by Daniel Kalla
Kubota frowned. “Nor can you tell me who is behind the plot to kill me.”
“I do not know. I swear to you! You can hand me over to Colonel Tanaka. Even if I spent another week in Bridge House, it would not help you find the people responsible.”
“Are you aware of any specifics?” Kubota asked. “When or where? Or what they are planning?”
“No, nothing,” Franz said helplessly. “I only know that they are very interested in the layout of your office, here in this building. A bomb, maybe?”
Kubota bowed his head slightly. “Thank you, Dr. Adler,” he said without a trace of alarm. “I appreciate you sharing this information.”
“It’s not my place to say, Colonel, but I hope you will take precautions. Perhaps you could post more guards?”
Kubota tilted his head in genuine surprise. “Why would I do that?”
“Surely if your life is in danger—”
“There must be thousands of people in Shanghai who would want me dead. I cannot blame them. In their shoes, I would feel the same.” Kubota sighed resignedly. “Besides, good men—men whose lives are ahead of them, not behind—are dying every day. What right do I have to ask for special protection?”
“You are their leader.”
Kubota laughed to himself. “I was not sent back to Shanghai to lead.”
“Why were you sent back, then, Colonel?”
“To remind me of my dishonour.”
“Dishonour? How is that possible? You risked your life to stand up for the refugees.”
“Disobedience is dishonourable, regardless of the circumstance,” Kubota said. “Our culture is sometimes difficult for an outsider to understand, Dr. Adler.”
“In this case, yes.”
“There is an old Japanese proverb: Karo tōsen. It literally means ‘summer heater, winter fan.’”
“I do not understand, Colonel.”
Kubota spoke softly. “Sometimes one has to recognize when one has outlasted his usefulness.”
* * *
Two soldiers escorted Hannah and Franz from the building and released them without a word. Threats would have been superfluous, though. There was no question that Franz would be back as ordered; he had nowhere to hide.
With her head hung low, Hannah held Franz’s hand weakly as they walked home. Her shame was so evident that, despite his curiosity, Franz held his tongue.
A block from their home, Hannah slowed down and freed her hand from his. “Papa, I thought . . .”
Franz turned slowly to face her. “What did you think, Hannah?”
“That I could . . . help somehow.”
“Help? By smuggling cigarettes?”
“No—well, yes—by raising money. For the family. To contribute somehow.”
The good intention behind her reckless actions only fuelled his anger. “Was this contribution worth risking your life—all of our lives—over?”
“Freddy’s father, he said—”
Franz pulled his daughter toward him. “What did Herr Herzberg tell you?”
“That there would be no risk,” she said miserably. “That they would never search a girl my age.”
Franz felt as though every muscle in his body had tightened at once. “Go straight home, Hannah,” he choked through clenched teeth.
“Papa, you are not going to—”
“Go home!” he barked.
Hannah eyed him, frightened, then turned and hurried away.
Franz headed down Ward Road, passing the hospital without even glancing at it. He continued until he reached the corner of Thorburn Road, where he had once collected Hannah after a visit to Freddy’s home.
Franz had no idea which of the drab buildings the Herzberg family lived in. He stopped to ask an elderly refugee who was slumped on a frayed bamboo chair that appeared as fragile as the man it held. The man responded to Franz’s German in Yiddish and pointed a knobby finger toward a flat on the ground floor of a nearby apartment building. Franz headed straight for it.
Freddy answered the door. At the sight of Franz, he instinctively edged back from the threshold.
“Where is your father?” Franz demanded.
“It is suppertime, Herr Doktor Adler. Perhaps he can call—”
Franz brushed past Freddy into a well-appointed sitting room. Herr Herzberg stood up. The wingback chair he’d been sitting in looked to Franz like it belonged in the Comfort Home’s drawing room. The aroma of boiled meat reached Franz’s nostrils just as Herzberg crossed the floor.
