The Far Side of the Sky

by Daniel Kalla

  After Luigi left, Franz wandered over to the chest of drawers where he had deposited his father’s letter, still unopened. He took it back to the table, along with a paring knife, and laid both envelopes side by side.

  He reached first for the telegram and carefully sliced the top open. He unfolded the single page and saw that the message had been transmitted two days earlier.

  Dear Dr. Adler,

  I am saddened to advise that your father passed away the night before last. I was able to cancel his berth on the Bingo Maru and am holding the refund in trust for you.

  With deepest condolences,

  Julius Rolf

  Franz lifted Jakob’s letter from the table and tore open the envelope. His hand shook as he read his father’s familiar handwriting.

  Dear Franz,

  I realize you doubted my final promise, spoken the day we last met. Please know that I did hope to join you in Shanghai. However, my tired old lungs have stubbornly refused to co-operate. It would be futile for me to attempt the journey now.

  To be frank, my son, I do not see myself lasting many more days in this condition. Do not despair. Take solace in knowing that I am prepared, eager might not even be too strong a word, to depart this world. While I refuse to conveniently embrace religion at this late hour, somehow I believe that I will soon be nearer to Karl and my dear daughter-in-law Hilde, and, of course, your beloved mother. The prospect brings me much comfort.

  I have lived a full life. Even as I write this letter, I am comforted by so many wonderful memories of us all. I consider myself fortunate to have witnessed this tragic turn in Austrian history at the end of my life. I think of the little ones who have no past and, now, no future. And your brother, cheated out of the rest of the rich life that he and Essie deserved together. However, to know that you have led Esther and Hannah thousands of miles beyond the clutches of these savages provides me relief and peace beyond description.

  My son, please remember that the best revenge is to live a long, full and happy existence. Raise Hannah Ruth to be proud of her heritage. Show them that we can rise above their hatred and their bullying. They will not last, but it is imperative that we endure. Embrace your grandchildren.

  I realize that in this current madness, legal considerations are moot. However, I have been a lawyer too long not to tell you that I have drawn up a will. I have given my furniture and clothes to Frau Weiss and her husband. They have taken good care of me since my Elise died. You will understand that I have given my watch to their son Rolf. I fear that you will not be home to collect it for yourself.

  The one regret I will take with me is not having told you often or convincingly enough how very proud I am of you. My part in bringing Karl and you into this world so eclipses any other small contributions I might have made that they do not bear mentioning. You have no idea how much respect and affection I hold for you in my heart.

  With my love and devotion,

  Father

  Franz’s chest ached as he stared at his father’s words. However, he found a sliver of solace in knowing that time and illness had taken Jakob peacefully, and he no longer had to worry that his father might suffer the same brutal fate as the Yacobsens.

  My mother, my wife, my brother and now my father …

  He was still staring at the letter when the apartment door swung open and Esther entered carrying a canvas bag full of groceries. The moment she saw him, she dropped the bag to the floor. “What is it, Franz?” she breathed.

  He stood up and walked over to her with the telegram extended.

  Esther took it from his hand and glanced down at it. “Az och un vai,” she murmured in Yiddish. Her eyes misted over. “Oh, Franz. I’m so sorry.”

  He put his arms around Esther and drew her into a hug. After a long silent moment, he finally said, “They’re all gone now, Essie.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Franz had spent most of the day at the Country Hospital changing bandages and administering enemas to constipated post-operative patients, but he was numb to Reuben’s latest degradations. Three days after learning of Jakob’s death, Franz thought of little else. It revived the pain of Karl’s loss, and he found himself thinking more of Hilde than he had in a very long time.

  As Franz neared home on foot, he spied Ernst standing outside their building beside another man. Franz slowed to ensure that his friend was aware of his approach. He recognized the lean young man as Heng Zhou’s son but struggled to recall his name.

  “Franz, you remember Shan?” Ernst rarely spoke English, though he had spent time in Philadelphia and Toronto for exhibitions of his artwork and was more fluent than he let on.

  Franz bowed his head. “Good day, Shan.”

  Shan nodded slightly but said nothing.

