by Daniel Kalla
Hannah and Esther shared the bedroom, while in the main room, Franz slept on the sofa and Ernst on a bed of cushions. As he had on the ship, the artist disappeared for long stretches without explanation. He always returned full of amusing anecdotes—life as a bewildered foreigner in Asia—but Franz sensed the loneliness behind his happy-go-lucky attitude.
Esther busied herself with relentless homemaking and nesting. Some of the local peddlers already called to her by name from the street below. She had stocked the shelves in their little apartment with a set of secondhand dishes, pots and cutlery, bartered in exchange for a pair of earrings and a small brooch. She had imbued their apartment with a sense of home, down to the dried flowers on the windowsill and a row of German novels lining the shelf, but her efforts only heightened Franz’s homesickness.
Hannah was adjusting to her new life better than the adults. She had already befriended Natasha Lazarev, a nine-year-old Russian girl who lived with her parents and two brothers on the top floor of their building.
With Hannah at the Lazarevs and Ernst gone for the day, Franz sat at the table cradling a cup of tea and watching his sister-in-law scour the rusted sink. A beefy red scar coursed along the inside of her arm, but Franz could see from the way she feverishly scrubbed that her injury no longer impeded her. “Why do you always avoid rest, Essie?” he asked.
“I did nothing but rest on that ship for almost a month.” She shrugged. “Besides, for me, rest is no rest at all. You understand, Franz?”
“I do.” The smile slid from his lips. “After Hilde died, between the new baby and the hospital, I hardly slept. But it was almost better that way.”
She stopped scouring. “I dread the nights. That is when I miss him most.”
The image of Karl and Esther snuggling on a couch and laughing quietly at some private joke popped into Franz’s mind. “I am not sure that ever changes, Essie.”
Esther’s shoulders straightened and she began to scrub again. “Have you opened your father’s letter yet?”
He shook his head.
“What if his news is good, Franz?”
“Do you think it could be?”
“No.”
The loose knob rattled and the door creaked open. Franz looked over as Hannah entered. “Guten tag, Papa, Tante Essie,” she greeted politely, but Franz saw that she was on the verge of tears.
“Was is los, liebchen?” he demanded.
Hannah shook her head but said nothing. She crawled onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around her and cradled her.
“What happened, Hannah?” Esther asked, drying her hands on her apron as she walked out of the tiny kitchen. “Did you have a fight with Natasha?”
Hannah shook her head again. “Natasha’s brother wanted to know if …” Her voice faltered. “If I had ever been in the circus.”
The anger ripped through Franz. Hannah had faced taunts from insensitive, cruel or oblivious children most of her life, especially during those final months in Vienna, but rarely had he seen her so hurt. He resisted the urge to rush upstairs to confront the little boy himself, remembering how disastrous the previous interventions had proven.
Esther waved her hand. “Ach, Hannah, you don’t listen to such nonsense. You are too smart and too special for that.”
With her face still buried in Franz’s shoulder, Hannah muttered, “Ivan is only six.”
“You see,” Esther said as she approached. “He doesn’t know.”
Hannah looked up at her aunt, defeated. “I thought it would be different here, but nothing changes, Tante Essie.”
Esther stroked Hannah’s cheek with the back of her hand. “Oh, darling, such ignorance and heartlessness is everywhere. You cannot change those people. What you have to do is rise above them.”
“How do I do that, Tante Essie?”
“You ignore them,” Esther said. “You don’t allow them the satisfaction of a reaction. And know in your heart that they are nothing but narrow-minded. What those people say does not matter. Never ever let them stop you, Hannah. You understand?”
“I will try,” Hannah promised.
“That’s my girl,” Esther said.
Hannah wriggled free of Franz’s grip and hopped out of his lap. She threw her arms around Esther and hugged her. “I’m so happy you came with us.”
“Me too.” Esther kissed the child’s head. “Me too.”
Hannah let go of her aunt. “I thought Onkel Karl would be here by now.”
Esther turned to Franz, her eyes seeking permission to tell Hannah. He hesitated a moment and then, with a sinking heart, nodded.
