Rising Sun, Falling Shadow

by Daniel Kalla

  Sunny was still thinking about the colonel when, a block further along, the ground beneath her shifted and shook. A thundering boom rattled the nearby shop windows. Her ears rang from the blast. She dropped to her knees and hunched forward to protect Jakob in her arms.

  Then it was chaos. Gunfire crackled: single shots, followed by the spitting clatter of machine guns. Men shouted and screamed in Japanese. Jakob howled. Sirens blared. Military vehicles raced up and down the street from every direction.

  Jumping to her feet, Sunny kept Jakob pinned tightly against her body. He squirmed, but she held him close as she ran toward the ghetto.

  Only one thought ran through her head: I must get him home to his mother.

  Chapter 37

  Franz and Max Feinstein glanced at each other across the patient’s bed. Below them, Herr Hirsch picked up on their exchange. His eyes darted from one doctor to the other, while his narrow face paled in fright. “Was ist los?”

  “We call it diverticulitis, Herr Hirsch,” Max explained. “From little pouches on the wall of your colon. We all develop diverticula after a certain age.”

  “I’m only forty-two,” Hirsch protested.

  “Old enough for diverticula,” Max said. “And now some have become infected.”

  Hirsch winced as though the words alone caused him physical pain. “What can be done?”

  “We have to operate,” Franz said.

  “So you cut out these pouches?”

  Franz folded his arms across his chest. “No. We have to remove a section of your colon.”

  “Mein Gott!” Hirsch croaked. “You will cut out my bowels?”

  “Only part of it, Mr. Hirsch.”

  Hirsch brought a hand to his mouth. “Afterward, will I be able to eat? And . . . to still move my bowels?”

  Franz nodded. “In a week or so, I believe so. Yes.”

  Hirsch’s face relaxed, but his eyes remained wary. “When will you do this surgery?”

  “Today, before your fever gets higher or the infection spreads.” Franz considered his next words carefully, concerned about their effect on the nervous patient. He knew Hirsch, an accountant who now did bookkeeping for several local businesses, through the synagogue. He liked him. “Without it, your life may be in danger.”

  Hirsch sighed. “So go ahead then. Operate.”

  “We are . . . lacking supplies,” Franz said. “We do have a little morphine left, but we have been without ether for most of the month.”

  “What are you saying, Herr Doktor?”

  Max clasped his hands together. “Dr. Adler will have to perform surgery without anaesthetic.”

  Hirsch’s jaw dropped. “Oy,” he groaned. “You intend to slice me open when I am still wide awake?”

  “There are other options,” Franz said.

  “Such as?”

  “Ethanol.”

  “Spirits,” Max clarified. “Wine, or if you prefer brandy or even gin.”

  Hirsch looked horrified. “To make me shikker? I don’t ever touch a drop—”

  Franz heard rapid footsteps behind him. He turned to see Joey rushing toward them. “The Japanese!” Joey cried. “They are here!”

  Franz spun away from the bed. “Where, Joey?”

  “Outside. On the street.” He motioned wildly toward the door. “Three or four trucks. More coming.”

  “Is it a raid?” Max demanded.

  Joey shook his head. “They are unloading stretchers. Wounded men. One is covered in blood.”

  The three nurses on the ward gathered around to listen. The patients who had enough strength sat up in their beds. No one spoke. Everyone’s eyes were trained on Franz, waiting to see what he would do.

  “Berta, Miriam, go prepare supplies and dressings,” Franz instructed. “And, Liese, get the operating room ready.”

  Franz, Max and Joey shoved four empty beds to the front of the ward. They were lining them up, side by side, when two Japanese soldiers burst into the room bearing a stretcher that held an older man in a naval uniform.

  Franz recognized him immediately: it was Vice-Admiral Iwanaka, the senior naval commander in Shanghai. His white jacket was splashed with red. Blood seeped from a bullet hole that had ripped through the fabric covering his abdomen. The blood was pooling sluggishly at the wound, and Franz knew that if Iwanaka wasn’t already dead, he would be at any moment.

