Nightfall Over Shanghai (10 page)

Father Diego removed his clergyman's galero and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Already so muggy and not even May yet. I'm afraid we are destined for another punishingly humid summer.”

“Not unlike my last twenty-nine summers here, Father.” Sunny didn't mean to sound brusque, but she couldn't help herself. She hadn't requested the talkative priest's company on her walk home. Her thoughts were on her family, not on the priest or even the American pilot, whose continued presence at the hospital jeopardized the lives of everyone around him.

Diego offered another benevolent smile. One seemed to precede each new request of his. “Tomorrow morning, then?”

“Yes.” Sunny sighed.

“Everything is arranged on the other end?”

“They are expecting the lieutenant at the Comfort Home. My friend has seen to it.”

“You are convinced Donald is fit to travel?”

“Fit to travel?” She shook her head. “His wounds are improving, but you must remember he underwent major surgery and his blood counts will surely be low. He shouldn't get out of bed for at
least another week.” She paused. “I'm hopeful he will survive the journey.”

Diego's smile faltered only for a moment. “With God's grace.”

“I assume Donald will become ‘Brother Dominic' again for the journey?”

“Why not?” Diego laughed. “From fighter pilot to Franciscan friar, it's the most natural of transformations.”

“And how will you get him there?”

“We will leave as we came, in a rickshaw. This time, God willing, without all the blood.”

Diego's attention was drawn to two patrolling soldiers who approached them from the other end of the block. As the men neared, the priest nodded congenially and greeted them with the words
yoi tsuitachi
—which even Sunny understood as Japanese for “good day.” Without a trace of acknowledgement, the soldiers marched between Sunny and Diego, deliberately shouldering them off the sidewalk.

As she continued walking with Father Diego, Sunny's thoughts drifted back to her family. She was so relieved to have Franz back home. The unexpectedness of their reunion had only heightened their desire. They had stayed up the past three nights making urgent love as quietly as they could, a crib wedged beside the bed and the rest of the family asleep on the other side of the paper-thin walls. The intensity of Franz's embraces had stirred her own libido to new heights.

Sunny was also touched by Franz's new-found interest in Joey; he had even taken a few turns changing the boy's diapers. Yet, she still felt troubled by the way he interacted with him, and wished that he felt the same unconditional love for Joey that consumed her. But when she saw Franz holding the baby, she sensed in him a hint of reluctance, even resignation.

“Your movements are not restricted to the ghetto, are they, Sunny?” Diego asked, drawing her back to the present.

She glanced over to him with barely concealed irritation. “Pardon me, Father?”

“Unlike the refugees, you are free to come and go from the ghetto as you please. Correct?”

“No one, aside from the Japanese and a few other select nationalities—such as the Spanish—” she held his gaze pointedly—“is free in Shanghai.”

Diego motioned over his shoulder toward the soldiers who had just passed. “Of course. All I meant to suggest is that you do not face the same scrutiny at the checkpoints as the other refugees.”

“My husband and stepdaughter are refugees. I was born here.”

“Yet in spite of your American heritage, you are not considered an Allied citizen?”

“I'm half American by blood only. My mother died when I was young. I've never carried an American passport. To the invaders, I'm just another Chinaman.”

He eyed for her a moment. “No doubt you could pass for fully Chinese if need be.”

Sunny stopped, as did the priest. “Why does any of this matter, Father?”

“I've been most impressed by your poise.” Diego nodded to himself. “The way you have cared for Lieutenant Lewis, medically and … in managing his stay. Most admirable. You seem—what is the English word?—unflappable.”

Sunny took his warm smile as a harbinger of a new, and potentially dangerous, request. “What is your point, Father?”

Diego put his hat back on and casually angled it forward, casting
a slight shadow across his eyes. “Acquaintances of mine are seeking certain information.”

“What sort of information?”

“Regarding ship movements in the harbour.”

Sunny dropped her voice to a whisper. “Are you asking me to spy for you, Father?”

He pursed his lips. “I'm merely wondering if you would be willing to pay close attention to the ships in port and perhaps keep a record of their whereabouts.”

Sunny realized that Diego's grammar had improved and his accent had lessened since their initial encounter.
Are you really Spanish? Or even a priest?
She could feel her pulse hammering in her temples as she struggled to keep her voice calm. “What is preventing you from making those same observations?”

He swept his hands up and down his chest, indicating his cassock. “I would be somewhat conspicuous at the docks.”

