Rising Sun, Falling Shadow (15 page)

Ghoya led Kubota over to them. The little man waved a hand at Ernst as though he were not even present. “This man. I do not recognize him, Dr. Adler. He is not a refugee?”

“No.” Franz said, meeting Ghoya's gaze. “We are old friends from Vienna.”

“Is he a Jew?”

Franz's heart beat in his throat. “No, as I said—”

“I have been called worse.” Ernst chuckled as he extended a hand to Ghoya. “My name is Klimper. Gustav Klimper.”

Looking surprised, Ghoya met the handshake. Ernst turned and offered a hand to Kubota. The colonel viewed him carefully, but his lined face gave away nothing. Finally, he transferred his cane to his unsteady left hand and reached out with his right. “I am Colonel Kubota.” A small smile appeared on his face. “Your name, it sounds very similar to that famous Austrian artist.”

“Gustav Klimt.”

Kubota nodded. “Yes. I greatly admire Klimt's work. In fact, I have become somewhat partial to Austrian art in general.” He paused. “Except, of course, those paintings that possess more political overtones. They do not interest me in the least.”

 

Hannah pressed her lips to the soft folds of Jakob's belly and blew noisily. The infant squealed with delight and broke into a giggle that spread through the room. Even Franz chuckled as he knelt in front of the Chinese stove. Moments earlier, he had been mired in frustration as he struggled to ignite the damp charcoal briquettes.

“He adores you, Hannah,” Sunny said from where she stood beside Esther at the countertop, picking maggots out of uncooked rice.

Hannah shrugged. “He would love anyone who blew on his tummy.”

“He might laugh for anyone,” Esther said. “But love? No, Sunny is correct. You are one of his favourites.”

Jakob stared up at Hannah with liquid brown eyes and a wide grin. She warmed at the thought of being her little cousin's favourite. “Rabbi Hiltmann says that it's a bracha—a true blessing—to have a baby in our home.”

“I agree with the rabbi.” Sunny's eyes darted over to Franz, whose back was turned to the room as he wrestled with the uncooperative briquettes.

Hannah had seen that look on her stepmother's face before. She often gazed at Jakob with more than just affection; there was longing in her eyes, too. For months, Hannah had been expecting her father to announce that a baby sibling was on its way.

One day the week before, as she helped Sunny change Jakob's diaper, Hannah had asked her, “Do you and Papa not want a baby?”

Sunny smiled as she slid off the wet rag. “Who wouldn't want to have little Jakob?”

“No. A baby of your own.”

Sunny's hand froze, the soaked diaper dangling from her hand. “It's not so simple, Hannah,” she said quietly.

Hannah remembered one of her teachers at the old Jewish school telling her that, as much as she loved children, she and her husband were not capable of having their own. Hannah flushed with embarrassment, assuming that Sunny meant something similar. “I'm sorry. I did not . . . er . . . know that you could not . . .”

“No, Hannah, it's not that.” Sunny smiled. “I believe your father and I could have babies. I—we—would love nothing more than to have a little playmate for Jakob. But it would mean another mouth to feed.” She looked away. “I am not convinced that would be fair to anyone, especially the child.”

“Fair? What does that have to do with anything? If you want a baby, we would all help. We would find a way. He could have some of my rice. I'm so sick of it anyway.”

“Oh, Hannah.” Sunny leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “You are so special, you know that? I hope you don't object, but I think of you as my child—well, hardly a child—but you understand.”

“I would never object.” Hannah wrapped her arms around Sunny in a tight hug. Her stomach fluttered guiltily when she remembered having led her father to believe that Sunny was somehow responsible for her low mood months back.

Hannah let go of Sunny. “Can I ask your advice?” She felt her face begin to warm again and looked down at Jakob, who shook his rattle contentedly.

Sunny bit her lip, stifling a grin. “Does it concern Freddy?”

Hannah nodded without looking up.

“He's a charmer, that one.”