  Four more soldiers flew into the room carrying two loaded stretchers between them. They hoisted a second wounded man onto the nearest bed. The man’s shrill voice, which Franz could hear barking orders in Japanese, sent a shiver down Franz’s spine. He turned to find himself staring into the eyes of the man who had nearly killed him at Bridge House the year before. Clutching the right side of his chest, Colonel Tanaka struggled to sit up. Bright blood oozed out between his fingers. Tanaka shook a finger at Franz. “You! You fix me now!”

  Shocked and fearful, Franz stepped closer to the Kempeitai colonel. “May I examine your injury?”

  Tanaka tentatively pulled his fingers away from his chest. Franz could see a gash that tore through the uniform just beneath the armpit. The blood began to flow more briskly, obscuring the wound. As Tanaka thrust his hand back to his chest, Franz heard a faint hissing sound: air leaking out from his lung. “A hemopneumothorax,” Franz muttered to himself.

  “What is this?” Tanaka demanded.

  “Your right lung has collapsed, and the space around it is filling with blood and air,” Franz said. “Was it a knife?”

  Tanaka nodded. “The saboteurs! You fix me now!”

  “Colonel, I still must examine the others—”

  “Me first,” Tanaka hissed. “Or the hospital is finished. All you Jews, finished!”

  A younger man in a Kempeitai officer’s uniform bustled over to the bedside, his face contorting into a sneer. “You heard Taisa Tanaka,” he said in accentless English. “You will fix his wound immediately.”

  “We don’t have any ether in the hospital.” Franz held out his palms. “No anaesthetic. No gas. You understand?”

  “We will get you the gas.” The young officer turned to a soldier and barked at him in Japanese. The second soldier then spun and raced for the door.

  “No gas!” Tanaka cried. “You fix me.”

  “To fix you, Colonel, I will have to cut your chest wide open. Perhaps remove part of your lung.”

  “No gas. You do it!”

  “While you are still awake?”

  “Now!”

  Franz turned to the nearest nurse. “Miriam, take Colonel Tanaka to the operating room.” He glanced from side to side. “Where is Mrs. Adler? And Dr. Huang, is he here? We could use the help.”

  As Franz scanned the room, his gaze fell on the third wounded man who had been carried in. He lay quietly on the furthest bed. From his vantage point, Franz could only see the man from the chest down, but he noticed that his green uniform was blood-stained in patches over his lower abdomen and left thigh.

  As Franz took a step toward the man, Berta called out, “Dr. Adler. Herr Doktor!”

  Berta was holding the admiral’s wrist, two fingers locked over the spot where the radial pulse was supposed to be. She shook her head very slightly, then released the man’s arm and reached for the sheet at his feet.

  “The admiral,” Franz heard someone ask weakly. “Is he dead?”

  Franz’s heart sank as he recognized the voice of Colonel Kubota. He rushed over to the injured man’s bedside. “Yes.”

  “I see.” The colonel’s tone was flat. “They were waiting for us.”

  “Saboteurs?”

  Kubota nodded. “It was an ambush. There was some kind of explosion. They blocked the street and shot our motorcycle escorts. They attacked our car from both sides. One shot the admiral and me, and the other stabbed Colonel Tanaka.”

&nbs
p; Franz reached for Kubota’s belly. “May I examine you?”

  Franz took the man’s slight shrug for permission. He untucked Kubota’s shirt and pulled it up. The bullet wound to his abdomen had stopped bleeding. Franz gently touched the moist skin at its edges. The abdominal muscles contracted involuntarily, but Kubota did not even wince in response.

  “At least I was forewarned,” Kubota said quietly.

  Distracted, Franz shook his head and mumbled, “I’m sorry, Colonel.”

  “You warned me that the attack would come.”

  “But my warning did you no good.”

  “In life, it always helps to be prepared.”

  Franz turned his attention to the wound on Kubota’s thigh. “You must be in pain.”

  Kubota tilted his head slightly. “It is bearable.”

  Franz called over his shoulder, “Berta, please prepare morphine.”

