by Daniel Kalla
Diego pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course, nothing I had ever seen inside or outside a bullring prepared me for this particular summer morning. You see, the Nationalists, they had led the prisoners into the ring at dawn. Men and women, unionists, socialists, teachers, intellectuals—almost all of them civilians. I had no idea who they all were or what they had been accused of.” He drew a circle in the air with his free hand. “The commanders had set up a ring of machine gunners where the spectators normally stood for the bullfights. From what I understand, the soldiers didn’t stop firing until their cartridges were all spent.” He closed his eyes again. “By the time I arrived, bodies were everywhere. They covered most of the ground, like a bloody human carpet. I spent the morning moving from one person to the next, praying the Requiem Aeternam for their souls. One woman who had been shot in the belly, she cried out to me. I made the mistake of calling to one of the soldiers for help. That poor woman …” He crossed himself. “I stumbled across Anjelita’s parents near the centre of the ring. They were lying together on their backs, her head turned to his, their fingers intertwined.”
Sunny had heard grislier stories than Diego’s—blood curdling reports of child rape and live mutilations from massacres in places such as Nanking and Changjiao—but something in the priest’s account moved her deeply. “I’m so sorry, Father.”
“It was a long time ago. And I witnessed other atrocities—the Republicans were no saints either—in the years that followed. But my view of the Nationalists—of all fascists—was forged that morning in Badajoz.”
“And your radio show, Father?”
Diego grinned coyly. “My radio persona is my cover, as they say in the Hollywood films.”
“Were you sent to Shanghai to spy?”
Diego held up his hand. “Pardon me, Sunny. I have already said far too much.”
“It’s all right, Father,” she reassured.
He studied her, appearing far sadder and more vulnerable—older even—than ever before. “I have tremendous faith in you. I would put my life in your hands, my child.”
“It’s all right, Father. You don’t have to tell me anything.”
“It feels good to tell someone. My own confessor.” The smile returned to his lips. “In truth, my career in espionage began here through a chance encounter.”
“With whom?”
“An American who attended our church. I thought he was simply another of the many foreign businessmen in the city.”
“But he was a spy?”
Diego nodded. “I believe he worked for American military intelligence in some way, but he was vague about his precise role. Regardless, months before Pearl Harbor, he predicted the Japanese aggression and the fall of the colonies in Asia, including Shanghai. He correctly suspected that I, being Spanish and a priest, would have more freedom than most. He asked me if I would be willing to be his ‘eyes and ears’ in Shanghai.”
“But the risk, Father.”
“It was an easy decision, really. I had already seen and heard enough from the Japanese to know they were no different from the fascists in Europe.” He grunted in disgust. “I was already on the wireless with my spiritual program, of course. The American, he was the one who suggested I become more political—more sympathetic toward the Axis powers—that in fact it would be prudent for me to appear so. And, as with everything else, the American was correct. I have been above suspicion thus far.”
“Doesn’t it concern you that you might be influencing your listeners? Generating sympathy for the Axis?”
Diego chuckled and shook his head. “At first it did, Sunny. Very much so. I have since come to realize that people’s minds were made up long ago. I am not recruiting anyone to the cause. The insightful ones can see through my message.” He shook his head. “The others—the sympathizers—they hear what they want to hear. Meantime, it permits me to do a modicum of good.”
“So you run the American spy ring in Shanghai?”
“Hardly,” Diego cried. “What I do is—what do they say?—small potatoes. We shelter a few downed pilots. And, before my radioman was arrested, we reported what we could observe from in and around the city. That is the very modest extent of my cloak-and-dagger activities. I swear to you.”
Joey squirmed, and Sunny held out her arms. Diego passed the baby across his desk to her. Joey continued to fuss until Sunny found him his thumb to suck on. “It’s about the radio that I’ve come today,” she said.
“Then I am afraid you have wasted a trip.” Diego held up his hands helplessly. “It will be a few more weeks before our new transmitter arrives.”
“I know someone with access to one.”
