Nightfall Over Shanghai (7 page)

Back inside the operating room, Franz again felt twinges of light-headedness. He worked at a deliberately methodical pace on the next—and final, according to Helen—case of the morning. As he operated on a shrapnel-peppered arm, the dizziness returned in worsening waves. He worried his legs might buckle or his hands might slip and slice through some vital blood vessel or nerve.

The blunting of his technique wasn't lost on Suzuki, and Franz could feel the captain's critical gaze on him. But Franz managed to finish the procedure without incident, though he twice braced himself with a hand and thigh against the table.

It wasn't until the patient had been taken from the operating theatre and Franz was following Helen out that the room began
to spin violently. The nausea came seemingly out of nowhere. He reached for any kind of support but found only air. The room tunnelled into blackness. He opened his mouth to tell Helen to turn the lights back on but no words emerged, and he felt himself toppling forward.

I should be home
, Sunny thought for the umpteenth time. Her palm was still bleeding where a shard of glass had cut her, but she warily reached her hand back into the wicker box. She dug another bottle free of the sticky mess of broken glass, powder and spilled tinctures.

After three days of posturing—including a threat to “blow the hospital up to the sky,” as Ghoya had screamed at a nurse who had been in his office about an exit pass—the “King of the Jews” had allowed the refugee hospital to reopen. Earlier that morning, soldiers had returned the confiscated supplies, tossing the boxes onto the curb outside the hospital from a moving truck, breaking several bottles and spilling others. A couple of coolies had removed the boards from the front door, but many of the staff and patients were too afraid to return after the raid. Only three nurses and two doctors had reported back to work, including the old dermatologist, Dr. Goldman. Fewer than half the patients had moved back from the heim across the street. Two had already died at the hostel, largely from medical neglect. Even Frau Adelmann, still half paralyzed, had opted to stay in her flat rather than risk another run-in with the Japanese.

Sunny was too preoccupied with Franz's absence to worry about the soldiers returning. Five days had passed without a word from or about her husband. She missed him so much, she felt she might go out of her mind with worry if it weren't for Joey. The sight of her baby—even when he woke her at four in the morning crying with hunger—warmed her inside and gave her reason to persevere. She hated having to leave Joey with Esther to go to work these days. And it hurt to think that Esther, who was still nursing the baby, was more essential to Joey's contentment and survival than she was.

Feng Wei had visited only once since she had given birth more than a week ago. Sunny could still picture the girl hovering at the doorway, holding a basket of rice balls in one trembling hand and a candle in the other. Rather than stepping into the room, Feng Wei extended the gifts to Sunny from the threshold. She showed a small smile when Sunny lifted up the sleeping child to show her, but she frantically waved away an offer to hold the baby. “No, dear lady, not mine. Not mine!” Turning crimson, Feng Wei backed away from the door and fled down the corridor as soon as Sunny took the offerings.

Sunny would rather have stayed home with Joey, but she refused to break her promise to Franz. She would put in her time at the hospital, but as soon as she had finished sorting through the medicines and checking on her patients, she intended to rush back home to Joey, whom she now thought of as her son.

Sunny placed a bottle on the shelf and carefully extracted another from the box. She had to read the label: Ipecac. This was a medicine she had never administered. She remembered her father telling her he had once given her ipecac to induce vomiting when, as a toddler, she had drunk from a vial of her mother's
perfume. She had no recollection of the incident. But the bottle reminded her of Simon's idea of poisoning Ghoya. As desperate as she was to see Franz, the scheme was absurd.

She finished unloading the bottles and the other supplies she could salvage and then headed out to make her rounds. There were only eight patients on the ward, where normally there would have been three times as many. She took temperatures, assessed wounds and changed dressings, but she refused to allow any of the patients—even Frau Klinger, who would have usually talked her ear off—to draw her into small talk.

