by Daniel Kalla
As they reached their street, Hannah jerked her hand free of Franz’s grip and raced toward the building. He looked over and saw Ernst Muhler and Shan Zhou at the entrance.
“Onkel Ernst!” Hannah cried as she jumped into his arms.
Cigarette in hand, the slender artist hoisted her higher with obvious effort. “Oh, puffin, if we’re going to keep this greeting up, either you have to stop growing or this weakling will have to lift some weights.” He lowered her. “Now let me have a look at you.”
Hannah giggled as Ernst clutched his chin in his hand and squinted as he studied her as though assessing a piece of art. Ernst, who had added a Sun Yat-sen jacket to his black ensemble, clasped his hands together and shook them. “Those poor boys don’t stand a chance. You get more and more glamorous with each passing day.”
“Oh, Onkel Ernst, you’re being silly.”
“I’m an artist, Hannah. And if there’s one thing I recognize, it’s true beauty.”
Franz shook hands with both men. “Will you come up and see Esther too?” he asked.
“We’ve already been,” Ernst said. “We were just leaving.” “Where are you off to?” Franz asked.
Ernst subtly nodded in Hannah’s direction. Franz understood. “Go on upstairs, liebchen,” he said. “See how your aunt is coming along with your costume.”
She hesitated. “But I haven’t seen Onkel Ernst in so long.”
“Oh, puffin, you will see me tomorrow night when I come for dinner.” Ernst winked at her. “Now go tell your aunt that your father just invited us over for dinner tomorrow.”
After Hannah left, Franz glanced from Shan to Ernst. The pair had become inseparable over the past year. Franz assumed they were lovers, but Ernst had never said as much, and Shan rarely spoke at all. “What is it, Ernst?” he asked.
The artist’s eyes narrowed. “You remember Colonel Kubota?”
“Of course.” Franz had sat through several dinner parties at the Reubens’ with the colonel, but Clara had never invited Ernst back after the stir he had caused at their first dinner there. “What about him?”
“Lawrence Solomon,” Ernst grumbled. “That soulless fraud who calls himself my art dealer sold Kubota one of my paintings.”
“Is that not what an art dealer is supposed to do?”
Ernst grimaced. “He’s not supposed to sell my work to the goddamned enemy!”
“Since when is Colonel Kubota your enemy?”
Ernst glanced at Shan, who stood as impassively as ever with a cigarette smouldering between his lips. He turned back to Franz. “Kubota and all his refinement and genteel rationalizations … He’s no better than my Gestapo captain back in Vienna. Down deep, the Japanese are no different from the Nazis. Thugs and bullies, the lot of them. And I won’t allow Kubota to use my art as part of his cultured disguise.”
Franz’s unease rose. “How do you intend to stop him?”
Ernst shrugged. “I am going to go and refund his money.”
“And if he doesn’t want a refund?” “I will take my painting anyway!”
Shan eyed Ernst with a rare smile, but Franz’s concern mushroomed. “Listen to me, Ernst. This is a mistake.”
“I have built a career on mistakes.” Ernst shrugged. “What is one more?”
Franz saw that his friend would not be swayed. “I’m coming with you,” he said.
“Suit yourself,” Ernst said. “Of course, Shan can’t join me for obvious reasons. Who knows what they would do to a Chinaman on their own turf.”
Franz and Ernst rode a rickshaw to the Garden Bridge and then crossed through the military checkpoints on foot. Just beyond the bridge, the Astor House Hotel—once known as the Waldorf Astoria of Shanghai—stood on the prime Broadway corner lot, fronting both the Whangpoo River and Soochow Creek. The low-rise Edwardian building had lost much of its lustre: sun had faded the walls and mortar had damaged the embossments and cracked many of the windows. A massive Rising Sun flag flapped lazily over the entrance. Out front, two Japanese soldiers stood rigidly on guard in their khakis and puttees, bayoneted rifles held across their chests.
Ernst strode straight over to the two guards. As he neared, they closed the gap between them. “I need to see Colonel Kubota,” he demanded.
The soldiers’ expressions remained blank, but the taller one shook his head and made a shooing gesture with his fingers.
Ernst put his hands on his hips. “I demand to see Colonel Kubota!”
Both soldiers raised their rifles higher. Franz grabbed Ernst by the arm and began to gently pull. “Ernst, this is not working.”
