Rising Sun, Falling Shadow (16 page)

“Nervous,” she replied tersely. “Is it necessary to meet in such public places?”

His shoulders rose and fell. “I do only as I am told.”

Although the open square wasn't particularly crowded, Sunny irrationally sensed eyes on her from every direction. “Doesn't this . . . work . . . frighten you, Wen-Cheng?”

“It terrifies me.” He calmly turned a page. “But it is far too late to second-guess my decision.”

“I wish I could be so philosophical.”

His lips creased into a slight smile. “My wife, my parents, my job, the family business—they are all gone. This is much less of a gamble for me.”

“Than for me?”

“Yes.” Wen-Cheng lowered his newspaper. His eyes darted over to her. “I have already lost everything I once held dear. Including you, Soon Yi.”

His meaning was unmistakable. Their romance had amounted to no more than a promise, but she still remembered how desperately she had once pined for him. The recollection only compounded her guilt. “Wen-Cheng, you know that Franz and I . . .”

“I know,” he said, unperturbed. “I am merely pointing out that I have less to lose than you do. I wish . . .” He hesitated. “That I had never involved you.”

His tone surprised Sunny and, if she was honest, disappointed her a little, too. “It was always my choice, Wen-Cheng. Remember? I insisted.”

A minute or two of pained silence passed between them while Wen-Cheng continued to pretend to read. Sunny looked to her right and saw the old man in the Zhongshan suit limping slowly toward them. She wondered again how high the man ranked within the Resistance, or whether the organization even possessed that much structure or hierarchy. Did one cell within the Underground even know what the others were up to? Or did it all amount to a series of uncoordinated acts, no more damaging than fleas pestering a dog?

But Sunny held her tongue as the elderly man lowered himself creakily onto the bench between her and Wen-Cheng. He stared straight ahead at the rounded roofline of the tea house. “What have you learned, Soon Yi?” he asked.

Sunny spoke in short bursts, her voice hushed. She told him everything Franz had shared with her about the offices of General Nogomi and Colonel Tanaka. As she held forth, the man remained still and expressionless.

“And Colonel Kubota?” he finally asked.

Sunny shifted in her seat. “The colonel is no longer at Astor House. His office is inside the ghetto. On Muirhead Road.”

“Have you been there?”

“No, but my husband has,” she said, anticipating his question. “It's a modest space on the second floor.”

“Do you believe you would be allowed inside his office?”

“I would have no reason to go there.”

The old man's nostrils whistled as he exhaled. “Surely you can find a reason.”

“I . . . I do not see the point.” Sunny turned toward the man, but his gaze did not shift. “Colonel Kubota is no longer in his previous job. He has suffered a stroke. He has been demoted. Overseeing the Jewish refugees is a far lesser role.”

“Soon Yi speaks the truth,” Wen-Cheng said quietly. “The colonel is not the man he once was.”

“That is none of your concern,” the old man said, unmoved.

Sunny sat up straighter. “Are you aware that the colonel risked his life and his career to save the Jewish refugees—including my husband and stepdaughter—from extermination?”

The man showed no response. His eyelids drooped as though he might nod off in the middle of the conversation. Finally, he said, “Are you aware, Soon Yi, that Colonel Kubota lived in Shanghai among us for ten years, all the while pretending to be our friend and advocate?”

His voice was calm, but Sunny sensed rage behind his words. “No, I was not—”

“Do you know, too, that the colonel won our trust for no other purpose than to infiltrate our government and lay the groundwork for Shanghai's downfall?”

But he saved my family, Sunny thought.

“I ask you again, Soon Yi,” the man said, his tone turning to stone. “Can you get inside his office?”

 

The soldiers arrived at the hospital unannounced and insisted that Franz accompany them to Colonel Kubota's office. Franz had no idea what had prompted the summons but was nonetheless eager for the opportunity to speak to Kubota again. Refugees were dying daily from cholera, typhoid fever and other diseases that could have been treated with basic supplies such as intravenous fluid. The day before, a young father had died of a ruptured appendix. Franz had been unable to operate; they had waited in vain for anaesthetic that Joey's black market contact had promised but never delivered.

Franz stepped into the colonel's office intending to appeal to Kubota's sense of compassion. But his plans evaporated when he spotted the others in the room.

Kubota sat behind his desk, resignation carved into his weary face. Ghoya paced between the desk and the window. But it was the sight of the man on the far side of the room, who stood with arms folded across chest, that froze Franz's blood.

“Thank you for coming, Dr. Adler,” Kubota said with his usual politeness. “You remember Colonel Tanaka?”

