by Daniel Kalla
CHAPTER 45
Three days after the wounded Japanese sailors had been rushed to the refugee hospital, Franz hurried through his ward rounds and returned home before noon. He found Esther and Simon nestled together on the overstuffed sofa in the sitting room. Hannah sat in the chair in the corner with her cello between her legs. Sunny moved between them, a teapot in hand. Hannah pushed the cello aside and rose to greet her father.
Simon pointed at Hannah’s cello. “You missed it, Franz. That girl of yours is terrific. Carnegie Hall terrific, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Oh, Onkel Simon!” Hannah groaned. “I am still not good.”
Esther patted Simon’s wrist. “My husband is right, Hannah. Once you get past his American tendency to exaggerate, of course. Your improvement is wonderful. You must keep practising now.”
Franz mussed her hair gently. “Will you play again for me, liebchen?”
“Later, Papa.” Hannah pulled away from him and fixed her hair. “I am off to meet Natasha now.”
“Give my best to Mr. and Mrs. Lazarev,” Franz said. “And have a glass of water before you leave. It’s scorching hot outside.”
“Oh, Papa, don’t worry so much. I’m not a little girl anymore,” Hannah said as she packed up her cello and hurried out of the room.
Franz watched her go, astounded by how his daughter had changed in the past year. Her limp was almost imperceptible. And he could not deny that she resembled a teenager more than a child.
“Sunny, may I speak to you in the kitchen?” Franz asked.
“Don’t blame your poor wife for our presence.” Simon chuckled. “We invited ourselves over.”
“It concerns a patient, Simon,” Franz said. “We will only be a moment.”
Franz and Sunny stepped into the kitchen and he shut the door behind them. “The man whose leg I amputated three days ago,” he said, referring to the sailor with the scarred lip. “He died from his wound infection.”
Sunny showed no response.
Franz folded his arms around her and pulled her into his chest. “It’s over now, darling,” he whispered into her ear.
“I suppose it is,” she murmured into his shoulder.
“I still do not understand why you waited a day to tell me that he was the one who had killed your father.”
Sunny wriggled out of his embrace. “If I had told you before the surgery, Franz, would you have still operated? Would you have tried as hard as you did to save his life?”
“Yes.” He considered the question further. “Perhaps not. I can’t be sure. What he did to you and your father … I will not lie, Sunny. I am relieved that he is dead.”
“I am too,” she said. “But—oh, Franz—I almost killed him with morphine. I was wrong to have ever considered it. And I worried you would be tempted to do something similar. I couldn’t let you. Especially not in a hospital, of all places.”
Before he could say anything, the hallway phone jangled.
Sunny walked out to answer it. A moment later, she came back to get him.
Franz picked up the receiver.
“Dr. Adler, Herr Silberstein calling,” Schwartzmann said gravely.
“Sorry to disturb you, but I was hoping you might be free to meet me at the usual place.”
“Of course, Mr. Silberstein. When?”
“Would in half an hour be inconvenient?”
“So soon?”
“It really is rather urgent.” “Natürlich.”
Back in the sitting room, with Hannah departed, Simon’s expression had turned grave. “Franz, we have to talk about Grodenzki. I have a lead on a radio transmitter—”
Franz held up his hand. “Not now, Simon. I have to go meet Hermann. It sounds urgent.”
Esther straightened. “Schwartzmann? What does he want?”
“I am not sure, but I think there could be trouble.”
Tight gasoline rationing had kept almost every civilian car off the road, including taxis. The once-thriving rickshaw trade had withered as people saved their money for essentials such as food and coal, the prices of which had soared under occupation. Franz covered the more than two miles to Public Garden on foot. He was drenched in sweat by the time he reached the park.
Schwartzmann sat on their usual bench wearing a three-piece wool suit despite the heat. At the sight of Franz, he rose from the bench with a hand extended. “Good afternoon, Dr. Adler. I trust married life agrees with you. Is Mrs. Adler well?”
Franz shook his hand. “Very well indeed, thank you.”
