by Daniel Kalla
“You remember Gerhard?”
“The young man who followed von Puttkamer around the ghetto? The one with the sneer?”
“The same one who informed me of the baron’s plans to bomb the synagogue, yes. He’s not as bad as you imagine. In fact, Gerhard still keeps me in the loop.” Ernst smiled to himself. “I’m beginning to suspect that young Gerhard has no such issues with my … tendencies.”
“What did Gerhard tell you?” Sunny demanded.
“That the baron was carrying on about Franz just yesterday.”
“Carrying on?” Dread crawled up Sunny’s spine. “What he did say precisely?”
Ernst sighed out a whorl of smoke. “Von Puttkamer blames Franz for the failed bombing. And for Hans’s death.” He looked away. “Apparently, the baron was talking of ‘evening the score.’”
CHAPTER 17
Hannah could tell by Herschel’s fidgeting that he was desperate to walk ahead of the adults, but she stuck determinedly by her father’s side. A few weeks before, she would have felt self-conscious walking down a busy street with her father’s arm draped over her shoulder. Not anymore. He had been home for four days, but Hannah couldn’t shake the awful sense that he might be taken away again at any moment. And she intuited from her father’s attentiveness—the way he always seemed to be watching her, ever since his return—that he shared in that fear.
“Is it true someone has a big birthday tomorrow?” Herschel’s grandfather asked in his refined German, which carried only a remnant of a Polish accent.
“Not a big one, Herr Zunder,” Hannah said. “Only fourteen.”
“Surely they are all big at your age.” Zunder laughed. “Only when you get to be ancient like me do they stop mattering.” According to Herschel, his grandfather was over seventy but, with his admirable posture and spry gait, the man didn’t strike Hannah as old at all.
Franz rubbed Hannah’s shoulder affectionately. “Perhaps not for my daughter, but it’s a very big one for me, Herr Zunder. I can’t believe how quickly she is growing up.”
“Will there be a party?” Zunder asked.
“Zeyde, please,” Herschel said.
Zunder looked over to Franz, bewildered. “Tell me, how am I embarrassing the boy now? By simply asking if there will be a party for his girlfriend?”
“Zeyde,” Herschel groaned, his face reddening instantly.
Hannah felt her own cheeks burning, but she enjoyed hearing the word. Neither she nor Herschel had yet referred to one another as boyfriend or girlfriend. She could sense her father’s eyes on her now, but she was too embarrassed to look at him, or at Herschel, so she lowered her gaze to the ground.
“I don’t know about a party, Herr Zunder,” Franz said. “However, you and your family are more than welcome to join us for dinner tomorrow.”
Pleased as Hannah was at the thought, she worried over what Esther could possibly prepare for them all. Lately, their suppers had consisted of rice and soggy green vegetables that were so flavourless they weren’t even worth identifying. She stole a quick glance at Herschel, but he was still too mortified to look at her.
“We would be honoured to join your family, Dr. Adler,” Zunder said. “Providing you will allow my Dora to bring dessert.”
“Dessert?” Franz shook his head. “No. That would be asking far too much.”
“No one should celebrate a birthday—certainly not one as important as the fourteenth—without one of Dora’s linzer tortes.”
“A linzer torte?” Franz repeated, impressed. “How could she possibly?”
“Felix Klingermann is an old friend of ours.”
“Of the bakery Klingermann’s?”
“Precisely,” Zunder said. “For special occasions, Felix will always allow Dora to borrow a few supplies and use the oven.”
Practically salivating at the prospect of the delicacy, Hannah fixed her father with her most persuasive smile.
“As long it will not cause you or your wife too much trouble, Herr Zunder,” Franz finally said. “We would appreciate it greatly.”
“It will cause me no trouble at all and, as for Dora, it’s a labour of absolute love. So it is settled, then.”
With Zunder setting a brisk pace, they reached Wayside Road and turned onto the busy thoroughfare. A Japanese transport truck coughed out a plume of blue smoke as it roared by. A long black Citroën, one of the rare automobiles without military markings, rolled slowly past them in the other direction.