If he lived to be a hundred, Franz would never forget the chief of the Kempeitai—the man who had overseen his torture at Bridge House. Sporting a fresh brush-cut and wire-rimmed glasses as thick as bottle bottoms, Tanaka wore knee-high black boots over his tan uniform and white armbands on his jacket sleeves. Franz had come to fear those markings almost as much as the red-and-black swastikas. He bowed his head. “Colonel Tanaka, Mr. Ghoya.”

Tanaka did not acknowledge his presence, but Ghoya shook his head at Franz. “It's no good, Dr. Adler,” the little man muttered. “No good at all.”

Franz waited, but Ghoya volunteered no explanation. “I am sorry, Mr. Ghoya, what is no good?”

“The Jews. I let them—” Ghoya glanced sheepishly over to his superiors. “We let them out of the Designated Area to work in the rest of the city. I give them passes. And how do they thank me?”

Again, Ghoya left Franz hanging. “I am not sure, sir.”

“They smuggle. They smuggle!” Ghoya cried. “Jewellery, liquor, cigarettes. It does not matter. All for the money. These Jews, Dr. Adler. These Jews, they take advantage of our kindness.”

Tanaka swirled his head in Ghoya's direction and scolded him in Japanese. Ghoya's eyes went wide and his chin dropped in deference.

Franz's throat constricted at the sound of Tanaka's shrill voice. He thought back to the squalid torture chamber in the basement of Bridge House, and lying strapped by his head and limbs to a wooden bench. Franz could practically feel the ligatures cutting into his wrists and the foul water sloshing over his face now. He breathed deeper, fighting off the memories.

Tanaka looked over to Kubota and continued in clipped Japanese. Kubota nodded reluctantly before turning to Ghoya and addressing him quietly. Ghoya sputtered an obsequious reply and bowed deeply at the waist. Kubota's left hand shook on the desktop as he held out his good arm to Franz. “We did not invite you here to discuss smuggling, Dr. Adler.”

“Sabotage!” Tanaka hissed in English.

Franz's shoulders tightened. Against reason, he assumed that Tanaka must already know that Charlie and Simon were hiding in Yang's home. “Excuse me, Colonel?”

“A bomb.” Tanaka stabbed his finger at the window. “Right here.”

“Yesterday, saboteurs detonated another bomb in Hongkew,” Kubota explained. “The explosion occurred just before noon at the wharf at the foot of Muirhead Road. Two sailors died. A merchant ship was damaged.”

“So close,” Tanaka snapped, his eyes blazing behind his thick glasses. “Were the Jews responsible?”

“Colonel, the wharf is outside the ghet—” Franz caught himself. “Outside the Designated Area.”

Tanaka's angry gaze never left Franz, but he waved dismissively in Ghoya's direction. “This one lets Jews come and go. He fusses over jewellery and cigarettes. I worry over bombs!”

Franz opened his mouth. “Colonel Tanaka, there is no—”

“You Jews hate Germans. Admit it!” Tanaka seemed to believe Franz spoke for all of Shanghai's Jews. “All you want is their defeat. So Imperial Japan must also lose. You will do everything to make it so.”

“Colonel, we are peaceful.” Franz brought a hand to his chest. “The great emperor has given us shelter. And we are most grateful for the Japanese hospitality.”

“So you say,” Tanaka scoffed.

“No one in the Designated Area has access to explosives.” Even as Franz spoke the words, he wondered if they were true. He knew of a few young hotheads, including the three Klein brothers, who were making noises about aiding the Underground. He had warned them and their parents that their reckless talk could threaten the entire community.

Tanaka smirked at Franz. “We will look ourselves.”

Kubota stared down and spoke to his desktop. “I'm afraid Colonel Tanaka is correct. We will have to search the Designated Area.”

Franz suddenly pictured the Kempeitai crashing through the doors of Yang's suite, catching Charlie and Simon unaware. Hiding his panic, he edged toward the door.

Tanaka suddenly sprang forward, stopping only inches from Franz's face. The hot sour breath made Franz blink. Tanaka pointed his forefinger into Franz's chest, as though poking him with a stick. “If I find anything, you answer to me.”

“I . . . I . . .” Franz stammered. “There is nothing to find.”

Kubota began to speak in Japanese, but Tanaka stopped him with the same sharp tone that he had levelled at Ghoya. Franz could see that his old ally no longer had much standing with the Kempeitai chief. Tanaka turned to Franz with a malicious grin. “If I find anything . . .” Without another word, he wheeled around and stormed out of the office.

