‘A Japanese Consul?’ Mirabel asked. ‘That’s strange. Why would a Japanese be helping Jews?’
‘He must have been a very good man. So as you can see here, the Trans-Siberian Railway begins in Moscow and ends in Vladivostok. It took ten whole days to cross Siberia on the train. Finally, he arrived in Vladivostok and boarded a steamer for Kobe, Japan. He really wanted to go to America, but so did thousands of other refugees. Then the Japanese government ordered them all to Shanghai.’
The front door opened and Stefan walked in carrying a paper bag. ‘Szarlotkas,’ he grinned, holding it in the air. Right behind him was a middle-aged Chinese woman with an energetic gait. Her hair was tied in a bun and she wore a plain grey top and baggy black trousers.
Rachel greeted her. ‘Hello, Ah Yin.’
‘Hello, Missee.’ The woman hung up her coat on a hook by the door, exchanged her shoes for black cloth slippers, and shuffled to the table. When she saw Bao Bao with Mirabel her face lit up and her ruddy cheeks glowed like two pink balloons. ‘Aiya, so pwettee,’ she said, swooping down and scooping him up. She cooed a Chinese nursery rhyme gently in Shanghainese.
‘Ah Yin cleans and washes,’ Rachel said to Mirabel. ‘So tell her what you need. She can even make breakfast for Bao Bao.’
Ah Yin heard this and her eyes gleamed. ‘My makee rice congee, okay Missee?’ she said to Mirabel.
Mirabel turned to Rachel. ‘I don’t want to cause any trouble for you.’
‘Ah Yin is a very good cook,’ Rachel said. ‘Go ahead, Ah Yin.’
At this, Ah Yin put Bao Bao on the floor and hurried into the kitchen, chatting busily to herself.
‘I have an address. The last place where JJ’s brother worked.’ Mirabel showed Rachel the piece of paper. ‘I want to go there soon but I’m not sure …’ She glanced hopefully at Stefan. ‘Do you think …’
‘Hongkew,’ Rachel read. ‘That is where Stefan lives. During the war the Japanese forced the Jews to live there so it became a Jewish ghetto.’ She spoke to Stefan and he nodded.
‘Hao le! Okay!’ he said.
Bao Bao began to grizzle and Ah Yin came scurrying out of the kitchen with a bowl of rice porridge in her hand. ‘Va you ku, don’t cry, don’t cry,’ she said.
‘You can leave Bao Bao here with me and Ah Yin,’ Rachel said.
Mirabel hesitated. ‘But… are you sure …’
‘Of course. The children will be at school so I am free all day. It will be my pleasure. It has been a long time since I have had a baby in the house.’
Mirabel smiled at Rachel and took her hand. ‘Thank you so much.’
The Underground Press
Mirabel kissed Bao Bao, said goodbye to Rachel and followed Stefan out to the laneway.
The sky was grey and gloomy, the wind bitterly cold. Mirabel pulled up the collar of her coat and slipped her gloved hands into her pockets, holding the slip of paper that held Jin Yu’s address. Stefan’s high spirits were contagious. He whistled a popular American tune as they walked to the main road.
He stopped at the curb and held up one finger, grinning. ‘My catchee one-piece rickshaw.’
Mirabel laughed. Rachel had talked to her about pidgin English and how it was used widely around Shanghai when foreigners spoke to the Chinese. Stefan flagged down a pedicab and began haggling with the driver.
‘My wantchee go Hongkew,’ Stefan said.
The pedicab driver held up ten fingers.
‘No b’long plopper! No squeeze,’ Stefan said crossly.
‘This b’long number one!’ The pedicab driver argued in a high raspy voice.
Stefan stood up tall. ‘My b’long Hongkew side many year.’ He held two fingers up in the man’s face. ‘This price b’long true. Can puttee book? Chop chop.’
The driver pursed his lips, shrugged and put out his hand. Stefan dropped two shiny coins into the man’s palm and they climbed aboard.
Haggling, it seemed, was a necessary way of life in Shanghai. Mirabel decided if she was to avoid being cheated, she would need to learn this new skill fast.
They travelled through the French Concession down Avenue Joffre towards the busy waters of the Whangpoo River. Mirabel saw many beautiful mansions but some of them looked deserted.