They walked past the entrance to the Lyceum Theatre, which ran a revue in German and Yiddish four nights a week. Hannah had never been inside, but she’d heard Freddy Herzberg mimic the comedic acts so often that the building felt oddly familiar to her. Across the street, a pack of young bearded Hasidic Jews in long black coats and hats stood clustered outside a building that temporarily housed the Mir Yeshiva. Although the students kept to themselves, Hannah was familiar with the story, which had become legendary in the ghetto, of how the entire student body and faculty of the religious school had escaped from Lithuania through the Soviet Union and Japan, eventually ending up in Shanghai. Apparently, it was the only yeshiva in continental Europe to survive the war intact.
Zunder waved in the direction of the students. “Look, Herschel,” he said. “Go tell your rabbi that we don’t need to build a homeland in Palestine. We have one right here.”
Hannah had never before heard Herr Zunder mention Rabbi Hiltmann or Zionism, but Herschel had complained that his grandfather was no more supportive of the movement than her father was.
“It’s not the same, Zeyde,” Herschel said, his voice lacking its usual conviction.
“What’s so different, boy? You have Jewish culture, education and religion. All on the same street.”
“True, Herr Zunder.” Franz pointed to the intersection ahead, which marked the perimeter of the ghetto. A soldier stood rigidly with a rifle across his chest. “But Jews can also be shot for crossing the very same street without a pass. That hardly seems like much of a homeland.”
Hannah wondered if she had misheard or misunderstood her father. Zunder turned to Franz with a disappointed frown that wrinkled his face and made him look much older. “You too, Dr. Adler? You put stock into this Zionist fantasy?”
Franz showed Hannah a tiny wink. “I agree, Herr Zunder, that it might amount to little more than a fantasy. However, it doesn’t mean the concept has no merit.”
Hannah heard the hum of an engine and glanced over to see a black automobile turn the corner onto the road behind them. She couldn’t tell if it was the same car that had passed them earlier, but her attention was drawn back to Herr Zunder, who sighed heavily. “The land of milk and honey, is it?” he said.
“It could be one day, Zeyde,” Herschel said.
Zunder raised a hand skyward. “Rivers of gold and lakes of chocolate sound wonderful too, but are they really worth risking what little we have left?”
“I am not a Zionist, Herr Zunder,” Franz said. “Up until the Anschluss, I lived a completely secular existence.”
Zunder nodded approvingly. “So you were assimilated then.”
“More than just assimilated; I had turned away from Judaism altogether.”
“Did you convert to Christianity, Dr. Adler?”
“No, but back then I saw myself as many things—Austrian, Viennese and, of course, a surgeon—but a Jew?” Franz shook his head. “No, I disdained all religion, particularly my own.”
“And who says you weren’t right to?” Zunder said, anger seeping into his voice. “My own son, he found religion. He became active in the local Jewish Federation. And who do you think was among the very first people the Gestapo came looking for the day after Kristallnacht?”
“Zeyde,” Herschel said.
Hannah realized that Herr Zunder was talking about Hershel’s father. Seeing the hurt in the boy’s eyes, she resisted the urge to wrap him in a hug.
Zunder smiled tenderly at his grandson. “Your parents are safe som
ewhere in the relocation camp, Liebling. We heard this from their old neighbours. I was merely pointing out to Dr. Adler that activism comes at a price.”
“Perhaps,” Franz said. “But I’m beginning to see that inaction carries a cost of its own.”
Zunder nodded knowingly. “Ah, so the rabbi has got to you, has he? He is nothing if not …” Zunder’s words tapered off as the black automobile’s tires crunched to a halt beside them. The back doors flew open and four men wearing homburgs and trench coats despite the heat climbed out. Only one of them was Asian. He was tall and muscular, and his impassive face looked neither Japanese nor Chinese to Hannah. The fair-skinned young man beside him had angular Nordic features and might have been handsome had it not been for his scowl. The third man was older, about her father’s age, with a weak chin and dark, glaring eyes. But it was sight of the last one to emerge that practically stopped Hannah’s heart. She would never forget the day Baron von Puttkamer had come to her school—for no apparent reason other than to intimidate the students, parents and staff—and paraded around the classrooms like a sadistic landlord taking glee in hand-delivering eviction notices.
