Nightfall Over Shanghai (9 page)

“For what, then?”

Sunny lowered her voice. “There's an American pilot who was shot down …” As Sunny described the lieutenant's predicament, she could tell that her friend was only half listening. Clearly, Jia-Li's mind was elsewhere, thinking of poison.

Café Aaronsohn smelled of boiled cabbage and fried meat, but Sunny's frayed nerves quashed her appetite. She sat at a corner table from which she could see the entire restaurant, as well as the street through the window. She held open a copy of the
Shanghai Jewish Chronicle
and pretended to read an article about the wedding of a couple who had been childhood sweethearts in Cologne and were reunited by chance fifteen years later, as peddler and customer at the Tong Shan street market. She had already read it twice.

Frau Aaronsohn buzzed up to the table and refilled Sunny's water glass. “Have you decided yet, Fräulein?” she asked anxiously.

“Yes, thank you,” Sunny said. “I will have the kugel, please.”

“
Wunderbar.
A good choice.”

Sunny had tried only the noodle-and-potato casserole once before and had found the taste overwhelming, but it was the only dish on the menu that she could afford. Although too nervous to eat, she would look conspicuous without a meal in front of her. Besides, she suspected that if she didn't order soon, she would be forced to abandon the prime table.

The wall-mounted clock above the door read 12:42, but there was still no sign of Ghoya. Sunny had been assured that his routine
was as predictable as the Swiss railway: he lunched every weekday at Café Aaronsohn at half past noon. Sunny felt more relieved than disappointed by his absence. Again, she chastised herself again for having ever let Jia-Li coerce her into proceeding with the scheme.
Why did I ever listen to her?
Sunny wondered for the umpteenth time. But the truth was she had felt cornered. Jia-Li was determined to act with or without Sunny's cooperation. She had even somehow enlisted the brothel's physician, Ping Lok—a shady character who had ended up as a doctor to the underworld after his gambling and opium addiction had destroyed his legitimate career—to be her backup accomplice. Sunny felt duty-bound to go along with this. She was the one who had planted the reckless idea in her friend's head.

But now, with Ghoya presumably not coming, it seemed moot—to Sunny's relief. Just as she was about to cancel her order, the door flew open and Ghoya burst in with two soldiers in tow. Without waiting to be seated, he bustled over to the only empty table and plunked himself down. The soldiers claimed the seats on either side of him. The conversations in the room dimmed to a hush and eyes all over the restaurant fell nervously to the floor. Ghoya glanced around contentedly, revelling in the attention. Palms damp, Sunny had to fight off a tremor in her hands as she angled her face away from his.

“Ah, Mrs. Aaronsohn, I'm simply famished, famished,” Ghoya cried out across the room. “My lateness could not be avoided today. Such a lineup at my office. The demands of my people, they never end.”

Frau Aaronsohn rushed over. “You slave for us, Mr. Ghoya,” she said obsequiously. “We are forever grateful for your assistance.”

“As well you should be.” Ghoya laughed, patting her arm
condescendingly. “Now tell me what I should have for my sustenance today.”

“The kugel is fresh and—”

“No, no. No more kugel. I had it yesterday. Who can eat the same thing every day?” Ghoya said. Sunny thought of how most of the Jews in the ghetto lived off a monotonous daily diet of rice and scraps. “What else is there?”

“Felix has made a delicious matzo ball soup.”

“Yes, yes! Just like the chicken noodle soup. And bring it with the Jewish bread. How do you call it again?”

“Challah.”

“Yes. Bring the challah right away. I'm famished, I tell you. Just famished.”

“Straightaway, Mr. Ghoya.” Frau Aaronsohn hurried away from the table.

Sunny buried her nose deeper into her newspaper and stole a glance out the window. She still hadn't caught sight of Jia-Li, but she assumed her friend was lurking somewhere outside. While Sunny's chest thumped harder with every passing moment, Ghoya continued to loudly and unilaterally chat with Frau Aaronsohn, opining on everything from the shortcomings of French food to the likelihood of the Americans seeking a truce in the Pacific.

