by Daniel Kalla
An old Chinese man in a tattered grey Zhongshan suit stood a few yards away, staring at the wrecked gazebo. Slightly round-backed, he kept his arms glued to his sides and his head hung low. Sunny sensed great sadness in him. For some reason, she imagined him to be one of Shanghai’s many bird fanciers who used to bring their caged pets to parks and other public places for “airings.” Sunny had heard that, since the invasion, many of those enthusiasts had been forced to eat their beloved pets.
Finally, with a slight nod to Sunny and Wen-Cheng, the old man turned and shuffled off toward the street. As soon as he was out of sight, Wen-Cheng looked up from his newspaper and glanced around. Satisfied that they were alone, he smiled, and his distinctive pale eyes lit up. Not so long ago, before Franz entered her life, that expression had melted Sunny’s heart. It had almost led her into an affair with Wen-Cheng, who had been married at the time.
Neither the war nor the death of his wife in a car accident had diminished Wen-Cheng’s attractiveness. Unlike those of most in Shanghai, his face was as full and smooth as ever, and his teeth still ivory white. He was handsome enough to be a double for one Shanghai’s local film stars. He had lost most of his wealth when the Japanese appropriated his family’s ceramics factory and converted it to an armaments plant, but Sunny knew that Wen-Cheng had invested much of what he had left in buying supplies for the refugee hospital. She was flattered, and a little frightened, to think that he might be doing it primarily for her sake.
Wen-Cheng arched his back and stretched. He exuded a kind of tranquility that belied the troubled times. “Thank you for coming, Soon Yi,” he said in Shanghainese.
She broke off eye contact, letting her gaze fall on the gazebo’s decrepit, but still brightly coloured, roof. “I am still not certain, Wen-Cheng.”
“You do not have to decide this very moment.”
Another wave of guilt washed over her.
“It’s so beautiful today.” He motioned to the bright blue sky, ignoring the blistering heat. “Shall we walk?”
They rose and headed deeper into the park, toward the river. Weeds had made the once glass-smooth pathway uneven. At one point, Sunny stumbled over a bamboo root. Wen-Cheng caught her by the upper arm, holding her for an extra moment after she had steadied herself. Stomach flip-flopping, she nodded her thanks while still avoiding his eyes.
They came to a halt as the path curved along the western bank of the Whangpoo River. The yellow-brown water churned, and the day’s heat intensified the smell of the sewage that continuously drained into the river. Suddenly, a long skinny rat, its tail no more than a stump, appeared from under the rocks at their feet. It scurried along the path for a few feet before diving under another set of stones. Sunny had never been superstitious, but she still found a sliver of comfort in the traditional Chinese belief that suggested the appearance of a rat, even one so mangled and scrawny, was a good omen.
“Did you see his tail? Even our vermin suffer under the Rìběn guı˘zi.” Wen-Cheng gestured out toward the harbour, which teemed with ships flying the Rising Sun. Most were freighters or troop transports. One battleship, the Idzumo, dwarfed the other vessels. Its massive gun turrets pointed inland as though warning Sunny to reconsider what she was doing.
Sunny turned to Wen-Cheng. “Will someone else meet us?”
He shook his head.
“Then why have we come?”
His lips parted in another easygoing smile. “I enjoy your company, no matter what the circumstances.”
“Wen-Cheng, you promised me a meeting.”
He only shrugged. “They are exceedingly cautious, Soon Yi. Out of necessity. I am sure they are watching.”
“When will I meet them?”
“Later. Perhaps never.” He lowered his voice. “I have only met with them a handful of times. We usually communicate through signals or notes that are left in secret locations. We rarely meet in person, and we never use the telephone or even the radio.”
“You have a radio?” She had heard that anyone caught possessing a transmitter would face interrogation, torture, even a firing squad.
“I have access to one, yes.” Wen-Cheng dug a hand into his pocket and extended a pack of cigarettes to her. Sunny waved him away, so he lit one for himself and looked out at the Japanese armada.
