Shanghai Story: A WWII Drama Trilogy Book One

by Alexa Kang

  “The smell of breast milk on you hasn’t even dried yet. When is it your turn to judge?”

  Zi-Hong snorted. “You have no right to control what I can or cannot do.”

  “Fine.” Clark stared straight ahead, trying to restrain his own fury. “Your business, I wash my hands of it. But if you get involved in these activities again, then don’t even think about ever seeing Wen-Li again.”

  That shut the imp up. Zi-Hong stiffened his back and brooded as the car drove along. Clark ignored him and turned to stare out the passenger side window. The sight of Zi-Hong made his blood boil. He had enough troubles as it was.

  The car came upon a tram stop. With Zi-Hong out of the way, he had to get back to Shen. “Huang Shifu. Let me off.”

  The chauffeur halted the car. “Take him home,” Clark said as he opened the door. He gave Zi-Hong one last angry look, then got out.

  The car drove away and Clark walked toward the tram stop. He almost dreaded returning to the construction site. He needed time to think.

  He changed direction and walked to the edge of the quay along the river. What should he do? Call the police? Would it make matters even worse if the police tried to resolve the situation by force? People could die and get hurt. Shen would lose face too if the strike got into the news.

  What if he lent Shen the money? His father would come to the help of an old friend in need. But what if this happened again? What if other people he’d recruited to buy government bonds and donate funds to the KMT ran into the same problem? His family wouldn’t have the money to help them all. And anyway, how would he explain it all to his father?

  He didn’t like commingling his family’s money with Shen’s either. Shen already thought of him as his future son-in-law. Adding financial ties on top would only make his betrothal to Shen Yi even more inevitable.

  What about buying off some of the workers? Could he bribe the ringleader to settle the situation?

  While he weighed his options, a man in a fedora hat and traditional Chinese tangzhuan outfit came up and stood next to him. He sucked a long drag of his cigarette and blew out the smoke.

  Clark raised his eyes. He couldn’t believe it. Dai Li. Head of the Juntong, the secret police.

  He’d only seen Dai Li once before, at Madam Chiang’s banquet for Army General Zhang Zhi-zhong. What did Dai Li want standing here next to him?

  “I can help you,” Dai Li said without looking at Clark. He held his gaze out at the river.

  “How did you know me?”

  “I know everybody. Especially those who are key to setting the Party’s plans in motion.”

  Clark narrowed his eyes. He didn’t want the help. The man emanated a heavy shaqi, the air to kill.

  “The Party fought hard to gain control of its territories. There can be no hint that those under our rule do not support us. The Communists will pounce if we show the slightest perceived weakness. We cannot allow any uprising, especially not this kind. If the news gets out, workers in other places would follow their example and cause trouble. It would embolden Mao and his people.”

  Clark stared ahead. “I’ll figure out a solution.”

  “What solution? What could you possibly do?”

  “The workers want pay. I’ll find a way to come up with the money.”

  “No.” Dai Li locked his hands behind his back and turned to face Clark. “These people’s minds are primitive. They act on emotions and instinct. They strike out when they are pushed, overstepping the boundaries when they get any leeway. If you give in once, they’ll try it again, and again. They won’t be grateful. They won’t understand reasons. They’re like children. They won’t stop until you draw the line. Better to set the boundary before they push for a yard after getting an inch.”

  A shiver ran up Clark’s body. “What do you propose to do?”

  “The work of building up Shanghai has to continue. They have to get the message. They can’t put all the work to a stop whenever they want. The success of our military and economy depends on the continual expansion of our transportation channels. If you will agree to it, I can arrange for the army to come and conscript anyone who refuses to go back to work.”

  “You want to force them to become soldiers?”

  Dai Li took a casual drag of his cigarette. “Unlike you, they don’t understand we all have to make some sacrifices if this country is going to stand. They have to be shown they need to do their part, one way or another. If they don’t like work, they can pick up a gun and fight the Communists or the Japanese. I can guarantee, life as a soldier will be ten times tougher. The pay will be lower too.”

