The Far Side of the Sky (38 page)

“Besides, Franz, things are worse. A lot worse,” Simon went on. “You know what I’m talking about! The strict curfews. Banks and businesses seized. No gasoline for cars. Accounts frozen.” He shook his head. “People are scrambling just to put scraps on the table.”

Simon wasn’t exaggerating. Esther’s shrewd knack for coping with crisis, along with a learned distrust of banking institutions, had kept the Adlers’ cupboards supplied with the basics, but many others in the community were not as fortunate.

Simon pointed to the storeroom’s barren shelves again. “What use is it if they let us keep the hospital’s doors open but don’t allow us the money or supplies to run it?”

Simon’s cold reason doused the last of Franz’s cheerfulness. “What we need here more than anything is ether,” Franz said. “We are running very low. And without anaesthetic …”

“No more surgery, I know.” Simon puffed out his cheeks. “But I’ve got even more pressing worries.”

“Such as?”

“At the heime,” Simon said. “We’ve already cut the meals back from three times to once a day, but I don’t know how we’re going to keep feeding the families. Those hungry little kids, Franz.” He rolled his shoulders. “Surgery won’t matter much to these folks if they’re already starving to death.”

“How long will the food last?”

“A few weeks at most,” Simon said. “The Sephardic Jews can’t help us now. Their accounts are all frozen. The JDC funds from New York have been cut off too. Our only hope now is the Russian Jews. The Soviets and Japs signed some kind of neutrality pact, so their money wasn’t confiscated. I’m meeting with the Russian Jewish community leaders this afternoon.”

“Let’s hope they see us as brothers.”

Simon grinned. “I’ll make them see. Doesn’t matter if you’re Russian, Mexican or even Eskimo, no Jew alive is immune to guilt.” His smile faded and he looked down at his hands. “You know, Franz, there is one other group who could help us out of this jam.”

“The Japanese?”

Simon nodded. “Didn’t you just save the life of the highest-ranking officer in the city?”

Uneasy as the thought made him, Franz knew Simon was right. None of the other refugees would have the same access to the local Japanese leadership. “I’m off to visit General Nogomi now. Perhaps he or Colonel Kubota might be feeling a little more charitable toward us.”

“Never hurts to ask, right?” Simon said.

Franz sighed. “I will find that out soon enough.”

Franz headed out to the street. Several men beckoned him to their empty rickshaws. As sorry as Franz felt for the line of emaciated runners, every cent mattered, and he had no choice but to wave off their approaches.

As he walked, Franz realized that he had not set foot inside the Country Hospital in almost three weeks. The British-run facility had remained open after the Japanese takeover, albeit operating on threadbare supplies, but Franz had committed all his time and energy to the refugee hospital. Besides, the idea of seeing Reuben again, let alone working with the man, turned his stomach. Franz had avoided Lotte too, but not because of her uncle’s betrayal. The guilt gnawed at him. He loved Sunny too much to ever marry anyone else.

Outside the Shanghai General Hospital, a junior officer was waiting to escort Franz to General Nogomi’s room and past the guards posted at his door. The general was sitting upright in his bed, propped up by pillows. His colour had improved, but he had lost more weight since surgery and his cheeks and jawbones protruded sharply.

Colonel Kubota sat at the bedside with a folder open in his lap. As soon as he saw Franz he snapped it shut and stood up. “Good morning, Dr. Adler.”

Franz bowed to both men. The general, who spoke no English or German, viewed Franz with the same cold-eyed indifference as ever. He had never shown Franz an inkling of gratitude.

“How is the general today?” Franz asked Kubota.

Kubota and Nogomi spoke in Japanese, then the colonel turned back to Franz. “There is less pain,” Kubota translated. “His appetite is improving.”

“Good,” Franz said. “Please tell General Nogomi I would like to examine his abdomen.”

Kubota informed Nogomi, who grunted his approval.

A quick glimpse and a light palpation assured Franz the wound was healing. “In my opinion, General Nogomi could safely be discharged by the end of the week to recuperate at home.”

Kubota informed Nogomi, but the general registered no response. “The general is delighted,” Kubota said with a dry smile.

Franz cleared his throat. “Colonel, I was hoping to ask a favour of you both.”

Kubota tilted his head and raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“It concerns the Jewish refugees,” Franz said. “The new financial restrictions are having a terrible consequence on our community, Colonel. My people are going hungry.”

