Nightfall Over Shanghai (23 page)

The truck rumbled along Great Western Road, passing mansions that had once housed the wealthiest and most influential Shanghailanders, the families who had run the city prior to the Japanese invasion. Franz could see how the properties had fallen into disrepair—their lawns yellowed and their gardens overgrown—but never had he been happier to see the familiar buildings. He would have loved to have his camera with him; there was something noble about the houses' weathered dilapidation.

Up until now, Franz had refused to really believe he would ever get here. Even after the truck had left the field hospital at Hengyang and the plane had taken off from the airstrip outside Changsha, he had not completely trusted that he was going home. Not until he caught sight of the city's outskirts did he let the possibility into his heart. With every block they travelled toward the ghetto, his elation rose.

Franz was so distracted that he had to be reminded by the orderly to check on the patients inside the truck. Miraculously, none had died en route. But it was only a matter of time for the extensively burned soldier. Franz could feel the man's raging fever even through the gauze wrapping his forehead. He had
slipped into a coma, and his breathing was growing shallower by the minute. Franz worried that if the man died in transport, the Japanese might blame him—or worse, divert the truck before reaching Shanghai. He was desperate to keep him alive during the last few miles to the Country Hospital, which he understood was their destination.

Franz manoeuvered between the stretchers through the cramped, airless truck. He reached the burn victim's stretcher just as the man took a final, gasping breath.

The orderly turned around at the sound. In hopes of buying time, Franz laid a hand on the man's shoulder and spoke to him in German, as though comforting him through his distress. The orderly watched them quizzically for a few seconds before turning back to another patient, whose bandages he was busy adjusting.

Franz continued to speak to the dead man in conversational German. He plugged his stethoscope into his ears and pretended to listen to his chest. As he pulled out his eartips, he asked the motionless man, “How will the Major Okada punish the captain for letting me go?”
No doubt the cane
, Franz thought sadly.

After a few more minutes of feigned examination, Franz felt the truck turning. He looked out and saw the grand facade of the Country Hospital. He called out to the orderly and, as soon as he had the man's attention, closed his eyes and shook his head gravely. The orderly merely shrugged in acknowledgement of the patient's death.

The truck came to a stop and the rear door opened. As Franz stepped into the punishing heat, he was almost disoriented by the blinding sunlight. Soldiers and nurses milled around the troop transport, unloading stretchers but paying no attention to him.
Searching for an authority figure, he followed one of the stretchers along the walkway and into the hospital's grand foyer.

For a moment, Franz's elation gave way to sadness as he realized that this was the place he had first met Helen. Without her warmth and kindness, he doubted he could have survived the last few months.

“Dr. Adler, Dr. Adler,” a voice called.

Franz's blood went cold at the sound of the shrill voice. He turned to see Ghoya marching toward him from the other side of the foyer, two guards in tow. “I have been waiting for you, Dr. Adler. Yes, I have.” Ghoya extended his arms as he neared. “To personally welcome you home.”

“Thank you,” Franz said, bewildered.

“No, thank you, Dr. Adler.” Ghoya cackled. “For your most dedicated service to the Imperial Army.”

“I was only doing my job.”

“Like a good soldier.” Ghoya clapped Franz on the shoulder. “Yes, yes!”

Ghoya's friendly manner made Franz even more uneasy. “May I ask what you intend next for me, sir?”

“What to do with you indeed.” Ghoya fished into his suit pocket and extracted an envelope. He made a show of pulling out the letter inside and slowly unfolding it. “Captain Suzuki wrote me about you.”

“Captain Suzuki is a fine surgeon,” Franz mumbled.

“He says the same of you. A most capable surgeon. Those were his very words.” Ghoya paused and the smile slipped from his face. “Or, at least, that you used to be a capable surgeon.” He stared at Franz as though the implication was obvious.

Franz shook his head in confusion. “Pardon me, sir?”

Ghoya studied the letter intently. “Ah, here it is. Allow me to
translate. The captain says you started to make terrible errors in the operating room. That you were collapsing during surgery. That he could no longer rely on your assistance.” His eyes scanned the letter again. “That you suffered from—what is the expression?—‘combat fatigue.' Yes, yes.” He snorted. “Combat fatigue.”

Franz could feel sweat beading on his forehead.
Suzuki must have written the letter in an attempt to prevent me from being sent back to the field.
But had the strategy backfired, he wondered?