“A radio?” Diego leaned forward. “That he will loan us?”
Sunny felt unease bubbling in her stomach. “He’s willing to help, but he will not loan it to you.”
“I do not understand.”
“My stepdaughter has a friend.” Without mentioning his name, Sunny told Diego about Freddy’s offer to transmit her surveillance records of the harbour.
“How can we involve a boy of that age?” Diego shook his head. “The risk …”
Despite her misgivings, Sunny persisted. “Apparently, he uses the transmitter once or twice a week anyway. He insists there would no more risk in relaying our messages than there would be in playing radio games with his friend in Frenchtown.”
Diego leaned back in his chair, considering the suggestion. “The Japanese would have no way of knowing to whom he was sending messages, would they?”
“No. And the boy claims that if a transmission is brief enough, it’s almost impossible to triangulate its source.”
The priest eyed her silently, lost in thought. Finally, he said, “It will only be temporary. A matter of a week or two, hopefully, until our own radio arrives.”
“And we would always keep an arm’s-length distance from the boy,” she said. “I learned that much from my experience with the Underground. People must be kept separate in case someone is captured. He will never know who we are. And I will never share his identity with you.”
“Then how would you get the reconnaissance information to the boy?”
“I will secure a drop box of some sort.”
“Yes, I see.” Diego formed a steeple with his hands and gazed upward. “Can we, in good conscience, proceed with this?”
Sunny didn’t know if he was asking her or God, but she answered anyway. “We might not have any other choice.”
***
By the time Sunny reached the Comfort Home, Joey was fussing inconsolably. Even a bottle of weak sugary tea didn’t appease him. Apparently, Joey wasn’t the only one out of sorts. When Sunny arrived, Jia-Li relayed a message through Ushi that she was refusing to see anyone, even her oldest friend.
Sunny insisted on waiting. After an hour, just as Joey finally settled back to sleep, Ushi returned and beckoned her to follow him. He led her downstairs and into the wine cellar. Sunny had to sidle through a secret passageway hidden behind a false wall in the cellar to reach the basement hideaway. It consisted of a common room with bedrooms behind it.
Despite the late afternoon hour, Jia-Li was in pyjamas. She sat on a couch, an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips. Her usual jasmine fragrance was absent, replaced by the stale smell of unwashed hair. Her pale face was free of makeup and her lustrous hair was tied in a messy bun. Her cheekbones were even more prominent than usual. “You have lost weight, băo bèi,” Sunny observed.
“I hear that happens to prisoners,” Jia-Li snorted.
“Mama moved you down here for your own safety.”
Jia-Li laughed bitterly. “Chih-Nii moved me here for the same reason she does everything. Her own convenience.”
“Not so. We are all so worried about you, băo bèi.”
“Your worry is misplaced. And unwanted.”
Sunny turned Joey toward her friend, but Jia-Li wouldn’t look up at either of them. “He’s growing so fast, Sister. He won’t be easy t
o carry much longer. Would you like to hold him?”
“No,” she murmured.
Sunny sat down beside Jia-Li and reached for her friend’s hand. Jia-Li didn’t pull away, but her fingers lay limp in Sunny’s. “I need to ask a favour of you, Sister.”
Jia-Li chuckled. “You want help from a prisoner?”
“I just need to hear something from you, băo bèi. Something that will give me peace of mind.”
“What is it?”
Sunny squeezed Jia-Li’s hand tighter. “If something were to happen to me, I need to know that you will look after Joey.”
Jia-Li’s head snapped up. “Why would something happen to you?”
“This is Shanghai. You know as well as I do, anything can happen here.”
Jia-Li stiffened. “Stop it, xiăo hè. You can’t fool me. Why are you asking me this now?”
“Esther would help, of course,” Sunny said, avoiding the question. “But if Franz and I are both gone, Joey cannot stay in the ghetto. Esther couldn’t cope with two babies on her own. Perhaps your mother could help? Or one of the cousins, they—”
Jia-Li yanked her hand free of Sunny’s and stood up. She pointed the cigarette accusingly. “Tell me, xiăo hè—you are not involved with the Resistance again?”
