by Daniel Kalla
Franz felt his gut tightening. “The refugees?”
“All of the city’s Jews. The Russians and Shanghailanders too.”
“What did he say about us?”
“That you have no business being here.”
“Some surprise,” Franz snorted.
“Like a scratched recording, I realize. However, there was something different about it this time.”
“Different in what way?”
Ernst dug a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lit it. “He sounded almost . . . smug. As though . . .” He frowned, searching for the right words. “He kept talking about what he called the ‘Jewish question.’ It was as if he had some kind of plan.”
More than fearful, Franz suddenly felt drained, as though he had not slept in days. Almost five years and ten thousand miles separated him from Vienna—and Kristallnacht—and yet here he was being dragged back into the snake pit of anti-Semitism. It would never end. “Did the baron mention any specifics?” he mumbled.
“None.” Ernst shook his head. “Maybe it’s nothing. I could be wrong. I hope I am. But on my way out, I overheard a group of young men talking about their visit to the ghetto and how it could not come soon enough.”
Fighting off a shudder, Franz considered von Puttkamer’s recent visits to their neighbourhood. He had long suspected that they represented some form of reconnaissance, but what could the Nazis possibly have in mind? An old-fashioned pogrom? Like the way the Cossacks used to raid Jewish villages?
Ernst kept talking, but Franz was lost in his own thoughts. Before long, the artist stopped and stared at him expectantly. “Should I go, Franz?”
“Go where?”
“To meet von Puttkamer,” Ernst said impatiently. “In person. He and my neighbour were school chums in Berlin. He says he will take me to dinner with the baron and his inner circle.”
“You really think you can infiltrate that group?”
“Why not?”
Before Franz could list the many reasons that came to mind, the growl of an engine drew his attention. Moments later, a Japanese military vehicle pulled up to the curb beside them. As soon as it crunched to a stop, the driver climbed out and hurried over to open the rear passenger door. A young officer emerged, followed by Ghoya in his usual pinstriped suit. After Ghoya, Colonel Kubota emerged and struggled to pull himself upright in the street. He waved off the young officer’s extended hand and eventually reached his feet without assistance.
Ghoya motioned to Franz and exclaimed, “Dr. Adler!”
Franz’s stomach plummeted. His eyes involuntarily shifted to Ernst, who, despite a slight pallor, looked as calm as ever. Ernst had once practically ripped a painting off Kubota’s wall to protest the atrocities the Japanese were visiting upon the Chinese, particular the family of his lover. Franz knew that Ernst’s new hairdo and beard would never deceive the colonel.
Ghoya led Kubota over to them. The little man waved a hand at Ernst as though he were not even present. “This man. I do not recognize him, Dr. Adler. He is not a refugee?”
“No.” Franz said, meeting Ghoya’s gaze. “We are old friends from Vienna.”
“Is he a Jew?”
Franz’s heart beat in his throat. “No, as I said—”
“I have been called worse.” Ernst chuckled as he extended a hand to Ghoya. “My name is Klimper. Gustav Klimper.”
Looking surprised, Ghoya met the handshake. Ernst turned and offered a hand to Kubota. The colonel viewed him carefully, but his lined face gave away nothing. Finally, he transferred his cane to his unsteady left hand and reached out with his right. “I am Colonel Kubota.” A small smile appeared on his face. “Your name, it sounds very similar to that famous Austrian artist.”
“Gustav Klimt.”
Kubota nodded. “Yes. I greatly admire Klimt’s work. In fact, I have become somewhat partial to Austrian art in general.” He paused. “Except, of course, those paintings that possess more political overtones. They do not interest me in the least.”
Chapter 23
Hannah pressed her lips to the soft folds of Jakob’s belly and blew noisily. The infant squealed with delight and broke into a giggle that spread through the room. Even Franz chuckled as he knelt in front of the Chinese stove. Moments earlier, he had been mired in frustration as he struggled to ignite the damp charcoal briquettes.
