Night in Shanghai (30 page)

“Here?” said Song, looking around the village meeting room, with its clay walls and rustic wood roof.

“Otherwise she will die. She has only a short time.” Wei was terse and crisp now, the scientist, as she set out a tray of instruments for Song to sterilize with long-handled tongs. “Then you will hand them to me with the sterile tongs.” Bright lights were brought in and arranged around the farm table, towels and gauze and bandages and suture thread laid out according to rapid-fire instructions. Dr. Wei scrubbed her hands furiously with caustic soap and made Song do the same; they covered their hair and wore masks from her medical bag.

“Get her family out of here,” said the doctor, and the village women hustled them out while she shaved the girl’s head, swabbed it with iodine, and braced it between rolled towels.

“What if she wakes up?” Song whispered.

“She won’t.” Wei was sectioning back the skin on the girl’s head. “We have to relieve the pressure.” The doctor used a hand drill to cut through the child’s skull, periodically issuing brief commands to a terrified Song.

The instant she removed a section of the skull, the tissue inside bulged out through the opening. “Dura mater,” said Dr. Wei, as if she were a professor, and took a scalpel to cut through it. It was surprisingly tough and leathery-looking. The first slice freed a gush of blood and clots, and she could hear Dr. Wei exhale in relief as the spurting blood released its death grip on the brain. Then the surgeon moved on to the torn bridging veins that had caused the buildup of blood in the first place between the dura and the arachnoid, the layer below—first clamping, then repairing them. Long, tense minutes went by. Several times the family opened the door, and were scolded away.

Finally Dr. Wei said, “That is the end of it. Ready to close up.” This part seemed easy for the doctor, and she chatted about the complications of head injuries as she worked, finishing with a clean bandage.

By the time they went to the outer room to talk to the girl’s parents, Dr. Wei seemed energized, and ready to explain everything to the parents, whether they understood it or not. “The bridging veins were torn by the head trauma, and they poured blood into the space between the skull and the brain, pressing on it. The pressure was the threat; it would have killed her. Now that it is relieved, and she is stable, she should survive. We have to wait for her to wake up to know more.”

“Aren’t you going to give them special instructions?” Song said when the parents had left the room.

“Instructions?” Dr. Wei looked at her. “No. We are going to stay here. She must be watched.” And though Song offered to stay with the unconscious girl while the surgeon rested, this too Dr. Wei brushed off, and sat by the child herself.

In the end they remained in Baoding Village for five days, until the child was well enough to ride back to Yan’an with them for postoperative care. During those days, Dr. Wei saw all the villagers with health complaints.

In their makeshift clinic, a little gang of four girls, headed by the bossy Plum Blossom, turned up every day to help. When they closed the door in the evening, the girls cleaned everything and asked questions, wanting the use of all Dr. Wei’s tools explained to them.

Like most village children, they were illiterate, and the second night Song said, “Would you like to have lessons?” They responded in an eager chorus, and every night, when the clinic closed, they worked on characters. Song wrote them out in stages for each girl so they could practice without forgetting the stroke order. To her surprise they loved it, wanting to stay late and learn more, and every morning they came in with their characters memorized. They were ravenous to read. It was not something that had been planned or scheduled, yet it turned out to be the most useful and joyful thing she had experienced since she came north.

On their last night in Baoding, Song carried a tray of food in to Dr. Wei. “You give so much of yourself,” she said admiringly.

Dr. Wei looked up, surprised. “No. It is what your people are doing that will change things. Do you realize—these villagers have never seen a doctor! Just like most peasants in China. No one ever brought medical care to them before—no emperor, no leader—not until you people came. Those girls had never been taught their characters either! That’s why I’m here, you know. That’s why I believe in what you are doing.”

And in the truck the next day, watching the doctor cradle her patient on the ride back to Yan’an, and thinking of Plum Blossom and her friends, Song knew that she believed too. Their movement was the future. Maybe it was meant to be greater than love.

