by Daniel Kalla
“Oh, Helen, I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, self-conscious at his useless words.
“Michael didn’t even tell me to my face.” Head still lowered, Helen only shrugged. “One day, I came home to find this rambling letter. He was already gone. It was so typical of him, all regret and rationalization. As best I can tell, it was somehow my fault that he had run off with another woman. Maybe it was? I am such a fool.”
“He’s the fool.”
“Thank you,” she murmured. “I suppose I should have left Shanghai right then and there. Gone home to Toronto.”
“You still could have?”
“Yes, this was October of ‘41. I had even booked passage on a ship leaving for Singapore and onward to Vancouver.”
“Why didn’t you leave?”
She looked back up at him, her eyes misting over. “I just couldn’t go home. No, not like that. With my marriage failed and my tail between my legs. I was so ashamed.”
“You did nothing wrong.”
Helen reached up and adjusted the bandage on Franz’s head, tucking it carefully behind his ears. “Yes, I did. I chose the wrong man,” she finally said, allowing her fingers to linger on his earlobes.
CHAPTER 26
The late morning sun blazed down hotter than a furnace on Sunny and the others in the unshaded queue. She had already been lined up outside the Bureau of Stateless Refugee Affairs for over an hour but had yet to reach the building’s entrance. She was thankful she had opted to leave Joey at home with Esther.
Sunny picked up on a few curious glances from the refugees around her, all of whom had come to apply for exit passes. A number of people recognized her from the hospital or ghetto, and they greeted her with friendly words and smiles. She overheard murmured complaints about the heat and the slow-moving queue, but in typical Jewish fashion, no one tried to shove or butt in line.
When Sunny had first moved to the ghetto, she was struck by the adherence to orderliness and protocol among the Jewish refugees. It was so different from local Chinese culture, in which it was acceptable for people to elbow their way to a destination. She had once remarked on this to Franz, who pointed out that the Jews’ tendency toward compliance had made it easier for the Nazis to marginalize and persecute them.
Sunny’s chest ached again at the thought of Franz. She had known so much loss over the past few years—her father, her amah, the first Joey and so many other friends—but she hadn’t known she was capable of missing anyone as intensely as she did her husband. She had begun to dread sleep because it was heart-wrenching to wake up from her dreams to discover that he was still absent.
To distract herself, she focused instead on her best friend. Fortunately for Jia-Li and everyone else at the Comfort Home, the Kempeitai men were more concerned with getting their dead comrade clothed and far away from the brothel than with determining the cause of his demise. Still, Sunny had little faith that her best friend wouldn’t try to overdose another customer. Chih-Nii had sworn she wouldn’t let Jia-Li work until she was convinced the girl was in a proper state of mind, but of that Sunny was skeptical. The madam was a businesswoman for whom money would always come first.
Sunny finally reached the front of the line and Ghoya’s office. She was sweating from more than just the muggy weather when he beckoned her in a shrill, “Next!”
Ghoya was scribbling on a piece of paper as Sunny approached his desk. Looking up at her, he did a double take. “What is the meaning of this?” He slammed his pen down on the desk. “The lineup is for refugees only.”
Sunny bowed deeply. “Mr. Ghoya, I am Sunny Adler, Dr. Adler’s wife.”
Ghoya squinted at her and recognition crept onto his face. He leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Yes, yes. I remember now. He married one of you, didn’t he?”
“Yes, sir,” Sunny said uncertainly.
Ghoya drummed his fingers on the desk. “If you have come about the sister-in-law, my answer is still no. No passes for anyone in your family. That is final. Absolutely final.”
“No, Mr. Ghoya. I have come about my husband.”
“Oh?” Ghoya angled his head. “What about Dr. Adler?”
“I was hoping you could tell me where he went.”
Ghoya grinned madly. “Where he went? He went precisely where I sent him.”
“Where is that, sir?”
“I can’t tell you that,” he scoffed.
