by Daniel Kalla
As alarmed as he was at the thought of an American pilot hiding in their midst, Franz felt proud of her swift actions. He caressed her cheek. “What choice did you have, darling? I would have done the same.”
Sunny smiled lackadaisically. “Maybe by tomorrow the lieutenant will be stable enough to move from the hospital.”
“Move to where?”
“Perhaps the Comfort Home.”
“Would Chih-Nii really allow it?”
“The basement hideaway is still in use from time to time. Jia-Li thinks Chih-Nii might be willing to help, yes.
Franz nodded. “What’s he like, this pilot?”
“He’s so young, Franz. Still looks like a boy. I can’t believe he flies one of those giant bombers. It’s as if—”
Sunny was interrupted by a man’s voice coming from behind them. “Good day, Dr. Adler.”
They turned to see Rabbi Hiltmann, in his black suit and hat, approaching. Despite a limp from an arthritic hip, he caught up to them quickly. Franz returned his handshake. “Rabbi, you remember my wife, Sunny?”
“How could I forget? After all, I married you to this lovely woman, did I not?” Hiltmann glanced at her with a paternal smile. “You too, Sunny, are always welcome in our shul. You understand that, of course.”
Sunny nodded gratefully. “Perhaps one day, Rabbi.”
Hiltmann turned back to Franz. “That daughter of yours has a good head on her shoulders. She has much to contribute to our discussions.”
“Your discussions, Rabbi?” Franz asked.
“The meetings at the shul. Hannah and her friend, Herschel, attend regularly. The young lady is full of ideas. She deeply appreciates the urgent need for a homeland in Palestine.”
Franz stiffened. He couldn’t help feeling slightly betrayed. Hannah had never mentioned attending any Zionist gatherings.
“We are meeting again tomorrow, Dr. Adler,” Hiltmann said. “It would be an honour if someone of your standing in the community were to join us. Besides, wouldn’t it be wonderful to have multiple generations of Adlers in attendance?”
Franz shook his head. “I think not, Rabbi.”
“Oh? May I be so bold as to ask why not?”
“I don’t believe in Zionism.”
“And why is that, Doctor?”
“I think it’s a pipe dream. Worse than that, Rabbi, I think it’s a contagion.”
“A contagion?” Hiltmann raised a bushy eyebrow. “Like a disease, you mean?”
“In effect, yes,” Franz said, knowing his words lacked tact. “One that serves to stir up anti-Semitism among the gentiles wherever it spreads. The same way a virus spreads a cough.”
Sunny reached for his arm. “Franz,” she cautioned.
But the rabbi appeared unperturbed by the rudeness. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “So, if I understand you correctly, the issue is not that anti-Semitism flourishes everywhere we Jews live, but rather that talk of a Jewish homeland incites it?”
“I can’t deny that we Jews seem to be resented wherever we go. But yes, I also believe that talk of Zionism only makes our situation worse.”
“Ah.” Hiltmann nodded slowly. “So it’s best not to stir the pot? To always appease these goys who deign to allow to us live among them? To hide our heads in the sand and apologize for who and what we are?”
“I’m not saying that—”
“Because that turn-the-other-cheek strategy worked so well for us in Hitler’s Germany?” The rabbi laughed bitterly. “How many times did I hear my learned friends and colleagues tell me that the Nazis would eventually lose interest if we didn’t fight back, if we just ignored them?”
“This is China, not Germany,” Franz said. “We are here as refugees at the whim of the Japanese conquerors.”
“Forced into a ghetto.”
“Perhaps, but at least it’s not one of those terrible camps where they’ve imprisoned the British and Americans citizens. Or worse.”
“For now,” Hiltmann grunted.
“Exactly so,” Franz said. “Our existence here is tenuous. What is the point of discussing a Jewish homeland on the other side of the world when we can’t even cross the street without a pass? Why provoke the Japanese over absolutely nothing?”
Hiltmann leaned back as though he had been slapped. “You think of this as nothing?”