  Kubota reached out with his steady hand and grabbed Franz’s wrist. “Give me a substantial dose, Dr. Adler. Please.”

  “We will make sure you are comfortable. I promise.”

  Kubota squeezed tighter. “That is not what I am requesting.”

  Franz pulled back to study Kubota’s face. “Surely you do not mean . . .”

  The colonel swallowed. “My time has come. Let me go. Please.”

  Franz’s neck tightened as he considered how quickly the colonel, in his vulnerable state, would stop breathing following a liberal dose of morphine.

  Just then, Miriam called out to him, “Herr Doktor, they are ready for you in the operating room.”

  Franz’s gaze lingered on Kubota before he turned away. “Berta, please give the colonel as much painkiller as he requests. Double the dose, if he asks for it.”

  Franz hurried down the hallway to the operating room. Outside, he donned a surgical gown and mask and then scrubbed his hands at the sink. He was nearly finished when Sunny appeared, breathless, at his side. “I was there, Franz,” she panted. “Jakob and me. The bomb exploded so near us! And then the shooting began.”

  He motioned to the operating room. “Tanaka is inside. Knife wound to the chest.”

  “Colonel Kubota, he smiled at me from the back seat of the car.” Her face reddened and she dropped her gaze to the floor. “They got to him, Franz.”

  “Without your help.”

  “I want to believe that, too.”

  Franz waited as Sunny slipped into her surgical gown and hurriedly scrubbed at the sink. They entered the operating room together. Tanaka was already on the gurney covered in sheets, except for the exposed patch of skin surrounding his stab wound. Liese held a blood-soaked gauze to his chest. On the other side of the bed, a surgical tray lay at the ready.

  Tanaka’s breathing was laboured, but he was wide awake. He eyed Franz hostilely. “Why the wait? Fix me!”

  “Should we not wait for the ether—the gas—to arrive?”

  “I told you. No gas. Begin!”

  Franz nodded to Sunny, who stepped up to the gurney. Liese slid out of the way, and Franz moved into the spot across from his wife. Sunny passed Franz an antiseptic-soaked towel, and his nose filled with the acrid smell of iodine. He swabbed the wound in slow circles.

  Tanaka gritted his teeth in obvious pain. “So close to the Designated Area,” he grumbled.

  “Pardon me, Colonel?” Franz asked, wondering if the colonel was delirious or in shock.

  “The attack. So close to the Designated Area.”

  “I suppose so, yes.”

  “The Jews,” Tanaka said. “They are the saboteurs.”

  “I’m sure it is not so.”

  Tanaka gave him a look of sheer loathing. “The Germans are right. You Jews only make trouble.”

  Franz’s throat tightened. “We were not involved.”

  “I will put an end to it,” Tanaka grunted.

  Franz tried to fight off a sudden sense of doom. “An end to what, Colonel?” he breathed.

  “All of it,” Tanaka muttered to himself. “We should have listened to the Germans last year. No more. Next, we deal with you Jews!”

  The younger Kempeitai officer barged into the operating room, bearing a black bottle of ether in his hand. He raised it up to show it to Franz. “Is this what you need?”

  Stunned by the threat Tanaka had just uttered, Franz could not even respond.

  “Yes,” Sunny said as Liese hurried over to take the bottle from the officer.

  Tanaka craned his neck to address the young Kempeitai man in clipped Japanese. The officer nodded and turned to Franz. “The colonel has ordered me to stay and observe.” He glared at him. “To make sure everything is proper.”

  Robotically, Franz turned back to Liese. “Please begin.”

  Liese’s hand shook slightly as she applied the ether mask to Tanaka’s face. She tilted the bottle, allowed four or five drops to fall and waited. In a matter of seconds, Tanaka’s eyes began to flutter. Liese added two more drops. She brushed a finger over his eyelashes and watched for a response. None came. She looked up at Franz. “He is asleep, Herr Doktor.”

  Sunny passed Franz a scalpel. He placed it against the skin underneath Tanaka’s armpit and sliced, following the curve of the fifth rib all the way to the level of the breastbone. Air whooshed out of the wound. Sunny dabbed at the freshly oozing blood as she exchanged the scalpel for a pair of scissors.