The butterflies in her stomach fluttered harder. Although Sunny knew that Wen-Cheng was somehow involved with the Resistance, the idea of connecting directly with the shadowy movement felt surreal. Two months before, on Nanking Road, she had walked past the twisted hull of a transport truck that had been sabotaged with an explosive. Aside from a few such tangible examples, it was impossible to know how far and wide the Underground’s reach extended. The city was abuzz with rumours of brazen acts of sabotage. Some, such as the truck bombing, were easy to attribute to the Resistance, while others, like the sinking of a Japanese cruiser in the harbour in broad daylight, taxed belief. The rumour mill whirled in a self-perpetuating frenzy, building the Underground into a mythical secret force that had the mighty Japanese army running scared. The more she heard of the Underground, the more indistinct and legendary its status grew in her mind. Sunny had no idea how effective the Resistance was in undermining the enemy but, like most Shanghai natives, she desperately wanted to believe in it.
Wen-Cheng’s eyes narrowed in disgust as he continued to stare at the harbour filled with Japanese vessels. “They have no right to be here,” he grumbled.
“They have the ships, the planes and the guns.” Sunny looked at the Idzumo’s huge turrets. “Might makes right, does it not?”
Wen-Cheng puffed on his cigarette silently. “Once in a while, right must fight back.” He inclined his head. “Isn’t that why you have come today, Soon Yi?”
“I suppose.” In truth, her motives were far more complex, but Sunny felt too unsettled and uncertain to delve into them with Wen-Cheng. Besides, she was the one who had demanded the meeting.
Originally, Wen-Cheng had hidden his subversive activity. Sunny’s suspicion had been piqued two months earlier when Berta at the hospital told her that she’d run into Wen-Cheng in the Yuyuan Garden on a day when he had announced he would be visiting an ill aunt in Wuxi. According to Berta, Wen-Cheng had barely acknowledged her, offering only a curt nod as he hurried away. Days later, Sunny confronted him. He claimed to have been running late for a date and then uncharacteristically lashed out at the dependable Berta for being a wild gossip. But Sunny had not believed him. A few weeks later, she pulled Wen-Cheng aside again and said, “Wo yào bāngzhù.”
He shook his head. “You want to help whom?”
“The Underground,” she whispered.
“Why would you tell me? I have no access to them.”
“I think you do.”
“You are mistaken.”
“I think not,” she said. “But if am wrong, I will keep making enquiries until I find someone who can put me in touch with them.”
Hesitating, he glanced over at Franz, the pen in the doctor’s hand held still against the patient’s chart as he watched them carefully. “This is not the place, Soon Yi,” Wen-Cheng whispered.
Two more secret conversations at the hospital eventually led to this rendezvous in the Public Garden. Sunny glanced around her again, but the park still appeared deserted. “Can any one of us really make a difference?”
“Probably not, no.” Wen-Cheng shrugged. “But if none of us tries, what hope is there?”
“The Japanese will never defeat America.”
“They do not have to.” He gestured with his palms up. “The Americans are already fighting in Europe and Africa. Eventually, they will lose their appetite for another war in Asia. Any peace between the Japanese and the Allies would mean the end of China. Shanghai would be lost forever.”
Sunny saw his point, and it saddened her. Before the Japanese invasion, she would never have consid
ered herself a patriot. Her country had been consumed by civil unrest and regional strife since before she was born. China was more of a loose affiliation of regional cultures, languages and ethnicities than a single nation. And nowhere was that more evident than in Shanghai. Politically and culturally, the city had always seemed to her as British or French as it ever did Chinese—more its own entity, a city state, than part of China. But Sunny loved her hometown with all her heart, and she embodied the paradox of East meeting West that was Shanghai. The idea of living the rest of her life under the Japanese was too horrible to consider. She thought of Simon forced into permanent hiding while his wife raised their baby alone. And what about her own family’s legacy? Although she would not be perpetuating the family name, she owed it to her father to continue his lineage. But how could she introduce a child of her own into this mess?
Wen-Cheng studied her intently. “Does Franz know?”