Sunny shook her head.
Jia-Li’s face creased in suspicion. “Who, then?”
“Do you remember Father Diego?”
Jia-Li frowned. “The one who brought us the pilot?”
“He works for the Americans.” Sunny went on to describe her last conversation with him.
As Sunny was talking, Jia-Li reached out and eased Joey out of Sunny’s arms and into her own. Cradling the sleeping baby, Jia-Li shook her head. “You can’t do this. I forbid it.”
“I have to, băo bèi.”
“Anyone can spy on the port,” Jia-Li said. “You are the only one who can take care of this one.”
“I need to hear you promise me,” Sunny said.
Jia-Li sniffed Joey’s head. “I love the scent of babies. They smell of innocence.”
“Promise me,” Sunny persisted.
“I can’t. I won’t.” Jia-Li shook her head. “I will do something better. If you convince Chih-Nii to free me from this dungeon, I will go to the port and spy on the ships myself. Happily.”
“What do you know about Japanese ships?”
“They have no business in our harbour, I know that much. Besides, how hard can it be to tell them apart?”
“I know you, Sister. You couldn’t tell a battleship from a sampan.”
“So I will learn.”
“Never.” Sunny laughed. “And as for drawing a map from memory, there is no one with a worse sense of direction than you. Remember when we were young, how you would get lost on our own street?”
Jia-Li smiled for the first time. “It was a winding road.”
Sunny rested her hand on her friend’s shoulder. She stared intently into Jia-Li’s eyes. “I have to do this. For my father, for Yang and especially for Franz.”
Jia-Li’s only response was to hold Joey’s face against her neck, but Sunny could see that her friend was wavering. Her hand tightened to a grip on Jia-Li’s shoulder. “Promise me you will be there for your godson.”
Jia-Li’s eyes widened, simultaneously moved and surprised. “My godson?”
“Of course.”
Jia-Li smiled again. “Yes, all right.”
Sunny hid her relief behind a stern expression. “That means no more funny business with soldiers or Kempeitai or anyone else who comes through the Comfort Home. You understand, băo bèi?”
Jia-Li kissed Joey on the top of his head. “Yes, xiăo hè. I promise.”
CHAPTER 30
Despite the sense of foreboding that hung over the camp in the wake of the air raid, the planes did not return. Casualties, however, rolled into the operating room all night long. Usually, Franz spent his days operating on the wounded men who had come from the front, but this time he recognized several of the victims. Seven men had died during the raid, and three more did not survive surgery, including the only one his four tentmates who spoke passable English. They couldn’t stem the bleeding from the man’s hemorrhaging pulmonary vein, which had been shredded by a large-calibre bullet that perforated his chest from back to front.
Despite such horrors, Franz was thankful for the distraction of work. He wouldn’t have slept anyway. He had avoided eye contact with Helen throughout the surgery, but his turbulent thoughts kept cycling back to their kiss. He couldn’t deny his complicity in the moment or the comfort he had found, easily imagining Helen’s lips to be Sunny’s. He doubted he would ever see his wife again, and he craved physical comfort. He worried that he wouldn’t be able to trust his self-restraint a second time.
At just after five o’clock that morning, the last of the wounded—a man whose femur had been shattered by a bullet—was carried out of the operating room on a stretcher, a bulky dressing where his right leg had once been.
“Come with me,” Suzuki said as he stripped off his gloves and operating gown.
Franz followed him out into the stippled light of dawn. They passed the bullet-riddled, windowless wrecks of the destroyed troop transports. The dirt road had been torn up by the barrage of bullets, as if tilled with a hoe. Soldiers were busy all around the camp repairing tents and replacing those that had collapsed from the gunfire.