“Even if you were to wear civilian clothing?”

“Have you been to the harbour lately? You do not see many Caucasians around. Even the Germans don't frequent the wharves.” His eyes narrowed. “You, on the other hand …”

Sunny stole a glance over either shoulder and then shook her head vehemently. “No. Absolutely not!”

“I see,” Diego said, his expression remaining tranquil. “Forgive me, Sunny, I had to at least inquire.”

Something compelled Sunny to explain. “Last year, I stumbled into a situation … with the Underground. It ended in disaster. My whole family was in terrible danger.”

“Very understandable.” He nodded. “However, my acquaintances have no association whatsoever with the Resistance.”

“The Americans?”

Diego shrugged. “It's of no consequence, really,” he said pleasantly. “Especially since you will not be further involved.”

“I cannot become involved, Father. I just can't. Do you understand?”

His voice changed, and he now seemed truly compassionate. “I've already asked more of you than I had a right to. And I am forever grateful for the assistance you have provided us.”

His kindness only compounded her guilt. She was reminded of that horrible winter's day the previous year when she had stood by and watched, frozen with fear, as two Jewish teenagers were executed across the street from her by an impromptu firing squad. The plaintive looks in the boys' eyes were still burned into her consciousness.

Diego tilted his head. “What is it, my child?”

Sunny shook off the memory. It was the shame of her passivity then that had steered her toward the calamitous involvement with the Underground. She wasn't about to repeat the same mistake. Even if she were willing to break her promise to Franz and muster the nerve, there was no way she would risk Joey's future. She shook her head again. “I have a baby now, Father.”

***

Even before Sunny opened the door, she could hear Ernst's animated voice. Stepping inside, she found Esther in the kitchen performing her daily ritual of hand-combing the rice and picking out maggots. Ernst sat on the couch holding Joey in one arm while
Jakob climbed across his knees. Sunny couldn't help but grin. It was one of the rare times she had seen the artist looking even remotely ill at ease.

“Ah, Sunny. Rescue me from these tiny terrors,” Ernst cried. “They have no appreciation for a man's basic need for a smoke.”

Sunny hurried over, kissed Ernst on the cheek and eased Joey out of his arm. Her baby stared up at her with placid eyes. She recognized the traces of a smile forming at the corners of his lips. Emotions welled and she pressed her face to his. “My beautiful, beautiful darling,” she whispered into his cheek.

Ernst laughed. “Your beautiful, beautiful darling could use a fresh diaper.”

Nodding, Sunny pulled out from behind the couch the basket in which she kept the clean cloths. “How are you, Ernst?”

Jakob climbed up into Ernst's lap. Ernst bounced him on one knee while he fished a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and lit it. “Better now,” he said. “Much easier to cope with these parasites one at a time.”

Sunny looked over her shoulder to Esther. “Where are Franz and Hannah, Essie?”

Esther let a handful of rice fall back into the pot. “They left together a few minutes ago for
shul
,” she said.

“The synagogue? On a Thursday?”

“That's what Hannah told me,” Esther said weakly.

Sunny noticed that Esther's eyes were bloodshot and tearcrusted. “What is it, Essie?”

Esther wiped her hands and lifted a piece of paper off the countertop.

“From Simon?” Sunny asked.

Esther only nodded.

Sunny glanced over to Ernst, who rolled his eyes. “
Ach
, her husband is being dramatic, is all.”

“He's not himself,” Esther said.

“He will be fine, Essie. Simon has just been cooped up in the flat for too long.” Ernst chuckled and exhaled a stream of smoke. “Exceptional as I am, I must admit, anyone might go a little crazy being stuck with me night and day. After all, genius comes at a cost.”

Esther shook her head. “His letters used to make me laugh with tears. Now …” she sighed, “in one paragraph, he goes on and on about his plans for us in New York. As if the war is already won. And in the next, he talks about prowling around Germantown. It's such madness, I can't even tell you.”

Sunny finished pinning the fresh diaper and lowered Joey's faded cotton gown. “He must feel so helpless, Essie. With you and Jakob so close and yet … Still, Simon is one of the most sensible men I've ever met.”

“Does this sound sensible to you?” Esther lifted the letter and began to read. “‘Sometimes they march right past me. These clown princes of Shanghai. The same ones would've happily collapsed the synagogue down on top of you and our Jakob. And to know they would try it again in a heartbeat. It's all I can do not to reach for the knife in my belt.'” She looked up from the page, wide-eyed. “Listen to him carry on—as if he were the hunter, not the prey.”

