by Daniel Kalla
Sunny and Simon parted ways outside the restaurant, and she headed straight home. As soon as she stepped through the door, Yang hurried up to her. “Ko Lo-Shen came looking for you, Soon Yi.”
Sunny stiffened. “Is something wrong with Jia-Li?”
“It’s always the same with her.” Yang shook her head and cited the old Chinese proverb: “Zì xiang máo dùn”—she pierces her shield with her own spear.
Opium. It had to be. But her friend had been clean for three years. Why has she relapsed now, of all times?
Jia-Li had turned her life around in the past year. She had quit the life of prostitution, rescued by a rich client, a divorced, British Standard Oil executive. The last time Sunny had seen her best friend, she was sporting an engagement ring along with a smile even more luminous than the two-karat diamond solitaire.
Sunny stepped into her father’s old office. She had never intended to turn it into a memorial to Kingsley, but she kept finding excuses to not clear it out. She rooted through the shelves of medications, dusting off some labels to read them. She pocketed the bottles of atropine and cannabis, wondering if the four-year-old medicines would even still be effective. She wavered a moment and then reached for a bottle of morphine and a glass syringe.
Fai was waiting for her at the curbside. The mid-afternoon streets were eerily quiet, as though people were battening down for a storm. The old Buick rattled over the Garden Bridge and came to a stop at the Japanese guard post. Out of habit, Sunny checked for the sailor with the scarred lip. She was alarmed to spot two soldiers posted instead of the usual one.
Fai climbed out of the car and bowed deeply before them. The second guard suddenly swung his rifle in Sunny’s direction. Her heart leapt into her throat as he summoned her out of the car with a waggle of his bayonet. Hand trembling, she opened the door and stepped out. The soldier’s lips curled into a snarl. She threw herself forward and bowed deeply at the waist, afraid her knees might buckle.
“All okay, Missy,” Fai reassured in a whisper.
The second guard shrieked in Japanese for silence.
Out of the corner of her eye, Sunny saw the first guard climb into the car. The other guard uttered a grunt to free them from their bows. Gun pointed at Fai, he marched the driver over to the back of the Buick and gestured for him to open the trunk. Fai calmly complied.
The two soldiers scoured the car. Satisfied, they turned away from it, leaving the doors and trunk open. The first soldier shooed them away with a disdainful flick of his fingers.
As soon as they sped off, Sunny asked, “What was that all about, Fai?”
Staring at the road ahead, Fai shook his head. “The dwarf bandits are planning something, Missy. It is bad. Very bad.”
They drove the rest of the way in silence. Fai dropped Sunny off in front of the narrow lane that led to the Kos’ longtang home.
Jia-Li’s mother opened the door, and Sunny was overwhelmed by the sense of déjà vu. Inside, the windows were covered, and a slightly musty smell pervaded the small flat. Sunny tried to engage Lo-Shen in pleasantries, but the stooped woman hurried her to the bedroom before fleeing to another part of the apartment.
Since Sunny’s last visit, the bedroom had been furnished with a simple Chinese-style bed and nightstand, but nothing else had changed. Jia-Li, shivering in her flimsy gown, lay curled up on the bed, facing the far wall.
“What has happened, bao bèi?” Sunny asked from the doorway.
Jia-Li rolled over and struggled to sit upright. Her loose gown scrunched up, exposing one of her small breasts and the tuft of hair between her legs. Despite the room’s chill, sweat dripped down Jia-Li’s pale brow. “You came!” she cried.
“Of course I came,” Sunny said as she moved toward the bed.
“I need something strong,” Jia-Li moaned.
“How long have you been back on the pipe?”
“A few weeks. Perhaps more.” The words tumbled out in a tone that matched Jia-Li’s frazzled appearance. “Who knows? Who cares? I haven’t smoked any for over two days. And now I have the opium sickness again. I can’t go on any longer, Sunny. I can’t. Not this time!”
