by Rebekah Pace
After lunch, we continued on to the Shanghai Museum. As I wandered among the exhibits of ancient Chinese bronze, ceramics, and calligraphy, I realized how much I was enjoying having new experiences. It felt great after so many years of shutting myself away.
When the tour gave us free time to shop, I found a park and walked around, studying the faces of the other old people. My time in Shanghai was half-spent, and my search was like looking for a needle in ten haystacks.
The following day, with still no word from Yu Yan, I went back to the Yu Garden and spent the morning people watching, hoping I’d hear someone speak Mira’s name.
That afternoon, I found an open-air market where street musicians entertained the crowds. The sweet strains of violin music filled me with hope, but no one played “Muss I Denn.”
When I got back to the hotel that evening, Tao gave me a message from Yu Yan. It said she didn’t want to tell me what she’d discovered over the phone. She would meet me at the hotel for breakfast.
***
Yu Yan wore a fringed red scarf when we met in the café in the hotel lobby the next morning. As the waiter poured our coffee, my hands were shaking so badly I didn’t try to take a sip.
Yu Yan did not smile. “I am sorry to tell you I have had trouble locating your Miriam. There are a number of women of European descent of the right age in Shanghai, but none with the right name.”
“Now what do we do?”
“Are you certain she lives here?”
I thought for a moment, and Mira’s whispered last words to me echoed in my head. “No. She only said she was in Shanghai.” How could I have made such a journey without being sure?
“Do not lose hope. If she is here, we will find her.”
“I only have two days left, and if you think we can find her in that short time—don’t take this the wrong way—but you’re as meshuggeneh as I am.”
“That just may be, Mr. Peter.” She smiled broadly. “Aren’t you glad the fates brought us together? Now come. I will take you to the homes of the women on my list, and we will see what we shall see.”
What other choice did I have?
34
Outside, I gazed up at the camel statue as Yu Yan gave the valet the ticket to bring her car around. I muttered to the camel, “If you’re going to bring me good fortune, how about you hurry up already?”
On our way to Hongkou District, she filled me in on its history. “This area was a major sanctuary for Jewish refugees from Europe, and Russian Jews who fled the Bolsheviks. By the mid-nineteen-thirties, over thirty thousand Jews lived side by side with the Chinese in Shanghai.
During the war years, when Japan invaded and took control of the city, including the international districts, they forced restrictions on Shanghai’s Jewish population. By 1943, nearly all of them lived in a Jewish ghetto, created in response to pressure from Germany.”
“Mira and I spent time in a ghetto, too,” I chimed in, “in Leipzig, before they deported us to a camp. I was not knowing the Jews who fled Europe to Shanghai are facing the same persecution we did in Europe.”
Yu Yan turned to me and nodded, as she pulled off a major arterial and weaved her way onto a street lined with apartments. “Yes, but here the Chinese and Jews united against their common foe—the Japanese. After the war, many Jews chose to emigrate someplace else. During the Chinese civil war in 1945, most of the Jews who had remained here fled to the US, Israel, or Australia, until only a few hundred remained.”
“I am wondering if she is coming here after the war and staying, but that is seeming unlikely, right?”
“It does, but over the last few decades, the Jewish population in Shanghai has resurged, with many older people coming back to the home of their youth. But Miriam’s situation is still a mystery.” She parked the car. “Now, our detective work continues. Maybe it is better if we ask if they ever knew a Miriam, or a Mira, rather than focusing on the name Schloss. It is possible she did not use that name.”
“I don’t know if she ever married.”
“She could have changed her name for a number of reasons. Now come.”
Yu Yan had a list of names and addresses, mostly apartments in the old Jewish section of the city. The first woman who answered our knock was far too tall to be Mira. Even as I shook my head and started to turn away, Yu Yan spoke to the woman in Chinese and introduced us before launching into her inquiry. As the woman listened, her curious expression brightened, and she nodded.
My heart thumped as the two women continued their rapid-fire conversation, and Yu Yan produced the list of names and addresses for the woman to see. When she bowed her thanks, the woman shut the door, and Yu Yan took my arm.
“Come, Mr. Peter. We may have a lead.”
“What was she saying? The suspense, it is killing me.”
“She is acquainted with a woman of the right age, who she believes lived in Germany as a girl. It is one of the names on our list, so we shall go there next. It is not far.”
My trembling legs carried me down the street while my thoughts roiled in my head. Would Mira be surprised to see me? Whatever she needed—whatever had prompted her to summon me here—would it be within my power to help her? I thought of the money in my bank account, knowing I would give her my last dime without hesitation. I could only hope the way we’d loved each other in the dream was as real for her as it was for me.
Yu Yan paused before a cozy-looking apartment building. “This is the address.”
When we reached the door, I rang the bell. The woman who answered was petite and dark-haired—and much too young to be Mira. Confused, I stepped back and let Yu Yan do the talking.
After a moment she murmured to me, “This woman’s mother used to live here.” She pressed her lips together before continuing. “She died last week.”
My vision clouded and I felt like I might pass out. Yu Yan gripped my arm to steady me. “We do not have all the facts yet, Mr. Peter. Let me learn more.”
