Rising Sun, Falling Shadow

by Daniel Kalla

  Franz had not been sorry to see Wen-Cheng go. His suspicions about Wen-Cheng’s involvement in Colonel Kubota’s death aside, Franz had never fully curbed his jealousy. Although he trusted Sunny completely, he couldn’t jettison his doubts, irrational as they were, that Wen-Cheng might somehow find a way to win her back.

  Franz spotted Max down the hallway and caught up with the internist as he stepped into his makeshift laboratory. Max pointed to the slides beside his desktop microscope. “Two more confirmed cases of cholera,” he sighed. “Even the parasites are not taking a winter break from tormenting us Jews.”

  “We have bigger problems.”

  “Than cholera?” Max raised an eyebrow. “You remember our last outbreak? That daughter of yours turned out be one of the luckier ones. We were burying people for days and days. I doubt we have ever seen—”

  “The Germans are planning to bomb us, Max.”

  The older man’s face fell. “What? Here in the hospital?”

  “Somewhere in the ghetto.”

  Max slumped into his chair and listened in silence as Franz shared what he knew. “We have to convene an emergency meeting of the community leaders,” Franz concluded. “We must organize a watch.”

  “To monitor the ghetto?”

  “It’s not so large,” Franz said. “There can only be so many possible targets. Besides, it wouldn’t be easy for the Nazis to sneak in unnoticed, if we were watching for them.”

  “So let’s say one of our young men is fortunate enough to catch the Nazis planting a bomb,” Max said. “Then what? How would we stop them?”

  “We haven’t worked out those details. At the very least, they would be able to warn people.”

  Max cupped his chin in his hand. “Why bother, Franz?”

  “To save lives.”

  “Yes, but for how long?” Max asked. “Next month—next week, perhaps—it will be something else. Starvation? Another disease? A bigger bomb? Or some other Nazi scheme that is even worse than the last?”

  “You can’t think that way,” Franz said, though he couldn’t help share in his friend’s pessimism.

  “Don’t you see, Franz? The Nazis . . . Hitler . . . they will never let us be. And for whatever reason, God refuses to intervene. ‘The chosen people?’” Max scoffed. “Couldn’t be further from the truth! It would be far more accurate to call us the ‘cursed people.’”

  Franz thought of Max’s daughter and her family. The man had every right to his views, but Franz would still need his help in mobilizing the community. “Listen, Max, this is a crisis. Now is not the time for—”

  The sound of heavy footsteps cut him off. He heard shouting from somewhere down the hallway and hurried out of the lab to investigate, Max on his heels.

  Two soldiers stormed toward them. Franz froze at the sight of their white armbands. Not now! Don’t take me now, of all times.

  A gaunt Kempeitai officer stopped in front of them. He swung a finger from Max to Franz and back. “Feinstein, Maxwell!” he barked.

  Max’s face paled and he shot Franz a terrified glance. “Don’t tell my Sarah, Franz,” he whispered. “Her weak heart. She cannot know that—”

  “Feinstein!” the Kempeitai screamed.

  Max stepped forward. “I . . . I am Dr. Feinstein,” he stammered.

  “You come!”

  “Why?” Max held up his hands. “I have done nothing wrong.”

  “Come now!”

  Max turned to Franz. “Think of an excuse, Franz. Anything! Sarah can never know what—”

  The Kempeitai officer slammed his fist into Max’s stomach. As Max doubled over in pain, the soldier caught him by the hair. He jerked Max’s head forward and swung his knee into it, breaking his nose with a crunch.

  Franz moved toward Max, but the other Kempeitai man clamped a hand across his shoulder and spun him backwards.

  Gasping for breath, Max struggled to straighten up. Blood poured from his nose and down his face. His lips parted into a grotesque smile. “The chosen people, ach!” he grunted. “Protect my Sarah, Franz.”

  Chapter 42

  Franz’s fingers had gone numb despite the gloves’ wool lining. He had been standing in the cold outside the Bureau of Stateless Refugee Affairs for hours. Even though he had reached Ghoya’s headquarters minutes after the curfew lifted at seven o’clock, at least twenty refugees were already lined up ahead of him. The queue now snaked behind him as far as he could see, and the doors still had not even opened.