At the last bed, Sunny found Herr Steinmann covered up to his neck with a blanket. Despite his welcoming smile, he looked far worse than he had the day before. His cheeks were sunken, and his skin was the colour of gunmetal. “Good day, Dr. Adler,” Steinmann said in a weak but cheerful voice.

Sunny mustered a small grin. “How many times do I have to tell you? I am not a doctor, Herr Steinmann.”

“Your husband feels differently.”

She didn't want to think about Franz. “Are you having much pain?”

“Almost none.”

Sunny realized that he was lying, but she also knew the hospital didn't have enough morphine to control his pain for much longer. “You will let us know if the pain becomes too severe?”

Steinmann chuckled softly. “I will let all of Shanghai know with my screams.”

With his consent, Sunny lowered the blanket and lifted up his pyjama top to examine the surgical wound. She expected the infection to be much worse but was struck nonetheless by how far it had extended. The sutures were disintegrating and a loop of bowel protruded through his abdominal wall. Had Steinmann received
proper post-operative care instead of being dragged across a dirty floor by the soldiers, perhaps the incision would have healed. It was too late now. They both knew it, but neither would admit it.

“Why the long face?” Steinmann asked. “It's coming along. You'll see. I'm one of those old men who is simply too ornery to die. Much to Herr Hitler's chagrin, no doubt.”

She smiled but was silent.

“Where is the other Dr. Adler?” he asked.

Sunny hesitated. She hadn't told any of the patients about his arrest.

“Have the soldiers taken him?” Steinmann asked.

Sunny felt her eyes moistening and realized there was no point in trying to hide it. “I don't know where.”

“Why did they arrest him?”

“To work as a surgeon for their army.”

“Ah, but that's good.” Steinmann lifted his hand up, but it dropped back to the bed before reaching her. “He's not a prisoner. He will be taken care of, then.”

“What if they send him to the front?”

Steinmann frowned, but then dismissed her question with a shake of his head. “What good would an experienced surgeon be to them on the front lines? No, he must be in a hospital somewhere.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Berta waving urgently from the nurse's desk. Sunny replaced Herr Steinmann's bandages and covered him back up. “I will check on you later,” she promised as she headed for the nursing station.

At the desk, Berta spoke in a hush. “There's a priest at the door.”

“A
priest
?”

“Not just any priest.” Berta's lip curled slightly. “That awful Father Diego.” The name rang a bell but Sunny couldn't place
it. “The Spanish priest from the wireless. The one who admires General Franco so much. He's always so sympathetic to the Japanese and the Nazis on his program.”

Sunny remembered. She had heard of the priest but had never listened to his weekly radio show, which was reputed to be more political than spiritual. “Why has he come?”

“He brought us a patient.” Berta scowled. “A monk of some kind or other. To
this
hospital. Can you imagine?”

Sunny hurried down the hallway. At the front door stood a tall dark man in a black cassock with a white clerical collar. He was distinguished looking, Sunny thought, with his greying hair and deep dimples. The priest was propping up another man, who wore a brown robe with a rope tied at the waist. He kept an arm draped over the priest's shoulders as he hunched forward and clutched his other arm across his belly. His face was hidden by the dark hood.

Sunny had been raised Methodist—her mother had originally come to China as a missionary—but she had known enough Catholics to recognize the second man as a Franciscan monk. She turned to the priest. “Father, how can I help you and the Brother?”

The priest brought a hand to his chest and offered her a smile. “Ah, such a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said in a fluid Spanish accent. “I am Father Diego. This is my colleague, Brother Dominic.”

Dominic nodded without raising his head.

Sunny eyed the priest questioningly. A pained expression creased his features. “Dominic is not well. I fear he is suffering from intestinal colic or some such thing.” He raised his hands. “Of course, my grasp of medicine is, frankly, medieval.”

