The Shanghai Moon (14 page)

“Okay, I just entered it in my karma ledger.”

She gave me the details, and I called Leah Pilarsky. “Midtown Homicide is contacting the medical examiner. You should be able to pick up Joel’s body by the end of the day.” She was right, it did feel weird to say “Joel’s body.”

“Oh, Lydia, thank you! This will mean so much to Ruth! If there’s ever anything I can do for you—”

“Just let me know when the funeral is. I’d like to be there.”

“Of course! We can plan now for tomorrow. I’ll call you. Now I’d better go. So many people have been calling, people who need to travel in—cousins from Seattle, his old partner in Florida, his college roommate in Zurich. I have to let them all—”

“Leah? Who’s in Zurich?”

“Joel’s college roommate.”

“The roommate’s in
Zurich
?”

“He’s lived there for years. David Rosenberg. He publishes a business magazine.”

“I’d like to talk to him.”

“Yes, of course. But the police already talked to him.”

“I’m sure.” Three calls, Joel made the morning he died. Alice, me, and first, his college roommate. Mulgrew had said that. He hadn’t said the roommate was in Zurich.

I called the number Leah gave me, but David Rosenberg, as it turned out, had already left for New York.

“He wanted to be with Ruth,” Rosenberg’s wife explained, in accented English. “His plane will land eight at the morning. No, no, that is my time. In New York it will be night.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

I called Leah. “If you hear from him, will you ask him to call me?”

“Yes. And if not, the funeral’s tomorrow at ten.” She gave me the details.

“I’ll be there. But that’s not a nice thing, to bother Mr. Rosenberg at the funeral.”

“You’ll come back to the house afterward. You can talk then.”

All right. Joel’s friend in Zurich; that sounded like movement. Feeling a little less stuck, I went back to Rosalie.

24 May 1938

Dearest Mama,

I admit to an odd feeling of satisfaction today. I set off to sell Grandmother Gilder’s ring, and returned unsuccessful. But the very reason for my failure is the main source of my gratification.

This afternoon I approached three of Shanghai’s finest jewelers. Each made an offer, but I did not like their prices. They were low, Mama, they were the offers of men taking advantage of a young woman in need. And so, thanking each, I turned on my heel. With every abandoned transaction I found, to my surprise, a growing sense that life here might not be beyond my control after all.

Do you understand that, Mama? Until today
disorientation and uncertainty have made me progressively more passive, deflated, and defeated, in ways I’ve not always recognized. But dealing, in German and English, with these arrogant men, and scorning their offers (politely, always politely!) began to restore me to myself.

Which sense was then magnified by the adventure that ended my day! As I left the third jeweler’s shop, the sky darkened and a torrential downpour swept in—that happens often here, as though the very air, impatient of the thick dampness, is trying to throw it into the gutters. Waiting beneath a colonnade for the sky to lighten, I noticed a foreign-language bookstore. What choice had I but to enter? I discovered shelves of volumes in English and German, as well as French, Spanish, Polish, and Russian. There was no question of a purchase—where would I keep anything, I whose home is a cot behind a bedsheet? and with what would I buy it, I who am selling a treasure?—but it cheered me to be in the presence of so many books. I was searching for the works of P. G. Wodehouse when voices erupted. A Chinese in military uniform was upbraiding the clerk in English. The clerk’s helpless
“Bitte?”
made it clear he didn’t speak the language, but the officer seemed to take his befuddlement as a deliberate affront. The officer’s rudeness was
unfortunate, for his broad shoulders and erect bearing cut a handsome figure.

Before I was aware of myself I’d offered my help. The clerk accepted gratefully, but the officer disdainfully inquired whether I was employed in this establishment. I apologized for intruding and began to walk away.

“Wait!” he ordered. Now, Mama, you know how well I respond to orders, but I told myself he was a military man, so perhaps it was natural to him. And as I didn’t like to leave the poor clerk to be abused again, I turned.

The officer, bowing stiffly, introduced himself as one General Zhang. It seemed a young lady of the general’s acquaintance had expressed a desire to improve her English. “This fool’s idiocy has made me lose my temper. I should not have permitted myself the indulgence.”

