The Far Side of the Sky

by Daniel Kalla

  The desires stirred inside her. She wanted to feel his lips on hers again. She longed for the contact of his skin. His mouth moved closer to her lips.

  Suddenly, the reality of their predicament hit her like a bucket of cold water, and she stiffened in his arms.

  Franz released her and took a step back. “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I was just so relieved to see you.”

  “Of course, Franz. Me too. How are Esther and Hannah?” “Frightened. Same as everyone else. But otherwise all right.” “The uncertainty is the worst,” Sunny said. “Let’s hope it is the worst, anyway.”

  She laughed nervously. “Poor Simon is most worried about the hospital’s funding.”

  Franz nodded. “He has a point. Everything is going to change now that—”

  The front door flew open. Boots stamped against cement. Instinctively, Sunny squeezed Franz’s upper arm. He stared back at her, jaw clenched and face taut. “Let me handle this, Sunny,” he said grimly.

  Two Japanese soldiers approached. Sunny’s jaw fell open when she saw their white armbands. The Kempeitai!

  Franz stepped forward and gently manoeuvred Sunny behind him. “May I help you?”

  The nearer guard shook a finger. “Franz Adler?” he spat in heavily accented English.

  Franz hesitated a moment. “Yes, I am Dr. Adler.”

  “You come with us!” the Kempeitai officer snapped.

  “I don’t understand. I have done nothing—”

  The soldier grabbed Franz by the arm and jerked him forward. “Now!”

  “Franz!” Sunny reached a hand out but missed as he lurched past.

  Franz regained his footing and dug his heels into the ground. He looked frantically over his shoulder to her. “Sunny, let Esther know what is happening. But not Hannah! Tell her I had to go away on urgent business. You understand?”

  The second policeman grabbed hold of Franz’s other arm and began to pull also.

  Sunny took a step toward him. “Franz!”

  “No, Sunny! Let them take me.” He stopped resisting and allowed himself to be dragged away by the soldiers. “Tell Esther! Please … please, my dear one.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Rain pelted the windshield. Franz’s pulse hammered in his temples as fast as the wipers. The same dread gripped him as three years before, when he had sat sandwiched between the two SS men on the ride to Eichmann’s office in Vienna. Only the stench of the Nazis’ hair oil was missing.

  Neither of the stone-faced Kempeitai men flanking Franz had uttered a word since dragging him from the refugee hospital. Franz’s pulse sped even faster as the car turned onto Soochow Creek Road. Please, not Bridge House!

  Bridge House stood a stone’s throw from Soochow Creek, and only a few hundred yards from the Garden Bridge. Franz had passed the heavily guarded prison numerous times on his way to and from the refugee hospital. He knew the Kempeitai took suspected spies, saboteurs and other captured enemies to Bridge House for interrogation. Rumours of round-the-clock screams, water torture and electrocutions abounded among the Westerners. Franz had heard that, as often as not, prisoners taken to Bridge House never emerged.

  Assuming his association with Ernst must have drawn the Kempeitai’s attention, Franz wished again that he had never accompanied the impetuous artist to Colonel Kubota’s office.

  What will happen to Hannah without me?

  The mental image of Hannah clutching her rag doll reminded Franz that she was still only a child—one with a subtle but visible handicap. Franz knew that, culturally, the Japanese had little tolerance for disfigurement. He had once seen soldiers chase a child beggar off the street because the boy was missing half of his arm and most of an ear.

  Franz caught a glimpse of Bridge House ahead of them. The blood in his veins turned to ice. But the car didn’t slow. Instead, they flew past the building and continued east toward the river. The car slid to a stop in front of the military headquarters at Astor House.

  The man to his left jabbed Franz in the ribs with an elbow and shoved him out of the car. The guards led him toward the entrance of Astor House, their boots drumming the pavement like an executioner’s march. The sentries guarding the door parted to make way for them.

  The Kempeitai men led Franz up the spiral staircase. His heart sank as they shepherded him down the hallway, stopping outside Colonel Kubota’s office. The door opened, and Franz recognized the triangular face of Captain Yamamoto, Kubota’s aide. The Kempeitai men backed out of the room with deep bows, leaving Franz alone in front of the desk. He stole a glance at the wall, where a bland landscape painting hung in place of Ernst’s portrait.