  “Shan speaks little German, so I am practising my English.” Ernst sighed. “Chinese is optional in this city, but you’re absolutely sunk without a firm grasp of English.”

  Franz turned to Shan. “You are not a linguist like your father?” “Shan is an electricity engineer,” Ernst answered for him. “Electrical engineer,” Shan corrected softly.

  Ernst chuckled out a stream of smoke. “Science is lost on me. I have the mathematical capacity of a halfwitted chicken.” “Fortunately, you paint,” Franz pointed out.

  Ernst took another long drag of his cigarette. “Speaking of, Franz, would you mind if I were to set up an easel in our flat?”

  Franz had not heard Ernst mention painting since Vienna. “Are you going back to work?”

  Ernst shrugged. “I’ve found a new inspiration.”

  “Shanghai?” Franz asked.

  Ernst made a face. “God, no!”

  “What then?”

  “Nanking.” The flippancy left Ernst’s tone, and he lowered his voice. “Were you aware of what happened there last winter?” “Only vaguely.”

  Ernst shook his head. “Shan was there. His stories … they are beyond belief.”

  Shan showed no response. “It must have been horrific,” Franz mumbled.

  “Beyond horrific! Tens of thousands of civilians massacred, including women and children.” Ernst shuddered. “They went from door to door. Ravaging and murdering like they were delivering newspapers.”

  Franz stole another glance at Shan. Were your mother and sister among the victims? But Shan’s impassive stare seemed welded to his face.

  “Tell Franz about that … contest,” Ernst urged him.

  Shan brought his cigarette to his lips. “You tell him.”

  “Two Japanese soldiers decided to hold a contest,” Ernst explained. “To see who could kill a hundred people the fastest with those hideous Japanese swords!”

  “Samurai swords,” Franz offered.

  “Ja, ja.” Ernst was so inflamed he reverted to German. “They lined up the innocent people and chopped away, like it was … I don’t know … a kind of deranged woodcutters’ race. And the Japanese journalists reported the whole macabre spectacle. Like it was all great sport. Both soldiers killed a hundred people. They …” He turned to Shan and switched back to English. “What did they call it to break the tie?” “Extra innings,” Shan said softly.

  “Extra innings, ja!” Ernst cringed. “Some kind of American baseball term. They … Franz, they just kept murdering people to see who was better with a blade.”

  Franz thought of his own brother’s senseless murder.

  “And the rest of the world didn’t even take notice,” Ernst continued. “Yet we’ve all heard about the atrocities committed during the Spanish Civil War, haven’t we?”

  “That was closer to home,” Franz said.

  “Perhaps. But I think people remember Spain because of all the writers and artists who flocked to the cause. Art raised awareness about that war. My God, Picasso eternalized the massacre in Guernica with one mural!”

  Franz raised an eyebrow. “And you want to do the same for Nanking?”

  “Someone has to!”

  “We’re encircled by the Japanese
army, Ernst. Do you think it wise to incite them?”

  Ernst grimaced. “Franz, where are your principles? What would Karl have said?”

  “I have no idea,” Franz snapped. “All I know is that they strung Karl from a lamppost for sticking to his principles.”

  “Shanghai is not Vienna,” Ernst said, unmoved. “Do you see any Japanese soldiers in Frenchtown?”

  Franz had heard enough. “The Reubens are expecting us for dinner soon,” he said as he cut past them and into the building.

  Upstairs, Hannah and Esther were already dressed for the outing. Appearing uneasy in her formal navy jacket and skirt, Esther kept fiddling with the angle of her grey velvet evening hat. Franz’s heart melted at the sight of his daughter in a powder blue frock and her hair tied back. She had outgrown her only winter dress; the sleeves were a little short. He could see the muscle wasting in her left wrist, but it only made her more precious in his eyes.

  “Such beautiful women!” Franz said, clutching his chest.

  “Oh, Papa, you’re silly!” Hannah giggled. “This dress is too scratchy.”

  “Fineries are for show, not for comfort, liebchen.”

  “Will there be other children there, Papa?”

  “I am not certain,” he said. “The Reubens do not have children of their own.”

