Shanghai Shadows (18 page)

“Ah, ah!” He came out of the ticket cage and shuffled to a map on the wall, encased in glass smudged with fingerprints. He pointed to this blue thing in the center of the map. West Lake. I could walk there from the train station, but the lake was huge, like a small sea. I might wander around it for hours, lugging my suitcase, with no idea where I was going.

“
Xie xie
, thank you,” I said. Defeated, I went back to the bench with my suitcase footstool. The clock dragged slowly.

A welcome cross-breeze rippled through the station, and so I sat and waited, not even sure what I was waiting for, reviewing and polishing every detail of this trip. Sometime in the future, when the war is long past, I promised myself, my children will be begging me to tell this story again and again. We'll be sitting in the kitchen of our bungalow in Santa Rosa, California, America, right down the road from Mother's friend, Molly O'Toole. Over bowls of chocolate ice cream—or peach, in honor of Uncle Erich and Aunt Whoever—I'll tell them about my adventure in Hangchow. If I survive it.

When had I turned the corner from
when
to
if
?

After an hour of this daydreaming, a man rattled a wobbly-wheeled cart into the station with a few snacks to sell, mostly fresh fruit, which was out of the question, of course, since they were no doubt fertilized with human night soil. I bought a cup of water, asking him over and over if the water had been boiled and therefore fit to drink. He didn't understand me, but he kept nodding yes, and in the end I took the chance. Malaria, dysentery, elephantiasis—who cared? I could die of thirst before one of those diseases set in.

I was nearly two hundred pages into
The Magic Mountain
, dozing off and on, when I heard a resounding crash. I dropped the book on the bench, grabbed the suitcase, and plodded outside to explore.

A slender Chinese girl brushed off her motorcycle, which had apparently just collided with a wheelbarrow loaded with rice sacks. Both she and the wheelbarrow man were hopping mad. His fists were flying, and she shouted curses at him and kicked the rice sacks with her rubber sandals until one burst and a grayish stream of rice poured onto the ground.

Wasted rice when so many of us were hungry! I ducked under the flying fists and kicking legs and stuck my finger in the hole to stanch the bleeding. The girl and the man must have thought me very clever. They stopped fighting to admire western ingenuity. The man smiled as though I'd just performed a miracle that inspired him to shift the bag so that the weight resettled and the hole was just an eye staring up at the sky. With deft hands the two of them scooped up every grain of rice and tied them in the man's oily kerchief. Grinning and bowing, he lifted the handles of the wheelbarrow and rattled down the road, with the girl shading her eyes to watch his progress.

As soon as he was out of earshot, she turned to me and said, “Looking for someone? I believe you've brought western clothing and makeup and books for Spring Jade, my granddaughter?”

My mouth gaped open; I was stunned by her perfect British English and her age, just two or three years older than me. She
couldn't
have a granddaughter!

She motioned for me to hand the suitcase over. I lifted it, but then I had an impulse to run as fast as my legs would carry me, along with the suitcase. This girl could be a counterintelligence spy. Maybe she'd captured the real Madame Liang and tortured her to find out about me.

Ridiculous!
Yet, she wasn't at all what I had expected, which was a rich, manicured lady five times my age, dressed according to the latest French fashion. Not that I had any idea what the latest French fashion
was
. But it definitely wasn't this girl, with her hair chopped blunt across her jawline, wearing western trousers and a man's plaid cotton shirt tied at the waist.

She waggled her hand in a give-it-over-now gesture, one foot on the kickstand of her motorcycle.

“How do I know you're the right person?” I stammered.

“Come now. Who else would meet you here, Margaret Loeffler?” She flashed an envelope before my eyes and tucked it into the ribbon band of my hat. I recognized the same creamy stationery and thick black ink. Still, she could have stolen it from the real Madame Liang, who was probably tied up and struggling to keep her head above ditch water. Which could be my fate if I weren't careful. I remembered Erich's warning, “
never trust anybody
,” and I didn't know what to do, and anyway, if the girl had a mind to, she could just race off on her motorcycle, dragging me behind her, still stupidly clutching the suitcase in both arms.

