Heart of Lies (19 page)

He knew his guilt had affected his relationship with Martha. He flew into jealous rages, as if she were the one being unfaithful, as if she were the one leading a double life. Sometimes he made love to her with a fervor bordering on desperation; at other times he could not bring himself to touch her, thinking that his caresses would corrupt her. He knew his behavior was ridiculous; he knew he was hurting her. But he could not help himself. His self-loathing lit a monstrous fire within him, and the flames scorched them both.

It had taken her threat to leave to make him realize how close he was to disaster. And he did not know what to do, except to tell her everything. And that, he was sure, would drive her away completely.

The day after their argument he’d locked their passports in a safe at the bank. He knew that if she discovered what he’d done it would lead to another, even more bitter confrontation. But he had to take the chance. He could not let her go.

He walked away from the window and collapsed, head in his hands. Perhaps there was still time to convince her to change her mind.

Martha had trouble explaining, even to herself, why she felt compelled to go to Germany without Leo, or why she discounted the risk involved. Bernice’s telegram had given her a reason to leave Shanghai. She did not yet connect her desire to leave with the gradual changes in her husband: the jealousy, the over-protectiveness bordering on lunacy, the outrageous accusations.

Initially, when his behavior started to change, Martha thought Leo must be hiding some financial problem. She did not have a clear idea of where their money was, or how much they had, but this had never worried her in the past. Of course, they’d stopped spending money as lavishly as they had before the Depression. Even though Shanghai’s economy had been hurt less than most other port cities, the mood had changed. It was impolite to flaunt one’s wealth when so many people had lost so much.

But her cautious inquiries among their acquaintances confirmed what Leo claimed; he was doing quite well at the bank. Money did not seem to be the cause of the turbulence in their lives.

And it was difficult to stay angry, for Leo always took the blame for their arguments. Apologies followed every outburst; self-recrimination countered every groundless accusation. Sometimes, he seemed better, less volatile, and she thought she had her husband back. Then the arguments started again. Yet, as bad as the situation was at times, she could not imagine life without him. At least, not in Shanghai.

Shanghai, too, was changing. Every day it became a more dangerous place. At the moment it seemed certain that the Shanghailanders would be treated to another violent spectacle. The Japanese were intent on expanding their holdings in China. Chiang Kai-shek had to stop them.

For weeks the Chinese residents of Chapei, Nantao, and Hongkew—all the Chinese sections of the city—had been flooding into the International Settlement and the French Concession. Those who could afford it rented rooms at inflated prices from landlords always ready to profit from the misery of their human brethren. Others squatted in the blistering hot streets of the city, surrounded by their meager possessions and their screaming children. When the complaints from the Shanghailanders grew vociferous, the Municipal Council started herding the peasants into temporary refugee centers.

Everyone knew why they were coming. They were clearing the battleground.

All summer Japan had been moving against Chinese positions to the north. Chiang did not respond. He knew his army could not withstand a long campaign, stretched across the country from Nanking to Peking. So he challenged the invaders in the place the western powers cared about most, in the arena he knew best: Shanghai.

Martha was afraid. Despite Leo’s confidence, the idea of living through another war scared her. In the past Leo’s love and reassurance had been sufficient to calm her fears. But this time his explanation did not seem to help.

Her sister’s telegram had given her a legitimate reason to leave. She wanted to return to Germany to make amends. Her father had never been cruel, just emotionally incapable. She wanted to make her peace with him before he died. She could see her sister, and meet her brother-in-law. She could reconnect with her family, and have some time to think. To think about why her marriage was crumbling, about why loving Leo had become so painful.

Martha sat on her bed, holding tightly to the golden necklace. The first time she wore it in front of Leo, she’d told him about Harry, and he never seemed to mind that she kept the necklace as a keepsake, a gift given to her by an old friend. Until the last time he saw it, when he’d terrified poor Maddy with one of his sudden rages.

Dear Harry. She heard from her sister, in one of her early letters, that he’d been devastated by the news of Martha’s hasty marriage. Martha truly regretted having hurt Harry and her family. How had things worked out for Harry in America? Had he married an American girl? Her own life would have turned out so differently had she joined him there. At first, she and Leo had been so happy. Now, she felt trapped by her choice.

