Nightfall Over Shanghai (16 page)

The glare was blinding. The throb between Franz's ears intensified. It took him a moment to make out the upside-down face of Captain Suzuki hovering above him. The familiar scent of iodine drifted to Franz's nose and he finally gained his bearings. He was shocked to find himself lying on the operating table where he had spent most of the last week working. He reached up toward the source of the pain on his scalp but a hand grabbed his arm before he could touch his head.

“Hold still,” Suzuki barked as the hand gently guided Franz's arm back to his side. “Your skull is not broken.”

“That is … good,” Franz rasped.

The hand squeezed his arm reassuringly before letting go. “How do you feel, Dr. Adler?” Helen asked just as her face came into view.

“A slight headache but otherwise fine, thank you.” He decided not to mention his intense nausea and vertigo. “How did I get here?”

“Like every other patient,” Suzuki grunted. “You were carried in on a stretcher.”

“I must have fainted.”

“I think so, yes,” Helen said.

“Medical students, certainly, but I can think of few trained doctors who faint at the sight of blood,” Suzuki said.

The image of the crazed major beating the patient over the head with the handle of his cane came back to Franz. “The circumstances were not entirely usual,” he said.

“What is usual anymore?” Suzuki asked rhetorically.

Franz felt a pinch and then saw a thread of catgut slither across his nose. “How many stitches?” he asked.

“Nine so far,” Suzuki said. “You will require several more. The laceration is deep. I must close it in layers.”

Franz saw double, two sets of side-by-side scissors' teeth as Helen cut the suture right above his nose. Suzuki leaned away from the light, and Franz had to close his eyes against the painful glare. “Is the boy …?”

Suzuki shook his head once. “The private should never have turned back during the charge.”

“He went back to pick up his eyeglasses,” Franz said.

“Glasses are of little use when one is charging a tommy gun.”

Arguing further was as senseless as the fighting itself, but Franz wanted to keep Suzuki distracted, so he said, “The major, his limp?”

“What about it?” Suzuki asked.

“A battle wound?”

“Hmm,” Suzuki said as he ran another stitch. “I am told it happened in the Philippines. His pelvis was shattered and the sciatic nerve destroyed.”

“So now he is forced to command a field hospital? Behind the front lines?”

“Major Okada is a decorated war hero. He has been deployed all over the Pacific. This assignment …”

“Is humiliating for him?” Helen suggested.

“Your words, Mrs. Thompson, not mine,” Suzuki said. “However, I do not believe Major Okada is accustomed to overseeing medical personnel.”

“Or the wounded,” Helen added pointedly.

“True,” Suzuki agreed.

“And you, Captain?” Franz asked as he felt another poke from the suture needle.

“I am a surgeon, not a commander.”

“Were you in the army before the war?”

“Before the war, I was in San Francisco.”

Franz started to lift his head but the tug of a stitch held him back. “Hold still,” Suzuki snapped.

“How … how did you possibly end up here?” Franz asked.

Suzuki went quiet. Then he laughed in a low rumble. “This question from an Austrian Jew who works in a Japanese field hospital in the middle of China?”

Franz laughed too. “I suppose it cannot be any stranger than my journey.”

Suzuki ran in three or four more stitches before he spoke again. “A wedding,” he finally said.

“A wedding?” Franz asked.

“My son was getting married. In Nagasaki, where his wife's family lives. My wife and I came back to attend the wedding.”

“And the war broke out?”

“Japan has been at war with China for over ten years.” Suzuki sighed. “But while we were in Nagasaki, Pearl Harbor was bombed. America declared war.”

“So you enlisted?”

“I was bound by duty,” Suzuki said, his inflection suggesting it should have been obvious to Franz.

“Did your son enlist as well?”

A sharp poke made Franz wince and he felt the needle deflect off his skull. “Enough chitchat,” Suzuki snarled. “This is not a bridge club.”

Suzuki sewed the last of the stitches in cold silence, then dropped the utensils onto a tray. The worst of Franz's giddiness had passed, and he started to push himself upright. Helen's arm slipped behind his back and helped raise him up to sitting. His head pounded, but he willed himself to remain upright while the room spun around him.