  As Franz waited in line, his imagination ran wild with possible scenarios involving von Puttkamer and his “spectacular” bomb plot. He had no interest in conversing with the others in line, but the talkative man one spot ahead of him had insisted on drawing him into conversation, even though Franz had turned away and feigned difficulty hearing.

  “You remember me from the hospital, Dr. Adler? Ja, surely. I am Samuel Eisler. My sister, Gisela Silverstein, Frau Silverstein, yes? You removed her gall bladder in the spring of ’40.”

  “Ah, of course, yes,” Franz said, but he had only a faint memory of the operation and none whatsoever of Eisler. “How is your sister?”

  “She is fine, but she is a real kvetcher, you know? Always troubled by something or other.”

  Eisler wanted to talk. He had apparently been a successful tailor in Munich and had married the most beautiful girl at his local synagogue before his Goldgräber of a wife ended up leaving him for a rich lawyer. Franz learned this and much more as they waited for Ghoya’s office to open.

  “Did you hear that American broadcast last week?” Eisler said next, heedless of the risk of being overheard. Listening to Allied stations was forbidden—people had been shot for less—and there were at least a few Japanese soldiers within earshot.

  Franz turned away. “I have no access to a wireless of any kind,” he said, loud enough for the nearest guard to hear.

  Fortunately for Eisler, the soldier didn’t seem to understand German. “Edward Murrow on CBS,” the foolish man continued. “I am fortunate to have a good grasp of English, you understand. That man Murrow went with RAF bombers on a raid over Berlin. Oh, you should have heard his description. So marvellous! It sounded as if those brave pilots pummelled the Führer’s city. Murrow called it ‘orchestrated hell.’ It’s so wonderful, is it not, Herr Doktor?”

  Franz looked back at Eisler. “How can ‘orchestrated hell’ be wonderful?”

  “Berlin, man!” Eisler exclaimed. “The Allies are pounding the Nazi empire at its core.”

  “And yet the Nazis still dominate Europe,” Franz pointed out. “I am told they refer to it as Festung Europa.”

  “You watch, Dr. Adler. Watch how quickly Fortress Europe collapses as the Allies advance.”

  “I have heard the same for almost two years,” Franz snapped. “How the Nazis will capitulate the moment the Americans and British invade the continent. But where is this invasion? Hitler still has the run of Europe.” He motioned to the checkpoint and lowered his voice. “Meantime, we line up in the freezing cold to grovel to a Japanese Napoleon for permission to cross the street.”

  “Any day now, Herr Doktor.” Eisler laughed. “You will see.”

  Movement in front of them drew their attention. Franz looked up to see that the door had opened and people had begun to file inside the building. He shuffled ahead with the rest of the queue as it relocated inside the narrow hallway that led to Ghoya’s office. Franz was relieved to see Eisler turn to the person ahead of him. “Do you listen to the wireless?” Eisler exclaimed. “That Edward Murrow is my favourite . . .”

  The door to Ghoya’s office was wide open, and the little man’s voice, even at its quietest, carried the length of the hallway. Franz could tell that his behaviour was as predictably unpredictable as usual. He joked and laughed with some of the refugees and berated, accused or struck others. Anything
could launch him into a tirade.

  Some people in the line appeared resigned, even bored. Franz assumed that they faced Ghoya regularly and had grown oblivious to his volatility. Others were ashen with terror or fidgeted nervously. Franz even caught himself shifting from foot to foot and cracking his knuckles.

  Over an hour passed before he made it to the head of the queue. Franz had rehearsed arguments in his head, but as his turn neared, he still had no idea what he would say to Ghoya when he finally faced him.

  An expressionless soldier at the door nodded for Franz to enter. At the sight of him, Ghoya hopped up from his seat and rushed around his desk. “No, no, no!” He waved both hands wildly. “No passes for anyone in your family. I was clear.” He turned his head from side to side as though conferring with imaginary colleagues. “Was I not clear? I believe I was clear.”

  “You were, Mr. Ghoya.” Franz lowered his gaze and bowed before the little man. “I have not come regarding a pass.”

