Rising Sun, Falling Shadow (30 page)

The rain pelted down, turning the streets into a mush of puddles and slush. The city's usual strong smells, trapped under ice and snow for so long, returned with a vengeance. Franz's eyes watered as he passed a drainpipe that reeked so strongly he guessed something larger than a rat had to be decomposing inside it.

Across the street, Franz saw the sign for the Café Aaronsohn. Even if he could have afforded to eat there, he wasn't partial to its food and wouldn't have chosen it as a lunch destination. Besides, with his stomach flip-flopping and the taste of bile on his tongue, food was the last thing on his mind. Still, the popular café met his needs from a strategic perspective.

As Franz stepped through the door, he patted his coat pocket, reassured by the bulky outline of the envelope. The clock above the counter read two minutes to twelve; he was early. He was relieved to see that, despite the foul weather, the restaurant was more than half full. Claiming a table in a far corner, he ordered an espresso and tried to look casual.

The wait only intensified his anxiousness. He never doubted that von Puttkamer would show, but he hoped the man would be as punctual as a typical Prussian.

Just then, the door chimed and the baron entered with his bodyguard. Von Puttkamer sniffed the air and made a face, as though the mere scent of kosher cooking was objectionable. Without even removing his jacket, he approached Franz's table.

Heads turned and the chatter dropped to a hush: many of the patrons recognized von Puttkamer. But the baron appeared oblivious. He eased into the chair across from Franz while his bodyguard slipped into the corner, his back to the wall as he eyed the other customers blankly.

Von Puttkamer laid his damp homburg on the table and folded his leather gloves inside it. “Not the easiest of journeys in this weather, Dr. Adler. My car got stuck twice. I do hope we are not wasting one another's time.”

Nervous as Franz felt, he was in no hurry to get to his point. “In my five winters in Shanghai, I cannot remember seeing so much snow or slush.”

“Fascinating,” von Puttkamer said. “Is this what you summoned me across the city to discuss? The turn in the weather?”

Forcing lightness into his tone, Franz asked, “Would you like a coffee, Baron?”

“Here?” Von Puttkamer chuckled. “No. No, thank you.”

Franz lifted his cup. “As good as back home.”

Von Puttkamer tilted his head in surprise. “I am curious, Herr Doktor. Do you really consider Germany your home?”

“Austria.”

“Is part of the greater Reich now.” Von Puttkamer shrugged. “Still . . .”

“Only in the sense of it being the country where I was born and raised,” Franz admitted. “I would certainly never view it as my home now.”

“That is convenient, considering that we would never view you as a true German.” Von Puttkamer nodded. “Now that we have settled that . . .”

Franz glanced at the clock above the counter. He needed to draw the conversation out for another ten minutes or so. “Have you spent much time in Vienna?”

“As little as possible.” Von Puttkamer made a show of checking his pocket watch. “Frankly, I never enjoyed the city much.”

“Why not, Baron?”

“Too overwrought,” he sighed. “The architecture. The music. The painting. It was all too precious for my taste. And so, so many of your kind.” He shook his head. “Berlin. Now there is a wondrous city.”

“I have only been there once, but I would have to agree,” Franz said. “So many architectural marvels.”

“Ja, in comparison, it makes Shanghai look like the colonial outpost it is and always will be.”

“Will you be returning again soon?” Franz asked.

“That is hardly any of your business, Herr Doktor.” Von Puttkamer pushed his seat back from the table and began to rise. “Clearly, coming here was pointless.”

Franz's neck tensed with worry, but he managed to keep his expression neutral and his tone conversational. “We have not yet decided what to do with all your plastic explosives, Baron.”

Von Puttkamer dropped back into his chair. He shot Franz a murderous glare but said nothing.

Franz shrugged. “We even wondered if perhaps there might be some demolition work required in Germantown.”

“You wouldn't dare,” von Puttkamer snarled.

“Probably not, no.” Franz shook his head. “Unlike you, we are too civilized to slaughter innocent men, women and children.”

Von Puttkamer leaned into the table. “You had no difficulty murdering Hans,” he hissed.

