by Lois Ruby
“Who are?”
He shook his head. “Not our business to know. All I’ve been told is that the head of our division is Madame Liang.”
“A woman?”
“Keep your voice down.” Erich arched his head toward Father, who was reading across the room. “Maybe not a woman. Maybe an alias, just a code name. Don’t ask so many questions.”
So, I’d never know who they were, or whether they were all over China or only in Shanghai. I was just a tiny cog in the whole huge wheel of freedom fighters, of which Erich reminded me over and over. Maybe he was afraid I’d outshine him, as if I ever could.
“Not a word to that blabbermouth, Tanya,” Erich warned.
“Of course not. I’m no idiot.” I wiggled my eyebrows like that American comedian Groucho Marx. “Tanya likes you, you know.”
“She likes anything in pants. It runs in her family.”
“The Japanese soldiers, I know.”
“I might have to accidentally trip one of them on his way down the stairs next Friday.” Erich gave me a diabolical smile, something so rare on his face that I just melted and reached over to kiss his forehead as he sawed away at a strain vaguely Brahms.
Father sprinted across the room to snap the fiddle out of Erich’s hands.
“You are a fine son, but a hopeless musician.” He cradled The Violin as if it were an abused child. “I concede. I will not encourage you on this instrument any further.”
“Me neither, Father?” I asked eagerly.
Father’s deep sigh rolled over me like a wave.
“Neither of you displays a calling to music. I pray that you’ll find your talents, your passions elsewhere.”
Erich’s burst of relief saddened Father, and to compensate, I tried to look heartbroken.
“Someday when we have a place to call home, we will have a piano again,” Father said. “Perhaps that is your instrument, children. That would please your mother.”
We both nodded in somber agreement while Erich flashed me a look that said, not a chance on earth. And in this way the music-loving world was spared any further assaults from the sausage-fingered Shpann children. I only hoped we’d make better spies than musicians.
“Now,” Father said, “I’m off to the café to make a cup of coffee last all afternoon with the other useless men.”
Once Father was gone, Erich handed me a street map and a letter he’d hidden under his mattress. It was handwritten on creamy vellum stationery thick enough to line our shoes with. I broke the chop seal on the envelope and read the note written in precise English:
February 1, 1943
Mr. Wushan Xi
Kwan Ho Employment Agency
Hongkew, Shanghai
Dear Sir,
I seek the assistance of a clever servant girl, as I anticipate considerable company. Due to the vicissitudes of wartime, I do not know when these guests will arrive. Thus I would require that the aforementioned housemaid be available immediately and on duty shortly. As you well know, I am an impatient and exacting employer. Needless to say, the girl must be eager to work like a beast of burden, yet willing to waive all benefits save modest recompense. Though I live well, my resources are not as they once were. The girl’s reward will be the assurance that she is serving the aristocracy of Old China in a time-honoured capacity. I believe you have my telephone number in your file. Please contact my butler, Sheng, with details. Time, as always, is of the essence.
Cordially yours,
MADAME LIANG
“What a snotty woman. So, what does this mean?”
“It’s the final go-ahead for your first assignment. See the words shortly and waive? Before the week’s out, the Japanese will confiscate all shortwave radios.”
“Who cares? They have everything else of ours.”
“Think. Shortwaves are our only means of contact with the outside. They’ll just barge into people’s homes and steal the few radios left, you’ll see.”
“And I’m to stop them?” I asked hopefully, though I couldn’t imagine how.
Erich laughed at how naïve I was and playfully pinched my arm until I yelped. Satisfied, he tapped the street map. “A REACTor, that’s you, will go to all the families in this area and warn them to hide their shortwaves. Bury them, if necessary.”
“That’s all?”
“Ilse, don’t you see? It’s a test. Gerhardt wants to check how well you handle this mission. You think it’s easy? There’s an art to it. You have to convince each person that it’s vital to maintain secret communication with the Allies, and you have to do all this without scaring anyone, and above all, you can’t tell a soul who put you up to this job and how you know this piece of intelligence directly out of Japanese headquarters. Do you understand?”