Franz expected Kubota to translate for Nogomi, but he didn’t even look at his superior. “May I speak to you outside regarding this matter, Dr. Adler?” Kubota asked sombrely.

The colonel did not say another word until they were on the street and out of earshot of the soldiers guarding the entrance. “Dr. Adler, we are most grateful for your efforts on the general’s behalf.”

Franz’s belly tightened. “Of course, Colonel.”

“May I speak frankly, Dr. Adler?”

“Yes.”

“We are not in a position to offer any assistance to your community.” “Not in a position?” Franz echoed. “I do not understand, Colonel.” “Our German allies.” Franz tensed. “What of them?”

“The German consulate—and their Gestapo office here—has taken an active interest in the German Jews.”

Franz fought off a shudder. “I thought you once told me your government did not share the Nazis’ racial policies.”

“We do not,” Kubota said. “However, since December 7, our strategic collaboration with the German government has deepened substantially. We now share common enemies in England and America. As a result, we have certain diplomatic considerations.”

Franz swallowed. “Is your government adopting the Nazis’ policies toward Jews?”

“Not at all, Dr. Adler,” Kubota said evenly. “However, we cannot afford to be seen to single out the Jews for favourable treatment over other foreign nationals.”

“Colonel, unlike the Shanghailanders, most German Jews escaped here with nothing. Many rely on the charity of fellow Jews for the barest necessities. Without access to funds, our hospital will soon close. And we fear that families—little children, mothers—might starve.”

Kubota’s gaze fell to the ground, but he did not comment.

Franz held out his hand. “Colonel, you told me once that you respected the Jewish way of life. You have always struck me as a decent and civilized man. We need your help. Urgently.”

Kubota studied the pavement. “Please give me a little time to consider the situation. Unfortunately, I can promise nothing more.” He looked back up at Franz. “And please understand, Dr. Adler, we can
never
appear to favour your community with special treatment.”

Franz read the message in Kubota’s eyes. “You can rely on my discretion, Colonel. Thank you.”

Kubota began to turn away but stopped. “Dr. Adler, I am confused.”

“Regarding what?”

“The Jewish refugees are ten thousand miles away, living in reduced circumstances. They pose no imaginable threat to German interests and yet …” Kubota shook his head. “I do not understand why the Nazis are so single-minded in their concern with you.”

“You do not understand?”
Franz uttered a shocked laugh. “Believe me, Colonel. No one is more baffled than us Jews!”

With the cold biting at his exposed ears, Franz hurried home. The streets of the International Settlement were less crowded than before the Japanese takeover, but people had begun to emerge from their postinvasion seclusion. Several shops had reopened, some even with anemic Christmas displays in their windows. The street vendors, performers and beggars had reappeared, though Franz doubted many pedestrians, if any, had money to spare for them.

Franz’s legs were rubbery with fatigue by the time he mounted the last step up to his apartment. As soon as he opened the door, Hannah rushed happily to him. “Papa, school is reopening the day after New Year’s!” she announced. “We just heard from Sara Kleinman.”

“Wunderbar, liebchen!
I worried you were going to grow lazy if you stayed home too much longer,” he teased, though he knew his daughter was incapable of indolence. Hannah had insisted on helping Esther with her consignment business, which had expanded to include clothing alterations and repair. She also volunteered with her aunt in the soup kitchen at the largest of the heime, on Ward Road.

Esther popped her head out of the kitchen. “Franz, a Mr. Silberstein rang for you.”

“Silberstein?”
Franz prickled at the name. He had not seen or heard from Hermann Schwartzmann in the eighteen months since his wife had left hospital. “What did he want?”

“To meet you. At Public Garden at three o’clock.” She glanced at her watch. “That is only ten minutes, Franz.”

“He did not leave a telephone number? Or mention what it concerned?”

Esther shook her head. “Only that he would wait at the benches in Public Garden for you. Franz, he made it sound urgent.”

Franz wavered, wondering if the diplomat wanted to solicit another medical favour. Franz sensed that, whatever it might be about, the meeting was important, so he donned his coat and hurried for the door.

Public Garden was almost deserted. A wind-blown stream of pipe smoke led Franz to Hermann Schwartzmann, who sat on a bench wearing a Tyrolean hat and thick overcoat.