This is madness
, Sunny thought. All she would have to do to abort the operation was get up and leave the restaurant. But her legs had turned to rubber, and she felt glued to her seat. Just then, Sunny spotted Jia-Li in the window. Her head was turned from the café, but her form-fitting black dress was unmistakable. Out of the corner of her eye, Sunny saw Frau Aaronsohn heading toward Ghoya's table with a plate of bread. Then Sunny noticed
movement outside. Her heart leapt into her throat. Long seconds passed, but no one entered the restaurant.

Ghoya devoured the bread, spraying flecks of crust as he chattered on to Frau Aaronsohn, even as she headed back to the kitchen. A minute or so later, she re-emerged carefully carrying a steaming bowl of soup.

It was then that Jia-Li marched into the café and headed straight for Frau Aaronsohn. “Miss, miss,” she cried in English as she blocked the German woman's path. “I will need a table for four.”

“
Ich spreche kein Englisch
,” Frau Aaronsohn replied.

“Four,” Jia-Li repeated in English, holding up four fingers. She pantomimed a table and chairs, her hands flying over the bowl. “For four of us.” She raised her voice and enunciated slowly, pretending that she thought it would somehow make her intent clearer. “We need a table right away.
Mach schnell!
”

A young Jewish man rose from a nearby table. He grinned awkwardly at Jia-Li. “I can help. To translate. I speak English relatively well.”

“Please do,” Jia-Li said in feigned exasperation. “I'm not getting anywhere with this one.”

Protecting the bowl close to her chest, Frau Aaronsohn shouldered her way past Jia-Li. “In a moment, madam, please,” she said in German, flustered. “Allow me first to serve this soup, please.”

“She asks that you give her a—” the young man began to translate.

But Jia-Li cut him off. “Oh, forget it. It was a foolish idea to ever come here.” She turned on her heels and stormed out the door, adjusting her hat as she exited.

Sunny had not seen Jia-Li slip anything into the soup, but the gesture with her hat was the signal that she had somehow
managed to spike it. There was no turning back now. Sunny's back tensed in terror.
What have we done?

Frau Aaronsohn muttered an apology to Ghoya as she lowered the bowl onto the table and placed a soup spoon beside it. Sunny's breath caught again as she watched Ghoya pick up the spoon and dip it into the soup. But rather than taking a spoonful, he dropped the utensil, letting it rest again the rim of the bowl. He rattled the empty bread plate beside him. “More challah, please, Frau Aaronsohn. It would be a shame to eat this soup without bread, surely?”

The woman nodded and turned for the kitchen.

Ghoya reached for the spoon again, but instead of eating, he used it to toy with a matzo ball.

Time crawled. New and old worries coalesced in Sunny's head.
How long will it take for him to become ill? How do I approach him? What if he sends me away?
And the worst thought of all:
What if he suspects me?

Finally, Sunny saw Frau Aaronsohn carrying a fresh plate of bread to the table. She rested it beside Ghoya's bowl. Nodding, he lifted the spoon to his lips and slurped. “Perhaps a little salty,” he pronounced. “But otherwise good. Yes, yes, it will do fine.”

Ghoya was taking a second spoonful when the door flew open again. Sunny almost leapt out of her seat when she saw it was Franz filling the doorway. His eyes met hers for a fleeting, charged moment before he walked straight over to Ghoya's table. “Good day, Mr. Ghoya,” he said. Sunny watched in shock.

“Dr. Adler?” Ghoya lowered his spoon and stared at Franz, clearly annoyed. “Can you not see I'm having my lunch? Am I not entitled to a minute or two of privacy? Is that so much to ask?”

Franz clasped his hands beneath his chin, as though praying.
“I only wanted to thank you again for letting me return home.”

Why, Sunny wondered, was her husband ignoring her and behaving so oddly? But she was too scared to move.

“This is hardly the time, Dr. Adler,” Ghoya grumbled.

But Franz persisted. “It was so magnanimous of you, Mr. Ghoya. A reflection of your strength and compassion as a leader.”

Seeming placated, Ghoya jutted out his lower lip. “Obviously, yes. Still, this is not the time or place for it.”