“You view him as innocent?” Franz asked in disbelief. “The man who was about to bomb our temple? You and I must have slightly different understandings of the word.”

“The world is at war, Adler,” von Puttkamer scoffed. “Honour, bravery, duty—those qualities are more important than questions of guilt or innocence under these circumstances.”

“Really, Baron? Is there honour in blowing up a synagogue full of worshippers? Or bravery in collapsing a hospital on top of its patients?”

“If they are filled with enemies of the Reich, then why not?”

Franz wrestled back his emotions. “Because we will not let you,” he said softly.

“Next time, no one will inform you beforehand.”

Ernst! Franz wondered if his friend was already under suspicion. “No one informed us,” he insisted.

Von Puttkamer raised an eyebrow.

“We spotted your men arriving after curfew,” Franz bluffed. “Our people are always watching. Day and night.”

Unperturbed, von Puttkamer laughed. “Well, you should sleep well then.”

“It will never happen again!” Franz exclaimed.

Von Puttkamer's frigid smile held firm. “How can you be so sure?”

Franz reached into his pocket, pulled out the yellowing envelope and slid it across the table. Von Puttkamer eyed Franz warily before picking it up and extracting the photographs. Franz mentally flipped through the photos as von Puttkamer examined them. Together, they provided a clear picture of the booby-trapped bombs outside the synagogue and the dead German bomber lying next to the temple wall.

Von Puttkamer stuffed the photographs back into the envelope and shoved it, spinning, back to Franz. “So what? You have photographs. They prove nothing!”

“I believe they establish your intent quite clearly.”

“And even if they did?”

“Did you get permission to do this? From the Japanese?”

“Permission?” Von Puttkamer glanced incredulously over to his bodyguard. “To rid ourselves of a blight on the good name of the fatherland?” He turned back to Franz. “We do not need anyone's permission.”

“And yet you crept into the ghetto on Christmas Eve under the false pretense of delivering gifts,” Franz pointed out. “What do you imagine the Japanese would think of such duplicity?”

“Who gives a damn?”

“Do you not remember last year? When Josef Meisinger from the Gestapo came to the Japanese about attacking the Jews?”

Von Puttkamer reached for his gloves. “What about him?”

“The Japanese banished Meisinger from Shanghai,” Franz said, though he knew it was not the whole truth. Jia-Li and Sunny had actually blackmailed Meisinger into leaving the city with photos of the colonel with a teenaged male prostitute, snapped with a hidden camera at the Comfort Home. Franz saw the irony in the fact that, just a year later, they were again trying to deter the Nazis with incriminating photographs.

“So fortune has smiled on you twice in one year.” Von Puttkamer smirked. “Can you not see, Adler? You are merely delaying the inevitable.”

“I do not see it at all, Baron,” Franz said evenly. “Especially now that Germany is losing the war.”

“We are losing nothing,” von Puttkamer snarled. “In every long war, there are swings in momentum. It will swing back in the Reich's favour soon enough. Regardless, you Jews have already lost. Long ago.”

“And yet, we are still here.”

“For the time being.” Von Puttkamer shook a glove at him. “If you think for one moment that you can blackmail me . . .”

Franz was relieved to hear the door chime again. He looked up and saw that the clock read 12:34. Ghoya strutted into the café, escorted by two soldiers. The small man looked around, appraising his seating options. As soon as Ghoya's gaze found them, he rushed over to their table.

“What have we here?” Ghoya's attention swung from Franz to von Puttkamer and back. “A Nazi and a Jew having coffee?” He laughed. “A Nazi and a Jew! What will come next? The sun out at night and the moon in the day?”

Von Puttkamer stood up and bowed his head. “Good afternoon, Mr. Ghoya.”

“Baron von Puttkamer.” Ghoya bowed in turn, still laughing. “Tonight I will look for the sun at midnight. I will. Yes, yes, I will!”

“Enjoy this while you can, Mr. Ghoya,” von Puttkamer said. “I promise you, you will not witness this sight again.”

