by Daniel Kalla
“It’s Simon, Berta. Simon Lehrer,” Franz added, aware that the New Yorker had found housing for Berta’s family when they had first arrived in Shanghai.
“Ja, of course,” Berta said, spinning away. “I will find somewhere.”
Franz looked down at his friend. “How are you?”
“I’m okay.” Simon raised a thumb. “I am luckier than most, certainly luckier than Herr Lessner.”
No one had found Lessner’s body in the rubble. It wasn’t possible he had survived, and no one had time to take more than a cursory look. They were far too concerned with extracting Simon before the rest of the ceiling caved in on them. Franz had reset Simon’s dislocated ankle and used the sleeve of his shirt to splint it to the other foot. Esther had commented on how stoic her husband had been, but Franz and Sunny just shared a look, acknowledging that Simon’s lack of discomfort during what should have been an agonizing procedure was an ominous sign. Franz could see that Simon too understood the gravity of his spinal injury, but he had remained upbeat during the journey to hospital, even joking that he needed to find a lighter chest of drawers for their new flat.
Berta waved them over to a bed she had freed up in the far corner of the room. Once Simon had been moved onto it, he looked up at Franz. “No offence, buddy, but I’d rather stare into my wife’s beautiful eyes than yours. Go. Go help the others.”
Esther grabbed Franz’s wrist with her free hand, her fingers trembling with worry. “His back, Franz,” she implored. “You must do something to fix it.”
Franz summoned the most encouraging look he could. “The fractures will heal on their own, Essie. Right now, what he needs is bed rest.”
“But his legs—he can’t move them.”
“Time will tell, Essie.”
Franz reluctantly turned away and wove among the patients on the floor until he reached the nursing station. The surrounding moans, cries and wails formed a cacophony of suffering. Franz’s hopelessness only deepened. Shouldering his way between staff members and haphazard stacks of supplies, Franz pulled Berta aside. There was no privacy, so they spoke in hushed tones, their faces almost touching. “How are our supplies holding up?” he asked.
Berta shook her head gravely. “We will run out of morphine soon. And we are very low on dressings and catgut.”
“And anesthetic?”
“We still have a full bottle of ether but …” She flapped a hand toward the masses of new patients. “We will never keep up.”
“The bombing has ended,” Franz pointed out.
“More people keep arriving.” Berta sighed. “Soon, we will have nothing left to offer.”
Franz knew she was right, but he mustered a brave face. “We can do only what we can do.”
She cleared her throat. “Dr. Adler, if we were to just focus on our own people, then perhaps …”
“Are you suggesting we turn away the Chinese?”
Her shoulders straightened. “This is a hospital for refugees. Today, we cannot even cope with the number of them who need our help. Surely those other people must have a hospital of their own somewhere, or perhaps—”
“Enough,” Franz snapped. “Remember Europe before the war? There were many—too many—who used to refer to us as ‘those other people.’ That’s how it begins.”
“Dr. Adler, you can hardly compare what I am saying to—”
“Of course not.” Franz softened his tone. He had known the nurse long enough to appreciate that she wasn’t in the least malicious, and no more racist than most of the refugees. “But we will treat people on the basis of their need and urgency. We will do what we can. It’s what we must do. Do you understand, Berta?”
Her face reddening, Berta looked down and mumbled, “I do, Herr Doktor. I am sorry.”
Franz stuck two fingers into his mouth and whistled loud enough to draw the attention of the nearby staff members. “We will set up a station outside,” he shouted. “To triage victims. Only those who require surgery or absolutely immediate treatment will be brought inside. We’ll tend to everyone else outside. We must ration the morphine and dressings. Only for those whose bleeding will not stop or …” He lowered his voice, embarrassed by his own words. “Or a single shot for those whose pain is beyond bearable.”
Several nurses nodded, thankful for the direction.
Just then, Sunny appeared on the other side of the ward. “The boys?” Franz demanded as soon as he reached her.
