Rising Sun, Falling Shadow (20 page)

“Hitler? He made you take advantage of children?”

Herzberg exhaled. “He has forced me do whatever is necessary to protect my family.”

Franz grabbed Herzberg by the collar of his coat. “You will stay away from Hannah. Far away! Do you understand me?”

Herzberg stared back at him but made no attempt to resist. “Yes, Herr Doktor. You are most easy to understand.”

“And you and your son will never involve another child in your schemes. The smuggling stops now, Herzberg. Am I clear?”

“What we do with our business is not your—”

Franz pulled harder, hoisting Herzberg up on his toes. “No more smuggling!” he cried.

Herzberg clamped his hands over Franz's wrists and began to pry them free. “And what can you do about it?”

“If I hear of you selling so much as a single cigarette in the ghetto, I will tell Mr. Ghoya precisely what you have done.”

Herzberg froze, and his eyes filled with terror and conciliation. “No, of course. No more smuggling. Never again,” he sputtered.

 

Refugees and Chinese citizens alike gathered at the intersection of Muirhead and Wayside Roads to watch the soldiers erecting the wooden post in the middle of the street. Hannah had heard that floggings in the ghetto always drew a substantial crowd. She assumed that people came out of morbid curiosity, and it disgusted her to see such a gathering for the sole purpose of witnessing her father's whipping. She would have given anything to not have to watch.

Freddy had promised to be there, too, but he was nowhere in sight. Hannah was glad not to see him. She had only told him out of spite. She wanted Freddy to feel guilty, like she did. But it hadn't worked; she saw through his feigned concern. All he cared about was that she had not turned him in and that his own family had been spared the whip.

What a fool I was! She had fallen so hard for Freddy's American-style charm. Only now she could see how he had manipulated her. Even the kiss that had shaken her world had just been an act. She had been his pawn from the first day. Undoubtedly, Freddy would find a replacement; perhaps even Leah Wasselmann.

Hannah's stomach churned. She worried about vomiting again, especially when her father reappeared.

They had walked together from the hospital to the Bureau of Stateless Refugee Affairs, but Ghoya had whisked Franz into the building as soon as they arrived. She had not seen him since. Hannah had never felt so alone. She wished Sunny was with her. She longed to hold her hand.

On the way over, Hannah had asked her father why he insisted that they keep the flogging from his wife.

“What good would it do to tell her?” Franz asked.

“She would want to be here for you.”

“For what, Hannah?” he snapped. “So she could suffer, too?”

“I . . . I . . .” she stuttered. “This is all my fault.”

“What's done is done, Hannah-chen.” He exhaled. “I wish to God you didn't have to see this, but they have given us no choice.”

“It should be me, Papa.”

Franz placed an arm around her shoulder and brought his daughter to a halt. His eyes locked onto hers. “Do you not understand how much worse that would have been for me?”

She shook her head. “I am responsible.”

“The Herzbergs had no right to involve you.”

“But—”

“Just as I have no right to involve Sunny,” he said. “You know she would insist on being here, too.”

“She would want to be here,” Hannah repeated.

“Sunny has so many worries right now. Yang's arrest has been so hard on her. She does not need to see this. Neither do you.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Hannah, promise me that you will look away or cover your eyes.”

“I . . . I have to watch, Papa. That colonel said so.”

“Promise me, Hannah.”

“I will try.”

She was snapped from the memory by the sight of Ghoya leading her father out of the building. Two soldiers were with Franz, but they didn't need to detain him. He walked calmly, with his head held high.

Hannah burned with guilt to see her father, who always dressed so fastidiously, clad only in an undershirt and trousers. As he passed her, he nodded once, as though to remind her of her promise, and then gave her a tight reassuring smile.

As soon as the contingent reached the post in the middle of the intersection, Franz stepped forward and leaned against it, holding up his hands so one of the soldiers could bind them with rope to the rusty metal ring that hung above him. Once Franz's wrists were secure, the soldier grabbed her father's undershirt and ripped it apart, exposing his bare back. The other soldier stood back from the post, a thick black whip in his hands. Its tail was so long that it gathered at his feet like a coiled snake.

Hannah smelled aftershave and turned to see Ghoya sidling up to her. “Do you see, girlie?” he demanded. “Do you? This is what happens to smugglers.”

“I have learned my lesson, Mr. Ghoya,” she blurted. “I swear to God! Please do not punish my father.”

Ghoya grinned widely. Then, without warning, he slapped her across her bruised cheek. The pain stung worse than the first blows the day before, but she bit her lip and stifled her tears, desperate to stay strong for her father.