“It's nothing but talk, Essie.” Ernst set Jakob on the floor and rose to his feet. “I have heard the same thing a hundred times before.”

Esther stepped over and took Ernst's hand in hers. “It's so dangerous for him to be out on the streets. He doesn't look like
the rest of them. And if he spoke two words to them, they would recognize him straightaway for an American.” Her voice cracked. “God help us if he were to ever run into that horrid von Puttkamer. You must talk some sense into him, Ernst.”

“You think I encourage this idiocy?” He ran a hand through his dishevelled hair and sighed. “Beside, how could I stop him? He usually goes out when I'm not home.”

“I will speak to him,” Sunny said, her throat tightening at the prospect of venturing back into Germantown.

“Oh, thank you, Sunny. Thank you.” Esther sniffled.

Ernst lit a fresh cigarette. “When it comes to von Puttkamer, Sunny, you should be more concerned about your own husband.”

Sunny clutched Joey tighter. “What have you heard about him, Ernst?”

“Rumours, nothing more. The baron doesn't confide in me anymore.”

“He doesn't suspect that you are the one who warned us about the bombing last winter?” Esther asked.

“No. Nothing like that.” Ernst brushed the thought away. “I would be dead already if he did. No, based on a few of his charming remarks, I think he suspects I might not be up to the lofty Aryan standard of masculinity. In the baron's eyes, being a
Tunte—
a degenerate queen—might even be a worse crime than fraternizing with Jews.”

“What about Franz?” Sunny pressed. “What did you hear?”

“You remember Gerhard?”

“The young man who followed von Puttkamer around the ghetto? The one with the sneer?”

“The same one who informed me of the baron's plans to bomb the synagogue, yes. He's not as bad as you imagine. In fact,
Gerhard still keeps me in the loop.” Ernst smiled to himself. “I'm beginning to suspect that young Gerhard has no such issues with my … tendencies.”

“What did Gerhard tell you?” Sunny demanded.

“That the baron was carrying on about Franz just yesterday.”

“Carrying on?” Dread crawled up Sunny's spine. “What he did say precisely?”

Ernst sighed out a whorl of smoke. “Von Puttkamer blames Franz for the failed bombing. And for Hans's death.” He looked away. “Apparently, the baron was talking of ‘evening the score.'”

Hannah could tell by Herschel's fidgeting that he was desperate to walk ahead of the adults, but she stuck determinedly by her father's side. A few weeks before, she would have felt self-conscious walking down a busy street with her father's arm draped over her shoulder. Not anymore. He had been home for four days, but Hannah couldn't shake the awful sense that he might be taken away again at any moment. And she intuited from her father's attentiveness—the way he always seemed to be watching her, ever since his return—that he shared in that fear.

“Is it true someone has a big birthday tomorrow?” Herschel's grandfather asked in his refined German, which carried only a remnant of a Polish accent.

“Not a big one, Herr Zunder,” Hannah said. “Only fourteen.”

“Surely they are all big at your age.” Zunder laughed. “Only when you get to be ancient like me do they stop mattering.” According to Herschel, his grandfather was over seventy but, with his admirable posture and spry gait, the man didn't strike Hannah as old at all.

Franz rubbed Hannah's shoulder affectionately. “Perhaps not for my daughter, but it's a very big one for me, Herr Zunder. I can't believe how quickly she is growing up.”

“Will there be a party?” Zunder asked.

“Zeyde, please,” Herschel said.

Zunder looked over to Franz, bewildered. “Tell me, how am I embarrassing the boy now? By simply asking if there will be a party for his girlfriend?”

“Zeyde,” Herschel groaned, his face reddening instantly.

Hannah felt her own cheeks burning, but she enjoyed hearing the word. Neither she nor Herschel had yet referred to one another as boyfriend or girlfriend. She could sense her father's eyes on her now, but she was too embarrassed to look at him, or at Herschel, so she lowered her gaze to the ground.

“I don't know about a party, Herr Zunder,” Franz said. “However, you and your family are more than welcome to join us for dinner tomorrow.”

Pleased as Hannah was at the thought, she worried over what Esther could possibly prepare for them all. Lately, their suppers had consisted of rice and soggy green vegetables that were so flavourless they weren't even worth identifying. She stole a quick glance at Herschel, but he was still too mortified to look at her.

