Rising Sun, Falling Shadow

by Daniel Kalla

  Wen-Cheng looked away again. “They see only black and white. Either you support them . . .”

  “Or what?”

  “You are a collaborator.”

  “That is what they think I am? A collaborator?”

  “The old man, he never believed that you could not get to Kubota. He thought you were protecting the colonel.”

  She slumped back into her chair. “I have heard how the Underground deals with collaborators.”

  He sat up straighter and folded his arms. “I will not let them harm you. No matter what, Soon Yi. I will protect you.”

  IV

  Chapter 40

  December 18, 1943

  Sunny bundled her coat tighter around her, bracing against the biting wind. Her foot slid on a patch of black ice and she barely kept her balance. Her elbow still ached from a fall the day before on the slick pavement.

  Winter had descended early on Shanghai. The week before, there had been snow flurries. But Sunny knew that something more dangerous than the bitter chill or the black ice was keeping the sidewalks in Frenchtown as deserted as those inside the ghetto.

  She had expected things to deteriorate after Tanaka’s murder, but even still, the Japanese reprisal was shocking in its vitriol. In the weeks since the assassinations, the authorities had launched a ruthless crackdown on all so-called “hostile” citizens, from Chinese locals to the stateless Jews. No one in the ghetto seemed to know who had replaced Colonel Tanaka, but the Kempeitai’s collective paranoia was at an all-time high. The men in the white armbands were ubiquitous, and treacherous. Impromptu arrests, whippings and executions were commonplace.

  The refugee community was still reeling from the death of one of its most respected members, Albert Neufeld. The week before, Neufeld had returned from a meeting with a group of Russian Jewish leaders fifteen minutes past curfew. Rather than revoking his pass for a month—the standard punishment for missing curfew to that point—the soldiers at the checkpoint had gunned Neufeld down in the street.

  Sunny felt more vulnerable than ever. She had had no contact with anyone from the Underground, not even Wen-Cheng, in the past seven weeks. He had disappeared after their tense discussion in the staff room. Sunny had not told anyone about his role in poisoning Kubota, but she suspected Wen-Cheng found it too risky to stay on at the hospital. She hoped that he had vanished of his own accord.

  Sunny stepped through the doorway of the Cathay Building, hurried across the marble-floored lobby and took the elevator to the ninth floor. Reaching Jia-Li’s door, she knocked with the secret signal.

  Jia-Li pulled her into the living room with an exuberant embrace. Sunny did a double take at the sight of her best friend. Her face free of makeup, she wore casual trousers and a sweater, and her hair was pulled into a tight bun. She reminded Sunny of the woman in the famous Marxist poster they’d seen throughout their childhood, glorifying the female proletariat. Jia-Li didn’t even smell like her old self. Sunny couldn’t detect a trace of either her usual jasmine fragrance or her favourite Russian cigarettes.

  Charlie was kneeling on the floor of the living room with his crutches at his side. He looked over his shoulder and gave Sunny a quick smile before turning his attention back to the pliers he was using to tighten a screw onto a thin metal cylinder. “A pencil detonator,” Charlie explained before Sunny could ask. “It works as a time-delay fuse.”

  Sunny frowned. “For a bomb?”

  His back still turned to her, Charlie shrugged. “Not much purpose in a fuse without an explosive.”

  Sunny lowered her voice. “A few months ago, you mentioned the railway station. Is that what it’s for?”

  “Perhaps.” Charlie’s tone was flat as he focused on the equipment in his hand. “The targets have not been decided yet.”

  “Where did you get the supplies?” Sunny asked.

  “Some of his men smuggled them into the city for us,” Jia-Li said.

  “Us?” The last time they had discussed sabotage, Jia-Li was outraged that Charlie would even consider it. Now she seemed to be part of it. Sunny found the change in her best friend dizzying; it was as though she were staring at a stranger.

  “Someone has to do it, xiăo hè,” Jia-Li explained happily.

  “But why you two?” Sunny asked. “Charlie is a wanted fugitive, hobbled by his . . . injury. And you, ba˘o bèi, what do you know of sabotage?”