“Nothing that is real, anyway. Or has any chance of becoming real while the war goes on. Our life here is hard enough. Why should we risk making it any worse for this hopeless dream of a homeland?”
Hiltmann shook his head and sighed. “You know, Dr. Adler, I’m reminded of the words of another doctor I once knew. Dr. Mendelbaum. A wonderful, gentle man. A pediatrician and leading member of my congregation. In 1935, when the Nuremberg Laws were first passed, I remember him telling me, ‘Well, at least it’s over now.’ ‘What do you mean over?’ I asked him. And he explained to me that since the Nazis had taken our rights and citizenship away, there was nothing worse they could do to us. I told him then what I tell you now: this is only the beginning.” He paused and looked from Franz to Sunny. “They sent Dr. Mendelbaum to Dachau in 1938. He never came back.”
Franz shook his head, embarrassed that he didn’t feel more sympathy, but it was an outcome he had heard too many times. “Rabbi, what does any of it have to do with talk about a Jewish homeland?”
“Don’t you see, Dr. Adler?” Hiltmann asked philosophically. “We must begin somewhere.”
“Even here, in Shanghai?”
“In Shanghai, in Warsaw, in New York—even in Madagascar if there are any Jews there,” Hiltmann said. “It begins with a movement. A belief. God has shown us He will not protect us unless we defend ourselves. Unless we Jews all over the world band together to stand up for ourselves—with our own army, if necessary—we will surely be wiped off this earth.”
CHAPTER 16
Father Diego removed his clergyman’s galero and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Already so muggy and not even May yet. I’m afraid we are destined for another punishingly humid summer.”
“Not unlike my last twenty-nine summers here, Father.” Sunny didn’t mean to sound brusque, but she couldn’t help herself. She hadn’t requested the talkative priest’s company on her walk home. Her thoughts were on her family, not on the priest or even the American pilot, whose continued presence at the hospital jeopardized the lives of everyone around him.
Diego offered another benevolent smile. One seemed to precede each new request of his. “Tomorrow morning, then?”
“Yes.” Sunny sighed.
“Everything is arranged on the other end?”
“They are expecting the lieutenant at the Comfort Home. My friend has seen to it.”
“You are convinced Donald is fit to travel?”
“Fit to travel?” She shook her head. “His wounds are improving, but you must remember he underwent major surgery and his blood counts will surely be low. He shouldn’t get out of bed for at least another week.” She paused. “I’m hopeful he will survive the journey.”
Diego’s smile faltered only for a moment. “With God’s grace.”
“I assume Donald will become ‘Brother Dominic’ again for the journey?”
“Why not?” Diego laughed. “From fighter pilot to Franciscan friar, it’s the most natural of transformations.”
“And how will you get him there?”
“We will leave as we came, in a rickshaw. This time, God willing, without all the blood.”
Diego’s attention was drawn to two patrolling soldiers who approached them from the other end of the block. As the men neared, the priest nodded congenially and greeted them with the words yoi tsuitachi—which even Sunny understood as Japanese for “good day.” Without a trace of acknowledgement, the soldiers marched between Sunny and Diego, deliberately shouldering them off the sidewalk.
As she continued walking with Father Diego, Sunny’s thoughts drifted back to her family. She was so relieved to have Franz
back home. The unexpectedness of their reunion had only heightened their desire. They had stayed up the past three nights making urgent love as quietly as they could, a crib wedged beside the bed and the rest of the family asleep on the other side of the paper-thin walls. The intensity of Franz’s embraces had stirred her own libido to new heights.
Sunny was also touched by Franz’s new-found interest in Joey; he had even taken a few turns changing the boy’s diapers. Yet, she still felt troubled by the way he interacted with him, and wished that he felt the same unconditional love for Joey that consumed her. But when she saw Franz holding the baby, she sensed in him a hint of reluctance, even resignation.
“Your movements are not restricted to the ghetto, are they, Sunny?” Diego asked, drawing her back to the present.
She glanced over to him with barely concealed irritation. “Pardon me, Father?”