“Are with Hannah and Herschel.”
“Where?”
“At the synagogue,” Sunny said. “The street there was untouched by the bombs. It’s safe there.”
Franz quickly updated her on the plan for triaging casualties and then asked, “Would you prefer to triage or to operate?”
“You perform the surgery, I will triage.” She smiled sadly. “After all, my Mandarin and Shanghainese are still slightly more proficient than yours.”
***
Franz didn’t leave the operating room for the next twelve hours. He lost track of how many fractures he had reset and limbs he had amputated. He could only imagine the scores of casualties that Sunny must have turned away at the front door. He rationed every single item at his disposal, using the fewest possible number of stitches to close his incisions and applying dressings that were more appropriate for scrapes and bruises than for major surgery.
Just as he had expended their last inch of catgut, Sunny stepped into the operating room to announce that there were no more patients waiting for surgery. “Thank God,” Franz muttered, feeling exhaustion overcome him like a drug. “How is everyone holding up?”
“I am so proud of them,” she said. “The nurses were amazing. And Dr. Freiberg never slowed down. He just kept putting on casts and stitching cuts.” She laughed. “From psychiatry to surgery at his age.”
“How many did we lose?”
Sunny’s expression turned grim. “I didn’t even count. Many were already dead by the time they got to us. Others, they never stood a chance.”
“No one died in the operating room,” Franz pointed out. “Only because of your skill in selecting appropriate patients.”
Sunny was impervious to his praise. “With more help and more supplies, we could have done so much more.”
“And yet, if we weren’t here at all …”
She nodded but appeared unconvinced. “Yes, I suppose it could have been worse.”
“How is Simon doing?”
“I haven’t had a chance to visit him,” Sunny said. “Essie left an hour or two ago to check on Jakob and Joey. She told me he was sleeping.”
“Let’s go see him now.”
Simon’s eyes were open when they reached his bedside. He viewed them with unbridled admiration. “I’ve had nothing to do but watch all day. I can’t believe the work you all do. It’s miraculous.”
Sunny squeezed his shoulder. “You built this hospital, Simon. Remember?”
“That was a thousand years ago. Besides, anyone can renovate an old building and call it a hospital. It takes what you two do to make it real.”
“How are you?” Franz asked.
“A little thirsty. Don’t suppose you serve cold beer here, do you?” Simon forced a laugh. “There’s no pain. I can’t feel anything from my waist down.” He looked from Franz to Sunny, then back to Franz. “I guess I’d better get used to that.”
Franz cleared his throat. “With spinal injuries, you can never tell in the first few days how much recovery one will make.”
Simon eyed him knowingly. “I’m more concerned about how Essie will take this.”
Sunny swallowed. “She’s very strong, Simon.”
“My little Austrian ox.” Simon laughed wistfully. “I never expected to get out of this war unscathed, but I never guessed it would be my own countrymen who would collapse the roof in on me.”
“You must give it a little time,” Sunny encouraged.
“Believe me, I’ll be the last one to give up on my legs.” The smile se
eped from his lips. “But I don’t regret it.”
“Regret what?” Sunny asked.
“Any of it. Leaving Ernst’s place. Coming back to the ghetto. Even staying with Herr Lessner. I don’t regret a single thing.”
Confused, Franz glanced over to Sunny. She seemed to understand better than he did what Simon was saying. “You were incredibly brave going back for Herr Lessner,” she said.
“I was just so tired of being a coward. Hiding when my family needed me most.” He locked eyes with Sunny. “If I had to choose again, I would still trade my legs for my dignity.”
CHAPTER 50
The synagogue was the closest thing to a home that Sunny and her family had left in the world. She was hopeful that would soon change, but for the past week they had slept, or at least tried to sleep, on the hard wooden benches inside the temple. During the daylight hours, when the American bombers filled the skies like unrelenting storm clouds, they had been forced to spend much of their time crowded in the overheated bomb shelters. Inevitably, people would pass out from heat stroke; a few never woke up.
