by S. J. Rozan
Rosalie Ruchl Gilder. Salzburg to Shanghai via the Conte Biancamano, April 1938, age 18. Accompanied by brother Paul Chaim Gilder, 14. Letters to Elke Chana Gilder, mother, 1938–1941. Acquired 1967. In German. English translation available.
There were fifteen more. I clicked on “English,” then hesitated. Read someone else’s letters? That wasn’t right. But these are historical documents, I told myself. In a museum collection. Yes, but they weren’t written that way. A young girl wrote them to her mother, who she never saw again.
In the end my curiosity overcame my scruples. It’s one of the things Bill always liked about me. Though why I should care what Bill liked now that we didn’t seem to be speaking, I had no idea.
I printed out the translations of the first half-dozen letters and curled up with them in bed.
18 April 1938
Dearest Mama,
This will be the briefest of notes, because the tender is leaving soon to take the ship’s mail. But I can’t give up the chance to describe the scene before us: We’ve docked at Port Said, and the setting sun is bathing the Sinai range with gold! Along with many fellow Jews, I stand at the rail, my heart stirred at the sight. Paul laughs at me, his skeptical sister; and truthfully, I have no idea which of the peaks before us might be Mt. Sinai itself. Nor does he, I might add. Nor do any of the crew seem to know, though they’ve made this voyage before.
The crew, by the way, treat us quite respecfully. An Italian steward confided, in poor but heartfelt German, that he was grateful to be at sea. On land, as he put it, “She’s all gone crazy!” This cordiality extends to the ship’s engineer, a Bavarian. He seems amused by Paul’s fascination with the machinery, and is pleased to have someone with whom to discuss it in German. He’s invited him to visit the engine rooms at any time. I take hope from the attitudes of these men that the madness sweeping Europe will soon come to an end.
But until it does, and despite my own impatience with the Talmud’s more ridiculous tales and constricting injunctions, I stand at this rail with my fellow refugees, and declare myself a Jew.
Your Rosalie
You go, girl, I thought. I snuggled more deeply into my blanket and went on to the next letter.
23 April 1938
Dearest Mama,
I hope you and Uncle Horst are keeping well, and are at this moment racing to Trieste to board a ship! Paul points out that if you are, of course, this letter will miss you. But I won’t mind having written in vain, if it means we’ll be together soon. I would gladly repeat myself as we sit over coffee—or fragrant flowery tea, as taken by the Chinese.
Now, you ask, how is it I can speak about Chinese tea, still three weeks from China’s shore? Mama, I’ve had the most fascinating encounter! Here is what happened:
As I wrote you, most of our fellow passengers are also refugees heading to the Orient with no more experience or knowledge of the place than we have. Many are families with children, who, with their natural high spirits, are treating this voyage as a great adventure. I don’t mind—in fact I find their sunniness reassuring—but not all my fellow passengers feel the same.
Aboard also are some dozen Chinese men, returning home. They look like the illustrations in that lovely poetry book; if anything, more elegant and impressive, with their pale skin and slanted eyes. The two most elderly dress in long dark gowns; all the rest wear jackets and trousers, but still, they’re quite exotic and I’ve had to be strict with Paul, that he must not stare at them.
Now, this morning, as I sat on deck with a novel from the ship’s library—it’s quite large, Mama, with books in so many languages!—I observed a young Chinese man run afoul of some boys playing with a ball. Almost knocked over by their pandemonium, he shouted that they were ill bred and worse behaved, and that as they were no credit to their families, they ought to be ashamed.
With my usual self-restraint I was on my feet in seconds. I thundered that it was he who ought to be ashamed, for frightening small children. He spun around, finger raised to scold me—then stopped, as if in confusion. Then he smiled, Mama, and bowed to me, a deep Oriental bow!
“Well,” said he. “I was under the impression that with the exception of my countrymen, the passengers on this voyage were largely German and Austrian. I suppose I shall have to watch my tongue.”
It was only then that I realized with astonishment what he’d grasped first—that we were both speaking English.
