Rising Sun, Falling Shadow (26 page)

Jakob tugged at Hannah's hands while she covered her face and peeped. “Kuckuck!”

She opened her hands like shutters. As usual, her left hand moved less smoothly than her right, but her nephew was oblivious. He giggled uproariously. The ten-month-old couldn't get enough of his favourite peekaboo game. Hannah was happy for the distraction, too. Jakob's presence counterbalanced the rising tension at home.

School wasn't much better. Hannah and Freddy hardly spoke. What hurt far more than seeing him with Leah was his cheerful indifference. It confirmed what Hannah had feared: for Freddy, she had only ever been a means to an end. Lately, she had been spending more time with Otto Geldmann than any of her other classmates. While there was a degree of consolation in his sweet attentiveness, Otto never gave her butterflies the way Freddy always had.

Jakob swung a hand at her face, demanding more peekaboo. “You are such a determined little one,” she laughed as she swept him off the floor and swung him through the air.

Jakob struggled against her until she brought her lips to his belly and blew, which elicited another fit of giggles. “Time to change your diaper, Schatzi,” she said.

As Hannah lowered Jakob to the floor, she looked over to the couch, where Esther had been reading Simon's letter. Tears now ran down her cheeks and the letter dangled from her fingers. Hannah had not seen her aunt cry in years, not since those dark months after Kristallnacht when the storm troopers had killed Onkel Karl. “What's wrong, Tante Essie?”

Esther wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Ach! It's nothing really. I am only being foolish.”

Hannah passed Jakob his favourite rattle, which he took to shaking energetically. She got to her feet and hurried over to the couch. Reaching for her aunt's hand, she sat down beside her. “Tell me, Tante, please . . .”

“Simon—he worries about us.”

“He always worries when he is not with you,” Hannah pointed out. “It's only natural.”

Esther smiled through her tears. “This time is different, Hannah-chen.”

“How so?”

“Simon says he cannot wait any longer. That he will not. He insists on coming to join us.”

“Here? In the ghetto?”

Esther nodded. “There couldn't be a worse time for him to sneak across the checkpoint. You have seen how vigilant the Japanese are being ever since the Underground—” She caught herself.

“Killed those Japanese officers,” Hannah finished her sentence.

“Of course, you too would have heard about that.”

“Everyone has. And I know they died at Papa's hospital.” Hannah stifled a sigh. Her aunt was as overprotective as her father, both of them believing they could somehow shelter her from the bad news that was as predictable in Shanghai as the winter rain. “Last month there was a rumour going around at school that a group of former students was behind the killing.”

“That's nonsense, Hannah. It was the Resistance.”

“I never believed the gossip.”

Esther went quiet. When she finally spoke, her voice was hoarse. “If Simon were to be caught, they would not simply take him back to a camp. No, they would . . .” She shuddered. “I cannot even bear to think of it.”

Hannah thought of the women who were shot for trying to escape their home during a raid. She squeezed her aunt's hand tighter. “We have to convince him to stay put.”

“He will not listen to us.”

“Why not?”

“In light of the, er . . .” Esther hesitated. “Recent events. He feels he has to be here to protect us.”

“You mean the bomb the Nazis are planning?”

Esther grimaced. “You know about that, too?”

Hannah nodded. “Last week, I overheard Sunny and Papa talking about it.”

“Yes, but—”

“I am not a child,” Hannah huffed, aware that she sounded like the epitome of a petulant teenager but too angry to care. “In a few months, I will be fourteen. You do not need to protect me from this anymore.”

“I'm sorry, Hannah. You are right. You're practically grown up. God knows you are wise beyond your years.” Esther mustered another smile. “I cannot help myself. Sometimes when I look at you, I just see my precious little niece, not the young woman you are becoming.” She pointed to Jakob, who was trying to eat his rattle while hauling himself to his feet against the side of the couch. “I want to protect all of you from the misery in this world.”

Hannah leaned closer to her aunt. “I want to help you, Essie. Let me.”

“I know, Hannah-chen,” Esther murmured. “I love you for it, too. But I don't think anyone can stop Simon. Once he sets his mind to something . . .”

Hannah pulled her hand free of Esther's and snapped her finger. “Tell him you will leave.”

“Leave?” Esther frowned. “I do not understand.”

“Warn Simon that if he tries to come for you, you will take Jakob and go somewhere where he will never find you.”