“He adores you, Hannah,” Sunny said from where she stood beside Esther at the countertop, picking maggots out of uncooked rice.
Hannah shrugged. “He would love anyone who blew on his tummy.”
“He might laugh for anyone,” Esther said. “But love? No, Sunny is correct. You are one of his favourites.”
Jakob stared up at Hannah with liquid brown eyes and a wide grin. She warmed at the thought of being her little cousin’s favourite. “Rabbi Hiltmann says that it’s a bracha—a true blessing—to have a baby in our home.”
“I agree with the rabbi.” Sunny’s eyes darted over to Franz, whose back was turned to the room as he wrestled with the uncooperative briquettes.
Hannah had seen that look on her stepmother’s face before. She often gazed at Jakob with more than just affection; there was longing in her eyes, too. For months, Hannah had been expecting her father to announce that a baby sibling was on its way.
One day the week before, as she helped Sunny change Jakob’s diaper, Hannah had asked her, “Do you and Papa not want a baby?”
Sunny smiled as she slid off the wet rag. “Who wouldn’t want to have little Jakob?”
“No. A baby of your own.”
Sunny’s hand froze, the soaked diaper dangling from her hand. “It’s not so simple, Hannah,” she said quietly.
Hannah remembered one of her teachers at the old Jewish school telling her that, as much as she loved children, she and her husband were not capable of having their own. Hannah flushed with embarrassment, assuming that Sunny meant something similar. “I’m sorry. I did not . . . er . . . know that you could not . . .”
“No, Hannah, it’s not that.” Sunny smiled. “I believe your father and I could have babies. I—we—would love nothing more than to have a little playmate for Jakob. But it would mean another mouth to feed.” She looked away. “I am not convinced that would be fair to anyone, especially the child.”
“Fair? What does that have to do with anything? If you want a baby, we would all help. We would find a way. He could have some of my rice. I’m so sick of it anyway.”
“Oh, Hannah.” Sunny leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “You are so special, you know that? I hope you don’t object, but I think of you as my child—well, hardly a child—but you understand.”
“I would never object.” Hannah wrapped her arms around Sunny in a tight hug. Her stomach fluttered guiltily when she remembered having led her father to believe that Sunny was somehow responsible for her low mood months back.
Hannah let go of Sunny. “Can I ask your advice?” She felt her face begin to warm again and looked down at Jakob, who shook his rattle contentedly.
Sunny bit her lip, stifling a grin. “Does it concern Freddy?”
Hannah nodded without looking up.
“He’s a charmer, that one.”
“Exactly. He is so charming to everyone. I cannot tell if . . . if Freddy views me any differently from the others.”
“But surely you already know, Hannah. He spends so much time with you. He is always looking for you.”
“That is only because I help his family.”
Sunny’s eyes narrowed. “You help his family? How so?”
“No. No!” Hannah waved her hand, desperate not to raise suspicion. She had not yet told anyone about her illicit courier activities. “I . . . I help Freddy with his homework. He is hopeless at mathematics. And sometimes I help Frau Herzberg around the home while I am there.”
Sunn
y nodded impassively. “Listen, Hannah, no boy would spend so much time with a girl simply for help with mathematics. Or for any reason like that. Unless he felt something more for her.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know so.” Sunny grinned. “Look at you. You’re so beautiful. What boy wouldn’t want to be with you?”
“I am not like other girls. I’m only half-Jewish. And . . .” she held up her left hand.
“Oh, Hannah, I know what it means to be different, too. Look at me. I am neither white nor Chinese.” Sunny winked. “But being a little different only makes you that much more special.”
Jakob pulled Hannah out of the memory by pawing at her arm for attention. Hunching forward, she blew into his belly again and was rewarded with another eruption of giggles.
Sunny looked over to her husband. “Franz, I had to pass Astor House yesterday. I had not seen it in ages.”
“Oh?” Franz said, still struggling to light the stove. “Why were you in that part of town?”
“I met Jia-Li for tea. She insists on going to the Bund, even though most of the restaurants and stores are closed.” Sunny dug another maggot out from the rice. “The Japanese still govern the city from that lovely old hotel, do they not?”
