by Daniel Kalla
Sunny had heard the talk, much of it disparaging, among Shanghailanders about the influx of refugees. She thought of the distressed man she had overheard at the street market. Reading on, she learned that even the Jewish relief organizations were being overwhelmed by the steady flow of impoverished arrivals. Some wealthier Jewish Shanghailanders had donated money to establish homes and schools for the refugees but, according to the article, those same Jews were also supporting a motion before the Shanghai Municipal Council calling for a moratorium on more arrivals.
Sunny held up the page to show her father. “Did you see this?” He nodded. “Father, they’re establishing a refugee hospital to help care for German Jews.”
“So I understand.”
“Perhaps they need help?” Sunny said.
He shook his head. “I have heard of several renowned specialists arriving among the refugees. I doubt they require the assistance of a simple Chinese doctor.”
Sunny sighed, frustrated by her father’s self-deprecation. Kingsley was one of the first physicians in Shanghai to prescribe insulin and had become a leading diabetes specialist. However, he had never shed his sense of professional humility, ingrained after so many years of schooling and practising with the British doctors who, even while seeking his guidance and expertise, still looked down their noses at him.
“I am reasonably fluent in German.” Sunny did not have to remind her father that she had won the languages prize at her school. “Perhaps they need nurses?”
“As I see it, there is only one way to find out.”
Sunny noted the address of the refugee hospital. She wondered if she would have time to drop in after her shift. It would mean travelling to Hongkew after dusk, an unsettling prospect, but the memory of those distraught Jewish men in the market cemented her resolve.
Kingsley lowered the newspaper. “Sunny, you realize that Fai is still visiting his mother in the country? The poor woman is dying, so we will have to make do without a driver for another few days.”
She nodded, almost reconsidering her trip to Hongkew. “I will ride the cable car to work.”
Sunny gathered her bag, kissed her father on the forehead and headed out. It was unseasonably warm for November, so she decided to forgo the cable car and walk the almost two miles to the Country Hospital on Great Western Road.
Her route took her through the heart of the French Concession, the wedge-shaped residential district that ran west from the Whangpoo River along the southern border of the International Settlement. The concession, known by many locals as simply “Frenchtown,” had been under French sovereignty since the mid-nineteenth century, and the Gallic imprint was everywhere, from its street names, architecture and parks to the police officers dressed in the style of Parisian gendarmes. Only the French themselves were missing. They were outnumbered almost a hundred to one by the Chinese. Even the British and Russian populations were larger. So many Russians had poured into the French Concession after fleeing the Bolshevik Revolution that a section of Frenchtown had been nicknamed “Little Russia.” Sunny revelled in the cultural diversity of her neighbourhood, where on one block alone she might pass a patisserie, a Siberian fur store and a traditional tea shop.
Sunny arrived at the Country Hospital half an hour early for her shift. Enjoying the sunshine, she strolled around the hospital’s perimeter, stopping to admire the building where she had worked since the Japanese invaded Hongkew. The neo-classical Renaissance design was striking enough to compete with any of the grand edifices lining the city’s famous riverfront Bund. Rumours continued to swirl that the hospital’s anonymous benefactor was Sir Victor Sassoon, an Iraqi Jew and the city’s most influential tycoon.
Passing under the hospital’s central stone arcade, Sunny entered the marble-floored foyer. The matron, Mrs. Gwendolyn Bathurst, stood at the bottom of the stairs in her starched white uniform with her hands at her hips as she waited for the arrival of her next shift of nurses.
“Good morning, Matron,” Sunny said.
“Hello, Nurse Mah,” the plump British woman said coolly.
Matron was as old-fashioned as they came but, despite her frosty demeanour and lofty expectations, Sunny was fond of Bathurst. The woman was fair to a fault and never showed a flicker of racism or favouritism toward her staff.
“I believe Dr. Reuben is looking for you this morning,” Bathurst announced.
Sunny nodded, detecting a note of warning in the woman’s tone. “I think you had best attend to your ward now,” Bathurst said. “Yes, of course, Matron.”
