A Life To Live...

by Israel Kipen

  Separated from the International Concession by several sections of standard colourless unexciting Chinese streets was the French Concession. This differed totally from all other areas in that it was a residential European enclave in a Chinese sea, administered as the name implied by the French. Its street names were French; its police were French. The buildings, shops, the people, the tempo of activity – all these bore a markedly European character. The streets were clean, well laid out and free of congestion, and were it not for the rickshaw stands on a number of street corners and the occasional food-vendor cooking his dim sims on an open hot-plate brazier, it was possible momentarily to forget that this was Asia.

  Shanghai also contained two distinct Jewish communities. In the main, they lived apart and differed in origins, cultural backgrounds and language.

  One group was the Sephardi community, most of whose members hailed from Baghdad. This community developed as a result of remarkable successes achieved by a few outstanding families with a world-wide reputation and international business interests, among which were the Sassoons, Kadoories and Ezras. In the wake of their solid business success, many other Baghdadi Jews flooded into Shanghai, some claiming family ties in the hope of reaping the benefits from the achievements of their precursors. Thus, a well-knit and financially viable Sephardi community came into being with its own particular communal structure, synagogue and internal cohesiveness based on shared Sephardi traditions reinforced by a British cultural framework superimposed on a past Arabic foundation. Although of similar origin, the Sassoons, Kadouries and Ezras were worlds removed from the rest of the Sephardi community. They were British subjects assimilated into the British way of life, their leading lights having been knighted and belonging to the upper echelons of British colonial society in Asia in its heyday. The lustre of these families, along with their commercial connections and political influence gave backbone to the Sephardi Jews and kept them apart as a self-proclaimed elite within Jewry. This claim dated back to the Golden Age of Spanish Jewry that bridged the 10th and 12th centuries. The very name Sephardi hailed from that time, Sepharad having been the Hebrew for Spain. That Jewry declined into a considerable degree of eclipse following the expulsion of Jews from Spain in 1492 and the rise of European Jewry, much of it centred in Germany (hence Ashkenazi, Ashkenaz being the Hebrew for Germany), and a veiled tension has persisted to this day between these two disparate communities of Jews.

  Separate, but parallel with the Sephardi community, was a Russian-speaking Jewish enclave in the French Concession. This group, culturally homogeneous and likewise cohesive, derived mostly from Siberia and Eastern Russia, driven further east by the Russian Revolution and the events following in its aftermath. They had originally moved to Harbin, Tientsin and Tsingtau, but later came to Shanghai, supposedly because of the better opportunities to be had there in that cosmopolitan city. These Jews had their own Kehilla (Obschina), a magnificent club, which was the focus of their social life, a modern synagogue, a weekly Russian-language newspaper edited by a Mr Rabinovitz, a Zionist organisation and other more ad hoc smaller societies. Most of them engaged in trade and shop-keeping while a few were in the professions; they were in the main of the upper and lower middle class. Theirs was a national Jewish consciousness rather than one more tradition-bound or observant – in this, differing very substantially from the Sephardi community.

  Set in the midst of an ambient mainstream Chinese culture, each foreign group established its own norms by means of which it could come to terms with the surrounding culture. These norms emanated from the expressed wish for separateness and a retained identity on the one hand and the expediency of partial integration to further their respective interests.