“As far as I know, yes,” Franz said.
“You have been inside the governor’s office.”
Franz craned his neck to look at her. “Only the once.”
“There were still so many guards posted out front of Astor House.” Sunny shook her head. “If I know the Japanese, General Nogomi must have a grand office. Is he in one of the penthouse suites?”
Franz shrugged. “He was last year. On the sixth floor.”
“What was his office like?”
Franz flung his free hand up in the air. “I hardly noticed. We were only there to plead our case. You remember we had to beg Nogomi to stop the Nazis—” Making eye contact with Hannah, he stopped short of finishing the sentence. He would have preferred to shield her from the truth, but at school she had already heard all the rumours about the Nazis’ plot to exterminate Shanghai’s refugees.
“Still, I can only imagine that Nogomi’s office must be quite something,” Sunny persisted.
“The meeting didn’t go as planned, remember? The general threw us out. And then I ended up in Bridge House.”
Hannah remembered her father returning from Bridge House with his face bruised almost beyond recognition and a plaster cast covering one arm from fingers to elbow. She had pestered him for details, but all he would offer was a forced chuckle and jokes that the food was inedible and the mattress uncomfortable. Hannah knew from his eyes that he had endured hell during his week of captivity, but she never heard him discuss it.
“With any luck, none of us will see the inside of the general’s office again.” Franz looked up at Sunny. “Why are you so interested in what it looks like?”
She exhaled softly. “As you say, Nogomi almost sealed our fate. Everything that happens in Shanghai, for all of us . . . it all rests with him and that office. I am curious to picture it in my head.”
“Me too, Papa,” Hannah said. Even Esther nodded her agreement.
The perplexity left Franz’s face and he broke into a small grin. “It’s grander than you might imagine. Nogomi has a fancy Chinese desk and antique Victorian furniture everywhere. He’s in the centre of the top floor of the hotel and has a stunning view of the ships and sampans floating on the Whangpoo. But his desk faces away from the window.” He nodded to himself. “I will never forget how it smelled. So strongly of jasmine. But I never spotted a single flower in the whole room.”
Hannah lowered Jakob into his makeshift playpen on the floor. He looked up at her, seemingly more disappointed than upset. She excused herself, explaining to the others that she had to meet a friend to finish their homework. Sunny flashed her a knowing look but said nothing.
* * *
Freddy Herzberg was already waiting out front for her. He wore the much-admired bomber jacket that his parents had given him at the beginning of the school year, though the weather was still warm enough to go comfortably in shirtsleeves.
“Hiya, Banana.” The nickname still made her blush. “What took you so long?”
Freddy threw an arm around her neck and pulled her toward him in a friendly headlock. She picked up the alcoholic scent of his aftershave and realized that he must shave every morning like her father did. For some inexplicable reason, this excited her. As their faces neared, she thought—hopefully, nervously—that he might kiss her. But it wasn’t to be—at least, not now.
“I was helping my family with supper,” she said.
He laughed. “How hard is it to make rice and water?”
“You shouldn’t joke, Freddy. At least we have food.”
He flashed a broad grin. “If you want to call it that, Banana.”
As always, Freddy spoke English. Hannah had a hard time imagining him in Vienna; lately, she was even having trouble seeing him as Jewish. He sounded and acted far more like Mickey Rooney than someone who was born “Fritsch Herzberg.” Then again, she had heard that many of the matinee idols in Hollywood were Jews who anglicized their names. Surely not Mickey Rooney?
“You ready to go across again tomorrow?” he asked.
In the past month, Hannah had smuggled more than just jewellery out of the ghetto for the Herzbergs. Two weeks earlier, she had practically waddled past the checkpoint after concealing perfume bottles in her skirt. She was terrified that they would clank together and draw the attention of the refugee guard. Rumour was that Ghoya had been demanding better “results” from his pao-chia guards—meaning more arrests and confiscations. The day before, two more refugees had been flogged on the ghetto’s main street after being caught sneaking back into the ghetto twenty minutes after curfew.