“Exactly. He is so charming to everyone. I cannot tell if . . . if Freddy views me any differently from the others.”

“But surely you already know, Hannah. He spends so much time with you. He is always looking for you.”

“That is only because I help his family.”

Sunny's eyes narrowed. “You help his family? How so?”

“No. No!” Hannah waved her hand, desperate not to raise suspicion. She had not yet told anyone about her illicit courier activities. “I . . . I help Freddy with his homework. He is hopeless at mathematics. And sometimes I help Frau Herzberg around the home while I am there.”

Sunny nodded impassively. “Listen, Hannah, no boy would spend so much time with a girl simply for help with mathematics. Or for any reason like that. Unless he felt something more for her.”

“Do you think so?”

“I know so.” Sunny grinned. “Look at you. You're so beautiful. What boy wouldn't want to be with you?”

“I am not like other girls. I'm only half-Jewish. And . . .” she held up her left hand.

“Oh, Hannah, I know what it means to be different, too. Look at me. I am neither white nor Chinese.” Sunny winked. “But being a little different only makes you that much more special.”

Jakob pulled Hannah out of the memory by pawing at her arm for attention. Hunching forward, she blew into his belly again and was rewarded with another eruption of giggles.

Sunny looked over to her husband. “Franz, I had to pass Astor House yesterday. I had not seen it in ages.”

“Oh?” Franz said, still struggling to light the stove. “Why were you in that part of town?”

“I met Jia-Li for tea. She insists on going to the Bund, even though most of the restaurants and stores are closed.” Sunny dug another maggot out from the rice. “The Japanese still govern the city from that lovely old hotel, do they not?”

“As far as I know, yes,” Franz said.

“You have been inside the governor's office.”

Franz craned his neck to look at her. “Only the once.”

“There were still so many guards posted out front of Astor House.” Sunny shook her head. “If I know the Japanese, General Nogomi must have a grand office. Is he in one of the penthouse suites?”

Franz shrugged. “He was last year. On the sixth floor.”

“What was his office like?”

Franz flung his free hand up in the air. “I hardly noticed. We were only there to plead our case. You remember we had to beg Nogomi to stop the Nazis—” Making eye contact with Hannah, he stopped short of finishing the sentence. He would have preferred to shield her from the truth, but at school she had already heard all the rumours about the Nazis' plot to exterminate Shanghai's refugees.

“Still, I can only imagine that Nogomi's office must be quite something,” Sunny persisted.

“The meeting didn't go as planned, remember? The general threw us out. And then I ended up in Bridge House.”

Hannah remembered her father returning from Bridge House with his face bruised almost beyond recognition and a plaster cast covering one arm from fingers to elbow. She had pestered him for details, but all he would offer was a forced chuckle and jokes that the food was inedible and the mattress uncomfortable. Hannah knew from his eyes that he had endured hell during his week of captivity, but she never heard him discuss it.

“With any luck, none of us will see the inside of the general's office again.” Franz looked up at Sunny. “Why are you so interested in what it looks like?”

She exhaled softly. “As you say, Nogomi almost sealed our fate. Everything that happens in Shanghai, for all of us . . . it all rests with him and that office. I am curious to picture it in my head.”

“Me too, Papa,” Hannah said. Even Esther nodded her agreement.

The perplexity left Franz's face and he broke into a small grin. “It's grander than you might imagine. Nogomi has a fancy Chinese desk and antique Victorian furniture everywhere. He's in the centre of the top floor of the hotel and has a stunning view of the ships and sampans floating on the Whangpoo. But his desk faces away from the window.” He nodded to himself. “I will never forget how it smelled. So strongly of jasmine. But I never spotted a single flower in the whole room.”

Hannah lowered Jakob into his makeshift playpen on the floor. He looked up at her, seemingly more disappointed than upset. She excused herself, explaining to the others that she had to meet a friend to finish their homework. Sunny flashed her a knowing look but said nothing.

