Rising Sun, Falling Shadow (24 page)

“To leave Shanghai?”

“The Shanghai I knew—the place I still think of as home—that city is long dead.” He looked at Franz wistfully. “And yet, somehow, I live on.”

 

Sunny pressed the towel to the surgical wound on the man's abdomen. “Will it ever heal, Frau Adler?” Herr Hirsch asked, his tone plaintive.

“A little time and patience do wonders for healing, Herr Hirsch.” She sounded to herself like the old matron she had worked for at the Country Hospital. The woman had a gift for silencing even the most demanding of patients.

“If only God will grant me enough time to be patient.”

“You are over the worst of—”

A sudden commotion cut her off mid-sentence. Sunny heard something crash to the floor and someone shouting in Japanese. She dropped the towel and raced over to Kubota's bed.

The young Japanese soldier who always stood at the foot of the bed was motioning wildly with the barrel of his rifle toward the bed. The colonel was propped up on a pillow, eyes open but absolutely still, his lips dark blue.

Sunny thrust her hand up to Kubota's mouth but didn't feel so much as a flutter of air against her palm. She placed her fingers on his neck. A pulse still beat weakly beneath them. Sunny saw that his pupils were the size of pinholes. She doubted he could still be conscious, but she sensed awareness behind his glassy eyes. His expression verged on serene.

As she stood there, helpless, Sunny felt his pulse drain away beneath her hand.

Even the guard could see what was happening. He shrieked at her in Japanese, demanding action. Sunny only shook her head. A lump formed in her throat as she pulled her hand from Kubota's neck and lifted the sheet over his head. The guard let his rifle fall to his side, its muzzle dangling toward the ground, as he gaped in disbelief.

Sunny turned to see Berta standing at the door to the ward. The other nurse absorbed the scene immediately. “How did this happen?” she asked. “I checked on him just a few minutes ago. He was stable.”

Sunny hurried over to her. “Did you give him painkillers?”

Berta shook her head. “No, but Dr. Huang did. When he changed the dressings.”

“Wen-Cheng?” Sunny gasped and then covered her shock with a small cough. “Dr. Huang changed the colonel's dressing?”

“And administered morphine, yes.” Berta lowered her voice to a whisper. “There is something else.”

“Yes, Berta?”

She cleared her throat. “The morphine.”

“What about it?”

“You must understand. I am not accusing Dr. Huang.”

“Tell me, Berta.”

“After Dr. Huang prepared the colonel's injection, the other morphine pills—our last ones . . . they went missing.”

Sunny managed to maintain a neutral expression. “You think Wen-Cheng took them?”

Berta held up her hands helplessly. “Who else could have?”

“Perhaps Dr. Huang needed them for patients outside the hospital?” But Sunny already knew what he had done with them. “I will speak with him.”

* * *

Sunny assumed that Wen-Cheng would have left the hospital long before, so she was surprised to find him sitting alone at the table in the staff room, smoking a cigarette and staring at the wall.

She sat down across from him. “The colonel is dead.”

Wen-Cheng showed no response. His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond her.

“He didn't die from his injury,” she continued.

“What then?” Wen-Cheng asked mechanically.

“Morphine toxicity.”

“How can you be certain?”

“I was with him, Wen-Cheng. He stopped breathing. His pupils were constricted. I have seen more than enough opium and morphine poisonings to recognize the signs.”

Wen-Cheng avoided her eyes. “Accidental narcotic poisoning is a common occurrence on surgical wards.”

“This was no accident.”

“You do not believe so?”

Sunny shook a finger at him. “You poisoned the colonel!”

Wen-Cheng smoked in silence for several tense seconds. Finally, he met her eyes. “And it's fortunate for you that I did.”

Sunny leapt to her feet. “How can you say that?” She struggled to keep her voice low. “He was a good man. The one decent Japanese officer I have ever known.”

“Maybe so, but they wanted him dead.”

“You mean that bitter old man did.”

“More than just him,” Wen-Cheng said. “Besides, he is a very important man, Soon Yi. A person not to be crossed.”

“I haven't crossed him!”

“Nor did you do as he requested.”

She hung her head. “No.”

“I meant what I told you, Soon Yi,” he said quietly. “I will do whatever is necessary to protect you.”

“What does that have to do with Colonel Kubota?”

“The others. They don't know that the targets were brought to our hospital for treatment.” He paused. “Their targets.”

Sunny nodded, suddenly understanding. “If the Underground learned that we operated on Kubota. That we saved his life . . .”

“They would come for him.” Wen-Cheng shook his head. “For you too, I'm afraid.”