“We would be honoured to join your family, Dr. Adler,” Zunder said. “Providing you will allow my Dora to bring dessert.”

“Dessert?” Franz shook his head. “No. That would be asking far too much.”

“No one should celebrate a birthday—certainly not one as important as the fourteenth—without one of Dora's linzer tortes.”

“A linzer torte?” Franz repeated, impressed. “How could she possibly?”

“Felix Klingermann is an old friend of ours.”

“Of the bakery Klingermann's?”

“Precisely,” Zunder said. “For special occasions, Felix will always allow Dora to borrow a few supplies and use the oven.”

Practically salivating at the prospect of the delicacy, Hannah fixed her father with her most persuasive smile.

“As long it will not cause you or your wife too much trouble, Herr Zunder,” Franz finally said. “We would appreciate it greatly.”

“It will cause me no trouble at all and, as for Dora, it's a labour of absolute love. So it is settled, then.”

With Zunder setting a brisk pace, they reached Wayside Road and turned onto the busy thoroughfare. A Japanese transport truck coughed out a plume of blue smoke as it roared by. A long black Citroën, one of the rare automobiles without military markings, rolled slowly past them in the other direction.

They walked past the entrance to the Lyceum Theatre, which ran a revue in German and Yiddish four nights a week. Hannah had never been inside, but she'd heard Freddy Herzberg mimic the comedic acts so often that the building felt oddly familiar to her. Across the street, a pack of young bearded Hasidic Jews in long black coats and hats stood clustered outside a building that temporarily housed the Mir Yeshiva. Although the students kept to themselves, Hannah was familiar with the story, which had become legendary in the ghetto, of how the entire student body and faculty of the religious school had escaped from Lithuania through the Soviet Union and Japan, eventually ending up in Shanghai. Apparently, it was the only yeshiva in continental Europe to survive the war intact.

Zunder waved in the direction of the students. “Look, Herschel,” he said. “Go tell your rabbi that we don't need to build a homeland in Palestine. We have one right here.”

Hannah had never before heard Herr Zunder mention Rabbi
Hiltmann or Zionism, but Herschel had complained that his grandfather was no more supportive of the movement than her father was.

“It's not the same, Zeyde,” Herschel said, his voice lacking its usual conviction.

“What's so different, boy? You have Jewish culture, education and religion. All on the same street.”

“True, Herr Zunder.” Franz pointed to the intersection ahead, which marked the perimeter of the ghetto. A soldier stood rigidly with a rifle across his chest. “But Jews can also be shot for crossing the very same street without a pass. That hardly seems like much of a homeland.”

Hannah wondered if she had misheard or misunderstood her father. Zunder turned to Franz with a disappointed frown that wrinkled his face and made him look much older. “You too, Dr. Adler? You put stock into this Zionist fantasy?”

Franz showed Hannah a tiny wink. “I agree, Herr Zunder, that it might amount to little more than a fantasy. However, it doesn't mean the concept has no merit.”

Hannah heard the hum of an engine and glanced over to see a black automobile turn the corner onto the road behind them. She couldn't tell if it was the same car that had passed them earlier, but her attention was drawn back to Herr Zunder, who sighed heavily. “The land of milk and honey, is it?” he said.

“It could be one day, Zeyde,” Herschel said.

Zunder raised a hand skyward. “Rivers of gold and lakes of chocolate sound wonderful too, but are they really worth risking what little we have left?”

“I am not a Zionist, Herr Zunder,” Franz said. “Up until the Anschluss, I lived a completely secular existence.”

Zunder nodded approvingly. “So you were assimilated then.”

“More than just assimilated; I had turned away from Judaism altogether.”

“Did you convert to Christianity, Dr. Adler?”

“No, but back then I saw myself as many things—Austrian, Viennese and, of course, a surgeon—but a Jew?” Franz shook his head. “No, I disdained all religion, particularly my own.”

“And who says you weren't right to?” Zunder said, anger seeping into his voice. “My own son, he found religion. He became active in the local Jewish Federation. And who do you think was among the very first people the Gestapo came looking for the day after Kristallnacht?”

“Zeyde,” Herschel said.

Hannah realized that Herr Zunder was talking about Hershel's father. Seeing the hurt in the boy's eyes, she resisted the urge to wrap him in a hug.