“Wunderbar. Delighted to hear it.” Schwartzmann pointed with the bowl of his pipe toward the pathway that led away from the gazebo and through the garden. “It’s such a lovely day. Shall we stroll?”
Franz’s concern rose. They had never left the bench on previous encounters.
As they walked, Schwartzmann indicated the sparse flower beds lining the pathway. “Not quite the same as in other years, is it?”
In previous summers, the colourful peonies and roses were in bloom by summertime, but Public Garden, like most of Shanghai, had wilted under Japanese occupation and neglect. Schwartzmann stopped to examine a patch of dried, barren soil. “I am sorry to drag you out on such short notice, but I have news that I feel compelled to share.” “What news, Hermann?”
Schwartzmann glanced from side to side. “Have you heard of a man named Meisinger? Standartenführer Josef Meisinger?”
The SS title set Franz’s heart pounding, but he could not place the name.
Schwartzmann brought his pipe to his lips. “Meisinger is the highest-ranking Gestapo officer in Tokyo. Nominally, he is the police attaché at our Tokyo embassy, responsible for Reich security in all of East Asia. Of course, his unofficial duties go far beyond that.”
Franz’s internal alarm sounded, but he kept his tone even. “I see.”
Schwartzmann looked over his shoulder again. “Before Tokyo, Meisinger was in Warsaw. The chief of the Gestapo there.” He pulled the pipe from his lips. “He … ah … developed somewhat of a reputation in Poland.”
Franz swallowed. “What kind of a reputation?”
“Meisinger was known for his brutal methods. Even by SS standards. To the point that his own men gave him a rather crude nickname.” Schwartzmann cleared his throat. “They call him the Butcher of Warsaw.”
Franz’s mouth went dry. He glanced at the lifeless soil. “Is Meisinger here in Shanghai?”
“I saw him this morning. A man hard to miss.” Schwartzmann shook his head grimly. “Meisinger is not alone. He has come with a contingent of SS officers from Tokyo.”
“Why?”
“The SS is nothing if not secretive. They tell us diplomats as little as possible.” Schwartzmann stopped to chew on his pipe stem. “But I have heard rumours.”
The park was hot and silent. In the distance, a mother and her child walked hand in hand. But for Franz, the world stood still. “What kind of rumours?”
Schwartzmann viewed him with a sympathetic smile and held his hands out helplessly.
“Us?” Franz gasped. “These Nazis have come to Shanghai to deal with the German Jews?”
“I hear that they refer to you as ‘the escapees.”
Franz’s sweat-soaked shirt suddenly felt icy. “What do they have in mind for us?” His thoughts flashed back to the atrocities at Chelmno that Grodenzki had related three days earlier.
Schwartzmann averted his gaze. “A colleague in my office went out with one of Meisinger’s aides, an old school chum. They drank too much. He returned with … with outlandish tales.”
Afraid to ask, Franz held his breath and waited for Schwartzmann to continue.
“Apparently, Meisinger intends to present several options to the Japanese authorities here,” Schwartzmann said. “Options?”
Schwartzmann avoided Franz’s eyes as he spoke. “One plan involves tugging old barges that are no longer seaworthy out to the China Sea. Another concerns an undersupplied labour camp on a remote island
in the Whangpoo.” His voice fell to a near whisper. “Apparently, Meisinger even brought a canister with him that contained a substance called Zyklon B.”
Franz felt as though his throat was closing over. “What is Zyklon B?”
“I am told it’s a form of odourless cyanide gas contained within solid pellets.”
“God help us. They want to turn Shanghai into Chelmno!” “Chelmno? I am not familiar with the place.” “I will explain later, my friend. Thanks for this.”
Franz raced off without another word. He ran across the Garden Bridge and did not slow until he reached Japanese Military Headquarters at Astor House. Panting from his exertion and the heat, he called out anxiously to the group of sentries at the entrance, “I must speak to Colonel Kubota!”
A guard barked in Japanese and raised his rifle. Franz lifted his hands over his head. “Colonel Kubota or Captain Yamamoto, please! It is most urgent.”