Herr Zunder grabbed for Herschel’s shoulder, and they both stumbled back off the sidewalk. Franz pulled Hannah close to his side.
With a reptilian smile, von Puttkamer stepped toward them. “Ah, Herr Doktor, we have been looking all over for you.”
“Why would you be looking for me, Baron?” Franz said.
Von Puttkamer’s gaze drifted from Herschel to Hannah. Herschel’s face was drained of colour. Hannah’s mouth felt parched and her fingers trembled, but she maintained the eye contact until von Puttkamer turned back to her father. The baron held a hand toward the open car door. “I think this matter is best not discussed in front of the children,” he said calmly.
Hannah felt her father’s elbow gently guiding her behind him as he stood his ground. “Shall we make an appointment to meet, then?”
Von Puttkamer just smiled as though happily reminiscing. “There is a degree of urgency to our conversation.”
“Papa,” Hannah croaked, her voice thick with dread.
“I am not getting into that car,” Franz said defiantly.
The man with the furious eyes shook his fist at Franz. “This is not an invitation, you filthy Jew,” he growled. “You will come with us right now.”
Von Puttkamer rested a hand on his colleague’s arm and gently pushed it down. “Pardon Major Huber’s brusqueness.” He nodded to the two other men with him. “However, the major does have a point.”
Hannah clung to her father’s back, but he pushed her away as the two men moved forward. The Asian man stepped to one side of Franz, and the younger German, the other. A moment of agonizing silence followed. The men shared a glance and then grabbed Franz by the upper arms.
“Let go of me!” Franz exclaimed as he struggled wildly in their grip.
“Herschel, no,” Zunder cried from somewhere behind Hannah.
Suddenly, Herschel whizzed past her and launched himself at the tall Asian man, landing on his back. The man reacted with the speed of a cat. In one motion, he spun and flipped the boy hard onto the ground. Herschel landed with a loud moan, and before he could move, the man kicked him in the side.
Hannah screamed. She threw herself at the other man holding her father. She dug her teeth into his arm and bit down as hard as she could.
The man yelped and flung out his arm, knocking her backwards. “You kike bitch,” he bellowed. “I will kill you.”
Winded and terrified, Hannah lay on her back, her legs trembling uncontrollably. Then she noticed the soldier at the end of the block. He had turned toward the commotion. “Tasukete!” She screamed the Japanese word for help. “Please help us. Tasukete!”
The soldier ran toward them, raising his rifle as he approached.
Herschel rocked on the sidewalk, but everyone else stilled as the soldier neared. He swung the muzzle of his rifle from one person to the next, uncertain where to level it. He finally settled on the Asian man to the right of Franz.
Von Puttkamer took a step forward. “A misunderstanding. Nothing more. We are Germans, not Jews.” He snapped his right arm in salute. “Heil Hitler.”
The soldier pivoted, aiming his rifle at von Puttkamer’s head while barking at him in Japanese.
The baron lifted up his other hand and took a step back. “All right. None of this is necessary.” He nodded to the car behind him. “We will leave now.”
“What do you mean, leave?” Huber growled through his clenched teeth. “What about this murdering Jew?”
“Next time,” von Puttkamer said as he slowly backed away from the soldier and toward the car. “We will settle this next time.”
CHAPTER 18
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a surgeon smile through an entire surgery,” Franz remarked.
“How can you tell behind my mask?” Sunny chuckled.
“Your eyes, my darling, they’re beaming.”
Sunny tied another loop of catgut across the abdominal wound. Otto Berg had been so stoic about his ruptured appendix that his wife brought him to the hospital only after she had caught him surreptitiously vomiting in the alley. Sunny had already closed the incision effectively, but she had been taught that, when it came to surgical closure, redundancy was always safer, so she added one more stitch for good measure. Only once she had tied it off did she address her husband’s observation. “There are few things more gratifying than a straightforward appendectomy, especially when performing it before my old teacher.” She laughed. “You don’t enjoy operating with your student anymore, Dr. Adler?”