The Americans had continued to bomb Shanghai, their planes paying special attention to the Hongkew district that housed the transmitter. Sunny was amazed to hear that it was still standing after the barrage. The ghetto itself had suffered less collateral damage since the initial assault, but the memory of that day still caused her waking nightmares. Over fifty refugees had died in the air raid, and although the death toll among the Chinese was unknown, it was reputed to be several thousand.
The Adlers were just one of many families who had lost their home in the bombing. But the community had rallied. Word of the humanitarian efforts at the hospital spread beyond the borders of the ghetto; sensationalized in the city’s newspapers, it quickly became the stuff of Shanghai legend. Even Ghoya publicly acknowledged the hospital’s staff and sent fresh medical supplies to help them cope with the casualties.
The refugees, from the community leaders to those living in the hostels, showered gratitude upon Franz and Sunny. After it became known that the Adlers’ apartment had been destroyed in the bombing, a more spacious flat was made available—the older couple who had been living there having agreed to move in with their grown son. A group of young volunteers had already furnished and repainted the apartment, which was conveniently housed in the building directly across the street from the hospital.
But Sunny was most touched by the thanks from her own native Shanghainese. She had long ago realized that her people were insular, prioritizing family over community. However, the locals now couldn’t express enough gratitude to the refugees for their help, which had extended beyond medical care to firefighting and even search-and-rescue work. Every day, dozens of Chinese would show up at the hospital, synagogue and heime with baskets full of fruit, vegetables, rice and meat. They also left blankets, woks and even impractical gifts such as ornamental fans and elaborate banners stencilled with calligraphy.
Sunny was sitting inside the synagogue, watching Joey stack wooden blocks on the floor, when the rabbi approached carrying a basket that overflowed with Chinese pastries. “I cannot believe such generosity.” Hiltmann chuckled. “Before the bombing, you couldn’t leave your garbage outside without it being stolen. Now, every day they leave anonymous gifts on our steps.”
Sunny nodded. “It’s incredible to think that something so devastating as the bombing could bring people together as it has.”
The rabbi sat down beside her. “If there’s one thing we Jews have learned over the past few thousand years, it’s that nothing brings people closer than suffering.”
“It shouldn’t have to be that way.”
“It is the way it is.” Hiltmann watched Joey rise to his feet and take a few tentative steps toward a block that had rolled away. “He’s a sweet boychik, that one, but very timid.”
“I love his caution,” she said. “After all, we live in such reckless times.”
The rabbi jutted his lower lip. “Yet our people have learned a very hard lesson about being too cautious.”
“He’s just a baby, Rabbi.”
“I suppose I can wait another year or two to pass judgment.” He arched an eyebrow. “You will raise him Jewish, will you not?
“I imagine so, yes.”
Hiltmann nodded approvingly. “I only hope that, when the time comes, you will consider joining us in Palestine.”
“My husband is considering it.”
He scratched his beard. “Not you, Sunny? You do not want to leave Shanghai because it is your home?”
Sunny considered the question. “Shanghai is the only home I’ve ever known, but I’ve already lost the people who meant the most to me. If my old amah, Yang, doesn’t come home from the detention camp, then all I will have left here is my family.” She chuckled. “My very Jewish family.”
“So then what would stop you from coming to Palestine with us?”
She looked down at Joey, who was gently banging the blocks together. She wished he could remain like that forever: safe and happily oblivious to all the terrible turmoil in the world around him. “I am worried, Rabbi.”
“For the boy?”
She nodded. “For all of us, really. Hannah, Franz, Esther, Simon, Jakob, and me too.”
“You think it will be nothing but more war in Palestine?”
“Won’t it?”
“I have no idea,” Hiltmann admitted. “I do know that once we have established our homeland, it will be the safest and most blissful place in the world for any Jew to live.”
“And if none of us lives to see that day, Rabbi?”