“Examples must be set,” Ghoya hissed into her ear. “You should be on that pole, too. If not for Taisa Kubota . . .”

Realizing that it was futile to plead anymore, she looked down at her feet.

Ghoya reached out and pinched her jaw, then forcibly rotated her face in the direction of the post. “You must watch this, girlie! Every lash, every single lash. They are for you, too.”

The soldier nearest her father hollered in Japanese. Hannah only recognized the last word—“ichi”—which she knew meant “one.” The soldier holding the whip cocked back his arm.

Franz squared his shoulders and raised his head higher.

Ghoya maintained his grip on Hannah's face, but Hannah averted her eyes upward. Even so, she saw the whip uncoiling overhead. It cracked through the air. The next thing she heard was a revolting snap.

A gasp escaped Franz's lips.

Hannah couldn't help but look over. She was horrified to see a raw wound coursing the length of her father's exposed back. His knees buckled slightly and he stooped forward against the post, bleeding.

“You see, girlie?” Ghoya asked. “Do you?”

“I do,” Hannah breathed.

“Yes, yes. Everyone must see.” Ghoya turned to the watching crowd and bellowed, “This is what happens to smugglers! Tell the others: next time it will be a firing squad. Yes, yes! Tell them that, too!”

The first soldier called out, “Ni”—“Two.”

Franz straightened his legs and arched his spine.

Hannah glanced skyward again. She tasted bile as the lash sizzled overhead.

 

Sunny hurried along Thibet Road on her way to Frenchtown. Despite the warmth of the autumn day, she kept her hands tucked in her coat pockets and her chin buried in her collar as she passed one Japanese soldier after another. She imagined each of them snapping a whip, and her rage simmered.

Half an hour after she'd applied salve and bandages to Franz's back, Sunny could still feel the rough edges of his wounds against her fingertips. She was amazed that infection had not set in over the past week. She had to fight back tears every time she changed the dressing.

For his part, Franz hid his suffering behind smiles and occasional jokes. He had even returned to work to assist Sunny on an urgent amputation and a perforated colon repair. Still, she knew he was in agony.

Sunny's anger wasn't limited to the Japanese. She was furious with Hannah, too, and had yet to forgive Franz for keeping the flogging a secret. Sunny had only learned of it when a Jewish woman burst into the hospital hysterical with the news. Upon sprinting to the site, Sunny found Franz half-naked and curled up at the foot of the whipping post. There was so much blood caked over his back that it appeared painted on. The sight of Hannah was almost as distressing. The girl rocked silently on her knees beside her father, tears streaming down her cheeks. Franz was unable to rise to his feet, and Sunny had to ask a pair of young men to carry him home over their shoulders.

Forcing that day from her mind, Sunny focused on the more hopeful news that Joey had delivered the day before. He was shouting as he burst onto the ward. “I found her, Soon Yi! I found her!”

Sunny raced over to him. “Yang? You found Yang?”

“Yes!”

“Where?” She threw her arms around Joey and danced him around in a circle. “Is she here with you? Outside?”

He shook his head, beaming. “No. She's in Lunghua. Can you believe it?”

Her arms fell away. “The prison camp?”

Joey knit his brow, puzzled at her tone. “With the Americans and the British, too. Lunghua is not so bad, Sunny. There are even children inside.”

It was true. Sunny had heard that the conditions at Lunghua were more bearable than at many of the other sites that the Japanese still referred to as “civic assembly centres.” “How do you know Yang is there?”

“Guo-Zhi.” A silent labourer, Guo-Zhi had worked at the refugee hospital longer than Sunny had. “His wife went out to Lunghua Camp to take food to her former employer—you know, that widowed Englishman. She saw Yang being unloaded off a truck out front.”

“Did Yang look well?”

“Her face was bruised and she had a limp, Guo-Zhi told me.” Then he hurried to add, “But at least Yang was on her feet. This is so much better than what the news could have been.”

Joey was right. Sunny found solace in the knowledge that Yang was at a relatively safe camp, rather than in some torture chamber like Bridge House or buried in one of the mass graves, as she had come to fear. Still, she couldn't help but wish for more. She wanted Yang home with her.

The thought faded as Sunny saw the gentle curve of the Cathay Building ahead of her. Despite Shanghai's general dilapidation, the grand building—a fusion of Gothic and art deco design styles—gleamed as brightly as ever, sunlight reflecting today off its gilded motifs.

Sunny slipped in through the ornamental copper doors and hurried across the lobby to the elevator. As the car rose higher, so did her trepidation. She rarely visited Jia-Li at her home; her best friend often hosted clients there. Sunny had never before arrived unannounced, but today she had no choice. The whole neighbourhood had lost telephone service again. Besides, word had swirled through the ghetto that the Japanese were closely monitoring the phone lines. Few were willing to risk discussing anything on the line, especially any matters that could be construed as remotely sensitive.

