by Daniel Kalla
“Besides, you have Franz now,” Jia-Li pointed out.
“Yes, yes, I do,” she murmured as she looked out toward the harbour.
Jia-Li pounced on the wistfulness of her tone. “What’s wrong, xiăo hè?”
“Nothing.”
Jia-Li stopped. “Tell me.”
Sunny slowed to a halt. “You know Franz. He carries the burden of the hospital on his shoulders. The whole refugee community, for that matter.”
“You think he cares too much?”
“It is all too much. The hospital, the refugees, Simon, Charlie, Ernst—Franz feels responsible for them all. He works himself to the bone, and when he does go to bed, he is so restless. He doesn’t sleep more than a few hours each night.” She shook her head. “It’s simply too much.”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“I’ve tried.”
Jia-Li arched an eyebrow. “Tried?”
“The last few months, ba˘o bèi . . .” Sunny searched for the words. “They have not been the same.”
“It sounds as though he is just exhausted.”
“That might explain it, yes.” Sunny knew there was more to it. Whether it was because of her concealed involvement in the Resistance or her guilt about it, a wedge was growing between her and Franz. The previous night as they lay in bed together, Franz had become suspicious when she pressed for more details about General Nogomi’s office. “Sunny, why do you keep asking about Astor House?” He sat up in the bed. “What could possibly interest you so much?”
Sunny’s mind raced, searching for something plausible. “I can’t stop thinking about him, and the power he lords over us all—it’s life and death.”
Franz looked hard at her. “And what does the location of his desk or the number of soldiers guarding his office have to do with that?”
“Oh, Franz, none of it matters at all.” She wrapped her fingers over the sinewy muscles in his forearm. “It’s just . . .”
“Just what, Sunny?”
“I want to picture it in my head. That’s all.” She inwardly cringed as she piled one lie upon the next. Sweat started to bead under her arms. She worried that her face would soon start perspiring, too.
His forehead furrowed. “What possible purpose would it serve, Sunny?”
“To fantasize, I suppose.”
He eyed her in disbelief. “I do not understand.”
She massaged the inside of his arm, loathing herself for this crude attempt at seducing information out of him. “Remember how we celebrated the night the Allies recaptured Sicily? Or when the Solomon Islands fell? Don’t you ever dream of what it would be like if the Allies were to liberate Shanghai?”
Franz shook his head softly. “That will not happen any time soon.”
“Still, I love to imagine it. I picture General Nogomi standing behind his desk with his head bowed. A shameful surrender. Maybe even handing a ceremonial sword over to the liberators.”
The wrinkles in his forehead smoothed. “It’s dangerous to think that way, Sunny.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It could lead to foolish actions.”
“Or it might inspire us to persevere?”
Franz gently pulled his arm free of her hand. “True, hope can sustain a person,” he said. “But too much of it can create unrealistic expectations—and heartbreak.”
Sunny wanted to tell Franz that hope was not the issue. She had no idea when, or even if, Shanghai would be liberated. She was just so tired of feeling helpless. Every day she had less to offer at the hospital, which had been depleted of almost everything needed to offer meaningful care. She was desperate to somehow contribute to the alleviation of the suffering and misery that the Japanese occupation was bringing to all of her people: the Chinese, the Shanghailanders and the Jews. Besides, despite her mixed feelings, she still valued the sense of purpose that her first assignment had brought her.
Now, as Sunny stood on the pavement across from her best friend, she had to resist the urge to tell Jia-Li about her connection to the Underground. But she had no right to burden her with such a dangerous secret. Besides, she sensed from Jia-Li’s distracted manner and uncharacteristic restlessness that she was wrestling with her own troubles. Sunny hazarded a guess as to their source. “Do you think Charlie will stay much longer?”
Jia-Li shrugged. “He says he will leave by month’s end, with or without our help.”
