Rising Sun, Falling Shadow (25 page)

“I should leave straight away,” Sunny murmured to Franz as they sat side by side on the sofa, fingers interlocked. “It's too dangerous for me to stay. It's not fair to any of you, especially Hannah and the baby.”

Franz squeezed her hand reassuringly. “If the Japanese knew anything, they would have already come for you.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“We know by now how the Japanese behave. They would never wait. If they suspected you, they would pounce.”

She nestled her head into the crook of his neck. “To have to leave you, Franz, that would kill me.”

He stroked her hair. Even though she had not been able to bathe in days, somehow her hair was still soft and smelled like soap. “This might actually work to our advantage.”

She jerked her head from his shoulder. “Our advantage? How is that possible?”

“What they did to those men from the Underground—that was beyond barbaric.” He squinted in disgust. “But surely it no longer matters whether or not the old man thought you were a collaborator. No one will be coming for you now.”

“No, I suppose not,” she said. “The old man, maybe he didn't tell the Kempeitai about me after all.”

Franz looked at his wife. Sunny's eyes danced with both affection and desire. He couldn't remember her ever looking more beautiful. Slowly, almost teasingly, she lowered her lips to his. They shared a long kiss, and she gently ran her fingernails across his neck and shoulders. He resisted the urge to slide her dress up over her hips and instead, reluctantly, pulled his face away from hers. “Esther and Hannah could return at any moment,” he said.

“We live in dangerous times, Dr. Adler,” she said throatily.

The others had gone to the shop for rice and hot water. Hannah loved carrying Jakob through the streets. It reminded Franz of how she used to insist on lugging her beloved rag doll, Schweizer Fräulein, with her everywhere when she was younger. For his part, while Jakob adored his cousin, he had begun to resist being held. He had started crawling a few weeks before and was far more interested in exploring the ground for himself.

Just as Sunny leaned in for another kiss, the door shook with three heavy knocks. She went rigid in his arms. Another softer series of raps followed. “Franz, it's me,” Ernst's voice could be heard through the door.

Sunny's body relaxed. Franz rose to his feet and hurried over to the door.

After a quick handshake, the artist marched over to Sunny and kissed her on both cheeks. “You just grow more gorgeous by the day.”

Sunny waved away his mock flirtation. “Is everything all right, Ernst?”

A cigarette and a lighter materialized in his hands. “Well, I am still trapped in that twisted little neighbourhood—Wiesbaden on the Whangpoo, I call it—but I have few complaints otherwise.”

“And Simon?”

“Ah, that reminds me.” Ernst dug in his back pocket and fished out a crumpled envelope. “For Essie, of course.”

“How is he managing?” Sunny asked.

Ernst heaved a sigh. “I am not certain how much longer I will be able to retain my house guest. Hard to blame him, though. He's desperate to be with his family.”

Franz folded his arms. “Even if that means endangering us all?”

Ernst lit his cigarette. “In my experience, seldom do common sense and emotion correlate.”

“Yes, I have noticed the same,” Franz conceded.

“Simon simply has to wait,” Sunny declared. “Never has the time been worse for reckless behaviour. I will speak to him.”

“Best of luck with it.” Ernst whistled out a stream of smoke. “You are right about the atmosphere, though. On my way over here, on Broadway, I saw something . . . ghastly.”

Sunny looked down at her feet. “Those men hanging from the beam?”

“You saw them, too?”

“They were from the Underground,” she murmured. “I knew one of them.”

“It's a hazardous business, this subversion.” Ernst's eyes narrowed as he looked quickly from Sunny to Franz. “Unfortunately, the Japanese are not the only ones in Shanghai in a vengeful mood.”

“What are the Nazis up to now?” Franz asked.

Ernst whistled. “Von Puttkamer's plans are heating up.”

“He told you so?”

“No, he wouldn't include me in those kinds of discussions. But there has been more activity. More meetings.”

“How do you know it concerns the Jews?” Sunny asked.

“You remember Gerhard?” Ernst said, lowering his voice. “That young man in the baron's entourage?”

Franz had only a vague recollection of the young man who had accompanied von Puttkamer on his tour of the ghetto. What he remembered most clearly was the boy's unflinching scowl. “What about him?”

“Gerhard has taken a bit of a shine to me.” Ernst rolled his eyes. “Not in that way, of course. Apparently, I remind the lad of his uncle or some other ungodly relative who is under the impression that he can paint. Regardless, Gerhard has taken to confiding in me of late.”

Franz took a step closer. “What has he told you?”

“Believe it or not,” Ernst said with a chuckle, “Gerhard is suffering a crisis of conscience.”

“Why?”

“Gerhard doesn't care what happens to the adult Jews—‘it's a better world without them,' as he so charmingly puts it—but he is troubled by the idea of harming children.”