Thomas and David were soon playing six days a week. They developed a following, folks who showed up to listen as they moved from one shabby, war-worn lobby to another, the Metropole, the Astor House, the Palace, and Le Cercle Sportif Français, which was not a hotel but a country club. At each place, they asked for the same deal, a full meal in the restaurant for each of them, and then, when the establishment was happy with the stream of patrons and the busy lobby service, they asked that the meal be transferred to David’s wife and son. Thomas saw how David lit up when they came in, his wife in white gloves and her grandmother’s necklace, the boy in short pants and socks and a little blazer, clumping in his childish oxfords as if nothing had changed, as if they had not lost their world forever, along with everyone in it.

Yet in playing with David, Thomas saw that the Epstein family and the other refugees in their community had brought some of their world here with them. He felt it every time the aging couples got up from their velvet-trimmed chairs and took a turn around the floor. The two musicians traded a look the first time they saw it, and the next time they met, without words having been necessary, David brought with him Chopin’s
Grande Valse Brillante
and one of Strauss’s
New Vienna Waltzes
. It worked. More and more men started taking their wives’ hands, and once two or three pairs were out there, more tended to follow. The lobby became a dance floor, smiles jumping from one to another, from old to young. As they turned on the floor, he noticed their faded sleeves still bore the outline of the Star of David patches they had worn back home, yet here, dancing, all of them looked happy again.

The crowds grew, and in July, Morioka also began to appear where they were playing—never directly, but by engaging in meetings nearby. It happened too often, and at too many hotels, for it to be an accident. The Admiral did not speak to them, since to do so might put the musicians in danger from the resistance, and Thomas appreciated his restraint. He did not mind that the man came to listen, even though Song would be furious if she knew; to him, music was a separate country, within which war was set aside. And actually, the one time Morioka did speak to them, it was only to ask about David. “Where come from your friend?”

“Admiral Morioka, David Epstein. Mr. Epstein is from Vienna.”

“Ah,” said Morioka, his eyes widening in understanding. “You are Jew. Many your people live Hongkou.”

This hung somewhat frighteningly in the air, until he bowed and walked away. “Ready?” Thomas whispered urgently, with a glance to the music stand. David nodded, raised his violin, and followed him when he counted down.

Lin Ming arrived in Shanghai with five thousand in his money belt, riding high on having reached his threshold at last. But he did not go to the Osmanthus Pavilion right away, where Pearl would be waiting; first he had an important meeting with the Jewish leaders in Hongkou, about the Resettlement Plan.

He hastened out of the train station, still an empty shell. Only the tracks had been repaired, along with the necessary walkways, and trains and passengers came and went as before. Much had been cleaned up and even rebuilt in the two years since the battle, but the city was still missing its spark; it looked to Lin like a prison of sad, huddled brown buildings. Nobody referred to it by
Ye Shanghai
anymore, Night in Shanghai. Now
Hei’an Shijie
was the term people used. The Dark World. Walking to the trolley, he felt the darkness all around.

But even the gloom could not dampen his excitement about the meeting. The Resettlement Plan was no longer a secret, having been passed in open legislative session, and retaliation from the Japanese could come at any time, so he was careful. He changed routes twice, and several times entered shops only to exit through a back door onto some other street. By the time he met David Epstein at the alley door to his building, as planned, he knew no one had seen him.

“Thank you for bringing these men together,” he said, when they were inside.

David guided him through long interior corridors past dozens of doors, each marked with a tiny scroll case, each little room housing a family. Most rooms lacked windows, so their doors sat open, and he nodded in polite acknowledgment to the families inside, as they passed. He knew that the Japanese authorities had labeled the Jews “stateless persons” and otherwise left them alone, but this was the first time he had actually seen how they were living. “Thank you for bringing me,” he said, but David brushed it off. “You are the friend of Thomas,” he said, in a tone which said that settled everything.

Inside, he found three men waiting beside David’s wife and son, an older European man with a tonsure-shaped fringe of white hair, a dark-haired European in his prime, and an Asian man, also young and strong-looking.