  Clark curled his fingers into his hands. All things considered, it was a viable option. A better one than any he could come up with himself. The army regularly rounded up laborers and conscripted them by force. It could camouflage a government clampdown better than using police force.

  There were drawbacks. The idea of using strong-arm tactics tore him up inside. Why shouldn’t laborers have the right to ask for more pay for their hard work?

  If only things were that simple.

  “Do I have your agreement then?” Dai Li asked.

  “You don’t need my agreement. If this is what you want to do, you’ll do it with or without my permission.”

  Dai Li raised his brows. “You’re correct. I don’t, except Madam Chiang considers you indispensable right now. I don’t want to interfere with your business without your consent if I don’t have to.”

  An army conscription. It wouldn’t be a direct suppression of the workers’ protests. One would appear to have nothing to do with the other. It would make the problem go away with a lesser risk of violence, as it would if the police got involved, even though the workers would not be happy. Shen could even come out of this looking like a savior if he guarded his workers against the military.

  Reluctantly, Clark nodded. “Go ahead then.”

  Dai Li neither looked pleased nor surprised. Through it all, he’d kept a straight, emotionless face. “The ringleader of all this ought to be punished.”

  The ringleader? Did he mean the man who was arguing with Shen at the construction site?

  “I have a few friends in the Green Gang who can show him some colors.”

  “No. There’s no need for anyone to get hurt.”

  Dai Li tapped his cigarette to flick off the ash. “They won’t need to hurt him. No one would touch a strand of his hair. The Green Gang could take him somewhere for a few days. If he has any grievances, they can talk and clarify everything. He has a wife and a son. He’ll know what’s good for them.”

  Clark wanted to object, but it would be useless. Dai Li wouldn’t let the man off without making sure he would never dare to challenge authority again in the future.

  And deep down, as much as he didn’t want to agree, Clark could see this would eliminate the root of the problem. “Don’t hurt him. Don’t hurt his family.”

  “You have my word. Now, the ringleaders of those damn student protestors. No offense, but I do dislike people when they’re overeducated. They have too many ideas. They get confused. They don’t understand loyalty. When the tide is moving one way—the right way—they always stir up shit.”

  Clark tensed. What did Dai Li want to do to the students?

  “Shanghai is a crime-infested place. Such a shame, wouldn’t you say?” Dai Li asked. “If people aren’t careful, it’s easy to get robbed and beaten, or raped.”

  “You—”

  “The matter of the students has nothing to do with you. They’re not your problem.” He threw his cigarette stub to the ground and snuffed it out with his foot. “Goodbye.” He tipped his hat and turned to walk away.

  “Wait!” Clark called out after him. “Where would I find you?”

  Dai Li stopped. He looked back slightly without turning around. “You don’t. I’ll find you,” he said and continued his way into the traffic where he disappeared.

  Standing alone, Clark watched the cars zip by in tw
o directions. A beggar, grotesquely deformed with legs like a grasshopper, crawled up to him holding a dirty bowl, begging for change. Clark looked at him with pity and disgust. Disgust at the twisted, monstrous sight. Disgust at how his country could do nothing to prevent such misery from afflicting its people. Disgust at how nobody—not the government, not the workers or the employers, nor the self-righteous and short-sighted students—would put aside their own interests to see the difficulties they all faced.

  He took a tael out of his pocket, dropped it into the beggar’s bowl, and headed to the tram stop. Shen was waiting, and he had the distasteful task of bringing him the “good news.”

  22

  Blood Alley

  Arriving at work in the morning, Eden found the latest draft of her article lying on top of her desk. When she submitted it to Zelik, the paper’s Editor-in-Chief, she was sure he would be impressed. She’d written an in-depth exposé of the Hitler Youth camps in Shanghai. The Nazis kept lying that these camps they were running in Moganshan were no different than the Boy Scouts. They claimed the children had little interest in Nazi ideologies, and the camps were nothing more than a chance for German children to enjoy outdoor trips and activities. In her article, she exposed their lies. She brought attention to how the Nazis were indoctrinating German youth at these camps by teaching them to sing Nazi songs and give the Heil Hitler salute. Surely, Zelik would be pleased with what she’d done, wouldn’t he?