“If you intend to continue berating the children, indeed you will,” I drew myself up and answered, as though conversing in English with a Chinese aboard an Italian liner plowing the Red Sea were an everyday thing. “Perhaps you’d at least consider insulting them in your native language, so they might learn something they’ll find useful in their new home.”
At this he smiled again, but looked quizzical, and inquired where their new home might be. When I told him Shanghai, he seemed truly surprised.
“Madame, Shanghai is under Japanese occupation. Civil war rages in the countryside, and foreigners abandon China on every ship that sails. I understood my fellow passengers to be refugees from oppression, but Shanghai seems an odd choice of new home.”
“Choice? We are Jews, sir—we have no choice! The countries we leave hound us, steal from us, throw us behind bars. We’re ordered into exile and would gladly go, but no place will have us—except Shanghai!” I swept my hand toward the boys. “These children leave home, family, and friends for an unknown place where the language, the streets, the very food will be wholly new to them. Yet they laugh and play. And you dare take them to task for it!”
Finally reining in the runaway horse that is my temper, I felt myself redden up to my scalp and was appalled at my effrontery.
The gentleman regarded me, his face grave. He asked if there were truly no other place for us. “I’d thought Shanghai was a transit port,” he said. “A stop on the way to someplace more hospitable.”
Surprised by the catch in my throat as I spoke, I told him “hospitable” was not a sentiment the world felt toward Jews.
He kept his gaze on me for another brief time. Then he turned to the boys, who’d been watching in part fear, part fascination. He bowed—at which they took a step back, as though afraid of what might happen next!—and requested that I convey his apologies. I told them in German they might continue their game but must take care not to disturb their fellow passengers, and I shooed them off.
The gentleman turned again to me, and again, he smiled. “I am Chen Kai-rong. Chen is my family name, and so, if we’re to be friends, you must call me Kai-rong. I’d be honored if you’d take tea with me.”
And that, Mama, is how I’ve come to know about Chinese tea!
I receded to my deck chair. Mr. Chen Kai-rong settled himself also and spoke to a steward. As we awaited our tea he glanced at my book. I’d been reading Thomas Hardy, to improve my English; he asked whether the author was a favorite of mine. When I told him Mr. Hardy was rather dark for my taste, he agreed, and asked what writer in that language I enjoyed.
And Mama, now you’ll laugh, because what popped from my mouth was “William Shakespeare.” All the times you despaired of me, devouring Wilkie Collins while King Lear gathered dust, and now to a stranger on the deck of a ship I tell such a fib! But this gentleman holds himself with such grace, Mama, his English is so good and his manners so refined! I wanted him to think well of me.
I then asked if there was an English author he particularly admired, and he responded with P. G. Wodehouse. Do you know this writer, Mama? I don’t, and I told him so. His answer: “Well, I commend him to you. I think you’ll find him compatible.” Later, I sought out the works of Mr. Wodehouse in the ship’s library, but they are not carried.
Our tea tray arrived, bare of milk, sugar, or lemon. The accompanying cakes were entirely unfamiliar. Mr. Chen Kai-rong instructed me to swirl the teacup to release the scent, as we do with wine. I found the tea’s golden color and sweet fragrance appealing, and discovered it to be delicio
us, though I was less successful in enjoying the cakes.
“Never mind,” he said. “At least now the very food of China isn’t wholly new to you.” At that I couldn’t contain a smile, though I tried to conceal it. He continued, “I confess to a weakness for linzer torte, myself. Tell me, Miss Gilder, are all Jews as firm in their opinions and as outspoken as yourself? If so, Shanghai can look forward to some excitement.”
“We are indeed firm in our opinions,” I replied. “Though I think you and Shanghai will find most of my fellow refugees more capable of holding their tongues than I. Please accept my apology; I had no right to speak to you that way. But if we are to continue speaking, and even, as you hinted, to be friends, and if I’m to call you Kai-rong, you must call me Rosalie.”
He nodded gravely, as though I had proposed terms for a political treaty. “Well, Rosalie,” said he, “it seems I’m indebted to those young hooligans. If they hadn’t tried to trample me, I’d not have discovered the pleasure of your company. To my regret, though, I now have an appointment to keep.” He stood and bowed in farewell.