“I see.”

“Decent man or not, I do not regret what I did, Soon Yi.”

Sunny realized that Wen-Cheng had poisoned the colonel to protect her. Guilt pressed down on her shoulders as acutely as it had after she had witnessed the deaths of those teenaged boys and Irma, which felt like so long ago now. “Is it over now?” she asked.

Wen-Cheng looked away again. “They see only black and white. Either you support them . . .”

“Or what?”

“You are a collaborator.”

“That is what they think I am? A collaborator?”

“The old man, he never believed that you could not get to Kubota. He thought you were protecting the colonel.”

She slumped back into her chair. “I have heard how the Underground deals with collaborators.”

He sat up straighter and folded his arms. “I will not let them harm you. No matter what, Soon Yi. I will protect you.”

 

 

 

Sunny bundled her coat tighter around her, bracing against the biting wind. Her foot slid on a patch of black ice and she barely kept her balance. Her elbow still ached from a fall the day before on the slick pavement.

Winter had descended early on Shanghai. The week before, there had been snow flurries. But Sunny knew that something more dangerous than the bitter chill or the black ice was keeping the sidewalks in Frenchtown as deserted as those inside the ghetto.

She had expected things to deteriorate after Tanaka's murder, but even still, the Japanese reprisal was shocking in its vitriol. In the weeks since the assassinations, the authorities had launched a ruthless crackdown on all so-called “hostile” citizens, from Chinese locals to the stateless Jews. No one in the ghetto seemed to know who had replaced Colonel Tanaka, but the Kempeitai's collective paranoia was at an all-time high. The men in the white armbands were ubiquitous, and treacherous. Impromptu arrests, whippings and executions were commonplace.

The refugee community was still reeling from the death of one of its most respected members, Albert Neufeld. The week before, Neufeld had returned from a meeting with a group of Russian Jewish leaders fifteen minutes past curfew. Rather than revoking his pass for a month—the standard punishment for missing curfew to that point—the soldiers at the checkpoint had gunned Neufeld down in the street.

Sunny felt more vulnerable than ever. She had had no contact with anyone from the Underground, not even Wen-Cheng, in the past seven weeks. He had disappeared after their tense discussion in the staff room. Sunny had not told anyone about his role in poisoning Kubota, but she suspected Wen-Cheng found it too risky to stay on at the hospital. She hoped that he had vanished of his own accord.

Sunny stepped through the doorway of the Cathay Building, hurried across the marble-floored lobby and took the elevator to the ninth floor. Reaching Jia-Li's door, she knocked with the secret signal.

Jia-Li pulled her into the living room with an exuberant embrace. Sunny did a double take at the sight of her best friend. Her face free of makeup, she wore casual trousers and a sweater, and her hair was pulled into a tight bun. She reminded Sunny of the woman in the famous Marxist poster they'd seen throughout their childhood, glorifying the female proletariat. Jia-Li didn't even smell like her old self. Sunny couldn't detect a trace of either her usual jasmine fragrance or her favourite Russian cigarettes.

Charlie was kneeling on the floor of the living room with his crutches at his side. He looked over his shoulder and gave Sunny a quick smile before turning his attention back to the pliers he was using to tighten a screw onto a thin metal cylinder. “A pencil detonator,” Charlie explained before Sunny could ask. “It works as a time-delay fuse.”

Sunny frowned. “For a bomb?”

His back still turned to her, Charlie shrugged. “Not much purpose in a fuse without an explosive.”

Sunny lowered her voice. “A few months ago, you mentioned the railway station. Is that what it's for?”

“Perhaps.” Charlie's tone was flat as he focused on the equipment in his hand. “The targets have not been decided yet.”

“Where did you get the supplies?” Sunny asked.

“Some of his men smuggled them into the city for us,” Jia-Li said.

“Us?” The last time they had discussed sabotage, Jia-Li was outraged that Charlie would even consider it. Now she seemed to be part of it. Sunny found the change in her best friend dizzying; it was as though she were staring at a stranger.

“Someone has to do it, xiăo hè,” Jia-Li explained happily.

“But why you two?” Sunny asked. “Charlie is a wanted fugitive, hobbled by his . . . injury. And you, ba˘o bèi, what do you know of sabotage?”

“What did you know before you got involved with the Underground?”

“Nothing!” Sunny cried. “And look how much I regret it. You are no more a saboteur than I am. It's not our purpose.”

Jia-Li met her gaze. “I am obliged to support my husband.”

“Your husband?” Sunny grimaced.