“Scheisse!” Franz groaned. “What are they planning?”

“A bomb.”

Franz felt as though his innards had turned to stone. “They're planning to bomb the ghetto?”

“Where? How?” Sunny's voice cracked.

“Even Gerhard doesn't know. Von Puttkamer has not shared the target with anyone, it seems like.” Ernst viewed them with a helpless shrug. “All I know is that the baron has promised something . . . spectacular.”

“‘Spectacular.'” The word lodged in Franz's throat.

Sunny rubbed her temples. “Do you have any idea when they will do this . . . this terrible thing, Ernst?”

“Soon,” Ernst said. “Gerhard doesn't know the precise date, but von Puttkamer is intent on carrying out the attack before the New Year.”

“But that's less than two weeks,” Franz said.

Sunny reached out and clutched his elbow, squeezing tight. “We cannot just wait. We must do something.”

“Do what?” Franz cried. “Tell Ghoya? The Kempeitai? No. Colonel Kubota is the only one who would have listened to us.”

Sunny turned back to Ernst. “You must get more details from Gerhard.”

“And if he doesn't know any more?”

Sunny looked over to Franz, her expression businesslike. “We have to mobilize the ghetto. Post our own watches outside public buildings.”

“Organize the young men. A good idea, yes,” Franz mumbled, snapping out of his shock. “What about after curfew? How can we watch at nighttime?”

“The Germans will not be allowed on the streets after curfew either,” Sunny pointed out.

“Let's hope not,” Ernst said.

* * *

Halfway up the pathway to the hospital, Franz stopped to study the old structure. Five years earlier, before it had been converted into a hospital, the building had barely withstood the Japanese aerial bombing. As his gaze ran over its patched roof, taped windows and pockmarked walls, he realized it wouldn't take much for it to collapse now.

As Franz made his way onto the ward, he wondered what the point was in continuing to offer patchwork medical care to the wretched Shanghai Jews. Even if the Nazis didn't target the hospital, how could he be of any help if the saboteurs attacked the ghetto? What did he have left to offer anyone? It all seemed so futile.

Still, Franz suspected that he would go out of his mind if he deviated from his routine. There were post-operative patients to tend to and, other than Sunny and him, no other surgeons were left at the hospital.

Franz had not been sorry to see Wen-Cheng go. His suspicions about Wen-Cheng's involvement in Colonel Kubota's death aside, Franz had never fully curbed his jealousy. Although he trusted Sunny completely, he couldn't jettison his doubts, irrational as they were, that Wen-Cheng might somehow find a way to win her back.

Franz spotted Max down the hallway and caught up with the internist as he stepped into his makeshift laboratory. Max pointed to the slides beside his desktop microscope. “Two more confirmed cases of cholera,” he sighed. “Even the parasites are not taking a winter break from tormenting us Jews.”

“We have bigger problems.”

“Than cholera?” Max raised an eyebrow. “You remember our last outbreak? That daughter of yours turned out be one of the luckier ones. We were burying people for days and days. I doubt we have ever seen—”

“The Germans are planning to bomb us, Max.”

The older man's face fell. “What? Here in the hospital?”

“Somewhere in the ghetto.”

Max slumped into his chair and listened in silence as Franz shared what he knew. “We have to convene an emergency meeting of the community leaders,” Franz concluded. “We must organize a watch.”

“To monitor the ghetto?”

“It's not so large,” Franz said. “There can only be so many possible targets. Besides, it wouldn't be easy for the Nazis to sneak in unnoticed, if we were watching for them.”

“So let's say one of our young men is fortunate enough to catch the Nazis planting a bomb,” Max said. “Then what? How would we stop them?”

“We haven't worked out those details. At the very least, they would be able to warn people.”

Max cupped his chin in his hand. “Why bother, Franz?”

“To save lives.”

“Yes, but for how long?” Max asked. “Next month—next week, perhaps—it will be something else. Starvation? Another disease? A bigger bomb? Or some other Nazi scheme that is even worse than the last?”

“You can't think that way,” Franz said, though he couldn't help share in his friend's pessimism.

“Don't you see, Franz? The Nazis . . . Hitler . . . they will never let us be. And for whatever reason, God refuses to intervene. ‘The chosen people?'” Max scoffed. “Couldn't be further from the truth! It would be far more accurate to call us the ‘cursed people.'”

Franz thought of Max's daughter and her family. The man had every right to his views, but Franz would still need his help in mobilizing the community. “Listen, Max, this is a crisis. Now is not the time for—”

The sound of heavy footsteps cut him off. He heard shouting from somewhere down the hallway and hurried out of the lab to investigate, Max on his heels.

Two soldiers stormed toward them. Franz froze at the sight of their white armbands. Not now! Don't take me now, of all times.