Ghoya squinted at Franz. “What about all your talk of the Nazis attacking the Designated Area? Now you meet them for coffee?” He turned back to von Puttkamer. “The doctor told me you intended to bomb their church and their hospital.”

“Bomb them, indeed?” Von Puttkamer chortled uneasily. “Such nonsense.”

“Yes, yes! That is just what I said.” Ghoya laughed again. “Nonsense! My exact word was ‘nonsense.'”

Heart pounding in anticipation, Franz caught von Puttkamer's eye and slid the envelope very slightly toward Ghoya. The baron's brow creased, but Ghoya was oblivious, his gaze never leaving the other two men.

“These Jews. With their small worries and crazy ideas.” Ghoya flung up his hands in exasperation. “Everyone is always after them! Yes?”

Continuing to inch the envelope forward, Franz held steady eye contact with von Puttkamer.

The baron hesitated and then nodded once crisply: a concession. “Most paranoid, I agree, Mr. Ghoya.” Sighing heavily, von Puttkamer brought a hand to his chest. “Regardless, I have just given the doctor my word that we will not bomb the Jews or harass them in any other way they might imagine. We have far more important concerns than their wretched little community.”

 

Sunny was bleeding when she woke up. Her period had arrived four days late, which was unusual: normally, she could have set a calendar by her cycle. The timing for a pregnancy couldn't have been much more disastrous, and she realized that she should have been overcome with relief. Still, as she washed herself, she felt tears threatening and she had to fight back sobs.

Sunny cried for more than just the end of a baby that might have been. The past year had been one of such terrible loss. Irma, Joey and Charlie were dead. Max and Wen-Cheng could be, too, for all she knew. Even Yang's status inside the internment camp was uncertain. As Sunny scrubbed the last traces of blood from her hands, she felt another twinge of guilt over the role she had played—inadvertent as it was—in their downfalls.

Brushing her hair from her face, she dried her eyes and headed out of the bathroom to join the celebration.

Esther had promised them a traditional New Year's Day brunch. “Just as my mother used to serve in Linz—only without all the delicacies, good cheer or optimism.” Esther's disclaimer notwithstanding, the scrumptious aromas of coffee, cinnamon and fried meat wafted through the flat. Usually, breakfast consisted of rice latkes or a pudding assembled from the previous night's scraps. Sunny's stomach rumbled in anticipation as she headed into the main room.

Esther was a flurry of activity in the kitchen and kept insisting there was not enough space for anyone to assist her. Hannah bounced Jakob on her lap and sang him a traditional nursery rhyme: “Hoppe, hoppe, Reiter.” The boy cried in delight every time Hannah reached the end of the verse and dropped him between her knees, catching him by his wrists.

Franz reclined on the couch, fighting a smile as he watched them. Sunny dropped into the seat beside him. She couldn't remember when she had seen her husband so relaxed or contented. She wouldn't hide the truth from him again, but deciding her news could wait, she reached for his hand and slipped her fingers between his.

Hannah was swinging Jakob between her legs when the door flew open. Ernst bustled into the flat with a bottle tucked underneath his arm. “Prosit Neujahr!” he cried. “Happy New Year!”

Hannah lowered Jakob to the floor and hopped up to greet him. “What have you brought us, Onkel Ernst?”

Ernst pulled the magnum from under his arm and shrugged with false humility. “This? It's nothing. Surely everyone should celebrate the New Year with a sip or two of bubbly?”

Franz shook his head. “Where on earth did you find it?”

“While I might reside in Hitler-dorf—squarely in the heart of the Dark Ages—mercifully, Frenchtown is not too far away. At the Café Palais. I traded a sketch of the proprietor's charming wife for this equally charming champagne. A good year, too—'38.”

Franz glanced over at Sunny with a tender smile. “The year we met.”

“Your timing is impeccable, Ernst,” Esther called from over her shoulder. “You will join us for brunch.” It was not a question.

He heaved a mock sigh. “Oh, if you insist, Essie.”

Sunny shuffled closer to Franz to make room on the couch for Ernst. Enjoying the pressure of her husband's thigh against hers, she squeezed his hand tighter.