Sunny looked back out to the bustling harbour. Naval ships and merchant crafts speckled the river. The Rising Sun flew everywhere. Near the dock, she sighted the Conte Biancamano, the Italian luxury liner that had carried the Adlers to Shanghai from Europe. The Japanese had seized the ship in the wake of the Italian surrender and were refitting it as a troop transport ship. “Charlie’s departure would be both selfish and foolish,” Sunny said.
“Selfish?” Jia-Li placed her hands on her hips. “Charlie is being noble. He sees a cause bigger than himself. And he’s willing to die for it.”
“And how will his death—which will almost certainly come before he has even escaped the city limits—help anyone?”
“You underestimate him.”
Sunny shook her head. “I know what he has accomplished. But, ba˘o bèi, that was when he had two legs and lungs that still worked. In a few more months, he might be stronger. His breathing might improve. Perhaps then he can make it back to his men.”
“He doesn’t think he can wait any longer.”
Sunny was distracted by an unfamiliar warbling sound overhead. She glanced up but could see nothing aside from pillowy clouds. She turned back to Jia-Li. “Then you have to convince Charlie otherwise.”
“The man is a war hero. Why would he listen to a prostitute?”
Sunny grimaced. “What kind of nonsense is that, Ko Jia-Li?”
“It’s true.”
Sunny softened her tone. “Surely you have noticed the way he looks at you.”
Jia-Li reddened. “Charlie looks at me no differently than he does Yang.”
The warbling sound grew louder. Sunny glanced upward again. “Really? I’m not convinced Charlie is smitten with Yang.”
“Smitten? With me?” Jia-Li reached out and touched Sunny’s shoulder. “Do you think he is, xiăo hè?”
Sunny had hardly ever seen her world-wise friend so flustered. “And he’s clearly not alone, ba˘o bèi,” Sunny said with a chuckle.
Jia-Li touched her throat in mock outrage. “You think that I have a crush on—”
Her words were cut off by the sound of aircraft engines. A formation of planes suddenly broke through the clouds. They descended so rapidly toward the river that Sunny thought they must be in a nosedive. Their engines whirred with a pitch lower than that of the Japanese fighters, the Zeroes, which normally patrolled the skies.
The sidewalk vibrated as the planes flew low enough for Sunny to make out the markings painted across their noses: a pair of predatory eyes and an open mouth full of jagged teeth. Stars and stripes were tattooed along the sides of the fuselages.
“The Americans!” Jia-Li yelled over the roar.
The planes—Sunny counted eight of them—banked simultaneously over the river, flying parallel to the shoreline before swooping down on the Conte Biancamano. Their wings spat fire, and water sprayed out of the river. The rat-tat-tat of the machine guns almost drowned out the sound of the engines.
Puffs of smoke rose from the turret of a nearby Japanese gunship as it returned fire. The planes banked again and circled tightly for a second strafing run over the ship. An air-raid siren wailed. Other sirens blared too as military vehicles roared down the Bund in both directions. Pedestrians scurried for shelter under buildings’ overhangs. Sunny and Jia-Li stood frozen, both of them stunned by the sight of the aerial assault.
The American planes circled and made a third run past the
Conte Biancamano. Flames began to lap at the ship’s stern. The bitter stench of smoke and cordite filled the air.
More airplanes appeared on the horizon over Putong, on the eastern shore of the river. Even from a distance, Sunny recognized the shape of the Zeroes as they zoomed over to meet the Allied planes.
The American fighters suddenly banked ninety degrees and flew directly over Sunny’s head, gaining altitude as they began their westward departure. The Zeroes raced behind them in chase, but in moments the American fighters had reached the outskirts of the city. Sunny knew nothing about aerial warfare, but she doubted the Zeroes could catch the Americans. At least, she hoped not.
“Those were the Flying Tigers,” Jia-Li whispered in awe when the rumble of machinery finally faded.
Stories about the elite American air squadron that fought alongside the Free Chinese had been circulating in Shanghai for months, but Sunny had never heard of anyone seeing the planes anywhere near the city.