A gaunt Kempeitai officer stopped in front of them. He swung a finger from Max to Franz and back. “Feinstein, Maxwell!” he barked.

Max's face paled and he shot Franz a terrified glance. “Don't tell my Sarah, Franz,” he whispered. “Her weak heart. She cannot know that—”

“Feinstein!” the Kempeitai screamed.

Max stepped forward. “I . . . I am Dr. Feinstein,” he stammered.

“You come!”

“Why?” Max held up his hands. “I have done nothing wrong.”

“Come now!”

Max turned to Franz. “Think of an excuse, Franz. Anything! Sarah can never know what—”

The Kempeitai officer slammed his fist into Max's stomach. As Max doubled over in pain, the soldier caught him by the hair. He jerked Max's head forward and swung his knee into it, breaking his nose with a crunch.

Franz moved toward Max, but the other Kempeitai man clamped a hand across his shoulder and spun him backwards.

Gasping for breath, Max struggled to straighten up. Blood poured from his nose and down his face. His lips parted into a grotesque smile. “The chosen people, ach!” he grunted. “Protect my Sarah, Franz.”

 

Franz's fingers had gone numb despite the gloves' wool lining. He had been standing in the cold outside the Bureau of Stateless Refugee Affairs for hours. Even though he had reached Ghoya's headquarters minutes after the curfew lifted at seven o'clock, at least twenty refugees were already lined up ahead of him. The queue now snaked behind him as far as he could see, and the doors still had not even opened.

As Franz waited in line, his imagination ran wild with possible scenarios involving von Puttkamer and his “spectacular” bomb plot. He had no interest in conversing with the others in line, but the talkative man one spot ahead of him had insisted on drawing him into conversation, even though Franz had turned away and feigned difficulty hearing.

“You remember me from the hospital, Dr. Adler? Ja, surely. I am Samuel Eisler. My sister, Gisela Silverstein, Frau Silverstein, yes? You removed her gall bladder in the spring of '40.”

“Ah, of course, yes,” Franz said, but he had only a faint memory of the operation and none whatsoever of Eisler. “How is your sister?”

“She is fine, but she is a real kvetcher, you know? Always troubled by something or other.”

Eisler wanted to talk. He had apparently been a successful tailor in Munich and had married the most beautiful girl at his local synagogue before his Goldgräber of a wife ended up leaving him for a rich lawyer. Franz learned this and much more as they waited for Ghoya's office to open.

“Did you hear that American broadcast last week?” Eisler said next, heedless of the risk of being overheard. Listening to Allied stations was forbidden—people had been shot for less—and there were at least a few Japanese soldiers within earshot.

Franz turned away. “I have no access to a wireless of any kind,” he said, loud enough for the nearest guard to hear.

Fortunately for Eisler, the soldier didn't seem to understand German. “Edward Murrow on CBS,” the foolish man continued. “I am fortunate to have a good grasp of English, you understand. That man Murrow went with RAF bombers on a raid over Berlin. Oh, you should have heard his description. So marvellous! It sounded as if those brave pilots pummelled the Führer's city. Murrow called it ‘orchestrated hell.' It's so wonderful, is it not, Herr Doktor?”

Franz looked back at Eisler. “How can ‘orchestrated hell' be wonderful?”

“Berlin, man!” Eisler exclaimed. “The Allies are pounding the Nazi empire at its core.”

“And yet the Nazis still dominate Europe,” Franz pointed out. “I am told they refer to it as Festung Europa.”

“You watch, Dr. Adler. Watch how quickly Fortress Europe collapses as the Allies advance.”

“I have heard the same for almost two years,” Franz snapped. “How the Nazis will capitulate the moment the Americans and British invade the continent. But where is this invasion? Hitler still has the run of Europe.” He motioned to the checkpoint and lowered his voice. “Meantime, we line up in the freezing cold to grovel to a Japanese Napoleon for permission to cross the street.”

“Any day now, Herr Doktor.” Eisler laughed. “You will see.”

Movement in front of them drew their attention. Franz looked up to see that the door had opened and people had begun to file inside the building. He shuffled ahead with the rest of the queue as it relocated inside the narrow hallway that led to Ghoya's office. Franz was relieved to see Eisler turn to the person ahead of him. “Do you listen to the wireless?” Eisler exclaimed. “That Edward Murrow is my favourite . . .”

The door to Ghoya's office was wide open, and the little man's voice, even at its quietest, carried the length of the hallway. Franz could tell that his behaviour was as predictably unpredictable as usual. He joked and laughed with some of the refugees and berated, accused or struck others. Anything could launch him into a tirade.

Some people in the line appeared resigned, even bored. Franz assumed that they faced Ghoya regularly and had grown oblivious to his volatility. Others were ashen with terror or fidgeted nervously. Franz even caught himself shifting from foot to foot and cracking his knuckles.