“Please, Mr. Ghoya. I realize I am asking a lot, but it would give me and my family such peace of mind to know where my husband is.”
Ghoya hopped to his feet. “No, no, no. Don’t you see? I cannot tell you that because I do not know where he is.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Has something happened to him?” she croaked.
“No. Although perhaps.” He laughed grimly. “In war, anything can happen.”
“I do not understand, Mr. Ghoya.” Sunny couldn’t keep the whimper from her voice. “Please, sir.”
“Ichi-Go, woman,” he cried.
Fighting back tears, she held out her hands in incomprehension.
“The greatest military operation in the history of Asia,” Ghoya trumpeted. “Our troops are moving westward as we speak, uniting the north and south of China in one glorious march. Your husband works in one of the field hospitals. They move with the rest of the divisions. He could be anywhere from Wuchang to Hengyang right now.”
Sunny swallowed. “Is he safe?”
“Safer than our brave men on the front line.” Ghoya shrugged. “The field hospitals are protected.”
She had no idea what that meant, but she took a modicum of solace in his casual words. “Oh, I see.”
Ghoya stepped around his desk and approached her. He allowed his eyes to wander up and down her body, ogling her unabashedly. Although he didn’t lay a hand on her, Sunny felt violated. Fighting the urge to flee, she mustered a meek smile.
“It must be difficult for you without your husband,” Ghoya said clumsily. “Very difficult indeed.”
“At times, yes,” she said hoarsely. “It can be lonely.”
“I am an important man. Yes, yes.” He swept his arms through the air. “Not only in the Designated Area but in all of Shanghai. I know people. I know people all over China!”
From this close, she could smell his cologne. “I am sure you do.”
“What if I could find Dr. Adler for you?” Ghoya arched an eyebrow. “Perhaps send him a letter. Or perhaps …”
Warding off nausea, Sunny leaned in closer to Ghoya until their heads were almost touching. “Or perhaps what, Mr. Ghoya?”
“Perhaps I could even inquire whether his military service is still required? Perhaps I could see about bringing Dr. Adler back to Shanghai?”
“Oh, Mr. Ghoya,” Sunny breathed, feeling the tears well. “You have no idea. No idea.”
He eyed her lasciviously. “And if I went to such trouble for you, what could I expect in return?”
Subduing the tremble in her hands, she reached out and touched the back of his wrist. “My eternal gratitude,” she said in the huskiest voice she could muster.
Smiling, Ghoya watched her caress the back of his hand. Suddenly, his eyes darkened. He jerked his hand from hers and slapped her cheek. Before she could even react to the sting, he slapped her backhanded across the other cheek. “Your kind is all the same,” he cried. “All the same! All the same!”
Sunny backpedalled a few steps. “I … I don’t understand.”
“You miserable half-breed, you whore,” he shrieked. “I would never touch you. Never, never. Get out of my office! Go, go!”
Sunny wheeled and rushed for the door.
“If I ever see you again …” Ghoya’s threat followed her down the hallway as she desperately shouldered past the others still waiting in line.
Sunny had made it only a few steps out onto the street before she vomited, against the side of the building. The shame was worse than the burning in her cheeks or even the fear. She had just acted in the m
oment, without even thinking it through, but she was overcome by remorse over what she might have done to try to secure Franz’s release.
She wiped her mouth and hurried away, desperate to put distance between herself and Ghoya’s office. Without even thinking about her destination, she found herself on Broadway again. She stared out at the harbour, mentally noting the Japanese ships and their positions, glad for the distraction. Even before she had turned away from the water, she had made up her mind.
***
Sunny had often admired the twin spires of St. Ignatius Cathedral in the heart of Frenchtown, but she had never set foot inside the church before. Were she not so upset, she might have stopped to appreciate the stately arches above the nave or the light that filtered through the imposing stained-glass windows. Instead, Sunny headed straight for a nun who was rising from her prayers and asked after Father Diego.