Again, I stood back while the women conversed in Chinese. After a moment, the woman beckoned us inside. She brought a framed photo from the console table in the sitting room and held it out to me. I accepted it in shaking hands and looked carefully at the smiling face.
The smile was wrong, the eyes too deep-set. I drew a shaking breath. “No. This is not her.”
I turned to Yu Yan. “Please tell her I’m sorry for her loss.”
We took our leave, and though my nerves were nearly shot, we continued our quest. None of the women on the list knew Mira, but one suggested we inquire at the Shanghai Jewish Refugee Museum in the Ohel Moshe Synagogue.
When we’d exhausted the names on Yu Yan’s list, it was almost lunch time, and we drove to the museum.
The museum wasn’t far, and after we found a place to park, we walked through an iron gate into the courtyard, where Yu Yan spoke to the clerk at the ticket counter.
While I waited, I turned in a slow circle, looking up at the striped inlaid brickwork, the arched windows, and the gallery porches that ran the length of the synagogue’s second and third stories. A bronze statue of six people dominated the other side of the courtyard, and I walked over to get a closer look. A series of memorial plaques adorned the long wall behind the sculpture. My heart beat faster as I reached out to touch the raised letters. There were thousands of names. Though I knew Mira might not have used her maiden name after the war, I hurried past the first half of the alphabet. By the time I reached the names that started with S, my breath was coming in sobs. I couldn’t look. Had all these people died in the Jewish ghetto here during the war? Had I come this far, only to find Mira in some cemetery?
Yu Yan caught up and laid a calming hand on my arm. “Do not despair if you find her name here. The woman at the ticket booth said these are names of Jewish people who sheltered in Shanghai during the war. It is a tribute—not just a list of the dead
. Some of these people are still alive.”
Together we scanned the names. Mira’s was not there.
I blotted my forehead with my handkerchief. “I don’t know how much more suspense I can take.”
“Come, let us make inquiries. Maybe Miss Mira made a donation or signed the guest register at one time. Maybe inside there is a clue.” She encouraged me with a smile. “Take heart, Mr. Peter. We are not finished searching. The red thread remains unbroken.”
We had arrived during the lull between guided tours, and while we waited, we walked through the museum. The first floor was set up as a synagogue, and upstairs housed various exhibits. In a glass display case, another sculpture caught my eye. I hurried across the room and stared at the likeness of three round-eyed children. The girl in front carried a violin and wore a locket shaped like a heart.
I pressed my palm to the glass as tears streamed down my cheeks.
“Mr. Peter. Mr. Peter!” Yu Yan shook my arm.
“I’m sorry. It’s just—I was not knowing it would be so hard to be here and to be seeing—” I mopped my face with my handkerchief and blew my nose.
“No, not that. Come. Look over here.” Hand under my elbow, she led me away from the statue and stopped triumphantly in front of a poster in the stairwell. It advertised the season’s scheduled programming and lectures.
She pointed to a photo of an elderly woman playing a violin. It was Mira. As soon as I saw her face, I realized I would have known her anywhere. I didn’t have to read the caption under the photo.
“When? When is the performance?”
“It was last month.”
My knees threatened to collapse, and Yu Yan caught me under the elbow to hold me up.
“Are you the ones asking about Mira Schloss?”
I turned toward the voice. It was a woman, maybe in her sixties. “Yes. I’m an old friend of hers. A very old friend. Peter Ibbetz.”
I held out my hand to shake and she clasped it with both of hers. “You’re Peter? Mira’s Peter? What a surprise! Oh, it’s such a pleasure to meet you.” Tears sprang up in her eyes. “I’m Marjit Warner.”
“Where is Mira? Did I miss her? Did she leave before I could get here?”
Her chin trembled. “You don’t know?”
“Know what? I am told she was here.”
“Please, come with me where we can have some privacy and I’ll explain.”
She gestured Yu Yan and me into a cluttered office with a worn sofa and chairs. “Make yourselves comfortable.” We took seats on the sofa, and Yu Yan gripped my hand as Marjit sat opposite us. “I was once Mira’s student. I’m a member of the museum’s board of directors, and I invited her to come for our program celebrating Jewish culture in Shanghai last month.
“Mira performed all over the world during her career, as you probably know.”
I glanced at Yu Yan, who asked tactfully, “Where did you first meet her?”
“In Copenhagen, where we both lived after the war. She taught me, and all her students, folk songs from her childhood. Music connected the Jewish refugees who fled Europe and spread to all corners of the globe. Life in Shanghai was hard, but my parents had happy memories of their childhoods here. That is why I returned as an adult.
Mira came planning to stay at my home for a few weeks, because there were other events in Shanghai she wished to attend. When she played across the street in the White Horse Café, our Viennese-style coffee house, she took requests for all the old songs— ‘Muss I Denn,’ ‘Lorelei,’ ‘In Stiller Nacht’—and the happy songs, too. And then, the day before she meant to leave for home . . .”
I swallowed hard. “What? What happened?”
“She had a stroke.”
Yu Yan gripped my hand as she asked, “Is she alive?”
