The Far Side of the Sky (32 page)

They entered a hotel suite that had been converted into a spacious office. Colonel Kubota rose from his desk and walked over to greet them. His greying hair was shorter than before, but he had kept his pencil-thin moustache. As usual, Kubota wore a civilian suit and tie. “Dr. Adler, Mr. Muhler, what a pleasant surprise,” he said.

Kubota indicated the far wall, where two oils hung. The first was a rolling countryside scene, reminiscent of a Constable painting. Ernst had painted the other: a portrait of a frail, ghostly white Chinese teenager standing below a street light. The prostitute leaned back unnaturally toward the post as though she were suspended from it, her feet barely touching the ground. “You see, Mr. Muhler,” Kubota said. “I did find the opportunity to view your work. And I was most taken.”

“That is precisely what I have come to discuss,” Ernst said.

Kubota bowed. “I would be honoured to. I certainly have my own theories, but I would like to hear more about your inspiration—”

“Colonel!” Ernst cut him off. “I have come to reclaim my painting. Of course, I will refund you in full and cover any additional expenses.”

Kubota shook his head. “Refund, Mr. Muhler? I do not understand.”

“It’s quite simple, Colonel. I do not want my work hanging in your office.”

Kubota eyed him quizzically but said nothing.

Franz coughed into his hand. “Colonel, Ernst is very particular about where his work is displayed. He does not want it to be linked in any way to politics or governments—”

“Nonsense, Franz!” Ernst cut him off and turned back to Kubota. “I believe the Japanese army has no business in Shanghai. Or China. And I don’t want my name or my art in any way associated with its presence here.”

“I see,” Kubota said quietly.

Ernst reached for his wallet. “So if you will tell me how much to reimburse you, I will make arrangements to have the painting collected.”

“I enjoy this painting, Mr. Muhler,” Kubota said softly. “I do not intend to part with it.”

Ernst folded his arms across his chest. “But it’s my creation, Colonel!”

Kubota indicated the desk behind him. “If you were the carpenter who built that desk, would you have the right to reclaim it because you didn’t agree with my government?”

“That is an anonymous piece of furniture.” Ernst shook a finger at his own painting. “This is my art. It is a part of me. And I have the right to say who owns it and where it hangs.”

“I mean no disrespect, Mr. Muhler, but I do not agree,” Kubota said slowly. “I purchased this painting. So I believe I have the right to determine where it hangs.”

Ernst’s cheeks flushed and his eyes darkened. Franz recognized that his friend was on the verge of snapping. “The colonel is right,” Franz said.

Ernst turned on Franz, mouth agape. “You are taking
his
side?”

“It’s not a matter of sides, Ernst. Like it or not, the colonel owns this painting now. You cannot stop him from displaying it as he sees fit.”

Glaring, Ernst looked from one man to the other. “Perhaps you’re right.” He nodded to himself. “But Colonel, I wonder if you will wish to continue displaying it—more to the point, I wonder if your superiors will let you—once my next exhibition opens.”

Kubota frowned. “Why would that make a difference, Mr. Muhler?”

“Because of its theme.”

“Which is?”

Ernst’s lips broke into a vindictive smile. “The rape of Nanking.”

Franz caught the gasp before it left his lips. Kubota’s face blanched momentarily, but he quickly regained his composure. “Perhaps, Mr. Muhler, it would be best if I returned your painting after all. I will have my aide make arrangements with Mr. Solomon.”

“That will be most satisfactory,” Ernst said.

“If there is nothing else then …” Kubota turned for his desk but stopped after a few strides. “Mr. Muhler, I admire a man who stands on principle. It is a most honourable stance. However, we have a saying in Japanese:
I no naka no kawazu taikai wo shirazu.”

“What does that mean?” Ernst demanded.

“‘A frog in a well does not know the great sea.’” Kubota sighed again. “The winds of change are howling through the Far East. Where your paintings do or do not hang, Mr. Muhler, might soon be the least of any of our concerns.”

Captain Yamamoto escorted them out in sullen silence.

Franz decided that, since he was already in Hongkew, he would check in on Edda Schwartzmann at the refugee hospital. He found her asleep from the painkillers. In the same rumpled suit as earlier and reeking of pipe tobacco, Hermann Schwartzmann hovered at his wife’s bedside. His face was haggard, but he broke into a grateful smile at the sight of Franz.