  “Do I have to go, Papa? Mrs. Reuben …” Hannah looked down at her scuffed black shoes. “She squeezes my cheek until it hurts.”

  “Mrs. Reuben is trying to secure you a place in a wonderful new school, Hannah,” Esther said. “We should be most grateful to her.”

  Hannah nodded dutifully. Franz went off to the bedroom to change into his navy suit. By the time he emerged, Ernst had joined them, wearing a black jacket over his open-collared black shirt. The two men exchanged nods, neither aknowledging their earlier disagreement.

  Outside, Franz spotted the Reubens’ black Daimler idling at the curb and they climbed inside. In the light evening traffic, they made it to Grosvenor House in less than ten minutes. Reuben had once boasted that his upscale apartment building in the heart of the French Concession’s most desirable neighbourhood was “the epitome of Gothic–art deco union.” Even in the darkness, Franz had to concede that Grosvenor House, which resembled a gigantic upright bat with spread wings, was an impressive piece of architecture.

  The doorman led them to an elevator, where another Chinese attendant, dressed entirely in white, escorted them to the twentieth floor. A fair-skinned butler, immaculately dressed in tails and white gloves, met them at the door of the Reubens’ suite. He took their coats and led them into a parlour that was more than twice the size of the Adlers’ apartment.

  From his first day at the Country Hospital, Franz had heard Reuben speak of his family’s deep roots in the British Shanghailander community. Even Reuben’s mother, a German Jew who immigrated to Shanghai with her family in the 1880s, came from privilege. Franz had imagined that the Reubens would have an imposing home, but the spacious flat with its ornate furniture and dramatic city views exceeded even his expectation.

  Clara Reuben swept toward them wearing a long, snug black gown that accentuated rather than concealed her fullness. “Ah, the Adler family! And Herr Muhler. How wonderful you could join us on the first evening of Hanukkah.”

  Franz had almost forgotten that they had come to celebrate the Jewish holiday. “Thank you so very much for inviting us.”

  “Come, come,” Clara said. “I want you to meet the others.”

  Samuel Reuben stood beside the fireplace with a tumbler of Scotch in hand. He was conversing with a shorter Asian man who had greying hair and a Clark Gable moustache. In his finely tailored black suit, the man exuded an air of quiet authority. Beside him, a slender young woman stood statue-still in an elegant but simple blue dress. With drawn cheeks and a long forehead, she wasn’t a classical beauty but neither was she unattractive. Her small frail features and alert pale eyes gave her a fawnlike presence.

  “Excuse me, my dear,” Clara said, swooping in and interrupting her husband in mid-sentence. “I was hoping to introduce our guests.” She held a hand out to the Asian man. “Colonel Tsutomo Kubota is a senior leader in the new Shanghai government.”

  Kubota bowed deeply. “With respect, Mrs. Reuben.” He spoke in a refined British accent. “I am not a member of the municipal Chinese government at all. I am merely one of my government’s advisers to Lord Mayor Fu Xiaoan.”

  Ernst’s lip twitched, and Franz braced for a caustic remark, but none came.

  “Colonel Kubota is being as modest as ever. We’ve all seen the battleships in the harbour. We know who really controls Shanghai.” Clara clutched Kubota’s arm affectionately. “We befriended the colonel years ago through our mutual club, Cercle Sportif Français.” She turned to the woman in the blue dress. “And this, of course, is our lovely niece, Charlotte Weczel. Her parents—my eldest sister and her husband—passed away in an automobile accident when Lotte was only twelve. Lotte is like the daughter Samuel and I never had.”

  The young woman smiled shyly and made eye contact with Hannah only.

  Clara introduced Ernst and the Adlers, stressing Franz’s role as her husband’s assistant. The butler served drinks: wine for Franz and Esther, a martini for Ernst, and pineapple juice for Hannah. Self-conscious about her limited English and thick accent, Esther hardly spoke. Ernst was also surprisingly subdued, but Franz watched his friend’s steady consumption of martinis with growing alarm.

  Hannah clung closely to Esther’s side while the Reubens carried most of the conversation. Clara went to pains to position her niece near Franz and tried, at every turn, to engage them in conversation, which was awkward since Lotte was so timid. At one point, Clara said, “Dr. Adler, were you aware that Lotte is an accomplished cellist?”