Then it was starting to sound a little more complicated, but I nodded in agreement.
“Good, so I’m instructed to send you off, right away. Zigzag. Don’t go house to house in a straight row. Only go into a house when the guard turns his back.” He pulled me to him for an awkward hug. “Be careful.” Pushing me away, he looked at his watch. “I will go to the telephone down the block and tell them when you start. You have two hours to finish. Beyond that it begins to look suspicious. When you’re done, I telephone to Rolf with your report.”
“Oh, so that’s what Madame Liang means by ‘contact my butler, Sheng, with details’?”
“Coded, of course.” He handed me the map and rushed me out the door, and that’s how I began my first assignment as a saboteur.
The two hours raced by, and I was totally frustrated by my neighbors who just didn’t see the importance of my mission. I slunk home to report my pitiful progress.
“I covered thirty-three families in seven buildings, and only six promised they’d hide their radios. Most didn’t have radios, and the rest acted like I was a lunatic.”
Erich digested my report soberly. I followed him to the telephone two blocks away and crowded into the booth with him, thrilled by the sound of real coins jangling down the throat of the phone. When had I last had more than one coin in my hand? Erich wouldn’t let me see the number he dialed, and what I heard on his end told me nothing:
“Already thirty-three people have applied for jobs at the Peking Road Pencil Factory, but unfortunately, there are only six positions open. Um-hmn. Um-hmn. Yes. I will.” And he hung up. “You passed the test. Tomorrow you hit Frenchtown, same story.”
Not even a week passed before Japanese signs went up all over the place and messages blasted from megaphones up and down the streets:
ATTENTION! ATTENTION!
ALL RESIDENTS ARE COMMANDED TO TURN IN
SHORTWAVE RADIOS IMMEDIATELY.
VIOLATORS WILL BE IMPRISONED. NO EXCEPTIONS.
REACT was right on the money. I began to feel I was truly part of something important, that even a girl like me could make a difference.
I came home from the Kadoorie School one day and found Mother curled on her bed. A tentative tap at the door woke her before I could. “It’s probably Mrs. Kazimierz from across the street. Back again,” Mother said under her breath. She got up and tidied her hair.
But it wasn’t Mrs. Kazimierz. It was a man as bald as a watermelon, wearing plaid suspenders that hitched up his trousers nearly to his armpits.
“Mrs. Span?” He was an American, judging by the way he pronounced our name—Span, like it was the span of a bridge, rather than Shpohn.
“Yes?” Mother was wary; strangers seldom came to our door, and Americans, never.
He showed Mother a blue air letter with USA on it. “May I come in?”
Mother went pale. “Yes, of course.”
I edged forward to see that the letter was from M. O., but all sorts of postmarks and scribblings cluttered the envelope after months, and thousands of miles, of travel.
Mother offered the man the other chair at the table. I stood between them.
“Mrs. Span, I am Joseph Foley. I am in the employ of Laura Margolies. You
know the name?”
“Yes, the social worker, God should bless her.”
“Yes, the American social worker,” Mr. Foley boasted. “We both work for the Joint.”
Mother offered Mr. Foley a cup of coffee. I knew what a sacrifice that would be if he accepted; Father would have no coffee for dinner.
He politely declined. “Yes, the JDC, the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee. We are here in Shanghai to help the refugees at this unfortuitous time.”
“May I see my letter?” Mother asked, reaching out.
He handed it to her. “Mrs. Span, you know that Americans cannot send mail directly to Japanese-occupied China.”
“I understand.” Mother held the letter to her heart.
“Your letter has taken a circuitous route. It reached China months ago. A delegate from the Swiss consulate happened to be in the office of a certain Japanese officer when the decision was made as to what to do with a bagful of old mail. The Swiss, as you know, are neutral, and they often serve as go-betweens.”
Like Erich does for the Underground.