  “What did you know before you got involved with the Underground?”

  “Nothing!” Sunny cried. “And look how much I regret it. You are no more a saboteur than I am. It’s not our purpose.”

  Jia-Li met her gaze. “I am obliged to support my husband.”

  “Your husband?” Sunny grimaced.

  “He will be soon.” Jia-Li broke into a huge smile. She dropped to her knees and threw her arms around Charlie’s neck, kissing him. “Chun proposed, xiăo hè. Only yesterday. I couldn’t wait to tell you!”

  “Congratulation. That is . . . wonderful news,” Sunny sputtered.

  Jia-Li sprang to her feet, dashed over to Sunny and flung her arms around her, wrapping her in another hug. “Oh, xiăo hè! I have never been so happy.”

  “I am happy for you. Both of you.” It was surreal to be discussing an engagement while Charlie assembled a bomb on the living-room floor, but Jia-Li’s happiness was infectious. “Have you chosen a date?” she asked, wriggling free of her friend’s grip.

  Charlie lowered what he was holding to the floor and reached for his crutches. “As soon as we find someone to marry us.” He stood up. “Today would not be too soon.”

  “How about your old reverend?” Jia-Li asked. “Is he still alive?”

  Sunny shook her head. “He has been interned with all the other Americans.”

  “And that rabbi, xiăo hè? The one at your wedding.”

  Sunny grimaced. “Rabbi Hiltmann? Seriously?”

  Charlie made his way over to Jia-Li, put an arm around her waist and drew her close to him. “A rabbi, a judge, a sea captain . . . Anyone short of a Japanese officer would do. Can doctors perform weddings?”

  Sunny shook her head. “At this point, I don’t know who in Shanghai has the legal authority to officiate.”

  “It does not have to be legal. Only official.” Charlie stroked Jia-Li’s cheek and stared at her adoringly. “So one day we will be able to tell our children.”

  Sunny detected a note of fatalism in Charlie’s tone, but Jia-Li didn’t seem to notice. She planted a lingering kiss on Charlie’s lips before turning back to Sunny. “I have found a real gem, haven’t I?”

  “I agree.” Sunny looked up and down, indicating Jia-Li’s plain outfit. “But this change in you—it’s so dramatic.”

  “I am done with the old me, xiăo hè. The outfits, the Comfort Home, Chih-Nii . . . all of it! Oh, how I have wasted my life.” She put her hands on her hips. “No more. For the first time, I have found a purpose. A role that I can take pride in.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Sunny said. “I am happy for you. Franz will be too. Really. But sabotage, ba˘o bèi?”

  “Whatever it takes to free Shanghai. To rid our country of this Japanese scourge. It is the first step.” She stole a quick glance at Charlie. “And then maybe we can consider a family.”

  Sunny realized that there was no arguing with her friend. She knew Jia-Li never did anything halfway, and never before had she seen her friend’s eyes burn with such fervour.

  * * *

  On her way home, Sunny crossed over the Garden Bridge and headed along Broadway. Although far quieter than usual, the city’s busiest thoroughfare still buzzed. The cries of the merchants were as shrill as ever. Coolies hauled crates or carried loads on bamboo poles across their shoulders. Despite the early hour, several wild pheasants—most of whom looked to Sunny like teenagers at most—loitered at the dockside, approaching soldiers and
other passersby. The smell of burned oil from the street kitchens wafted through the air. Her stomach rumbled, but hunger pains were something she hardly paid attention to anymore.

  Sunny noticed a crowd of Chinese gathered a block or two ahead of her. Not until she reached the edge of the gathering did she see the wooden beam that had been rigged up between two lampposts like a scaffold. Then she spotted the bodies. Tethered to the beam with thick ropes were eleven corpses hanging no more than a foot or two apart, their shoes clearing the ground by roughly the same distance.

  They had been badly beaten around the face, a few beyond recognition. All were men, Sunny could tell, but they ranged in age from young to old: one looked to Sunny as if he might have been a teenager. Blood, dirt and what Sunny assumed was vomit stained their shirtfronts.