  Three uniformed men clustered behind the desk. It took Franz a moment to recognize Colonel Kubota, who had shaved off his moustache and, instead of his usual civilian suit, wore a dark green uniform and matching officer’s cap. A gaunt older man in an all-white naval dress uniform stood beside Kubota. To his left, a shorter man wearing round wire-rimmed glasses, knee-high leather boots and the tan Kempeitai uniform glared at Franz.

  “Ah, Dr. Adler, it is good to see you again.” Kubota smiled as though they were meeting at one of the Reubens’ dinner parties.

  Franz nodded nervously.

  “Allow me to introduce my colleagues.” Kubota motioned to the older man in the white uniform. “Vice-Admiral Iwanaka, the senior naval officer in Shanghai.” He swung his hand toward the man in the glasses. “Colonel Tanaka, the Chief of Kempeitai for Shanghai.” He nodded to the door. “And you will remember Captain Yamamoto from your previous visit.”

  Yamamoto and Iwanaka offered unsmiling bows, but Tanaka’s scowl only deepened.

  “I must apologize for our abrupt summons,” Kubota said with a helpless shrug. “Unfortunately, we are facing an unexpected emergency.” “The artwork?” Franz blurted.

  The Japanese officers shared confused glances. Kubota’s face filled with sudden understanding, and he broke into a quiet chuckle. “I am afraid, Dr. Adler, that now is not the time to concern ourselves with artistic differences.”

  “I see,” Franz said with a mix of relief and confusion.

  Kubota turned to Iwanaka. “I will let the vice-admiral explain.”

  Iwanaka nodded sternly. “Earlier this morning, General Nogomi, the military governor of Shanghai, became unexpectedly ill.” He spoke English with a slight stutter, but his pronunciation was nearly perfect and his accent not much thicker than Kubota’s. “Our military doctors believe his condition is a result of a ruptured ulcer but, unfortunately, most of our field surgeons have been mobilized.”

  Franz’s shoulders sagged with relief. “And you would like a second opinion?”

  Iwanaka shook his head. “We are requesting that you operate on the general.”

  “Me?” Franz gasped. “You want me to operate on the governor?” Kubota nodded. “As the vice-admiral explained, our most experienced surgeons are unavailable. And you have an excellent reputation.” “But I am a …”

  “A stateless refugee!” Tanaka spoke up for the first time. His accent was thick, and his clipped nasal tone hostile. “A possible enemy of Imperial Japan.”

  “Come now, Colonel Tanaka,” Kubota said. “We are seeking Dr. Adler’s assistance.”

  Tanaka turned and snapped at Kubota in Japanese.

  “Not only me,” Kubota replied calmly in English. “Vice-Admiral Iwanaka and I agree that Dr. Adler is the correct choice. And we are the highest-ranking officers still fit for duty to make such a decision.” He finished with a few Japanese words in the same even tone.

  Tanaka stiffened as though insulted, but he nodded his acceptance.

  “Excuse me, Colonel Kubota,” Franz spoke up. “May I ask why you have not turned to your friend, Dr. Reuben?”

  Kubota glanced at Iwanaka before answering. “We are informed, Dr. Adler, that you are the best surgeon for this procedure.”

  Franz cleared his throat. “Colonel, are you asking or … or telling me to operate?”

  Ku
bota merely smiled. “We believe it would be best for everyone involved if you were to agree to help.”

  Tanaka’s lips curled into a sneer and his dark eyes simmered. The unspoken threat was clear. Suddenly, Franz understood the purpose of the Kempeitai man’s presence.

  “Where is General Nogomi now?” Franz asked.

  “At the Shanghai General Hospital.”

  “May I see him?”

  “Straight away,” Kubota said.

  As they were filing out the door, Tanaka caught Franz by the arm and squeezed hard. “I am responsible for security in whole of Shanghai,” he snapped.

  Franz’s neck and shoulders tensed again. “I understand.”

  “You German Jews.” Tanaka nodded knowingly. “You hate Nazis.”

  Uncertain whether it was a question, Franz nodded.

  “You would do anything to lose them the war.” Tanaka’s glare intensified. “And Japan fights beside Germany.”

