The Shanghai Moon (22 page)

“Me, too.” Bill did the same.

“I never in my life saw this before,” I said. “It’s disgusting.”

“I thought I heard Dixie in your voice,” Dr. Edwards told Bill. “Where y’all from?”

“Louisville.”

“Bah! You ask me, that’s the west. Macon.”

They raised their foaming concoctions and toasted each other.

“Now that we’re kissin’ cousins,” Dr. Edwards said, “suppose you elaborate a little more, why you care about this fellow?”

Bill and I took turns explaining and sipping Coke. I ate my peanuts the normal way.

“Well, by gosh and by golly.” Dr. Edwards pitched his empty can into the trash. “The Shanghai Moon! You can’t be in my business and not have heard of that. Pretty much everybody thinks it’s a myth. Or that maybe it was real once, but it’s gone gone gone. However, it’s my experience that, with the exception of Larry the molecular biologist, pretty much everybody’s wrong.”

“You do have your uses,” I told Bill as we emerged from the lamplit Columbia campus into the real world.

“I do. Another would be to drive you home. Unless you want to stop for coffee or something?”

“No, I’m exhausted. I just want to get somewhere quiet and absorb all this. You think it’s true?”

“They may have some details off, but the outline’s probably right. Some of it may be in the diary.”

“It would explain why Mei-lin gave the book, and her son, to Rosalie. And why she never came back. But why didn’t C. D. Zhang tell me any of this?”

“If your father had murdered your stepmother sixty years ago, would you tell a stranger? And in fact he might not know. He was a kid himself.”

“That navy report is public. Anyone can read it.”

“It’s not on the front page of the
Times.
He’d have to have gone looking for it, and why would he?”

“Well, he’s read Rosalie’s letters, so he’s interested in his own past. And he didn’t even tell me they all left together. I think I’d like to talk to him again.”

“You can do that second thing tomorrow. First thing, I’ll pick you up for Joel’s funeral. Eight thirty.”

“You think we need to be there right at ten? Jewish time is like Chinese time, I thought.”

Joel always said our matching fondness for starting events late was one piece of evidence—he had others, like the emphasis on literacy, on family, on food—that the Chinese are among the lost tribes of Israel.

“I don’t know,” Bill said. “I’m not sure that really goes for funerals.”

The thin morning air had already begun to heat and congeal when I came outside to wait for Bill. The night before, he’d suggested we bring our respective undiscovered primary sources to read on the drive today; Joel’s Long Island town was more than an hour away. I suspected him of wanting to take my mind off where we were going as much as he wanted to hear voices from sixty years ago, but that was okay with me.

“You’re early.” I climbed in the car.

“And you’re ready. Does that show impatience, or faith? There’s tea and a sesame bagel in the bag there.”

“Wouldn’t impatience be proof of faith?” I checked out his charcoal suit and clean-shaven face. “You look good. Almost suave.”

“Considering how early I had to get up and how late I went to bed, I’ll take that as a high compliment.”

“Don’t get carried away. Why did you go to bed so late if you knew you had to get up so early?”

“I was working. My boss is a slave driver.”

“You don’t have a boss.”

“My partner, then.”

“Oh, you have a partner?”

For answer he gave me a glance, then said, “The envelope at your feet.”

I checked the floor, and sure enough, a manila envelope lay in the space a taller person’s legs would have taken up. “What’s this?”

“Translations of Rosalie’s letters.”

“Written translations? That’s what you stayed up all night doing?”

“Of course. Don’t tell me you didn’t stay up translating Mei-lin’s diary. That was what kept me going through those lonely hours: the picture of you burning the midnight oil while the candle dwindled down—”

“If I had midnight oil, what would I need a candle for? Anyway, I didn’t.”

“You mean I’m a step ahead?”

“Not likely. I got up at five and read through most of it.”

“Five? What’s that?”

“Someday you’ll have to check it out, dawn. It’s kind of pretty.” I opened his envelope and pulled out a scrawl-covered yellow pad.

“Listen,” he said. I glanced up: His tone had changed. “What’s in there—it’s not very cheery.”

“I guess I didn’t expect it to be.”

He nodded. “The top one isn’t Rosalie’s. It’s to her, from a neighbor.”