* * *

Freddy Herzberg was already waiting out front for her. He wore the much-admired bomber jacket that his parents had given him at the beginning of the school year, though the weather was still warm enough to go comfortably in shirtsleeves.

“Hiya, Banana.” The nickname still made her blush. “What took you so long?”

Freddy threw an arm around her neck and pulled her toward him in a friendly headlock. She picked up the alcoholic scent of his aftershave and realized that he must shave every morning like her father did. For some inexplicable reason, this excited her. As their faces neared, she thought—hopefully, nervously—that he might kiss her. But it wasn't to be—at least, not now.

“I was helping my family with supper,” she said.

He laughed. “How hard is it to make rice and water?”

“You shouldn't joke, Freddy. At least we have food.”

He flashed a broad grin. “If you want to call it that, Banana.”

As always, Freddy spoke English. Hannah had a hard time imagining him in Vienna; lately, she was even having trouble seeing him as Jewish. He sounded and acted far more like Mickey Rooney than someone who was born “Fritsch Herzberg.” Then again, she had heard that many of the matinee idols in Hollywood were Jews who anglicized their names. Surely not Mickey Rooney?

“You ready to go across again tomorrow?” he asked.

In the past month, Hannah had smuggled more than just jewellery out of the ghetto for the Herzbergs. Two weeks earlier, she had practically waddled past the checkpoint after concealing perfume bottles in her skirt. She was terrified that they would clank together and draw the attention of the refugee guard. Rumour was that Ghoya had been demanding better “results” from his pao-chia guards—meaning more arrests and confiscations. The day before, two more refugees had been flogged on the ghetto's main street after being caught sneaking back into the ghetto twenty minutes after curfew.

“Pop has an idea that will fill our plates with a lot more than rice,” Freddy continued.

Her face tensed. Every time Freddy's father had a new idea, it seemed to involve something risky. “Oh, what is it now?”

Freddy folded his arms across his chest. “Nah. Doesn't sound like you want to hear it. Just forget it.”

She reached out and touched his elbow. “Tell me, Freddy.”

A big smile spread across his face. His eyes swept the street and he lowered his voice. “Okay, up until now, all we do is carry stuff out. Basically, we're fencing the last of our own belongings for a few miserable bucks.”

Hannah could feel the muscles in her neck and chest tightening. “And so?”

“Some people inside the ghetto still have money.” He chuckled. “We are, after all, Jews, aren't we?”

Hannah didn't like his tone, but still holding on to his elbow, she merely nodded.

“What do the people stuck inside the ghetto need most, Hannah?”

“Food, medicine, clean water . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. The essentials.” He dismissed them with a wave of his hand. “But what one thing do they really want?”

It took a moment, but she had the answer even before Freddy raised two fingers to his lips. “Cigarettes.”

“Cigarettes,” he echoed, beaming.

She dropped her hand from his elbow. “You want me to smuggle cigarettes into the ghetto?”

Freddy nodded eagerly. “Think about it. Outside the ghetto, you can buy cigarettes from the Chinese merchants on Nanking Road at ten or twenty cents on the dollar. A single run, and we could make twenty or thirty dollars. Maybe more.” He stared at her hard. “Imagine how much more than just rice that would put on our dinner tables.”

She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. “How would I carry cartons of cigarettes past the guards?”

Freddy patted the front of his bomber jacket and chuckled. “First step is to get you a roomier coat.”

 

“Do you think anyone still calls it the ‘Jewel of the Bund'?” Jia-Li asked Sunny as they strolled past the columned entrance of the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank.

“It's not much of a jewel anymore.” Sunny vividly recalled how people used to line up to rub the paws of the two bronze lions that had once perched at either side of the entrance, guarding the bank. So many Chinese believed in the superstition that promised good fortune from the lions' touch that their metal paws had been buffed to gleaming nubs.

“I used to love coming here with you and your father.” Jia-Li motioned to the unmarked intersection. “Remember? He would always buy us those delicious cí fàn tuán they sold at that corner stand.”