  Sunny’s gaze landed on the hands of the body hanging nearest to her. His fingernails had been ripped out, and his fingers appeared to have been dislocated or fractured. They pointed every direction but straight. The other victims’ hands had been similarly mutilated.

  Sunny fought off the urge to gag. Desperate to flee the grisly scene, she started to turn away when her eye was caught by something about one of the bodies. The man’s nose had been bashed in and his lips were swollen, but his hooded eyelids gave him away. “Oh, God,” she whispered under her breath, recognizing the old man as her Underground contact.

  Sunny elbowed her way through the crowd until she could make out the faces of the dead men. Afraid to breathe, she prayed that she would not see Wen-Cheng among them. Her eyes reached the end of the beam without spotting him.

  Her relief was short-lived when she considered what the men might have confessed under torture. Her eyes moved back to the old man’s crumpled face. Did you tell them about me?

  Chapter 41

  “I should leave straight away,” Sunny murmured to Franz as they sat side by side on the sofa, fingers interlocked. “It’s too dangerous for me to stay. It’s not fair to any of you, especially Hannah and the baby.”

  Franz squeezed her hand reassuringly. “If the Japanese knew anything, they would have already come for you.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “We know by now how the Japanese behave. They would never wait. If they suspected you, they would pounce.”

  She nestled her head into the crook of his neck. “To have to leave you, Franz, that would kill me.”

  He stroked her hair. Even though she had not been able to bathe in days, somehow her hair was still soft and smelled like soap. “This might actually work to our advantage.”

  She jerked her head from his shoulder. “Our advantage? How is that possible?”

  “What they did to those men from the Underground—that was beyond barbaric.” He squinted in disgust. “But surely it no longer matters whether or not the old man thought you were a collaborator. No one will be coming for you now.”

  “No, I suppose not,” she said. “The old man, maybe he didn’t tell the Kempeitai about me after all.”

  Franz looked at his wife. Sunny’s eyes danced with both affection and desire. He couldn’t remember her ever looking more beautiful. Slowly, almost teasingly, she lowered her lips to his. They shared a long kiss, and she gently ran her fingernails across his neck and shoulders. He resisted the urge to slide her dress up over her hips and instead, reluctantly, pulled his face away from hers. “Esther and Hannah could return at any moment,” he said.

  “We live in dangerous times, Dr. Adler,” she said throatily.

  The others had gone to the shop for rice and hot water. Hannah loved carrying Jakob through the streets. It reminded Franz of how she used to insist on lugging her beloved rag doll, Schweizer Fräulein, with her everywhere when she was younger. For his part, while Jakob adored his cousin, he had begun to resist being held. He had started crawling a few weeks before and was far more interested in exploring the ground for himself.

  Just as Sunny leaned in for another kiss, the door shook with three heavy knocks. She went rigid in his arms. Another softer series of raps followed. “Franz, it’s me,” Ernst’s voice could be heard through the door.

  Sunny’s body relaxed. Franz rose to his feet and hurried over to the door.

  After a quick handshake, the artist marched over to Sunny and kissed her on both cheeks. “You just grow more gorgeous by the day.”

  Sunny waved away his mock flirtation. “Is everything all right, Ernst?”

  A cigarette and a lighter materialized in his hands. “Well, I am still trapped in that twisted little neighbourhood—Wiesbaden on the Whangpoo, I call it—but I have few complaints otherwise.”

  “And Simon?”

  “Ah, that reminds me.” Ernst dug in his back pocket and fished out a crumpled envelope. “For Essie, of course.”

  “How is he managing?” Sunny asked.

  Ernst heaved a sigh. “I am not certain how much longer I will be able to retain my house guest. Hard to blame him, though. He’s desperate to be with his family.”

  Franz folded his arms. “Even if that means endangering us all?”

  Ernst lit his cigarette. “In my experience, seldom do common sense and emotion correlate.”

  “Yes, I have noticed the same,” Franz conceded.

  “Simon simply has to wait,” Sunny declared. “Never has the time been worse for reckless behaviour. I will speak to him.”

