The Far Side of the Sky

by Daniel Kalla

  “‘The beauty of frailty’? Such nonsense, Franz. You sound just like an art dealer now.” Ernst guffawed, then turned back to Kubota. “There is no point in trying to describe my art. You have to see it to form an opinion. However, I am most interested to discuss your work.”

  “Mr. Muhler, my work is painfully mundane compared with yours.” Kubota smiled. “Despite my military title, I am simply a bureaucrat. A low-level diplomat, if you will.”

  “Oh, Tsutomo, enough with the humility,” Reuben piped up from the far end of the table, pointing with his lit cigar. “Colonel Kubota here is a very influential man in Shanghai.”

  “No doubt,” Ernst said. “But I am still not entirely clear as to why a Japanese colonel should hold so much sway in a Chinese city.”

  Esther glanced at Franz, imploring him to intervene. He cleared his throat. “Colonel, my avant-garde friend is a born firebrand.” He forced a laugh. “Do not fall into his trap.”

  “Come now, Franz, let the man speak,” Ernst said in German, slurring his words slightly.

  Kubota nodded pleasantly. “Mr. Muhler, as you have probably already noticed, the English and French hold a fair degree of sway—as you put it—in Shanghai as well.”

  “Maybe so, but I have not seen any of the bomb damage their planes left behind.”

  Reuben began to rise from his seat. “See here, Muhler, I think that’s quite enough.”

  Kubota waved Reuben back into his chair. He turned back to the artist. “Mr. Muhler, it is difficult to boil a thousand years of history down to a single act or incident.”

  “Please.” Ernst held out his hand theatrically. “Enlighten me.”

  “All right, I will try.” Kubota looked as placid as ever. “Are you aware that China has been at war since long before the first Japanese bomb fell? For almost thirty years, to be exact.”

  Ernst frowned. “At war?”

  “Yes, Mr. Muhler, a civil war.” Kubota went on to explain that the Republic of China had been established in 1911 after the Qing dynasty imploded under the weight of its own bloated bureaucracy. Weak from the outset, the new republic was, at best, a regional force based in the south, which led to constant skirmishes among the factions. In the 1920s, Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek and his Kuomintang nationalists consolidated their power base within the republic and made some gains in the north. Chiang then turned violently on his former allies, the Communists, and launched a full-scale civil war.

  Ernst tilted his head. “How does any of this concern Japan, Colonel?”

  Annoyed, Samuel puffed out rings of smoke, while his wife fussed with her starched napkin. Lotte stared off into space. Esther continued to try to discourage Ernst with disapproving glances, but to no avail.

  “China is our closest neighbour,” Kubota said. “The stability of our entire region depends on a strong, unified China. Her instability is a great threat to my country.” He brought his hands together in front of his chest, fingertips touching as though in prayer. “I greatly admire China and her people. In truth, my career was inspired by the words of one of the greatest Chinese nationalists, Dr. Sun Yat-sen. Are you familiar with him?” “Only the name.”

  “Sun was the first president of China. Fifteen years ago, I was fortunate to be in the audience in Kobe when he gave his brilliant speech on pan-Asianism. Sun praised the Japanese resistance to Western imperialism. He lauded Japan for her ‘Rule of Right’ as opposed to the West’s ‘Rule of Might.’” Kubota pulled his hands apart. “I was schooled at Cambridge, Mr. Muhler. And while I might be an unrepentant anglophile, I am also a proud Asian. Dr. Sun’s vision of a strong, independent Asia—those words he spoke that day—shaped my future.”

  Ernst smiled pleasantly, but Franz recognized the glint of outrage in his eyes. “I think we have probably covered enough politics—” Franz began.

  “Those are lovely sentiments, Colonel,” Ernst cut him off. “Poetic, even. But does your nation’s desire for a unified China somehow justify the massacre in Nanking?”

  CHAPTER 22

  Sunny stood close to the operating table so she could keep an eye on the patient and pass her the bucket as needed. The twenty-seven-year-old woman, Golda Hiltmann, was restless on the gurney, groggy and retching from the ether.