“I can't make a threat like that,” Esther said, more in surprise than anything else.

“Even if it stops him from doing something so rash?”

Esther stared at Hannah for a moment. “I suppose it might be worth it. Yes, it just might.”

The door opened, and Hannah looked over to see her stepmother enter.

Sunny picked up on Esther's distress from across the room. She looked quickly over to Jakob and, seeing that he was fine, hurried over to the couch. “What's wrong, Essie? Is it Simon?”

Esther waved the letter in her hand. “He is planning something . . . something suicidal.”

Sunny took the letter from her hand and read it silently, then folded it and passed it back to Esther. “I will speak to him.”

“You will?” Esther said.

“I will make him listen.”

“Oh, thank you, Sunny. And will you take him something from me?”

“Certainly. Another letter?”

Esther glanced at Hannah and then turned back to Sunny with a shake of her head. “An ultimatum.”

 

 

Sunny couldn't draw her eyes away from the painting. Though it was Post-Impressionist in style, and only half finished, its macabre theme was unmistakable. Many of the figures on the canvas were just ghostly outlines, their features still undefined. Nonetheless, she was mentally catapulted back to Broadway and the morning she had stumbled across the execution site. Ernst had captured the electric mood of the crowd that morning. Sunny experienced another pang of pity for the victims. They must have suffered horribly before their undignified deaths. And clearly time had proven Franz right: the old man from the Underground must have kept her identity from the Kempeitai.

“Not my best work, I realize.” Ernst stood beside her, smelling of oil paint and tobacco. “Let me see if I can salvage it yet.”

“It's gripping.” Sunny finally peeled her eyes away. “But Ernst, after the last time, with those paintings you did of the Nanking Massacre.”

“What about them?”

“They just about got you drawn and quartered.” Simon spoke up from the window ledge where he was sitting. “You think it's wise to go over that waterfall again?”

Ernst addressed Sunny. “This, from a man who single-handedly wants to storm the ghetto?”

Simon rose and strolled over to them. “No storming. I only want to make sure my wife and son are safe. Is that too much to ask?”

“Don't you see, Simon?” Sunny said. “By trying to reach Essie and Jakob, you would only be putting them in more danger.”

“What choice do I have, Sunny? Better that I stay cooped up here and just hope they keep out of harm's way?”

“Sunny has a point,” Ernst said. “Your return will not go unnoticed. The Japanese are everywhere.”

“It's not the Japanese who concern me,” Simon said.

“They should, my friend.” Ernst wiggled a finger at his painting. “They really should.”

“Even the yellow peril—” Simon flashed Sunny an apologetic look. “The Japs, I mean. What they can do doesn't compare to what the Nazis have in mind.”

Sunny turned back to Ernst. “Have you heard more from the baron?”

“Nothing specific.” Ernst pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and tapped one out. “I tried to visit him yesterday but couldn't get in.”

“The son of a bitch doesn't trust you anymore,” Simon snorted.

“I doubt that,” Ernst said through a cupped hand as he lit the cigarette. “I imagine von Puttkamer is being extra cautious, now that his plans are in the final stages.”

“Final stages?” Sunny stiffened. “What have you heard, Ernst?”

“Gerhard believes the attack is imminent.”

“What does that mean? Today? Tomorrow? Next week?”

“Von Puttkamer told him to be prepared at a moment's notice,” Ernst said. “Gerhard thinks the attack will come in the next few days. A week at most.”

A chill ran down Sunny's spine. “Days . . .”

“Right in the middle of Hanukkah,” Simon said to himself.

“Christmas is only a few days away,” Ernst added.

“Yeah, but Hanukkah will bring all the Jews together in one spot,” Simon said.

Sunny stifled a gasp. “At the synagogue! Of course!”

Simon nodded. “On Saturday. It's Shabbat.”

“That has to be where the Nazis will attack!” Sunny exclaimed. “When everyone is gathered for the service.”

“Saturday is also Christmas Day,” Ernst pointed out.

Simon grimaced. “You don't honestly think that would stop them?”

“No, I suppose not. Probably their idea of a Christmas present.”

“Even if we know the day and location, how do we prevent it?” Simon wondered aloud.

“Will they not cancel the service?” Sunny asked.

“I doubt they would.” Simon's hands fell to his sides. “Besides, those snakes would just find another time and another place. Remember when von Puttkamer came to the ghetto? He sniffed around the hospital and the school, too.”