“That I was coming here to meet you? No.”
He nodded knowingly but said nothing.
Sunny remembered the last time she had raised the subject of the Resistance with her husband. Franz had responded angrily, one of the few times he had ever raised his voice with her. “Anyone from the ghetto who assists the Underground is no more than a selfish fool!” he cried. When she wondered how someone could be considered selfish for risking their own life, he snapped back, “To aid the Resistance is to risk the lives of everyone in the ghetto.”
Guilt bubbled inside her. “Franz is dead set against refugees participating in subversion of any sort.”
Wen-Cheng snorted. “It’s not their fight, is it?”
“It’s not that at all. Franz hates how the Japanese treat the locals. To him, it’s no different from how the Nazis bully the Jews.” She exhaled slowly. “He worries that if any refugee were to be caught aiding the Underground, it would have devastating repercussions for the whole community.”
“And for his hospital.”
“That, too, of course.”
Wen-Cheng considered it for a moment. “You are not a refugee, Soon Yi.”
I am not really anything, she thought. “My husband is. And so is my stepdaughter. If I was ever implicated, it could be just as damaging.”
“My wife is dead. I have no children.” Wen-Cheng paused. “Franz is right. You cannot afford to be involved. Forget all of this, and go home to him now.”
But Sunny could not. The Japanese had raped her homeland. They had murdered her beloved father. And she would never forget Irma or those two teenagers, or the imploring look the taller boy had given her. Sunny folded her arms across her chest. “I am ready to contribute.”
Wen-Cheng’s expression had hardened, and his eyes darkened. “Once you commit, there is no turning back.”
“I realize this.”
Wen-Cheng dropped his cigarette to the dirt and stubbed it out with the toe of his shoe. He had always been a fastidious dresser, but his once-gleaming black shoes were now so scuffed they appeared grey. “How far are you prepared to go, Sunny?”
Sunny had no idea, but she answered anyway. “As far as is necessary.”
“Even if your actions lead to death?” His stare was unsettling. “And not only for Japanese soldiers.”
Sunny could feel doubt creeping over her like a blush, but she refused to waver. “As far as is necessary.”
Chapter 13
Franz looked at Colonel Tsutomo Kubota with equal parts awe and relief. Ten months had passed since their last conversation, and Franz had never expected to see him again.
Ghoya hopped off the desk and immediately bent forward at the waist in a deep bow. “Taisa Kubota,” he said, then mumbled a few more deferential words in Japanese.
Kubota limped toward them from the doorway with the aid of a cane. Franz was struck by how much the colonel had aged in a year. His face was pale and lined, and his once proud posture had given way to a hunched stance. Franz noticed that his left hand trembled coarsely.
Kubota nodded once to Franz, then turned to Ghoya. “I hope you do not object to my presence at this meeting?” he asked in English.
“But of course.” Even though Kubota had just witnessed Ghoya lambasting Franz from atop his desk, the little man now gestured affectionately toward Franz. “The good doctor here was just apprising me of the situation at the refugee hospital.”
“So it appears,” Kubota said dryly.
“Yes, yes, most honourable taisa,” Ghoya said, seemingly oblivious to the colonel’s sarcasm. “It is impressive that the Jewish people have been able to keep open such a busy hospital.”
“They do have a reputation for industriousness,” Kubota said.
Ghoya nodded wildly. “I have noticed it myself. It’s true. Most true!”
“Mr. Ghoya, would you mind if I borrowed Dr. Adler for a few moments?”
“Certainly not, Taisa Kubota.” Ghoya arched his back. “I still have many refugees to see concerning passes. I have time for almost nothing else these days.”
Kubota led Franz out of the office and to a staircase around the corner. Franz noticed that the colonel mounted the steps with only his right foot, dragging his left foot behind as he held the railing with one hand. At the landing, he tucked his cane under his arm, straightened his shoulders and limped down the hallway. At the end of the corridor, he opened a door and stepped into an office that was no bigger than Ghoya’s and furnished just as plainly.