Schwartzmann stood and extended a gloved hand. His moustache twitched and his lips broke into a warm smile. “Good day, Dr. Adler.”

“Hello, Mr. Silberstein,” Franz said coolly. “How is your wife?”

“Ah, of course, you would not have heard.” Schwartzmann’s voice cracked. “Edda passed away last month.”

After weeks of caring for Schwartzmann’s wife in hospital, Franz had grown fond of the gracious woman. “I am sorry,” he said genuinely.

“Edda did so well in those months after surgery. She gained weight and she rediscovered her joie de vivre. Dr. Adler, you gave her—us, actually—a whole year together that we would have otherwise never had.” Schwartzmann looked past Franz and chewed on his pipe stem. “Of course, nothing is the same without her. Especially Christmas.”

“I know what it is to lose a wife, Mr. Schwartzmann,” Franz said stiffly. “But I find it hard to believe that is why you wanted to see me.”

Schwartzmann shook his head. “I understand that since the occupation, circumstances have grown more challenging for your people. I imagine that must be true for you personally as well.”

Franz folded his arms across his chest. “We are coping.”

“I meant no disrespect, Dr. Adler. I only wanted to offer my assistance.”

Franz squinted at him. “You want to help the Jews?”

Embarrassed, Schwartzmann looked away. “Edda never understood the führer’s racial policies. She found them abhorrent. We both did, but I chose to turn a blind eye. And after what you did for us—” Flustered, he cleared his throat again. “Do my motives really matter so much?”

“I am not accustomed to hearing offers of assistance from officials who work for the Nazis,” Franz said. “Surely, Mr. Schwartzmann, you can appreciate my wariness?”

“There is nothing official about the offer, but I do understand.” Schwartzmann smiled sadly. “And it’s probably best for all concerned if you continue to refer to me as Silberstein.”

Franz uncrossed his arms. “Why now, Mr. Silberstein?”

“When my wife and I came to you for help, you had every reason in the world to turn your back on us. I realize you must have assumed a grave personal risk to operate at a Jewish hospital on someone who could have been considered a Nazi. I am now prepared to take a chance of my own. With Edda gone, no one else has to face the consequences of such a choice.”

“What did you have in mind, Mr. Silberstein?”

Schwartzmann pulled the pipe from his lips. “What is your greatest need, Dr. Adler?”

Franz didn’t even have to consider his answer. “From the refugees’ point of view, what we need most is food or at least money to buy it. In terms of the hospital, we need supplies, especially medications such as ether.”

“Ether, you say.” Schwartzmann bit his pipe again, lost in concentration. “I might be able to secure some.”

Franz nodded.

“Please give me a day or two,” Schwartzmann said as he adjusted his hat. “I will contact you when I have news.”

“All right,” Franz said, stunned by the turn of events. “Thank you … Mr. Silberstein.”

Schwartzmann smiled. “One day, I hope you will discover—as I did—that sometimes help comes from the most unexpected places.” “I hope I do, Mr. Silberstein. Very much so.”

Schwartzmann turned from the bench and began to walk away. Without slowing, he called over his shoulder, “I left something on the bench for you.”

Franz looked down and noticed a manila envelope. He picked it up, aware of the content by its weight alone. He pulled back the flap, and his heart sped at the sight of all the banknotes inside. He extracted the stack of money and fanned through it, seeing only hundred-mark bills. He had not seen so much money since he had received his father’s early bequest aboard the
Conte Biancamano.

J
ANUARY
3, 1942, S
HANGHAI

Franz could not follow the Hebrew characters, but he dutifully held the book open in front of him and hummed along to the mournful prayer as the cantor led the congregation in song.

Six months earlier, Hannah had persuaded her father to join Esther and her at the Ohel Rachel Synagogue for a Saturday Sabbath service. While Franz had initially attended out of obligation, he soon came to look forward to the services. He enjoyed the ambience. The cavernous synagogue, with its marble pillars, massive chandeliers, high balconies and perfect acoustics, reminded him more of a fine Viennese theatre than a house of worship.

During the services, Franz’s thoughts often drifted to his family. He imagined his father would have found his display of religiousness amusing. But Karl would have approved, regardless of his brother’s motives. Franz did not feel much closer to finding God, but he took unexpected solace in the traditions and rituals. And he found a renewed sense of community among his fellow Jews, inspired by their unflappable faith in the face of such persecution.