“Still,” Sunny said. “If we think this is when they intend to strike, we must do something to stop it.”

“I wish we had gone after von Puttkamer months ago.” Simon shook his head bitterly. “When we still had time.”

“How would you have accomplished that?” Ernst asked. “Jews are hardly allowed out of the ghetto.”

“I could do it myself.”

“I never really pictured you as the assassin type. Besides, what would you use for a weapon?”

“A knife? A brick? My bare hands if need be. The son of a bitch wants to blow up my family!”

Ernst exhaled a plume of smoke. “You think von Puttkamer is the only Nazi who has it out for the Jews?”

“He's the one with the bombs right now,” Simon said.

Sunny thought again of the multi-headed Hydra. “Killing von Puttkamer would only antagonize them.”

“Maybe it would, maybe it wouldn't,” Simon said. “Either way, I am not going to sit here while my wife and son are stuck in the ghetto. Not with Nazis waltzing around with enough dynamite to flatten Brooklyn.”

Sunny clutched Simon's arm. “Esther doesn't want you there, Simon.”

“It's not her decision.”

Sunny knew Simon too well to believe that any of her arguments would sway him. Instead, she reluctantly reached into her coat pocket and withdrew the letter from Esther.

* * *

As Sunny walked away from Germantown, she shook off the image of Simon's crestfallen face. Still, she had no regrets. She was confident that he had been persuaded by Esther's note to abandon his foolhardy plan to return to the ghetto.

On her way home, Sunny veered off toward Frenchtown. Walking at fast as she could without drawing attention to herself, she reached the Cathay Building in just a few minutes. When she reached her friend's apartment, Jia-Li greeted her as though she had been expecting the visit. Interlocking their arms, she led Sunny into the living room.

Charlie sat on the floor, just where Sunny had last seen him. He smiled as he fiddled with what she assumed was an explosive device, though she did not recognize the grey metallic box that he was working on.

Across the room, Sunny spotted an old baby pram pushed against the far wall. All of a sudden, she felt joy, concern and envy all at once. Before she could even ask, Jia-Li held up her hands and shook them vigorously. “No, no, xiăo hè. Not what are you thinking. No.”

“Then who is the pram for?”

Jia-Li shook her head. “It's not for a baby at all.”

Bewildered, Sunny stared at her best friend before the truth washed over her like ice water. “For a bomb?” she gasped. “You are going to plant a bomb inside a pram?”

“Do you have a better idea for sneaking one into a train station?” Jia-Li asked.

“Charlie cannot wheel a pram,” Sunny sputtered. “Not on crutches.”

Jia-Li dismissed the idea with a wave. “Obviously not. A man wheeling a pram would draw far too much attention.”

“No, ba˘o bèi!” Sunny turned angrily to Charlie. “You cannot let her do this, Chun. It's not right.”

“It was not my idea.” Despite his impassive tone, Sunny saw reluctance in Charlie's eyes.

Jia-Li kneeled down beside Charlie and slung an arm over his shoulders. “I am the only one who can do this.” She kissed his cheek and then turned back to Sunny, her expression more determined than ever. “You will never talk me out of it, xiăo hè. Never.”

Sunny crouched down in front of them. She grabbed Jia-Li's free hand and squeezed it urgently. “Listen to me, ba˘o bèi. I know a better way for you both to help.”

 

The light snowfall continued to colour the streets white. Despite the evening's chill, Franz paused outside the entrance to Ohel Moishe Synagogue. Rather than framing it mentally for a photograph, as he had done several times before, he scanned the brick building for points of structural weakness. It looked sturdy enough, but his eyes kept drifting back to the ground-floor arches. He imagined the rumble of the supporting walls giving, and the upper floor and roof crashing down on the congregation.

He willed the nightmarish vision out of his mind. What do I know about sabotage or demolition?

He put on his yarmulke and entered the synagogue. Rabbi Hiltmann stood at the front of the room hunched over the bimah, polishing the tabletop with a yellow rag. The rabbi did not turn around right away at the sound of Franz's footsteps on the tiled floor, finishing his inspection of the tabletop first. “Ah, Dr. Adler.” His grey beard bobbed and his lips curved into a smile. “Visiting shul outside Shabbat yet again? Is this some kind of new habit?”