“Nothing tasted better,” Sunny agreed with a pang of melancholy, thinking about her father more than those achingly sweet sticky rolls. Her father had taken a dim view of the paw-rubbing ritual, like he did most Chinese superstitions. He was a man of science, a dedicated physician and diabetes specialist. He was also a devoted anglophile, and the British bank was his favourite building in Shanghai. He appreciated the towering structure for its grandeur, but he loved the old bank even more for the empire it represented.

A huge Rising Sun now hung from the bank and, today, it flapped listlessly in the breeze. Sunny had no idea what the Japanese used the building for, but soldiers were guarding the entry to keep away civilians. The lions, like her father, were long gone; rumour had it the Japanese had taken them away to be melted down.

“It's been almost five years, ba˘o bèi,” Sunny said. “I still miss Father as though he died only last week. Will that ever stop?”

Jia-Li shook her head. “Nor should it, xiăo hè. You keep him alive in your memory.”

“I hope so.”

“I miss him too,” Jia-Li said. “He was far more of a father to me than that weak man who passed for mine.”

Sunny had fonder memories of Jia-Li's father. He was a jovial man who always had a silly joke at hand or loose change to spare for the girls. However, he had never been around much, and gambling debts drove him to take his own life when the girls were only thirteen years old. Sunny suspected that Jia-Li's feelings had more to do with her father's suicide than how he'd actually treated her. She viewed his death as a betrayal; it had saddled the family with a large debt. But Sunny had learned from previous experience to keep those thoughts to herself.

“Besides, you have Franz now,” Jia-Li pointed out.

“Yes, yes, I do,” she murmured as she looked out toward the harbour.

Jia-Li pounced on the wistfulness of her tone. “What's wrong, xiăo hè?”

“Nothing.”

Jia-Li stopped. “Tell me.”

Sunny slowed to a halt. “You know Franz. He carries the burden of the hospital on his shoulders. The whole refugee community, for that matter.”

“You think he cares too much?”

“It is all too much. The hospital, the refugees, Simon, Charlie, Ernst—Franz feels responsible for them all. He works himself to the bone, and when he does go to bed, he is so restless. He doesn't sleep more than a few hours each night.” She shook her head. “It's simply too much.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“I've tried.”

Jia-Li arched an eyebrow. “Tried?”

“The last few months, ba˘o bèi . . .” Sunny searched for the words. “They have not been the same.”

“It sounds as though he is just exhausted.”

“That might explain it, yes.” Sunny knew there was more to it. Whether it was because of her concealed involvement in the Resistance or her guilt about it, a wedge was growing between her and Franz. The previous night as they lay in bed together, Franz had become suspicious when she pressed for more details about General Nogomi's office. “Sunny, why do you keep asking about Astor House?” He sat up in the bed. “What could possibly interest you so much?”

Sunny's mind raced, searching for something plausible. “I can't stop thinking about him, and the power he lords over us all—it's life and death.”

Franz looked hard at her. “And what does the location of his desk or the number of soldiers guarding his office have to do with that?”

“Oh, Franz, none of it matters at all.” She wrapped her fingers over the sinewy muscles in his forearm. “It's just . . .”

“Just what, Sunny?”

“I want to picture it in my head. That's all.” She inwardly cringed as she piled one lie upon the next. Sweat started to bead under her arms. She worried that her face would soon start perspiring, too.

His forehead furrowed. “What possible purpose would it serve, Sunny?”

“To fantasize, I suppose.”

He eyed her in disbelief. “I do not understand.”

She massaged the inside of his arm, loathing herself for this crude attempt at seducing information out of him. “Remember how we celebrated the night the Allies recaptured Sicily? Or when the Solomon Islands fell? Don't you ever dream of what it would be like if the Allies were to liberate Shanghai?”

Franz shook his head softly. “That will not happen any time soon.”