Unless.

They kept her good jewelry locked in a vault, and she couldn’t get to it without Leo’s knowledge. But Harry’s necklace was made of gold. She could sell the medallion to pay for her passage to Germany.

Tomorrow, she would take the necklace to a jewelry store and find
out how much it was worth. Perhaps she could rely on her dear friend Harry to help her again, after all.

An overnight rain did little to dissipate the sticky heat. Leo was already gone when Martha awoke. She donned a light cotton dress and went downstairs. Maddy was having breakfast in the morning room, under the strict scrutiny of the cook, Wei Lin.

“No egg, no grow. Too skinny to get husband,” admonished the diminutive Chinese lady, herself a grandmother several times over.

“But the yolk is runny. It makes me sick to look at all that oozy stuff. Please tell Wei Lin I don’t have to eat it.”

Martha inspected the offending egg. “Wei, it is a little underdone. You know how picky she is. But you must eat your toast, Maddy.”

Vindicated, Maddy spread a dollop of strawberry jam on her toast. Martha reached for a croissant. She never had more than bread and coffee for breakfast.

“Wei, where is Mr. Hoffman?”

Wei snorted before answering. “He say, good breakfast, Wei. He like egg. He say, tell Miss Martha be home soon.” With another injured sniff she scooped up Maddy’s plate and stalked off to the kitchen.

At that moment Leo walked through the front door. The sound of his footsteps made Maddy leap up from the table.

“Good morning Papa,” she greeted him, arms outstretched.

Leo kneeled down and gave his daughter a hug and an absentminded kiss. He looked at Martha, an unspoken question in his eyes.

“Good morning, Leo,” she said quietly. “Where have you been this morning?”

“To check on the hostilities. Shots were fired yesterday to the north,
at Yokohama Bridge. Chinese soldiers have taken up positions along the northern edge of the city. Warships are moving up the Whangpoo. The Settlements seem well protected.”

“So we get to watch another war,” Martha commented dryly, helping herself to milk and sugar.

“It seems that way.”

Martha thought furiously while she stirred her coffee. Leo did not seem too apprehensive, but she didn’t want to go on her secret errand if it was truly dangerous to do so. Nor did she want to cause Leo any unnecessary distress. Normally he played tennis on Saturday afternoons, just before tea. She quickly thought of a legitimate reason to leave the house around that time.

“Leo, I was to stop by the dressmaker today, and thought I might bring Maddy along. We could have tea at the Cathay after my fitting. Do you think it would be safe?”

Leo considered her question. “I suppose so,” he answered, after some deliberation. “You should be safe on the Bund. Take the car. I’ll have one of the regulars fetch me for my tennis game at the club.”

Martha gave him an appreciative smile. She had not lied. She’d told him two-thirds of the truth. Later she and Maddy would visit Madame Olinov, Shanghai’s most exclusive dressmaker, whose shop was in the ground floor of the Cathay Hotel, the newest architectural showpiece on the Bund. They would have tea in the hotel lobby lounge. Then they would slip up Nanking Road and pop into a jewelry store or two. She wanted to go to Germany, and she was not going to give up easily.

Their car turned left off Foochow Road onto the Bund at just after four o’clock. The normally busy street was packed with people: refugees, school children and their mothers, rickshaw drivers, beggars,
coolies, shoppers and tourists, call girls, bankers, merchants and businessmen. The mass of people covered the street, the lawn, the docks, and the sidewalks. Even the rooftops of the Bund’s stately towers were being used as observation platforms. Everyone was watching some activity across the river.

“What on earth is going on?” asked Martha with apprehension as Maddy pressed her face to the car window.

“Look, Mama, the planes.” Across the water, less than a mile away, ten Chinese warplanes buzzed and spun like wrathful insects over a Japanese battleship anchored near the Hongkew wharf. Over the din of the carnival atmosphere Martha could hear the rattle of anti-aircraft artillery.

Their driver rolled down his window for a brief conversation with a Russian compatriot who was watching the action through a pair of binoculars. He then turned to Martha. “Well, Mrs. Hoffman, this man says the Chinese bombers have been at it for some time. First they attacked the Japanese factories over in Hongkew, now they’re trying to blow up their flagship, the
Idzumo
. Says they haven’t hit a thing yet.”