As she looked out at the burning hull of the Conte Biancamano, she was filled with a mix of sadness—this was the ship that had brought Franz to her—and optimism. Still, it was proof that the Japanese were vulnerable even in Shanghai. Perhaps their aggression could be countered after all?
As the minutes passed, the sirens subsided and pedestrians reappeared on the sidewalk.
Jia-Li looked at her watch. “I am running short on time. I promised Chih-Nii I would be in early.” She cleared her throat. “There are a . . . a number of ships in port this weekend.”
Fighting off the image of drunken sailors pawing at her best friend, Sunny leaned forward and wrapped her in a hug. “I will see you soon, ba˘o bèi.”
“And I will talk to Charlie.” Jia-Li broke into a huge smile. “Perhaps he will reconsider now that the Americans have finally shown up in Shanghai.”
* * *
After Jia-Li left for Frenchtown, Sunny continued southward along the Bund until she reached the Old Chinese City. During the sixteenth century, the area had been surrounded by thirty-foot-high walls to protect it from raiding Japanese pirates. But those pirates own the city now, she thought bitterly.
Despite the Old City’s reputation as a tourist trap for Westerners in search of what they believed to be “the authentic Orient,” the bustling market had been one of her favourite places to visit with her father. Its stores and stalls were a kaleidoscope of colours and sounds, offering everything from furniture to lanterns. Artisans would sit outside their stores as they worked. Jewellers fastened pieces of jade in delicate silver settings, while tailors embroidered astonishing cheongsams. Sunny used to love watching the toy makers carve gorgeous puppets from sandalwood or pine.
As Sunny stepped through the arch of the north gateway, the reality of war wiped away her nostalgia. Half the stores were boarded up or abandoned. The ones still open offered up a meagre selection of merchandise, their windows near empty. Few people were here to buy, and the once lively merchants seemed as lacklustre as their stock. Even their sales pitches, which Sunny remembered as relentless and confident, sounded unconvincing and hollow.
Sunny hurried through the market until she reached the open square that housed the Woo Sing Ding tea house, which sat on stone pillars in the middle of a man-made lake. Two distinctive zigzag bridges connected the ornate two-hundred-year-old tea house to land on either side. She spotted Wen-Cheng sitting on a bench across from the tea house. As usual, he held a newspaper open in front of his face, but she recognized his clothing and posture. Circling the lake toward him, Sunny felt only gnawing regret.
She sat down on the far end of the bench. “How are you today, Soon Yi?” Wen-Cheng asked from behind his paper.
“Nervous,” she replied tersely. “Is it necessary to meet in such public places?”
His shoulders rose and fell. “I do only as I am told.”
Although the open square wasn’t particularly crowded, Sunny irrationally sensed eyes on her from every direction. “Doesn’t this . . . work . . . frighten you, Wen-Cheng?”
“It terrifies me.” He calmly turned a page. “But it is far too late to second-guess my decision.”
“I wish I could be so philosophical.”
His lips creased into a slight smile. “My wife, my parents, my job, the family business—they are all gone. This is much less of a gamble for me.”
“Than for me?”
“Yes.” Wen-Cheng lowered his newspaper. His eyes darted over to her. “I have already lost everything I once held dear. Including you, Soon Yi.”
His meaning was unmistakable. Their romance had amounted to no more than a promise, but she still remembered how desperately she had once pined for him. The recollection only compounded her guilt. “Wen-Cheng, you know that Franz and I . . .”
“I know,” he said, unperturbed. “I am merely pointing out that I have less to lose than you do. I wish . . .” He hesitated. “That I had never involved you.”
His tone surprised Sunny and, if she was honest, disappointed her a little, too. “It was always my choice, Wen-Cheng. Remember? I insisted.”