Ghoya raised an eyebrow and then gave Franz the once-over. “Fatigue, is it? Hmm. Your eyes are not bloodshot. I don't see any circles beneath them. You do not look so tired to me. Not so tired at all.”

“The days were long. There was no rest at—”

Ghoya silenced Franz with a slap to his cheek. “You embarrassed me, Adler. I promised them a competent surgeon.” He shook the letter at Franz. “And what do you do? You surrender to combat fatigue like a pimply-faced teenager.”

Face stinging, Franz felt a trickle of blood run across his jaw, but he didn't even bother to wipe it away.

Ghoya balled up the letter and tossed it onto the marble floor. “What to do with you?” His tone calmed. “It is a problem. Yes, it is.”

“I am terribly sorry, Mr. Ghoya.” Franz bowed his head. “There are no excuses for my behaviour. The last thing I intended was to embarrass you.”

“After all I have done for you and your people.” Ghoya heaved a sigh. “Embarrass me you did.”

“It will not happen again, sir.”

“Of course it will not!”

Franz lowered his chin to his chest, expecting to be slapped again. But he wasn't.

“Fortunately for you, I am a very forgiving person.” Ghoya folded his arms. “Perhaps I could find it in my heart to give you a second chance.”

“A second chance?”

“Not at Captain Suzuki's hospital, of course. He would never have you back. But the Imperial Army is advancing swiftly across the continent. There are still many wounded. Many field hospitals to man.”

Franz's pulse drummed in his temples.
Not now. Please. Not when I'm this close to home.

“But how can I trust you to go back into the field?” Ghoya scoffed. “You might show more of the same weakness and cowardice.” He looked to his expressionless escorts and asked them, “How would that possibly help the great Imperial Army? And how would it reflect on me?”

“It wouldn't help at all, sir,” Franz replied.

Ghoya only snorted and then changed the subject. “Your woman, she came to see me.”

“My wife did? Sunny?”

“Yes, yes.” Ghoya grinned maliciously. “A most interesting visit. Most interesting indeed.”

Franz could feel his shoulders tensing. “How so, Mr. Ghoya?”

“She tried to persuade me to bring you back to Shanghai.” He raised an eyebrow suggestively. “Yes, yes. She was most eager to persuade me.”

Not trusting what might come out of his mouth, Franz kept his eyes on his feet and mumbled, “I see.”

“Your woman, she was prepared to do anything to persuade me.
Anything
, you understand?”

Franz clenched his fist surreptitiously against his leg. “That
does not sound like Sunny,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Oh, Dr. Adler, people surprise you when their backs are against the wall.” Ghoya howled with laughter. “Against the wall. Yes, yes. Even your own wife.”

Franz could feel his face heating and more blood trickling down his cheek. He wanted to claw at the little man's eyes and tear his protuberant ears off his head, but he just dug his nails into his palm and swallowed back his rage.

“Not to worry, Dr. Adler. Not to worry.” Ghoya patted him on the shoulder as though they were old chums. Franz couldn't help flinching. “I am the King of the Jews. I would never succumb to such base temptation. Never!”

Franz's hand relaxed. “Yes, of course.”

“What to do with you, indeed.” Ghoya turned for the entrance. “Ride with me back to the Designated Area. I have no doubt I will find some use for you there.”

***

Ghoya chatted non-stop during the twenty-minute drive to the ghetto. Franz was so eager to see his family that he barely heard the prattle. Ghoya alternated between complaining about the ingratitude of the refugees and congratulating himself on how smoothly the ghetto ran under his watch.

Franz was overjoyed when the car rattled across the Garden Bridge and onto Broadway. The thoroughfare bustled with the usual sights: clusters of sailors and soldiers, coolies lugging heavy loads on their backs and shoulders, street merchants hawking
their wares and the “wild pheasants”—the young dockside prostitutes—selling their bodies under the midday sun. Franz felt as if he had been away forever and, paradoxically, as though he had never left.

The car whizzed past the checkpoint and pulled up to Ghoya's office, where a lineup of refugees already snaked around the side of the building. “Look how far you have put me behind, Dr. Adler,” Ghoya said jovially. “My work for my people, it never ends.”

“I am sorry, sir,” Franz said. “It was most kind of you to offer me a ride.”

Ghoya flicked his hand toward the door, which the driver was opening for them. “I have seen more than enough of you for one day. Go, go.”

