Trail of Blood

by S. J. Rozan

  “ Lydia, we were right.”

  “We’re always right. About what?”

  “A few days ago a pay phone a block from Wong Pan’s hotel made a call to the Waldorf.”

  “To the Waldorf? Wong Pan called Alice? But she never said anything. She wasn’t even positive he was in New York.”

  “The call was short. He might have tried, didn’t get her, and hung up. The point is, he knows where to find her.”

  “If it was him. All you have is a pay phone calling the Waldorf.”

  Mary ignored my magical thinking. “I’m here, but she’s not. Have you heard from her?”

  “Here, the Waldorf? You’re there? And she’s not? Now you’re worrying me. I just called and got voice mail. I was about to go up there. Was that pay-phone call before the Chinese cop was killed or after?”

  “His death can’t be pinned down that exactly, but it was probably within a few hours. Let me know right away if you hear from her.”

  “I will. And Mary? I have a couple of other bombshells.” I told her about Mr. Chen, Rosalie’s son, and Mr. Zhang, Rosalie’s nephew, and about Alice ’s clients, not Rosalie’s relations at all.

  “Oh,” Mary said slowly. “Oh, Lydia, I’m not liking this.”

  “Me either.”

  “I’m going to alert the sector cars to look out for her. Meanwhile, Shanghai ’s sending a new cop over.”

  “They are?”

  “Hey, it’s a homicide of one of their own, plus a theft from the Chinese people. It wouldn’t surprise me if they sent a whole squad. Inspector”-a pause-“Wei De-xu. The e-mail says, ‘Inspector Wei is one of Shanghai Police Bureau’s most esteemed officers.’ I’m going to the airport in the morning to collect him.”

  “How come you get to go? Instead of someone from Midtown Homicide?”

  “Captain Mentzinger’s squeezing this. Technically, once the John Doe was identified, I was done, but he wants me to stay with it. After the screw-up on the room, Midtown can’t really object. They’re saving face by saying it’s okay for me to collect this guy because I can talk to him.”

  “In Shanghainese?”

  “What do they know? Besides, would Shanghai send a cop here who didn’t speak English? But don’t tell them.”

  After we hung up I redirected myself again, back to my office; there was no point in going to the Waldorf if Mary was already there and Alice wasn’t. At the office I put on water for tea and called Bill, repeating for him everything I’d told Mary and what she’d told me. His reaction was a lot like hers: He didn’t like the sound of things either.

  “That seems to be the consensus,” I said. “What are you up to?”

  “I’m waiting for a call. And reading a book.”

  “A history of Shanghai?”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “I’m afraid so. What call?”

  “A friend of a friend. An expert on modern Chinese history. I’m hoping he can give us some background.”

  “That’s very enterprising.”

  “Am I stepping on your toes? I don’t want-”

  “No, I meant it. Did I sound sarcastic?”

  “I wasn’t sure.”

  I was taken aback. Bill, unable to read the tone in my voice? “No, I think it’s a great idea. Let me know if he calls.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “I think I’ll do some reading, too. I’m going to print out the rest of Rosalie’s letters.”

  “They’ve been public property for years. You won’t find anything in them that Chen and Zhang don’t already know.”

  “Well, it’s not like I’m looking for a map with a big X on it. But Mr. Chen caught me flatfooted when he said he was Rosalie’s son. I don’t want that to happen again. Right now the letters are the only thread I have.”

  * * *

  I took my tea to the easy chair and settled in.

  29 April 1938

  Dearest Mama,

  Well, your ignorant Rosalie is only slightly less ignorant today, as regards China. But having sat with Chen Kai-rong yesterday long into the afternoon-over coffee and linzer torte, which I’m afraid I devoured greedily; he suggests we alternate the foods of our peoples, a charming offer-I am considerably less ignorant about my new friend.

  He made, I must say, a valiant effort to unravel the history of forty centuries. But I became hopelessly lost among the states and dynasties. My floundering amused him, which he tried to hide. (And failed!) His own family traces its roots to a time called “the Warring States”-two thousand years ago, Mama! When our people had already been scattered for millennia, when Christianity was about to rise and scatter us again-Chen Kai-rong has visited the graves of his ancestors from that time!

