Nightfall Over Shanghai (20 page)

Is it fair to say the tables have turned?” Suzuki asked.

“Literally, Captain.” Franz chuckled as he ran another suture through the gaping wound on Suzuki's scalp. The cane's blow fortunately hadn't fractured the captain's skull. It had been less than forty-eight hours since Franz had lain on the same operating table while Suzuki stitched his head closed. “However, I doubt salty fish will solve your problems.”

“Unlikely.”

Franz cut the suture and rethreaded the needle. “Thank you, Captain,” he said.

Suzuki sighed. “I do not wish to have this conversation again, Dr. Adler.”

But Franz persisted. “For speaking to the major about relocating the field hospital.”

Suzuki craned his neck to look up at him. “What makes you think this had anything to do with that?”

“I am assuming, Captain.”

Suzuki only grunted as he relaxed his head on the table.

“Is it safe to assume that we will not be moving camp?” Franz asked.

“It is.”

“And if the enemy planes return?”

“Then they return, Dr. Adler.”

“And then more lives will be lost.”

Suzuki laughed grimly. “How does that possibly matter anymore?”

The captain was right. It had stopped mattering long ago. Franz ran another stitch through the scalp wound, the rhythm of the surgical procedure his only reprieve from the misery he felt.

“We are not all blind, Dr. Adler,” Suzuki said.

“Excuse me, Captain?”

“Many Japanese, perhaps most of us, realize the war is already lost. And has been for a long time. Some people refuse to recognize or acknowledge this truth. Others …” Suzuki sighed. “To them, it doesn't matter.”

“Martyrs?”

“They consider themselves traditionalists. Like the samurai of old, who found honour in death through hara-kiri preferable to surrender.”

“People like Major Okada?”

He hesitated. “Yes.”

“But not you, Captain?”

“As a doctor, such waste of life is contrary to my teaching.”

“Mine too, Captain.”

Franz ran a few more stitches in silence. Suzuki had refused anesthetic and, as Franz had expected, didn't show a flicker of discomfort.

“You asked me once about my attention to burn victims,” Suzuki offered.

“Yes,” Franz said, confused.

“I was not entirely truthful with you, Dr. Adler.”

“How so?”

“Have you heard of Guadalcanal?”

“Yes.” Franz had heard of the island on Voice of America broadcasts. “It's in the Solomon Islands, is it not?”

“I was stationed at Guadalcanal for three months before I learned that my son, Ichiro, was on the same island.”

“He was in the army too?”

“Ichiro was a medical student at the University of California. An American citizen. His friends there used to call him ‘Ike.' He was never supposed to enlist. But after I went off to war, Ichiro badgered my brother, who worked for the High Command in Tokyo. My brother found a way in for my son, as a medic.”

Franz ran in another stitch, waiting for Suzuki to continue.

“His commanding officer told me Ichiro was an able medic. Very able. The squadron felt as though they had their own physician. Ichiro, he never did anything in half measure.” Suzuki sighed. “By January of 1943, the Americans had secured much of the island, but the fighting had reached a stalemate. On January 15, Ichiro was in a bunker at the front, attending to the wounded. It was the same day the Marines introduced a new weapon to the war in the Pacific.” He lapsed into silence.

“Which weapon?” Franz finally prompted.

“The flamethrower.”

Franz wished he hadn't asked.

“They incinerated the bunker,” Suzuki continued. “They told me Ichiro was on fire as he ran twenty yards across the beach to the jungle.”

Franz pictured the skinny boy from the photo on Suzuki's desk.

“Ichiro … his flesh might have been destroyed, but not his
spirit.” Suzuki closed his eyes momentarily before continuing. “He was still alive when I reached the field hospital five days later. The doctor there—a wise country man from the south—told me he had never seen anyone fight death with such ferocity. Only the skin on Ichiro's feet had been spared. He looked as if he had been dipped by the heels into a vat of boiling oil. But his eyes, they were as bright as ever.”

“He sounds incredibly brave.”

Suzuki grunted. “Ichiro was determined to make it home. To say goodbye to his wife and his mother.”

Franz thought of the two burn victims Suzuki had worked to keep alive in spite of their hopeless prognoses. Now it made sense.
He must have been trying to give them the same opportunity.

Suzuki looked away. “I imagine Ichiro might have made it home had the Marines not overrun the field hospital.”

Franz swallowed the lump in his throat. “I am so sorry for your loss, Captain.”

Suzuki smiled wistfully. “Ichiro, he made me very proud.”