Franz didn't hesitate. As he was climbing out of the car, he heard Ghoya's high-pitched voice following him. “We will speak again soon. Yes, yes, soon. Until then, take a bath. You stink.”

As soon as his feet hit the sidewalk, Franz broke into a run. He had just rounded the corner onto Muirhead Road when he spotted Sunny on the other side of the street. Breathless, he watched as his wife, keeping her head down, pushed the pram purposefully ahead of her.

He raised his arm and sniffed at his shirt, self-conscious. But he couldn't wait any longer. He darted across the street. It wasn't until he was a few strides away that Sunny looked up and saw him. The pram jerked to a halt. Her mouth fell open and the colour drained from her cheeks.

“Oh, darling.” The words caught in his throat.

“It can't be,” Sunny sputtered. “I'm dreaming, surely.”

“No.” He rushed over and wrapped her in his arms, squeezing her so tight that he could feel her ribs pressing into his. He clung
to her, afraid that she might somehow slip away if he loosened his grip.

They rocked silently on the street for a minute or two before Sunny wriggled free of his embrace. “I have so much to tell you, Franz.”

“I do too.” Franz suddenly realized what he needed to do, what he should have done months before. He crouched down and peeked beneath the canopy that shaded Joey from the sunlight. He gently lifted up the baby, tucking him under his right arm with a slight awkwardness. He looked up at his wife. “First, though, tell me about our son.”

The smile lit up Sunny's face, and her eyes brimmed with tears. She couldn't have looked more beautiful.

April 30, 1945

As Franz stripped off his surgical gown and gloves, he felt as if he had been thrust back into the field hospital. He thought again of Captain Suzuki. He had never heard what had become of the man who had saved his life, but he hated to consider what Okada might have had in store for the honourable captain.

Little had changed in the eight months since Franz had returned to Shanghai and yet, in a way, everything was different. The Allies were winning the war; it was only a matter of time. According to the Voice of America broadcasts, Berlin was on the verge of falling to the Soviets. The Americans had landed on Japanese soil and were island-hopping their way to Tokyo. An air of inevitability had hung over Shanghai all winter long, like a poorly kept secret that people politely pretended not to have heard.

The Japanese, however, continued to behave as if nothing had changed. Ghoya rationed out passes and reigned over the refugees as unpredictably as ever. He had still not found “a use” for Franz, as he kept putting it, but it didn't stop the little man from harassing him. Meanwhile, the Kempeitai hounded the ghetto, raiding homes even more often than before, in search of subversives.
They had torn up Franz's flat twice in the past two months alone. During the last raid, they had confiscated an electric fan, along with a bag of rice that one of the smirking soldiers had claimed “looked suspicious.”

The signal-locating trucks constantly roamed the streets, seeking out any and every spy transmission. They reminded Franz how lucky his family had been. He still had flashes of anger with both Sunny and Hannah over their recklessness. At night, he sometimes awoke in a sweat from a recurring nightmare of having returned home, only to learn of their grisly executions. The only person Franz didn't really blame was Freddy. He was actually grateful to the teenager for his bravery, so much so that Franz had not forbidden Hannah from continuing to see him, though he would have preferred that she had stuck with Herschel. Franz could never shake his suspicion that Freddy was a con man and, like his father, was not to be fully trusted.

At home, there were no secrets between him and Sunny. After she had confessed to spying at the harbour, Franz had volunteered the truth about Helen and their kiss. He was relieved, though a bit puzzled, by Sunny's forgiveness, wondering why it hadn't bothered her more. His guilt aside, he still missed Helen. At times, he wondered what might have happened between them if not for that deadly air raid.

Despite everything, life was better and more fulfilling than Franz would have ever dared to dream during those long days at the field hospital. His family was together. Most nights, there was food on the table, if only rice and vegetables. Half a teaspoon of salt dissolved in water, which he choked down once a day, was enough to keep his drop attacks away. And, most significantly, he had a baby son.