On that poor excuse for an apology I would have given him a cold good-bye, but the clerk was following our exchange with eager eyes. Perhaps, I thought, I could enable a transaction that would leave the general’s money in the clerk’s hands, and bring joy to a young lady. If my assistance gratified the general also, that couldn’t be helped.

I inquired after the young lady’s tastes, concerning which the general was poorly informed. Left on my own, I suggested various
English and American poets. General Zhang settled on a volume of Elizabeth Barrett Browning in a costly binding. In German I recommended the clerk double the price, but though he smiled, he didn’t do so.

The general offered to repay my kindness by taking me to my next destination in his waiting car. The steady rain made the offer tempting, but the general’s eye had taken on an odd look. I thanked him, saying I hadn’t concluded my business in the bookshop. He declared he’d wait. I begged him not to trouble himself and turned back to the shelves. The general, after a moment, swept out.

During this operation a mustached European entered, shaking off an umbrella. He listened so closely as I extolled my poets that I thought I might make a second sale; but after the door slammed behind the general, this gentleman addressed me in English: “Splendid, my dear, simply splendid!”

Astonished, I laughed.

“Robert Morgan, at your service. Londoner by birth. Washed up on these shores a decade since. This misbegotten establishment, I’m sorry to say, is mine. Drinks money like water. I can’t afford to chuck out blighters like General Zhang, though I’d dearly love to, and I know Walter would also, eh, Walter?”

Walter, the clerk with no English, didn’t
follow a word. Mr. Morgan repeated the salient points in German, making him laugh.

“This young lady saved my hide, sir.”

“Yes, well, I can see that. Perhaps the young lady will pause from doing God’s work rescuing doomed clerks, and favor us with her name?”

“Rosalie Gilder, sir.”

“Well, Rosalie Gilder, I hope you won’t say no to a cup of tea.”

I did not. For the next half hour, to each customer who entered, Mr. Morgan celebrated what he called my “adroit handling” of General Zhang. “Sent him away with his tail between his legs!” At first I demurred, as it was never my intention to offend my hosts, the Chinese; but I was informed the general was a well-known and widely despised collaborationist in the “puppet government” army. By the time the storm abated and I began the long trek to the Home, not even the prospect of kasha soup could dampen my pride in having bested four arrogant opponents in one afternoon!

Be well, Mama!

Your adroit

Rosalie

27 May 1938

Dearest Mama,

I have found a job!

I’m quite delighted, so please don’t be
angry. I know we agreed I should try to continue my studies, but that won’t be easy. The number of universities here is small, smaller since the Japanese have closed some down. The number that give instruction in a language I speak is smaller yet! I have a wild idea of someday studying alongside the educated Chinese. The students, whom I glimpse in streetcars and cafés, are a fascinating group: animated in their discussion and chic in their dress. That dream will have to wait, however, until I’ve mastered more Chinese than “Good morning,” “Thank you,” and “Your tea cakes are delicious.” (This last was taught me aboard ship by Kai-rong and is my first lie in Chinese.)

But Mama, flights of fantasy aside, Paul’s education must come first. I have my secondary diploma, but he hasn’t, and he won’t be able to go on to medical studies once the world regains its senses unless he takes up classes very soon. The daily tasks of living here, I’m learning, demand more time and energy than at home. Paul and I can’t both be in school at once, at least until you arrive. Once you do, I’ll abide by your every instruction! (And what a change that will be, I can hear you say!) Until then, I must do what I think best.