Ghoya shuffled after him, head low. He stopped at the doorway and turned to Franz. “The smuggling will stop. It will stop. You mark my words, doctor.”

Desperate to warn the others, Franz hurried for the door himself. “Colonel, if you will please excuse me.”

Kubota only smiled weakly. “Circumstances have changed in Shanghai. Yours, mine, everyone's. Would you not agree, Dr. Adler?”

“I would, yes.”

“No wonder the Reubens declined my offer.”

“To be released from the internment camp?”

“We refer to them as ‘civic assembly centres,'” Kubota said with a trace of sarcasm. “Yes, they requested not to be relocated.”

That the Shanghailander couple had opted for prison camp over the relative freedom of the ghetto struck Franz as proof of just how dire the refugees' situation had become.

“Colonel Tanaka.” Kubota shook his head. “His threats are never empty.”

“So I have learned.”

“We will not tolerate subversion in the ghetto,” Kubota said mechanically.

“I would not expect you to.”

Kubota looked up from his desk, his eyes burning. “I had no intention of returning here.”

“I realize that.”

“We Japanese are guilty of pride. Too much pride. I am afraid I am no exception, Dr. Adler. To come back to the city that I once viewed as home . . . like this.” Franz was uncertain whether Kubota meant his diminished physical or administrative capacity, or both. “After my stroke, given the choice, I would have preferred to have never awoken.”

* * *

As Franz left the bureau, he resisted the urge to run. At the ghetto checkpoint, he saw two Japanese soldiers flanking the refugee guard. A thin woman stood in front of them, twitching nervously, while one of the soldiers rooted through her handbag.

When he was done, the soldier returned the bag to the woman and cleared her to re-enter the ghetto. As she crossed through, Franz recognized her as Liese, the nurse who had fallen into the role of the refugee hospital's anaesthetist.

Liese seemed astonished to see him. “Herr Doktor Adler!” she gasped. “Why . . . why are you here?”

“I had a meeting with the authorities,” Franz said. “And you? Why did you leave the ghetto?”

Breaking off eye contact, Liese looked acutely uncomfortable. “I hem clothes for a Japanese tailor in Frenchtown. Twice a week I drop off the finished clothes and collect the new ones.”

“Is everything all right, Liese?”

She stared at her feet for a long time before answering. “I am not sure whether it is my place to comment, Dr. Adler.”

“Comment on what?”

“I had just received my pay from the tailor. He only gives me a few marks for a week's worth but still . . .” She sighed. “After he paid me, I went to the Old City. There is a market there that sells vegetables for a good price when they have anything to—”

Franz regretted asking. “Liese, I do not mean to be rude, but I am in a frightful hurry.”

She nodded to herself. “I wasn't snooping, Dr. Adler. I just happened to see them together. On the bench.”

“Who did you see, Liese?”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Your wife.”

“Sunny was in the Old City?”

“Yes.” Liese glanced around her before speaking in a hush. “She wasn't . . . alone.”

 

“Papa sold them all!” Freddy exclaimed as soon as they were alone beneath the eaves behind the school. Laughing, he grasped Hannah by the shoulders and spun her around. “You're a brave one, Banana, carrying all those cartons through that checkpoint.”

“It was nothing.” She tried not to remember queuing at the checkpoint in her bulky coat, which was lined front and back with cartons of cigarettes, worrying she might faint with fear. But in the end, the guard waved her past with only a few questions and seemingly no interest in what might be under her coat.

Freddy dug into his trouser pocket and pulled his hand out in a fist. “I wouldn't call this nothing.” He made a show of slowly unfurling his fingers to reveal the five-dollar bill in his palm.

Hannah stared dumbfounded at the crumpled note. She assumed that the man with the beard was Abraham Lincoln, but she had never before seen anything other than an American one-dollar bill.

Freddy waved it at her. “For you.”

“For me?”

“Your share of the profit.”

“But Freddy this . . . this is a fortune.”

Still laughing, he leaned forward and pecked her on the lips. “No, Hannah, this is just the beginning.”

The kiss left her dazed. Warmth swept across her brow and cheeks. She stared wide-eyed at the boy before her, who was suddenly too handsome to bear. Freddy was saying something, but she couldn't follow his words.

He shook her gently by the shoulders. “Next week again, yes?”

“Yes,” she murmured, uncertain of what she was agreeing to and not even caring.

“Papa was wondering if this time you might be able to carry a few more cartons?”

“I think so, yes,” she said. Anything that might encourage Freddy to kiss her again.

The sound of footsteps shattered the moment. Freddy dropped his hands from her shoulders as though letting go of a scalding pot. He stepped back just as Hannah saw Otto Geldmann rounding the corner.