Dominic kept his head down and remained silent, but Sunny noticed him swaying slightly on his feet. “Father, you do realize this is a hospital for refugees.” She paused and then added, “Refugee
Jews.
”

“But a hospital nonetheless?” Diego arched an eyebrow. “In my experience, hospitals are typically as welcoming to the needy as are churches. Sometimes, regrettably, much more so.”

“Our receptiveness is not the issue, Father. It's our resources, or lack of. I doubt we are capable of caring for Brother Dominic.”

The priest's smile dimmed but didn't disappear. “I understood that surgeries are undertaken here. I had even heard that a very skilled Viennese surgeon worked at this institution.”

“He no longer works here,” Sunny said. “I am the only one capable of operating, and I'm a nurse.”

Diego studied her. “You do operate, though?”

“I have, yes,” Sunny said, being deliberately vague. She didn't like being evasive but, beyond her suspicion of the two strangers, she doubted the hospital had the capacity to offer them much help. “We have reopened only yesterday, Father. Our cupboards are nearly bare.”

The priest adjusted his stance, shifting his weight onto one leg to better support his companion. He glanced at Dominic and then back to Sunny. “I understand. We may have to look elsewhere, but if my friend could just lie down for a moment or two.”

Sunny noticed Dominic's legs trembling and, her medical instincts taking over, rushed to his other side. She wrapped an arm around an unexpectedly thick and padded chest. Under the smell of wool and sweat, she detected the odour of blood. Together, Diego and Sunny guided Dominic down the corridor toward the ward. With each step, Dominic seemed to lose more strength. By
the time they reached the doorway, he was like a dead weight in their arms.

Nurse Miriam hurried over and helped place Dominic on the closest stretcher. As he hit the bed, the hood fell away from his face. Sunny didn't know what she had expected, but his appearance came as a surprise. He was young, twenty-five at the most. Fair-skinned and freckled, he had green eyes and sandy hair that was trimmed to a crew-cut. His pallor told Sunny that he must have lost blood—a lot of it, she suspected. Then she spotted brownish fluff poking through the neck of his robe, and she recognized it as the fur-lined collar of an aviator's jacket. She glanced skeptically at the priest. “Intestinal colic, Father?”

Diego formed a steeple with his palms. “Perhaps not,” he said sheepishly.

“The pulse is rapid,” Miriam called from the other side of the stretcher, her fingers clutching Dominic's wrist as she checked her watch. “A hundred forty per minute.”

Sunny felt Dominic's pulse. Its faintness, more than its pace, alarmed her. She looked up and saw that his gaze was glassy. “What happened to you?” she demanded.

Dominic turned to the priest, seeking his approval. Diego nodded. “Flak,” the young man rasped.

Sunny and Miriam shared a confused glance. Diego lowered his voice to a hush. “Anti-aircraft shrapnel,” the priest said. “Brother Dominic—Lieutenant Lewis of the U.S. Navy, to be more precise—his plane was shot down. He parachuted to safety, but he has wounds from the flak.”

A fugitive American pilot here at the Jewish hospital?
Sunny's pulse hammered in her temples, but there was no time for questions. “I need to examine you, Broth—Lieutenant,” Sunny said.

Without waiting for his consent, she yanked up his robe. Underneath, he was wearing a combat uniform—khakis and a bomber jacket. The jacket was torn and shredded, and much of the brown leather had turned black from blood. Sunny unzipped the jacket. A bloody rag was bunched up against his belly. She carefully moved it aside and pulled up his stained undershirt. Through the smears, Sunny spotted multiple wounds perforating the pale skin.

She rested a hand against his abdomen. Although she applied only the slightest of pressure, he grimaced in pain and his belly went as rigid as a board. Sunny made the decision even before her eyes found Diego's again. “I must operate.
Now.
”

Do you need to sit, Franz?” Helen asked, closing the gap between them in seconds.

Franz tried to wave her off. “I'm fine, Helen.”

While this was not exactly true, the attack had been relatively mild. He thought he had compensated well for the wobble in his step and was surprised Helen had even noticed. Then again, he had been aware of her vigilant eye on him all week, ever since he had fainted inside the operating room.