“I need to speak to you.” Franz lowered his voice. “It's urgent, Rabbi.”

Hiltmann carefully folded his rag into a square. “This is not related to your previous visit, then?” Franz shook his head. “So have you made your peace with your actions?”

“In a way, yes,” Franz said, though it was far from the truth. Not a night had passed without him thinking about Colonel Tanaka on the operating table. No amount of rationalization could overcome his sense that he had betrayed both a patient and his profession. But this was not the time for introspection. “Rabbi, I have concerns about the security of the synagogue.”

Hiltmann frowned. “Security? Of the shul? What do the misrachdik have in mind for us this time?”

“No, not the Japanese, Rabbi. The Nazis.”

The rag dropped to his side. “The Nazis?” Hiltmann repeated slowly.

“We have reason to believe they intend to bomb the synagogue.”

The rabbi's head jerked up as if he had been slapped. “How could you possibly know this?”

“I have a friend. He is Austrian. A gentile.” Without mentioning Ernst by name, Franz shared what he knew of von Puttkamer's plans. “Rabbi, you must cancel the Shabbat service tomorrow morning.”

Hiltmann stared up at the ark of the Torah for a long moment before answering. “You are certain that the temple is their target?”

“We can assume it, Rabbi. The school is closed for Hanukkah. And attacking the hospital would not have the same . . . impact as targeting the synagogue. Especially not tomorrow.”

“So you are also assuming the attack will come tomorrow.”

“When else?” Franz groaned. “Much of the refugee community will be gathered here for the Hanukkah service. And for the goyim, it's Christmas Day.”

The rabbi sighed so heavily that his lips whistled. “But to cancel prayers on a Sabbath?”

“Surely it's acceptable if lives are at risk.”

Hiltmann stroked his beard. “Pikuakh nefesh,” he muttered.

“I am not familiar with that term.”

“Pikuakh nefesh. A principle in Jewish law whereby the preservation of life overrides almost all other religious considerations.”

“Yes, exactly. There couldn't be a more fitting application.”

The rabbi considered this. “They have taken everything from us, have they not?” he finally said. “Our homes and all our possessions. They divided our families and drove us across two oceans. Yet it seems that is still not enough for them.”

“Nothing will be, Rabbi.”

“On Kristallnacht, I watched from the apartment across the street as they burned my synagogue to the ground.” Hiltmann's eyes drifted over to the ark again. “Out front, they made a bonfire from the scrolls of our beautiful Torah. Our cantor, Yitzhak Hirschberg. Yitzhak was young and so naive.” He shook his head gravely. “Yitzhak ran out and begged them to stop. You know what happened?”

“I can only imagine.”

“They clubbed Yitzhak until he was unconscious and then . . . they . . .” Hiltmann swallowed. “They threw him on the fire.”

Franz thought again of his little brother, Karl, lynched by storm troopers that same night. “I remember Vienna, the morning after. Seeing our family's synagogue—where my parents and my brother were married—reduced to a pile of rubble.”

The rabbi nodded to himself. “So now they want to repeat their marvellous feat here in Shanghai. To destroy our only place of worship. To kill as many of us as possible.”

“We can rebuild the synagogue,” Franz said. “But what can you do if the roof collapses on the congregation?”

Hiltmann was quiet again. “You do understand the significance of Hanukkah, do you not, Herr Doktor?”

“The oil that burned for eight days when it was only supposed to last one?” Franz said, vague on the other details. If Hannah were here, she could have filled in the gaps.

“Ah, that is the miracle we remember, but it's not the essence of Hanukkah.” The rabbi's expression hardened. “Hanukkah commemorates a great moment of Jewish defiance. The time when the brave Maccabees, outnumbered though they were, drove the Assyrian oppressors out of Jerusalem.” He held up both hands. “And why did they fight? To reclaim the Holy Temple in the name of God.”

“Yes, but were the Assyrians armed with explosives, Rabbi?”

“How can we abandon our synagogue on this day of all days?”

“What about Pikuakh nefesh?”

The rabbi shook his hands in front of him. “Where is your proof that the Nazis will attack tomorrow?”

“Proof?” Franz groaned. “I am not privy to the specifics. We were fortunate that my friend caught wind of this at all.”

Hiltmann eyed him defiantly. “Without proof, I will not cancel the service.”

Franz brought his hands to his chest in appeal. “Rabbi, you would risk so many lives?”