“Pop has an idea that will fill our plates with a lot more than rice,” Freddy continued.
Her face tensed. Every time Freddy’s father had a new idea, it seemed to involve something risky. “Oh, what is it now?”
Freddy folded his arms across his chest. “Nah. Doesn’t sound like you want to hear it. Just forget it.”
She reached out and touched his elbow. “Tell me, Freddy.”
A big smile spread across his face. His eyes swept the street and he lowered his voice. “Okay, up until now, all we do is carry stuff out. Basically, we’re fencing the last of our own belongings for a few miserable bucks.”
Hannah could feel the muscles in her neck and chest tightening. “And so?”
“Some people inside the ghetto still have money.” He chuckled. “We are, after all, Jews, aren’t we?”
Hannah didn’t like his tone, but still holding on to his elbow, she merely nodded.
“What do the people stuck inside the ghetto need most, Hannah?”
“Food, medicine, clean water . . .”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. The essentials.” He dismissed them with a wave of his hand. “But what one thing do they really want?”
It took a moment, but she had the answer even before Freddy raised two fingers to his lips. “Cigarettes.”
“Cigarettes,” he echoed, beaming.
She dropped her hand from his elbow. “You want me to smuggle cigarettes into the ghetto?”
Freddy nodded eagerly. “Think about it. Outside the ghetto, you can buy cigarettes from the Chinese merchants on Nanking Road at ten or twenty cents on the dollar. A single run, and we could make twenty or thirty dollars. Maybe more.” He stared at her hard. “Imagine how much more than just rice that would put on our dinner tables.”
She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. “How would I carry cartons of cigarettes past the guards?”
Freddy patted the front of his bomber jacket and chuckled. “First step is to get you a roomier coat.”
Chapter 24
“Do you think anyone still calls it the ‘Jewel of the Bund’?” Jia-Li asked Sunny as they strolled past the columned entrance of the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank.
“It’s not much of a jewel anymore.” Sunny vividly recalled how people used to line up to rub the paws of the two bronze lions that had once perched at either side of the entrance, guarding the bank. So many Chinese believed in the superstition that promised good fortune from the lions’ touch that their metal paws had been buffed to gleaming nubs.
“I used to love coming here with you and your father.” Jia-Li motioned to the unmarked intersection. “Remember? He would always buy us those delicious cí fàn tuán they sold at that corner stand.”
“Nothing tasted better,” Sunny agreed with a pang of melancholy, thinking about her father more than those achingly sweet sticky rolls. Her father had taken a dim view of the paw-rubbing ritual, like he did most Chinese superstitions. He was a man of science, a dedicated physician and diabetes specialist. He was also a devoted anglophile, and the British bank was his favourite building in Shanghai. He appreciated the towering structure for its grandeur, but he loved the old bank even more for the empire it represented.
A huge Rising Sun now hung from the bank and, today, it flapped listlessly in the breeze. Sunny had no idea what the Japanese used the building for, but soldiers were guarding the entry to keep away civilians. The lions, like her father, were long gone; rumour had it the Japanese had taken them away to be melted down.
“It’s been almost five years, ba˘o bèi,” Sunny said. “I still miss Father as though he died only last week. Will that ever stop?”
Jia-Li shook her head. “Nor should it, xiăo hè. You keep him alive in your memory.”
“I hope so.”
“I miss him too,” Jia-Li said. “He was far more of a father to me than that weak man who passed for mine.”
Sunny had fonder memories of Jia-Li’s father. He was a jovial man who always had a silly joke at hand or loose change to spare for the girls. However, he had never been around much, and gambling debts drove him to take his own life when the girls were only thirteen years old. Sunny suspected that Jia-Li’s feelings had more to do with her father’s suicide than how he’d actually treated her. She viewed his death as a betrayal; it had saddled the family with a large debt. But Sunny had learned from previous experience to keep those thoughts to herself.