“Please wait, sir,” I said before he could take two steps. My boldness makes me blush, thinking of it now, but Mama, the half hour we’d spent over tea was the only half hour since the train pulled out of Salzburg that I haven’t been afraid. Can you understand that? I’ve been trying so hard to be brave, to look after Paul and be responsible, and really, Mama, I’ve been managing, please don’t think I haven’t. But this brief time spent with someone who is neither a frightened refugee, nor in the business of frightening refugees—I’d nearly forgotten what it was to converse, to speak of things beyond fear and loneliness and the horrors of our situation. So I called after Mr. Chen Kai-rong, and when he quickly turned back to me, I had to have something to say! I blurted, “Sir? My young brother and I go to China alone, with no more knowledge than we could glean from a children’s poetry book. If you’d care to educate me about your country, so I’m not a total dunce when we arrive, I should like that very much.”
He smiled. “I think, Rosalie, you stand no chance of being a dunce. But I’d be honored to talk with you about my country. Will you take tea with me again tomorrow afternoon? I can arrange for a group of rowdy children with dangerous toys, if that will entice you.”
“I need no enticing,” I told him, and the deal was struck.
So, Mama, soon I’ll be what the British call an “old China hand.” I’m looking forward to my education, but more than that, to another half hour with someone in whose presence I can forget that I’m afraid.
Stay well, Mama, and come soon!
Your Rosalie
As I slipped the printout onto my bedside table, I could almost feel the salt wind. I wondered what kind of tea Rosalie and Chen Kai-rong had been drinking: Osmanthus flower? Chrysanthemum? And did the Italian liner stock these teas for the Chinese passengers, or had Chen Kai-rong brought his own tea aboard? Maybe he’d found a favorite shop in Europe where he bought his Chinese tea, and now he was taking it home.
I fell asleep and dreamed of oceans.
3
“You slept well,” said my mother: a declaration, not a question.
She’s a restless sleeper herself. It was entirely possible she’d seen light under my door at 2:00 A.M. and was ostentatiously pretending she hadn’t. Rather than get into that, I poured myself tea and called my best and oldest friend, Mary.
“Lydia! Are you back?”
“Almost completely. You have time for lunch today?”
“I’m on the eight to four, but I’ll make time. My vic won’t be any deader after lunch.”
“You have a homicide?” I was surprised. Mary Kee is a Fifth Precinct detective. She does, or, as she says, undoes, extortion, robbery, and assault, but the precincts usually hand off homicides to the NYPD’s specialized squads.
“Not exactly. An Asian John Doe in a Times Square hotel. Bad teeth, no money, no papers, so they think he might be an illegal. Midtown Homicide asked for someone from down here to help ID him. My captain doesn’t like it, but he couldn’t say no.”
“Why doesn’t he like it?”
“He thinks the special-squad guys are divas. Especially Midtown Homicide. They don’t play well with others.”
“Sibling rivalry in the NYPD? I’m shocked and appalled. Well, bring along the John Doe’s photo. Maybe I know him.”
“Oh, sure. Lydia, you’ve been away so long I’m surprised you still know your way around.”
“For Pete’s sake, it was one month! You sound like my mother.”
“What? I take it back. See you later.”
I did my dishes and got dressed for a day of gumshoeing. As an afterthought, I slipped into my bag the Rosalie Gilder letters I’d printed out last night but hadn’t read. Then I headed out to see if I still knew my way around.
Rushing Chinese people and strolling tourists crowded the hot, bright sidewalks. I worked my way past open storefronts where ice-filled boxes displayed dozens of kinds of fish, past piled vegetable stands and restaurants with chickens glistening in the window. When I hit six lanes of snarled and honking traffic, I’d reached Canal Street.
Canal, running east-west through lower Manhattan, was once Chinatown’s border, but those days are gone. On the immigrant flood waters of the last two decades, Chinatown has spread north through what was once Little Italy and east through the formerly Jewish tenements of the Lower East Side. It’s lapping at the blocks west, too, merging with Tribeca and SoHo in a jagged scramble of the newly come and the ultra hip.