Ernst shrugged free of Franz’s grip. He turned back to the soldiers. “I am not going anywhere until I speak to Colonel Kubota!” he said, raising his voice.
The shorter guard began to swing the barrel of his rifle out toward Ernst. He stopped halfway through the arc. The two men suddenly parted.
Another soldier, wearing a green officer’s uniform, stepped out between them. He had a weak chin and high cheekbones that made his face look almost triangular. “I am Captain Yamamoto,” he announced in serviceable English. “What is your meaning?”
“I need to see Colonel Kubota,” Ernst said.
“Who are you?”
“I am Ernst Muhler. This is Dr. Franz Adler.”
Yamamoto nodded. “Why do you require to see Colonel Kubota?”
Ernst puffed out his chest. “That is between the colonel and me.”
Yamamoto eyed him for a long cold moment and then turned for the entrance. “You will stay here.”
They waited in front of the hostile guards for ten tense minutes before Yamamoto returned. “Come,” he ordered.
Ernst and Franz followed him into the lobby of the hotel. The carpets were frayed and the textured wallpaper torn and peeling in places, but the massive chandelier that hung above the spiral staircase hinted at the building’s former grandeur. Yamamoto led them upstairs to the second floor. Near the end of the hallway, he stopped and knocked on a door.
They entered a hotel suite that had been converted into a spacious office. Colonel Kubota rose from his desk and walked over to greet them. His greying hair was shorter than before, but he had kept his pencil-thin moustache. As usual, Kubota wore a civilian suit and tie. “Dr. Adler, Mr. Muhler, what a pleasant surprise,” he said.
Kubota indicated the far wall, where two oils hung. The first was a rolling countryside scene, reminiscent of a Constable painting. Ernst had painted the other: a portrait of a frail, ghostly white Chinese teenager standing below a street light. The prostitute leaned back unnaturally toward the post as though she were suspended from it, her feet barely touching the ground. “You see, Mr. Muhler,” Kubota said. “I did find the opportunity to view your work. And I was most taken.”
“That is precisely what I have come to discuss,” Ernst said.
Kubota bowed. “I would be honoured to. I certainly have my own theories, but I would like to hear more about your inspiration—”
“Colonel!” Ernst cut him off. “I have come to reclaim my painting. Of course, I will refund you in full and cover any additional expenses.”
Kubota shook his head. “Refund, Mr. Muhler? I do not understand.”
“It’s quite simple, Colonel. I do not want my work hanging in your office.”
Kubota eyed him quizzically but said nothing.
Franz coughed into his hand. “Colonel, Ernst is very particular about where his work is displayed. He does not want it to be linked in any way to politics or governments—”
“Nonsense, Franz!” Ernst cut him off and turned back to Kubota. “I believe the Japanese army has no business in Shanghai. Or China. And I don’t want my name or my art in any way associated with its presence here.”
“I see,” Kubota said quietly.
Ernst reached for his wallet. “So if you will tell me how much to reimburse you, I will make arrangements to have the painting collected.”
“I enjoy this painting, Mr. Muhler,
” Kubota said softly. “I do not intend to part with it.”
Ernst folded his arms across his chest. “But it’s my creation, Colonel!”
Kubota indicated the desk behind him. “If you were the carpenter who built that desk, would you have the right to reclaim it because you didn’t agree with my government?”
“That is an anonymous piece of furniture.” Ernst shook a finger at his own painting. “This is my art. It is a part of me. And I have the right to say who owns it and where it hangs.”
“I mean no disrespect, Mr. Muhler, but I do not agree,” Kubota said slowly. “I purchased this painting. So I believe I have the right to determine where it hangs.”
Ernst’s cheeks flushed and his eyes darkened. Franz recognized that his friend was on the verge of snapping. “The colonel is right,” Franz said.
Ernst turned on Franz, mouth agape. “You are taking his side?”
“It’s not a matter of sides, Ernst. Like it or not, the colonel owns this painting now. You cannot stop him from displaying it as he sees fit.”
Glaring, Ernst looked from one man to the other. “Perhaps you’re right.” He nodded to himself. “But Colonel, I wonder if you will wish to continue displaying it—more to the point, I wonder if your superiors will let you—once my next exhibition opens.”