For the first few months after his return, Franz had had to feign an attachment to Joey. But over the fall and winter, the child had found his way into Franz's heart. Joey was nothing like his cousin, Jakob. The older boy was a force of nature: inquisitive, fearless and playfully destructive. Joey was as timid as his cousin was adventurous. He was quick to startle, and when he cried, it was more of a whimper than a demand. Joey had been walking since he was nine months old, though he did so by tentatively holding on to furniture or people's hands. He hadn't spoken a word yet, but there was something in his intelligent gaze and bashful smile that Franz found irresistible. Perhaps it was Sunny's response to the toddler that had been most affecting. Franz had never known his wife to be more contented. In retrospect, Franz regretted having ever questioned whether keeping Joey was best for the family; now he could see that the family wouldn't have been complete without him.

But most others in the ghetto had not been as lucky as the Adlers over the past year. Many refugees, especially the very young and the elderly, had died of malnutrition during the winter. A brief outbreak of cholera in the early spring had claimed a number of children. Yet, somehow, the refugee hospital had survived. The Russian Jewish community had made good on its promise to provide funding and support. Supplies had been as intermittent as the old building's heat and running water, but the past month had been particularly fruitful on the black market. The shady characters who sold Franz medical necessities, inevitably stolen from other hospitals in the region, had been flush with anesthetic, catgut and even antimalarial drugs and sulpha antibiotics. Franz couldn't remember the last the time the hospital had been so well stocked. As a result, he and Sunny had been busy operating again,
removing stone-riddled gall bladders and repairing bothersome hernias.

As Franz walked down the hospital's corridor, a commotion on the ward pulled him from his introspection. He heard raised voices before he even stepped inside. “You can't bring that filthy beast in here,” Berta cried. “This is a hospital.”

“There's nothing filthy about him,” Franz heard Ernst reply. “Besides, you think Kaiser Wilhelm wants to be here? Around all these sick people and their germs?”

Franz walked in to see Ernst standing near the head nurse with his arms folded in indignation, while his newly acquired gibbon monkey, which he called Kaiser Wilhelm, perched on his shoulder. The monkey kept one arm wrapped around Ernst's neck while he pointed a long finger at Berta and hooted. Most of the patients were watching in fascinated silence.

Franz had to bite back a smile. “It's all right, Berta. Come on, Ernst, let's get the animal away from the patients.”

“That is fine with me, but I do believe the woman works here,” Ernst deadpanned.

“Dr. Adler!” Berta exclaimed. “This is simply too much.”

Hiding his laughter behind his hand, Franz admonished his friend. “That's enough, Ernst.”

“All right, we'll go.” Ernst made a small theatrical bow. “My apologies, madam. Kaiser Wilhelm's as well.”

After Franz had led Ernst and the monkey into the staff room, he said, “I've been meaning to ask you. That old neighbour who left you the monkey. Why did he name him after the Kaiser?”

“I am not entirely sure if he meant it out of respect or disdain. Probably the latter. These old Nazis still harbour such resentment over how the Great War ended and what was sacrificed at Versailles.”

“Why did he leave him to you anyway?”

“Herr Schmidt was a widower with no real friends. Even the other Nazis didn't like him. I didn't either. Insufferable old blowhard. But I always liked Kaiser Wilhelm.”

“Enough to keep him?”

The monkey hopped up and down on Ernst's shoulder, seemingly aware that they were discussing him. “Absolutely,” Ernst said. “He's better company and smarter than most people I know. Besides, we're good for one another. I bring him bananas, and he brings me a certain air of respectability and gentility.”

“Nonsense.” Franz laughed. “He just makes you seem even more eccentric. If that's even possible.”

“Kaiser Wilhelm and I will not dignify that remark with a response,” Ernst said with a mischievous grin. As though on cue, the animal's lips also formed a smile.

“And your other roommate?” Franz asked. “What does he think of the monkey?”

“They get along well enough. Simon has finally found someone willing to listen to him carry on about all that baseball nonsense. The poor, dear monkey.” Ernst reached up and stroked his pet on the chest. “However, I do wonder if Simon might soon fly the coop, to use one of his awful Americanisms.”

“Is he talking about leaving again?”

“You know how homesick he is to be with Essie and Jakob. More so than ever. And with the war winding down, he's convinced no one will notice if he sneaks back into the ghetto.”

“Then he's a fool,” Franz grunted. “The Japanese are more on guard than ever.”

“You talk to him, then. He won't listen to me.”

“You know I can't leave the ghetto. Perhaps Sunny can talk
some sense into him.” Franz shut the door behind them. “There's something else I have been meaning to discuss with you.”

Ernst sighed. “I recognized that tone. What is it now?”

“Von Puttkamer and Major Huber.”