“Still, I love to imagine it. I picture General Nogomi standing behind his desk with his head bowed. A shameful surrender. Maybe even handing a ceremonial sword over to the liberators.”

The wrinkles in his forehead smoothed. “It's dangerous to think that way, Sunny.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It could lead to foolish actions.”

“Or it might inspire us to persevere?”

Franz gently pulled his arm free of her hand. “True, hope can sustain a person,” he said. “But too much of it can create unrealistic expectations—and heartbreak.”

Sunny wanted to tell Franz that hope was not the issue. She had no idea when, or even if, Shanghai would be liberated. She was just so tired of feeling helpless. Every day she had less to offer at the hospital, which had been depleted of almost everything needed to offer meaningful care. She was desperate to somehow contribute to the alleviation of the suffering and misery that the Japanese occupation was bringing to all of her people: the Chinese, the Shanghailanders and the Jews. Besides, despite her mixed feelings, she still valued the sense of purpose that her first assignment had brought her.

Now, as Sunny stood on the pavement across from her best friend, she had to resist the urge to tell Jia-Li about her connection to the Underground. But she had no right to burden her with such a dangerous secret. Besides, she sensed from Jia-Li's distracted manner and uncharacteristic restlessness that she was wrestling with her own troubles. Sunny hazarded a guess as to their source. “Do you think Charlie will stay much longer?”

Jia-Li shrugged. “He says he will leave by month's end, with or without our help.”

Sunny looked back out to the bustling harbour. Naval ships and merchant crafts speckled the river. The Rising Sun flew everywhere. Near the dock, she sighted the Conte Biancamano, the Italian luxury liner that had carried the Adlers to Shanghai from Europe. The Japanese had seized the ship in the wake of the Italian surrender and were refitting it as a troop transport ship. “Charlie's departure would be both selfish and foolish,” Sunny said.

“Selfish?” Jia-Li placed her hands on her hips. “Charlie is being noble. He sees a cause bigger than himself. And he's willing to die for it.”

“And how will his death—which will almost certainly come before he has even escaped the city limits—help anyone?”

“You underestimate him.”

Sunny shook her head. “I know what he has accomplished. But, ba˘o bèi, that was when he had two legs and lungs that still worked. In a few more months, he might be stronger. His breathing might improve. Perhaps then he can make it back to his men.”

“He doesn't think he can wait any longer.”

Sunny was distracted by an unfamiliar warbling sound overhead. She glanced up but could see nothing aside from pillowy clouds. She turned back to Jia-Li. “Then you have to convince Charlie otherwise.”

“The man is a war hero. Why would he listen to a prostitute?”

Sunny grimaced. “What kind of nonsense is that, Ko Jia-Li?”

“It's true.”

Sunny softened her tone. “Surely you have noticed the way he looks at you.”

Jia-Li reddened. “Charlie looks at me no differently than he does Yang.”

The warbling sound grew louder. Sunny glanced upward again. “Really? I'm not convinced Charlie is smitten with Yang.”

“Smitten? With me?” Jia-Li reached out and touched Sunny's shoulder. “Do you think he is, xiăo hè?”

Sunny had hardly ever seen her world-wise friend so flustered. “And he's clearly not alone, ba˘o bèi,” Sunny said with a chuckle.

Jia-Li touched her throat in mock outrage. “You think that I have a crush on—”

Her words were cut off by the sound of aircraft engines. A formation of planes suddenly broke through the clouds. They descended so rapidly toward the river that Sunny thought they must be in a nosedive. Their engines whirred with a pitch lower than that of the Japanese fighters, the Zeroes, which normally patrolled the skies.

The sidewalk vibrated as the planes flew low enough for Sunny to make out the markings painted across their noses: a pair of predatory eyes and an open mouth full of jagged teeth. Stars and stripes were tattooed along the sides of the fuselages.

“The Americans!” Jia-Li yelled over the roar.

The planes—Sunny counted eight of them—banked simultaneously over the river, flying parallel to the shoreline before swooping down on the Conte Biancamano. Their wings spat fire, and water sprayed out of the river. The rat-tat-tat of the machine guns almost drowned out the sound of the engines.