“The Swiss man tried to convince the officer to entrust the mail to him, to no avail. But the officer must have felt playful that day.” Mr. Foley rubbed his shiny head and held up three lean fingers. “He offered the Swiss the chance to randomly draw three letters from the mail pouch, and those he was authorized to distribute. The remainder would be burned.” He folded his fingers down one by one and twisted the fist in the air. “Your letter, Mrs. Span, was one of the three. To make a long story short”—it was too late for that—“the Swiss consulate delivered the three letters to the Joint, and I am delivering yours to you. However, I must inform you that a certain enclosure has been, shall we say, appropriated by the Japanese. Not by the Joint, I want you to know.”
“Thank you,” Mother said, rising. “I shall keep that in mind.”
Mr. Foley took the hint. “Good day,” he said, showing us the top of his pink scalp.
As soon as he was gone, Mother carefully peeled the envelope open. I read over her shoulder.
Dear Frieda,
This is the last you will hear from me. With the war in the Pacific raging, I am a liability to you. I didn’t dare send a package. As you must know, there is a blockade against parcels from any of the Allied countries. But I hope the twenty dollars in this envelope will help to ease your family through the days ahead. M. O.
There were Japanese characters in the margins, and the M. O. was enclosed in a blood red box. My heart sank—the money was gone. The outside of the envelope was all marked up, too, and the same red ink encircled the Santa Rosa, California, return address, as if the tentacles of the Japanese Kempetai, the dreaded secret police, could extend as far as America.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
1943
I had barely a second to think about this letter because REACT had another assignment for me.
“No letter from Madame Liang this time, so listen carefully,” Erich instructed me. “You’re to go to the Shanghai Club on the Bund.”
“And do what?”
“You’re to slip into the water closets on the main floor and bend the rods of the copper floats in each toilet.”
“You’re joking.”
“I am perfectly serious,” Erich said. “Disable the toilets and you create, well, let’s say, a messy problem for our Japanese friends.”
The European Shanghai Club had become the social gathering place for the Japanese navy. I couldn’t just waltz into such a high-security building and ask to jam their plumbing. I was outfitted as a delivery boy—another way to be invisible—complete with a uniform and cap, into which I stuffed my pinned hair.
I had to make sure no one in our house caught me in this getup. I tiptoed past Tanya’s door just as Moishe jumped down from his perch atop the trash boxes. He meowed and curled his tail around my leg and turned gooey eyes toward me. So, he hated the real me but fancied the telegram-boy me. Too bad he was still the same cat.
I did not fool Liu. As usual, he tagged along behind me all the way to the Bund. He was wearing a newish, red-and-white-striped shirt that hung below his knees. I wondered what dead body he’d stripped it from. Somebody a lot larger than he, that was clear. I waved him away, and he hung back a few paces.
If I’d fooled Moishe, maybe I’d fool the angry-looking navy guard who blocked the giant front door of the Shanghai Club. REACT had learned that Admiral Imura conducted a lot of navy business at the club, with a glass of vodka balanced on his rolling belly.
I fluttered a manila envelope under the guard’s nose and struck a deep boy’s voice: “The Swiss consulate sent this for Admiral Imura. Extremely important.”
My heart skipped a few beats and wild doubts raced through my head, mostly on the theme of just possibly I wasn’t cut out for sabotage. But I tapped my foot and rolled my eyes to suggest that the fate of the Japanese navy, even the whole war, maybe the world as we knew it, hung on whether this particular guard allowed the message to get through to the admiral promptly.
He studied the envelope with his face pulled together like a drawstring pouch, and then it dawned on me that the man was faking. He couldn’t read the German. He probably didn’t even read Japanese. As Mother often said, “Such guards are selected for qualities other than their literary proficiency.” Finally he waved me in.
“Arigato, thank you,” I said, bowing low. He bowed, I bowed, he bowed, and I slipped past him into the Shanghai Club.