Herzberg was Franz’s height but thicker across his chest and waist. He gave Franz the same easy smile Franz had seen from his son. “Ah, Herr Doktor Adler, we met once before.” He extended a hand. “Last year, at the Ward Road heim. You were looking after a friend of mine who had stomach pains. Alfred Glockstein. Perhaps you do not remember me, but—”
“I remember you,” Franz said but failed to meet the man’s handshake.
Unperturbed, Herzberg dropped his arm to his side. “To this day, Glockstein tells anyone and everyone who will listen that you saved his life that night. Ah, doctors, how would we ever get by without you?”
Franz motioned to Freddy with his eyes. “We need to speak, Herr Herzberg. Outside.”
Herzberg swept the suggestion away. “The boy’s practically grown. Almost as tall as me. Whatever this concerns, he can hear it, too.”
“Outside!” Franz turned for the door without waiting to see if Herzberg was following.
Franz stood at the curb with his arms folded. Herzberg kept him waiting but eventually joined him on the sidewalk, wearing a new-looking hat and coat. The salesman-like smile was still glued to his face.
“My daughter, Hannah,” Franz began.
“Such a sweet girl, that one. And so clever. I’ve had the pleasure of watching her speak Chinese to a local—”
“They caught her!”
Herzberg’s face crumpled with concern. “The Japanese?” He gasped. “Where? How?”
“At the Muirhead checkpoint. Smuggling cigarettes into the ghetto.” Franz scowled. “Your cigarettes.”
Herzberg brought a hand to his forehead. “That poor girl. Where is she? What will they do to her?”
“You could have gotten her killed, Herzberg!” Franz snapped. “Do you understand?”
“Could have?” Herzberg’s expression softened and understanding lit up his eyes. “Have they released her, then?”
“How could you have done such a thing to Hannah? To any child? Risking her life to smuggle your booty.”
Herzberg shrugged good-naturedly. “Honestly, I never expected them to search a girl as innocent looking as your daughter. Had I thought that she was in any danger of being searched . . .”
Franz held his hands tightly at his sides, suspecting he might otherwise grab the man’s throat. “You turned my daughter into a scapegoat, Herzberg. The victim of your crime.” Franz left out that he himself would be the one to face the consequences.
Herzberg seemed unconcerned. “No one forced Hannah,” he said calmly. “She volunteered to go. And we gave her a share of the profits.”
“She is thirteen years old!” Franz’s jaw fell open. “How do you sleep at night?”
“Not bad,” Herzberg said. “Certainly, much better than when I used to live in that overcrowded heim off two cups of watery soup a day. We are doing better, true, but look around you, Dr. Adler. Who among us can afford the luxury of high moral standards?”
“High moral standards? Are you a lunatic? You risked a child’s life! You used my daughter to do your dirty work!”
Herzberg shrugged. “Why don’t you place the blame where it truly belongs?”
“And where is that?”
“With the Nazis. With Hitler! He forced us into this wretched place.” Herzberg watched a Chinese man in a
traditional straw hat struggling to balance a bamboo pole across his shoulders. “To live like these peasants. Like animals.”
“Hitler? He made you take advantage of children?”
Herzberg exhaled. “He has forced me do whatever is necessary to protect my family.”
Franz grabbed Herzberg by the collar of his coat. “You will stay away from Hannah. Far away! Do you understand me?”
Herzberg stared back at him but made no attempt to resist. “Yes, Herr Doktor. You are most easy to understand.”
“And you and your son will never involve another child in your schemes. The smuggling stops now, Herzberg. Am I clear?”
“What we do with our business is not your—”
Franz pulled harder, hoisting Herzberg up on his toes. “No more smuggling!” he cried.
Herzberg clamped his hands over Franz’s wrists and began to pry them free. “And what can you do about it?”
“If I hear of you selling so much as a single cigarette in the ghetto, I will tell Mr. Ghoya precisely what you have done.”
Herzberg froze, and his eyes filled with terror and conciliation. “No, of course. No more smuggling. Never again,” he sputtered.