  “It’s not like that, Colonel. I don’t concern myself with—”

  “You do what you have to so Japan loses the war too!” Tanaka tightened the grip until Franz’s whole arm ached. “Is it so?”

  “No, Colonel, not at all,” Franz spluttered. “All I want is for my family to be safe.”

  Tanaka glared ferociously at him for a moment before his lips curved into a malevolent smile. “No one—not you, not the girl child, not the woman—is safe if the general dies.”

  The implication hung between them like a grenade with its pin pulled.

  “I will do all I can.” Franz held his hands out in front of him. “I do not know how ill the general is. Sometimes people with perforated ulcers die no matter what we do.”

  Tanaka released Franz’s arm. “If he dies, you and your family …” He shook his head slowly before he wheeled and marched out of the room.

  Franz rode with Kubota in the back of his staff car. As they drove, the colonel seemed intent on justifying the Japanese attacks on Pearl Harbor, the Philippines and elsewhere. “We are an island nation with few natural resources,” he explained. “The Americans cut off our oil supply. Starved us of our sources of steel and bauxite. It would be little different had they cut off our food and water too.”

  Franz nodded, too preoccupied with what awaited him at the hospital to absorb the colonel’s stream of rationalizations. Franz realized he would again be forced to drag politics into the operating room. But this time would be much worse—the well-being of his whole family hinged on the fate of a patient he had never even met.

  The ride to the Shanghai General Hospital, on North Soochow Road, was mercifully short. At the hospital’s entrance, four soldiers stood at attention. Colonel Tanaka and two of his Kempeitai men were waiting inside. Franz spotted only a few doctors and nurses, all of whom scurried about in silent trepidation. Franz wondered how many of them were facing a similar ultimatum to his.

  Kubota and Tanaka led Franz down a hallway and past two guards, who snapped rigid salutes as they stepped into the private room. A Japanese doctor hovered by the patient’s bed, fiddling with the intravenous tubing that ran into the man’s arm. An apple-cheeked nurse stood at the head of the bed, dabbing at the patient’s brow with a damp cloth, her hand steady. She shot the Japanese officers a look of cold defiance but said nothing.

  Franz had expected the worst, but the sight of General Nogomi still shocked him. Covered up to his neck with a sheet, the balding man stared glassy-eyed at the ceiling. His colour matched the storming grey skies outside. For a moment, Franz thought the general might already be dead, but then one of his eyelids fluttered.

  Franz almost whipped the sheet off in his hurry to examine Nogomi, but he glanced at Kubota for permission. The colonel nodded. “Please proceed, Dr. Adler.”

  Nogomi showed no sign of awareness as Franz peeled back the sheet and grasped for the general’s wrist. The man’s skin was afire, and his pulse ominously faint. Franz turned to the two senior Japanese officers. “This man is septic! Blood poisoning has already set in.”

  Kubota nodded gravely, but Tanaka stared hard at Franz, unwilling to accept any excuses.

  Nogomi’s abdomen bulged outward from his thin frame. Franz lightly touched the skin and met board-like rigidity. He laid his left middle finger flat on the belly and tapped it with the other. The hollow sound was unmistakable. Only air that had leaked out of a perforated intestine could turn a human abdomen into a snare drum.

  Franz turned to Kubota. “I agree with your doctors. The general must have perforated his intestine. Probably a stomach ulcer. But someone should have operated hours ago!”

  “You will do it now!” Tanaka commanded.

  “The general is already overwhelmed by infection. The odds of this man even surviving surgery are—” “Now!” Tanaka cried.

  Franz’s own pulse fluttered wildly. Tanaka’s threat resonated stronger than ever. He thought of Hannah and Esther. Ernst’s gut-wrenching depiction of the woman impaled on the Japanese standard flashed to mind.

  “I am going to scrub for surgery.” Franz lowered his head and strode for the door.

  “Very well,” Kubota said. “I will see that General Nogomi is transferred to the operating room immediately.”

  If it’s not already too late for him. And for my family.

  CHAPTER 34

  Franz’s hands had never shaken so violently in the operating room—not even that day he raced to excise Sunny’s hemorrhaging spleen. He willed his fingers still, but the tremble persisted.