Esther knelt down in front of the girl. “Onkel Karl is not coming, Hannah.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Not ever?” “No.”
Hannah’s face scrunched with suspicion. “He is dead, isn’t he?” “Yes, Hannah,” Esther breathed.
The tears Hannah had been holding back earlier welled in her eyes as she looked frantically from Esther to Franz. “He was never going to come here, was he?”
“No.” Esther ran a finger under her eye and sniffed once. “He died that night, Hannah. The night of the fires. Kristallnacht.”
“I knew it!” Hannah cried. “The Nazis killed him, didn’t they?” “Yes,” Franz said softly.
“And Opa Jakob?” Hannah demanded, her face creased with hurt and anguish. “Did they kill him too?”
Franz held up his hands. “I don’t know.”
“You do. You must!” Hannah backed clumsily away from both adults.
“Your grandfather was supposed to come over on the next ship to Shanghai, but I think his lungs might be too weak for the journey.”
“He’s never going to come either!” Hannah spat.
Franz shook his head once and dropped his hands to his side. “I don’t think he will.”
“It’s not fair!” Hannah spun and rushed to the bedroom.
Franz started after her, but Esther caught him by the forearm. “Give her some time.”
He knew she was right, but he desperately wanted to comfort his daughter. The betrayal in her eyes pierced his heart.
Ten minutes passed and Hannah had still not emerged. Franz slipped on his coat and hat and then knocked at the bedroom door. “I have to go to an appointment now, Hannah. I will see you at dinner, all right?” He lowered his head. “I am so sorry, liebchen.”
Hannah did not reply. With a reassuring smile, Esther gestured for him to leave the child alone. Heavy-hearted, Franz turned and trudged out of the apartment.
On his way out of the building, he almost collided with Heng Zhou, who was hunched under the weight of a grey canvas sack that was slung over his shoulder.
“Good day, Dr. Adler.” Heng struggled to lower the sack to the floor. “Amazing how the same bag of rice gets heavier each year.”
Franz wondered where Heng had acquired so much rice—and why—but he thought it rude to ask. “Lifting that sack would surely put me in traction.”
Heng smiled. “Your family has settled in well, Herr Doktor?” “We have, Mr. Zhou. Thank you.”
“I am so glad.” Heng chuckled softly. “To be truthful, I suspected as much when I heard the street peddlers calling out to Mrs. Adler.”
Franz nodded. “She will have them speaking German soon.”
Heng laughed again. “I would not be surprised. It amazes me how much more capable women are than men. You are lucky to have her.”
“Mrs. Adler is my sister-in-law. A widow. My wife is … I am a widower myself.”
“Ah.” Heng fixed his moist red eyes on Franz. “What a wonderful influence on your daughter Mrs. Adler must still be. Our home is sadly lacking a female presence.” Franz wondered if he was about to elaborate on the fate of his wife and daughter, but Heng merely offered another benign grin. “Please do not let me delay you any longer, Dr. Adler.”
“Perhaps you and your son might join us for dinner one day soon?” Franz suggested.
“We would be delighted.” Heng
beamed. “Most delighted.”
Franz watched Heng stiffly hoist the sack over his shoulder again and totter for the staircase. “Mr. Zhou, are you sure I cannot assist you?”
“No, no, no,” Heng called without looking back. “This is good for my old back and legs.”
At the street corner, Franz hailed a rickshaw. “The Country Hospital,” Franz said slowly in English. Digging out his frayed guidebook, he was about to point to the spot he had marked on the map but the driver had already turned, lifted up the handles of the rickshaw and set off.
Franz had not realized how far west the hospital was. Along the way, they passed sumptuous villas and sprawling gated mansions that could have been plucked from the finest neighbourhoods in Europe. The driver must have trotted at least two miles before he slowed to a halt in front of a striking building. Again, defying common practice, Franz tipped the driver handsomely. From the driver’s ear-to-ear smile, Franz wondered if he had drastically overpaid; he was still bewildered by the local dual currency and the difference between the “big” and “small” money.