Sunny headed to the nurses’ room, changed into her uniform and pinned her hair under her cap before climbing the two flights of stairs to the surgical ward. On the spacious floor, twenty steel-framed beds lined the walls, separated from one another by translucent free-standing dividers. Sunlight poured through the large windows.
Meredith Blythe and Stacy Chan stood at the central desk. Blythe had a square face, broad shoulders and narrow hips that always made her uniform appear ill-fitting, whereas Chan was as diminutive as an adolescent girl. The two friends lived together and, as much as possible, worked the same schedule. Earlier in the year, a rumour had circulated that the pair had been seen kissing in the park across from the hospital. Sunny never paid heed to the gossip.
Transcultural friendships were common at the Country Hospital. The racial demographics of the staff and patients reflected the city it serviced and consisted of a mix of Western Shanghailanders and native Shanghainese. However, Sunny was the only Eurasian employee, and the outsider stigma still clung to her even within the hospital’s relatively tolerant milieu.
Sunny had a quick glance around the ward. With a sinking feeling, she noticed that the third bed along the near wall was empty. “Mr. Chum?” she asked the other two nurses.
Blythe shook her head. “He passed on yesterday aft.”
“Probably for the best.” A pit formed in her stomach as Sunny spoke. She had grown attached to the old man who, even as he withered away from colon cancer, fed her a steady diet of homespun wisdom on life and marriage while encouraging dalliances with almost every unattached male who passed through the ward.
Sunny was relieved to see that Stanley Wheelman still occupied the bed in the far corner. As soon as she looked his way, the young American beckoned her with a weak flicker of his fingers. She hurried to the bedside. “Good morning, Mr. Wheelman,” she said with a bright smile. “How are you feeling today?”
“No worse, Nurse Mah,” the emaciated man croaked. “That’s for sure.”
“May I examine your wound?” Sunny asked.
His head bobbed slightly. Sunny pulled the sheet down from his chest and peeled back the loose cotton bandages covering his abdomen. The stink of decay assaulted her nose and nearly made her eyes water. She spotted a few loops of bowel poking through the gaping vertical wound. But the angry red skin around the edges had faded to a calmer salmon pink—the first sign of improvement she had seen in him.
“I wouldn’t let them cut me open a third time,” Wheelman said hoarsely. “Just like we discussed.”
Sunny nodded. “Did the doctor start you on the sulphonamides?”
He frowned. “If you mean those new horse pills, then yes.”
“Good.” Sunny was pleased to hear that his surgeon had finally acquiesced and begun treating him with antibiotics, Western medicine’s latest wonder weapon against infections.
“Nurse Mah, I wanted to thank you for helping to convince—” Wheelman began.
“Nurse, may I have a moment of your time?” The frigid words, spoken in a clipped English accent, came from behind her.
Sunny turned to see Dr. Samuel Reuben glaring at her from the ward’s entrance. “I will return shortly, Mr. Wheelman.” She headed toward Reuben, who pivoted and glided out of the ward without waiting.
Sunny followed Reuben out into the corridor, where he stood with arms folded over his chest. His navy bow tie sat perfectly horizontal and his lab coat was as crisp a
nd spotless as ever, but his long thin face, usually pale in complexion, had reddened to the point of crimson. His dark eyes burned behind his tortoiseshell glasses. “Is it true that you persuaded Mr. Wheelman to decline surgery?” Reuben demanded.
She met his eyes. “I suggested that Mr. Wheelman consider all options before deciding, sir.”
“What other options?” Reuben snapped. “The man has an infected intestinal wound that requires resection and drainage!”
“I thought he was too weak and frail to survive another operation, Dr. Reuben.”
“You thought, did you?” he scoffed. “Based on all your experience as a surgeon?”
Sunny considered her words carefully. She knew how resistant surgeons, and Reuben in particular, were to unsolicited opinions. “Despite the first-class care you have provided, Mr. Wheelman has not shown significant improvement after two surgeries.”
“The man suffered from a perforated appendix and an abscess. I assumed he would have a difficult course after surgery.”
“Of course, sir.” Sunny nodded contritely. “But his wounds have been so slow to heal, Dr. Reuben. I thought his condition might be complicated by terminal ileitis. I heard that the sulphonamides had been proven somewhat effective in reversing the course of ileitis.”