  I confessed to envy, and a wistful longing for a similar homeland. Our books tell us the history of our people is as long as China ’s, but what Jewish family knows the names of its forebears beyond half a dozen generations, or could find their graves?

  Chen Kai-rong questioned me about Zionism, and though he pleaded ignorance, he was well informed on the subject. I told him I consider Zionism a collective opium dream of the Jewish people; and then I quickly apologized for the mention of opium, as I understand the drug to be a scourge of the Chinese. The Chinese people carry many burdens, was his answer, and opium, though a curse, at least provides a temporary joy.

  The conversation having taken this doleful turn, I moved to another subject entirely, asking how he came by such a fine command of English. English, he said, is the lingua franca of commercial Shanghai. Since I have been finding the prospect of conducting myself in Chinese a daunting one, you might imagine my delight in hearing this! Kai-rong attended the Shanghai British School and has spoken English since he was a boy. He now returns home from two years’ study at Oxford. I asked what his field had been.

  “I was reading law,” was his answer. “Though from what I hear, law is a discipline very much needed in Shanghai at the moment, and very little in demand.” He fell silent, staring over the water.

  “I’m sorry,” I ventured. “I seem to be touching today only on subjects that distress you.”

  At this he stirred himself. “No, no, I’m the one who must apologize. I was… brooding.” And he smiled.

  “Over what, if I may ask?”

  “Ah, Rosalie. You’ve left a country where your people have lived for centuries, but are no longer welcome. I fear I return to one.”

  “How can that be? You’re a Chinaman going to China.”

  His smile broadened. “First, you must not say ‘Chinaman.’ ” (Mama, this word has no German equivalent, but is in common use in English. I never knew it was offensive before this.) “It’s a word used by Europeans and carries a condescending odor. You’ll find more friends in Shanghai if you say ‘Chinese.’ I know this seems trivial-”

  I assured him it did not, having been myself rudely awakened in the past months to the pain words can cause. “I can’t pretend to understand the nuance, because my English is so poor,” I told him. “But if the word offends you, I shall strike it from my vocabulary!”

  “I and my countrymen thank you. And permit me to say, if you’re able to slip ‘nuance’ so neatly into a sentence, you must stop thinking your English poor.”

  I thanked him for the compliment (though, Mama, his English really does outshine mine) and asked what he meant by being unwelcome in China, whether he referred to the Japanese occupation.

  “The occupation, yes; though I can understand foreign invaders better than I can the puppet government-Chinese so hungry for power and wealth that they take orders from invaders, against their own people.”

  “But what of the government this puppet one replaces? Is there no resistance movement of loyal Chinese, working to retake the country?” I was of course thinking, Mama, of the situation at home, of those loyalists who refuse to accept Herr Hitler’s Anschluss.

  “What they replaced,” Kai-rong replied, “was hardly a government. Chiang Kai-shek and
his Nationalists are two-faced thieves who betrayed the Republic many years ago, before it could take root. And half the country, in any case, was never under their control-and isn’t under Japanese control now. It’s strangled by warlords. Greedy thugs to whom ‘ China ’ is an abstract concept, while wealth is a concept they understand.” He paused, sipping coffee; I had no idea how to respond. And then, Mama, he made this extraordinary statement: “As painful as your situation is, Rosalie, there may be an advantage in having no country to fight over. Your traditions are long and beautiful, and your spiritual nature has flowered in the absence of the distractions of politics and the necessity, once power is gained, to keep a grip on it.”

  I was amazed by this, and had to answer: “Also in the absence of safety, and often of food to fill our bellies!”

  Surprised, he said, “Did I sound patronizing? I apologize.”

  My indignation vanished and I began to laugh, pointing out we were apologizing to each other with every third breath!

  “You’re right,” he said, “and if that’s my fault, I apologize.” He laughed with me.