The Country Hospital’s Renaissance design reminded Franz far more of a hotel or bank in Vienna’s upscale Ring Strasse district than a community hospital. Butterflies filled his chest as he stepped through the columned entrance and into the marble foyer, but the subtle smell of septic cleaners grounded him. Hospitals always had that effect, providing a sense of order and purpose that, for Franz, could not be found in the outside world.
Several people, many wearing lab coats or nursing uniforms, circulated through the foyer. A patient in a wheelchair was registering at the admissions desk. Franz scanned the faces but none matched Clara Reuben’s description of her husband. Biding his time, he studied the oil portraits of past medical directors lining the wall. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement and turned to see Sunny Mah, her slim frame almost lost under the thick starched apron and bib she wore over her heavy uniform.
Franz was pleased to see someone familiar, especially the likeable young nurse. He considered Sunny’s oval face the perfect blend of Western and Eastern features: teardrop eyes, straight nose, angular cheeks and milky white complexion. But, like other women who had caught his eye since Hilde’s death, her beauty was appealing in the same detached sense as a lovely piece of art or music might be. “Good afternoon, Miss Mah,” he said in English.
She smiled warmly. “Dr. Adler, do you work at two hospitals now as well?”
“No. At least, not yet. I am here to meet a Dr. Reuben about potential opportunities.”
Her shoulders stiffened. “You are acquainted with Dr. Reuben?”
“I have only met his wife, but she was kind enough to facilitate introductions.” He frowned. “Miss Mah, didn’t you work overnight at the refugee hospital?”
“No one else was available. And Dr. Feinstein was particularly concerned about two of the patients.”
“What is that English expression about the burning candles?” he asked.
“Burning the candle at both ends.”
“Exactly so.” He nodded. “Does sleep not interest you?”
“I am terribly fond of it, Dr. Adler.” Sunny smiled again. “I did manage two or three hours last night. The cot in the staff room is quite comfortable.”
“They must have changed mattresses since I tried to sleep there two nights ago.”
Sunny’s face lit. “Dr. Adler, the new surgical equipment is supposed to arrive today!”
“I have scheduled a hernia repair for tomorrow.” He spoke matter-of-factly, but inside he bordered on euphoric.
Sunny’s smile widened. “You must be very pleased at the thought of returning to the operating room.”
He sighed happily. “You have no idea, Miss Mah.”
She cleared her throat. “Would you mind, Dr. Adler, if I … I were to observe?”
“Mind? On the contrary, I would appreciate your assistance.”
“Oh, yes, I would like that. Thank you.”
“Dr. Adler?” someone called from halfway across the room.
Franz looked over to see a tall man approaching, his lab coat flapping with each step. Franz recognized Dr. Samuel Reuben by his tortoiseshell glasses and bow tie that fit with his wife’s description.
Sunny turned for the staircase. “I had best get back to my ward duties. Goodbye, Dr. Adler,” she said over her shoulder.
“Dr. Adler, I hope I did not keep you waiting long.” Reuben shook Franz’s hand firmly. “I was dealing with a particularly scarred gallbladder that was loath to leave the liver bed.”
“They can be such a struggle,” Franz said.
“Not so much a struggle, Dr. Adler, as simply meticulous timeintensive work.” Reuben’s eyelids narrowed, and he pointed a long finger toward the staircase. “Do you know Nurse Mah?”
“We recently met at the refugee hospital.”
“Then you have probably already experienced how headstrong she can be,” Reuben huffed. “She belongs to that breed of nurses. Women who fancy themselves as doctors. Deprived by fate of their rightful calling. I’m sure you have seen the same type in Austria.”
Sunny had never struck Franz as anything other than a caring and capable nurse, but he did not comment.
“As a result of that gallbladder,” Reuben continued, as though the organ were the patient, “I am running late this morning. Would you mind if we chatted while I perform my rounds?”
“Of course not. A pleasure, I am sure.”
As Reuben bounded up the two flights of stairs, he recited his own resumé, stressing his medical and surgical training at King’s College in London and twice mentioning that he was the chief of surgery. He didn’t inquire about Franz’s background or experience, but at one point he said, “I understand you held a university position in Vienna.”