Suzuki eyes narrowed. “What good are you to me, Dr. Adler?”

Taken aback, Franz said, “I … I work as hard as I can, Captain.”

“What will happen the next time?” Suzuki pressed. “When you pass out into an open wound, halfway through surgery? Who will take care of the patient? And who will save you?”

“As I said, Captain, it was an exceptional circumstance. I was not expecting—”

“What kind of fool do you take me for?” Suzuki scoffed.

“I don't understand.”

“I cannot count all the times I have seen you near the point of collapse. That first day at the Country Hospital, you would have smashed your head open then too, had Mrs. Thompson not been there to catch you.”

Franz looked over to Helen, the surprise on her face evident. “You saw that, Captain Suzuki?” he asked.

“I was willing to turn a blind eye.” Suzuki shook his head. “No more. I cannot put our patients in jeopardy.”

“As a child, I used to have epilepsy,” Franz hurriedly launched into the lie. “When I become overly fatigued, sometimes I have these epileptic drop attacks—”

“Nonsense,” Suzuki snapped.

Helen glanced over to Franz, her eyes questioning, but she said nothing.

“This is obviously syncope, not epilepsy,” the captain continued. “Drop attacks from the collapse of the circulatory system.”

Franz's stomach tightened as he again visualized Okada's attack on the private, and wondered if it was his standard response to any failure in the line of duty. “Are you going to inform the major?”

Instead of answering, Suzuki said, “Lie down.”

Franz complied, relieved to be reclining again. Suzuki readied his stethoscope, then slipped a blood pressure cuff around Franz's upper arm and inflated it. After measuring Franz's pressure, he instructed Franz to sit up again. He took further readings with Franz sitting and then standing. The captain pulled his stethoscope from his ears. “Orthostatic hypotension,” he pronounced. “Your systolic blood pressure drops by twenty-five millimetres when you shift from lying to sitting and another fifteen when you stand up. Are you not terribly dizzy each time you rise?”

“Sometimes, yes,” Franz said, feeling stupid for having never considered the diagnosis.

“How long has this been going on?” Suzuki asked.

“The last six months or so.”

“Is it always so persistent? Or does it come and go?”

Franz considered. “It comes and goes. When I was travelling here from Shanghai, when I was not performing surgery—standing on my feet for such long periods—the episodes almost disappeared.”

Suzuki frowned. “What were they feeding you on the journey?”

Franz thought back to the unpalatable meals. “They often brought me dried salty fish, sometimes twice a day. I do not know the name for it, but the smell was terrible.”

“Kusaya,” Suzuki said, nodding to himself. “Yes, indeed. It is made with brine and loaded with salt. That must be it.”

Franz flushed with relief and embarrassment. “Are you suggesting that I might simply be suffering from salt deficiency?”

“For your sake, it had better be the cause.” Suzuki turned away. “I will instruct the cook. You will start back on kusaya twice per day.” He marched out of the operating room without another word.

Helen stood over the tray preparing bandages. “You lied to me about your drop attacks?” she asked almost casually.

“I'm sorry, Helen. I was embarrassed—and afraid. I had no idea what was going on. It was easier to bury my head in the sand.”

“Is that so?”

“I haven't told anyone. I feel like such an imbecile. After all, I am supposed to be a doctor.”

She looked over and eyed him for a cool moment before a smile crept onto her face. “Yes, but only a surgeon.”

Franz chuckled. “Not much of a doctor, I grant you.”

“Sit down,” Helen said.

As Helen gently cleaned blood away from his hair, Franz remarked, “The captain behaved oddly when I asked about his son, didn't you think?” She nodded. “Has he ever mentioned him to you?”

“In all the months I've known Captain Suzuki, this is the only time I've ever heard him discuss his family. In English or Japanese.”

“And Major Okada?” Franz said, lowering his voice. “What he did to that man in the tent.”

Helen stiffened slightly. “I warned you about the major.”

“Have there been other incidents?”