  The British, for instance, had a long tradition of colonial rule which they had adapted to Shanghai and which, we were told, had left much to be desired in terms of their relations with the indigenous community. The French were self-absorbed and tried to bring their own colonial style and cultural eminence, as represented by its French Club, into their geographical region. Other national groups, such as the Russian émigrés, the remnants of the defeated Kolchak army who had fled east, lived in a fantasy world of their own, regarding their exile (already some 25 years long) as temporary and constantly dreaming of a return to the mother country. The spirit that unified them as a group was a loyal adherence to the memory of the last tsar, Nicholas II, whose picture was at the entrance to their newspaper office. That newspaper fed their fantasies of a return, even against all reason or true cause for hope. That fantasy was akin to that of the Chinese Nationalists Chang Kai Chek and his followers who, having been driven to Formosa, now Taiwan, after the war, continually dreamt of an early return and liberation of mainland China. Unrealistic as this was, this illusion was at least supported by a separate geographic base, an army, powerful allies abroad and the prospect of maintaining a viable and successful life as a political entity on their island. The Russian émigrés had none of these. They viewed the German invasion of Russia in 1941 as the moment of keeping an appointment with their national destiny and clung to their hopes throughout the war years. Their delusion was not wholly negative. In their efforts to sustain the spirit of their community, the émigrés maintained a constant vitality that became translated into art forms. They staged plays and operettas and organised other cultural events which thereby added a dimension to a society that gave neither particular recognition nor high priority to such concerns. To the extent that the events were in Russian, they offered the Russian Jewish community and those refugees who understood the language a modicum of cultural enjoyment in what would otherwise have been a culturally arid situation.

  Into that multi-faceted business-oriented conglomeration of peoples and cultures entered a shipload of Polish Jews in October 1941. While we were authentic war refugees, we were by that time not at all unique, for a substantial number of German and Austrian Jews, in fleeing from Hitler, had preceded us to Shanghai well before. Those Jews constituted a community of some seventeen thousand souls who lived in a compact area in Hong-Kew where they recreated a minuscule German-Jewish society with language, mannerisms and social values and etiquette unmistakably resembling those of their former home. Gentlemen could be heard greeting each other “Guten tag, Herr Doktor” as if they were still in Berlin or Vienna rather than in the outpost that was a poor district in Shanghai. Following Hitler’s accession to power, this community had grown considerably and was largely sustained by the American Joint Distribution Committee which had an extensive relief organisation to assist such a major concentration of refugees.

  In contrast to the German and Austrian refugees, the new arrivals from Poland moved into the French Concession and in proximity to, and amongst, the Russian Jewish permanent residents of Shanghai. Such settlement there was not planned. It was more an intuitive action. Not only was the area more attractive to us, but we found there a common language with the Russian Jews which we lacked with the others.

  As soon as we reached Shanghai and found accommodation, we began to consider possibilities of further escape. The Palestine Office was re-established, contact with the British Consulate made, and the people who possessed certificates entitling them to go to Palestine were helped in finding passage there. Within six weeks of arriving in Shanghai, we were farewelling a group of olim, immigrants to Israel, from the Shanghai wharf. I do not know whether Herzl ever envisaged that the return to Zion would include Polish Jews setting out from Shanghai. But fact was that we danced a hora to Hebrew melodies on the Shanghai wharf, while, above us, the fortunate passengers looked down from the ship.

  I found a room with a young family in the French Concession which I shared again with Mietek Elbaum. The husband was a municipal employee. One evening, he returned home and told me that the port authorities were recruiting people for the water police and urged me to apply. I was startled by the suggestion, finding it difficult to envisage myself as a policeman of any sort, let alone on water, in the pursuit of C
hinese smugglers of contraband. All manner of “opportunities” come one’s way in life, but this one I politely declined, to my host’s dismay.

  Then, on the 12th December, Japan attacked Pearl Harbour. Within an hour, the Japanese army, which had been on the Chinese mainland since the invasion of Manchuria in 1931 and was stationed nearby, took Shanghai without a fight. The only hostility took part on the waterfront where the Japanese fired upon a British vessel. Other than this, the takeover was a bloodless one and we found ourselves again under Japanese domination, albeit one different from that we had known on Japan’s home-ground.

  The outbreak of war in the Pacific brought with it the realisation that all further notions of escape had to be abandoned. We were now hemmed in and cut off from the West, the only possible source of help. It was a bitter realisation which required a total re-orientation on the part of each of us. Those who had, till then, been most dependent on financial support from abroad were the hardest hit. As the days of northern winter grew colder, the destitution of people became more patent. Folk who only weeks before had held to some form of dignity found themselves suddenly in a state of want. To seek manual labour in Shanghai was unrealistic, as none could compete with the coolie nor subsist on the pittance for which he worked. People were left yet again to their own devices and cunning to cope with the new reality.