Otto was a sweet kid whom she had known since her first week in Shanghai. But just then, she wished the earth would swallow him up and leave her alone with Freddy again.

Freddy straightened to his full height and took a step toward the slight boy. “Hey, Otto, you're not spying on us, are you?” he asked in a friendly voice, but with a threatening undertone.

“No.” Otto's cheeks reddened. “I was just—I don't know—kind of bored. I came to see if I could find anyone behind the school.”

Freddy reached into his pocket and extracted a crumpled box. Hannah counted four cigarettes inside it. “We were just about to have a smoke. You want in?”

“Yes. Yes, please. I would love one,” Otto said. He glanced at Hannah, his eyes wary.

Hannah and Otto choked on their cigarettes while Freddy inhaled as smoothly as if he had been smoking for years, then tossed the stub to the ground and crushed it with the heel of his shoe. Hannah and Otto followed suit.

“Those were less than half done!” Freddy exclaimed. “What a waste!”

“Oh, sorry,” Hannah said, and meant it. Otto nodded contritely.

Freddy turned to Hannah with a knowing grin. “No matter. I'll be getting a bunch more very soon.”

* * *

As Hannah headed home after school, she felt light as air. Her belly grumbled, but she hardly noticed another day without lunch. The kiss had happened so quickly that she couldn't even remember how Freddy's lips felt on hers, but her chest filled with butterflies as she considered the promise inherent in that one moment. She resisted the urge to skip: her left foot never cooperated gracefully enough.

Her thoughts turned to the five-dollar bill tucked into her skirt. She would give it to her father without a second thought, except she knew there would be questions. She could not risk revealing what she and Freddy were doing. She considered leaving the money on the floor or tucking it into Franz's coat pocket, or perhaps even Sunny's, but the outcome would be the same. No one in Shanghai could afford to be so careless with that amount of money.

Esther! She would give the money to her. She could trust her aunt with anything.

With that problem solved, her thoughts drifted back to Freddy. Had they just become boyfriend and girlfriend? Could it really be?

Caught up in her daydreams, Hannah had already walked a few blocks before she noticed the unusual number of jeeps and trucks collected along the street. Some were parked on the sidewalk or pointed halfway out into intersections, while others blocked the entrances to the alleyways and the networks of homes they concealed.

As Hannah rounded the corner onto Kung Ping Road, she saw three soldiers gathered behind a truck parked at the end of the block. Infantrymen were a common sight in the ghetto, and these men stood at ease, but Hannah still felt deeply unsettled. She almost doubled back to avoid them but instead lowered her eyes to the pavement and continued on her way, staying on the far side of the street.

Just as Hannah reached the truck, the soldiers sprang into action. For a panicked moment, she thought they were heading for her. Instead, they raced over to the door of a nearby apartment building that had just flown open.

Hannah heard the shrieks first. The words were almost unintelligible, but she made out the phrase “Leave me be, you devils!” howled in Shanghainese.

A soldier stumbled out through the doorway hoisting a tiny Chinese woman in his arms. Her long hair had fallen across her face, and she struggled like a cat in a bathtub. The soldier pinned the woman's arms to her sides, but her legs flailed as though she were trying to run on air.

The other soldiers raced over, taking hold of the woman's arms. One soldier slapped her viciously across the face with his palm, then hit her again with the back of his hand. The woman yowled in response and struggled even more vehemently.

Hannah spun away from the violent scene. She was about to run back down the street when the woman called out to her in Mandarin, “Girlie! Listen to me!”

Yang! Hannah froze. She cautiously looked back over her shoulder at the woman who had helped teach her Chinese. Yang tossed her head, clearing the hair from her ashen face. Her frantic eyes were huge. “Wo˘ dúzì yÄ«rén!” she cried. “They found only me!”

Hannah was confused by Yang's odd statement. Had she misunderstood an idiom?

“I was alone!” Yang cried. “Soon Yi must know that I was alone. Tell her.”

The soldiers were looking at Hannah now. She began to back away. The man who had slapped Yang squinted hard at Hannah and shook a finger accusingly. “You know the woman?” he demanded in English.

Hannah shook her head. “I . . . I don't speak Chinese.”

The soldier stared at her skeptically for a moment before shooing her away. “Go! Leave us!”

Hannah held Yang's terrified gaze for a fraction of a second before she backed away a few paces, then turned and ran down the street.

“Only me! You tell her, girlie!” Yang cried behind her. Then she shrieked again, “Leave me be, you devils!”