“I have only heard rumours. But I have seen it in his eyes. The fanaticism. I knew he was dangerous.”

“We live in the golden age for fanatics, as my friend Ernst would tell you.”

Helen finished cleaning the wound and gently swept his hair down over his forehead. She lifted a roll of white bandage and began to wind the cloth around his head.

“Is this really necessary?” Franz groaned. “I will look even more foolish than how I already feel.”

“I don't tell you where or how to make your incisions, doctor. You need to trust me with the bandaging.”

Franz sat as still as he could while Helen continued to wind the wrap. She softly hummed a tune that was unfamiliar to Franz, but he sensed a trace of hurt in her otherwise placid expression. “Helen, I'm sorry.”

“For what?” she asked.

“For upsetting you earlier.” He coughed into his fist. “About your husband.”

She laughed softly. “How could you have possibly known?”

“It wasn't considerate of me to carry on about my troubles as though you had none of your own.”

Her face softened with an understanding smile. “You never have to apologize for worrying over your family.”

“Still …”

Helen nodded. “You know, I was the one who convinced Michael to move to Shanghai.”

“He was reluctant?”

“It was 1938. Michael thought it foolhardy to accept a posting in Asia when the Japanese were sabre-rattling.” She sighed. “I wanted to be nearer to my father. And I convinced Michael that they would never dare touch British interests in the Far East.”

“I thought the very same when I first arrived here,” Franz said. “That was also in 1938. In December.”

“That was not the only thing I was wrong about.” Helen closed her eyes and looked down. “I never dreamed that Michael would run off with Marjorie Wilson either. After all, she and her husband, Hamish, were our best friends in Shanghai.”

“Oh, Helen, I'm so sorry,” he mumbled, self-conscious at his useless words.

“Michael didn't even tell me to my face.” Head still lowered, Helen only shrugged. “One day, I came home to find this rambling letter. He was already gone. It was so typical of him, all regret and rationalization. As best I can tell, it was somehow my fault that he had run off with another woman. Maybe it was? I am such a fool.”

“He's the fool.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. “I suppose I should have left Shanghai right then and there. Gone home to Toronto.”

“You still could have?”

“Yes, this was October of ‘41. I had even booked passage on a ship leaving for Singapore and onward to Vancouver.”

“Why didn't you leave?”

She looked back up at him, her eyes misting over. “I just couldn't go home. No, not like that. With my marriage failed and my tail between my legs. I was so ashamed.”

“You did nothing wrong.”

Helen reached up and adjusted the bandage on Franz's head, tucking it carefully behind his ears. “Yes, I did. I chose the wrong man,” she finally said, allowing her fingers to linger on his earlobes.

The late morning sun blazed down hotter than a furnace on Sunny and the others in the unshaded queue. She had already been lined up outside the Bureau of Stateless Refugee Affairs for over an hour but had yet to reach the building's entrance. She was thankful she had opted to leave Joey at home with Esther.

Sunny picked up on a few curious glances from the refugees around her, all of whom had come to apply for exit passes. A number of people recognized her from the hospital or ghetto, and they greeted her with friendly words and smiles. She overheard murmured complaints about the heat and the slow-moving queue, but in typical Jewish fashion, no one tried to shove or butt in line.

When Sunny had first moved to the ghetto, she was struck by the adherence to orderliness and protocol among the Jewish refugees. It was so different from local Chinese culture, in which it was acceptable for people to elbow their way to a destination. She had once remarked on this to Franz, who pointed out that the Jews' tendency toward compliance had made it easier for the Nazis to marginalize and persecute them.

Sunny's chest ached again at the thought of Franz. She had known so much loss over the past few years—her father, her amah,
the first Joey and so many other friends—but she hadn't known she was capable of missing anyone as intensely as she did her husband. She had begun to dread sleep because it was heart-wrenching to wake up from her dreams to discover that he was still absent.