‘There is International Settlement,’ Stefan pointed.
Mirabel remembered Father telling her about the French Concession and the International Settlement. Europeans had been living in these places since the Opium Wars in the 1800s. But they were unjust wars, he had told her. The drug opium, which came from the opium poppy, had been introduced into China by the British because there was an uneven balance of trade. The British bought tea and silk and porcelain from China, but China did not want anything that Britain exported. So British businessmen introduced opium to the people. Father told her opium was an evil thing that turned people into addicts. They wasted their lives lying around in a half stupor. Many died. When the Dowager Empress of China tried to stop this illegal trade by confiscating and burning the opium, British companies got the British navy to send warships up the river and forced China to concede parts of the country as punishment.
‘Blood Alley,’ Stefan said as they passed a dark street crowded with people. He shot a warning look at her. ‘Bad place. No go.’ He pointed in the other direction. ‘Bund.’
They reached the wide boulevard that ran along the waterfront. Mirabel recognised the spot on the wharf where, less than twenty-four hours ago, the boat had dropped her off and she had waited, scared and helpless. It all seemed so long ago now. She smiled to herself.
They jigged along the Bund with the squeaky wheels of the pedicab singing a tune and soon came to a metal bridge over a canal teeming with sampans. The small boats looked like cigars jammed up hard against each other. Washing dangled off lines, strips of fish hung drying on bamboo poles and young children, tied at the waist by a safety rope, played on the decks. Older children scampered between the boats on wooden walkways. She could see that these were not boats for work. They were permanently moored there and whole families lived on them.
‘Garden Bridge, Soochow Creek,’ Stefan said. ‘My home, here, Hongkew.’
Narrow streets and laneways twisted off in all directions. Compared to the French Concession where Max and Rachel lived, this place was like an ants’ nest. They came to a market. People shouted at the tops of their voices buying and selling live fish, meat, fresh fruit and vegetables. The pedicab stopped to let a noisy funeral procession of white-robed mourners pass. They tossed paper money in the air in front of the coffin. A stallkeeper grabbed a live chicken from a woven basket and, holding it upside down by its feet, thrust it in Mirabel’s face. Stefan pushed the flapping bird away.
A little further up the road, Mirabel saw what looked like a dead dog being lifted into a cart. As they drew closer, she saw to her horror that it was the body of a small boy. He was naked with skin so tissue-paper thin that she could see every rib. A man, cigarette dangling from his mouth and with a rag in each hand, lifted the corpse by the wrists and placed it onto a three-wheeled cart.
Mirabel turned her head away and her stomach rolled. Whose precious child was he? Which mother was grieving for her baby now? Or was she dead too?
In another alley, a group of people surrounded a large wooden coffin. Mirabel could see more tiny bodies. Some were wrapped in matting while others lay exposed. They had been piled one on top of the other without care. Mirabel choked back her tears, shaking as she thought of Bao Bao. She had the sudden urge to rush home, to hold him, to make sure he was safe.
Stefan turned to Mirabel. ‘They hunger, cold, die in night. No look,’ he said sympathetically.
But Mirabel had looked. It was too late. She had seen, and she knew she would never get those awful images out of her mind.
Finally, they turned down a narrow laneway, the driver applied the brakes and they squealed to a halt.
‘Is this it?’ Mirabel asked as they stopped outside a grimy two-storey building.
There were bars on the windows and the steps leading up to the front door were cracked and broken. It looked deserted and she tried to hide the sinking feeling in her heart.
Stefan paid the driver and they climbed out.
A beggar woman lay next to the front entrance, her head resting on a woven basket, a filthy quilt covering her body. Stefan rummaged around inside his pockets, pulled out some small change and threw the coins into a tin. Red swollen fingers wrapped in a dirty rag emerged slowly from under the covers to take the money.
Stefan walked up the steps and tried the door. It was locked.
‘Wei! Wei!’ he shouted, rapping loudly on the wood. Then, stepping back, he looked up at the windows on the first floor. Mirabel saw a shadow cross one of them and heard footsteps coming down a wooden staircase inside. She prayed it would be Jin Yu.