Marjit nodded. “She has been in a coma since April third—for almost a month now.”
I thought back. April third. That was the day of the first robbery at the bodega when I had the first dream. Mira must have found herself alone in the dark and reached out until she found me.
I gave in to my disappointment, frustration, and exhaustion, and as I sagged against Yu Yan, my sobs threatened to tear my heart from my chest. Marjit hurried to sit on my other side and put her arms around me. The three of us cried together for a long time.
How terrifying it must have been for Mira, falling ill in a strange place. No wonder her subconscious searched for mine, until we connected in our dreams.
Marjit left us for a short while, and by the time she returned bearing coffee on a tray, I had composed myself. I was ready to face whatever came next.
She set the tray down. “I telephoned the hospital. Mira’s condition is unchanged, but she is resting comfortably. I told them we will be coming by for a visit.”
I nodded. “Before we go, are you knowing what is happening to Mira when she did not play in the concert at Theresienstadt? That was the last time we were together, and all my life, I have wondered.”
Marjit looked surprised, but what she knew filled in many of the gaps for me. “At that time, the detainees were allowed to send and receive packages, and Mira’s music professor was smuggling out messages on sheet music. When the authorities learned what he was doing, the professor was transported to Auschwitz and gassed, and Mira, who was often with him, was taken to the Gestapo’s headquarters in the Small Fortress, across from the main Theresienstadt compound.”
“She was fifteen years old. How much could she have known about what her professor was doing?” Even as I spoke, I remembered Mira’s resolve not to let her circumstances break her. She would have been her professor’s willing accomplice.
Marjit continued. “They held Mira in the Little Fortress for several weeks, torturing her for information. She remained there after all the other musicians who had performed for the Red Cross visit had been transported. One of the officers of the camp who had heard Mira play admired her skill. After she provided no useful information, that officer got her released and made sure she received medical attention at the camp hospital. She was very weak, as she had also been deprived of food, and it took her a while to regain her health. After she grew stronger, that officer was transferred to Krakow, and he took her with him, obtained papers for her, and had her play for Nazi officers at his parties. He gave her decent food and clothes. He even rescued her violin from the rehearsal hall.
“Though he was German, Mira once told me, he was not a terrible man. He did not leave her to the fate suffered by so many others. Before the war ended, she became his mistress, not for love, but because she knew staying in his favor would help keep her alive.”
Though my stomach heaved at the thought of her in the keeping of a German officer, I knew how it felt to be vulnerable and alone. I could not disparage her for doing whatever was necessary to survive. “Then what happened?”
“She was still in Poland when the Allies came. Her officer was captured. Mira once said to me that, at first, she believed her survival was a punishment. She was doomed to live when everyone she loved had left her. Music saved her, and she made music her reason to live.”
***
Though I wanted to go straight to the hospital, Marjit pressed us to have lunch first at the White Horse Café. We crossed the street to a turreted three-story building that looked like it belonged in Europe. In the front garden was a fountain with statues representing a Chinese woman holding an umbrella over the head of a Jewish girl.
I stared at it, seeing Yu Yan sheltering a ten-year-old Mira.
Inside the dark-paneled coffee shop, we ordered and sat at one of the marble-topped tables. Yu Yan asked, “What was Miss Miriam like as a teacher?”
Marjit’s smile reflected her happy memories. “She was the kindest, most understanding teacher, but she expected the best from her students. No exceptions! She told us nothing should stand in the way of us b
ecoming the very best we could be. But as I said, she was not harsh or impatient.”
Yu Yan asked, “Did she have children of her own?”
“No. She never married.”
I cleared my throat. “She would have been a wonderful mother.”
“She would indeed. I believe she thought of us all as her children.” Marjit patted my hand. “Mira told me she grieved for you all her life. She believed you were lost to her forever. What a pity you were not reunited sooner. She was so brave, so kind. One could not help but love her.”
I cleared my throat. “I also have grieved for her.”
When the meal was done, Marjit shepherded us back to the museum. “I have more things for you.”
In her office, she handed me a compact disc. “This is a recording of Mira’s concert last month. I am sure you’ll want to listen to it.”
I had to wipe my eyes again. “Yes, yes. Very much.”
“All right. We can play it whenever you’re ready. She brought some mementos with her, to share at the performance. Shall I leave you with everything? It will be almost like she is speaking to you and you are getting to know her again before you see her at the hospital.”
When I nodded, Marjit brought out Mira’s things—a satchel, a suitcase, and her violin case—and started the recording before she and Yu Yan left me alone.
Mira’s voice, old and shaky, but still the same, came through the speakers. “These songs remind me of the joy I felt as a little girl, when I was first learning to play the violin. They also remind me of the sad times, when I played to cheer those around me, and of the darkest times, when music was all that kept me from losing my sanity. Most of all, these songs are my tribute to my dearest friend, Peter, my one great love. Wherever he is, I hope he has not forgotten the warmth of my feelings for him. Love does not end. It goes on for all time.”
The music followed, one tune after another, just as she had played for me, her audience of one. But this time, she told stories between the songs, some that Marjit had told me, and other moments from her life I never would have otherwise known.