Rising Sun, Falling Shadow

by Daniel Kalla

  “What?”

  Sunny withdrew the brass watch from her pocket and held it up by its gold chain. “It was my father’s.”

  A few months earlier, the idea of pawning Kingsley’s treasured pocket watch would have been unthinkable. Her father had been murdered by a Japanese sailor while trying to defend her from an attack on the street, and Sunny had resisted parting with any of his possessions. Until Franz and Hannah moved in with her, she had not touched his bedroom. Yang, the family’s long-time housekeeper, treated the room with equal reverence, entering only to clean and dust. They still kept everything in her father’s office as it had always been—from expired vials of insulin to stacks of old journals and the Audubon Society magazines he had prized. But the Adlers were broke. They had already poured their scant savings into maintaining the hospital and received no wages from it. Franz was unaware of the extent of their poverty: Sunny had been hocking her father’s possessions for the past two months without telling him. From time to time, she had even accepted money from Jia-Li, who constantly offered it. Sunny hoped the watch would bring a good price; she was ashamed to rely on her friend’s charity.

  “I’ll come with you,” Joey declared.

  “Thank you, but I can do this alone.”

  “Whatever they offer, I will get you a better deal. Trust me.”

  “I do, Joey.” If she wasn’t so agitated, Sunny might have hugged the wiry boy. She had no doubt he would be able to get her more for the timepiece, but even more than the money, she needed privacy. “This is very special to me. I don’t remember a day when I didn’t see my father wearing it. To have to sell it now . . .”

  Joey’s face flushed, and he dropped his gaze to the ground. “I have people to meet, too. I’ll see you in the market in an hour.”

  Sunny watched Joey walk away. She took a moment to gather her composure before heading off for the International Settlement. She crossed the Garden Bridge and walked into the Public Garden, the colonial-style park that jutted out into the Whangpoo River. Bamboo, weeds and dirt had replaced the manicured lawns and vibrant flowerbeds that had once made the Public Garden one of Shanghai’s jewels. Sunny was heartsick to see that the red-roofed gazebo where her father used to bring her in the summertime to watch brass bands play had been vandalized, too.

  Pushing aside thoughts of the neglected grounds, Sunny spotted Wen-Cheng Huang seated on a bench across from the twisted hull of the gazebo. Clearly, he saw her too, but, as they had agreed, he pretended not to recognize her. Instead, he raised an open newspaper until it hid his face.

  Sunny glanced from side to side and, satisfied that no one was watching, hurried over to him.

  Chapter 11

  Franz tasted coal dust as he almost choked on the dark smoke that billowed from the stove. But he didn’t dare stop fanning the charcoal briquettes inside, trying to coax them to life with as much oxygen as possible. Their traditional Shanghainese oven, which always reminded Franz of an overturned flowerpot, was loaded with briquettes recycled by the locals and compacted with river mud. They took forever to ignite and would extinguish on a whim.

  “Will Sunny be home for supper?” Esther asked from the couch behind him, where she sat rocking Jakob to sleep in her arms.

  “I hope so,” Franz said. “As we were leaving the hospital, an elderly woman arrived with a rapid heartbeat. Sunny gave her our last tablets of digitalis.”

  “Did her condition improve?”

  “It helped, but you know Sunny. She won’t leave until the woman’s heart has settled down to the rate of a sleeping athlete’s.”

  Esther nodded approvingly. “She’s a wonderful nurse.”

  “And a good surgeon, too, Essie,” he said with a tinge of pride. “Her judgment is as good as her dexterity, and far beyond her experience.”

  Franz noticed that the glowing embers had begun to dim. He waved the fan even more vigorously, like a toreador provoking a bull with his cape.

  “I remember the ovens in Vienna being more responsive,” Esther said.

  “I have seen corpses more responsive than this cursed contraption.”

  Esther chuckled. “And even when it does burn well, we still have to buy our hot water from the water man.”