“I cannot tell you how grateful I am.” Franz flung his arms apart, knocking the ceramic soup bowl off the table with the back of his hand. It shattered on the floor with a shriek, soup splattering everywhere.

Ghoya hopped up. “You clumsy fool!” He swung his open hand wildly, contacting Franz's cheek with a sharp crack. “Clumsy, clumsy fool!” He swung it a second time in a backhanded motion that slammed into Franz's lip, spraying blood and knocking him backwards.

The soldiers on either side of Ghoya leapt up. One drew a pistol from his belt and aimed it at Franz's head.

“No! Please, stop,” Sunny cried as she jumped up from her seat.

But Frau Aaronsohn beat her to the table, waving her hands frantically. “It's all right, Mr. Ghoya,” she cried. “An accident, nothing more. I will get you a fresh bowl straightaway.”

Your mouth, Franz,” Sunny said, running her forefinger along his swollen lower lip. “It's still bleeding.”

Franz ran his tongue over the chipped tooth and licked away the salty blood. Despite everything, including the fact they were standing on a busy street corner, he couldn't help himself. He pulled Sunny close and pressed his lips to hers. Joy and relief bloomed inside his chest, fuelling his desire. He held her tightly and longed to be alone with her, to run his hands down her bare back and to feel their legs intertwined. “This morning I didn't know if I would ever see you again,” he said between kisses. “God, I've missed you.”

“You can't imagine.” Her voice caught. “But you're home now.”

Yes, but for how long?
The jolt of reality stung worse than Ghoya's palm. He couldn't muster the courage to tell Sunny that his return was only temporary.

Sunny trailed kisses along his cheek and chin. “How did you know?” she asked.

“Know what, darling?”

“About the soup.”

“As soon I got home, Essie told me what Jia-Li was planning. She was so worried about you.”

“I didn't want to involve Essie. But she had to know, Franz. In case I was caught.”

He nodded. “The moment I stepped into the restaurant, I could tell from your expression that Jia-Li must have already done it.”

She kissed him along his neck. “Knocking his bowl onto the floor like that. So brave but so rash. He could have killed you.”

“
Ach
, he's mainly bluster, that one.”

She angled her head, her expression turning grave. “No, Franz. Don't ever underestimate him. Did you hear about the Cron brothers?”

Franz had been thinking of the two men as he stepped into the restaurant, his throat constricted with dread. But he just smiled and stroked her cheek. “The way Frau Aaronsohn calmed down Ghoya and practically disarmed those soldiers—she's my new hero.”

“And you are
my
hero.” She pointed across the street to the restaurant. “Still, it was so foolish what you did in there.”

“I'm the foolish one?” He laughed. “Who dreamed up this crazy idea to poison Ghoya's soup? It would have never worked, you know.”

“I knew it from the start! But once Jia-Li got the idea into her head, I couldn't dissuade her. I thought it would turn out even worse for her if I didn't go along with it.” She kissed him again, her tongue tracing his upper lip. “Darling, you know I would've done anything to bring you home.”

Franz couldn't bring himself to hurt Sunny with the truth about his return, the temporariness of it. “I know.”

She reached for his hand. “Speaking of home, let's go now. You must see Joey.”

“I saw him already,” Franz said, careful to maintain the lightness in his tone. “With Esther.”

Sunny angled her head, her eyes wary. “He's not going anywhere, Franz.”

“I didn't say otherwise,” Franz said, deciding that it wasn't the right time to argue the point.

Sunny's face lit up. “He's so gorgeous, you have no idea. Oh, and that little smile of his—it could melt the North Pole.”

Despite his doubts, Franz had to laugh. His wife sounded more like a Jewish mother than a Chinese parent. Here, relatives considered it unlucky to gush openly over a child.

Sunny pulled him by the hand. “We had best leave before Ghoya finishes his lunch.”

The clouds had cleared and the late April sun beat down on the street, hinting at the unforgiving heat that summer would soon bring. Kung Ping Road was its usual hub of activity and commerce. Franz and Sunny walked past the usual array of Jewish peddlers standing in front of their makeshift stalls, selling everything from used clothes to pieces of furniture. Franz even spotted a handsome art deco–style wireless that reminded him of the prized Aero radio he had kept in his living room in Vienna. Where, Franz wondered, did these refugees keep finding items to peddle? His family had run out of their resaleable belongings years ago.

