Nightfall Over Shanghai (19 page)

“I need to hear you promise me,” Sunny said.

Jia-Li sniffed Joey's head. “I love the scent of babies. They smell of innocence.”

“Promise me,” Sunny persisted.

“I can't. I won't.” Jia-Li shook her head. “I will do something better. If you convince Chih-Nii to free me from this dungeon, I will go to the port and spy on the ships myself. Happily.”

“What do you know about Japanese ships?”

“They have no business in our harbour, I know that much. Besides, how hard can it be to tell them apart?”

“I know you, Sister. You couldn't tell a battleship from a sampan.”

“So I will learn.”

“Never.” Sunny laughed. “And as for drawing a map from memory, there is no one with a worse sense of direction than you. Remember when we were young, how you would get lost on our own street?”

Jia-Li smiled for the first time. “It was a winding road.”

Sunny rested her hand on her friend's shoulder. She stared intently into Jia-Li's eyes. “I have to do this. For my father, for Yang and especially for Franz.”

Jia-Li's only response was to hold Joey's face against her neck, but Sunny could see that her friend was wavering. Her hand tightened to a grip on Jia-Li's shoulder. “Promise me you will be there for your godson.”

Jia-Li's eyes widened, simultaneously moved and surprised. “My godson?”

“Of course.”

Jia-Li smiled again. “Yes, all right.”

Sunny hid her relief behind a stern expression. “That means no more funny business with soldiers or Kempeitai or anyone else who comes through the Comfort Home. You understand,
băo bèi
?”

Jia-Li kissed Joey on the top of his head. “Yes,
xiăo hè.
I promise.”

Despite the sense of foreboding that hung over the camp in the wake of the air raid, the planes did not return. Casualties, however, rolled into the operating room all night long. Usually, Franz spent his days operating on the wounded men who had come from the front, but this time he recognized several of the victims. Seven men had died during the raid, and three more did not survive surgery, including the only one his four tentmates who spoke passable English. They couldn't stem the bleeding from the man's hemorrhaging pulmonary vein, which had been shredded by a large-calibre bullet that perforated his chest from back to front.

Despite such horrors, Franz was thankful for the distraction of work. He wouldn't have slept anyway. He had avoided eye contact with Helen throughout the surgery, but his turbulent thoughts kept cycling back to their kiss. He couldn't deny his complicity in the moment or the comfort he had found, easily imagining Helen's lips to be Sunny's. He doubted he would ever see his wife again, and he craved physical comfort. He worried that he wouldn't be able to trust his self-restraint a second time.

At just after five o'clock that morning, the last of the wounded—a man whose femur had been shattered by a bullet—was carried out of the operating room on a stretcher, a bulky dressing where his right leg had once been.

“Come with me,” Suzuki said as he stripped off his gloves and operating gown.

Franz followed him out into the stippled light of dawn. They passed the bullet-riddled, windowless wrecks of the destroyed troop transports. The dirt road had been torn up by the barrage of bullets, as if tilled with a hoe. Soldiers were busy all around the camp repairing tents and replacing those that had collapsed from the gunfire.

They entered the row of tents that formed the officers' residences. Suzuki led him into one at the end of the row. The spacious tent was sparsely furnished with a cot, a plywood wardrobe and a wooden desk that had two folding chairs on either side of it. A tea set was waiting on top, steam escaping from its pot. Suzuki poured two cups of the green tea, its floral bouquet familiar to Franz's nose. It was the only flavour the Japanese ever seemed to serve.

Franz studied the only other object on the desk, a framed photograph of the captain with his wife and son. Wearing a dark civilian suit, Suzuki stood unsmiling but proud between a skinny young man in a similar suit and a woman in a patterned kimono. In the backdrop, a grand suspension bridge arched over a sparkling body of water.

“My family and I had just driven over the Golden Gate Bridge for the first time,” Suzuki said. “It was taken two days after the bridge opened. Late in the spring of 1937.”

“I remember reading about it in Vienna,” Franz said as he sipped his tea. “It's the longest bridge in the world, is it not?”

Suzuki nodded. “The longest span of any bridge ever built. Over a mile long. It's truly a marvel.”

“Did you enjoy your time in America?”

“My time in America? You ask me as though I were there as a tourist.” Suzuki chuckled humourlessly. “I only came back to Japan to attend my son's wedding. America was our home until December 7, 1941.”

Franz empathized with the captain. He knew what it meant to have his country ripped out from underneath him. “Austria was mine until March 12, 1938.”

“The day of the Nazi occupation?”

“The Anschluss, yes.”

Suzuki sipped his tea in silence. “In San Francisco, I trained under Dr. Leo Eloesser. Perhaps you have heard of him?”

Franz shook his head.