  It was true. The traditional stoves didn’t produce enough heat to boil water. Before meals—which for many refugees now came once a day at most—people could be seen lining up all over Hongkew at the water stores and carts to buy a ladle or two of boiling water. They would rush their steaming pots home, being careful not to spill them, and hoping the water would still be hot when they arrived.

  “What shall I prepare for supper?” Esther asked in jest.

  “Perhaps a spicy sauerbraten with spaetzle and red cabbage, followed by your strudel, Essie. With whipped cream.”

  Esther smiled. “Or we could stick to rice with bland greens.”

  They had not eaten meat in months. Rice was now the mainstay of their diet. Depending on their cash reserves, on a given day, they would garnish it with soybeans, bamboo shoots or flavourless greens for which no one seemed to know the German name.

  Still, Franz was pleased to see Esther in good spirits. She rarely complained, but her faraway eyes often betrayed the loneliness and worry she felt in Simon’s absence.

  Esther carefully positioned Jakob on a pillow in the bamboo basket at her feet. The infant was the only one eating well in their home. Esther’s breast milk had become plentiful and reliable since Sunny had insisted on increasing his mother’s daily rice ration, and Jakob had doubled in size by the end of his third month of life. He was always a contented baby, and in the last few days he had begun to smile. His angelic grin had even recaptured Hannah’s attention.

  Once the baby was asleep, Esther reached for Simon’s latest letter. As usual, his words brought a smile to her face. This time it evolved into a chuckle that soon turned into tears of laughter. “Listen, listen Franz,” she choked out. “Simon writes: ‘After months down here, I can recognize the ladies of the house by the sound of their footsteps above us. Jia-Li glides over the floor. You have to concentrate to hear her: she is like a cat padding lightly overhead. Nelly—that’s not her real name—but whoa, Nelly! She stomps above me like a deranged hippopotamus. That’s exactly how I picture her: a hippopotamus wearing lipstick and black stockings and leaning seductively against the mantle, smoking from a long-stemmed holder.’” Esther dissolved into giggles. “‘As I write this, I hear Bambi overhead. She skitters and trips in her high heels like a fawn flailing across a frozen pond.’”

  Franz marvelled at Simon’s sensitivity. Imprisoned beneath a brothel, not knowing if he would ever see his wife or son again, he found only amusing anecdotes to share with his wife. Lately, his perpetually upbeat tone had begun to have an effect. For the first time since their forced separation, the practical and level-headed Esther of old re-emerged.

  With the briquettes finally ignited fully, Franz felt safe turning his back on the stove. He stood up and stretched. “Essie, have I mentioned that Wen-Cheng Huang is volunteering at the hospital?” he asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

  Lowering the letter, Esther tilted her head up. “Did anyone ask for his help?”

  “No. He just showed up a few months ago, offering his services.”

  “That was very decent of him.”

  “Very. Yes.” Franz cleared his throat. “It is somewhat of a coincidence.”

  “That he should volunteer at the same hospital as Sunny?”

  Franz nodded. “Of course, there are only four hospitals still open in the city. And most of them, like us, barely get by. Before the Japanese, there were ten hospitals and—”

  “Obviously, he has come because of Sunny.”

  Franz straightened up involuntarily. “Do you think so?”

  “A Chinese doctor coming to volunteer in a Jewish refugee hospital? His sol
e connection being the woman who used to be . . .” She paused to search for diplomatic words. “The object of his affection. What other reason could there be?”

  “None, of course.”

  “But surely Dr. Huang is not so stupid,” she said. “Sunny and he shared a working friendship for years. There is no reason to assume his intentions are anything but honourable.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Besides, Franz, what matters is how Sunny feels, not Dr. Huang.” Her face creased with an understanding smile. “And you have nothing to worry about on that account.”

  “It’s almost too trivial to mention but . . .” Franz felt his face beginning to burn. He loved Esther dearly but, even with Sunny, he sometimes struggled to voice certain emotions.

  “What is it Franz?”

  “Last week, on the ward, I came upon the two of them talking—of course, that is nothing out of the ordinary. It’s just that . . .”

  “Tell me.”