David introduced Lin Ming, and the older man spoke. “I am Herr Ackerman. This is Amleto Vespa and An Gong Geun. Mr. An is the younger brother of An Jung Geun, the Korean revolutionary martyr. As for Mr. Vespa, he is from Rome, and I from Vienna, and we represent the Sword of David Society. We fought for you here in Hongkou in ’thirty-seven, did you know that? We sabotaged Japanese positions and equipment constantly, and planted bombs in their trucks.”

Lin inclined his head. “It is known. No other foreign groups fought with us, and we thank you and respect you for that.”

Now that it was recognized, Ackerman waved it away. “We are in your debt for what your government has proposed.”

“I am only the messenger,” Lin said. “And do not thank me yet, for we need your help. We need money, U.S. dollars and gold bars, at least fifty thousand worth, as fast as possible. Plans are already drawn up for barracks and kitchens and food delivery along the Burma Road.”

Lin watched as they looked at one another, nodding, and saw that this huge sum was no problem for them. “There are dangers,” he cautioned. “We need this money delivered in Chongqing—and the Japanese will do anything to stop us bringing one hundred thousand Jews to China. They know it will earn us sympathy from the West. They will put a high price on your heads. They are very smart.”

An and Vespa exchanged hard, needle-sharp looks. “Not smart like we are,” An said, speaking for the first time.

Vespa nodded. He was medium height, dark-haired, wiry, and looked like he had steel cables under his skin when he moved his jaw to speak. “Just tell us where you want that first package delivered.”

Before Lin left, Margit took him aside. “Thomas said I could ask you this. Please—I hope it’s all right. My cousin Hannah Rosen, in Vienna? She has two children? I am afraid they will die there—the Chinese Consul in Vienna is giving visas, but somehow she could not get one. If you can ask Dr. Kung—if there is anything he can do—”

“I will ask,” he promised. Her eyes were brimming, and he took a clean lawn handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to her for a moment.

He left the meeting, still cautious, yet feeling grand too, because they were going to save lives, right under the noses of the Japanese and the Germans. Not a few lives. Many.

And now, Pearl. Life was on his side again.

He boarded a trolley, and found a seat near the rear door, the safest position since one could melt off the car and escape in case of trouble.

But he rode in ease, clacking along the streets, watching people step on and step off, his chest bursting with delight.
I am coming, Pearl. I am almost there
. He dismounted through the back door and walked to Stone Lion Lane.

He arrived to find the Pavilion closed, its gate locked, not entirely surprising at this hour of the morning. He knocked until the old gatekeeper opened a small metal window within the gate.

“Old Feng! Let me in.”

“Mister Lin—is it you?”

“Who else? Open up. I want to see Pearl.”

“No Pearl here.”

“Of course she’s here.” Lin ignored the frightened pounding in his head. “Top of the stairs, third room on the right.”

But Old Feng looked not too clear. Was his mind going dim?

“She wore that red satin jacket in the winter.”

Feng’s eyes came into focus. “With the fur trim, that one! Oh yes, Zhuli. Sweet girl. But she is gone now. More than two weeks.”

The earth seemed to drop out from under Lin’s feet, and the old man opened the metal door for him. Lin pushed past the madam, and the girls, who suddenly all looked strange to him, and took the stairs three at a leap to her room.

He opened the door, and everything had changed, the clothes, the smell. A woman lay in the bed beneath a man who turned his head and snarled,
“Ei?
Sha jiba!”
Stupid dick!

Lin backed out, running. A minute later he was out the gate with an address in his hand, given him by the madam: the place to which Pearl had been sent. He did not even hear Old Feng’s farewell.

The first part of his hope started to shrivel when he realized the address was in Zhabei, a Japanese area. As soon as he crossed Suzhou Creek on the bridge at the end of Carter Road, passing out of the Lonely Island and into enemy territory, he could feel the change. The Japanese were all around, women, children, families, elders, and men in uniform, everywhere. It no longer looked like a Chinese place.

He came almost to the green edge of the Cantonese cemetery before he found the address: a long, low, white featureless building, with a line of Japanese soldiers snaking out the front door and down the road as far as he could see.