The position I’ve taken, that of English
tutor, comes from a not surprising source, but one that I admit gave me pause. My student is to be Kai-rong’s younger sister, Mei-lin. When Kai-rong first suggested the idea I bridled, thinking his offer thinly disguised charity. But he explained that his sister is largely confined to the family house and grounds, as is the Chinese custom for unmarried women of a certain class, and is greatly in need of society. He maintained he was determined to find her a tutor from among the European community, and would account it a favor if I, with whom he is already acquainted and in whom he feels he can place his trust, were to accept the position, freeing him of the responsibility of discovering and interviewing strangers. As he, who has done so much for us, was asking this, I hardly felt I could refuse to consider it. I agreed to take tea at the Chen home and meet my potential charge. Accordingly, this afternoon Paul and I, in our finest clothes (and to hear Paul tell it his starched collar threatened any moment to choke the life from him) presented ourselves at the gates of the Chen villa. And oh, Mama, within those gates, what a life is led! There are gardens with flowering shrubs, willow trees, emerald lawns, and a fish pond; the mansion is in the European manner, with wide halls and many rooms. The marble floors are
carpeted in Persian rugs and the walls hung with scrolls of forests, storks, and misty mountains, plus beautiful, flowing calligraphy. Tea was served in a parlor whose furniture is a harmonious blend of Chinese antiquities and European pieces in the modern style. In addition to Kai-rong and his sister, we were joined by their father and a woman of a certain age introduced only as Mei-lin’s “amah,” meaning governess. Apparently I needed to pass the inspection of the assembled multitude before the position was to be mine. Given Paul’s appetite for the napoleons, apple squares, and linzer torte spread before us, I feared we would be ejected from the premises; but the senior Chen, with dry humor, instructed the houseboy to inquire of the cook what additional sweets might be on hand. Soon we were presented with a new tray, of Chinese tea cakes. I pleaded an appetite already satisfied by the first wave of dainties; but everyone was approvingly impressed by Paul’s appreciation of their cuisine. Mama, these are such charming people! Educated, well spoken, and welcoming. Mei-lin, who is sixteen and quite effervescent, is indeed anxious I should come to her, though I suspect my exotic status here in Shanghai and the tales I can tell of the wider world are as much of an attraction as the opportunity to improve her English.

Before the afternoon was out we had settled on a schedule—I will be visiting three times weekly—and a wage, which I consider high but which Kai-rong claims is standard for such services. Paul is welcome to accompany me anytime, I am told. The schedule will permit me the time required to accomplish the errands of daily living and to keep house (as soon as I find us one!), and the wages will be a great boon. And as Mei-lin’s company promises to be agreeable, I could see no reason to refuse this position; and thus, Mama, I am employed!

Your professorial

Rosalie

30 May 1938

Dearest Mama,

A letter from you! You have no idea how my heart pounded when, calling at the Main Post Office, I found the General Delivery clerk—who by now knows me well and is apologetically weary of disappointing me—smiling and holding out a letter as I approached his window. Oh, Mama, I sank onto a bench and opened it then and there! And though it’s nearly three weeks since you wrote it, I read and reread every word. I’m vastly relieved that you and Uncle Horst are well; and at the same time terrified to
hear how things are at home. The speed and zeal with which our neighbors have taken up the Nazi cause is horrifying; your report of the destruction of Herr Baumberg’s shop and the treatment of his children made me ill. Mama, Mama, you must make every effort to stay out of sight, and to leave Austria as soon as possible!!!

You write that my stories of our travels bring you joy and relieve your worry. Very well, I’ll go on telling them, though the situation at home makes the hardships we’ve found seem so trivial. We are poor; we are crowded; we are hot and sometimes hungry. But many in China—the Chinese, Mama, whose country this is!—are much worse off than we. Yes, Shanghai has its own misery and perils. But Mama, please believe we’re well, as happy as possible under the circumstances, learning to negotiate our new home with daily increasing confidence. And we can walk down the street, not entirely without fear—I won’t lie—but at least knowing that any danger we encounter is encountered by all. We’re never menaced here solely because we’re Jews, and it breaks my heart to know that, in my beautiful Salzburg, this is no longer true.

Waiting eagerly for your next letter, and your arrival!

Your Rosalie

2 June 1938

Dearest Mama,

The tone of your letter and its awful news have been weighing on my mind, along with the uncertainty of your situation. Reading it when I first had it in my hands, I felt as if you were sitting beside me; but I can no longer ignore the fact that you wrote it weeks ago, and I have no real knowledge of
today.
I just pray—I pray, Mama, can you imagine?—that the thugs who found Herr Baumberg don’t find you, that you and Uncle Horst pass invisibly through your days until your train leaves for Dairen—or better still, that you’ve long since left Salzburg for an ocean crossing or an earlier train!

As you ask, I’ll continue my account of our days—because I have no other way of doing anything you ask. As I imagine my letter in your hands, I see you in the parlor, safe and comfortable; and so I’ll keep writing until I truly see you, hot, weary, and bewildered, as we all are, but
here,
in Shanghai.