I couldn’t pause to admire the beautiful blackstone foyer, because of those mean sentries, stiff as department store dummies, every few paces along the wall. I was dying to get a glimpse of that hundred-foot-long bar we’d heard about. I wanted to knock everything off and slide across the smooth, polished wood in my socks. But this was war; no time for trivialities. No, I had to hurry to the toilets.
A guard’s eyes followed me, without his head moving, as I scampered into the men’s room. I glanced at the urinals. How could men be so immodest? Well, as Erich said, men had outdoor plumbing, so no one cared.
Disappointing to count only six stalls—not enough toilets to stop the Japanese march through China, but I’d do my part. Rolling up my sleeves, I set to work in the first stall. The copper float was green and coated with some sort of scum. It was slippery and hard as steel. I couldn’t bend it a millimeter. Dismal failure on my first attempt. The best I could do was unhook the float and move on to the next stall. That toilet was more accommodating because the float was corroded and easier to snap. The third ball cock cracked in my palm like a raw egg. By the last one I was the underground’s expert on dismantling plumbing, and I was feeling quite smug, when someone came into the men’s room.
I climbed onto the toilet, crouching so nothing of me would show under or above the divider. Shiny boots appeared two stalls away, then trousers draped over the boots, suspended above the floor by thick fingers. Assuming he was alone, the venerable officer of the Japanese navy began singing.
And then came the moment a saboteur lives for. The officer tried to flush the toilet. The handle jiggled feebly, followed by a string of Japanese curses. Success! I heard him open the door of his stall. Changing his mind, he threw the lock on the door and crawled out under it, so no one would stumble into that stall and discover his shame. An officer of the Japanese navy who didn’t flush? Unthinkable!
Water furiously splashed in a basin, the linen towel loop was yanked, and the officer stomped out of the men’s room. I finished my work and stuffed a huge wad of tissue into each basin for good measure, then slipped out the swinging door, confident that officers with their elbows on the long bar would have an interesting day or two thanks to REACT. Mission accomplished, I stuffed the manila envelope under my uniform coat and sauntered over to the building entrance. I bowed to the guard, he bowed, I bowed. The Japanese were always polite.
“What a lark!” I bragged to Erich. “I just wish I could keep that nice, warm uniform.”
“Not a lark if
you get caught.”
I stopped my mugging around and stared at him. Until that moment I never considered getting caught or what would become of me if I did. I could be tossed into a Japanese prison. We’d all heard reports of the brutal treatment innocent captives got at the Bridge House. Or they rotted away with typhus in the Ward Road Jail.
I could die there. My stomach flip-flopped as the blood drained from my face. “Something worth dying for.” I remembered Erich saying that, but now? So young?
Erich tapped my head. “Just don’t get caught, Ilse.”
All winter there’d been rumors floating on the chill winds that we Jews would be herded into a ghetto. That all of us would be forced to wear armbands, just like in Europe. That Americans and Brits would be sent to dreadful internment camps. That fewer and fewer provisions would reach us, even through Swiss intermediaries, since America’s law against trading with the enemy was being strictly enforced. That we’d slowly starve to death, as if we weren’t already.
Father dismissed these dire rumors as Japanese propaganda.
“I believe there is some truth to them,” Mother quietly responded.
“Ach, they are simply hallucinations of minds consumed by relentless shivering and empty bellies. You’ll see, Frieda. In the spring they will dry up and vanish.”
They didn’t. With the last gasp of winter, February 17, 1943, the proclamation came down on our heads, confirming the rumors.
CHAPTER TWELVE
1943
Newspapers shouted the headline:
PROCLAMATION CONCERNING
RESTRICTION OF RESIDENCE AND BUSINESS
OF STATELESS REFUGEES
The same notice was nailed to every tree and telephone pole in our neighborhood.
“Maybe it doesn’t mean us,” Mother said. She and Father sat at our table while Erich and I stood with our bowls raised to our chins.
Erich fumed. “We’re the stateless refugees; who else would they mean? Don’t deny it, Mother.”