Kubota motioned to the chair in front of his desk as he walked around it. “Ah, Dr. Adler, you appear just as I remember you. These days, that is high praise indeed.”
Franz was markedly thinner than when they were last face to face, but he merely nodded. He couldn’t return the compliment with any sincerity. Franz wondered if Kubota’s one-sided tremor and stiffness were the result of a stroke. He waited to see if the colonel would volunteer a medical explanation, but none came. “I did not think I would see you again so soon, Colonel,” Franz finally said.
“To be frank, Dr. Adler, I did not imagine that we would ever meet again. However, in my experience, fate rarely takes our expectations into consideration.”
Franz was so accustomed to hearing rudimentary English from Japanese soldiers that he had almost forgotten that Kubota—who was Cambridge schooled and had lived among the Shanghailanders for years—was so eloquent. “If I may say so, I am most pleased to see that you have returned, Colonel.”
Kubota looked away. “In the past year, I have been posted to Burma and Malaysia. And yet this does not seem like a homecoming at all.”
“Shanghai is not the same as it used to be, is it?”
“Very true, Doctor,” Kubota said. “Of course, I have also returned to a vastly different posting. I now oversee the Bureau of Stateless Refugee Affairs.”
Kubota’s tone and expression remained neutral, but Franz sensed shame behind his words. The colonel had once ranked second in command only to the city’s military governor, General Nogomi. He had returned to Shanghai as an administrator of a half-mile-square ghetto and its unwanted residents. Franz felt responsible for the colonel’s fall from grace. Had he not pleaded for Kubota’s help the year before when the SS had lobbied the Japanese for permission to annihilate the refugees, the colonel would surely never have been demoted. However, had Kubota not intervened and appealed to the High Command in Tokyo to spare the Jews, Franz might well not have lived to feel his current guilt.
Franz coughed into his hand. “Colonel, I cannot tell you how indebted we are to you. And I am so deeply sorry—”
Kubota shook his left wrist clumsily. “We have a saying in Japan: Kako wo mizu ni nagashimashou. Let the past drift away with the water.” He nodded. “I trust Mrs. Adler is well?”
“Yes, thank you. Sunny is fine. She will be delighted to hear that you have returned.”
“I am most pleased to hear it.” Kubota’s smile was fleeting. �
�And your friend, Mr. Lehrer? I understand that he disappeared from the Chapei Civic Assembly Center.”
“We have not seen Simon in months.” Franz misled with the truth. “We are very concerned for him.”
“Most understandable.” Kubota sounded distracted. “Have you heard news of Dr. Reuben and his wife?”
The Reubens were third-generation Jewish Shanghailanders. Samuel, a surgeon of many years’ standing, had given Franz his first job in the city, but there was no love lost between the two. “I have not heard a word about Samuel and Clara since they were interned last winter.”
“They are getting by. I visited them myself in the Lunghua Camp last week.” Kubota emitted a small sigh. “Even though they are British citizens, I was able to convince the camp commander that the Reubens have a long-standing affiliation with the refugees.” He paused to wait for a reaction, but Franz said nothing. “I have made arrangements to transfer the Reubens here. To the Designated Area.”
“I see.”
“I was hoping that you might help them adjust to life in the Designated Area. Perhaps even find work for Dr. Reuben in the refugee hospital?”
“Of course, Colonel. We could always use another surgeon.” While Samuel and he had rarely seen eye to eye, Franz owed his life to the colonel. For his sake alone, he would do anything he could for the Reubens.
“Thank you.” Kubota nodded. “Incidentally, I agree with Mr. Ghoya. It is most impressive that you have managed to keep the hospital functioning.”
“In no small part thanks to you, Colonel. Even after you departed, the supplies from the Imperial Army have continued to arrive regularly.”
Kubota only frowned. “My colleague, Mr. Ghoya, his methods are somewhat . . . unconventional. Nonetheless, I believe he is committed to his role.” He paused. “It is not my place to intervene on matters under his jurisdiction.”
“I understand.”