“Unlike the refugees, you are free to come and go from the ghetto as you please. Correct?”
“No one, aside from the Japanese and a few other select nationalities—such as the Spanish—” she held his gaze pointedly—“is free in Shanghai.”
Diego motioned over his shoulder toward the soldiers who had just passed. “Of course. All I meant to suggest is that you do not face the same scrutiny at the checkpoints as the other refugees.”
“My husband and stepdaughter are refugees. I was born here.”
“Yet in spite of your American heritage, you are not considered an Allied citizen?”
“I’m half American by blood only. My mother died when I was young. I’ve never carried an American passport. To the invaders, I’m just another Chinaman.”
He eyed for her a moment. “No doubt you could pass for fully Chinese if need be.”
Sunny stopped, as did the priest. “Why does any of this matter, Father?”
“I’ve been most impressed by your poise.” Diego nodded to himself. “The way you have cared for Lieutenant Lewis, medically and … in managing his stay. Most admirable. You seem—what is the English word?—unflappable.”
Sunny took his warm smile as a harbinger of a new, and potentially dangerous, request. “What is your point, Father?”
Diego put his hat back on and casually angled it forward, casting a slight shadow across his eyes. “Acquaintances of mine are seeking certain information.”
“What sort of information?”
“Regarding ship movements in the harbour.”
Sunny dropped her voice to a whisper. “Are you asking me to spy for you, Father?”
He pursed his lips. “I’m merely wondering if you would be willing to pay close attention to the ships in port and perhaps keep a record of their whereabouts.”
Sunny realized that Diego’s grammar had improved and his accent had lessened since their initial encounter. Are you really Spanish? Or even a priest? She could feel her pulse hammering in her temples as she struggled to keep her voice calm. “What is preventing you from making those same observations?”
He swept his hands up and down his chest, indicating his cassock. “I would be somewhat conspicuous at the docks.”
“Even if you were to wear civilian clothing?”
“Have you been to the harbour lately? You do not see many Caucasians around. Even the Germans don’t frequent the wharves.” His eyes narrowed. “You, on the other hand …”
Sunny stole a glance over either shoulder and then shook her head vehemently. “No. Absolutely not!”
“I see,” Diego said, his expression remaining tranquil. “Forgive me, Sunny, I had to at least inquire.”
Something compelled Sunny to explain. “Last year, I stumbled into a situation … with the Underground. It ended in disaster. My whole family was in terrible danger.”
“Very understandable.” He nodded. “However, my acquaintances have no association whatsoever with the Resistance.”
“The Americans?”
Diego shrugged. “It’s of no consequence, really,” he said pleasantly. “Especially since you will not be further involved.”
“I cannot become involved, Father. I just can’t. Do you understand?”
His voice changed, and he now seemed truly compassionate. “I’ve already asked more of you than I had a right to. And I am forever grateful for the assistance you have provided us.”
His kindness only compounded her guilt. She was reminded of that horrible winter’s day the previous year when she had stood by and watched, frozen with fear, as two Jewish teenagers were executed across the street from her by an impromptu firing squad. The plaintive looks in the boys’ eyes were still burned into her consciousness.
Diego tilted his head. “What is it, my child?”
Sunny shook off the memory. It was the shame of her passivity then that had steered her toward the calamitous involvement with the Underground. She wasn’t about to repeat the same mistake. Even if she were willing to break her promise to Franz and muster the nerve, there was no way she would risk Joey’s future. She shook her head again. “I have a baby now, Father.”
***
Even before Sunny opened the door, she could hear Ernst’s animated voice. Stepping inside, she found Esther in the kitchen performing her daily ritual of hand-combing the rice and picking out maggots. Ernst sat on the couch holding Joey in one arm while Jakob climbed across his knees. Sunny couldn’t help but grin. It was one of the rare times she had seen the artist looking even remotely ill at ease.
“Ah, Sunny. Rescue me from these tiny terrors,” Ernst cried. “They have no appreciation for a man’s basic need for a smoke.”