“Dr. Eloesser is a pioneer in the field of thoracic surgery, an extremely capable surgeon. He is also famous in California as a humanitarian and a patron of the arts. He is close friends with the Mexican painters Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo.”

“Is Dr. Eloesser Jewish?”

Suzuki nodded. “I worked with several Jewish doctors at the San Francisco General. I considered some of them friends. In America, I was never aware of the anti-Semitism that seems to flourish in Europe.”

“It wasn't always the case in Europe either. Particularly not in Vienna. It was such a cultured and tolerant city when I was young. Jews like Sigmund Freud and Arnold Schoenberg were the toast of the town.”

“What happened?”

“What always happens to us.” Franz sighed. “Times turned bad and someone blamed the Jews. It has happened time and again
throughout history, from the famines in Egypt to the Black Death and now the Depression. Jews have always been the world's scapegoats. But never more so than under the Nazis.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Many reasons, I suppose. We have always been a quiet and easily identifiable community. And Jews have often succeeded professionally and financially. We attract resentment like flowers draw bees.” Franz thought of one of Rabbi Hiltmann's themes. “But perhaps most importantly, it's because we Jews don't have a real home. We are a minority—perpetual guests and outsiders—anywhere we live. Without a national identity or an army to protect us.”

Suzuki considered this. “Are you suggesting that if the Jews were to have their own nation, anti-Semitism would end?”

“Anti-Semitism has thrived for five thousand years, Captain. It probably always will. But if the Jews were to have their own homeland, it at least might provide us with a sanctuary from the Hitlers of this world.”

Suzuki frowned. “And how will you ever achieve this homeland? Who will give you the land, or the freedom?”

“We will probably have to fight for it.”

“More war. More suffering for your people.” Suzuki grunted a laugh. “Will it be worth it?”

Franz rubbed his tired eyes. “I don't really know what anything is worth anymore.”

“You are not alone,” Suzuki muttered.

Franz put down his cup and asked the question that had been on his mind ever since the planes struck. “Will you relocate the camp, Captain?”

“That is Major Okada's decision to make.” His tone was skeptical.

“What is the point of bringing injured men to a hospital that is the target of enemy crossfire?”

“It is not my decision,” Suzuki reiterated.

“Helen and I were outside when the planes came,” Franz said. “We heard the whistle of the bullets. Helen was … traumatized.”

Suzuki gazed forlornly into his cup. “That is unfortunate.”

“The planes will return, Captain.”

“I imagine so, yes.”

Franz stared at Suzuki, desperate to crack his stoic fatalism. “Surely you must have influence with the major?”

Suzuki grunted another bitter laugh. “Aside from the Emperor himself, I do not know of anyone who has influence with Major Okada.”

***

Franz was nauseated and wobbly with fatigue by the late afternoon. He realized how prophetic Suzuki's words had been: there never was any rest at the field hospital. The day after the air raid, trucks rolled into the camp with fresh casualties from the field. Franz couldn't remember how long he had been awake, but it must have been at least thirty-six hours. He sutured wounds and reset broken bones, explosions pounding and heavy artillery fire drumming steadily in the background. Rumour around the camp was that the Kuomintang army of Chiang Kai-Shek had sent reinforcements to Hengyang for a massive counterattack.

Just as alarmingly, Franz's dizziness had returned. Twice so far that day he had had to find an excuse to sit down during
surgery. After the day's last casualty had been removed from the table, Franz was heading out of the room when his legs turned to rubber and buckled. Just as he was bracing himself for the fall, a pair of arms enveloped his waist and eased him to the ground and onto his back.

Helen knelt down beside him, her face creased with concern. “Franz, can you hear me? Are you all right?”

He glanced around, relieved to see they were alone in the room. “Yes. Thank you.”

She squinted. “The episodes have come back?”

Embarrassed, Franz looked away. “I have not eaten today.”

“You must, Franz. You heard what the captain told you.”

“I was … preoccupied.”

She slid her arm out from under his back. “I will go find you some of that salty fish.”

Before she could stand up, Franz reached for her wrist. “Helen, last night …”

It was her turn to look away. “We don't need to discuss it.”

Franz hung on to her arm. “Please.”

“I was in shock,” she said. “I acted without thinking. I am so sorry.”

“There is no need to be sorry.”

“You are married.” Her voice cracked.

He released her arm. “These are far from normal times.”

“That doesn't excuse what I did.”

“What
we
did.”

She hovered beside him but continued to avoid his gaze. “After my marriage—after my husband left me—I was angry, of course. With Michael. But the person I blamed most was Marjorie. She was supposed to have been my friend.”

“You have never even met Sunny.” He realized how meaningless the words sounded as soon they left his mouth.

“And yet I feel as if I know her. I am certain I would like her.”