  Ghoya’s irritability vanished as abruptly as a hailstorm ending. He sauntered around his desk and sunk back into his chair. A thoughtful look crossed his face as he touched his fingertips together in a diamond shape. “Not for a pass? So why have you come?”

  “I am . . . concerned for a friend.”

  “Which friend?” Ghoya asked.

  “Max Feinstein. A doctor. He works at my hospital and—”

  A knowing look came to Ghoya’s eyes as he raised a hand to cut Franz off. “Maxwell Feinstein from Hamburg, Germany. Yes, yes. I know him!”

  “Dr. Feinstein was arrested by the Kempeitai.”

  Ghoya laughed. “Of course he was! You think I do not know this? I know everything that happens in the Designated Area.” He patted his chest. “After all, I am King of the Jews!”

  “But, sir, why was Max arrested?”

  Ghoya shook his head gravely. “Maybe I should give you a pass for one day. Yes, maybe. To go see the exhibit on Broadway Street.”

  Dread overcame Franz, but he pretended to be unaware of the mass public executions. “Why is that, Mr. Ghoya?”

  “Traitors,” Ghoya grunted. “They hang there for everyone to see. Those cowards who killed our brave officers.”

  “But I do not understand.” Franz raised a hand. “What do they have to do with Dr. Feinstein?”

  “He spies for the Resistance, too.”

  Franz felt his pulse pounding in his ears. “That is not possible, sir. He is a doctor. He has no interest in war or politics.”

  “Your doctor friend is a spy!”

  “But Max speaks only German. How could he possibly communicate with anyone in the Underground?”

  “A spy, I tell you. A spy!” Ghoya clenched his fists as he screamed. “We know it to be so!”

  Franz saw it was futile to argue. His heart sank. Was Max even still alive? It almost didn’t matter. If the Japanese believed him to be a spy, his fate was sealed.

  Ghoya’s tone suddenly became calm, almost pleasant. “You do understand that your friend is gone?” For a moment, Franz thought Ghoya still meant Max. “Now that Colonel Kubota is no longer with us, no one is left to protect you. You have only me to answer to. Only me.” He laughed again. “No reason to concern yourself, Dr. Adler. I am a very fair king.”

  Franz said nothing.

  “Mrs. Aaronsohn tells me every day at lunch how thankful the Jews are for my benevolence,” Ghoya said, clearly proud of his choice of words. Then his eyes narrowed and he tut-tutted. “The smuggling . . . the spying . . . it all comes back to that Jewish hospital of yours. The hospital where both colonels and the admiral died. Where that spy Feinstein was working.”

  “Mr. Ghoya, the hospital is not associated—”

  “Why should the Jews have their own hospital? What is so special about you people? Tell me!”

  “Nothing is special about us,” Franz blurted. “We are a miserable people. A cursed people. And it is hardly a hospital at all anymore.”

  “It is true! Your hospital was of no use to our wounded officers. No help at all! Perhaps the building could be put to other uses.”

  Franz had run out of arguments, so he simply dropped his chin and nodded in defeat.

  But Ghoya seemed to have lost interest in the hospital. He leaned back in his seat. “Colonel Tanaka, he never trusted you Jews.”

  At the mention of Tanaka, Franz experienced a familiar twinge of guilt.

  Ghoya jutted out his lower lip. “Without the king, who knows what the colonel would have done to you Jews.”

  “We are grateful for your help, of course.”

  Ghoya held out his hands. “What is a king without his people?”

  Franz decided to seize the opening. “You know, sir, Colonel Tanaka is not the only one who wishes ill toward us Jews.”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” Ghoya cried gleefully. “The other Germans! They hate you Jews.”

  “The Nazis, yes. You are absolutely correct.” Franz nodded. “They will probably attack us at any moment.”

  “Attack you?” Ghoya frowned.

  “Yes in the ghet—the Designated Area, sir. We have heard a rumour that they are planning to launch an assault any day. Of course, you must already have heard this, too.”

  Ghoya cocked his head but said nothing.