As Franz and Sunny walked hand in hand along the busy street, people greeted them with smiles, waves and even “
Guten Tag, Herr Doktor.
” There were one or two disparaging glances but, as usual, Franz didn't know whether the reason was racism, envy or the disdain for hand-holding among Orthodox Jews.

Despite the community's diminished ranks—reduced by death, not emigration, as the refugees couldn't leave Shanghai—Franz had heard that the refugee population still numbered twenty thousand strong. There were far too many refugees for Franz to
know them all, but he was surprised by how many he did recognize. He was acquainted with many in the community through the synagogue and the Refugee Council, and he recognized others as former patients or their family members. His sense of pride in how well his community had persevered was tempered by a bitter realization that any day he could again be ripped away from them.

Sunny turned to him with a frown. “Something is wrong, Franz?”

“Nothing. Just idle thoughts.”

Sunny squeezed his hand. “Tell me.”

“For so long, I'd thought of Shanghai as only a temporary refuge. A shelter of last resort.”

“And now?”

“It's beginning to feel more like home.”

Sunny yanked him to a stop and kissed him again. “Oh, Franz, you have no idea how much I love you.”

“Actually, darling, I think I do.”

“Shanghai isn't so bad, is it?” she murmured in his ear. “One day soon, when the war is over and the Japanese are gone, we could find a house like we had before.”

He could see how desperately she wanted him to share in her dream, but Franz had difficulty imagining the city as a permanent home, even if they were to survive the war. Besides, Ghoya's words—“You didn't think you would be staying in Shanghai?”—hung over him. Concerned that she might pick up on his dark mood, he simply nodded and changed the subject. “Tell me, what else has happened since I've been gone?”

As they walked, Sunny updated Franz on the developments in the ghetto. Although he wasn't surprised to hear of poor Herr Steinmann's death, it still conjured memories of his own father's
passing. Sunny went on to describe her confrontation with Baron von Puttkamer and Major Huber, and their threats of reprisal against him. Franz was particularly troubled to hear that von Puttkamer had recognized Sunny. Preoccupied with his worries, he was slow to notice how fidgety Sunny had become. He slowed to a stop. “Something is bothering you, isn't it?”

Looking away, she nodded.

“What is it?”

“I know I promised to never again get involved with espionage, but this time it wasn't my doing—”

Franz's neck tensed. “Oh no, Sunny, don't tell me. Please, God. You didn't get involved with the Underground again? Not after the last time. When your own cell turned on you—”

“No, not the Underground.” She waved her hands frantically. “An American pilot. He had been shot down.” She hurriedly told him about Father Diego and Lieutenant Lewis, and their dramatic appearance at the refugee hospital. “I'm so sorry, Franz. I didn't know what else to do.”

As alarmed as he was at the thought of an American pilot hiding in their midst, Franz felt proud of her swift actions. He caressed her cheek. “What choice did you have, darling? I would have done the same.”

Sunny smiled lackadaisically. “Maybe by tomorrow the lieutenant will be stable enough to move from the hospital.”

“Move to where?”

“Perhaps the Comfort Home.”

“Would Chih-Nii really allow it?”

“The basement hideaway is still in use from time to time. Jia-Li thinks Chih-Nii might be willing to help, yes.

Franz nodded. “What's he like, this pilot?”

“He's so young, Franz. Still looks like a boy. I can't believe he flies one of those giant bombers. It's as if—”

Sunny was interrupted by a man's voice coming from behind them. “Good day, Dr. Adler.”

They turned to see Rabbi Hiltmann, in his black suit and hat, approaching. Despite a limp from an arthritic hip, he caught up to them quickly. Franz returned his handshake. “Rabbi, you remember my wife, Sunny?”

“How could I forget? After all, I married you to this lovely woman, did I not?” Hiltmann glanced at her with a paternal smile. “You too, Sunny, are always welcome in our
shul.
You understand that, of course.”

Sunny nodded gratefully. “Perhaps one day, Rabbi.”