Over an hour passed before he made it to the head of the queue. Franz had rehearsed arguments in his head, but as his turn neared, he still had no idea what he would say to Ghoya when he finally faced him.

An expressionless soldier at the door nodded for Franz to enter. At the sight of him, Ghoya hopped up from his seat and rushed around his desk. “No, no, no!” He waved both hands wildly. “No passes for anyone in your family. I was clear.” He turned his head from side to side as though conferring with imaginary colleagues. “Was I not clear? I believe I was clear.”

“You were, Mr. Ghoya.” Franz lowered his gaze and bowed before the little man. “I have not come regarding a pass.”

Ghoya's irritability vanished as abruptly as a hailstorm ending. He sauntered around his desk and sunk back into his chair. A thoughtful look crossed his face as he touched his fingertips together in a diamond shape. “Not for a pass? So why have you come?”

“I am . . . concerned for a friend.”

“Which friend?” Ghoya asked.

“Max Feinstein. A doctor. He works at my hospital and—”

A knowing look came to Ghoya's eyes as he raised a hand to cut Franz off. “Maxwell Feinstein from Hamburg, Germany. Yes, yes. I know him!”

“Dr. Feinstein was arrested by the Kempeitai.”

Ghoya laughed. “Of course he was! You think I do not know this? I know everything that happens in the Designated Area.” He patted his chest. “After all, I am King of the Jews!”

“But, sir, why was Max arrested?”

Ghoya shook his head gravely. “Maybe I should give you a pass for one day. Yes, maybe. To go see the exhibit on Broadway Street.”

Dread overcame Franz, but he pretended to be unaware of the mass public executions. “Why is that, Mr. Ghoya?”

“Traitors,” Ghoya grunted. “They hang there for everyone to see. Those cowards who killed our brave officers.”

“But I do not understand.” Franz raised a hand. “What do they have to do with Dr. Feinstein?”

“He spies for the Resistance, too.”

Franz felt his pulse pounding in his ears. “That is not possible, sir. He is a doctor. He has no interest in war or politics.”

“Your doctor friend is a spy!”

“But Max speaks only German. How could he possibly communicate with anyone in the Underground?”

“A spy, I tell you. A spy!” Ghoya clenched his fists as he screamed. “We know it to be so!”

Franz saw it was futile to argue. His heart sank. Was Max even still alive? It almost didn't matter. If the Japanese believed him to be a spy, his fate was sealed.

Ghoya's tone suddenly became calm, almost pleasant. “You do understand that your friend is gone?” For a moment, Franz thought Ghoya still meant Max. “Now that Colonel Kubota is no longer with us, no one is left to protect you. You have only me to answer to. Only me.” He laughed again. “No reason to concern yourself, Dr. Adler. I am a very fair king.”

Franz said nothing.

“Mrs. Aaronsohn tells me every day at lunch how thankful the Jews are for my benevolence,” Ghoya said, clearly proud of his choice of words. Then his eyes narrowed and he tut-tutted. “The smuggling . . . the spying . . . it all comes back to that Jewish hospital of yours. The hospital where both colonels and the admiral died. Where that spy Feinstein was working.”

“Mr. Ghoya, the hospital is not associated—”

“Why should the Jews have their own hospital? What is so special about you people? Tell me!”

“Nothing is special about us,” Franz blurted. “We are a miserable people. A cursed people. And it is hardly a hospital at all anymore.”

“It is true! Your hospital was of no use to our wounded officers. No help at all! Perhaps the building could be put to other uses.”

Franz had run out of arguments, so he simply dropped his chin and nodded in defeat.

But Ghoya seemed to have lost interest in the hospital. He leaned back in his seat. “Colonel Tanaka, he never trusted you Jews.”

At the mention of Tanaka, Franz experienced a familiar twinge of guilt.

Ghoya jutted out his lower lip. “Without the king, who knows what the colonel would have done to you Jews.”

“We are grateful for your help, of course.”

Ghoya held out his hands. “What is a king without his people?”

Franz decided to seize the opening. “You know, sir, Colonel Tanaka is not the only one who wishes ill toward us Jews.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Ghoya cried gleefully. “The other Germans! They hate you Jews.”

“The Nazis, yes. You are absolutely correct.” Franz nodded. “They will probably attack us at any moment.”

“Attack you?” Ghoya frowned.

“Yes in the ghet—the Designated Area, sir. We have heard a rumour that they are planning to launch an assault any day. Of course, you must already have heard this, too.”

Ghoya cocked his head but said nothing.

“Surely, Mr. Ghoya, they would need your permission before they could plant any bombs in—”

“Bombs?” Ghoya launched himself to his feet. He stared at Franz and when he spoke, his voice was hardly more than a whisper. “What is this talk of bombs?”