Martha surveyed the scene with foreboding. By now they were packed in on all sides; the car could neither move forward, nor turn back. This was insanity. It wasn’t safe. If they couldn’t leave, she thought, at least they could get out of the road.

“Maddy dear, we may as well get out and walk. The Cathay is only a few blocks away, and the car will never make it through all this.”

A loud boom brought a loud cheer from the crowds. Maddy pointed out the window, her eyes wide. “They’ve blown up the Hongkew dock.”

“That’s quite enough sightseeing for one day,” said Martha emphat
ically. “Pick us up at the Cathay at six o’clock,” she instructed, opening her own door. Ahead she could see the stately pyramid-shaped roof of the Cathay Hotel. Soaring twenty stories high, the luxurious structure sat on the Bund across Nanking Road from the Palace Hotel, completely outclassing its older rival.

As they approached the hotel Martha sensed the crowd dispersing. Glancing back up to the sky she saw the Chinese planes breaking formation, and felt a rush of relief. It was ridiculous, standing around to gawk at a bombing raid as if it were a target shoot. Even though they were landing several hundred yards away, those bombs were real. But the spectators acted like the air raid was nothing more than an interesting show: a comedy, given the inexperienced pilots’ lack of skill in hitting their targets.

Martha and Maddy walked into the air-conditioned lobby of the Cathay, stopping to give the doorman a friendly greeting. She would skip Madame Olinov’s. They would have tea, and stay at the Cathay until things settled down outside. The rest of her plans would have to wait.

Martha requested her favorite table, near the rear of the lobby, with a nice view of the Bund. It was the best place for people-watching in all of Shanghai.

She had just taken her seat across from Maddy when a thunderous noise caused everyone to look out at the Bund. Martha jerked her head up just in time to see a huge wall of water rise up from the Whangpoo, like a hideous brown monster emerging from a swamp. It towered over the Bund for a fraction of an instant and then crashed down on the street, drenching everything and everyone for a block and a half.

There was no time to react before the second bomb fell. A crater
opened in the pavement in front of the Cathay doors. Somehow, her reflexes took over, and Martha threw herself over her daughter’s body, tipping over the child’s chair and sending them both to the floor as hot air and glass blasted into the room.

Every window along the front of the building shattered from the force of the explosion. The doorman who had greeted them a minute earlier was blown backward through the door and into the lobby, where his body skimmed across the smooth marble until it hit the reception desk, lifeless.

For a moment there was silence, punctuated by the sound of people thrashing through broken glass. Then the screaming began.

Martha pulled Maddy under the table. They crouched there, petrified.

“Maddy, oh my God, Maddy, are you hurt? Are you all right?” Martha tried to hug her daughter and inspect her for wounds at the same time. Tiny shards of broken glass clung to their clothes.

“I think so,” replied Maddy, her voice low and quivering.

“Are you bleeding? Does it hurt anywhere?”

“No. Except my ears feel funny.”

Martha realized that her own ears were also numb from the sound of the explosion. Not knowing what else to do she frantically tried to brush the fragments of glass off Maddy’s clothes. As she did so tiny splinters of glass pierced her gloves. Small red stains appeared on her white linen fingertips.

Maddy stared at the blood on her mother’s gloves. She emitted a whimper that grew into a howl. “What is it, Mama? What happened?” the terrified girl shrieked, thrashing in her mother’s arms.

Martha held fast to Maddy’s shoulders, afraid to move for fear an
other bomb was already on its way. “It was a bomb, Maddy. One of the planes dropped a bomb. But we’re all right, darling. We’re safe now.” To her own muffled hearing, her voice sounded far away and unnaturally calm. Maddy continued to cry but ceased struggling. They would wait, for the moment, huddled under the table. Until someone came to tell them what to do.

Two miles away a group of four men dressed in pristine tennis whites were engaged in a competitive game of doubles at the
Cercle Sportif Français
. Leo tossed the ball to serve. He watched as it reached the perfect spot in the air, two feet above and slightly forward of his head, but he did not swing his racquet, and the ball fell back down to the ground. Something had distracted him. A noise. A noise like thunder. Thunder on a sticky, hot, sunny day. Thunder from the direction of the Whangpoo.