  Then he grew pensive and added, “But it seems we have something to envy in each other’s history, if not in each other’s circumstances. Come now, there’s still linzer torte to fill your belly. And I can return, if you want, to the Northern Song, and pick up where we left off.”

  I sighed. “Yes, please, though I don’t think it will do much good. But first, you never gave an answer to my question: Is there in China a resistance movement against the Japanese?”

  I thought he wouldn’t reply, but at last he said, “Yes. There is. Fighting to regain China for the Chinese people.”

  “Will they win?”

  “If you’re asking me to tell the future, I can’t do it. But I can tell you this: History is on the side of China. Now pick up your plate and let’s return to history.”

  And we did. Not that, as I say, I’ve managed to learn much about the past. But I’ve learned enough about Chen Kai-rong to look forward to the future-tomorrow’s lesson, accompanied by fragrant tea and curious Chinese cakes.

  Stay well, Mama!

  Your Rosalie

  3 May 1938

  Dearest Mama,

  I haven’t written for some time, I know, but as I’ve been told there will now be no mail service until we reach Singapore, I feel foolish putting pen to paper to produce a letter that will sit on my bureau for days. Paul applauds this lack of enterprise on my part, seeming to feel it justifies his own, though I have a number of previous letters to point to, which makes me feel quite superior but has little effect on him.

  But this morning I awoke feeling melancholy, Mama, and missing you greatly. Perhaps the fog which enshrouds us affects my mood. People speak softly; even the children are subdued. We’re less than a week from Shanghai. I believe the enormity of this undertaking has at last forced itself on our understanding. I have had glimpses of it over the past weeks, but have resolutely refused to acknowledge it, preferring the luxury of the ship, the exhilaration of new acquaintances, and the adventure of sailing into the unknown. But the fog brings about an odd sensation. There is little wind, and in no direction can anything be seen beyond the rail. At home a chill fog precedes a change of weather, but this warm, featureless mist seems as though it might continue forever. Ah, and there you have it, Mama: I’ve said “home,” and the word fills me with sadness.

  When I look toward the future, excitement and curiousity lighten my trepidation. My new friend, Chen Kai-rong, has taught me much about his country. It’s clear he loves his homeland deeply and longed for it when he was away, equally clear he knows China ’s shortcomings and is eager to see them corrected. His devotion in spite of all he thinks wrong is reassuring, and I hope his feelings will color my own. In this way, I find myself already connected to Shanghai; but when I turn toward the past, my feelings are exactly opposite. I’m no longer connected, but uncoupled and adrift. My every happy memory is shaded by a forlorn longing for the home we’ve lost.

  Mama, have you written to us? I understand the fast liners are few and I do not expect a letter from you on each tender that meets us; and yet, as Paul asks, if that’s true, why do I continually put myself in the path of the steward who distributes the passengers’ mail? I should dearly love a letter, Mama. But much much more, I should love to find you and Uncle Horst on the ship that follows immediately behind this one.

  I’ll seal this letter now, and lay it on my bureau until tomorrow, when the tender sails out from Singapore. Perhaps by morning the fog will burn off, and I’ll be

  Your strong and sunny Rosalie, again.

  9 May 1938

  Dearest Mama,

  Yesterday we arrived in Shanghai.

  What a place this is!

  How to tell you? How to begin? It’s all so strange, Mama, and we’re so unprepared! On shipboard Chen Kai-rong painted such vivid word-pictures that I felt quite ready to step into life as a practiced “Shanghailander.” But oh, how wrong I was!

  Though I’m finding great difficulty, Mama, in putting words to this experience, nevertheless I’ll try, so things won’t be as strange for you when you arrive; and also so you’ll have an idea what Paul and I, in this dizzying world, are feeling.

  The night before last, in a thick mist, we bore down on the mouth of the harbor. Everyone ran to the rails, though for some time nothing could be seen. The air became electric when ships loomed from the fog: two liners at anchor, gunships of many nations, and our first sight of the square-sailed junks and flat sampans of the Orient.