He tapped his chest. “I doubt this old man will live to see it, but that hardly matters. I believe we owe it to God and, perhaps more importantly, to ourselves to try.” He frowned. “Besides, you do realize, Sunny, that once the Japanese are finally defeated, be’ezrat hashem—God willing—Shanghai will never be as it once was.”
“It will be free again.”
“Is that so? I hear that the Chinese in the countryside are already fighting among themselves. The national army, the Kuomintang …” he stumbled over the pronunciation. “Is that how you say it? Them and the Communists. It could be like the Russian Civil War all over again.”
Sunny had heard these rumours too. “It is a concern,” she conceded.
“The British are not going to come back here after the war. The world is changing. What if the fighting spreads to Shanghai?”
Sunny couldn’t argue with him. She sensed the winds of unrest without knowing much about the infighting beyond the city. “Rabbi, we have choices other than just staying here or going to Palestine.”
“America?”
“Or England or Canada.”
“If any of those countries will even take you.” Hiltmann shook his head. “You probably don’t remember before the war. The Evian Conference? Nobody wanted Jewish refugees. ‘One is too many’ was the charming remark made by one Canadian official.”
“It will be different now. The camps …”
“You think? Ah, to be young and optimistic again.” Hiltmann rolled his eyes affectionately. “Even so. You, Franz, Hannah and Joey will always be outsiders, even in America. Especially you and Joey. Will that be so much better?”
“Look at me, Rabbi. I’m neither Chinese nor Caucasian. Now I live among Jews. I have been an outsider my whole life. I don’t know what it’s like to be anything else.” She paused. “But as long as we can live safely and freely, I don’t care where we go.”
The rabbi smiled widely. “So in that case, why not be an outsider in Eretz Yisrael?”
“It has nothing to do with being an outsider, Rabbi. Or even where I want to live.”
“What is it, then?”
“The children. After all they have been through.” She shook her head. “We must do what is best for them.”
CHAPTER 51
August 14, 1945
It’s as if the Japanese had never been here,” Hannah said with awe
as she walked between her father and Herschel along the riverside Bund. Hannah hadn’t seen the grand boulevard in over two years, but the last time she had, Japanese soldiers were everywhere, and the Rising Sun flapped from every flagpole and rooftop. But now, the soldiers had melted away overnight like snow into a river, and the Japanese flags had all been torn down, replaced in many cases with the Stars and Stripes. The Americans were ubiquitous in Shanghai now, but they couldn’t have been more different from the previous occupiers. Infantrymen and Marines mingled gregariously among the crowds, shopping at street stalls, often stopping to offer cigarettes to adults and chocolates to the children. Their jeeps and transport trucks roared around the city, giving rides to Chinese youths and honking happily at pedestrians.
The mood on the street was jubilant. Civilians of all ethnicities gathered on the sidewalk and in the middle of roadways, laughing, dancing and hooting in celebration. Although it wasn’t yet noon, Hannah noticed that a number of revellers were drunk to the point of staggering.
“I doubt the Japanese will be missed terribly much.” Franz laughed as he laid an arm affectionately across her shoulders. “The war is over, Hannah-chen. And we survived it!”
“It was those terrifying bombs—the atomic ones—that made them surrender, wasn’t it?” Hannah said. “What if they had dropped one on Shanghai?”
“They never would have done that,” Herschel piped up. “Not here. Not on us.”
“I agree,” Franz said. “At least, I hope not. The Japanese had lost long ago. Those atomic bombs only made them finally realize it.”
“I am just glad they’re gone.” Hannah couldn’t remember seeing her father look so relaxed or carefree. As relieved as she felt, she didn’t fully share in the celebratory mood. Like everyone else, she had been anticipating the Japanese defeat for so long, but now that it had come, she experienced a discombobulating sense of limbo. She picked up on a nervous undercurrent to all the festivity. It was as though the city were collectively waiting for something, but no one quite knew what it would be.