“We can post young men outside to watch for signs of trouble. They will warn us.”

“And if the warning comes too late?”

“This is a house of God, Dr. Adler.” The rabbi's voice trembled. “How can we allow the Nazis to chase the faithful from it, just because of innuendo and rumour? Where will it end?”

* * *

Outside, the snow was thickening on the ground. Franz half walked and half skated on the slick sidewalks as he hurried from the synagogue to the hospital.

He found Sunny there and led her into the staff room, then filled her in on his conversation with the rabbi. “I did not expect the man to be so obstinate,” Franz sighed.

Sunny kissed Franz on the cheek and then offered him a small smile. “Stubbornness?” she said in mock surprise. “From a Jew?”

Franz laughed in spite of himself. “I don't know how you put up with us.”

“I love you,” she said. “Besides, I consider myself very fortunate to be part of your wonderful community, bewildering though it sometimes is.”

“I love you, too.” He kissed her on the lips. “Despite your peculiar view on what constitutes good fortune.”

The smile slid from her lips. “So it is up to us to ensure the safety of the synagogue.”

“With Charlie's help?” he asked.

Sunny nodded.

Franz exhaled heavily. “Charlie will be taking a huge risk even showing his face in the ghetto, with all those soldiers about.”

“He is determined to help us. To repay our kindness, as he puts it. Besides, who else knows anything about explosives?”

“What if Charlie doesn't find the bombs?”

“If they are there, he will find them.”

“Can you be so sure? Would you risk the lives of Hannah, Esther and the baby on it?”

Sunny's eyes widened. “They are not planning to attend the service? Surely not.”

“They want to.”

Sunny reached out and cupped his face. “You cannot let them, Franz. They must stay home. Promise me.”

Before Franz could answer, the door to the staff room burst open and Ernst rushed in, his coat dusted with snow. “There you are, thank Christ!”

“What is it, Ernst?” Franz demanded.

Ernst brushed snowflakes from his coat and head, even out of his beard. “This evening,” he said. “Von Puttkamer and his men are coming tonight.”

“To the ghetto?”

“Yes. To see Ghoya.”

Franz grimaced. “He is asking Ghoya for permission to attack us?”

Ernst waved off the idea. “No. He is coming with food and presents. To show Ghoya and the others a traditional German Christmas.”

“It must be a ruse.”

“Of course it is.” Ernst patted his pocket in search of cigarettes but came up empty. “But one that will get them inside the ghetto after dark.”

“After curfew,” Sunny murmured.

Ernst nodded. “Precisely.”

Franz interlaced his fingers and squeezed them until they hurt. “So his men will have free rein to plant their bombs, at the synagogue and wherever else they want to, without us being able to watch.”

“That is the general idea, no doubt.”

Franz once again pictured the walls of the synagogue buckling. “As soon as the curfew is lifted in the morning, we will have to scour every inch of the synagogue's grounds.”

Sunny turned to Franz, her eyes frantic with worry. “What if we're wrong, Franz?” she murmured. “What if the synagogue is not their target? Perhaps they plan to explode bombs tonight. In the heime or the other buildings where the refugees live.”

But Franz felt certain in a way that he rarely did outside the operating room. “Going to all this trouble to bomb a few apartments would not satisfy the Nazis. No. Von Puttkamer promised something spectacular.”

“I know, darling, but what if . . .”

“We need to spread word among all the refugees. Everyone must guard their homes and look out for signs of unusual activity.”

Ernst jutted out his lower lip. “Ja. It's a good idea.”

“Our telephone exchange is still not working,” Franz said. “Someone needs to go tell Charlie. We will need him in the morning, first thing.”

“I will go,” Sunny offered.

Ernst held up a hand. “No, Sunny, let me. Frenchtown is practically on my way home.”

Sunny shook her head. “Ernst, you have already risked more than enough for us.”

Ernst stroked her cheek. “Do you remember last year? When the Japanese were hunting for Shan and me? You risked everything to hide us here in the hospital. In plain sight among the cholera patients.” He chuckled. “In retrospect, it was not really much of a plan.”

“We did shave your head,” Sunny pointed out.

“My beautiful locks.” Ernst ran a hand through the wild tangles of hair that were part of his current disguise. “After what you risked, this—this is nothing. Besides, I fear that the real danger is yet to come.”