The soldier jabbed the bayonet at him as though trying to scare away a yapping dog.
“Colonel Kubota! I must see him!” Franz cried.
The soldier raised the rifle butt to his shoulder and sighted Franz down its barrel. The guard beside him lifted his weapon too. Franz’s heart fluttered wildly, but he stood his ground.
The lobby door opened and Captain Yamamoto stepped out between the sentries. Bone straight, Yamamoto kept his arms rigidly at his side. His face was stone. “What is it, Dr. Adler?”
“I need to speak to Colonel Kubota.”
“The colonel is engaged.”
“Please, Captain Yamamoto, it’s a matter of life and death!”
Yamamoto stared back impassively. “Return here tomorrow at 0800. I will inform you if the colonel has time to see you.”
Franz’s mind raced, desperate to find a way into Kubota’s office. “Captain, lives are at stake. Just as they were the day I was brought to see General Nogomi in the hospital.”
Yamamoto stared hard at Franz for a long moment before he spun and marched off. “You stay here!” he called over his shoulder.
Franz waited at least ten minutes under the glare of the late afternoon sun and the withering stares of the guards. Finally, Yamamoto emerged from the building and motioned for Franz to follow him inside.
After dismissing Yamamoto, Colonel Kubota sat down across from Franz. The lines on his usually placid face were deeper than before, and he appeared almost embarrassed to see Franz. “You wanted to speak to me, Dr. Adler?”
“I am sorry to disturb you, Colonel,” Franz said. “I have just received information regarding a German delegation in Shanghai.”
Kubota stared at the inkwell on his desktop but did not comment.
“Apparently this delegation is headed by a Colonel Meisinger of the SS.”
“We met with them this morning,” Kubota said without elaborating on who else had been present.
Franz swallowed. “I realize that you must be far too busy to involve yourself in German politics, but I am concerned that these men intend the Jewish refugees harm.” Kubota’s pained expression confirmed Franz’s worst fear. “So it’s true?”
Kubota nodded. “Colonel Meisinger argues that as long as the German Jews are free to live in Shanghai, they will always present a security risk to our forces here.”
“Security risk?” Franz sputtered.
“‘Twenty thousand potential spies and saboteurs’ was how the colonel phrased it,” Kubota said.
Franz struggled to control his tone. “None of us Jews are so foolish as to think that we have any power to influence the outcome of the war.” He held his hands open in front of him. “We are only trying to survive. Nothing more.”
Kubota stared dead ahead. “The Germans realize that we do not share their policy of anti-Semitism.”
“So, instead, they are portraying us German Jews as security threats.” Kubota nodded.
Franz gripped his damp palms together. “And did they convince you?” “Not me, no,” Kubota said. “However, the security of Shanghai is not my responsibility.”
“Whose responsibility is it, Colonel?”
“Civilian order and counter-espionage falls under the authority of our military police, the Kempeitai.”
Franz’s stomach plummeted. “Colonel Tanaka?” “I am afraid so, yes.”
“And Colonel Tanaka could take actions against twenty thousand civilians on the recommendation of a few SS officers? What about his superiors in Tokyo?”
Kubota sighed. “In our system, the field command has almost complete autonomy when making decisions regarding issues of local security and order.”
“What about General Nogomi?”
“The general has the ultimate authority but …”
Franz rose partially out of his seat. “But what, Colonel Kubota?”
“The general tends not to interfere with security matters.”
Franz imagined hands on his back and felt as though his feet were sliding off the edge of a cliff. “I have heard rumours that the SS have specific plans to exterminate German Jews, Colonel. With rickety barges or poisonous gas.”
“I am not at liberty to discuss such matters, Dr. Adler.”
Franz dropped back into his seat. “Please, Colonel, I beg you.”
For a long silent moment, Kubota stared over Franz’s head. Finally, he said, “I found their proposal most dishonourable.”
“Did Colonel Tanaka approve their plan?” Franz croaked.
Kubota shrugged. “We did not give them an answer this morning.”
“There must be some way to stop this,” Franz said. “Colonel, please.”