Franz pulled the partitions around them. “Mr. Silberstein, the nurses tell me that your wife’s recovery from surgery has been uneventful so far.”

“Yes, yes,” Schwartzmann said. “She even mumbled a few words to me earlier in the afternoon. She said the pain was not as bad as she had expected.”

“It will still be a few days before she can eat or drink.” Franz indicated the blanket covering her abdomen. “I need to examine her dressings now.”

Schwartzmann nodded. “Please do, Dr. Adler.”

After Schwartzmann stepped out, Franz pulled down the blanket and lifted up Edda’s gown. She shifted slightly but did not open her eyes. The original bandages had not soaked through with blood or bile. Satisfied, Franz covered her again without removing the dressing.

Franz called Schwartzmann back to the bedside. “All is in order,” he declared. “We will change the dressing tomorrow and every day thereafter.”

As Franz turned to leave, Schwartzmann called to him. “Dr. Adler?” Franz stopped. “Yes?”

“Regardless of your opinion of me, what you said earlier was not entirely correct.” Schwartzmann cleared his throat. “I am extremely aware of what you have done for us. And one day, Dr. Adler, I hope I will be able to show you the extent of our gratitude.”

Though Franz did not doubt the man’s sincerity, Franz could not forget who Schwartzmann worked for. “I will see you tomorrow, Mr. Silberstein.”

Drained, Franz longed to go home and climb into bed. As he stepped outside, he spied Fai’s black Buick pull up to the curb. Sunny climbed out of the back seat. Franz’s heart beat in his throat as he waited for her on the pathway.

Sunny hesitated and then walked toward him, stopping a few feet away. She mustered a small smile. “How is Mrs. Silberstein, Dr. Adler?”

“Reasonably well, Miss Mah, all things considered.”

“That is a relief. Are you leaving now?”

Her jasmine scent drifted to him. “I was planning to, yes.”

They fell into an awkward silence. Finally, Sunny looked down at her shoes. “Well, I promised Mr. Silberstein I would check in on them tonight too. I had best go see them.”

Franz found her closeness and her fragrance overwhelming. He stepped forward, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him.

Sunny looked at him with inviting eyes. He pressed his mouth against hers. The warm softness of her lips was exhilarating. She leaned her body into his and he kissed her hungrily.

Suddenly, Sunny wriggled out of his arms. She backed up two or three steps. “No, Franz. We can’t!”

He held out a hand but let it fall back to his side without speaking a word.

Sunny’s eyes misted over and her voice cracked. “We were right this afternoon. Lotte … Esther … Hannah … If something were to happen to your family, especially your daughter, we could never forgive ourselves.”

“But Sunny—”

“Franz, I … I …” Her words dissolved. She dropped her head and turned toward the door.

D
ECEMBER
7, 1941, S
HANGHAI

“He asked me to marry him,” Sunny murmured into her teacup.

Simon leaned against the table, propping himself up by his elbows. “Well? What did you tell him?”

“That I would think about it.”

Simon whistled. “You wouldn’t actually go through with it, would you?”

Sunny shrugged. “I am twenty-seven years old, Simon.”

“Is that any reason to get married?” He grimaced. “Look at me. I’m five years older than you. I’m not concerned.”

“Age doesn’t matter for men. Besides, you will marry Esther someday. We both know it.”

“Yeah, Essie will be ready soon enough.” He nodded happily to himself. “Anyway, how could you marry one guy when you’re in love with another?”

“Oh, Simon, that was a lifetime ago,” she sighed. But every detail of that evening, eighteen months earlier, still burned in her consciousness. She could feel Franz’s warm breath on her cheek and his hands pressing into the small of her back. She could taste the baking soda in his toothpaste and feel
the soft pressure of his lips on hers. Most of all, she remembered how her heart broke wider with each step she took away from him.

But Sunny did not regret what she had done.
What kind of life could a mixed blood and a widowed Jewish refugee share? And how selfish would it be to risk a child’s well-being for the sake of my happiness?
She kept the thoughts to herself. “Besides, none of it matters now that Franz and Lotte are engaged,” she said.

Sunny also had Wen-Cheng to consider. He blamed himself for the horrific car accident that had killed his wife. Wen-Cheng had caught their driver swilling rice wine before but had let him off with only a rebuke. The young doctor was supposed to have been in the car too; only a medical emergency kept him from the dinner party and certain death. Witnesses said they saw the Huangs’ car weaving across Great Western Road even before it veered head-on into the oncoming traffic.