  Instead of praising her work, Zelik butchered it. Just like he had with all the previous drafts she’d submitted. The typed pages looked like they were bleeding red marks.

  With a deep sigh, she picked up the draft and read it to see what the man found wrong. So unfair. He nitpicked about everything. There were question marks scattered all over the pages, demanding she clarify her sources. In big bold letters next to the paragraph she’d written about the discipline the Nazi children received for disobedience, Zelik wrote, “Hearsay? You weren’t there.”

  How much more did the man want? These were Nazis they were talking about. Why would she make things up about them? If she didn’t know better, she would’ve thought Zelik was trying to protect them.

  And why was he personally editing all her work? She was only a junior reporter. He was the head of the newspaper. Didn’t he have more important things to do?

  “Why the miserable face?” asked Charlie Keaton, her designated mentor and one of the senior editors.

  “Zelik hates my work. Look at this.” Eden showed him her draft article.

  Charlie scanned the article and chuckled. “It’s not so bad.”

  “If you’re lying to protect my feelings, it’s not working.” Eden made a dour face. “Maybe I’m not suited for this job. Maybe I should quit. He hates everything I write.”

  “What he would hate is if you gave up so easily.”

  “I don’t know about that. Why is he personally editing my work anyway? He doesn’t personally review anyone else’s work until right before the paper is ready to go to print. I think he wants me to give up. That’s why he’s picking on me. Maybe he thinks I’m never going to be a good reporter because I’m a woman. He said during my interview he had doubts about hiring a woman.”

  Charlie shook his head and dropped the article back on her desk. “Let me tell you something. Zelik is not picking on you. He wouldn’t take a personal interest if he didn’t think what you’re doing is important. If he thought your work was rubbish, he wouldn’t bother to spend the time looking over everything you write. So consider it a privilege, because no one else is getting this special treatment.”

  Eden shifted her eyes to the draft. She hadn’t thought of it that way.

  “He’s taking the time because he wants you to succeed. All his edits are excellent advice. You would be smart to take them seriously and learn from them. For example, look at all these places where he wants you to defend the truth of what you claimed. He wants you to cite every source. Zelik takes pride in the authenticity of what we report. The more egregious the allegation, the more we need to be able to stand by what we say. Otherwise, all we’re publishing is just hearsay. You understand?”

  Eden picked up the draft and thought about what he said. Was she wrong about Zelik? She needed to think. “Thank you, Charlie, for explaining all this to me. I guess I still have a lot to learn. I just wanted so much to show him I can do the job well. I wish there was something I could do to impress him.”

  “Impress Zelik?” Charlie laughed. “He’s been around too long. Nothing impresses him anymore. Except . . .” He crossed his arms and held his knuckle to his chin.

  “Except what?”

  “Well, one thing he has always wanted is to report on the Kaifeng Jews.”

  “The Kaifeng Jews?”

  “Yes. The Chinese Jews.”

  “What are Chinese Jews?”

  “They’re Jews who settled in Kaifeng sometime between the eighth to the twelfth century. No one knows when for sure. I believe they came from the Middle East. Possibly Persia. Several years ago, Zelik met one who’d made his way to Shanghai. He looked Chinese, but he started reciting passages from the Torah. He said the teachings in the Torah had been passed down in his family for generations. He observed the Sabbath and he wore a yarmulke. His was always blue to distinguish himself from the Muslims.”

  “Really? I’ve never heard of this.”

  “Most people haven’t. Honestly, if you saw him on the streets, you wouldn’t know he’s Jewish. His last name’s Chinese. Ai. Supposedly, a Chinese emperor gave them Chinese last names some centuries ago. I don’t know how true that is, but that’s the story according to him.”