  We dropped anchor to await the turn of the tide. The kitchens put forth a sumptuous banquet of fish, goose, and dumplings. Not knowing what our situation would be from that moment forward, I ate my fill and encouraged Paul to do the same. (Though he needed no encouragement; as costly as this passage was, I don’t believe that in the end the Lloyd Triestino Line has made any profit on Paul.) Stewards stacked luggage on deck, and many emotional farewells and promises of continued friendship were made. Neither Paul nor I slept that night; had we, I believe we would have been the only passengers to do so.

  As the sun rose the engines rumbled, and the ship was on the move. We made our way up the Whangpu, as the river is called where it flows through Shanghai. Though the fog was thick, we refugees once again jammed the rails, straining for a glimpse of our new home.

  That “glimpse” came first not as sight, but as scent. Though “scent” is too gentle a word: This was a full-on reek, a riot of tangled odors that, had it been noise, would have deafened us all. Imagine, Mama, the sea at low tide; add diesel oil, rotting vegetables, and the smoke from a thousand factories, and stir into a haze of damp heat! Such was our first impression of our new home.

  As the fog burned off we saw the shore. In contrast to the report of our noses, our eyes suggested a dreamlike scene. We floated past fields and rice paddies dotted with low huts and with farmers trudging behind what Kai-rong informs me are not oxen but water buffaloes. Soon, though, we approached the outskirts of Shanghai, and oh! what a disheartening sight! The area we passed, called Hongkew, suffered much in the Japanese invasion. The devastation, drifting smoke, and rubble, and the poor souls wandering through them, were not encouraging omens.

  Next came the wharves. Junks, sampans, and rafts crowded the water, riding our wake or fearlessly crossing before us; how we failed to swamp them, I cannot say. On the docks all was chaos. Trucks loaded and unloaded and automobiles inched along. The rickshaw, that odd vehicle of the Orient, could be seen, with men pulling like horses at its rails. But the chief element of the boiling, eddying commotion was people, oh so many people! A few wore European dress, but most, both men and women, rushed or trudged or sat about in short trousers and conical hats. I felt dismay at the sight of such a dense and endless crowd; but also, a strange exhilaration that made me impatient to join them.

  Next came into view grand buildings in the European style. The streets, though still bustling, became les
s frantic. Kai-rong gazed upon his home city for the first time in years. The light in his face strengthened my resolve to try to love this place.

  Kai-rong informed us we had reached the Bund, a riverfront promenade lined with banks, office blocks, and grand hotels. This is the heart of the International Settlement, an area that by treaty is governed not by China but by the foreign powers whose subjects reside there. And this word is not our German Bund, as one might expect, but Hindustani, and meaning “dock.” (Do you see how much I’ve learned, in these few weeks? Though I haven’t yet learned to love Chinese sweets.)

  Our engines quieted; we were met by pilot boats. Paul ran to join a group of friends his own age at the bow, to be the first to see our dock. Spying a garden along the Bund, I asked Kai-rong if it was as lovely as it appeared. He said he thought it must be, but he’s never been inside, as Chinese aren’t allowed.

  Mama, my heart froze. I saw before me the “Jews Forbidden” sign at the gate of the Mirabell Garden the last time you and I tried to go for our accustomed Sunday stroll.

  “But how can that be?” I was vehement, Mama; I think I wanted him to say he’d been making some odd joke, or I’d misunderstood. “How can that be? This is China! This area may be governed by foreigners, but surely they cannot-”

  “They can. By treaty they can and for a hundred years they have. A mile behind that”-indicating the Bund-“and thousands of miles beyond, is China. The International Settlement and the French Concession might as well be Europe. Though I can tell you, Rosalie, I was never treated with as much disdain in Europe as I have been here in the city where I was born.”

  This saddened me, Mama, more than I can say. Looking with dismay across the water, I asked whether he meant to tell me the international areas, so prosperous and attractive, are entirely closed to Chinese.

  “Oh, by no means,” he answered with a wry smile. “Just this ‘public’ garden, and the gentleman’s clubs, sports clubs, and private dining establishments. A million people live in the International Settlement, half a million in the French Concession. Of those, if more than sixty thousand are European, well, then, as they say in England, I’m a Chinaman.”