The diminutive nun led her through a door behind the altar and down a hallway to a door at the far end. She knocked once and Father Diego answered. His face quickly broke into a welcoming smile and Sunny thought he might hug her, but he just clasped his hands together. “What a wonderful surprise,” he cried. “Come, please sit.”
Closing the door behind Sunny, the priest led her to the desk inside the small, tidy office, sitting down across from her. “What happened to you, Sunny?” he asked with concern.
She reached up and touched her still-stinging cheek. “In the heat, sometimes I get a rash.”
Diego’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “The heat, is it?”
“Yes, Father.”
He accepted the lie with another wide grin. “You will be pleased to hear that Brother Dominic made it home safely.”
“Oh, that is good news.”
“How are you, Sunny?” Diego asked. “And Dr. Adler and rest of the family? Everyone is well, I trust.”
Instead of answering, Sunny dug a hand into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. She smoothed the page that she had sketched just before arriving, then slid it across the desk to him. Squinting, he studied it carefully. “A map?” he asked.
She nodded. “Of the harbour.”
He pointed to the various xs on the page. “These marks, what do the characters and numbers below them mean?”
“The digits before the first character are numbers that I have given to the different Japanese naval craft.” She pointed to one that read 12R3. “As an example, I have called this ship number twelve. I will never use twelve for any other ship but this particular one.”
“And the letter R?”
“It stands for cruiser. Each of the letters represents a type of ship. For example, T stands for frigate, B for riverboat, R for cruiser and so on.”
“What about the last number—three?”
“That represents the number of days that particular cruiser has been in port.”
Diego studied the map in silence for several seconds and then looked back up at Sunny, the smile returning to his face. “I am most impressed, Sunny,” he said. “Most impressed.”
“I walk my son in his pram past the port every day. No one ever notices us.”
“Even when you draw maps?”
Sunny shook her head adamantly. “I draw them later. From memory.”
“Clever.”
“Will it be helpful to your … people?”
“It would have been, yes, but I am afraid we’ve had another setback.” Diego sighed.
“How so, Father?”
“The Japanese triangulated the signal of our radioman. May the Heavenly Father bless his soul.” Diego made the sign of the cross on his chest. “We have no way of transmitting this information to the people who would need it.”
“What about a courier? One of the local coolies, perhaps?”
Diego exhaled heavily. “Our people are situated well outside Shanghai. Even if a runner could make it to them, by the time this reconnaissance reached them, it might already be obsolete.”
“So it’s of no use to you?”
“Not until we have another radioman. No.”
Sunny felt utterly defeated and deflated. The mortification from her run-in with Ghoya washed back over her. She wanted to crawl under a rock. She wished the ground would swallow her up. What was the point of any of it?
CHAPTER 27
The explosions weren’t much louder, but Franz couldn’t remember having felt the ground shake under his feet before. He couldn’t see anything beyond the early dawn light sifting through the trees, but he knew the fighting must have moved closer to the field hospital.
He checked his watch and saw that it was nearly five o’clock. He was accustomed to ignoring hunger pangs, but he craved an espresso. In Vienna, a stiff shot of coffee used to get him through the longest days of surgery. Each day at the field hospital seemed to bring more wounded men with even worse injuries than the soldiers preceding them. Franz sometimes lost himself in the work; technically, it was among the most challenging of his surgical career. With unlimited supplies of equipment, anesthetic and other medications, he could perform more complex operations in this tent in the middle of a war zone than he could have inside the refugee hospital. But he would have given his right arm to be back in Shanghai.
Franz wondered if Sunny had managed to keep the hospital open and operational. No one was more capable than she, but how could she run a hospital while raising a baby on her own? Well, not entirely alone; he had no doubt that Esther was helping. Hannah too. Over the past year, his daughter had outgrown her rebellious, early adolescent stage and matured into the person he had hoped and expected she would become. He was pleased that she had found Herschel, the kind of boy who would always put her first. Perhaps they would marry one day? It broke Franz’s heart to think that no matter whom she wed, he would probably not be there to witness it.