***

Franz was alone in his tent. His three remaining tentmates were all still on duty. Despite his exhaustion, he couldn't get to sleep and just kept tossing and turning on the narrow mattress. After hearing Suzuki's story, he couldn't stop thinking of his own family. What could be worse than losing a child? He would rather run across a beach engulfed in flames himself than have anything terrible befall Hannah.

A soft rap at the tent's flap pulled him from the troubled thoughts. He rose to his feet to find Helen at the entrance. “People are saying that Major Okada attacked the captain,” she said in lieu of a greeting.

“Yes. Twenty stitches to his scalp, but he is all right now,” Franz said. “Come inside, please.”

Helen hesitated before following him. “Why did the major attack him?”

“The captain didn't say.” Franz misled her with the truth, unable to admit to Helen that Okada had no intention of moving the camp out of harm's way. She eyed him suspiciously. Franz patted the cot beside him. “Please, have a seat.”

Helen smoothed the blanket at the end of the bed and sat down. She crossed her legs and brushed nervously at something Franz couldn't see on the hem of her skirt.

He folded his arms self-consciously. “I wish I had tea to offer you.”

“No matter. I'm sick of green tea. I miss my orange pekoe.” She smiled as she patted the mattress beside her. “You shouldn't be standing after the episode earlier.”

“I'm feeling better, Helen.” Franz sat down at the far end of the cot. “How are you?”

“I keep scouring the horizon for airplanes.” She offered a tired smile. “It's no longer relaxing to go outside for a smoke.”

“Please, go ahead.”

Her cheeks reddened. “I don't smoke inside. Michael disapproved of it, and now it's ingrained in me.”

Franz tried to look anywhere but into her jade-green eyes. “I am not an advocate of smoking either. But, if I may say so, your husband strikes me as a fool.”

Her face flushed deeper. “You're sweet. And terribly kind.”

Her lips appeared so inviting. The distance between them seemed like nothing. Franz resisted the urge to move closer.

“I am not going to make it home, Franz.” Helen's voice quivered.

“Don't say that.”

Her eyes misted. “I've never been more certain of anything.”

He laid his hand on top of hers and squeezed it. “You've been traumatized, Helen. You can't know that. None of us can.”

She stared down at their hands. “I can't help the way I feel about you.” She sniffled softly and then eased her hand away from his. “But none of it makes this right, Franz.”

Franz hung his head and looked at his open hand as if it had betrayed him. “Of course not.”

They sat together in charged silence for several seconds until a commotion from outside broke the moment. The tent flap burst open and a soldier ducked into the tent. His eyes darted around, and then he called out in Japanese. The flap rustled again and Major Okada stepped inside, dragging his damaged leg behind him. He slowly took in the surroundings before his frigid eyes found Franz's. Helen immediately bowed her head but, shocked by the intrusion, Franz met his stare.

Okada spoke in his usual soft voice, but the soldier with him translated his words into English with the tone of a police interrogator. “Is it common for you to entertain women in your tent?” he demanded.

Franz glanced over to Helen, whose chin was still touching her chest. “This is the first time Miss Thompson has ever been here.”

The soldier translated for Okada, who squinted skeptically. He murmured another question. The soldier promptly translated. “The major wishes to know where you two were during the raid yesterday.”

Helen said nothing, so Franz responded for them. “We were outside the surgical tent. We had to dodge for cover. The bullets flew right past our heads.”

The soldier conveyed Franz's answer to the major. “Who else saw you?” Okada asked through the translator.

“I have no idea.” Franz picked up on the menace behind Okada's blank stare. “We were lucky to survive.”

The major scowled, unconvinced, and turned angrily on Helen. “You are American,” he accused through the translator.

“No, Miss Thompson is Canadian.” Franz tapped his own chest. “And I am Austrian.”

Okada's lip curled and he sneered silently at Franz. Finally, he said a few words. “You are all worthless and untrustworthy. No better than the Chinese,” the translator snarled.

“We have been working day and night to mend the Imperial Army's injured,” Franz said, desperate to appease Okada.

Okada lifted his cane, tapping the shaft against his palm. “The airplanes never attacked us before you came here,” the translator accused.

“We almost died too, Major,” Franz said.

Okada slapped his cane loudly, then stopped suddenly. “So you say.”

“We were brought here to help with the wounded, Major Okada,” Franz pleaded. “We are healers. That is all we know.”

Okada slowly levelled his cane at Franz like a sword. Franz's breath caught. He involuntarily leaned back, resisting the urge to protect his head with his hands. Okada drew circles in the air in front of Franz's face, continuing to speak in a low voice. Before the soldier could translate, Helen jumped up and stepped between them. Okada jabbed his cane into the centre of her chest, but she
didn't back down. She addressed him in Japanese in a strong clear voice.