A minute or two of pained silence passed between them while Wen-Cheng continued to pretend to read. Sunny looked to her right and saw the old man in the Zhongshan suit limping slowly toward them. She wondered again how high the man ranked within the Resistance, or whether the organization even possessed that much structure or hierarchy. Did one cell within the Underground even know what the others were up to? Or did it all amount to a series of uncoordinated acts, no more damaging than fleas pestering a dog?
But Sunny held her tongue as the elderly man lowered himself creakily onto the bench between her and Wen-Cheng. He stared straight ahead at the rounded roofline of the tea house. “What have you learned, Soon Yi?” he asked.
Sunny spoke in short bursts, her voice hushed. She told him everything Franz had shared with her about the offices of General Nogomi and Colonel Tanaka. As she held forth, the man remained still and expressionless.
“And Colonel Kubota?” he finally asked.
Sunny shifted in her seat. “The colonel is no longer at Astor House. His office is inside the ghetto. On Muirhead Road.”
“Have you been there?”
“No, but my husband has,” she said, anticipating his question. “It’s a modest space on the second floor.”
“Do you believe you would be allowed inside his office?”
“I would have no reason to go there.”
The old man’s nostrils whistled as he exhaled. “Surely you can find a reason.”
“I . . . I do not see the point.” Sunny turned toward the man, but his gaze did not shift. “Colonel Kubota is no longer in his previous job. He has suffered a stroke. He has been demoted. Overseeing the Jewish refugees is a far lesser role.”
“Soon Yi speaks the truth,” Wen-Cheng said quietly. “The colonel is not the man he once was.”
“That is none of your concern,” the old man said, unmoved.
Sunny sat up straighter. “Are you aware that the colonel risked his life and his career to save the Jewish refugees—including my husband and stepdaughter—from extermination?”
The man showed no response. His eyelids drooped as though he might nod off in the middle of the conversation. Finally, he said, “Are you aware, Soon Yi, that Colonel Kubota lived in Shanghai among us for ten years, all the while pretending to be our friend and advocate?”
His voice was calm, but Sunny sensed rage behind his words. “No, I was not—”
“Do you know, too, that the colonel won our trust for no other purpose than to infiltrate our government and lay the groundwork for Shanghai’s downfall?”
But he saved my family, Sunny thought.
“I ask you again, Soon Yi,” the man said, his tone turning to stone. “Can you get inside his office?”
Chapter 25
The soldiers arrive
d at the hospital unannounced and insisted that Franz accompany them to Colonel Kubota’s office. Franz had no idea what had prompted the summons but was nonetheless eager for the opportunity to speak to Kubota again. Refugees were dying daily from cholera, typhoid fever and other diseases that could have been treated with basic supplies such as intravenous fluid. The day before, a young father had died of a ruptured appendix. Franz had been unable to operate; they had waited in vain for anaesthetic that Joey’s black market contact had promised but never delivered.
Franz stepped into the colonel’s office intending to appeal to Kubota’s sense of compassion. But his plans evaporated when he spotted the others in the room.
Kubota sat behind his desk, resignation carved into his weary face. Ghoya paced between the desk and the window. But it was the sight of the man on the far side of the room, who stood with arms folded across chest, that froze Franz’s blood.
“Thank you for coming, Dr. Adler,” Kubota said with his usual politeness. “You remember Colonel Tanaka?”
If he lived to be a hundred, Franz would never forget the chief of the Kempeitai—the man who had overseen his torture at Bridge House. Sporting a fresh brush-cut and wire-rimmed glasses as thick as bottle bottoms, Tanaka wore knee-high black boots over his tan uniform and white armbands on his jacket sleeves. Franz had come to fear those markings almost as much as the red-and-black swastikas. He bowed his head. “Colonel Tanaka, Mr. Ghoya.”
Tanaka did not acknowledge his presence, but Ghoya shook his head at Franz. “It’s no good, Dr. Adler,” the little man muttered. “No good at all.”
Franz waited, but Ghoya volunteered no explanation. “I am sorry, Mr. Ghoya, what is no good?”