“And where had you heard that?”
Sunny cleared her throat. “I read it in an article in The Lancet.” “Really? Are they distributing The Lancet to nurses now?” “My father sometimes lends me his copy.”
“Borrowing your father’s medical journals does not qualify you as a doctor, Miss Mah!”
“Of course not, sir, I realize that.”
“Do you really?” he huffed. “Sometimes I wonder.”
Sunny bowed her head again. “I am sorry I overstepped my bounds, Dr. Reuben. I had no right. But the patient thinks he has improved on the medication.”
“Yes, well, never underestimate the effect of a placebo or a sympathetic face,” he grumbled. “Regardless, I have little choice now but to continue the medication and dressing changes. To effectively leave his care in the hands of providence.”
“Thank you, Dr. Reuben.”
“Oh, there is no reason to thank me.” Reuben uncrossed his arms and pointed at Sunny. “Miss Mah, I do not care whether or not your father is a physician. If you ever again sabotage my treatment plans, as the chief of surgery, I will ensure that you no longer work at the Country Hospital or any reputable facility in this city. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Without another word, Reuben swivelled and stormed off down the hallway. As soon as he had left, Stacy Chan poked her head through the doorway, concern etched in her small features. “Soon Yi, are you all right?” she asked in Shanghainese.
Sunny adjusted her cap. “I am fine, Stacy. Thank you.”
“I have never seen Dr. Reuben so upset.”
“I suppose not.” In fact, Sunny had seen him in a similar state the last time they had disagreed over a diagnosis, but he had never threatened her job before.
“Can I get you a cup of tea?” Chan offered.
“No.” Sunny mustered a reassuring smile for the meek girl. “It’s time for you to go home and for me to get to work.”
Sunny inhaled slowly. The clash with Reuben had shaken her more than she let on. His self-serving words had struck a chord. In spite of all her father’s teaching, she was not a doctor and never would be. What business do I have interfering in vital medical decisions?
Another voice called to her. “Miss Mah, may I speak to you? Please.”
No. Not now, of all times.
Sunny turned to see Dr. Wen-Cheng Huang striding toward her. She watched impassively, but her chest thumped harder as he approached. Clean-shaven and hair slicked fashionably to the side, Wen-Cheng wore a navy double-breasted suit and patterned tie, looking every bit the dashing young doctor who could turn a woman’s head or earn a patient’s confidence in a handshake. Only his unusually pale brown eyes contradicted the facade. They held the same wounded puppy expression as the last time she had seen him.
“Dr. Huang, I must return to my ward now,” she said.
Wen-Cheng reached out as if to grab her wrist but stopped short of touching her. “Why have you not replied to my letters?”
Finding it painful to look into his plaintive eyes, she focused on the panel of black-and-white photographs of the hospital’s directors behind him. “There is nothing more to say.”
“Nothing?” Wen-Cheng frowned. “I poured my heart out to you.”
“They are only words,” she murmured.
Three months earlier, Sunny had been willing to sacrifice everything for Wen-Cheng. She believed the married physician when he told her that she was the love of his life and that only family and circumstance had trapped him in a loveless arranged marriage. Sunny was even prepared to shoulder her father’s crushing disappointment and to lose face—a grievous fate in Chinese society. However, when the time had come to commit, Wen-Cheng was unwilling to stare down his own father. He begged Sunny for more time, promising her that in another year or two he would find a way to leave his wife. Heartsick as she had been, Sunny realized that Wen-Cheng would never leave. And she decided it would be better to live with the heartbreak than the incompleteness of being his mistress.
But now, gazing into his adoring eyes, the desire flooded back. Desperate to throw her arms around him and to feel his skin against hers, she sensed her resolve weakening.
Wen-Cheng gently caressed her hand. The contact was electric. “I have made so many mistakes with you.” He switched from English to Mandarin. “Without you in my life, there is no light. I love you, Sunny. I always will.”
But Sunny knew that nothing had changed between them. She slipped her hand free of his. “Please do not write me any more letters, Dr. Huang.” She turned for the door. “I will not answer them.”