To distract herself, she focused instead on her best friend. Fortunately for Jia-Li and everyone else at the Comfort Home, the Kempeitai men were more concerned with getting their dead comrade clothed and far away from the brothel than with determining the cause of his demise. Still, Sunny had little faith that her best friend wouldn't try to overdose another customer. Chih-Nii had sworn she wouldn't let Jia-Li work until she was convinced the girl was in a proper state of mind, but of that Sunny was skeptical. The madam was a businesswoman for whom money would always come first.

Sunny finally reached the front of the line and Ghoya's office. She was sweating from more than just the muggy weather when he beckoned her in a shrill, “Next!”

Ghoya was scribbling on a piece of paper as Sunny approached his desk. Looking up at her, he did a double take. “What is the meaning of this?” He slammed his pen down on the desk. “The lineup is for refugees only.”

Sunny bowed deeply. “Mr. Ghoya, I am Sunny Adler, Dr. Adler's wife.”

Ghoya squinted at her and recognition crept onto his face. He leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Yes, yes. I remember now. He married one of you, didn't he?”

“Yes, sir,” Sunny said uncertainly.

Ghoya drummed his fingers on the desk. “If you have come about the sister-in-law, my answer is still no. No passes for anyone in your family. That is final. Absolutely final.”

“No, Mr. Ghoya. I have come about my husband.”

“Oh?” Ghoya angled his head. “What about Dr. Adler?”

“I was hoping you could tell me where he went.”

Ghoya grinned madly. “Where he went? He went precisely where I sent him.”

“Where is that, sir?”

“I can't tell you that,” he scoffed.

“Please, Mr. Ghoya. I realize I am asking a lot, but it would give me and my family such peace of mind to know where my husband is.”

Ghoya hopped to his feet. “No, no, no. Don't you see? I cannot tell you that because I do not know where he is.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “Has something happened to him?” she croaked.

“No. Although perhaps.” He laughed grimly. “In war, anything can happen.”

“I do not understand, Mr. Ghoya.” Sunny couldn't keep the whimper from her voice. “Please, sir.”

“Ichi-Go, woman,” he cried.

Fighting back tears, she held out her hands in incomprehension.

“The greatest military operation in the history of Asia,” Ghoya trumpeted. “Our troops are moving westward as we speak, uniting the north and south of China in one glorious march. Your husband works in one of the field hospitals. They move with the rest of the divisions. He could be anywhere from Wuchang to Hengyang right now.”

Sunny swallowed. “Is he safe?”

“Safer than our brave men on the front line.” Ghoya shrugged. “The field hospitals are protected.”

She had no idea what that meant, but she took a modicum of solace in his casual words. “Oh, I see.”

Ghoya stepped around his desk and approached her. He allowed his eyes to wander up and down her body, ogling her unabashedly. Although he didn't lay a hand on her, Sunny felt violated. Fighting the urge to flee, she mustered a meek smile.

“It must be difficult for you without your husband,” Ghoya said clumsily. “Very difficult indeed.”

“At times, yes,” she said hoarsely. “It can be lonely.”

“I am an important man. Yes, yes.” He swept his arms through the air. “Not only in the Designated Area but in all of Shanghai. I know people. I know people all over China!”

From this close, she could smell his cologne. “I am sure you do.”

“What if I could find Dr. Adler for you?” Ghoya arched an eyebrow. “Perhaps send him a letter. Or perhaps …”

Warding off nausea, Sunny leaned in closer to Ghoya until their heads were almost touching. “Or perhaps what, Mr. Ghoya?”

“Perhaps I could even inquire whether his military service is still required? Perhaps I could see about bringing Dr. Adler back to Shanghai?”

“Oh, Mr. Ghoya,” Sunny breathed, feeling the tears well. “You have no idea. No idea.”

He eyed her lasciviously. “And if I went to such trouble for you, what could I expect in return?”

Subduing the tremble in her hands, she reached out and touched the back of his wrist. “My eternal gratitude,” she said in the huskiest voice she could muster.

Smiling, Ghoya watched her caress the back of his hand. Suddenly, his eyes darkened. He jerked his hand from hers and slapped her cheek. Before she could even react to the sting, he slapped her backhanded across the other cheek. “Your kind is all the same,” he cried. “All the same! All the same!”