  “I was not,” Franz said, turning to Lotte. “Do you perform often, Miss Weczel?”

  “Very rarely, Dr. Adler,” Lotte said in a small voice.

  “She was offered a position in the Shanghai Symphony Orchestra,” Clara announced. “But our Lotte does not like to appear on stage.”

  Lotte glanced at Franz but did not maintain eye contact. “I find it difficult to play in front of larger audiences.”

  Franz smiled. “If I possessed an ounce of musical talent, I’m sure I would feel the same.”

  “It’s a shame about the stage fright.” Clara sighed. “All the rehearsals and training we saw her through. Still, it hasn’t completely gone to waste. Lotte teaches music at the Shanghai Jewish School.” She looked meaningfully at Franz. “If all works out, Lotte might just be teaching your little Hannah.”

  The butler appeared at the doorway and intoned, “Dinner is served.”

  Starched white linen covered the long dining table. Each place setting was laid with gold-rimmed china, sparkling crystal and polished silverware. Name cards dictated the seating arrangements. Clara and Samuel sat at opposite ends of the table and, as Franz expected, he was seated beside Lotte.

  A menorah, with two unlit candles, stood in the centre of the table as the sole reminder of the religious holiday they had come to celebrate. The sight of the eight-branched candelabra rekindled bittersweet memories for Franz. His father never showed any interest in religious rites, but his mother had insisted on hosting an annual family Hanukkah dinner. The joyous gift-giving affairs were effectively secular substitutes for the Christmas dinners that their Gentile friends held. After their mother’s death, Karl and Esther continued the tradition, adding more of a religious flavour, while maintaining the celebratory mood.

  Two female Chinese servers materialized and filled glasses. Everyone stood while Clara used the shamash, or lighting candle, to ignite the first candle in the row that symbolized each of Hanukkah’s eight nights. She recited a short Hebrew prayer over the candles and then turned expectantly to her husband. Reuben fidgeted with his glass as he muttered the Hebrew prayer of thanks for the wine. “All right then,” he announced, indicating with obvious relie
f that the abbreviated ceremonial portion of the evening had ended. “Shall we eat?”

  The two servers reappeared, carrying plates laden with deep-fried potato pancakes. The rich scent of the latkes set Franz’s stomach rumbling. Covered in applesauce, the latkes tasted even better than they smelled. Franz would have liked a second helping, but the servers swept away the dishes, refilled the glasses and soon returned with heaping plates of beef brisket, potatoes and winter vegetables. After the main course, the attendants served a dessert of surprisingly delicious apple strudel—”in honour of our Austrian guests,” Clara declared.

  Hannah was excused to the parlour to read her book when the servers brought out port glasses and served the dessert wine. Only Samuel accepted a cigar from the case that was offered by one of the attendants, while Ernst lit one of his own cigarettes.

  Kubota turned to the artist. “Mr. Muhler, I once attended an exhibit of Gustav Klimt’s work and was most impressed. I am embarrassed to admit that I am not familiar with other Austrian painters. Forgive my ignorance, but is your work at all similar to Klimt’s?”

  Ernst viewed Kubota for a long moment before answering. “Oh, Colonel, I suspect you’re familiar with at least one other Austrian painter. He has never been particularly talented, but your government seems to be fond of his work.”

  Kubota frowned. “Who would that be?”

  Ernst lifted his glass. “Adolf Hitler.”

  The table went silent. Clara shot Ernst a withering stare. “I would ask, Mr. Muhler, that you never mention that man in my home again.”

  Kubota eyed Ernst with curiosity but did not appear insulted. “Neither his artwork nor his politics intrigues me in the least, Mr. Muhler. I would, however, like to hear about your art.”

  “Much as I admire Klimt, my work is nothing like his.” Ernst considered it for a moment. “If I had to apply a label, I would choose ‘spartan realism.’”

  “Yes,” Franz agreed, hoping to steer his friend away from politics. “Ernst has a gift for capturing the beauty of frailty and vice versa.”