Okada's look of surprise gave way to another vicious scowl. He raised his cane above his head, poised to strike.

“No, don't,” Franz said as he began to push himself to his feet.

But Helen waved him off. She met Okada's threatening glare and spoke to him again in a calm voice.

The cane hovered over her for several tense seconds. Finally, the major lowered its tip to the ground and spun away, hobbling out of the tent without saying another word.

“What did you say to him, Helen?” Franz demanded as soon as he was gone.

“The truth.”

“Which is?”

“That you and I did nothing wrong.” She smiled, but her eyes clouded with a defeated hopelessness that Franz had never before seen in her. “And that only a coward strikes the helpless.”

Even the shade from the trees lining the pathway in the Public Garden offered no reprieve from the heat and humidity. Sunny could feel her damp cotton dress clinging to her, but she was too focused on the harbour to pay much attention.

That's 15R2
, she thought as she studied the blackened hull of the battered cruiser, which listed heavily to the portside. Another cruiser—she had designated it 22R4—was still upright, but smoke wafted off its badly damaged stern. She presumed that the gunboat 19B2, now nowhere to be seen, must have already sunk to the bottom of the Whangpoo.

Sunny had woken at dawn to the distant rumbling of explosions. She heard the whine of Japanese Zeroes overhead as they raced to confront the enemy planes. She knew that it must be the Americans bombing the harbour, but whether the raid was successful—that she didn't know until she and Ernst reached the Public Garden, Jakob and Joey in tow.

As Sunny stared out at the carnage—the result of her reconnaissance—she didn't feel elated or even as excited as she had expected to. Instead, her emotions were unsettled and darker. Their intensity troubled her.

“Boats! Boats!” Jakob cried from where he sat perched on Ernst's shoulders.

“Well, yes, they certainly used to be,” Ernst said with a chuckle. He looked over to Sunny. “Apparently, someone does listen to the radio.”

Sunny pointed to 4R5, her code for the
Idzumo
, the prize of the Shanghai fleet. It stood unmolested exactly where she had reported it to be moored. “They didn't sink her.”

“There's always the next time.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. The Japanese might sail it somewhere safer.”

Ernst glanced to either side, then said in a quiet voice, “You do realize the Japanese will be watching very closely from now on.”

“The American pilots must be aware of that.”

“I meant you, Sunny. They will be—” Before Ernst could elaborate, Jakob bounced up and down on his shoulders as though riding a hobbyhorse. “Enough of that, Jakob. Despite this noble mane, I'm no Lipizzaner stallion. Time to play on the ground.” He plucked the boy off his shoulders and lowered him to the pathway. “No swimming in the river, though. Tempting as it may seem in this ungodly heat, that filthy water would kill you quicker than one of Sunny's guided torpedoes.” The boy picked up a stick and dug at the dirt with it. Ernst turned back to Sunny. “The Japanese aren't fools. They will be watching the port for spies.”

Sunny gently rocked the pram even though Joey was already asleep. “Anyone who works near the harbour could be a spy. You really think they would be looking at a mother and her children?”

“Not specifically, no. But I suspect they will scrutinize anybody and everybody.”

“We'll be all right,” Sunny said with more confidence than she felt.

Ernst dug a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. “Just be careful. After all, it will take some doing to replace you.” He winked. “Where in that miserable ghetto am I supposed to find another gorgeous, half-breed femme fatale?”

Sunny chuckled. “And you, Ernst?”

“What about me?”

“You live among Nazis. If they were to ever learn who you are …”

He blew out a stream of smoke. “
Ach
, they're far too blinded by their own self-importance to ever concern themselves with who
I
am.”

“And Gerhard?”

Ernst pulled the cigarette from his lips and eyed her suspiciously. “What about him?”

“I understand you are spending a great deal of time with him.”

“So what? He's interested in my art. Besides, I have nothing but time on my hands.”

“I'm not saying—”

“Do you have any idea what it's like to be cooped up night and day with Simon? It's almost enough to send anyone head-first out the window.”

Sunny touched his arm. “Is it safe to spend so much time with the boy?”

“Gerhard is not a boy,” Ernst said defensively, pulling away from her touch. “He's twenty years old.”

“But is he not one of them?”

Ernst shook his head. “May I remind you that, if not for Gerhard, your precious hospital and the synagogue would be nothing but a pile of rubble? How many Jews did he save last Christmas by tipping us off to von Puttkamer's plot?”

“It's not Gerhard. I worry about you.” She mustered a grin. “After all, do you have any idea how hard it would be for me to find another artistic genius with your flair for melodramatics?”