  Franz decided to wait another few minutes, until Mrs. Hiltmann had roused more fully, before sending her to the ward. Sunny did not mind. She was enjoying his company and still aglow from the life-saving procedure they had just performed.

  Sunny looked over at him. “Dr. Adler, if it were not for this new operating room—and you, of course—Mrs. Hiltmann never would have …”

  Franz motioned to the pile of blood-encrusted utensils. “Any qualified surgeon could have performed that procedure. Besides, Miss Mah, you are the one who diagnosed the ectopic pregnancy.”

  “It was terribly obvious.” Sunny fought back a grin. “A woman ten weeks pregnant who shows up with left-sided abdominal pain and light-headedness? Only a ruptured pregnancy outside the womb could be responsible.”

  “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

  But Sunny was bursting with pride. She could not wait to tell her father how she had made the diagnosis, managed the ether and even, at Franz’s insistence, stitched the abdomen closed. Despite all Kingsley’s quizzes, Sunny had never felt closer to being a doctor.

  Mrs. Hiltmann stirred and lifted her head off the bed, only to retch again into the bucket before flopping her head back onto the bed.

  Sunny reddened, embarrassed at how pleased she was to be confined to the patient’s bedside with Franz. “Thank you for letting me be involved, Dr. Adler.”

  “I am the one indebted to you. I so appreciate having your help.”

  “And I appreciate the opportunity to learn from you. You treat me more like a colleague than any doctor ever has before.”

  Franz looked down at the blood spray on his gown. “It’s good to have someone to teach again. It used to be one of the great pleasures of working at the university hospital.”

  “You must have been a popular teacher.”

  “You would have to ask my students,” he said, shrugging. “Sunny, you are already as capable as most junior doctors. I could teach you to be a surgeon, you know. Of course, only if you were interested.”

  Overjoyed, she burst out laughing.

  “Did I say something funny?” he asked.

  “My father has never wanted anything more than for me to be a doctor, but a surgeon?”

  “I see.” Franz smiled. “Is he one of those physicians who believe surgeons are only one rung higher than trained monkeys?”

  “Not quite.” She shook her head. “I do think he sees more of a challenge on the internal medicine side.”

  “Your father reminds me a little of my own,” he said.

  “Is he a doctor as well?”

  “He was a lawyer, but he was always very supportive of my career.” Franz began sorting through the soiled instruments. “He died last week. In Vienna.”

  “Oh, Dr. Adler, I am so very sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” he said without raising his gaze from the tray. “It was for the best, really.”

  “Still. It must be difficult to be so far away at such a time.”

  Franz dropped a retractor and looked up at her with tortured eyes. “Papa wouldn’t come with us, Sunny. He couldn’t, he was too sick. And I couldn’t stay. I had to get my daughter out.”

  Sunny interlocked her fingers, resisting the urge to reach out and touch him. “I’m sure he understood.”

  “I think so, but sometimes …”

  The patient stirred again and tried to sit up. “Is the operation over?” she slurred.

  “Yes, Mrs. Hiltmann.” Franz squeezed her shoulder lightly. “All went well. You will still be able to have babies.”

  “Got tzu danken. Danke, danke, Dr. Adler!” Her voice cracked. “I cannot thank you enough for this mitzvah!”

  Franz removed his hand. “
Miss Mah is the one who saved your life. She recognized your condition and alerted me.”

  “Yes, of course.” Hiltmann clasped Sunny’s hand between her damp, trembling fingers. “Thank you so much, Miss Mah.”

  “Mrs. Hiltmann, you are most welcome.”

  Franz and Sunny shared a restrained but warm goodbye on the ward. On her way out, Sunny ran into Simon in the hallway. He was lugging an oxygen tank and whistling a slightly off-key Gershwin tune that she finally recognized as “I Got Rhythm.”

  As busy as work with the CFA committee kept Simon, he spent his free time at the refugee hospital helping out with maintenance, supplies and administrative tasks. Despite his endless jokes about the building’s dilapidated state, he wore his pride in the hospital as prominently as his favourite fedora.

  Simon beamed at her. “The rumour going around is that Dr. Adler and you just stole one right out of the Grim Reaper’s catching mitt.” “Catching mitt?” Sunny frowned.