Sunny sat down on the mattress beside her friend, ignoring the smell of vomit that intensified with each inch that she drew nearer. “This is familiar territory for us, bao bèi.”
Jia-Li shook her head wildly. “This is much worse, Sunny!”
Sunny chuckled softly. “You sound like a phonograph during these fits.”
“No. No. No!” Jia-Li cried, writhing as though overcome by tics. “It’s never been like this. Never.”
Sunny dug into her pocket and pulled out the bottle in which she had consolidated the two types of pills. She tapped out a few tablets into her palm. “These will help.”
Jia-Li batted Sunny’s hand, sending the pills scuttling across the floor. “Not that useless junk, Sunny! I need opium! Heroin. Or morphine. Something real!”
“Tell me, Jia-Li,” Sunny said in a calm, firm tone. “What is so different this time?”
Jia-Li gaped at her, eyes ablaze. “I have never wanted to die before!”
Sunny was stunned. “No, Jia-Li. You do not mean that. You will feel differently once the sickness has passed.”
Jia-Li hurled her small frame into Sunny, almost knocking her off the edge of the bed, and buried her face in Sunny’s shoulder. “Godfrey left me.” She sobbed. “He’s gone, Sunny. Gone!”
Sunny stroked her friend’s sweat-soaked hair. “Tell me, bao bèi.”
Jia-Li shivered uncontrollably. “We were going to elope. Godfrey was going to take me to Macau. He said it was so beautiful there …” She gulped back a gag. “Then Standard Oil called him back to England. They told him the Far East was too unstable.”
“When did this happen?” Sunny asked.
“Three weeks ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I was so ashamed,” Jia-Li said in a small voice.
Sunny continued to stroke her friend’s hair as she felt Jia-Li’s tears seep through the fabric on her shoulder. “He will come back for you.”
“No, he never will,” Jia-Li choked out. She pulled her head back and stared at Sunny. “Godfrey told me … He said I would have ‘done fine’ for Asia, but that I would never be suitable for a London wife.”
“The selfish fool!” Sunny filled with hatred for the man whom she had never even met. “You’re too good for him, bao bèi.”
Jia-Li’s face crumpled. “No I’m not. I’m not good enough for anyone.
I’m just a burden. An aging prostitute. Why did I ever think anyone could love me?” She dissolved into tears. “I love you.”
Jia-Li clutched her abdomen, racked by cramps. She began to gag again. “You are my only real friend, Sunny,” she sputtered.
Sunny reached into her pocket for the bottle of morphine and the syringe. Jia-Li watched with grateful eyes as Sunny dissolved the morphine tablet in drops of water and drew up a dose. Sunny pulled the damp gown off her friend’s shoulder, exposing a patch of skin, and jabbed the needle into her upper arm.
They sat on the bed together for several minutes without saying a word. Finally, Jia-Li turned to Sunny, her pupils constricted and her brow dry. “My body feels better now.” She gulped. “Not my heart, though. I can’t go on without him.”
“You can, and you will.”
Jia-Li turned back to Sunny. “How did you do it, xiao hè? How did you just walk away from love?”
Sunny lightly touched her friend’s cheek. “Life goes on, Jia-Li. It does. You will see.”
But even as she spoke the words, the same thought looped in her head: You can’t walk away from love. It clings to you night and day.
CHAPTER 31
Franz had not slept a full night through since proposing to Lotte Weczel. But he did not hold Lotte or their engagement responsible for his insomnia. He blamed Hitler. The flood of disastrous news from Europe, where the Nazis stood poised to dominate the co
ntinent and beyond, cut into his sleep like a neighbour’s howling dog.
But Franz had yet to shake the doubt that had possessed him since sliding the ring onto her finger two months earlier. Even Lotte seemed excessively reserved in accepting his proposal. Franz sensed a dutifulness on her part that matched his own.
Still, his fondness for Lotte had steadily grown. On warmer evenings, they would stroll for miles through the French Concession chatting about music, religion, architecture and, of course, Hannah. Despite their warm companionship, they never achieved true intimacy. The only time Franz had seen Lotte lower her guard was once, in the early fall at their favourite café, when they ran into a childhood friend of hers, a Swiss national named Bernard Leudenberger.