Chapter 33
Refugees and Chinese citizens alike gathered at the intersection of Muirhead and Wayside Roads to watch the soldiers erecting the wooden post in the middle of the street. Hannah had heard that floggings in the ghetto always drew a substantial crowd. She assumed that people came out of morbid curiosity, and it disgusted her to see such a gathering for the sole purpose of witnessing her father’s whipping. She would have given anything to not have to watch.
Freddy had promised to be there, too, but he was nowhere in sight. Hannah was glad not to see him. She had only told him out of spite. She wanted Freddy to feel guilty, like she did. But it hadn’t worked; she saw through his feigned concern. All he cared about was that she had not turned him in and that his own family had been spared the whip.
What a fool I was! She had fallen so hard for Freddy’s American-style charm. Only now she could see how he had manipulated her. Even the kiss that had shaken her world had just been an act. She had been his pawn from the first day. Undoubtedly, Freddy would find a replacement; perhaps even Leah Wasselmann.
Hannah’s stomach churned. She worried about vomiting again, especially when her father reappeared.
They had walked together from the hospital to the Bureau of Stateless Refugee Affairs, but Ghoya had whisked Franz into the building as soon as they arrived. She had not seen him since. Hannah had never felt so alone. She wished Sunny was with her. She longed to hold her hand.
On the way over, Hannah had asked her father why he insisted that they keep the flogging from his wife.
“What good would it do to tell her?” Franz asked.
“She would want to be here for you.”
“For what, Hannah?” he snapped. “So she could suffer, too?”
“I . . . I . . .” she stuttered. “This is all my fault.”
“What’s done is done, Hannah-chen.” He exhaled. “I wish to God you didn’t have to see this, but they have given us no choice.”
“It should be me, Papa.”
Franz placed an arm around her shoulder and brought his daughter to a halt. His eyes locked onto hers. “Do you not understand how much worse that would have been for me?”
She shook her head. “I am responsible.”
“The Herzbergs had no right to involve you.”
“But—”
“Just as I have no right to involve Sunny,” he said. “You know she would insist on being here, too.”
“She would want to be here,” Hannah repeated.
“Sunny has so many worries right now. Yang’s arrest has been so hard on her. She does not need to see this. Neither do you.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Hannah, promise me that you will look away or cover your eyes.”
“I . . . I have to watch, Papa. That colonel said so.”
“Promise me, Hannah.”
“I will try.”
She was snapped from the memory by the sight of Ghoya leading her father out of the building. Two soldiers were with Franz, but they didn’t need to detain him. He walked calmly, with his head held high.
Hannah burned with guilt to see her father, who always dressed so fastidiously, clad only in an undershirt and trousers. As he passed her, he nodded once, as though to remind her of her promise, and then gave her a tight reassuring smile.
As soon as the contingent reached the post in the middle of the intersection, Franz stepped forward and leaned against it, holding up his hands so one of the soldiers could bind them with rope to the rusty metal ring that hung above him. Once Franz’s wrists were secure, the soldier grabbed her father’s undershirt and ripped it apart, exposing his bare back. The other soldier stood back from the post, a thick black whip in his hands. Its tail was so long that it gathered at his feet like a coiled snake.
Hannah smelled aftershave and turned to see Ghoya sidling up to her. “Do you see, girlie?” he demanded. “Do you? This is what happens to smugglers.”
“I have learned my lesson, Mr. Ghoya,” she blurted. “I swear to God! Please do not punish my father.”
Ghoya grinned widely. Then, without warning, he slapped her across her bruised cheek. The pain stung worse than the first blows the day before, but she bit her lip and stifled her tears, desperate to stay strong for her father.
“Examples must be set,” Ghoya hissed into her ear. “You should be on that pole, too. If not for Taisa Kubota . . .”
Realizing that it was futile to plead anymore, she looked down at her feet.