Puffs of smoke rose from the turret of a nearby Japanese gunship as it returned fire. The planes banked again and circled tightly for a second strafing run over the ship. An air-raid siren wailed. Other sirens blared too as military vehicles roared down the Bund in both directions. Pedestrians scurried for shelter under buildings' overhangs. Sunny and Jia-Li stood frozen, both of them stunned by the sight of the aerial assault.

The American planes circled and made a third run past the Conte Biancamano. Flames began to lap at the ship's stern. The bitter stench of smoke and cordite filled the air.

More airplanes appeared on the horizon over Putong, on the eastern shore of the river. Even from a distance, Sunny recognized the shape of the Zeroes as they zoomed over to meet the Allied planes.

The American fighters suddenly banked ninety degrees and flew directly over Sunny's head, gaining altitude as they began their westward departure. The Zeroes raced behind them in chase, but in moments the American fighters had reached the outskirts of the city. Sunny knew nothing about aerial warfare, but she doubted the Zeroes could catch the Americans. At least, she hoped not.

“Those were the Flying Tigers,” Jia-Li whispered in awe when the rumble of machinery finally faded.

Stories about the elite American air squadron that fought alongside the Free Chinese had been circulating in Shanghai for months, but Sunny had never heard of anyone seeing the planes anywhere near the city.

As she looked out at the burning hull of the Conte Biancamano, she was filled with a mix of sadness—this was the ship that had brought Franz to her—and optimism. Still, it was proof that the Japanese were vulnerable even in Shanghai. Perhaps their aggression could be countered after all?

As the minutes passed, the sirens subsided and pedestrians reappeared on the sidewalk.

Jia-Li looked at her watch. “I am running short on time. I promised Chih-Nii I would be in early.” She cleared her throat. “There are a . . . a number of ships in port this weekend.”

Fighting off the image of drunken sailors pawing at her best friend, Sunny leaned forward and wrapped her in a hug. “I will see you soon, ba˘o bèi.”

“And I will talk to Charlie.” Jia-Li broke into a huge smile. “Perhaps he will reconsider now that the Americans have finally shown up in Shanghai.”

* * *

After Jia-Li left for Frenchtown, Sunny continued southward along the Bund until she reached the Old Chinese City. During the sixteenth century, the area had been surrounded by thirty-foot-high walls to protect it from raiding Japanese pirates. But those pirates own the city now, she thought bitterly.

Despite the Old City's reputation as a tourist trap for Westerners in search of what they believed to be “the authentic Orient,” the bustling market had been one of her favourite places to visit with her father. Its stores and stalls were a kaleidoscope of colours and sounds, offering everything from furniture to lanterns. Artisans would sit outside their stores as they worked. Jewellers fastened pieces of jade in delicate silver settings, while tailors embroidered astonishing cheongsams. Sunny used to love watching the toy makers carve gorgeous puppets from sandalwood or pine.

As Sunny stepped through the arch of the north gateway, the reality of war wiped away her nostalgia. Half the stores were boarded up or abandoned. The ones still open offered up a meagre selection of merchandise, their windows near empty. Few people were here to buy, and the once lively merchants seemed as lacklustre as their stock. Even their sales pitches, which Sunny remembered as relentless and confident, sounded unconvincing and hollow.

Sunny hurried through the market until she reached the open square that housed the Woo Sing Ding tea house, which sat on stone pillars in the middle of a man-made lake. Two distinctive zigzag bridges connected the ornate two-hundred-year-old tea house to land on either side. She spotted Wen-Cheng sitting on a bench across from the tea house. As usual, he held a newspaper open in front of his face, but she recognized his clothing and posture. Circling the lake toward him, Sunny felt only gnawing regret.

She sat down on the far end of the bench. “How are you today, Soon Yi?” Wen-Cheng asked from behind his paper.