He pursed his lips, fighting back a smile. “Impossible, I grant you.”

“You are being discreet though, right?”

He rolled his eyes. “Discretion comes second nature to people like me, Sunny.”

“Good.”

Jakob dropped the branch he had been playing with and tugged at Ernst's pant leg. “Up! Up!”

“Of course, your highness.” Ernst bent over and lifted Jakob back onto his shoulders. He turned to Sunny, his expression downcast. “It's been over a year since I saw Shan.”

“I know.”

“I will probably never see him again. It doesn't make it right, of course, but I would understand if he were to …”

Sunny stroked Ernst's arm again, and this time he didn't pull away. “I have no doubt.”

Ernst hopped up and down, bouncing Jakob on his shoulders. The boy giggled uproariously. Ernst glanced to Sunny. “I didn't mean what I said about Simon. He's a good man. A rash fool, but a good man still.”

“I know.”

“He's in a bad way right now,” Ernst muttered.

“What is wrong?”

Ernst looked uncharacteristically sheepish. “I promised I wouldn't say anything.”

“About what?”

“I shouldn't …”

“Tell me, Ernst. Please. For Essie.”

He hesitated. “Simon, he couldn't go through with it.”

“Through with what?” It suddenly hit Sunny, and she squeezed Ernst's arm hard enough to make him flinch. “Not von Puttkamer?”

***

Sunny hadn't intended to accompany Ernst home, but she felt compelled to see Simon. Even with a scarf tied around her head and walking elbow in elbow with Ernst, she felt horribly exposed on the streets of Germantown. But they made it to Ernst's flat without incident, save for Joey waking up inconsolably cranky from his nap.

Ernst hadn't exaggerated. She had never seen Simon looking worse. His cheeks and chin were covered in patchy stubble, and his eyes were more sunken than ever. Even the presence of Jakob didn't elicit his usual optimism. Simon sat on the couch clinging to his son until Jakob eventually wriggled free of the embrace and refused to climb back onto his father's lap.

Joey fussed from heat and hunger, calming only after Sunny offered him a bottle of sugary water. She sat down beside Simon, holding the bottle while rocking Joey on her knee. Ernst stood at the window with his back to the room.

“What happened, Simon?” Sunny asked.

Simon's eyes were fixed on his son, who was playing on the floor with pieces of a wood easel. “I froze.”

“Tell me, Simon,” Sunny encouraged.

“I ran right into the son of a bitch,” Simon said. “And he was alone too.”

“Just von Puttkamer? No bodyguard?”

“Just the two of us. No entourage. Hardly anyone on the street.”

“And?”

“He walked right past me. Even gave me one of those sharp nods only the aristocratic Krauts can pull off. So close I could smell the bastard's aftershave. I could feel the knife handle under my jacket. It would have been so easy.”

“But you promised Essie.”

He shrugged. “I wasn't out looking for him. I just ran into him. Alone. Maybe a once-in-a-lifetime break.”

“What did you do?”

“I stood there,” he grunted. “Stiff as a statue.”

“Who wouldn't?” Sunny said.

“Then the damnedest thing happened.” Simon's shoulders sagged further. “Von Puttkamer stopped, Sunny. Not three yards in front of me. Lighting a cigarette. There couldn't have been a better time. His back to me, his hands busy with the cig, no one there to protect him … And what did I do?”

“You came to your senses, apparently.”

“I just stood there trembling like a child.”

“You are not an assassin,” Sunny insisted. “There's no shame in that.”

“The man who plotted to kill my family? Probably is still planning to.”

“You're not an assassin,” she repeated.

But Simon wasn't listening. “If I were just a little stronger, a little braver, I could've done everyone in the ghetto such a favour.”

Sunny had heard enough. “Stop it, Simon!”

Simon stared in surprise. Even Ernst did a double take.

“Enough of this self-pity,” Sunny snapped. “You had no business
going out in the first place. You were risking Ernst's life. After all he's done for you.” She threw her hands up in the air. “And as for the people in the ghetto?”

Simon stiffened. “What about them?”

“Tell me what would have happened if the Nazis had caught you before or after your attempt on von Puttkamer? Would that make your wife and child somehow safer?”

“Probably not,” Simon conceded.

Sunny shook her head in disbelief. “Even if they hadn't caught you, for them to even suspect that a Jew had come into their neighbourhood to kill one of their own … You think that would persuade the rest of the Nazis to leave the ghetto be?”

Simon hung his head in defeat.

“So you've proven you're not a cold-blooded killer. So what? The world is overrun with those.” Her tone softened. “The best way—the only way—you can help your wife and son right now is to stay inside and keep your head down until you can all be together again.”