He could still picture the ceiling tiles revolving overhead and the room coning into a tunnel, followed by that sickening feeling of weightlessly falling. When the room had come into view again, Franz found himself lying on his back. He could feel something bony pressing into his mid-back and realized it was Helen's arm. She must have caught him as he fell because, aside from where her forearm pressed into his tender ribcage, he felt no other pain.

“Franz! Can you hear me, Franz?” Helen peppered him with questions.

Ignoring her, he craned his neck to scan the room. “Did he see me?” he croaked.

Helen grimaced. “Did
who
see you?”

“The captain.”

“What does it matter? How are you—”

“It's all that matters!”

She shook her head. “I was the only one still in the room.”

“Thank God,” Franz said as he struggled to sit up.

“You shouldn't,” Helen cautioned.

“It's passed, Helen. I'm all right.”

His relief that Suzuki had not seen his collapse was enormous, but Helen wouldn't let it go so easily. To alleviate her worry, Franz concocted a story about suffering from petit mal and having experienced brief seizures ever since childhood. He refused to consider what might be the real cause of the attacks; he had too much else to face.

A week after the incident, Helen remained skeptical of Franz's explanation. Even now, following a spell that was little more than an aftershock, relative to an earthquake, she continued to hold on to his elbow as though she were propping up a stubborn old man who couldn't be trusted to support himself. “There's no harm in sitting down until you feel a little stronger,” she said.

He shook free of her grip. “Thank you, Helen. I am fine. Honestly. And our patient is waiting.”

“There are always patients waiting.”

She had a point. He had no idea where they all came from, but the Country Hospital saw an endless stream of young casualties with bullet wounds, shattered bones and embedded shrapnel. Perhaps the Chinese guerillas in the countryside beyond Shanghai, who were reputed to be disorganized and prone to in fighting, had coalesced into a more effective force. Or maybe the wounded came from the faraway battlefields of Kwajalein, Rabaul and Imphal—exotic names that had meant nothing to Franz when
he heard them on the illicit wireless broadcasts. Regardless, he was operating from morning to night.

Having evidently satisfied Suzuki on his first day operating, Franz had performed most of his surgeries since with little oversight and little assistance, save for the deferential, inexperienced Japanese aides who acted as scrub nurses. Helen occasionally assisted him, but only if Suzuki was not operating himself. Otherwise, the captain insisted on her presence during procedures, though she maintained that he hardly spoke to her and that “even a trained monkey” could meet the basic demands of being his assistant.

Franz didn't begrudge the long hours he spent in surgery. It was the only reprieve from his loneliness and relentless anxiety over his family. However, he found that fewer and fewer of the cases now challenged his skills enough to entirely occupy his focus. Inevitably, his thoughts would drift—he'd hear Hannah's joyous laughter or picture Sunny's serene smile—while his hands functioned automatically. He wondered how they were managing, especially with Sunny so intent on raising the neighbour's baby as her own
—their own
, he had to catch himself. He was still uncertain of how he felt about the idea, even beyond the impracticalities of adopting a baby in the middle of a war zone. In bleaker moments, Franz doubted he could go on without them. He could feel his will ebbing. He remembered his father in those horrible final days in Vienna, and how the proud man had finally just given in to his chronically weak lungs. Would his own drop attacks prove to be the equivalent of his father's asthma?

Helen's wry smile pulled him out of the miserable thoughts. “The Bible says it's a sin, you know?” she said.

Franz cocked his head. Helen didn't seem like a religious person, and he suspected she was being ironic. “
What
is a sin?”

“Pride.”

Franz snorted a small laugh. “Pride is not my pressing concern.”

“What is, then?”

“How sympathetic do you imagine Captain Suzuki would be to my condition?” he asked.