Kubota frowned. “Why would that make a difference, Mr. Muhler?”
“Because of its theme.”
“Which is?”
Ernst’s lips broke into a vindictive smile. “The rape of Nanking.”
Franz caught the gasp before it left his lips. Kubota’s face blanched momentarily, but he quickly regained his composure. “Perhaps, Mr. Muhler, it would be best if I returned your painting after all. I will have my aide make arrangements with Mr. Solomon.”
“That will be most satisfactory,” Ernst said.
“If there is nothing else then …” Kubota turned for his desk but stopped after a few strides. “Mr. Muhler, I admire a man who stands on principle. It is a most honourable stance. However, we have a saying in Japanese: I no naka no kawazu taikai wo shirazu.”
“What does that mean?” Ernst demanded.
“‘A frog in a well does not know the great sea.’” Kubota sighed again. “The winds of change are howling through the Far East. Where your paintings do or do not hang, Mr. Muhler, might soon be the least of any of our concerns.”
Captain Yamamoto escorted them out in sullen silence.
Franz decided that, since he was already in Hongkew, he would check in on Edda Schwartzmann at the refugee hospital. He found her asleep from the painkillers. In the same rumpled suit as earlier and reeking of pipe tobacco, Hermann Schwartzmann hovered at his wife’s bedside. His face was haggard, but he broke into a grateful smile at the sight of Franz.
Franz pulled the partitions around them. “Mr. Silberstein, the nurses tell me that your wife’s recovery from surgery has been uneventful so far.”
“Yes, yes,” Schwartzmann said. “She even mumbled a few words to me earlier in the afternoon. She said the pain was not as bad as she had expected.”
“It will still be a few days before she can eat or drink.” Franz indicated the blanket covering her abdomen. “I need to examine her dressings now.”
Schwartzmann nodded. “Please do, Dr. Adler.”
After Schwartzmann stepped out, Franz pulled down the blanket and lifted up Edda’s gown. She shifted slightly but did not open her eyes. The original bandages had not soaked through with blood or bile. Satisfied, Franz covered her again without removing the dressing.
Franz called Schwartzmann back to the bedside. “All is in order,” he declared. “We will change the dressing tomorrow and every day thereafter.”
As Franz turned to leave, Schwartzmann called to him. “Dr. Adler?” Franz stopped. “Yes?”
“Regardless of your opinion of me, what you said earlier was not entirely correct.” Schwartzmann cleared his throat. “I am extremely aware of what you have done for us. And one day, Dr. Adler, I hope I will be able to show you the extent of our gratitude.”
Though Franz did not doubt the man’s sincerity, Franz could not forget who Schwartzmann worked for. “I will see you tomorrow, Mr. Silberstein.”
Drained, Franz longed to go home and climb into bed. As he stepped outside, he spied Fai’s black Buick pull up to the curb. Sunny climbed out of the back seat. Franz’s heart beat in his throat as he waited for her on the pathway.
Sunny hesitated and then walked toward him, stopping a few feet away. She mustered a small smile. “How is Mrs. Silberstein, Dr. Adler?”
“Reasonably well, Miss Mah, all things considered.”
“That is a relief. Are you leaving now?”
Her jasmine scent drifted to him. “I was planning to, yes.”
They fell into an awkward silence. Finally, Sunny looked down at her shoes. “Well, I promised Mr. Silberstein I would check in on them tonight too. I had best go see them.”
Franz found her closeness and her fragrance overwhelming. He stepped forward, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him.
Sunny looked at him with inviting eyes. He pressed his mouth against hers. The warm softness of her lips was exhilarating. She leaned her body into his and he kissed her hungrily.
Suddenly, Sunny wriggled out of his arms. She backed up two or three steps. “No, Franz. We can’t!”
He held out a hand but let it fall back to his side without speaking a word.
Sunny’s eyes misted over and her voice cracked. “We were right this afternoon. Lotte … Esther … Hannah … If something were to happen to your family, especially your daughter, we could never forgive ourselves.”
“But Sunny—”
“Franz, I … I …” Her words dissolved. She dropped her head and turned toward the door.
V
CHAPTER 30
DECEMBER 7, 1941, SHANGHAI
“He asked me to marry him,” Sunny murmured into her teacup.