“A pleasure, Dr. Adler,” the narrow-framed banker said before turning to Lotte with a wide smile that belied his otherwise sombre appearance. “Always a delight to run into you, Charlotte.”
“It has been a while.” Lotte fought back a grin. “How is the family, Bernard?”
“Still very Swiss. You know Father.” He sighed good-naturedly. “And your aunt and uncle, are they well? Does Clara still rule Shanghai with an iron fist?”
Lotte burst out laughing. “You exaggerate, Bernard. Clara tries to help. She is very involved with schooling for local Jewish children.” She motioned to Franz but kept her focus on Bernard. “She helped Franz’s daughter secure a spot at the Shanghai Jewish school.”
“Of course.” Bernard held her gaze for a moment. “And your music, Charlotte?”
She looked away and cleared her throat. “I only teach now, Bernard.”
“That is truly a pity.” Bernard looked over to Franz. “Have you ever heard her play Brahms, Dr. Adler? The sound of an angel weeping.”
Franz had never seen Lotte act as relaxed or laugh so freely. He hoped that one day she would open up around him as she had with her childhood friend, but in the months since bumping into Bernard, he had not glimpsed that side of her again.
Clara Reuben, of course, was elated over Franz and Lotte’s engagement. More importantly, Hannah was happy. Franz could not tell, though, whether she was pleased for her own sake or for his. But Lotte was not the wife he would have chosen under different circumstances. Sunny. A year and a half had passed since their only kiss. The world had been upended in that time span, and yet his feelings had not budged.
A few days after that kiss, he had broached the subject again as they stood on the pathway outside the hospital. But Sunny did not waver. “We cannot just give in to our emotions, Franz.”
“The world is already awash in sacrifice and tragedy,” he said. “How can we turn our backs on a sliver of potential happiness?”
“We must, Franz,” she said softly.
The urge to touch her face smothered his objectivity. “Why must we?” Sunny viewed him with glistening eyes. She looked so beautiful that his chest ached. “What would happen to Lotte?” she asked. “Down deep, Lotte is strong. She will be all right.”
“And what would become of your job at the Country Hospital?” “There are other jobs.”
“But there are no other schools for Hannah, are there?” she said. “There are just too many other lives to consider, Franz.”
In the eighteen months since, Sunny’s words had proven prophetic. Under Clara’s continued sponsorship, Hannah had thrived at the Jewish school. And Franz’s job at the Country Hospital had remained secure. He might have tolerated his fate better, perhaps even been contented, had he not had to face Sunny so often at both hospitals. He was constantly reminded how much he was missing in not sharing a life with her.
With the thoughts tumbling around in his head, he gave up on sleep. Just before five o’clock, he headed outside for a stroll to try to settle his mind. Franz even considered lugging the Kodak Brownie camera along but decided against it.
Over the past year, Franz had started to enjoy photographing buildings in Shanghai, as he had once done in Vienna. On his first trip, through the French Concession, he did not snap a single shot. Despite the neighbourhood’s charm and grandeur, none of the architecture piqued his interest. On his next outing, he wandered through Little Vienna and found himself standing outside the heim on Ward Road. The building was the largest of Shanghai’s heime, the hostels, literally “homes,” that the CFA ran for the thousands of refugees who could not afford their own housing. The walls of the faded brown structure were crumbling and its windows boarded, but something about the decrepit building moved Franz. He spent a full roll of his precious film photographing the heim, and returned three more times to capture it in different lighting.
However, his camera would have been of no use in the pre-dawn darkness.
A damp night chill still hung in the air, but Shanghai was beginning to stir. Trucks rattled down Avenue Joffre. The little old vendor down the street had opened his newspaper stand, muttering to himself as he laid out his English, French and Russian magazines. The wind carried the scent of yeast from a nearby bakery.