I surveyed the glittering windows of the jewelry row along Canal. As Alice Fairchild had said, they don’t go in much for antiques here. Chinese people value antiquities, but we generally like to know where things have spent the last, oh, five hundred years. Buying old things from strangers carries a risk: Unless you know what happened to the original owner and you’re sure he or she didn’t mind giving up the piece, you’re in danger of acquiring some bad luck along with it.
Westerners don’t seem to feel that way, and some of the Forty-seventh Street shops carry beautiful antiques. But a Shanghai bureaucrat on the lam might want to steer clear of the yarmulkes and black coats uptown and offer his ill-gotten goods to someone who spoke his language.
Literally.
Newcomers from other parts of China notwithstanding, a lot of Chinatown is still Cantonese. Including most of these jewelers. Wong Pan was from Shanghai, and a government official. He’d speak Shanghainese by upbringing and Mandarin by necessity. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t be willing to do business with Cantonese jewelers, and in written Chinese he’d be able to, but I’d bet he’d try his own people first.
So how would he find them? Most likely, by the shoe-leather method. He’d go from store to store, asking which dialect the proprietor spoke. The real question was, how was I going to find them in a way that would cancel out his two-day lead?
I headed east on Canal, to Golden Dreams.
“Ling Wan-ju!” Mrs. Chan, my mother’s friend-and-rival, smiled from her perch behind a case of jade bracelets. In the corner, incense smoke twisted up from General Gung’s altar.
“Hello, Auntie.” Greeting her in Cantonese, I took both her plump hands in mine. “How are you?”
“For an old lady, I’m well, thank you. You look lovely! California must have agreed with you. I can understand why you extended your trip.”
Mrs. Chan and my mother sewed side by side at Mr. Leng’s factory the whole time I was growing up. If my mother was going to complain to anyone about my being away, it would be Mrs. Chan. Of course, the way she put it probably had to do with how invaluable I was to my cousins, and how much more my help was needed, even after the wedding, than we’d expected when I made my plans.
“I had a good time, Auntie, but I’m glad to be home.” I knew that would get back to my mother, and I wanted it to. No point in her staying up all night worrying that I might relocate. “Auntie, I need your help. Professionally.”
“Auntie, I need to find jewelers who speak Mandarin or Shanghainese. Do you know any?”
“Oh, I don’t know if I can help. I’m so busy here in the store, I have no time to waste gossiping with other jewelers.” Having established her bona fides, she went straight on. “Of course, Mr. Lee, at Canal Diamonds, is from Beijing. And Old Wong at Harmony Jewelers, he speaks a dozen dialects—anything for a sale, that old man. Yang Nuanyi’s husband is Shanghainese, so maybe she’s learned his dialect. Or maybe not. If I were married to him I’d be happy for an excuse not to talk to him. Mr. Chen at Bright Hopes is from Shanghai, but he’s been here many years.” She kept that up for a full five minutes. I made a list, excluding the editorials.
“Thank you, Auntie,” I said, when she finally ran out of steam. “I’m grateful for your time, and I won’t take up any more of it. But I imagine you want to know why I’m asking.”
“Oh, it’s not my concern.” Her eyes were wide with innocence, but to head off a commiserating phone call to my mother about the difficulty of living with a daughter always in too much of a rush for common courtesy, I showed Mrs. Chan the photos. She shook her head, at both the jewelry and Wong Pan. “But I’ll call you without delay if I see him,” she promised, aglow at the prospect of striking a blow for justice.
I spent the rest of the morning working my way through Mrs. Chan’s list. I showed the photos and marveled at the variety of ways people had for saying no. I’d gotten simultaneously halfway through the list, halfway down the street, and nowhere when it was time to knock off and meet Mary for lunch.
I headed to our favorite Taiwanese tea shop and slipped onto a stool at a front table. I was a few minutes early, and Mary, being on duty, was likely to be late. I almost ordered black tea, but the old man at the next table swirled a pot of sweet-smelling osmanthus flower, releasing the fragrance. I ordered some of that and pulled the next of Rosalie Gilder’s letters from my bag.