Shaking off the despondent thoughts, Franz ducked into the convalescence tent to perform his rounds. The bed where the bespectacled private had lain was now empty. The badly burned patient from the day before was still alive, and Franz was surprised to see Captain Suzuki sitting at his bedside. Suzuki, who rarely spoke to his post-operative patients, appeared to be huddled in conversation with the man.
Franz bowed a greeting to the captain and got a nod in response. The always-deep circles under Suzuki’s eyes were dark as coal. “Did they bring you kusaya this morning?” he demanded.
“I would have preferred eggs and sausages, but yes they did, thank you.”
“Do you remember what I told you on the subject of gratitude?”
“That you will never give me reason to thank you.”
“Precisely,” Suzuki said. “Any spells today?”
“Not so far, no,” Franz answered honestly.
“The day is just beginning,” Suzuki grunted.
Franz turned to the patient. His partly open eyes were glassy and unfocused, his breathing choppy. At one point, the man stopped breathing for several seconds before he gasped a loud inhalation.
“He has only a few minutes left,” Suzuki said.
Not certain whether to leave or stay, Franz stood watching the patient’s stuttering respirations. Finally, he asked, “Do you know this man, Captain?”
“I met him only yesterday.”
“I see.”
Suzuki was quiet for a few moments. “I imagine dying of burns is one of the most ghastly ways to go.”
Franz remembered the day he first met Suzuki at the Country Hospital, and the special attention the captain had given to a badly burned patient there. “Do you believe there is a good way to die, Captain?”
“Quickly. Honourably.” Suzuki pointed to the patient. “Not like this. Having your body burned and then waiting for death to catch up. No one deserves that.”
Franz sensed something more to it, but he didn’t ask. Instead he said, “Shall I check on the other patients?”
“No need. I rose early this morning. I have already attended to them.” Suzuki sighed. “You should go to the operat
ing room.”
“Are we expecting another day of heavy casualties?”
Suzuki responded with a grim chuckle. Another boom echoed outside and the ground shifted slightly. “The combat seems to have moved closer to us, sir,” Franz said.
“I can’t imagine how that is possible,” Suzuki said wryly. “That would involve a retreat. And the Imperial Japanese Army moves in only one direction. Forward.”
***
The field hospital was overwhelmed by the slew of casualties that rolled in throughout the morning. There were too many wounded men to manage them all in the operating room. The tent overflowed with soldiers wrapped in blood-soaked dressings. Some lay quietly on stretchers, others writhed and moaned on the bare ground, their suffering palpable. They began to triage patients outside the tent. Franz pulled dislocated shoulders and hips into their joints, and reset broken bones without the benefit of an X-ray or, at times, even a stretcher.
At one point, Suzuki pulled Franz aside. “From now on, we will take only the most straightforward injuries into the operating room.”
Franz pointed to a man whose eyes were clenched shut as he clutched a grave open abdominal wound. “What about the others?” he asked.
“The nurses will dress those with larger wounds. If they survive, we will operate later.” The captain locked eyes with Franz. “Anyone with a weak pulse or low blood pressure receives a very generous dose of painkillers. Do you understand?”
“Enough to stop their breathing?”
“Enough to keep them comfortable!”
Franz lost track of the time and of the patients. He doubted he had ever sutured as many wounds or reset so many bones in a day. Finally, in the early evening, Suzuki announced that the team had to take a break so soldiers could wash away the blood and debris that were contaminating the operating room.
Franz stepped outside the tent to stretch his back. It occurred to him that, although his neck ached and his hands were stiff and fatigued, he had not experienced any light-headedness since rising. Perhaps Suzuki’s diagnosis and treatment were accurate, he thought. But what difference would it make in the long term?