  Simon chuckled. “You and the doc just cheated death.” Sunny sighed. “You have a flair for dramatics, Simon.” “Well … did you?”

  She shrugged. “The patient was in grave condition, but the surgery went well.”

  Simon threw his hands up. “Jeez, Sunny, you’re too Chinese and too American to sound so darned British all the time.”

  Sunny laughed. “I suppose we did save the patient’s life. Then again, so did you.”

  He grimaced. “Me?”

  “It would have all been for naught had you not supplied us with new surgical equipment.”

  “I guess,” he said. “Still, we ought to give some credit to Sir Victor too. After all, he coughed up the dough.”

  “Maybe, but, Simon, you built this hospital with your own sweat and tears.”

  Simon’s smile widened. “Oh, Sunny, if only you were Jewish … and a Yankees fan …”

  Sunny laughed again. Regardless of circumstances, and although she deeply valued their friendship, she knew as well as he did that they did not share that kind of chemistry.

  She glanced at the clock on the wall: 8:35. “I am late to meet my father.”

  “What’s the hurry? He usually drops in when he gets here, anyway.”

  “Not tonight. We have to go home to decorate the Christmas tree.”

  “You’re Christian? I assumed your father would be …”

  “My father’s family is Taoist,” she explained. “But my mother was a Methodist. She came to China as a missionary. My father converted to the same faith before their marriage. We’ve tried to keep the Christmas celebrations alive in her memory. It was her favourite time of year.”

  “Ah.” Simon nodded knowingly. “Mixed religions. If it’s anything like the States, I am guessing there were four unhappy parents when your mom and dad tied the knot.”

  “My mother’s parents disowned her. They have never even acknowledged me. And then she died and they … they did not even attend her funeral. Their own daughter.” She swallowed. “My father’s father was already dead, but his mother was no more accepting. Mu was always good to me, but she did not speak to my father for almost five years, even while she lived with us. My aunt, his own sister, shunned him too.”

  “Good old religion,” Simon groaned. “It truly is the great divider, huh?”

  “Only if people let it be.”

  “They always do seem to let it be.” Simon lifted up the oxygen tank. “I better get this installed before Dr. Feinstein has a fit.”

  The winter evening was chilly, but the sky was clear and star-filled. Sunny scanned the street but saw no sign of her father or his driver, Fai. She started for home, knowing that her father would find her somewhere en route. As she walked, she remembered the morning in the Old City when she had bolted from Wen-Cheng’s embrace. She had avoided him ever since. Her feelings for Wen-Cheng were even murkier than before. But her ambivalence had to do with more than just his marital status. She thought of Franz again. You’re straying from the unworkable to the impossible, she scolded herself. He is Jewish. He is a widower with a child. You are nothing to him.

  Sunny shook her head, trying to dispel Franz from her mind, but it was no use. His handsomeness aside, he possessed a quiet depth that she had encountered in few men aside from her father. She sensed the anguish behind Franz’s stoic exterior. And she could no longer deny her growing desire to comfort him.

  Still thinking of Franz, Sunny neared downtown Hongkew. She could hear the noisy revellers and the jazz music seeping out of the nightclubs on Broadway. A vague unease gripped her. She glanced over either shoulder. Nothing.

  Sunny picked up her pace. She reached the intersection and rounded the corner toward the harbour. Just then, a hand shot out from the darkened doorway and locked onto her arm. Sunny stumbled and slammed shoulder first into the window of a jewellery store, bouncing off the glass.

  She yelped, more from surprise than pain. The attacker grasped her other arm. Instinctively, she struggled, but her assailant pinned her against the window.

  Sunny swung her knee but missed her attacker. He hissed several Japanese words. Her nose filled with the familiar stench of sake and tuna, and she knew he was the sailor from the nearby docks who had accosted her before.

  He slapped her twice, and the second blow glanced off her mouth. Her lip stung, and she tasted blood. “Get off me!” she screamed as she flailed her legs. Her left foot contacted something hard in his leg, and the sailor cried out.