Sunny stepped off at the ninth floor and approached Jia-Li's flat at the end of the hallway. She rapped three times on the door, then paused and tapped four times. Their signal.

A few seconds passed, long enough for Sunny to wonder whether Jia-Li was out or indisposed. Then the door opened a crack. “Are you alone?” Jia-Li whispered.

“Yes.”

The door opened wider and Sunny stepped inside.

Wearing only a black silk robe, Jia-Li greeted Sunny with a hug. Beneath her jasmine perfume, Sunny detected a trace of sweat and something else. Assuming that she had interrupted a client's visit, Sunny wriggled free of her friend's embrace and back-pedalled toward the door. “I am sorry to surprise you, ba˘o bèi. I will come back later.”

Jia-Li reached for Sunny's forearm, pulling her back. “What is this foolishness, xiăo hè?”

“Honestly, it is no inconvenience,” Sunny said. “I'll return later. When you are more available.”

Jia-Li glanced down at her short robe and then looked up, suddenly understanding. She cleared her throat. “Oh, Charlie is home with me. We, um, slept in late this morning.”

The two friends stared at each other for a moment before breaking into simultaneous laughter, which soon evolved into a fit of giggles. “Perhaps Charlie would have been safer staying with that refugee family after all,” Sunny choked out between laughs.

“He might have gotten more sleep,” Jia-Li joked.

A clopping noise drew Sunny's attention. She turned to see Charlie, shirt untucked, making his way toward her. The sound of his crutches against the wooden floor reminded her of hoof beats. “Nice to see you, Soon Yi.” He smiled without a trace of self-consciousness.

Jia-Li wiped a happy tear from her eye and then locked elbows with Sunny. “Come, sit with us. I'll make tea.”

As they settled themselves, Sunny shared the news about Yang. It led to another hug and more giggles of relief. The women sat down side by side on the couch, while Charlie eased into the room's sole wingback chair. Sunny noticed how empty the apartment was. On her last visit, it had been filled with decorative objects: paintings, sculptures, rugs and ornaments, including a massive gilded candelabrum and an ornately painted Ming vase. Sunny wondered if Jia-Li had hocked her possessions to help support the Adlers with “loans” that they would never be able to repay.

“As you can see, xiăo hè, I have uncluttered somewhat.”

Sunny squeezed her hand. “All your beautiful decorations, ba˘o bèi . . .”

“Were out of style anyway. I think it looks better this way. Better feng shui.” Jia-Li looked over to Charlie with a loving grin. “Besides, none of my vases stood a chance with my one-legged rhinoceros stampeding about.”

He laughed. “I am still light as a feather. Even on only one foot.”

Despite his gauntness, Charlie looked more robust than he had on Sunny's last visit. “You are feeling stronger, Charlie?” she asked.

He flexed his elbow. “I could lift you both with one arm.”

“You have done enough lifting for one day.” Jia-Li laughed and this time Charlie reddened slightly.

Jia-Li's joy was contagious. Sunny was also relieved that, unlike on her previous visits, Charlie had yet to mention his impatience to return to his troops. As though reading her mind, he leaned forward in his chair and said, “I still intend to get back to my men, but priorities have shifted.”

Sunny looked from Charlie to Jia-Li. “So I see.”

“No, no,” he said. “I mean the Flying Tigers.”

Jia-Li eyed Charlie warily, but he didn't seem to notice.

“The American planes?” Sunny asked.

“Exactly!” He almost jumped out of his chair with excitement. “They crossed overhead on their way to the river again this morning. I counted them as they flew home. They did not lose a single fighter.”

“So American planes will keep him in the city,” Jia-Li said to herself as she lit a cigarette. “At least something will.”

“You know how important this is, precious,” Charlie said. “It means the war is coming to Shanghai.”

Suddenly uneasy again, Sunny asked, “Hasn't the war been here since the first bomb fell on Hongkew?”

“That battle was lost years ago. Our incompetent generalissimo wasted half his army trying to defend the city without adequate air support.” Charlie motioned to the ceiling. “Now, with the help of the Americans, we can finally turn the tide against the Rìběn guı˘zi.”

Jia-Li turned to him dubiously, a cigarette dangling from her lips. “You don't mean us, Chun? Surely not.” It was the first time Sunny had heard her use his Chinese name.

“I do.” He nodded enthusiastically. “From inside the city, too. No longer out in the countryside.”

“But how can you help the American planes, Charlie?” Sunny asked.