“He will be soon.” Jia-Li broke into a huge smile. She dropped to her knees and threw her arms around Charlie's neck, kissing him. “Chun proposed, xiăo hè. Only yesterday. I couldn't wait to tell you!”

“Congratulation. That is . . . wonderful news,” Sunny sputtered.

Jia-Li sprang to her feet, dashed over to Sunny and flung her arms around her, wrapping her in another hug. “Oh, xiăo hè! I have never been so happy.”

“I am happy for you. Both of you.” It was surreal to be discussing an engagement while Charlie assembled a bomb on the living-room floor, but Jia-Li's happiness was infectious. “Have you chosen a date?” she asked, wriggling free of her friend's grip.

Charlie lowered what he was holding to the floor and reached for his crutches. “As soon as we find someone to marry us.” He stood up. “Today would not be too soon.”

“How about your old reverend?” Jia-Li asked. “Is he still alive?”

Sunny shook her head. “He has been interned with all the other Americans.”

“And that rabbi, xiăo hè? The one at your wedding.”

Sunny grimaced. “Rabbi Hiltmann? Seriously?”

Charlie made his way over to Jia-Li, put an arm around her waist and drew her close to him. “A rabbi, a judge, a sea captain . . . Anyone short of a Japanese officer would do. Can doctors perform weddings?”

Sunny shook her head. “At this point, I don't know who in Shanghai has the legal authority to officiate.”

“It does not have to be legal. Only official.” Charlie stroked Jia-Li's cheek and stared at her adoringly. “So one day we will be able to tell our children.”

Sunny detected a note of fatalism in Charlie's tone, but Jia-Li didn't seem to notice. She planted a lingering kiss on Charlie's lips before turning back to Sunny. “I have found a real gem, haven't I?”

“I agree.” Sunny looked up and down, indicating Jia-Li's plain outfit. “But this change in you—it's so dramatic.”

“I am done with the old me, xiăo hè. The outfits, the Comfort Home, Chih-Nii . . . all of it! Oh, how I have wasted my life.” She put her hands on her hips. “No more. For the first time, I have found a purpose. A role that I can take pride in.”

“That's wonderful,” Sunny said. “I am happy for you. Franz will be too. Really. But sabotage, ba˘o bèi?”

“Whatever it takes to free Shanghai. To rid our country of this Japanese scourge. It is the first step.” She stole a quick glance at Charlie. “And then maybe we can consider a family.”

Sunny realized that there was no arguing with her friend. She knew Jia-Li never did anything halfway, and never before had she seen her friend's eyes burn with such fervour.

* * *

On her way home, Sunny crossed over the Garden Bridge and headed along Broadway. Although far quieter than usual, the city's busiest thoroughfare still buzzed. The cries of the merchants were as shrill as ever. Coolies hauled crates or carried loads on bamboo poles across their shoulders. Despite the early hour, several wild pheasants—most of whom looked to Sunny like teenagers at most—loitered at the dockside, approaching soldiers and other passersby. The smell of burned oil from the street kitchens wafted through the air. Her stomach rumbled, but hunger pains were something she hardly paid attention to anymore.

Sunny noticed a crowd of Chinese gathered a block or two ahead of her. Not until she reached the edge of the gathering did she see the wooden beam that had been rigged up between two lampposts like a scaffold. Then she spotted the bodies. Tethered to the beam with thick ropes were eleven corpses hanging no more than a foot or two apart, their shoes clearing the ground by roughly the same distance.

They had been badly beaten around the face, a few beyond recognition. All were men, Sunny could tell, but they ranged in age from young to old: one looked to Sunny as if he might have been a teenager. Blood, dirt and what Sunny assumed was vomit stained their shirtfronts.

Sunny's gaze landed on the hands of the body hanging nearest to her. His fingernails had been ripped out, and his fingers appeared to have been dislocated or fractured. They pointed every direction but straight. The other victims' hands had been similarly mutilated.

Sunny fought off the urge to gag. Desperate to flee the grisly scene, she started to turn away when her eye was caught by something about one of the bodies. The man's nose had been bashed in and his lips were swollen, but his hooded eyelids gave him away. “Oh, God,” she whispered under her breath, recognizing the old man as her Underground contact.

Sunny elbowed her way through the crowd until she could make out the faces of the dead men. Afraid to breathe, she prayed that she would not see Wen-Cheng among them. Her eyes reached the end of the beam without spotting him.

Her relief was short-lived when she considered what the men might have confessed under torture. Her eyes moved back to the old man's crumpled face. Did you tell them about me?