“Sympathetic?” Helen squinted. “You've had this condition since childhood, and you are still an excellent surgeon—the best I've ever seen. What difference would it make to the captain?”

“The captain never wanted me here,” Franz pointed out. “Do you think he would tolerate me collapsing in the middle of surgery? That he would let me continue to operate if he knew I was having seizures?”

Helen bit her lip. “I suppose not, no.” Then her eyes brightened. “If he didn't trust you to operate, maybe he would send you home. To Hannah and Sunny.”

Franz had already considered this, but Suzuki had not struck him as an accommodating man. “Or maybe he would have me changing putrid dressings all day long, or perhaps send me somewhere even worse.”

Helen considered this and nodded. “Right before one of these spells, do you get any kind of warning signs?”

“I usually feel light-headed for a few seconds before it becomes severe.”

“All right, then,” she said purposefully. “We will need some kind of signal between us.”

“A signal?”

“So I can come to your assistance.”

“Helen, that isn't necessary.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Still nothing to do with pride?”

He sighed. “A tad, perhaps. But when—if—I have another spell, chances are you will not even be with me.”

“I was there last week to catch you. And again today. How many other spells have there been?”

“Maybe one or two.” He had actually experienced episodes every day for the past week. And he had passed out a second time too, but had fortunately fallen onto his own cot.

“Let's try this.” She crossed her middle finger over her forefinger. “Just like when you were a kid covering up for some fib you told your parents.”

He had never heard of this gesture—perhaps it was a Canadian custom—but he mimicked her hand position. “Like so?” he asked.

“Exactly.” Her face broke into a smile that sent a flush across her cheeks.

Franz cleared his throat, feeling suddenly embarrassed. “The patient …”

“Is waiting, yes.” She turned toward the sink.

By the time Franz had finished scrubbing, Helen had already entered the operating room. Holding his wet hands above his chest, he was about to go in too when he heard boots pounding along the corridor behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he recoiled as he saw that the two approaching soldiers were wearing the white armbands of the Kempeitai. His heart sped even faster when he spotted Captain Suzuki following on their heels.

The Kempeitai men came to a snapping halt in front of him. The taller of the two glared at him venomously while the other one viewed him coolly, like a mover assessing a heavy chest of drawers that he would have to transport.

Suzuki spoke to the men in Japanese for almost a minute. All
the while, Franz stood motionless, dripping hands held up like the victim of a robbery in a Hollywood film.

“You will go with them now, Dr. Alder,” Suzuki finally announced.

“Go where, Captain?”

Suzuki shrugged. “Wherever they take you.”

Feeling sweat beading across his brow, Franz dropped his hands to his sides. “Will I be returning?”

“It's not for me to say,” Suzuki said impassively. “They brought you to me without consultation. They're taking you away in the same fashion.”

***

The military vehicle, a spacious black Buick that smelled of hair tonic and talcum powder, hurtled eastward, toward the heart of Shanghai. Franz would have been elated to be heading in the direction of home, but the last time he taken a drive with the Kempeitai, they had taken him to Bridge House, the most feared address in all of Shanghai, because of Franz's suspected involvement in spreading rumours among the refugee community. During his daily interrogations at the Kempeitai headquarters, Franz had been drowned to the point of unconsciousness, and his arm had been broken in two places.

They drove through the International Settlement along Nanking Road, which had once been the retail heart of Shanghai: Asia's equivalent of Fifth Avenue or Savile Row. Most of the luxury department stores and specialty shops had
long ago been boarded shut or converted to military offices and supply stations.

Franz's throat constricted as soon as the sedan turned onto the riverside Bund and headed across the Garden Bridge, over Soochow Creek, and into the Hongkew district. He buried his face in his hands, trying to compose himself and muster the strength it would take to walk through Bridge House's bronze doors and down its marble staircase, which led to the closest thing he could imagine to hell on earth.