Sunny backpedalled a few steps. “I … I don't understand.”

“You miserable half-breed, you whore,” he shrieked. “I would never touch you. Never, never. Get out of my office! Go, go!”

Sunny wheeled and rushed for the door.

“If I ever see you again …” Ghoya's threat followed her down the hallway as she desperately shouldered past the others still waiting in line.

Sunny had made it only a few steps out onto the street before she vomited, against the side of the building. The shame was worse than the burning in her cheeks or even the fear. She had just acted in the moment, without even thinking it through, but she was overcome by remorse over what she might have done to try to secure Franz's release.

She wiped her mouth and hurried away, desperate to put distance between herself and Ghoya's office. Without even thinking about her destination, she found herself on Broadway again. She stared out at the harbour, mentally noting the Japanese ships and their positions, glad for the distraction. Even before she had turned away from the water, she had made up her mind.

***

Sunny had often admired the twin spires of St. Ignatius Cathedral in the heart of Frenchtown, but she had never set foot inside the church before. Were she not so upset, she might have stopped to appreciate the stately arches above the nave or the light that filtered through the imposing stained-glass windows. Instead, Sunny headed straight for a nun who was rising from her prayers and asked after Father Diego.

The diminutive nun led her through a door behind the altar and down a hallway to a door at the far end. She knocked once and Father Diego answered. His face quickly broke into a welcoming smile and Sunny thought he might hug her, but he just clasped his hands together. “What a wonderful surprise,” he cried. “Come, please sit.”

Closing the door behind Sunny, the priest led her to the desk inside the small, tidy office, sitting down across from her. “What happened to you, Sunny?” he asked with concern.

She reached up and touched her still-stinging cheek. “In the heat, sometimes I get a rash.”

Diego's eyes narrowed skeptically. “The heat, is it?”

“Yes, Father.”

He accepted the lie with another wide grin. “You will be pleased to hear that Brother Dominic made it home safely.”

“Oh, that is good news.”

“How are you, Sunny?” Diego asked. “And Dr. Adler and rest of the family? Everyone is well, I trust.”

Instead of answering, Sunny dug a hand into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. She smoothed the page that she had sketched just before arriving, then slid it across the desk to him. Squinting, he studied it carefully. “A map?” he asked.

She nodded. “Of the harbour.”

He pointed to the various
x
s on the page. “These marks, what do the characters and numbers below them mean?”

“The digits before the first character are numbers that I have given to the different Japanese naval craft.” She pointed to one that read
12R3.
“As an example, I have called this ship number twelve. I will never use twelve for any other ship but this particular one.”

“And the letter
R
?”

“It stands for cruiser. Each of the letters represents a type of ship. For example,
T
stands for frigate,
B
for riverboat,
R
for cruiser and so on.”

“What about the last number—three?”

“That represents the number of days that particular cruiser has been in port.”

Diego studied the map in silence for several seconds and then looked back up at Sunny, the smile returning to his face. “I am most impressed, Sunny,” he said. “Most impressed.”

“I walk my son in his pram past the port every day. No one ever notices us.”

“Even when you draw maps?”

Sunny shook her head adamantly. “I draw them later. From memory.”

“Clever.”

“Will it be helpful to your … people?”

“It would have been, yes, but I am afraid we've had another setback.” Diego sighed.

“How so, Father?”

“The Japanese triangulated the signal of our radioman. May the Heavenly Father bless his soul.” Diego made the sign of the cross on his chest. “We have no way of transmitting this information to the people who would need it.”

“What about a courier? One of the local coolies, perhaps?”

Diego exhaled heavily. “Our people are situated well outside Shanghai. Even if a runner could make it to them, by the time this reconnaissance reached them, it might already be obsolete.”

“So it's of no use to you?”

“Not until we have another radioman. No.”

Sunny felt utterly defeated and deflated. The mortification from her run-in with Ghoya washed back over her. She wanted to crawl under a rock. She wished the ground would swallow her up.
What was the point of any of it?