“What about them?”

“Are you still in touch with them?”

Ernst shook his head. “Remember? The baron shuns me now. Considers me a degenerate.” He paused. “Come to think of it, so do I. But I don't view it in the same negative light as the baron.”

“And your friend Gerhard?”

Ernst squinted. “What does any of this have to with Gerhard?”

Franz sympathized with his friend. Ernst's defensiveness was an understandable necessity. “I was wondering if von Puttkamer still confides in Gerhard at all.”

“
Ach
, I see.” Ernst craned his neck to look up at his monkey, who had begun to groom the artist's untamed hair. “I don't believe so. Apparently, von Puttkamer and his ilk have become increasingly secretive as the Third Reich implodes around them. Why do you ask?”

Despite the relative privacy of the staff room, Franz spoke in a hush. “They've been spotted in the ghetto recently.”

“Doing what?”

“I'm not sure, but I doubt they came to do anything constructive.” Franz paused. “I suspect they might be following me.”

“Again?”

Franz nodded. “There was a black sedan. I've seen it two or three times parked near our home and the hospital. I could never tell who was inside, but it strikes me as too much of a coincidence.”

“Another kidnapping attempt?”

“Perhaps.”

“Be careful of von Puttkamer, Franz. There are few things more dangerous in this world than a wounded bull.” Ernst snapped his fingers. “What happened to those bodyguards of yours? The Jewish youths?”

The last time Franz had spotted the black car, parked around the corner from his apartment, he'd considered seeking help but felt too embarrassed to ask. “I don't want to alarm Sunny.”

“Sunny doesn't know?” Ernst rolled his eyes and laughed. “Actually, you might have found the only thing more dangerous than a wounded bull—a wife kept in the dark!”

“She has enough to worry over. In the meantime, is there anyone you might be able to speak to …”

“Ouch! Not so rough.” Ernst yanked the monkey's paw away from the clump of hair he was grasping. The animal hooted. “All right, Franz. The kaiser and I will make a few discreet inquiries. See if we can find anything out. I might be a pariah in Germantown, but he is one remarkably well-connected monkey.”

Franz laughed. “Thank you.”

“They say Berlin will fall any day. To the Russians, no less.” Ernst reached up and stroked his pet's back. “The end of Nazi Germany? Of Hitler himself? Who would have dreamed it possible a few short years ago?”

It struck Franz too as surreal. But for him, like the other Jews in the ghetto, the news was tempered by the flood of first-hand accounts emerging from the death camps liberated by the Allies, unimaginable stories featuring walking skeletons and corpses piled like stacks of logs. “I will believe it when I see the hammer and sickle flying over the Reichstag.”

“The Reichstag? Göring and his cronies burned that down eons ago.” Ernst dug in his pocket, pulled out a piece of dried fruit
and held it up to his pet, who snatched it from Ernst.

Franz chuckled. “You and that monkey—it actually makes a certain degree of sense.”

“So what will you do after the war, Franz?”

“I cannot think that far ahead.”

“With the Soviets already in Berlin?”

“Victory in Europe is inevitable. No question. But who knows how long the Japanese will fight on? It could be years.”

Ernst shook his head. “Never. Not when the whole world turns its attention to one island nation. I wouldn't be at all surprised if Stalin joins in on the fun. Mark my words, it will be months at the most before Shanghai is liberated.”

“Shanghai free? Could you imagine?”

“And then what?” Ernst asked. “You would continue to run a hospital for refugees here?”

“Sunny wants us to stay.”

“And you?”

Franz weighed his answer carefully. “Shanghai has been wonderful to me, to us. But I cannot imagine raising the children here after the war.”

“You would go back to Vienna?”

“Never,” Franz said. “For all I care, Vienna can fall into the Danube. I will never again set foot on Austrian or German soil.”

“So where does that leave you?” Ernst asked. “England? America?”

Franz eyed the monkey, who stared back at him as if listening for his answer. “I have been considering somewhere else altogether.”

“Palestine.”

Franz shrugged noncommittally.

“That reminds me.” Ernst reached into his pocket again. Franz was expecting to see a pack of cigarettes emerge, but instead it was an envelope. “For you. From Simon.”

Franz reached for it. “Not for Essie?” he asked.

“Today, I have the profound honour of being your mailman.”

Franz tore open the envelope, extracted the letter and began to read.