“Very much so, but you’re hardly my student. You are my colleague.”
“When it comes to surgery, Herr Doktor, I will always be your student.”
Franz nodded to the bucket that held the patient’s excised appendix, which resembled the blackened tip of a burned breakfast sausage. “In this case, the pupil might have exceeded her master. I think you could have removed Herr Berg’s appendix in your sleep.”
“You can stop with the flattery, Dr. Adler,” Sunny said. “After all, I am a married woman.”
Berta, who sat at the head of the bed performing the duties of anesthetist, sighed. “You two,” she said with an amused shake of her head.
Sunny looked over at her husband. “Besides, I have every reason to smile. The hospital is operating again. We have anesthetic, at least for the time being. Donald will be discharged today. My husband is home. And best of all, our family—our growing family—is healthy and intact.”
“A true blessing, kayn ayn horeh,” Berta said, uttering the Yiddish expression that Esther also favoured, which Sunny understood to be the equivalent of Don’t jinx it. “Although, as I heard it, it was a very close brush yesterday,” Berta added.
Franz cleared his throat. “Well, yes, but Mr. Ghoya has allowed me to come home.”
Berta shook her head. “No, not that awful man. I was speaking of—”
“That’s all in the past, Frau Abeldt.” Franz cut Berta off with a withering glance. “None of this is appropriate discussion for the operating theatre.”
Sunny turned suspiciously to the head nurse, a squint replacing her smile. “What happened yesterday, Berta?”
Berta glanced over at Franz, her eyes fearful and confused. “I … I merely meant that it seems as though Dr. Adler returned just yesterday.”
Sunny dropped the needle driver onto the surgical tray. She looked from Franz to Berta and back. “What is it? What really went on yesterday?”
Franz held her gaze for a moment and then, defeated, exhaled. “Not here, Sunny.” He motioned to the patient, who had begun to stir on the table. “Berta, would you mind bandaging the wound if Sunny and I were to step out?”
“Of course, Dr. Adler.” Her voice sounded still flustered. “I will take care of it. Go ahead, please.”
Sunny followed Franz into the hallway, where they both paused to drop their
gowns and masks into the laundry hamper before continuing on to the staff room. Franz closed the door behind them, isolating them in the cramped, stale-smelling room. “Yesterday, on Chusan Road, I was accosted by von Puttkamer and a few of his cronies.”
Sunny clutched the back of a chair. “What do you mean ‘accosted’?”
“They showed up out of the blue. Von Puttkamer said he needed to speak to me urgently.” He went on to describe the standoff with the Nazis.
As shocked as Sunny felt, she also suspected that Franz was downplaying the details for her benefit. “So were it not for that Japanese soldier, you would already be dead by now?”
“Darling, that is perhaps a bit dramatic.”
“What else do you think they had in mind for you?” she snapped. “Schnapps and schnitzel?”
“I still have the photographs from their attempted attack on the synagogue and the hospital. Von Puttkamer knows that if he were ever to try—”
She cut him off with a firm shake of her head. “You …” The words lodged in her throat. When she spoke again, her voice was hoarse and wounded. “You and Hannah weren’t even planning to tell me about this?”
“I was, yes, eventually.” Franz reached out to touch her shoulder, but she leaned back and shook off the contact. “With Hannah’s birthday dinner, and the Zunders coming, I thought it best not to upset you right now.”
“Oh, Franz, can you not see? It’s so much more upsetting that you thought it was best to hide this from me.”
His expression remained resolute. “What good could have come of telling you, Sunny? To make you worry over something else you have no control over?”
“It’s about trust, Franz. We promised to share everything, good or bad. I learned that lesson last year with the Underground. I thought …”
He stared at her helplessly, and then his expression turned apologetic. “I should have told you.” He reached for her hand. “I’m sorry, darling.”
Sunny pulled away from his touch. “What about the next time?”