Zunder smiled tenderly at his grandson. “Your parents are safe somewhere in the relocation camp,
Liebling.
We heard this from their old neighbours. I was merely pointing out to Dr. Adler that activism comes at a price.”

“Perhaps,” Franz said. “But I'm beginning to see that inaction carries a cost of its own.”

Zunder nodded knowingly. “Ah, so the rabbi has got to you, has he? He is nothing if not …” Zunder's words tapered off as the black automobile's tires crunched to a halt beside them. The back doors flew open and four men wearing homburgs and trench coats despite the heat climbed out. Only one of them was Asian. He was tall and muscular, and his impassive face looked neither Japanese nor Chinese to Hannah. The fair-skinned young man beside him had angular Nordic features and might have been handsome had it
not been for his scowl. The third man was older, about her father's age, with a weak chin and dark, glaring eyes. But it was sight of the last one to emerge that practically stopped Hannah's heart. She would never forget the day Baron von Puttkamer had come to her school—for no apparent reason other than to intimidate the students, parents and staff—and paraded around the classrooms like a sadistic landlord taking glee in hand-delivering eviction notices.

Herr Zunder grabbed for Herschel's shoulder, and they both stumbled back off the sidewalk. Franz pulled Hannah close to his side.

With a reptilian smile, von Puttkamer stepped toward them. “Ah, Herr Doktor, we have been looking all over for you.”

“Why would you be looking for me, Baron?” Franz said.

Von Puttkamer's gaze drifted from Herschel to Hannah. Herschel's face was drained of colour. Hannah's mouth felt parched and her fingers trembled, but she maintained the eye contact until von Puttkamer turned back to her father. The baron held a hand toward the open car door. “I think this matter is best not discussed in front of the children,” he said calmly.

Hannah felt her father's elbow gently guiding her behind him as he stood his ground. “Shall we make an appointment to meet, then?”

Von Puttkamer just smiled as though happily reminiscing. “There is a degree of urgency to our conversation.”

“Papa,” Hannah croaked, her voice thick with dread.

“I am not getting into that car,” Franz said defiantly.

The man with the furious eyes shook his fist at Franz. “This is not an invitation, you
filthy
Jew,” he growled. “You will come with us right now.”

Von Puttkamer rested a hand on his colleague's arm and gently
pushed it down. “Pardon Major Huber's brusqueness.” He nodded to the two other men with him. “However, the major does have a point.”

Hannah clung to her father's back, but he pushed her away as the two men moved forward. The Asian man stepped to one side of Franz, and the younger German, the other. A moment of agonizing silence followed. The men shared a glance and then grabbed Franz by the upper arms.

“Let go of me!” Franz exclaimed as he struggled wildly in their grip.

“Herschel, no,” Zunder cried from somewhere behind Hannah.

Suddenly, Herschel whizzed past her and launched himself at the tall Asian man, landing on his back. The man reacted with the speed of a cat. In one motion, he spun and flipped the boy hard onto the ground. Herschel landed with a loud moan, and before he could move, the man kicked him in the side.

Hannah screamed. She threw herself at the other man holding her father. She dug her teeth into his arm and bit down as hard as she could.

The man yelped and flung out his arm, knocking her backwards. “You kike bitch,” he bellowed. “I will kill you.”

Winded and terrified, Hannah lay on her back, her legs trembling uncontrollably. Then she noticed the soldier at the end of the block. He had turned toward the commotion. “
Tasukete!
” She screamed the Japanese word for help. “Please help us.
Tasukete!
”

The soldier ran toward them, raising his rifle as he approached.

Herschel rocked on the sidewalk, but everyone else stilled as the soldier neared. He swung the muzzle of his rifle from one person to the next, uncertain where to level it. He finally settled on the Asian man to the right of Franz.

Von Puttkamer took a step forward. “A misunderstanding. Nothing more. We are Germans, not Jews.” He snapped his right arm in salute. “Heil Hitler.”

The soldier pivoted, aiming his rifle at von Puttkamer's head while barking at him in Japanese.

The baron lifted up his other hand and took a step back. “All right. None of this is necessary.” He nodded to the car behind him. “We will leave now.”

“What do you mean, leave?” Huber growled through his clenched teeth. “What about this murdering Jew?”

“Next time,” von Puttkamer said as he slowly backed away from the soldier and toward the car. “We will settle this next time.”