  “Surely, Mr. Ghoya, they would need your permission before they could plant any bombs in—”

  “Bombs?” Ghoya launched himself to his feet. He stared at Franz and when he spoke, his voice was hardly more than a whisper. “What is this talk of bombs?”

  Chapter 43

  Jakob tugged at Hannah’s hands while she covered her face and peeped. “Kuckuck!”

  She opened her hands like shutters. As usual, her left hand moved less smoothly than her right, but her nephew was oblivious. He giggled uproariously. The ten-month-old couldn’t get enough of his favourite peekaboo game. Hannah was happy for the distraction, too. Jakob’s presence counterbalanced the rising tension at home.

  School wasn’t much better. Hannah and Freddy hardly spoke. What hurt far more than seeing him with Leah was his cheerful indifference. It confirmed what Hannah had feared: for Freddy, she had only ever been a means to an end. Lately, she had been spending more time with Otto Geldmann than any of her other classmates. While there was a degree of consolation in his sweet attentiveness, Otto never gave her butterflies the way Freddy always had.

  Jakob swung a hand at her face, demanding more peekaboo. “You are such a determined little one,” she laughed as she swept him off the floor and swung him through the air.

  Jakob struggled against her until she brought her lips to his belly and blew, which elicited another fit of giggles. “Time to change your diaper, Schatzi,” she said.

  As Hannah lowered Jakob to the floor, she looked over to the couch, where Esther had been reading Simon’s letter. Tears now ran down her cheeks and the letter dangled from her fingers. Hannah had not seen her aunt cry in years, not since those dark months after Kristallnacht when the storm troopers had killed Onkel Karl. “What’s wrong, Tante Essie?”

  Esther wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Ach! It’s nothing really. I am only being foolish.”

  Hannah passed Jakob his favourite rattle, which he took to shaking energetically. She got to her feet and hurried over to the couch. Reaching for her aunt’s hand, she sat down beside her. “Tell me, Tante, please . . .”

  “Simon—he worries about us.”

  “He always worries when he is not with you,” Hannah pointed out. “It’s only natural.”

  Esther smiled through her tears. “This time is different, Hannah-chen.”

  “How so?”

  “Simon says he cannot wait any longer. That he will not. He insists on coming to join us.”

  “Here? In the ghetto?”

  Esther nodded. “There couldn’t
be a worse time for him to sneak across the checkpoint. You have seen how vigilant the Japanese are being ever since the Underground—” She caught herself.

  “Killed those Japanese officers,” Hannah finished her sentence.

  “Of course, you too would have heard about that.”

  “Everyone has. And I know they died at Papa’s hospital.” Hannah stifled a sigh. Her aunt was as overprotective as her father, both of them believing they could somehow shelter her from the bad news that was as predictable in Shanghai as the winter rain. “Last month there was a rumour going around at school that a group of former students was behind the killing.”

  “That’s nonsense, Hannah. It was the Resistance.”

  “I never believed the gossip.”

  Esther went quiet. When she finally spoke, her voice was hoarse. “If Simon were to be caught, they would not simply take him back to a camp. No, they would . . .” She shuddered. “I cannot even bear to think of it.”

  Hannah thought of the women who were shot for trying to escape their home during a raid. She squeezed her aunt’s hand tighter. “We have to convince him to stay put.”

  “He will not listen to us.”

  “Why not?”

  “In light of the, er . . .” Esther hesitated. “Recent events. He feels he has to be here to protect us.”

  “You mean the bomb the Nazis are planning?”

  Esther grimaced. “You know about that, too?”

  Hannah nodded. “Last week, I overheard Sunny and Papa talking about it.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I am not a child,” Hannah huffed, aware that she sounded like the epitome of a petulant teenager but too angry to care. “In a few months, I will be fourteen. You do not need to protect me from this anymore.”

  “I’m sorry, Hannah. You are right. You’re practically grown up. God knows you are wise beyond your years.” Esther mustered another smile. “I cannot help myself. Sometimes when I look at you, I just see my precious little niece, not the young woman you are becoming.” She pointed to Jakob, who was trying to eat his rattle while hauling himself to his feet against the side of the couch. “I want to protect all of you from the misery in this world.”