Without a specific destination in mind, Franz headed east toward the water. As he approached the riverfront, he heard an unfamiliar rumbling. The ghostly glow of ships moving in the harbour’s morning fog wasn’t unusual, but Franz sensed something was different.
Moments after he reached the Bund, the sky above the Whangpoo lit as though someone had launched New Year’s fireworks early. Gunfire crackled. The pavement below his feet vibrated from a thundering explosion.
A few hundred feet offshore, three ships raced across the water. Smoke billowed from the Idzumo’s stack as the Japanese flagship and a second vessel chased a river gunboat, which was trying to outrun the other ships. In the light of the shell bursts, Franz spotted a Union Jack flying from the gunboat’s platform. Though hopelessly outmatched, the sailors continued to fire back at the two ships trying to run it down.
Franz hardly breathed. The sky flashed with another round of explosions and gunfire. A sulphuric smell filled his nostrils. Amid the ground-shaking booms and flashes, it took Franz a moment to digest the implication of what he was witnessing. Japan and Britain are at war!
Horrified, Franz watched as thick black smoke streamed from the British gunboat. Flames lapped at its side. Soon, the Japanese ships overtook the wounded vessel that, even while sinking, continued to return gunfire. Franz saw British sailors leaping from its burning hull into the murky river. The gunboat began to list to the portside, but the Japanese ships kept shelling the boat. Then they turned their machine guns on the sailors bobbing in the dark waters of the Whangpoo. Franz’s pulse pounded at the heartless slaughter.
This is how they treat their enemies? Cold fear crawled over him. Oh my God, Hannah!
Franz wheeled and ran back toward home.
The naval battle had shaken the city awake. Several people, some half-dressed in nightwear, stumbled through the streets in bewildered anxiety.
At the entrance to his building, he almost collided with Heng Zhou, fully dressed and heading off in the opposite direction. “Where are you going, Heng?”
“To Mr. Muhler’s home to find Shan!” Heng said without slowing. “They have attacked Pearl Harbor!”
“Pearl Harbor? Where is that?” Franz called after him, but Heng was already gone.
Franz rushed inside the building and raced up the stairs. He burst into the apartment to find Hannah and Esther in their nightgowns sitting on the sofa, holding hands. They stared at the wireless as though it were a movie screen. In her stiffened left hand, Hannah held Schweizer Fräulein. Franz had not seen the doll in a long time.
Over the speaker, the tinny voice of the CBS commentator crackled with emotion. “Huge black clouds of burning oil still obscure the massive naval base at Pearl Harbor. It is too early to assess the damage or to know how many lives have been lost in this unprovoked attack. What is clear is that the Japanese have drawn America into this global conflict. And they have done so with a terrible first blow …”
Esther turned down the volume. “
Those Hawaiian Islands are American soil, Franz. The Japanese have just attacked America.”
Franz hung his head. “I was just at the waterfront, Essie. I saw them sink a British ship!”
Hannah turned to her father. “Papa, will the Japanese take over all of Shanghai now?”
Franz hesitated a moment. “I think so, liebchen, yes.”
“They are on the side of the Nazis, aren’t they?” Hannah’s voice cracked with worry. “What will happen to us, Papa?”
“We will be all right,” he said, trying to sound convincing. “The Japanese have controlled Hongkew for over four years, and they have never bothered with the German Jews there. There is no reason to think it will be any different now.”
Hannah chewed on her lip. “And my school?”
“It will work out,” he muttered.
Hannah clutched her doll even tighter to her chest as she struggled to maintain her composure. Months from her twelfth birthday and on the cusp of adolescence, Hannah had sprouted in the past year. But she was still only a child. “Will we really be all right, Papa?” she asked in a small voice.
The windows shook again with the sound of artillery fire. “Everything will be …” But Franz’s words petered out.
Esther threw an arm around Hannah and pulled her into a tight hug. “The family is together. We are survivors, Hannah. And we have survived worse than this.”
Staring off at the flashes of light outside the window, Hannah said nothing.