Ernst eyed them with a sly grin, but said only, “You spoke with the baron after all, then, Franz?”

“How did you hear?”

“Gerhard.” Ernst shook his head gravely. “The boy is petrified that he will be found out. And he just might be, if he doesn't stop acting so jittery.”

“Reassure him, Ernst. Von Puttkamer believes our watchers spotted his men in the ghetto.”

Ernst nodded. “I take it that the baron was not amused by what you had to show him?”

“I would say not, no.”

“I caught his last radio broadcast,” Ernst said. “Von Puttkamer was even more venomous than usual. This time he was complaining about Jewish doctors: ‘Blood sucking snakes, the lot of them.' Though I imagine he had one in particular in mind.”

Franz shrugged. “As long as he leaves us alone.”

“Do you think he will?”

“He promised as much. In front of Ghoya, for what that is worth. I hope the photographs will be enough of a deterrent.”

Ernst wagged his head from side to side, unconvinced, before turning to Sunny. He draped an arm lightly over her shoulders. “Tell me, how is your poor friend coping?”

“Jia-Li is heartsick. Ruined.” Sunny held up a hand. “But at least she is somewhere safe.”

“That would have meant everything to Charlie.” Ernst exhaled sadly.

They lapsed into silence. Finally, Franz admitted, “I'm sure Charlie's men will be crushed to hear of his death.”

“But how will they find out? No one can get word to them.” Ernst pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am beginning to doubt that I will ever see Shan again.”

“One day, Ernst,” Sunny said. “You will find him.”

“You think so?”

She patted his knee and smiled warmly. “I am sure of it.”

Embarrassed, Ernst cleared his throat. “Such melancholic nonsense. I almost forgot why I've come.” He dug into his pocket. Sunny expected to see a pack of cigarettes emerge, but instead he extracted an envelope. “I am here on official business. As Simon's mailman.”

Esther rushed over, wiping her hands on her apron, and plucked the letter from Ernst's hand. “Excuse my manners, please. It's my first letter in a week.” She sliced it open and turned away from them. As she read, her shoulders began to tremble. At first, Sunny thought she was crying, but then she heard an unexpected sound.

Hannah stood and hurried over to her aunt. “What is it, Tante Essie?”

Esther turned back to the table, laughing as tears rolled down her cheeks. “Simon is being Simon.”

“What does he say?” Hannah demanded. “Tell us.”

“He has agreed to remain at Ernst's provided that . . .” Esther stopped to consult the letter. “Someone sends him a decent pair of earplugs.”

Ernst rolled his eyes. “So he needs quiet from me? Ach! I put up with all his talk about that ridiculous baseball. And then the big band music . . .” He made a face. “All day long with the same nonsense.”

Esther's grin grew. “And with the Allies advancing in Italy and Russia, Simon is convinced that the war will be over by the end of this year.” She returned her attention to the letter again. “He writes, ‘Forget Jerusalem, next year in the Bronx!'”

Franz and Hannah shared a chuckle, but Ernst shook his head in bewilderment. “It's an old expression,” Esther explained. “At the end of Jewish holy days, we say ‘Next year in Jerusalem' to signify optimism for the coming year.”

“Only one more year, can you imagine?” Sunny asked of no one in particular.

Franz laid his other hand on top of hers. “Simon is a dreamer, darling.”

She kissed his cheek, letting her nose linger on the soft stubble. “Every so often even dreamers get it right.”

“Look!” Hannah cried as she pointed across the table.

Sunny turned to see Jakob wobbling upright. He took a tentative step, then another, and two more in rapid succession before toppling down onto the floor. He appeared stunned by his accomplishment, then broke into a giggle that sent a wave of laughter through the room.

“Your first steps!” Esther cried, rushing over to scoop Jakob up in her arms and smother his face with kisses. “Oh, Schatzi, wait till Papa hears.”

Sunny ached with joy and longing. She nestled her head into Franz's neck. “I don't care where I am next year as long as I am with my family. And perhaps . . .”

A smile lit up her husband's face as he brushed his lips over hers. “Perhaps a playmate for Jakob?”