The door opened a crack and Mirabel stepped forward to speak. She hoped whoever it was could understand Mandarin.
‘Qing wen, Lin Jin Yu zai ma? Please, I am looking for Lin Jin Yu,’ she said.
There was silence, then the door opened slowly. A boy stepped aside, motioning Mirabel and Stefan into a dark hallway. Two bicycles sat propped up against the wall. Beside the wheels was a bundle of pamphlets tied together with string. The repetitive whirr of a printing press could be heard coming from one of the rooms down the corridor.
A man with spectacles and a shaven head looked out into the hallway. He eyed Stefan and Mirabel suspiciously and came towards them.
‘They’re looking for Lin Jin Yu,’ the boy told him in Mandarin.
‘Lin Jin Yu is my brother-in-law,’ said Mirabel. She wasn’t sure if she should be revealing this to a stranger, but family relationships meant a lot to Chinese, and if he did know Jin Yu, then maybe he wouldn’t be so suspicious of them.
‘I don’t know anyone by that name,’ the man said coldly. ‘You must leave now. I have things to do.’ He bent down and stuffed the bundle of pamphlets into a blue cloth bag, which he secured to a rack on the back of his bicycle. ‘I have to go,’ he said impatiently. He wheeled his bicycle to the door and stood, waiting for Mirabel and Stefan to leave.
On the street, Mirabel asked again, this time in desperation, ‘Are you sure you don’t know anyone called Lin Jin Yu? This is the only address I have. I must find him. Please can you help me?’
The man bumped his bicycle down the steps and Mirabel put a hand on his arm.
He looked down at her hand, frowning. ‘I told you before, I don’t know anybody by that name.’
Stefan stepped forward, ready to protect her. Mirabel let the man pass. He mounted his bicycle and rode off up the street as if they were invisible. Mirabel glanced at the boy hopefully. He held her eyes for a long moment before closing the door with a solid click.
Frieda was reading a story to Lottie and Bao Bao in German when they returned home. Mirabel picked up her baby, hugging him to her breast as the image of the little dead boy hovered in her mind.
While they drank coffee, Mirabel told Max about their unsuccessful search.
‘God will find a way, Mirabel,’ Max said reassuringly.
Stefan pulled something out of his back pocket. Mirabel recognised it as one of the pamphlets they had seen earlier that day. How did Stefan get it? They were all tied together with string.
‘Communist,’ Stefan whispered, handing it to Max.
The men exchanged glances. Mirabel was about to speak when Max put a finger to his lips, nodding towards Ah Yin, who was standing at the kitchen sink washing up. Max folded the paper and slipped it into his shirt pocket.
‘Cholent, kishke and pirogn!’ Rachel announced, emerging from the kitchen carrying a tray of steaming dishes accompanied by the most exotic and delicious smells. Mirabel was reminded suddenly of dinners at Rose’s house and a wave of homesickness washed over her.
Rachel lifted the lid on an earthenware pot to reveal a rich vegetable stew. Surrounded by good food and company, the disappointment of the day faded. Something would come up, Mirabel decided. She hadn’t journeyed all this way only to fail.
The Mironov Ballet
Days turned into weeks and weeks into months and still there was no information about Jin Yu. Mirabel had suggested to Max that she go and visit all the little towns around Haimen but Max had forbidden her, saying that it was far too dangerous because there were bandits in the countryside as well as Communists. Stefan went to the printing office one more time, but the building was deserted and everything had been cleared out.
Mirabel had written letters home to Mama, Rose, Eva and Great Auntie May. She had sent photos, too, taken on Max’s Leica. She heard back that Mama was well. She was helping out at the church, sorting and sending clothes to China. Even Lola was doing her bit.
In front of the Hartmanns, Mirabel kept up her spirits. It was at night, in bed with Bao Bao, that she sometimes cried herself to sleep, the words Lost on the Sea circling in her mind.
She taught Frieda and Lottie English in return for board and lodging. They enjoyed their lessons and were quick to grasp new vocabulary. Lottie still only spoke in a whisper, communicating mainly through her sister, but she would talk to Bao Bao in German. Even Stefan came to join them one day and she had to chide the children for laughing at his pronunciation. Although he was very intelligent, he was not very good at languages.