  “Best of luck with it.” Ernst whistled out a stream of smoke. “You are right about the atmosphere, though. On my way over here, on Broadway, I saw something . . . ghastly.”

  Sunny looked down at her feet. “Those men hanging from the beam?”

  “You saw them, too?”

  “They were from the Underground,” she murmured. “I knew one of them.”

  “It’s a hazardous business, this subversion.” Ernst’s eyes narrowed as he looked quickly from Sunny to Franz. “Unfortunately, the Japanese are not the only ones in Shanghai in a vengeful mood.”

  “What are the Nazis up to now?” Franz asked.

  Ernst whistled. “Von Puttkamer’s plans are heating up.”

  “He told you so?”

  “No, he wouldn’t include me in those kinds of discussions. But there has been more activity. More meetings.”

  “How do you know it concerns the Jews?” Sunny asked.

  “You remember Gerhard?” Ernst said, lowering his voice. “That young man in the baron’s entourage?”

  Franz had only a vague recollection of the young man who had accompanied von Puttkamer on his tour of the ghetto. What he remembered most clearly was the boy’s unflinching scowl. “What about him?”

  “Gerhard has taken a bit of a shine to me.” Ernst rolled his eyes. “Not in that way, of course. Apparently, I remind the lad of his uncle or some other ungodly relative who is under the impression that he can paint. Regardless, Gerhard has taken to confiding in me of late.”

  Franz took a step closer. “What has he told you?”

  “Believe it or not,” Ernst said with a chuckle, “Gerhard is suffering a crisis of conscience.”

  “Why?”

  “Gerhard doesn’t care what happens to the adult Jews—‘it’s a better world without them,’ as he so charmingly puts it—but he is troubled by the idea of harming children.”

  “Scheisse!” Franz groaned. “What are they planning?”

  “A bomb.”

  Franz felt as though his innards had turned to stone. “They’re planning to bomb the ghetto?”

  “Where? How?” Sunny’s voice cracked.

  “Even Gerhard doesn’t know. Von Puttkamer has not shared the target with anyone, it seems like.” Ernst viewed them with a helpless shrug. “All I know is that the baron has promised something . . . spectacular.”

  “‘Spectacular.’” The word lodged in Franz’s throat.

  Sunny rubbed her
temples. “Do you have any idea when they will do this . . . this terrible thing, Ernst?”

  “Soon,” Ernst said. “Gerhard doesn’t know the precise date, but von Puttkamer is intent on carrying out the attack before the New Year.”

  “But that’s less than two weeks,” Franz said.

  Sunny reached out and clutched his elbow, squeezing tight. “We cannot just wait. We must do something.”

  “Do what?” Franz cried. “Tell Ghoya? The Kempeitai? No. Colonel Kubota is the only one who would have listened to us.”

  Sunny turned back to Ernst. “You must get more details from Gerhard.”

  “And if he doesn’t know any more?”

  Sunny looked over to Franz, her expression businesslike. “We have to mobilize the ghetto. Post our own watches outside public buildings.”

  “Organize the young men. A good idea, yes,” Franz mumbled, snapping out of his shock. “What about after curfew? How can we watch at nighttime?”

  “The Germans will not be allowed on the streets after curfew either,” Sunny pointed out.

  “Let’s hope not,” Ernst said.

  * * *

  Halfway up the pathway to the hospital, Franz stopped to study the old structure. Five years earlier, before it had been converted into a hospital, the building had barely withstood the Japanese aerial bombing. As his gaze ran over its patched roof, taped windows and pockmarked walls, he realized it wouldn’t take much for it to collapse now.

  As Franz made his way onto the ward, he wondered what the point was in continuing to offer patchwork medical care to the wretched Shanghai Jews. Even if the Nazis didn’t target the hospital, how could he be of any help if the saboteurs attacked the ghetto? What did he have left to offer anyone? It all seemed so futile.

  Still, Franz suspected that he would go out of his mind if he deviated from his routine. There were post-operative patients to tend to and, other than Sunny and him, no other surgeons were left at the hospital.