had embraced science and the Western way, Bing-Qing had veered in the opposite direction, gravitating toward an existence more traditional than even their parents had lived. Bing-Qing had disowned her little brother when he married the yang guiz—or “foreign devil,” as she referred to Sunny’s mother—and only reappeared to meddle in Sunny’s upbringing after Ida’s death.
Now Bing-Qing was at it again. In her latest missive, she decried it as shameful for an unmarried young woman to live alone in the city. She argued that Sunny’s dubious living circumstances brought dishonour to the entire family. Sunny suspected that, behind the indignation, her aunt had her eye on her inheritance, especially the family home in the upscale neighbourhood.
“Do not worry, Yang,” Sunny reassured her. “The Whangpoo will freeze over before I move in with my aunt and uncle, or let them move here.”
Yang nodded, hiding her relief in a flurry of tidying. “Sometimes, xiao hè, when you were not present, your father would call your auntie ‘The Padlock.’”
Sunny frowned. “Padlock?”
“Like the ceremonial ones parents place around their babies’ necks to ward off evil spirits.” Yang showed a rare smile. “Your father said that your auntie was as protective as a padlock because no evil spirit would ever have the patience to sit through one of her lectures.”
Sunny laughed, reminded again how glad she was to still have Yang with her. The tiny woman helped keep her father’s memory close. After his death, Sunny and Yang had reached the tacit understanding that she would stay on in her role, though Sunny didn’t require a full-time housekeeper. Her inheritance also allowed Sunny to keep Fai on as her driver. She felt indebted to Fai for his devotion to her father and for his bravery on the night of the attack. Besides, she was terrified of the prospect of walking alone through Hongkew after dark, knowing that her father’s murderer was still stationed somewhere at the docks. Everywhere Sunny went, especially in Hongkew, she kept an eye peeled for the sailor with the scarred lip, fluctuating between an intense desire to avoid him and a longing to find him. She had no idea how she would respond if they ever did meet, but for the first time in her life, she knew how absolute hatred tasted.
Sunny forced down a few more bites of dumpling and rose from the table. Outside, she spotted Fai standing at the curbside polishing a nonexistent smudge on the hood of the Buick. The street was dry for the first time in weeks, but grey clouds hovered above, threatening to correct their oversight at any moment.
“Hello, Missy,” Fai said. “Country Hospital or the other?”
“The refugee hospital. But Fai, first I am going to visit Father.”
As they drove, Sunny noticed that the trees had still not blossomed. Most years by April, the French Concession was at its loveliest, with cherry blossoms bursting out along the boulevards. However, this year, after a month of near-constant rainfall and cool temperatures, the trees were mostly still bare. To Sunny, they reflected the spirit of Frenchtown. The sidewalks bustled as busily as ever, but the collective mood had dampene
d as much as the blossoms. With Europe at war and the Japanese army surrounding the concessions in an undeclared siege, people wore their worry as plainly as their overcoats.
Fai slowed the car to a halt on the Bund in front of the Cathay Hotel, where Simon stood waiting with a small bouquet of white lilies in his hand.
Sunny had once regularly accompanied her father to visit her mother’s graveside. After recovering from her stab wound, she had ventured out to the graveyard once or twice a week. Today, though, was the first time that she would not be going alone.
As Simon climbed into the back of the car, he said, “Hope it’s kosher to bring flowers.”
“Of course.” Sunny smiled. “Thank you for coming, Simon.”
“Are you kidding? Thanks for letting me tag along. Your father was a good, good man. I’m honoured to go pay my respects.” She touched his elbow. “I’m glad you’re here, Simon.” “Anything for you, kid.”
Simon treated her as a concerned big brother would, and she loved him for it. However, in the weeks following her stabbing, she had felt smothered by her friends’ sympathy and concern. Simon hovered. Jia-Li hardly left her side. And Wen-Cheng and Franz practically tripped over each other on their frequent visits. Though she loved them all, what she craved most in those early months was solitude. Sunny did not want to think about what had happened to her father, let alone discuss it. She just wanted to withdraw from the world and from anything that reminded her of him. But as time passed, more and more, she came to relish the memories and wanted to share them with the people closest to her.