Hiltmann turned back to Franz. “That daughter of yours has a good head on her shoulders. She has much to contribute to our discussions.”

“Your discussions, Rabbi?” Franz asked.

“The meetings at the
shul
. Hannah and her friend, Herschel, attend regularly. The young lady is full of ideas. She deeply appreciates the urgent need for a homeland in Palestine.”

Franz stiffened. He couldn't help feeling slightly betrayed. Hannah had never mentioned attending any Zionist gatherings.

“We are meeting again tomorrow, Dr. Adler,” Hiltmann said. “It would be an honour if someone of your standing in the community were to join us. Besides, wouldn't it be wonderful to have multiple generations of Adlers in attendance?”

Franz shook his head. “I think not, Rabbi.”

“Oh? May I be so bold as to ask why not?”

“I don't believe in Zionism.”

“And why is that, Doctor?”

“I think it's a pipe dream. Worse than that, Rabbi, I think it's a contagion.”

“A contagion?” Hiltmann raised a bushy eyebrow. “Like a disease, you mean?”

“In effect, yes,” Franz said, knowing his words lacked tact. “One that serves to stir up anti-Semitism among the gentiles wherever it spreads. The same way a virus spreads a cough.”

Sunny reached for his arm. “Franz,” she cautioned.

But the rabbi appeared unperturbed by the rudeness. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “So, if I understand you correctly, the issue is not that anti-Semitism flourishes everywhere we Jews live, but rather that talk of a Jewish homeland incites it?”

“I can't deny that we Jews seem to be resented wherever we go. But yes, I also believe that talk of Zionism only makes our situation worse.”

“Ah.” Hiltmann nodded slowly. “So it's best not to stir the pot? To always appease these goys who deign to allow to us live among them? To hide our heads in the sand and apologize for who and what we are?”

“I'm not saying that—”

“Because that turn-the-other-cheek strategy worked so well for us in Hitler's Germany?” The rabbi laughed bitterly. “How many times did I hear my learned friends and colleagues tell me that the Nazis would eventually lose interest if we didn't fight back, if we just ignored them?”

“This is China, not Germany,” Franz said. “We are here as refugees at the whim of the Japanese conquerors.”

“Forced into a ghetto.”

“Perhaps, but at least it's not one of those terrible camps where they've imprisoned the British and Americans citizens. Or worse.”

“For now,” Hiltmann grunted.

“Exactly so,” Franz said. “Our existence here is tenuous. What is the point of discussing a Jewish homeland on the other side of the world when we can't even cross the street without a pass? Why provoke the Japanese over absolutely nothing?”

Hiltmann leaned back as though he had been slapped. “You think of this as nothing?”

“Nothing that is real, anyway. Or has any chance of becoming real while the war goes on. Our life here is hard enough. Why should we risk making it any worse for this hopeless dream of a homeland?”

Hiltmann shook his head and sighed. “You know, Dr. Adler, I'm reminded of the words of another doctor I once knew. Dr. Mendelbaum. A wonderful, gentle man. A pediatrician and leading member of my congregation. In 1935, when the Nuremberg Laws were first passed, I remember him telling me, ‘Well, at least it's over now.' ‘What do you mean over?' I asked him. And he explained to me that since the Nazis had taken our rights and citizenship away, there was nothing worse they could do to us. I told him then what I tell you now: this is only the beginning.” He paused and looked from Franz to Sunny. “They sent Dr. Mendelbaum to Dachau in 1938. He never came back.”

Franz shook his head, embarrassed that he didn't feel more sympathy, but it was an outcome he had heard too many times. “Rabbi, what does any of it have to do with talk about a Jewish homeland?”

“Don't you see, Dr. Adler?” Hiltmann asked philosophically. “We must begin somewhere.”

“Even here, in Shanghai?”

“In Shanghai, in Warsaw, in New York—even in Madagascar if there are any Jews there,” Hiltmann said. “It begins with a
movement. A belief. God has shown us He will not protect us unless we defend ourselves. Unless we Jews all over the world band together to stand up for ourselves—with our own army, if necessary—we will surely be wiped off this earth.”