I looked her in the eye, hoping it was a window to the truth. She didn't blink; she stared right back. Yes? No? Taking a deep breath, I let the suitcase slide down my body to the dusty ground.

She grabbed it and slung her leg over the seat of the motorcycle. Its motor began cranking.

“Wait!” I yelled. “When's the next train back to Shanghai?”

Her foot stamped the stubborn cycle's accelerator pedal until the engine finally roared into action. “Four A.M. tomorrow,” she shouted, zoomed in front of me, took a sharp corner, and disappeared in a cyclone of dust.

Back in the station I read the letter:

To Whom It May Concern:

I appreciate Miss Margaret Loeffler's making the journey to Hangchow. While I found her to be bright and conscientious, I have determined that she is wholly unqualified as a tutor for my granddaughter, Spring Jade. I wish Miss Loeffler good fortune in her next assignment, which I trust will
not
include tutoring an impressionable girl. Should Miss Loeffler apply for gainful employment elsewhere, I shall be forthright in providing what information I can
.

Cordially
,

MADAME LIANG

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

1944

Mother gasped when I walked into our apartment. “Where did you get those clothes?”

How stupid of me. I was so exhausted and so relieved to be home from Hangchow that I didn't even think about the clothes. Then I became aware of those lovely silk hose latticed with runs and the dented hat. A heel had broken off one shoe, and the suit looked like I'd slept in it, which I had. But even with all that damage, the clothes were more glamorous than anything we'd worn in ages.

“Tanya's mother. She's a dressmaker, you know.”

“Hats and shoes and patent leather purses also?”

“Can't a girl dress up now and then without an interrogation?”

Mother tamped out the dented fender of my hat. “How grown-up you are. Go in your room and take off the skirt. We'll press it with a little steam, and it'll look brand-new.”

I pulled the curtain of my room and blew out a breath of relief. Erich was right; Mother had stopped asking questions whose answers she was afraid to hear.

One day just as the spring term was ending, Tanya and I hurried home as usual before our passes expired. She was full of news about her
beshert
, Shlomo.

“Of course, I don't actually get to speak to him, but the rebbe says my Shlomo is his prize student. He has a memory like a steel trap; nothing escapes. We'll have babies reading Torah before they're three years old!”

“Wonderful,” I mumbled, picturing midget Shlomos with thick eyeglasses and skin as white as rice paper.

As we sprinted by Kloski's Polish Restaurant, out flew Liu, with the aproned proprietor right behind him. “The scoundrel's stealing ice from me,” Mr. Kloski shouted, raising a cast-iron frying pan obviously meant for Liu's head.

Tanya said something in Yiddish that I think was, “Go ahead, it's about time someone cracked his thick skull,” at the same moment I shouted, “Don't hit him!”

The startled man froze, with the pan in midair, and then as though the movie reel began spinning again, he waved the pan and shouted Polish curses at Liu.

“Why can't the pest leave you alone?” Tanya asked.

“He's in trouble, Tanya. Have a heart.”

I wondered why Liu didn't scamper away while he had the chance. Instead, he hunkered just enough out of Mr. Kloski's reach to avoid the collision with the pan.

A Japanese sentry came to investigate the hubbub, and Tanya dashed off. It must have been hilarious to passersby—all of us yelling at once, in Polish, Chinese, German, and Japanese. Mr. Kloski quickly retreated to his restaurant now that the soldier was involved, and if I'd had any sense, I'd have taken off in the opposite direction like Tanya did.

The soldier clutched Liu by the scruff of his neck, the way you'd pick up a kitten, and then I saw Liu's face. His cheek was swollen to twice its normal size, and his eyes swam in his head. Had someone beaten him?

Tangle with a Japanese soldier? Insane. Plus, I'd miss my pass deadline. I looked the soldier in the eye and bowed in mock respect. Layering on thick flattery, I said—half in English, half in German, with two or three Japanese words thrown in for good measure—“Officer, could you kindly put this boy down?”

Liu's focus sharpened enough to send me a silent signal, which I read as,
Run, idiot! I'm not worth it
.

“Officer,” I began again, “this is a worthless mongrel, nothing but a footstool for the emperor, and beneath the dignity of a worthy officer in the venerable Japanese Army. He's a beggar in my lane. Please, let me drag him home.”