When Franz finally pulled his hands from his face, he felt disoriented. The car had veered onto Broadway, the city's busiest—though hardly most glamorous—thoroughfare. They turned onto Ward Road, and as soon as he saw the ghetto checkpoint through the windshield, his chest welled in giddy anticipation.

The guard at the checkpoint waved the vehicle past. They had barely crossed into the ghetto when they came to a stop in front of a nondescript building at the corner. The smile slid from Franz's lips as the driver parked in front of the Bureau of Stateless Refugee Affairs. The Kempeitai men yanked Franz out of the car and shoved him down the path, aggravating the ache in his ribcage. They dragged him into the building and past the startled exit-pass applicants who lined the narrow hallway.

Ghoya sat behind his desk, wearing one of his outdated double-breasted, wide-shouldered suit jackets. He didn't rise to greet Franz, just offered him a smile. “Ah, Dr. Adler, you have come back,” he said, as though Franz himself had chosen to depart the ghetto for the Country Hospital.

Franz bowed at the waist. “I'm most pleased to be back.”

Ghoya nodded from one Kempeitai man to the other. “Yes, yes.” He laughed. “I saw to it myself that you had an official military
police escort.” He giggled. “Did you enjoy the company?”

Franz relaxed, assuming that the Kempeitai's presence must have been part of one of Ghoya's mind games. The little man continued to stare at him expectantly. “You are most welcome, Dr. Adler. Most welcome.” Ghoya dismissed the Kempeitai men with a wave and then clasped his palms together, resting his chin on his fingers. “Much has happened since you left us. More smugglers, I am afraid. I cannot tolerate it. Not at all, no.” He sighed. “I'm rather fond of Mrs. Cron too. She bakes me the most delicious babka.”

Franz also had a soft spot for the spry woman who, though almost eighty years old, continued to volunteer every day in the kitchen of one of the heime. But he had trouble seeing the connection between smuggling and coffee cake. “Mrs. Cron?” he asked.

“Yes, yes,” Ghoya said impatiently. “Two of her sons. They were the leaders of a smuggling ring. What choice did I have, I ask you? None. None at all.”

Franz's heart sank. He knew both Felix and Isaac Cron personally. He was especially fond of Isaac, who was thoughtful and soft-spoken.

“They were grown men,” Ghoya continued. “I couldn't be as lenient as I was with your daughter. Too soft, always too soft. No, no. I warned you all. Did I not?” Ghoya pulled his hands away from his chin and turned to look out the window behind him. “A firing squad, the day before yesterday. I am afraid we will have to leave the bodies there by the wall for a few more days. This smuggling nonsense. A lesson. Yes, it's a lesson my people simply must learn.”

Franz was still absorbing this news when Ghoya spoke again abruptly. “I'm told you performed adequately for Dr. Suzuki.”

“I hope so, Mr. Ghoya.”

“Yes, yes. He says you are perfectly able. You will do just fine.”

“You are sending me back to the Country Hospital?” Franz asked with alarm.

“Did I say that?” Ghoya demanded, looking around as if someone in the room might back him up. “Did I?”

“No, I just assumed …”

Ghoya eyed him coolly. “Go home, Dr. Adler. Yes, yes. To that mischievous daughter and your mixed-breed wife. Go home to them.”

The elation resurged, though Franz remained wary. “Right now, Mr. Ghoya?”

“Why not?” Ghoya laughed. “Is there somewhere else you would rather be?”

“No. Thank you. Thank you.” Franz was already backing toward the door as he bowed his exit.

“Oh, and Dr. Adler, I have reconsidered my position on the hospital. Yes, yes. I have decided that while you are still in Shanghai, I will allow you to work in that terrible little hospital.”

Franz froze. “While I am still here?”

“Of course,” Ghoya scoffed. “Did you not hear me earlier? You performed adequately. Captain Suzuki considers you ready.”

“Ready for what, Mr. Ghoya?”

Ghoya laughed again. “You didn't think you would be staying in Shanghai, did you?”