“Until the Nazis dismissed all Jewish faculty.”
“Well, you will soon discover that Shanghai is not Vienna.”
They arrived at the men’s surgical ward. Franz noticed Sunny attending to a patient on the far side of the room. He tried to catch her eye, but she did not glance in his direction. He wondered if he might have said something earlier to offend her.
Reuben walked over to the first bed, where a pale, middle-aged man with hollow cheeks lay. Reuben grabbed for the chart hanging from the foot of the bed. “Good day, Mr. Fife,” he said as he studied the chart. “How are you feeling?”
Fife looked at him with frantic eyes. “About the same as yesterday, I think, Doctor.”
Reuben turned to Franz and spoke as though the patient were not present. “Mr. Fife came to me with an advanced cancer of the rectum. The tumour obstructed his bowel and adhered to the pelvic wall. I managed to fashion a very workable colostomy despite the bulk of cancer.”
From his fellowship six years earlier at St. Mary’s Hospital, Franz was familiar with the British tendency to hold frank discussions in front of patients, but he still felt uneasy.
Reuben pulled back the sheet and, without warning, exposed Fife’s abdomen. The scent of feces wafted to them. Wrinkling his nose, Reuben studied the half-full rubber colostomy bag. After a moment, he draped the covers back over Fife’s chest and turned to leave.
“Dr. Reuben, excuse me,” Fife said tentatively. “Does everything look all right?”
“Mr. Fife, you cannot expect to bounce back so rapidly from a surgery as major as yours,” Reuben said with a hint of exasperation. He placed the chart back on the bed railing and moved on. “Have a little patience, man. That’s the spirit.”
Moving from bed to bed, Reuben assessed his post-operative patients, cataloguing their histories, surgeries and prognoses but interacting minimally with the people themselves. Franz saw that Reuben belonged to the class of surgeons who tended toward aggressiveness—the “when in doubt, cut it out” approach that was so common in their profession—but Franz also recognized him as an able diagnostician and surgeon.
They stood at the bedside of the last patient, a you
ng red-headed Scot. “A difficult case, Mr. Stewart,” Reuben sighed as he retracted the sheet to expose a bulky dressing over Stewart’s right groin. “I have repaired his hernia twice, but the abdominal wall defect is too big and the inguinal ligaments too lax to support the stitches. They keep tearing through. And the hernia has relapsed for a third time.”
“May I?” Franz asked.
After Reuben and Stewart nodded their consent, Franz peeled the bandage back to reveal a grapefruit-sized bulge over the right groin, blanketed by a row of stitches. “Which approach did you use, Dr. Reuben?”
“The Bassini approach, of course,” Reuben said.
Franz smoothed the bandage back into place. As soon as they had stepped out of the patient’s earshot, he said, “A colleague of mine in Vienna showed me how the McVay modification can make a huge difference to the outcome in challenging recurrent hernias such as Mr. Stewart’s. I have been astounded by the results.” “Have you indeed?” Reuben said coolly.
“Yes, Dr. McVay described it only four years ago but—” Franz stopped in mid-sentence.
Reuben’s cheeks had turned splotchy, and his dark eyes burned behind his glasses. “Dr. Adler, I did not invite you here for a second opinion.” “Of course, I was merely—”
“Nor do we require more staff surgeons at the Country Hospital.” Reuben clasped his hands together. “I appreciate that you have come from a more established background in Vienna. However, you and your compatriots have arrived in Shanghai as refugees.”
Franz swallowed back his rising indignation.
“My wife and I are trying to help as best we can,” Reuben went on. “However, I need you to understand that I am seeking only an assistant to help in surgery and with the post-operative care.”
You mean your own intern. “Of course, Dr. Reuben.”
“If you are interested in the position, I can pay a wage that—while perhaps not what you are accustomed to—will, I am hopeful, help support your family. However, we need to be crystal clear on the scope of your duties and my expectations. There will be only one lead surgeon between us. Do you understand?”