They entered the row of tents that formed the officers’ residences. Suzuki led him into one at the end of the row. The spacious tent was sparsely furnished with a cot, a plywood wardrobe and a wooden desk that had two folding chairs on either side of it. A tea set was waiting on top, steam escaping from its pot. Suzuki poured two cups of the green tea, its floral bouquet familiar to Franz’s nose. It was the only flavour the Japanese ever seemed to serve.
Franz studied the only other object on the desk, a framed photograph of the captain with his wife and son. Wearing a dark civilian suit, Suzuki stood unsmiling but proud between a skinny young man in a similar suit and a woman in a patterned kimono. In the backdrop, a grand suspension bridge arched over a sparkling body of water.
“My family and I had just driven over the Golden Gate Bridge for the first time,” Suzuki said. “It was taken two days after the bridge opened. Late in the spring of 1937.”
“I remember reading about it in Vienna,” Franz said as he sipped his tea. “It’s the longest bridge in the world, is it not?”
Suzuki nodded. “The longest span of any bridge ever built. Over a mile long. It’s truly a marvel.”
“Did you enjoy your time in America?”
“My time in America? You ask me as though I were there as a tourist.” Suzuki chuckled humourlessly. “I only came back to Japan to attend my son’s wedding. America was our home until December 7, 1941.”
Franz empathized with the captain. He knew what it meant to have his country ripped out from underneath him. “Austria was mine until March 12, 1938.”
“The day of the Nazi occupation?”
“The Anschluss, yes.”
Suzuki sipped his tea in silence. “In San Francisco, I trained under Dr. Leo Eloesser. Perhaps you have heard of him?”
Franz shook his head.
“Dr. Eloesser is a pioneer in the field of thoracic surgery, an extremely capable surgeon. He is also famous in California as a humanitarian and a patron of the arts. He is close friends with the Mexican painters Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo.”
“Is Dr. Eloesser Jewish?”
Suzuki nodded. “I worked with several Jewish doctors at the San Francisco General. I considered some of them friends. In America, I was never aware of the anti-Semitism that seems to flourish in Europe.”
“It wasn’t always the case in Europe either. Particularly not in Vienna. It was such a cultured and tolerant city when I was young. Jews like Sigmund Freud and Arnold Schoenberg were the toast of the town.”
“What happened?”
“What always h
appens to us.” Franz sighed. “Times turned bad and someone blamed the Jews. It has happened time and again throughout history, from the famines in Egypt to the Black Death and now the Depression. Jews have always been the world’s scapegoats. But never more so than under the Nazis.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Many reasons, I suppose. We have always been a quiet and easily identifiable community. And Jews have often succeeded professionally and financially. We attract resentment like flowers draw bees.” Franz thought of one of Rabbi Hiltmann’s themes. “But perhaps most importantly, it’s because we Jews don’t have a real home. We are a minority—perpetual guests and outsiders—anywhere we live. Without a national identity or an army to protect us.”
Suzuki considered this. “Are you suggesting that if the Jews were to have their own nation, anti-Semitism would end?”
“Anti-Semitism has thrived for five thousand years, Captain. It probably always will. But if the Jews were to have their own homeland, it at least might provide us with a sanctuary from the Hitlers of this world.”
Suzuki frowned. “And how will you ever achieve this homeland? Who will give you the land, or the freedom?”
“We will probably have to fight for it.”
“More war. More suffering for your people.” Suzuki grunted a laugh. “Will it be worth it?”
Franz rubbed his tired eyes. “I don’t really know what anything is worth anymore.”
“You are not alone,” Suzuki muttered.
Franz put down his cup and asked the question that had been on his mind ever since the planes struck. “Will you relocate the camp, Captain?”
“That is Major Okada’s decision to make.” His tone was skeptical.
“What is the point of bringing injured men to a hospital that is the target of enemy crossfire?”
“It is not my decision,” Suzuki reiterated.
“Helen and I were outside when the planes came,” Franz said. “We heard the whistle of the bullets. Helen was … traumatized.”
Suzuki gazed forlornly into his cup. “That is unfortunate.”