  Growing more embarrassed by the second, he looked away. “They were speaking in Chinese. I have no idea what it was about, but they were standing close and talking in hushed tones. There was something . . . secretive about it.”

  “Sunny? Never.” Esther shook her head adamantly. “It’s not even worth considering.”

  * * *

  Franz was relieved to step outside into the blazing sunshine. He had been mortified to confess his marital insecurities to Esther, and he left feeling only vaguely reassured.

  As he trudged to the hospital, he was reminded everywhere of the war. Buildings bore battle wounds like veterans returning from the front: bullet holes and mortar damage disfigured their facades, and most of the windows were boarded up. Many shops were closed or simply abandoned. Soldiers and military police roamed the streets with unconcealed menace. Skeletal rickshaw pullers stood by their empty carriages, no paying fares in sight.

  When Franz had first arrived in Shanghai, he had been struck by the city’s obsessive attention to fashion, particularly among the impeccably dressed Chinese women who roamed the city’s shopping districts, often in giggling packs. Their glittering cheongsams epitomized the fusion of East and West, with hem lengths, collar styles and the closeness of their fit varying from season to season and influenced as much by the styles of Hollywood as those of Asia. But the gorgeous patterns and eye-popping colours were long gone. Now, Jews and Chinese alike scurried about in drab clothes too loose for their shrunken bodies.

  In happier moments, Franz took pride in the triumph of the refugees’ will over circumstance: the sense of culture and community that somehow blossomed under a constant shadow of persecution and deprivation. But in his current dark mood, it seemed to him that survival had become the only object of their existence.

  Franz reached the hospital and hurried up the pathway, eager to find shelter from the sun and his miserable ruminations. The instant he entered, he spotted two Japanese soldiers at the end of the corridor, their peaked hats and epaulets marking them as officers.

  Franz froze. Have they come for Charlie? Please, no, not so soon.

  One of the young officers wheeled around to face him. “You are Dr. Adler?” he demanded in English.

  “Yes.”

  Both men rushed toward him. Neither laid a hand on him, but their sombre faces and urgent manner sent a chill down his spine. He looked from one soldier to the other. “May I ask the meaning of this?”

  The first officer indicated the doorway with a rigidly outstretched arm. “Mr. Ghoya requests you.”

  Ghoya? The man who gives out exit passes? Franz felt his stomach unknot. They have not come for Charlie after all.

  Still, his apprehension rose as he headed for the door. Stories abounded among the refugees about the strange little official. He had already earned the Yiddish nickname of “Meshugana Ghoya,” or Crazy Ghoya, and was said to be as unpredictable as he was flamboyant, parading around his office like a pint-sized tyrant. He would routinely deny refugees passes based on arbitrary criteria such as appearance, particularly with the taller men, whose height he presumably resented. It was said that he had forced Moshe Kaplan, a concert musician who had played with the Berlin Philharmonic, to play a violin duet with him. When Ghoya could not keep time, he accused the musician of sabotaging the piece and attacked Kaplan, slapping him and snapping the fingerboard off his Stradivarius.

  Franz followed the officers outside, expecting to see a military vehicle parked at the curb, but the street was clear. “We walk,” one of them announced.

  Franz was sweating by the time they reached a nondescript building at the corner of Muirhead and Ward Roads. Above the front door, a hand-painted placard announced the Bureau of Stateless Refugee Affairs.

  Although it was already mid-afternoon, fifty or more people were queued outside the office, waiting to apply for exit passes. The soldiers marched him past the withered-looking men and women. Franz realized with a pang of sympathy that they had probably been standing in line in the hot sun since early morning.

  Inside, the stuffiness was oppressive. Franz and the officers had to walk single file along a narrow hallway to reach the office at the far end. Through the open door, Franz saw a diminutive man sitting behind a desk. Noticing the new arrivals, the man hopped to his feet and waved frantically, as if trying to flag down a speeding car. “Come in. Yes. Come, come!”