  Franz pressed the scissors to the cartilage adjoining Tanaka’s breastbone. He had to squeeze down with all his might to cut through it. As soon as it was free, Sunny inserted a retractor into the incision and pulled the ribs wide apart, exposing pink lung. More blood dripped from the wound.

  Franz put his hand into the warm chest cavity, exploring the spongy surface of the deflated lung. He could feel the rapid vibrations of Tanaka’s heart. His own pulse quickened as he considered what devastating form of retribution Tanaka might have in store for the refugees.

  Franz moved tissue out of the way with one hand while mopping up blood with the other. “More light, please.”

  Liese adjusted the overhead lamp, allowing Franz to spot a large vessel that was leaking blood. He motioned to it with a pair of forceps. “Do you see it, Sunny?”

  She nodded. “A lacerated pulmonary vein?”

  “Yes,” Franz muttered. “Needle and thread, please.”

  Sunny passed him the catgut-threaded instrument. Franz’s hand moved to repair the vessel, then froze. The thought hit him so suddenly and so powerfully that it left him numb. He turned slowly to the junior Kempeitai officer. “A large blood vessel in the colonel’s chest has been cut. I am not certain I can stop the bleeding.”

  Sunny eyed Franz quizzically but said nothing.

  “You repaired General Nogomi before,” the officer snapped. “You will do the same for the taisa.”

  To Franz’s astonishment, his hand was steady as he inserted the instrument inside the colonel’s chest. He pressed the needle through tissue just a fraction of an inch from the leaking blood vessel. He tied off the suture and then repeated the procedure, missing the injured vein by the same distance. He held up the long end of the thread. “Cut, please,” he instructed Sunny.

  She looked down into the wound and then up at him, aware that he had deliberately sutured the wrong site. Without a word, she reached inside the wound and cut the ends of the suture.

  “That is the best I can do to repair the vessel,” he announced for the benefit of the other Kempeitai officer. “Forceps, please.”

  Sunny passed him the long clamp-like instrument. Hand still steady, he dug the forceps’ teeth into the wall of the leaking vein and tugged slightly. The trickle of blood quickly became a gush, and Franz watched the vessel disappear in a pool of fresh blood.

  Chapter 38

  Exhausted from a sleepless night, Franz looked out at the muted rays of dayligh
t that filtered through the small window. Sunny’s hand skimmed across his bare back, lightly fingering the ridges of his scabs. Her need to console him was as strong as ever.

  The evening before, Sunny’s efforts to comfort him had been more forcefully intimate. He had resisted, initially, his mood dark after what had happened in the operating room. But Sunny was persistent, and coaxed him to arousal with her touches and persuasive kisses. Still, the relief was only temporary. Afterward, as he lay next to her, their legs and arms intertwined, the guilt crept back like a hand to his throat.

  “What choice did you have, Franz?” Sunny murmured into his neck.

  “I took an oath.”

  “Could any oath apply to our circumstances?”

  “‘To never cause harm.’ It always applies.”

  “And what about the harm Colonel Tanaka might have caused? You heard him—he blamed the Jews for the attack. Based on nothing.”

  “I was his doctor, not his judge or jury.”

  Sunny rested a finger on his waist. “You did what you had to do to protect us.”

  “What I did was wrong,” he said flatly.

  “And what about Hermann Schwartzmann?” Sunny asked, her voice rising in frustration.

  “What about him?”

  “You risked everything to operate on his wife—to give her a chance—even though her husband worked for the Nazis.”

  Three years before, Schwartzmann, a Nazi diplomat, had come to Franz desperate for help for his wife, who had bile duct cancer. Franz was the only surgeon in Shanghai capable of the operation. Eventually, he took pity on the suffering woman and risked his job and his family’s standing by operating on her at the Jewish hospital. Schwartzmann had more than repaid Franz: he’d provided not only money to keep the hospital running but also crucial information about a secret SS plan to exterminate the city’s Jews. Ultimately, Schwartzmann had taken his own life after the Nazis found him out.