  Franz scanned the room. The Japanese doctor sat perched on a stool at the head of the operating table, timidly assuming the role of anaesthetist. Two English scrub nurses stood gowned and masked across the table, waiting to assist Franz. Both were wide-eyed with fear. A Kempeitai officer stood at the door as an observer. His overly long gown produced a comical effect that was grimly misleading.

  Abdomen exposed but covered from the waist down with a sheet, General Nogomi lay on the operating table, his breathing shallow and halting.

  Franz glanced at the Kempeitai officer, who stared back intently. Technically, the soldier was there to ensure that no one sabotaged the surgery, but Franz suspected that Colonel Tanaka had stationed him to remind everyone of the consequences of failure.

  The Japanese anaesthetist tentatively dripped ether onto the mask over Nogomi’s face.

  “Only another drop or two,” Franz instructed. “The general is far too unstable for anything but the lightest dose.”

  The young doctor jerked the bottle upright. “Of course, Dr. Adler,” he said in clear English. “Dr. Reuben felt the same way.”

  Franz gaped at the anaesthetist. “Are you saying Dr. Reuben has already seen the patient? When?”

  The anaesthetist shrugged. “Perhaps two hours ago.”

  So what in God’s name am I doing here?

  As though reading his thoughts, the anaesthetist added, “Dr. Reuben told us you were the best surgeon in Shanghai for such emergencies.” The rat-bastard!

  “Scalpel!” Franz said to one of the nurses.

  He grabbed the knife from her hand, jabbed the blade into the central indentation just below Nogomi’s rib cage and sliced downward in one continuous cut. The second nurse sponged at the incision’s bleeding vessels but could not stem the blood flow. Franz stuck the blade back into the wound and slit the layers of muscles and tendons that formed the abdominal wall.

  Air hissed out of the abdomen like a tire rupturing. The patient’s belly visibly deflated. Franz snatched the retractors and tucked them into the edges of the incision, stretching its edges wide apart. One of the nurses silently freed the retractors from his grip. Franz dipped his gloved hand inside the general’s belly. Warm fluid enveloped his fingers.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead as Franz tried not to think about the damage the corrosive stomach acid had already inflicted. He ran his hand over the rubbery deflated loops of intestine until his fingers touched the pylorus, the base of the stomach. He had to palpate
the area twice before his finger slid through a button-sized hole.

  “Dr. Adler, the general’s pulse …” the anaesthetist croaked.

  “What about it?” Franz said.

  “It is so weak I can barely sense it.”

  Colonel Tanaka’s threat rang in Franz’s ears like gunfire. What will they do to my Hannah?

  “Increase the fluids!” Franz snapped as he turned his attention back to the wound. The only hope was to patch Nogomi’s leaking stomach as fast as humanly possible. “Needle driver and stitch!” he called out.

  Franz pushed the omentum, the ligamentous layer of tissue that hung off the outside of the stomach like a thick curtain, out of the way. He craned his neck until he glimpsed the small defect in the front of the stomach. Franz poked the tip of the needle through the full thickness of the stomach wall beside the hole and ran a ring of stitches around it. He dropped the needle driver and pulled taut on both ends of the thread, closing the hole as though tightening a purse string. He poked at the stomach wall with a finger. Satisfied, he grabbed at a piece of the omentum and sewed it on top of the defect site to reinforce his repair.

  Franz dropped his equipment on the tray and glanced over to the anaesthetist. “Well?”

  Without removing his hand from the patient’s neck, the pale young man nodded. “I feel it still. Very delicate.”

  Franz grabbed for the syringe loaded with saline. He pointed its nose into the abdomen and sprayed the fluid. He showered the abdomen with multiple sprays, washing out as much stomach acid and bacteria as possible.

  Franz turned to the anaesthetist. “Please remove the ether.” The man dutifully pulled the mask from the patient’s face. Franz rushed to suture Nogomi’s abdominal wall back together. As he threaded the final loop through the skin, the general flinched in pain. “He is waking,” the anaesthetist announced joyously. “And his pulse?” “Still not good.”

  Even though Nogomi had survived the operation, Franz knew that the odds were still stacked against the general, and as Franz watched the nurses bandage the general’s abdomen, the sting of Reuben’s betrayal burned deeper. Any competent surgeon could have performed the operation. Fate, not surgical prowess, would determine Nogomi’s outcome. Reuben would have known it too.