  “This is unbelievable,” Eden said. “Where is Kaifeng?”

  “Here, let me show you.” Charlie brought her back to his desk. He opened a map and showed her an inland region of China northwest of Shanghai. “It’s in Henan Province. Ever since Zelik found out about the Kaifeng Jews, he’s been wanting to make contact with them. They’ve become isolated in that area over the centuries. He wants to make sure they’re okay out there on their own. He doesn’t want them to lose their heritage. Ai said they have a splendid synagogue out there. Zelik would give a fortune to get hold of a photo.”

  “Why can’t he?”

  Charlie laughed. “Because there’s no good way to get there.” He circled his finger over the area between Shanghai and Kaifeng. “Look. Where are the roads? Even if there were roads, the journey would take days, if not weeks. Where would a fella stay? No one knows what’s in this part of the country.”

  Eden took a closer look at the area he was pointing to on the map.

  “If anyone can make it out there and bring back news about the Kaifeng Jews, that would definitely impress Zelik.”

  The phone on his desk rang. Charlie picked it up and his attention soon turned to more pressing matters at hand. Eden returned to her desk and began to review more carefully the edits Zelik wanted her to make. She hated to admit it, but her article was sophomoric. It would indeed be much stronger if she made the changes Zelik wanted.

  It looked like it’d be a very long time before Zelik would consider her writing and reporting first rate. Too bad she couldn’t impress him by making it out there to Henan and coming back with news about the Kaifeng Jews.

  The phone on her desk rang and she picked it up. It was Ava.

  “Eden? Sorry to bother you at work. I’m calling to confirm I’ll be picking you up at your home tonight at eight thirty?”

  “Yes,” Eden answered. Tonight was the night they had planned to visit a bar at Blood Alley. Ava had a car and a chauffeur. She said she’d give Eden a ride to and back.

  “I’ll be picking up Lillian before I come to your place. Looking forward to seeing you tonight,” Ava said before she hung up.

  Eden lowered the receiver from her ear. Thankfully, today was Friday. A night out with Ava and Lillian would be a nice relief.

  And Clark would be coming too. He’d agreed to join them the
night at the Paramount.

  She couldn’t wait.

  Blood Alley, a short strip between Rue du Consulat and Avenue Edward VII just off the Bund. It was where soldiers, seamen, and slummers of every origin and stripe came to indulge in wine, spirits, music, women, men, and every mélange of sins and vices known to men. Its very name came from the frequent brawls ending with stabbings, gunfights, and even throws of grenades.

  Eden had heard about the street’s reputation before they arrived. From inside Ava’s car, she watched the array of women on the streets searching for prey too eager to part with their cash. Other creatures of the night—pimps, muggers, opium dealers, pickpockets in beggars’ disguise—all had slithered out from their netherworlds to nab their next victims under the bars and casinos' garish lights.

  How ironic. Here, finally, was a place where no boundaries of race or nationality applied. Russians, Americans, Europeans, Filipinos, Chinese, Japanese, Koreans, Eurasians, and many more. Everyone was welcomed. No one was cast out. In this gutter where everyone had dived in of their own free will, the pretense of superiority ceased to exist.

  A gunshot rang out somewhere up ahead, followed by a high whistle as the French police ran past and the traffic cop directed the vehicles to stop. Ava’s driver, Lin Shifu, halted the car.

  “Maybe coming here wasn’t such a good idea.” Eden craned her neck to try to see what was happening through the front window.

  “Nonsense.” Ava fanned herself. “I’ve been here more times than I can remember and nothing ever happened to me. Life would be so dull if we can’t roll with a little risk and danger every now and then. You just have to exercise good common sense and know what to avoid. And keep your eye on your purse.”

  Lillian Berman, who was joining them for the evening, bent forward in her seat. “I’m not scared. I’ve always wanted to see if this place is as horrible as it sounds.”

  “Nothing to worry about,” Ava said. “I promise. The bar we’re going to is fine. I’ve known the owner for years.”