“I have no doubt the two of you would get on well.”

“You think so?” Helen laughed. “I'm not so sure she wouldn't see straight through me, the way I should have with Marjorie.” She stood up and hurried toward the tent's flap. “Don't get up. I will bring some kusaya.”

Franz pushed himself up to sitting, fighting off the light-headedness. “Helen …”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, her cheeks flushed. “Yes?”

His tongue felt thick, and once again he couldn't summon the right words. “Thank you for … catching me.”

After Helen had left, Franz got to his feet and took a few cautious steps to test his balance. Feeling steadier, he headed out of the tent without waiting for her to return. He wanted to escape his mortification and, he conceded to himself, further temptation. Helen's vulnerability only made her that much more attractive. And he felt as confused as he was ashamed by the feelings.

Lost in thought, Franz found himself back on the path toward the officers' quarters. He slowed when he spotted Captain Suzuki conversing with another man behind the row of tents. His companion's back was turned, but Franz recognized Major Okada from the cane in his right hand alone.

Franz was about to turn away when he heard the major's raised voice. “
Okubyōmono
,” he screamed.

Franz shuddered, recognizing the Japanese word for
coward—
the term Okada had repeatedly hurled at the poor private before the savage beating.

But Suzuki only bowed his head in calm resignation. Okada raised his cane above his head. Franz froze, resisting the urge to yell a warning to the captain.

“
Okubyōmono
,” the major cried again as he swung the cane.

Suzuki didn't flinch as the handle whizzed through the air and struck the top of his scalp. He looked up momentarily in Franz's direction before his legs gave way and he crumpled to the ground.

Hannah stepped out of her building to find Herschel Zunder sitting at the curb in the blazing midday sun. He looked up at her with an expression that was somewhere between hopeful and lost. “
Guten Tag
, Hannah,” he said, rising to his feet.

She instinctively tucked the envelope she was carrying further into the waistband of her skirt as she approached. “Hi, Herschel. I didn't realize you were coming over today.”

“I wasn't. I didn't mean to surprise you. It's just that Rabbi Hiltmann has called another meeting at the
shul
, and I was hoping …”

“For today?”

“Yes, in about an hour.” He looked down at his feet. “I thought maybe we could go there together.”

“Oh, Hersch, I would have liked to, yes. But I promised my stepmother I would run a few errands.”

“I see.” He continued to study the ground. “Will you be seeing Freddy again?”

Hannah hesitated. “Not straightaway, no,” she said, appreciating how unconvincing her words must have sounded.

Herschel squared his shoulders and looked back up at her. “All right, then. I'd better not keep you any longer.”

Hannah spotted the hurt behind his brave expression, and she felt her cheeks flushing. “Let's plan to go to the rabbi's next meeting together,” she said in a cheerful tone that she knew came off as forced. “I would like that.”

“Yes, all right,” Herschel said as he turned to walk away. “Goodbye, Hannah.”

“Herschel,” she called after him.

“Yes?” he said without looking back at her.

“I'm sorry.” Then she hurried to add, “That I couldn't go with you today.”

He nodded without slowing his pace. Her heart sank watching him walk away, but as soon he rounded the corner, she headed in the opposite direction, toward the school.

Hannah was usually impervious to Shanghai's punishing summers—Ernst teased her that she must be part cold-blooded to thrive in such heat—but today the sweat was dripping off her brow by the time she neared her destination. The envelope tucked in her skirt reminded her of the sheer terror she had felt the previous year while waiting at the ghetto's entry checkpoint, her coat lined with illicit packages of cigarettes for Freddy. But with the fear came exhilaration. And this time, she was doing something important. And, of course, it gave her an excuse to see Freddy again.

Freddy was grinning from ear to ear when Hannah reached the clearing behind the school. She noticed that his pants were at least two inches too short for him, which confused her—usually he was the most fashionable boy in the ghetto. But she didn't want to embarrass him, so made no comment.

“Hiya, Banana,” Freddy cried. “You ready to help win this war?”

“Sh, Freddy,” she cautioned, but she couldn't keep the smile off her lips.

“There's no one ever here in the summer.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Guess we might have to find a new spot when school starts again in September, huh?”

“It won't matter then. They will only need our help for a week or two.”

He chuckled confidently. “We'll see about that.”

“This isn't a game, Freddy,” she said, trying to inject a gravity that she didn't feel into the conversation.

“Doesn't mean we can't enjoy ourselves.” He reached out and stroked her upper arm. “We're spies now, Banana!”

A warm tingle spread across her chest. “Not really.”

“Yeah, this is real espionage stuff. Just like in the movies.”

“But this isn't make-believe. We could get arrested or …”

Still, Hannah was sorry when he pulled his hand from her arm. “You got the list?” he asked.