  The man kept beckoning Franz forward, until he stood inches from the desk. The two officers snapped salutes and left the room, leaving the door open behind them. The man stared at Franz with a grin. Not much taller than Hannah, he wore an out-of-fashion navy suit with thick pinstripes. His face was pockmarked and either his head was too large for his frame, Franz thought, or his neck and shoulders too small. Mr. Ghoya appeared exactly as Max Feinstein had described him: “A man who looks as though he has stepped into the wrong country in the wrong decade while wearing the wrong suit.” But Franz was not amused then or now. He had heard too many stories of refugees who had underestimated Ghoya, based on first impressions, and had come to deeply regret it.

  “Dr. Franz Adler from Vienna,” Ghoya trumpeted. “You are a surgeon. You run the Jewish hospital.”

  Franz waited for a question, but none came. Ghoya interlaced his fingers behind his back and began to pace back and forth behind his desk. After a few seconds, he stopped and said, “Your daughter, did she have fun playing with the Russian girl in Frenchtown?” Then he muttered to himself, “I don’t know why I let her go. Too soft. Always, too soft.”

  Bewildered, Franz wondered if maybe the nickname of “Crazy Ghoya” was less exaggerated than he had assumed. “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Your daughter,” Ghoya snapped. “Did she have a good romp in Frenchtown after she left the Designated Area?”

  “Hannah has never left the Designated Area,” Franz said.

  “Yes, yes! Of course she has!” Ghoya cried. “I let her go myself, just yesterday. I remember everything, and you would be wise not to forget that.” His lips twisted into a smug grin. “So she left without informing her own father?”

  Franz wondered what could have possessed his daughter to leave the ghetto, but all he said was, “Hannah is very grown-up for her age, sir. I do not always check on her whereabouts.”

  “Yes, yes.” Ghoya sighed, seeming to have lost interest in the subject. “You know who I am, correct?”

  “I believe you are Mr. Ghoya, sir.”

  Ghoya darted around the desk and stopped only inches from Franz, the smell of his aftershave overpowering. Hands still clasped behind his back, Ghoya tilted his chin up to glare at Franz. “I am not ‘Ghoya’ to you. You will know me as the other stateless refugees do, as the Christians know their saviour. To you, I will be ‘King of the Jews’!”

  For a moment, Franz wondered if Ghoya might be joking, but his expression said otherwise. “Yes, sir. The King of the Jews.”

&
nbsp; “So I am the king of your hospital, too. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Franz said warily. “I understand, sir.”

  Ghoya nodded. His tone suddenly turned conversational. “Tell me more of this hospital of yours.”

  “What would you like to know, sir?”

  “What does it do?” Ghoya threw a hand up, nearly striking Franz. “Can you make operations? Do you deliver babies?”

  “Yes and no, sir. We can only run our operating room when we have the supplies to do so.”

  Ghoya brought a finger and thumb to his chin. “And where do these supplies come from?”

  Franz shifted on his feet. He was leery of what Ghoya might do with the answer, but he also understood that withholding it could be a grave mistake. Ghoya might already know the truth. “Various individuals donate supplies or money. The Russian Jews in Frenchtown have been particularly helpful. As has the Imperial Japanese Army, which has been the most generous of all.”

  “Tell me, doctor, what about the local Chinese? Do they have a hospital of their own?”

  “I do not believe so, sir.”

  “Aaahhh.” Ghoya drew out the word. “And the citizens of the Imperial Japanese Empire who live in Hongkew, do they have their own hospital?”

  Franz hesitated. “The Shanghai General, sir, is managed by the Japanese navy—”

  “The Shanghai General!” Ghoya screamed. “Does that sound Japanese to you?”

  “No, sir.”

  Without warning, Ghoya vaulted on top of his desk. He perched at the edge of the tabletop while gesturing wildly down at Franz. “So why do you Jews get your very own hospital? Tell me. Tell me!”

  “I . . . I . . . am not certain that we—”

  “What is so special about you Jews?” Ghoya cried.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Ghoya, may I have a word?” A familiar voice came from over Franz’s shoulder.

  Chapter 12

  Sunny and Wen-Cheng sat at opposite ends of the bench, leaving enough space for two people between them. They did not exchange a glance, let alone a word, for five long minutes.