She bought drawing books and a paintbox and taught them how to paint dogs and horses and houses and people. But when it came to her own painting, her brush would hover over the white page waiting for inspiration which seemed so elusive now, like a cloud that kept changing shape.
One morning, Rachel came out of the kitchen, her dark eyes sparkling. ‘Have you ever been to the ballet, Mirabel?’ she asked.
‘No, I have never had the chance,’ Mirabel replied as Ah Yin took Bao Bao from her to give him his breakfast.
‘Well, I have three tickets to see Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. Would you like to come with us?’
‘Oh, that would be wonderful. But … umm … how much are the tickets?’
‘Do not worry about the cost. It is my gift to you. Maybe the ballet will help to cheer you up.’
Mirabel smiled. ‘Thank you so much. Ever since I was little I’ve wanted to see Swan Lake.’ She sat down at the table and began pouring herself a cup of coffee. Then something occurred to her. She looked up at Rachel in alarm. ‘But I don’t have anything to wear!’
‘Do not worry about that. Rose wrote and told me how wonderful you are at designing clothes. The ballet is not until next Saturday. I thought we could go to a material shop today. There are many fine ones in Shanghai and they are not too expensive. And I have an excellent tailor.’
Mirabel beamed. ‘You are too kind, Rachel. How will I ever repay you?’
‘Maybe you can design a dress for me one day,’ she replied. ‘Now, finish your breakfast and we will begin our shopping adventure.’
As they sat in the Lyceum Theatre waiting for the ballet to begin, Mirabel’s eyes widened with wonder. She had never seen such sumptuousness before. The Western women wore beautiful gowns of silk and satin that shimmered as they walked. When they sat down in their seats, their gowns puffed up around them. And the Chinese women, so fine and elegant in the slim-fitting qi pao with the high mandarin collar, moved gracefully along the aisles, the long slits on the sides of their dresses showing slender white legs. How Mama would have loved it.
Mirabel had chosen an emerald silk for her dress, and it was only fitting, she thought, that she wore a qi pao this night. It was the first time she had worn this style of dress, which accentuated the soft curve of her body. She wished JJ were here to see her.
As Max and Rachel studied the program, Mirabel saw Chrissy and Edward sit down in a theatre box off to the side. The last time she had seen them was a month ago when she had visited them in their beautiful mansion. She tried to catch Chrissy’s eye but she was busy talking with friends.
Rachel nudged Mirabel. ‘Fyodor Mironov, the gre
at ballet master you will soon see, grew up in Peking,’ she said.
‘Is he Chinese then?’ Mirabel asked.
‘Well, his mother was Mongolian and his father a Jew who fled to China from Russia during the 1917 Revolution. When their son was nine, they moved here to Shanghai, where he began his training as a ballet dancer. Then he went to Europe in 1934. This is his first trip back with his ballet company.’
Mirabel heard a bell ringing out in the lobby.
‘It’s about to start,’ Rachel said. ‘Oh, how I love the music.’
The excitement was overwhelming. The lights dimmed. A murmur of anticipation ran through the audience. Then the orchestra began to play as the crimson curtain slowly lifted. Never before had Mirabel felt such magic.
The dancers told the story with their hands, their arms, their legs, the tilt of their heads. Then the handsome prince came onto the stage.
‘That’s the great Mironov,’ Rachel leant over, whispering.
Dressed in a crimson jacket braided in gold, and wearing white tights, Mironov’s leaps were so high it was as if he had wings on the soles of his feet. He floated effortlessly across the stage.
A spotlight illuminated a single dancer. She was a princess but a spell had been cast, turning her into a swan. Her glistening brown hair was smoothed back into a bun and she wore a small crown of pearls and feathers on her head and wings on her back. Her tutu was a blinding China white and it rose and fell as she danced and pirouetted. The crowd was spellbound. Other swans came out to join her, dancing in lines so perfect it was as if they were shadows of each other.
The final act was too much for Mirabel, who was brought to tears when the beautiful Princess Odette, realising the spell would never be broken, threw herself into the lake. And her lover, Prince Siegfried, followed her so that they could be with each other forever.
Little Paradise Page 17