The guilt and sorrow had overcome Wen-Cheng. Sunny, who still grieved for her father, helped to see Wen-Cheng through his loss. She brought him meals that Yang had prepared, joined him on long walks and even twice accompanied him to the Buddhist temple to burn incense in memory of his wife. After six months, Wen-Cheng snapped out of his despair and claimed to be more in love with Sunny than ever. She no longer loved him, though, and she knew she never again would. But she doubted that alone would stop her from marrying him.

“Sunny,” Simon repeated, snapping his fingers. “It was only last year. Remember? The kiss that changed your life.”

“Exactly, Simon. A lifetime ago.” She looked out at the empty tables around them; until recently, the café had always been full. So many Shanghailanders had already fled the city. Most of the others had sequestered themselves in their homes, fearing the worst.

“Everything has changed now that the war is coming to the Pacific,” he sighed.

“You say it with such certainty.”

He lowered his Coca-Cola bottle. “The peace talks between the Americans and the Japanese have gone nowhere. It’s only a matter of time.”

Sunny thought of the morning three weeks before, when she stood at the harbour with thousands of others. The Whangpoo swarmed with Japanese naval vessels, but Sunny could not peel her eyes off the Fourth Division US Marines as they silently filed aboard their carrier ships and prepared to leave Shanghai. The crowd was silent. Their collective sense of abandonment hung in the air like the low-lying clouds.

“I hate to say this, Sunny, but I’m relieved,” Simon said.

She tilted her head. “Relieved that your country is on the verge of war?”

“Compared to the alternative? Yeah.” He grunted. “The Nazis have swallowed up the rest of Europe. And they’re steamrolling the Soviets. Leningrad under siege. Germans at the gates of Moscow. At this rate, the Russkis won’t last the winter.” He tapped the table. “Only the Brits and their colonies fight on. But Churchill can’t do it alone, no matter how many tanks and planes FDR sends him. America has to join this war.” He sighed. “I don’t even want to think about what will happen to all us Jews if they don’t.”

Lately, Sunny had avoided listening to the wireless, as the war news was inevitably bad, but she couldn’t tune out the endless conversations at the refugee hospital. The Jewish staff and patients spoke about almost nothing else. They were frantic with worry over families left behind in Europe. People were beyond despair. The rate of suicide had skyrocketed in the Jewish community, where it had once been so rare. The day before, Sunny had heard that Mrs. Waldenstein, a kind older woman with asthma, had slit her wrists in her bathtub only hours after being discharged from the hospital. Apparently, she had gone home to the news of her daughter’s deportation to a relocation camp. Mrs. Waldenstein had ended her suicide note with the words “There is no room left in this world for our people.”

Sunny and Simon parted ways outside the restaurant, and she headed straight home. As soon as she stepped through the door, Yang hurried up to her. “Ko Lo-Shen came looking for you, Soon Yi.”

Sunny stiffened. “Is something wrong with Jia-Li?”

“It’s always the same with her.” Yang shook her head and cited the old
Chinese proverb:
“Zì xiang máo dùn”
—she pierces her shield with her own spear.

Opium.
It had to be. But her friend had been clean for three years.
Why has she relapsed now, of all times?

Jia-Li had turned her life around in the past year. She had quit the life of prostitution, rescued by a rich client, a divorced, British Standard Oil executive. The last time Sunny had seen her best friend, she was sporting an engagement ring along with a smile even more luminous than the two-karat diamond solitaire.

Sunny stepped into her father’s old office. She had never intended to turn it into a memorial to Kingsley, but she kept finding excuses to not clear it out. She rooted through the shelves of medications, dusting off some labels to read them. She pocketed the bottles of atropine and cannabis, wondering if the four-year-old medicines would even still be effective. She wavered a moment and then reached for a bottle of morphine and a glass syringe.

Fai was waiting for her at the curbside. The mid-afternoon streets were eerily quiet, as though people were battening down for a storm. The old Buick rattled over the Garden Bridge and came to a stop at the Japanese guard post. Out of habit, Sunny checked for the sailor with the scarred lip. She was alarmed to spot two soldiers posted instead of the usual one.