I took a look. Bill’s handwriting isn’t particularly legible, but I’m used to it.

He headed the car over the Manhattan Bridge as I took a sip of my tea and began to read.

12 June 1938

My darling Rosalie,

It is with a heavy heart that I put pen to paper tonight. I hardly know how to tell you of the events that have occurred here. My dear, prepare yourself: Your dear uncle Horst is no more. I have no further facts than this: Attempting to go to the aid of an elderly rabbi who had been set upon by a mob, he would not obey a soldier’s command to back away and let the mob go about its business. They exchanged angry words. Without warning, the soldier drew his pistol and fired. For what consolation it may be, those who saw say the bullet pierced Horst’s heart and he died instantly; he did not suffer. Rosalie, I am so sorry. But it is my painful duty to tell you that the troubles of the past days do not end there. Oh, my darling! Your mother was arrested hours later as she was preparing to go claim your uncle’s body. On what pretext I do not know—it has become a common thing here for Jews, for Catholics, for supporters of Chancellor Schuschnigg, to fall into the arms of what now passes for the law. I saw the police mount the steps of your home, and watched them lead your mother out. I ran and asked where she was being taken, and went myself to that police station, where after a few hours’ wait I was allowed to see her.
She was unharmed, but she is being sent to a work camp and they would not tell me where. As you would expect of your mother, she was much more composed than I. She asked me to take some things from your home, as she fears, and with reason, I’m afraid, that her possessions will be confiscated before she is released. I returned quickly and retrieved what she requested: your letters from Shanghai, and the tickets for the train to Dairen. I took also some family photographs—the one of you and Paul at the Mirabell Gardens the day we all went together; your parents’ wedding portrait; and some others. At your mother’s request I’ve given one of the train tickets to Herr Baumberg for his eldest son, and will keep the other for your mother, praying she will be released in time to use it. Her instructions were that if she is not, I should give it away also. She also asked that I request of Herr Baumberg that if possible he arrange for a proper Jewish burial for Horst, which I have done. Klaus and I will remain in Salzburg until she is released, or until the date of the train’s departure. Then, Rosalie, whether or not your mother is on that train—which I dearly hope she is!—we will leave for Switzerland. We will go to Klaus’s brother in Geneva, and Klaus will start a practice there. We have been discussing the
unhappy possibility of this step since February, and are now prepared to take it: We feel we can no longer remain in a country that treats its citizens so. Klaus is traveling there tomorrow to make our arrangements, and I shall give him this letter to send to you, because I find I am distrustful now even of my beloved country’s post. Oh, Rosalie, Rosalie, I am so sorry! With you I mourn your dear uncle, and I pray for your mother’s rapid release. I hope the day comes very soon when you are reunited. And that the day comes even sooner when this wicked, murderous, usurping government is overthrown and we live in sunlight once again!

Please keep yourself and your brother well, my dear. I hope to be able to send you more and much better news very soon.

With much love,

Hilda Schmitz

When I finished reading, I looked at Bill, then back out the window. “I guess this is what Mei-lin meant.”

“When?”

“She mentioned Rosalie’s terrible news, how bad she felt for her, but she didn’t say what it was.” Almost afraid to turn to the next sheet, I asked him, “She didn’t, did she?”

“Who didn’t what?”

“Hilda Schmitz. Send better news.”

“There aren’t any more letters from her.”

And we already knew there wasn’t any better news.

“What are the rest of these?” I asked. “If her mother was in a camp?”

“Rosalie kept writing. She responded to that one, not to the neighbor but to her mother. After that there are only a few more, when big things happened.”

I hesitated, then pulled out the next sheet.

5 July 1938

Oh, Mama, Mama! I’ve received a letter from Frau Schmitz with news so horrible I cannot bear it! Mama, I cry for you, for Uncle Horst, I feel my heart will break! Please, please, keep yourself safe, I pray, yes,
pray,
I
beg
God to prove His kindness by releasing you unharmed and bringing you to us here!!!

Mama, I cannot send this letter but I cannot help but write it. I’m reaching for the comfort I’ve found these months as I imagine you reading my words; that comfort is all but gone, only the faintest warm breath of it remains, and in the heat of Shanghai I’ve gone so cold! I don’t know what to do, I can’t think at all. But this, but this, Mama: we will say kaddish for Uncle Horst, I will go to a rabbi and learn what must be done and we will do it. And beyond that, I don’t know, except we will continue with all our hearts to hope and pray!