CHAPTER 11
Sunny crossed the Garden Bridge lost in a haze of emotions. She was so preoccupied with Jia-Li’s relapse, Dr. Reuben’s threat and, especially, her conflicted feelings for Wen-Cheng that it took her a moment to register the Japanese guard’s expectant stare.
Her stomach plummeted as she realized that she had forgotten to bow. Hastily, she thrust herself forward at the waist and bowed deeply, hoping it was not already too late. Her heart beat in her throat, but she did not dare look up at the guard.
“Qù!” The soldier uttered the Chinese word for “go” in a surprisingly even tone.
Sunny hurried on, grateful that the sentry was not the same malicious guard as the day before, who might have beaten her—or worse—for her oversight.
Electric street lights and neon signs lit Broadway. The street bustled with even more commotion at eight in the evening than it had the previous noon. Young Chinese men wandered about in search of nightlife but, cognizant of the danger, kept in tight packs. Loose clusters of Japanese soldiers and sailors littered the sidewalks, several of them drunk to the point of staggering. Young, heavily rouged prostitutes in tight dresses—the true “wild pheasants”—stood under almost every street light. They beckoned to nearby men, regardless of uniform or race.
Sunny neared two Japanese sailors who wore their white jackets unbuttoned and shirts untucked. They loitered near a street lamp while warbling an unrecognizable tune. The shorter one tapped his mate on the shoulder. The other sailor’s head whipped in her direction so quickly that the tail of his bandana flapped. His dark eyes widened and his lips twisted into an ugly grin. Pointing unsteadily at her midsection, he slurred some Japanese words to her.
Sunny lowered her gaze and stepped off the sidewalk, trying to give the sailors as wide a berth as possible. But moments after she passed them, she heard heavy footsteps behind her. The bandana-clad sailor uttered another catcall at her back. Heartbeat drumming in her ears, Sunny stole a quick peek over her shoulder and saw that the two men were gaining. She considered ducking into a store or hurrying down one of the nearby alleys but re
alized it might only leave her more isolated and vulnerable.
Steeling her nerves, she spun to face the drunken sailors. Expression blank, she shook her head and pointed to the girls standing beneath nearby street lights. The sailor in the bandana grunted and continued to lurch toward her, close enough for Sunny to pick up the stink of stale sake on his breath. His mouth twisted into a lascivious smile that accentuated the jagged scar running between his nose and lip.
He pawed at her chest. Sunny backed away, almost stumbling off the sidewalk. Steadying herself, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Do not touch me!” she snarled in English.
The sailor’s cheeks reddened and his nostrils flared. He spat a stream of Japanese words.
Sunny’s legs tensed, bracing for an attack. An image flashed to mind of an older woman who had been raped so viciously that she arrived at the hospital hemorrhaging. “It is better not to resist,” the woman had murmured to Sunny as she was rushed to the operating room.
Dismissing the woman’s advice, Sunny dropped her arms to her side, trying to decide whether to poke her fingers in his eyes or launch a knee into his groin.
Eyes locked on his, she waited. The feverish moment of stillness seemed to last forever.
The shorter sailor threw an arm over his mate’s shoulder and muttered a few words. The man jerked free of his friend’s grip. Then, just as suddenly, he broke into uproarious laughter.
Sunny’s breathing eased as she watched the shorter sailor guide his drunken friend away. Even as he wobbled off, the man repeatedly glanced over his shoulder and leered at her menacingly.
She wheeled back toward the sanctuary of the International Settlement but slowed after a block and tried to calm her nerves. She thought of the others—soldiers, resistance fighters and civilians caught in the middle—who had faced worse without shirking their duty. She would not allow one drunken sailor to break her will. Reluctantly, she turned back toward her original destination.
Anxious to escape the thoroughfare that teemed with intoxicated soldiers, pickpockets and prostitutes, Sunny veered off Broadway at the first intersection. Reaching Tong Shan Road, she spotted one of the city’s distinctive green trolleys. It rolled to a stop ahead of her and she jumped aboard. The bus was crowded with Chinese, their outfits ranging from traditional country robes to short Western dresses and three-piece suits. Some spoke Shanghainese, the local dialect, while others conversed in Mandarin, Wu or Gan.