“The Rìběn guı˘zi can only move troops and supplies in and out of the city via the river or the railway,” he said.

Jia-Li sat up straighter. “Then why can't the Americans bomb those?”

“So far, they have sent only fighters. No bombers. I suspect the Allies have not yet gathered the air power for such a mission.” Charlie shrugged. “Regardless, we can reach the railway terminal just as easily as any bomber. And the Japanese transmitter is in Hongkew. Right outside the ghetto.”

“Reach them how?” Jia-Li nodded in the direction of his crutches. “Besides, what would you use to blow up the terminal or the transmitter?”

Charlie's grin only widened. “Fireworks, if need be.”

“Charlie, you are in no condition for that,” Sunny said. “You are still recovering from—”

Jia-Li leapt to her feet. “This is nothing but fantasy!” she cried, waving her cigarette wildly. “You see yourself liberating Shanghai. A hero. The same way I imagine myself as a wife, and even a mother someday. A woman of virtue. Not what I really am: a glorified wild pheasant.”

Charlie stared at her, his smile tempered but not gone.

Jia-Li dropped to her knees in front of him, grabbing his hand in hers. When she spoke again, her voice trembled. “The truth is we are both damaged beyond repair. You and I . . . we are only dreaming, Chun.”

* * *

As Sunny walked through the International Settlement, she reflected on Jia-Li's outburst. Her best friend was smitten to a degree Sunny had never seen before. Pleased as she was for Jia-Li, Sunny worried over the risks of this new romance. Not only could Charlie be gone or lost in an instant but Jia-Li would remain in grave danger every moment that she spent with him.

As Sunny crossed the Bund and entered the Public Garden, her mind turned to the real purpose of her trip out of the ghetto.

Wen-Cheng was sitting on the same park bench as always, holding a newspaper in front of his face. A quick look around her confirmed that no one else was in the gardens. Sunny dropped down onto the far end of the bench.

“How is Franz?” Wen-Cheng asked without lowering the paper.

“Better.”

“I am pleased to hear it.” He paused. “And Charlie?”

“What about him?”

“Have you found him alternative accommodations?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“With Jia-Li.”

Wen-Cheng nodded. “And you, Soon Yi? How are you?”

“I am no longer . . . comfortable.”

Wen-Cheng turned a page but said nothing.

“Our contact—the old man,” Sunny continued. “Do you know much about him?”

“He was a friend of my father's. Before the invasion, he was involved with the municipal council.”

“That must be how he knew Kubota. The colonel used to work in the mayor's office.” Sunny nodded to herself. “I knew they must have had some kind of previous relationship. You can tell by the way he speaks about him.”

Wen-Cheng eyed her momentarily before turning back to the newspaper. His voice took on a sudden urgency. “I warned you: once you commit, there is no way out.”

Sunny felt a heavy weight descend on her shoulders, but she could only nod.

“You feel a debt of loyalty toward the colonel. I understand that.” Wen-Cheng exhaled. “But it is not up to you or me to decide such things. We are like . . . soldiers. We must do as we are told. Otherwise it will become very dangerous for us.”

“How can I simply—” Sunny detected movement out of the corner of her eye. Her pulse raced as she watched the old man in the grey Zhongshan suit limping down the pathway toward them. He moved at a leisurely pace, stopping every few yards to stare at the weed-riddled lawn.

Sunny knew that the old man and his network were not the enemy. The members of the Resistance were risking so much—their lives and those of their loved ones, too—to liberate her city. She admired their bravery and selflessness, but at that moment, all she wanted was to see the old man turn and walk away forever. By the time he finally reached the bench, Sunny's mouth had gone dry.

He stood with his back turned to them, holding his arthritic fingers interlocked behind his back. “Soon Yi, we need you to set up an appointment with Colonel Kubota.”

“An appointment?” Sunny shook her head. “I cannot do that.”

The old man stood absolutely still. “Cannot or will not?”

“I cannot get in to see the colonel,” Sunny said, remembering what she had practised saying earlier that day with Franz. “I already tried, last week.”

“Oh?” The old man turned slightly in her direction. “And why were you trying to see the colonel?”

“To stop my husband from being flogged,” Sunny lied. “I went to his office and begged the guards to allow me in. I waited outside for hours, and when the colonel finally came out, he just breezed past me and got into his car. He did not even acknowledge me.”

The man shrugged slightly. “Perhaps if you are calmer when you return.”

“It won't make a difference.” Sunny willed indifference into her tone. “My stepdaughter was caught smuggling cigarettes into the ghetto. My husband is persona non grata with the Japanese. I doubt the colonel would see me under any circumstances.”