  Using the distraction, she spun away from the window. She glimpsed the sailor’s scarred face, contorted with drunken rage. He yanked a long knife from his belt and jabbed the blade at her chest, stopping only millimetres away. Sunny froze. A malicious smile crossed the sailor’s lips and accentuated his ragged scar. He ran his thumb slowly across his own neck.

  Sunny’s breath caught in her throat and her hands trembled uncontrollably. She imagined it would be better to die than face the pain and shame of acquiescing to the repellent man. Only the thought of her father stopped her from lunging at his knife.

  The sailor tore open her coat, sending the buttons rattling on the pavement like pebbles. Then he grabbed for the top of her dress and sliced it open in one motion.

  The sudden draft felt like ice on her skin. Sunny had never felt more exposed. She closed her eyes and braced for the unimaginable. The sailor grabbed her breast and squeezed roughly, then dug his blade under her bra and tented the fabric upward.

  Sunny heard the noise of tires screeching. The sailor’s body obscured her vision, but she screamed out, “Bang zhù! Help! Please!”

  A door opened. Feet scuffled nearer. Then she heard her father’s raised voice. “Release her immediately!”

  The sailor shoved Sunny hard, and she toppled backwards against the glass again. She cried out desperately, “Father, the knife! Watch out!”

  She regained her balance and righted herself. A blur caught her eye, and she saw the blade plunge into the right side of Kingsley’s chest with a nauseating whoosh.

  “Father, no!” she screamed. Dress and coat flapping open, Sunny threw herself at the sailor’s back. He fell forward under her weight. She grabbed his hair with one hand and clawed wildly at his face with her other.

  Shrieking in outrage, he wrenched free of her grip and elbowed her in the chest, knocking the wind out of her. She tensed her legs, poised to spring again, when his hand shot out.

  Sunny watched in disbelief as the blade tore into her abdomen. She heard a ripping noise before the jolt of searing pain rocked her. Out of reflex, her hands clutched her belly. She felt the blade slice through the skin between her thumb and forefinger on its way back.

  Her knees gave way and she crumpled to the pavement. Looking up, she saw the sailor turn back on her father, who had propped himself up against the building by his shoulder.

  “Leave the girl!” Kingsley panted. “Not my Sunny!”

  The world swam around her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Fai advancing toward the sailor, a tire iro
n held high over his head. “Leave them alone!” he screamed in Shanghainese.

  The attacker froze, bloodied knife held out in front of him. Suddenly, he thrust the blade at Fai’s chest, but the driver stepped to his right and it whizzed inches past him. Fai swung the iron and caught the attacker on the wrist. The sailor howled in agony as the knife flew out of his hand and clattered to the ground.

  Fai swung again, but the sailor managed to dodge the iron’s arc. Clutching his injured arm to his side, the attacker took off, disappearing into the night.

  Fai dropped to his knees beside Sunny. “Missy? Missy?”

  Kingsley pushed himself upright and staggered a few steps toward her. “Sunny!” he wheezed. “Speak to me!”

  Her head spun wildly. She felt a warm trickle running along her frigid belly. She desperately tried to answer, but the words would not form. The street light above her dimmed steadily.

  CHAPTER 23

  “Are you certain I am not taking you too far out of the way?” Franz asked as Simon shut the door to the refugee hospital behind them.

  “Never been more certain in my life, Doc.” Simon clapped him on the shoulder. “For a hero like you, Hong Kong wouldn’t be too far out of my way.”

  Franz chuckled. “Hero! Such exaggeration, Simon. If you really—” The shriek of tires silenced him. Franz squinted into the wobbly light of the car’s headlamps as the vehicle hurtled toward them. It hopped the curb and screeched to a stop halfway across the sidewalk. The driver’s door flew open and a man jumped out, waving his arms above his head. “Help!” he screamed. “Chop, chop!”

  “That’s Fai! Dr. Mah’s driver.” Simon sprinted toward the car, and Franz followed.

  Fai stooped over and reached through the rear door. “Rìben guazi cut doctor and missy!” he shouted over his shoulder.

  Franz didn’t understand but there was no mistaking the man’s distress, and Franz’s pulse hammered in his temples.

  Fai straightened up, pulling Kingsley out of the car by the armpits.