Simon leaned against the table, propping himself up by his elbows. “Well? What did you tell him?”
“That I would think about it.”
Simon whistled. “You wouldn’t actually go through with it, would you?”
Sunny shrugged. “I am twenty-seven years old, Simon.”
“Is that any reason to get married?” He grimaced. “Look at me. I’m five years older than you. I’m not concerned.”
“Age doesn’t matter for men. Besides, you will marry Esther someday. We both know it.”
“Yeah, Essie will be ready soon enough.” He nodded happily to himself. “Anyway, how could you marry one guy when you’re in love with another?”
“Oh, Simon, that was a lifetime ago,” she sighed. But every detail of that evening, eighteen months earlier, still burned in her consciousness. She could feel Franz’s warm breath on her cheek and his hands pressing into the small of her back. She could taste the baking soda in his toothpaste and feel the soft pressure of his lips on hers. Most of all, she remembered how her heart broke wider with each step she took away from him.
But Sunny did not regret what she had done. What kind of life could a mixed blood and a widowed Jewish refugee share? And how selfish would it be to risk a child’s well-being for the sake of my happiness? She kept the thoughts to herself. “Besides, none of it matters now that Franz and Lotte are engaged,” she said.
Sunny also had Wen-Cheng to consider. He blamed himself for the horrific car accident that had killed his wife. Wen-Cheng had caught their driver swilling rice wine before but had let him off with only a rebuke. The young doctor was supposed to have been in the car too; only a medical emergency kept him from the dinner party and certain death. Witnesses said they saw the Huangs’ car weaving across Great Western Road even before it veered head-on into the oncoming traffic.
The guilt and sorrow had overcome Wen-Cheng. Sunny, who still grieved for her father, helped to see Wen-Cheng through his loss. She brought him meals that Yang had prepared, joined
him on long walks and even twice accompanied him to the Buddhist temple to burn incense in memory of his wife. After six months, Wen-Cheng snapped out of his despair and claimed to be more in love with Sunny than ever. She no longer loved him, though, and she knew she never again would. But she doubted that alone would stop her from marrying him.
“Sunny,” Simon repeated, snapping his fingers. “It was only last year. Remember? The kiss that changed your life.”
“Exactly, Simon. A lifetime ago.” She looked out at the empty tables around them; until recently, the café had always been full. So many Shanghailanders had already fled the city. Most of the others had sequestered themselves in their homes, fearing the worst.
“Everything has changed now that the war is coming to the Pacific,” he sighed.
“You say it with such certainty.”
He lowered his Coca-Cola bottle. “The peace talks between the Americans and the Japanese have gone nowhere. It’s only a matter of time.”
Sunny thought of the morning three weeks before, when she stood at the harbour with thousands of others. The Whangpoo swarmed with Japanese naval vessels, but Sunny could not peel her eyes off the Fourth Division US Marines as they silently filed aboard their carrier ships and prepared to leave Shanghai. The crowd was silent. Their collective sense of abandonment hung in the air like the low-lying clouds.
“I hate to say this, Sunny, but I’m relieved,” Simon said.
She tilted her head. “Relieved that your country is on the verge of war?”
“Compared to the alternative? Yeah.” He grunted. “The Nazis have swallowed up the rest of Europe. And they’re steamrolling the Soviets. Leningrad under siege. Germans at the gates of Moscow. At this rate, the Russkis won’t last the winter.” He tapped the table. “Only the Brits and their colonies fight on. But Churchill can’t do it alone, no matter how many tanks and planes FDR sends him. America has to join this war.” He sighed. “I don’t even want to think about what will happen to all us Jews if they don’t.”
Lately, Sunny had avoided listening to the wireless, as the war news was inevitably bad, but she couldn’t tune out the endless conversations at the refugee hospital. The Jewish staff and patients spoke about almost nothing else. They were frantic with worry over families left behind in Europe. People were beyond despair. The rate of suicide had skyrocketed in the Jewish community, where it had once been so rare. The day before, Sunny had heard that Mrs. Waldenstein, a kind older woman with asthma, had slit her wrists in her bathtub only hours after being discharged from the hospital. Apparently, she had gone home to the news of her daughter’s deportation to a relocation camp. Mrs. Waldenstein had ended her suicide note with the words “There is no room left in this world for our people.”