Sunny hurried over, kissed Ernst on the cheek and eased Joey out of his arm. Her baby stared up at her with placid eyes. She recognized the traces of a smile forming at the corners of his lips. Emotions welled and she pressed her face to his. “My beautiful, beautiful darling,” she whispered into his cheek.
Ernst laughed. “Your beautiful, beautiful darling could use a fresh diaper.”
Nodding, Sunny pulled out from behind the couch the basket in which she kept the clean cloths. “How are you, Ernst?”
Jakob climbed up into Ernst’s lap. Ernst bounced him on one knee while he fished a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and lit it. “Better now,” he said. “Much easier to cope with these parasites one at a time.”
Sunny looked over her shoulder to Esther. “Where are Franz and Hannah, Essie?”
Esther let a handful of rice fall back into the pot. “They left together a few minutes ago for shul,” she said.
“The synagogue? On a Thursday?”
“That’s what Hannah told me,” Esther said weakly.
Sunny noticed that Esther’s eyes were bloodshot and tearcrusted. “What is it, Essie?”
Esther wiped her hands and lifted a piece of paper off the countertop.
“From Simon?” Sunny asked.
Esther only nodded.
Sunny glanced over to Ernst, who rolled his eyes. “Ach, her husband is being dramatic, is all.”
“He’s not himself,” Esther said.
“He will be fine, Essie. Simon has just been cooped up in the flat for too long.” Ernst chuckled and exhaled a stream of smoke. “Exceptional as I am, I must admit, anyone might go a little crazy being stuck with me night and day. After all, genius comes at a cost.”
Esther shook her head. “His letters used to make me laugh with tears. Now …” she sighed, “in one paragraph, he goes on and on about his plans for us in New York. As if the war is already won. And in the next, he talks about prowling around Germantown. It’s such madness, I can’t even tell you.”
Sunny finished pinning the fresh diaper and lowered Joey’s faded cotton gown. “He must feel so helpless, Essie. With you and Jakob so close and yet … Still, Simon is one of the most sensible men I’ve ever met.”
“Does this sound sensible to you?” Esther lifted the letter and began to read. “‘Sometimes they march right past me. These clown princes of Shanghai. The same ones would’ve happily collapsed the
synagogue down on top of you and our Jakob. And to know they would try it again in a heartbeat. It’s all I can do not to reach for the knife in my belt.’” She looked up from the page, wide-eyed. “Listen to him carry on—as if he were the hunter, not the prey.”
“It’s nothing but talk, Essie.” Ernst set Jakob on the floor and rose to his feet. “I have heard the same thing a hundred times before.”
Esther stepped over and took Ernst’s hand in hers. “It’s so dangerous for him to be out on the streets. He doesn’t look like the rest of them. And if he spoke two words to them, they would recognize him straightaway for an American.” Her voice cracked. “God help us if he were to ever run into that horrid von Puttkamer. You must talk some sense into him, Ernst.”
“You think I encourage this idiocy?” He ran a hand through his dishevelled hair and sighed. “Beside, how could I stop him? He usually goes out when I’m not home.”
“I will speak to him,” Sunny said, her throat tightening at the prospect of venturing back into Germantown.
“Oh, thank you, Sunny. Thank you.” Esther sniffled.
Ernst lit a fresh cigarette. “When it comes to von Puttkamer, Sunny, you should be more concerned about your own husband.”
Sunny clutched Joey tighter. “What have you heard about him, Ernst?”
“Rumours, nothing more. The baron doesn’t confide in me anymore.”
“He doesn’t suspect that you are the one who warned us about the bombing last winter?” Esther asked.
“No. Nothing like that.” Ernst brushed the thought away. “I would be dead already if he did. No, based on a few of his charming remarks, I think he suspects I might not be up to the lofty Aryan standard of masculinity. In the baron’s eyes, being a Tunte—a degenerate queen—might even be a worse crime than fraternizing with Jews.”
“What about Franz?” Sunny pressed. “What did you hear?”