She glanced furtively from side to side before extracting the envelope from her waist. Freddy snatched it out of her hand. “I better go set up the radio,” he said.

She shook her head. “That's not the list they want you to transmit.”

He tore open the envelope and read from the slip of paper. “What's this?”

“The address of the drop box.”

“Drop box? I don't get it.”

“They say it's too risky for me to carry the actual list.” Hannah pointed to the piece of paper. “That's the location where you are to pick it up from each time. You'll find it buried under four white stones arranged in a row.”

“Smart. A drop box. Yes.” He grinned again and showed the page to Hannah. “I know this place.”

She waved it away, having promised Sunny that she would never try to find out the location. “Don't tell me.”

He shook the paper at her. “Come on, Banana, aren't you a little curious?”

After a brief hesitation, she took it from his hand. Written there was the address of a quiet alleyway, directly across from the school.

“So the list is waiting there?” he asked.

She nodded.

He stuck the paper into his mouth, chewing it into a wad that he eventually spat into the bushes beside him. “Can't be too careful, right?” he said with another smile. “Stay here. I'll go get it.”

“I'm not supposed to be here when you transmit.”

“Makes sense. Probably for the best.” He jutted out his lower lip. “Too bad, though. Would have been nice to have you by my side for our first real mission.”

“I can't, Freddy.”

“It's okay,” he said matter-of-factly. “I'm sure I can tell you about it later.”

Hannah could feel her guilt mounting. She had already lied to Herschel and broken one promise to Sunny. The voice in her head told to turn and run, but she was desperately intrigued. And she was thrilled by the conspiratorial intimacy. “So long as no one comes around, I guess I could wait a few minutes.”

“That's the spirit.”

As soon as Freddy trotted off, Hannah began to have second thoughts. It was foolish to defy Sunny. She paced the clearing, her nerves frayed. Every sound startled her, even the rustle of the leaves in the wind. Her pulse thudded in her ears, and she half expected Ghoya and his men to appear at any second.

In a few minutes—which to Sunny felt more like a few hours—Freddy came racing around the side of the school, his face damp with sweat.

“Found it,” he announced as he marched past her and disappeared into a clump of bushes. He emerged seconds later with a blanket tucked under one arm, his body tilted sideways under the weight of the black sack that he carried by a strap over the shoulder of his other arm. After he spread the blanket on the ground, he carefully set the sack on top of it and extracted the body of the radio transmitter. He uncoiled a loop of copper wire and ran it along the ground to a nearby tree.

“Where did your father get the transmitter?” Hannah asked in a whisper while Freddy continued to assemble it.

“One of our neighbours, Herr Silbermann, used to be a radio engineer in Munich. He brought with him two sets that he made over there.” Freddy laughed. “Herr Silbermann loves his cigarettes. Besides, Pop paid him top dollar for this one. Everyone wins.”

Sunny heard the whine of brakes out on the street. Her legs tensed and her back stiffened. “How much longer, Freddy?” she demanded.

“Relax, Banana. No one's looking for us.” He stopped to admire his work before pulling a sheet of paper from his pocket and unfolding it. “I just have to tune into the right frequency.”

Hannah anxiously watched as Freddy dropped to his knees and fiddled with the dials on the front of the machine. A red light glowed and the speaker began to spit static. Freddy lifted the microphone to his mouth and read from the page. “Alpha echo foxtrot. Alpha echo foxtrot.”

Hannah held her breath, but the speaker only hissed static in response. Freddy adjusted more dials and repeated the greeting.
After a few seconds of dead air, a tinny voice replied, “Alpha echo foxtrot, go ahead, delta bravo victor.”

With a glance at his wristwatch, Freddy raised the sheet in his hand. He began to read off a series of alpha-numeric code in a slow, calm voice, but Hannah noticed a tremble in his hand. Her heart pounded, and her eyes darted around, on the lookout for unexpected movement.

Finally, Freddy lowered the page and said, “Confirm, alpha echo foxtrot.”

“Confirmed,” the ghostly voice echoed.

Freddy switched off the dial. The static disappeared and the bulb's glow faded. He checked his watch again. “Under a minute,” he announced, hopping to his feet.

“It's done? Already?”

He grabbed her by the shoulders and danced her around in a circle. “Under a minute, Hannah. Can you believe it?”

“Like real spies.” She laughed, giddy with relief and elation.

Suddenly, Freddy held her still. Before Hannah even realized what was happening, his lips were on hers.

No, Freddy, this is wrong.

But she couldn't help herself from responding to the kiss. Her face heated as his tongue darted between her lips. Then she felt his hand gently squeezing her breast through her blouse. The prickly warmth spread all the way down to her toes.