The soldier, who certainly wasn't an officer, turned Liu toward him for a quick inspection; found him wanting, I suppose; then dropped him to the ground. I expected to hear brittle bones crack, but Liu was as indestructible as bamboo, and as soon as the soldier lost interest, Liu scrambled to his feet.

I dusted him off, gently fingering his swollen cheek. “What happened to you?”

He hooked a filthy thumb into his cheek and showed me a raw, inflamed place at the back of his mouth. “Bad tooth, missy.”

I was no dentist, but any reasonable person could see that it was infected, abscessed, and had to come out. “We have to hurry, Liu. Wait here a second.” I went back into Mr. Kloski's restaurant, and begged two ice cubes from him, which we tied into the ragged hem ripped from Liu's shirt. “Here, Liu, hold this against your cheek. We're going to the dentist near my house.” We raced through the Hongkew gates two minutes past my deadline, but the guard wasn't in the mood for a battle.

My own teeth chattered, despite the heat, as the street dentist foot-treadled his rusty equipment. With no antiseptic, no anesthetic, not even a mouthful of cold water to deaden the pain, he ripped the tooth from Liu's mouth and tossed it behind him into the gutter. Then he gave Liu a small packet of herbs guaranteed to cure the infection. Liu already looked lots better.

Satisfied, the dentist put his hand out for payment. Liu and I hadn't a fen between us. But a workman must be paid, as Father always said, even though he rarely was. What could I use for currency? I had one barrette left, a yellow dachshund like Pookie. I unclipped it from my hair, which tumbled into my eyes, and I gave the barrette to the dentist with a shaky hand. He inspected the offering curiously and pocketed it with a nod of approval.

When I got home, Mother said, “Get your hair out of your eyes, Ilse.”

“I lost my barrette,” I said, afraid to tell her how I'd spent it on Liu.

Mother sighed. “What else can we lose? You'll invent something for you and Erich to eat? I'm going to the concert hall. Your father is playing.”

I glanced over at the roll of mattresses. The Violin was gone for the first time in weeks. “Wait a second, Mother.” I reached for my Hangchow hat. “There. How's it feel?” The hat looked lovely on her graying auburn hair, turning her eyes wide and girlish and giving me a hint of what she must have looked like on her way to America.

Mother had given up all pretense of setting a proper table, since there wasn't much to put on our plates, anyway, and by suppertime the afternoon heat rose and settled into our third-floor apartment as thick as molten lead. Just walking around our tiny room seemed like too much effort. We took our kitchen chairs out to the lane for our supper, snatching every breeze that came by. The street cook in our lane sold the best sweet potatoes, steamed on his wok until the insides ran hot and juicy and sugary as caramel. We scooped them out with spoons, burning our mouths carelessly, but fried taste buds weren't much of a price to pay for the pleasure of this delicacy once a week or so. A small sweet potato—our whole meal.

Father was in a particularly jolly mood that evening. He'd had two concert dates with a little pay for each, and now he was smacking his lips over the last of his potato.

Erich said, “I'm saving half for a midnight snack.”

“Very admirable, son,” said Father.

“Very Austrian. I hate when he does that, Father. That half potato's going to haunt me all evening,” I growled.

“I know,” Erich replied with a grin. “That's what gives me the courage to stash half my supper away.”

Our neighbors were all sitting or leaning against the wall. Our official lane beggar, Chang, crouched at his station in the gutter, waiting, and the atmosphere was relaxed because we knew that the spring nights would be pleasant and cool for a few more weeks.

And then the atmosphere in the lane suddenly tensed, as though an electric storm had jaggedly passed through it, and our neighbors' voices softened. Some shoved their little ones into the buildings, or darted inside themselves. Even Chang sidled into a competitor's territory because two Japanese soldiers came goose-stepping down the lane, chins haughtily in the air and bayoneted rifles shelved on their shoulders as if they were the color guard in a military dress parade.

I jammed my spoon into the potato as the soldiers stopped right in front of Mother.

“Shpann? Frieda Shpann?”

“Yes,” Mother responded breathlessly.