  Remarkably, many met the challenge well; indeed, the more difficult conditions became, the more resourceful they proved themselves, as if some natural, innate instinct directed them in the business of survival. Theirs was a positive zest for living which no setback could daunt or weaken, while their wiliness and success owed more to wit, imagination and natural talent than to education.

  In a city like Shanghai, which had always been open to individual ingenuity and opportunity, even war, occupation and shortages did not wholly deny openings to the quick-witted and enterprising. Currency trading had long been a normal and vital part of economic life in Shanghai, as the exchange shops in Chusan Road amply testified. Soon enough, some of the more clever folk among the refugees worked out a system whereby they could set up trade in American dollars even within sight of the more regular exchange outlets. Interestingly, neither rivalry nor animosity arose between the established Chinese traders behind their shop counters and the foreigners on the pavements outside. Indeed, the two elements seemed to stimulate each other’s activities and attainments. Where the foreign traders acquired their initial capital and connections to enter the trade at all and to be continually informed about the sensitive fluctuations of the money market they kept a trade secret. The war situation also created other opportunities for initiatives not undertaken in normal circumstances. While American dollars and gold bars had been objects of trade in Shanghai even before the war and it was not unusual to see a Chinese bearing two handfuls of gold bars mounting a rickshaw with his precious commodity not even wrapped from sight, the dollars and gold were not the only goods bartered on the market. At intervals, a demand would suddenly spring up for a particular item and feverish buying would ensue. At one time it would be razor blades, at another, sewing needles. When such demand arose, one would roam the labyrinthine alleys and lanes with their plethora of Chinese shops, buy up all stock available and bring them to the open market, making sure that one sold as quickly as one bought, lest one remained in possession of excess non-disposable stock. I did a little scouting of this kind myself and earned some money from it. As a consequence of these activities, the successful dealers became the first of a new elite that emerged in the evolving stratification among the refugees.

  Not everybody, however, was endowed with such boldness and creative thinking. In the changed circumstances, those who had constituted yesteryear’s elite – respected intellectuals, professionals, industrialists – found themselves in very precarious straits. They could not let go, unfold their minds, open their hands to new ventures. They seemed unable emotionally to bridge the gap between their former status and the reality of their present position, being thereby robbed of their dignity, self-respect and drive which had, at an earlier stage, made them what they had been. Their world had collapsed and they lived, as it were, in a state of suspended animation, helpless before the dictates of the hour and impotent in any attempt to reconstruct their shattered spirit. Many fell into this category and were in urgent need of help.

  Among the Russian Jews, there were many public-minded individuals. They formed a committee to provide relief for the more destitute. They were zealous in their efforts to do whatever they could for their newly-arrived brethren from Poland. One of the members of the committee was a man called Oppenheim who must have been in his sixties and would walk from one office to another with a book under his arm soliciting money for the Jews in need. There was also among the Polish refugees themselves another man whose name was Lederman. He was middle-aged, always seemingly preoccupied, always busy and something of a loner, keeping his distance from others, but not out of haughtiness or false pride. Early in 1942, rumours arose that a refugee kitchen was to be established in the French Concession. It transpired shortly after that Lederman was behind the scheme. To this end, and with the assistance of the relief committee, premises were rented on the Avenue Joffre in the heart of the French Concession. The kitchen provided a hot midday meal at a nominal price. The enterprise proved a crucial and timely intervention for many, as most refugees were men who lived in shared accommodation devoid of adequate cooking facilities or who, even where such facilities were available, did not cook for themselves. Meanwhile, restaurants were beyond their means. Poor nutrition, therefore, compounded by the penetrating cold of the wet Shanghai winter, led to deterioration in their health. The establishment of the kitchen by the relief committee at Lederman’s instigation was a master-stroke. It touched the very core of the daily existence of so many people, both in the physical and social sense, becoming a focal point for the refugees. It had a permanent staff of Chinese cooks and was run by Lederman himself. A ladies’ committee from the local Russian Jewish inhabitants supervised and assisted with the day-to-day running of the kitchen, one or other of them also being always on hand to serve the meals.