Kubota looked down at his desk. “General Nogomi,” he muttered.
“Yes, of course, the general!” Franz nodded vehemently. “I saved his life.”
Kubota looked up and studied Franz for a moment. “I’m afraid, Dr. Adler, that alone will not be enough.”
CHAPTER 46
Tension permeated the sitting room. In the background, a BBC announcer sombrely described the Germans’ rapid advance toward the Volga River and the strategic city of Stalingrad. Normally, the Adlers, like other refugees, would have dissected every scrap of information, hoping for a hint that the Soviets were repelling the Nazis and turning the tide of the war. But after Franz’s update about the SS intentions for local Jews, the Russian Front seemed desperately remote and irrelevant.
The colour drained from Esther’s face. Simon’s jaw hung open. Sunny felt dazed, almost incapable of accepting her husband’s words as fact.
Franz glanced around the room, holding Sunny’s gaze the longest. He looked grey, lined and hopeless.
“Cyanide gas, Franz?” Simon muttered.
“Gott in Himmel,” Esther breathed. “Did Colonel Kubota tell you when the Japanese plan to give these creatures an answer?”
Franz shook his head. “It’s not his decision to make.”
“But surely the colonel will arrange for you to meet General Nogomi?” Esther said.
“He said he would try.”
“Try?” Simon jumped to his feet and began to pace the room. “Meantime, we can’t just sit around and wait for the Japanese to decide whether or not to hand us over to the Nazis.”
“Not you, Simon.” Franz shook his head. “Only German Jews like Essie, Hannah and me.”
“Not true!” Simon cradled his arm around Esther’s shoulder. “It’s all of us.”
“Simon is right,” Sunny said quietly. “We are in this together.”
Franz glanced apologetically from Simon to Sunny. “Of course we are. I am sorry.”
Simon shrugged his acceptance, while Sunny showed her husband a small smile.
“What else can we do?” Esther said hopelessly.
“I know Shanghai inside and out,” Sunny said. “I could find us somewhere to hide.”
“But for how long, Sunny?” Esther held up her palms. “This war could last years. We can’t hide forever.”
Simon turned to Franz. “What about Ernst? He managed t
o escape to the countryside.”
“We don’t even know that he made it alive,” Franz said. “Besides, I have Hannah to consider. Travel like that would be almost impossible for her.”
Sunny’s heart ached at the idea of Hannah being forced to flee into the wild countryside. Sunny had never expected to fall so quickly and completely into her role as the girl’s stepmother, but she already loved Hannah as though they were blood relatives. “I agree,” she said. “The countryside is no place for a twelve-year-old, especially Hannah.”
“Besides, I can’t just run away.” Simon ran a hand roughly through his hair. “Those refugees are like family. I can’t abandon them now of all times.”
“Surely there are alternatives,” Esther said to no one in particular. “What else, Essie?” Franz asked.
“Why must we always be on the defensive?” Esther’s soft voice resonated with indignation.
“What are you suggesting, Esther?” Sunny asked.
“The Nazis hold no more authority in Shanghai than we do,” Esther said. “They have to rely on the Japanese to approve their monstrous plans.”
“Right.” Simon turned to Franz. “So we’d better damn well persuade the Japanese—and that General Nogomi guy you patched up—to hand the Nazis their walking papers!”
“Of course, that would be ideal, darling.” Esther stroked the back of her husband’s hand. “But in case we cannot persuade them, perhaps we can exert our own influence.”
Simon straightened. “You’re right! Why should those bastards—with their poison gas and leaky barges—feel any safer here in Shanghai than we do?”
Sunny glanced over to Simon with concern. His face had darkened and his eyes burned recklessly. Esther noticed it too. She brought a hand to her lips. “Simon, I am not suggesting violence.”
“Why not?” he grumbled. “How many guards could these Nazis possibly have?”
“Simon …” Esther whispered.
“Some of our young refugees are real fighters.” Simon motioned wildly in the air. “Several even had military experience with the old Shanghai Volunteer Corps. They’re chomping at the bit for a chance to get into the action. Maybe this is it.”