Ghoya reached out and pinched her jaw, then forcibly rotated her face in the direction of the post. “You must watch this, girlie! Every lash, every single lash. They are for you, too.”
The soldier nearest her father hollered in Japanese. Hannah only recognized the last word—“ichi”—which she knew meant “one.” The soldier holding the whip cocked back his arm.
Franz squared his shoulders and raised his head higher.
Ghoya maintained his grip on Hannah’s face, but Hannah averted her eyes upward. Even so, she saw the whip uncoiling overhead. It cracked through the air. The next thing she heard was a revolting snap.
A gasp escaped Franz’s lips.
Hannah couldn’t help but look over. She was horrified to see a raw wound coursing the length of her father’s exposed back. His knees buckled slightly and he stooped forward against the post, bleeding.
“You see, girlie?” Ghoya asked. “Do you?”
“I do,” Hannah breathed.
“Yes, yes. Everyone must see.” Ghoya turned to the watching crowd and bellowed, “This is what happens to smugglers! Tell the others: next time it will be a firing squad. Yes, yes! Tell them that, too!”
The first soldier called out, “Ni”—“Two.”
Franz straightened his legs and arched his spine.
Hannah glanced skyward again. She tasted bile as the lash sizzled overhead.
Chapter 34
October 11, 1943
Sunny hurried along Thibet Road on her way to Frenchtown. Despite the warmth of the autumn day, she kept her hands tucked in her coat pockets and her chin buried in her collar as she passed one Japanese soldier after another. She imagined each of them snapping a whip, and her rage simmered.
Half an hour after she’d applied salve and bandages to Franz’s back, Sunny could still feel the rough edges of his wounds against her fingertips. She was amazed that infection had not set in over the past week. She had to fight back tears every time she changed the dressing.
For his part, Franz hid his suffering behind smiles and occasional jokes. He had even returned to work to assist Sunny on an urgent amputation and a perforated colon repair. Still, she knew he was in agony.
Sunny’s anger wasn’t limited to the Japanese. She was furious with Hannah, too, and had yet to forgive Franz for keeping the flogging a secret. Sunny had only learned of it when a Jewish woman burst into the hospital hysterical with the news. Upon sprinting to the site, Sunny found Franz half-naked and curled up at the foot of the whipping post. There was so much blood caked over his back that it appeared painted on. The sight of Hannah was almost as distressing. The girl rocked silently on her knees beside her father, tears streaming down her cheeks. Franz was unable to rise to his feet, and Sunny had to ask a pair of young men to carry him home over their shoulders.
Forcing that day from her mind, Sunny focused on the more hopeful news that Joey had delivered the day before. He was shouting as he burst onto the ward. “I found her, Soon Yi! I found her!”
Sunny raced over to him. “Yang? You found Yang?”
“Yes!”
“Where?” She threw her arms around Joey and danced him around in a circle. “Is she here with you? Outside?”
He shook his head, beaming. “No. She’s in Lunghua. Can you believe it?”
Her arms fell away. “The prison camp?”
Joey knit his brow, puzzled at her tone. “With the Americans and the British, too. Lunghua is not so bad, Sunny. There are even children inside.”
It was true. Sunny had heard that the conditions at Lunghua were more bearable than at many of the other sites that the Japanese still referred to as “civic assembly centres.” “How do you know Yang is there?”
“Guo-Zhi.” A silent labourer, Guo-Zhi had worked at the refugee hospital longer than Sunny had. “His wife went out to Lunghua Camp to take food to her former employer—you know, that widowed Englishman. She saw Yang being unloaded off a truck out front.”
“Did Yang look well?”
“Her face was bruised and she had a limp, Guo-Zhi told me.” Then he hurried to add, “But at least Yang was on her feet. This is so much better than what the news could have been.”
Joey was right. Sunny found solace in the knowledge that Yang was at a relatively safe camp, rather than in some torture chamber like Bridge House or buried in one of the mass graves, as she had come to fear. Still, she couldn’t help but wish for more. She wanted Yang home with her.