  My own fortunes during the early days of my sojourn in Shanghai were mixed. Having given up the offer to become a water policeman, I was given work assisting in a soap factory. I learned something about soap production, but became more intrigued by another activity. Next to the soap factory was a Chinese primary school where the children learnt their early lessons through singing. I thought at first that they were simply singing normal songs, but was subsequently informed that this was the orthodox way of teaching the “alphabet” in China. I stayed only a short time at the soap factory. In the meantime, Mietek Elbaum and I changed accommodation, moving to a first-floor apartment occupied by an elderly couple hailing from Tientsin. The man had been a shammas (verger) and wore a kippah. His wife was a sharp-tongued woman who ruled over us with a mixture of motherly care and iron discipline. Mietek liked to tease her. She proved repeatedly gullible and this provided amusement in circumstances which seldom offered much cause to be amused. I would often wander about the business district with Mietek and talk with people, observing them in action; but I was decidedly an outsider. I simply did not belong. Along with many others, I too attended the relief kitchen, lingering there with them well after the meal was over in that hall that served as a club and home as well. Watching them was painful for me. I was a mere twenty-three at the time; I had spent two years as a refugee; I had not yet established myself in any way or made my mark. I had simply taken life as it came – as I had but little choice to take it – and had not yet accumulated any past attainments on which to look back or to dwell upon. This was in sharp contrast to the many who patronised the kitchen – lawyers, doctors, journalists, industrialists, merchants – whose youth was behind them, who had had a successful and influential past which they kept reliving in their talk, and who now faced a distressing present to which they could not adapt and an unp
redictable future shorn of prestige, dignity and self-worth.

  One day after lunch, Mr Lederman approached me and said he would like to talk to me. In his office, he was polite, correct, with a touch of weltschmerz reflected in his expression. I was at first puzzled by his purpose in revealing to me what seemed wholly private. The Polish consulate in Shanghai, which had by that time come to represent the Polish government in exile in London, had been ordered to close and its staff to come to London, passage having been arranged. Lederman had received an offer to go also, and he faced a grave personal decision. He would only go if he could find someone willing to take over the kitchen; otherwise he would forego the opportunity. In my innocence, I said that, surely, out of the many accomplished men who came to the kitchen, he should have no difficulties in selecting a successor. To this he replied that I had not understood what he was saying. He had already selected his successor. That person was me! I sat there, scarcely able to believe my ears. Of the 250 others who would have jumped at the offer and who were far more adept than myself he could have chosen, why me, I asked myself, why me? Also we scarcely knew one another except to greet one another in passing, there was a generation’s age difference between us, and I had done little to earn his trust. Overcome, I tried to direct the discussion away from myself, but he permitted no digressions. He was adamant: me or nobody! We agreed in the end that I should be given time to think the matter through. I came to hope that Lederman’s offer was an impulsive act which would cool and be resolved of its own accord. So I played for time. While not setting out deliberately to avoid him, nonetheless I did not come too close. One day he gestured at me as if to ask, well what is your answer?, while several days later he approached me directly and told me bluntly that his future lay in my hands. He had little time left himself to give the answer demanded of him by the consulate. Hence he wanted mine very soon. Where, before, we had set no time limit upon my decision, this time we agreed upon a specific date. Clearly, the issue was not about to go away, while the manner in which he put his position to me – that his destiny, in effect, rested in my hands and, by implication, with my conscience – left me with only one possible response. He received my acceptance with relief, though with no trace of elation. I suspected that deep down he felt guilty about leaving his fellow refugees behind. He might also have been somewhat uneasy about his choice of successor and the fate of his kitchen which was such a vital institution at that time and that place. For my part, the nearer the day came for me to take over the enterprise, the more diffident did I become. I felt that Lederman had imposed me upon the community and was troubled by the consideration that at my age I could not command the necessary respect of the people, particularly in a setting of bitterness, frustration and not a little envy of the next man’s slightest advantage. Lederman’s announcement of my succession to his position upon his taking leave proved no less a puzzle to the folk who came to the kitchen than it had been to me. There was, however, no discernible dissent or protest even if some among those present harboured private reservations.