Ever, ever,

Your Rosalie

“Damn,” I breathed.

Bill didn’t answer. I slipped that sheet behind the others and took a look at the next one.

“Three years later,” I said, and read it.

25 June 1941

Dearest Mama,

I am to be married.

Oh, Mama, how different this is from the way I hoped to tell you such news! Racing breathlessly into the parlor—or tiptoeing into the garden as you prune your roses—even, Mama, asking your permission, certainly your advice—so many ways I’ve daydreamed about this moment since I was a child. And to tell you like this, in a letter from across the world, a letter I cannot even send—! My eyes fill with tears as I write. Where are you, Mama? Are you well? Are you utterly alone? Not you; no, not you. Your humor and good sense will draw people to you as they always have, however bad the circumstances. I comfort my heart with the certainty that you have found friends.

The entire world is mad. It’s only when I’m with Kai-rong that I feel again my memories are memories, not consoling fairy tales of a time that never was. It’s no small thing, in days as dark as these, to have found someone who makes me remember the light,
and even believe it will return. Some around us are counseling us to wait until the madness passes. But how long will that be? And more—how will it pass, unless we refuse its hold, and defy it?

So Kai-rong and I will marry. I will pray every minute for the miracle of your arrival to share our joy, and make it complete. Please, Mama, please, wherever you are, give me your blessing.

Your Rosalie

2 October 1941

Dearest Mama,

Oh, I hope and pray that wherever you are, you are well, you are safe. As the fourth Rosh Hashanah passes without word of you, my heart aches, Mama. I did not attend services because I could not bear to hear the shofar blown, remembering what pleasure you have always taken in the sound of it. Paul did go; he regularly helps form the minyan at a shul near us, and has embraced our traditions in a way I cannot, though I admire him for his dedication. I admire him for much, Mama. What a fine young man he has become! You will be proud of him, Mama, so proud.

I’m writing now to tell you of a decision my heart has brought me to. Kai-rong has given me a gift: a carved jade disc that has
been in his family many hundreds of years. He gives it with the blessing of his father; I’m to wear it on our wedding day to mark the uniting of our families, and I will do that with joy. But the union of two families cannot be marked by a precious object of one family only. I’ve determined to remove this jade from its setting and add to it the stones from the Queen Mama necklace. The jade represents many generations of Kai-rong’s ancestors, and is there fore precious to him. The necklace represents you, and is therefore extraordinarily precious to me!

My beloved Kai-rong, having heard my reasoning, is in complete accord. Tomorrow we’ll take the jade and the necklace to Herr Corens, the jeweler in Avenue Foch who bought from me the ruby ring. He’s a lovely man, Mama, and quite an artist. He will make for us a new piece, a brooch, I think. It will tell tales: of steadfast love over time and distance, of generations of ancestors revered, of the joining of two proud traditions, and the union of two devoted hearts. It will be beautiful, Mama. And when I wear it, I will have both you and Kai-rong ever with me, no matter where you are.

I pray every day for you, Mama.

Your Rosalie

“There’s Kleenex in the glove compartment,” Bill said.

“We’re going to a funeral. I brought my own.” I wasn’t exactly crying, but my vision had blurred. “You’re right. These aren’t very cheery.”

“There are just a few more.”

“I’m not sure I can take it.”

“You want me to summarize?”

“In a minute.”

I wiped my eyes, then laid the papers on my lap, gently, even though they were only Bill’s scribbled translations. “Have you ever been to an Orthodox Jewish funeral?”

“Yes.”

“What goes on?”

“Same as anyplace, but in Hebrew.”

“If they don’t bang gongs and walk around the coffin with incense, it’s not the same as the funerals I know.”

“Basically, though, it is. Prayers, songs, a eulogy. No sermon, I don’t think. You know we won’t be able to sit together? They separate men and women.”

I nodded; somewhere, I knew that, though I hadn’t thought about it. I felt a pang of anxiety, which made me mad.
Boy, Lydia, first you’re not sure you ever want to talk to this guy again, and now you’re fretting because he’ll be sitting on the other side of the synagogue?
“Will the coffin be open?”