The Far Side of the Sky (14 page)

“But you already have one.” Luigi frowned. “With the funds wired ahead from Vienna.”

“You must be confusing me with another guest.”

Luigi withdrew a sheet from his inside coat pocket and consulted it. “According to the bursar, Dr. Franz Adler holds an on-board account with a balance of eight thousand Reichsmarks.”

Father! It had to be.
“Oh, yes, of course, I remember now,” Franz mumbled, realizing the substantial deposit must have represented the last of Jakob’s savings. The gesture only confirmed that his father did not intend to leave Vienna.

At sunset, they gathered on the aft deck for the liner’s castoff. The ship’s orchestra played a medley of Verdi and Puccini tunes. Hannah happily tossed streamers over the railing. Esther joined in, but Franz sensed the sorrow behind her brave face. He shared in it too as the finality of their departure sunk in.

Hannah nodded off at the dinner table before dessert arrived. Franz carried her back to their cabin and laid her down on the bed. Ernst headed off to explore the ship’s nightlife. Esther climbed into the bottom bunk and soon read herself to sleep.

Franz picked up the needle and thread that the steward had left on the table. He gently pried Schweizer Fräulein free of Hannah’s grip and began to repair the seam. The predictable rhythm of his fingers felt natural, and reminded him how much he missed performing surgery. Life always made the most sense to him inside the operating room. He wondered again if he would be able to perform surgery, or even practise medicine, in Shanghai.
What use would I be, if not as a doctor?

Franz examined the doll. Satisfied with the repair, he tucked it back into Hannah’s arms. Despite his fatigue, he was too stimulated to sleep. He donned his coat and shoes and slipped out of the room.

The shops, lounges and casino were abuzz, but he headed straight for the doors to the upper deck. Outside, an eruption of stars, along with the three-quarter moon, lit up the cloudless sky. He had to bundle up tight to fight off the chill from the icy wind, but he enjoyed the solace of the deserted deck.

The sweet scent of tobacco drifted to him. He turned to see a man striding toward him, a pipe between his teeth. He wore an overcoat and a felt homburg that he held on to in the brisk breeze. As he neared, he pulled his pipe from his lips.
“Deutsche?”

“Nein, Osterreicher,”
Franz replied.

“Aren’t we all German now?” the man said with a north German lilt.

He indicated the sky with the bowl of his pipe. “The night is a whole different beast on the Adriatic.”

“Not quite the same as the city, is it?”

“Wait until we reach the Indian Ocean.” The man pointed to the heavens again. “It’s as though you’re experiencing an entirely different sky. Then it all changes again in the South Pacific.”

“You have been to Shanghai before?” Franz asked.

“I have lived there. And you?”

“First time.”

The man chuckled softly as he held out a hand. “Schwartzmann. Hermann Schwartzmann.”

Franz viewed his new companion in the weak light. He had a thick moustache and a hooked nose, but his age was difficult to discern. He met the small man’s surprisingly strong grip. “Franz Adler.”

“Do you know much about Shanghai, Herr Adler?”

“Almost nothing.”

Schwartzmann flashed an enigmatic smile. “The Paris of the East. Or, if you prefer, the New York of the Orient.” “Inside China?”

Schwartzmann laughed again. “Geographically speaking, I suppose it is. In fact, it is the gateway to the country.” He paused almost theatrically. “But Shanghai is governed by three separate powers, none of whom happens to be Chinese.” Franz’s escape from Vienna had unfolded so swiftly that he had ended up on the boat knowing next to nothing about his destination. Schwartzmann dragged on his pipe. “To appreciate Shanghai, you need to understand that it has never really been a Chinese city per se.”

“I am not following you, Herr Schwartzmann.”

“Shanghai is the world’s sixth largest city—over three million residents. However, a hundred years ago it was little more than a mud flat anchorage for fishing boats.”

“So what transformed it?” Franz asked.

Schwartzmann swung his pipe triumphantly. “Opium!”

He went on to explain how in the early nineteenth century the British mass-produced the narcotic in India. They traded it up and down the Yangtze in exchange for silk and spices, while nurturing whole communities of opium addicts all along the river. The practice incurred the wrath of the Chinese emperor, inciting the Opium Wars. The English navy quickly crushed the feudal Chinese. The emperor capitulated and, in the Treaty of Nanking, conceded the British access to Chinese rivers and control of the five ports, including Shanghai. The Chinese believed that they were hoodwinking the British by giving them the low-level, ever-flooding flatlands of Shanghai, but the British recognized Shanghai for the geographical gem that it was: “The cork in the bottle that is China.” The English wanted to establish Shanghai as a hub of international trade, so they designated only a small section of the city to fall under British rule. Other countries followed suit. Soon Shanghai boasted several sovereign regions, called concessions. Later, most of them merged into one greater area, known as the International Settlement. The French refused to cooperate, opting instead to maintain an autonomous concession.

“You see, Dr. Adler?” Schwartzmann concluded. “Up until last summer, Shanghai consisted of the larger International Settlement and the smaller French Concession, surrounded by the Chinese-controlled Greater Shanghai.”

“And then the Japanese invaded,” Franz said.

“Exactly.” Schwartzmann drew an imaginary circle in the air with his pipe. “In their bid to conquer northern China, the Japanese overran the city’s Chinese-controlled area, including the harbour. Thus, of Shanghai’s three sovereign governments, none are Chinese.”

“What is Shanghai like now, Mr. Schwartzmann?” Franz asked.

“Like nothing else in the world.” Schwartzmann puffed pensively on his pipe for a few moments. “No description does it justice. You simply have to experience it.” Another gust of wind blew across the deck and he had to fight to hang on to his hat. After the wind settled, he said, “I suppose
if I were forced to choose one word to describe Shanghai, it would be ‘contradiction.’”

“Why so?”

“Contradiction,” Schwartzmann repeated. “Especially since the invasion. Neighbourhoods as opulent as the finest in Paris are next to others that lie in rubble. The most modern automobiles, trucks and cable cars share the streets with primitive rickshaws and wheelbarrows. The summers can be as hot and sticky as the jungle, while the winters are often as cold as the Alps. And the
people
are even more incongruous. White, yellow, brown, black and every colour between. The wealthiest and most sophisticated ladies and gentlemen share sidewalks and promenades with some of the poorest peasants you will ever find.” He held up a finger. “There is only one constant in Shanghai.”

“Which is?”

“Money.” Schwartzmannn rubbed his thumb and index finger together. “There is nothing and no one you cannot buy. And absolutely
everything—
including love, life and death—carries a price tag in Shanghai.”

“Too bad, money is something not many of us managed to bring out of Germany.”

Schwartzmannn frowned at Franz. “What do you mean?” “Well, obviously I cannot speak for you, but after Kristallnacht, we were lucky to—”

“Oh.” Schwartzmannn waved his pipe. “I am not a Jew.” “You’re not? But—”

“I am a senior attaché with the German High Commission. There are no Jews left in the Foreign Service.” He nodded to himself. “Ah, Adler, of course. I should have seen it. A Jewish name.”

Even though the wind had died down, Franz went ice cold, feeling suddenly betrayed by the friendly little man. His anger with all Nazis boiled to the surface. He thought about how easy it would be to lift Schwartzmann and toss him over the railing into the black sea below.

Reading Franz’s mood, Schwartzmann cleared his throat. “You must
understand. I am a diplomat. By definition that makes me apolitical. Nothing more.”

Struggling to keep his arms at his side, Franz squeezed his fists so tightly that his fingernails dug into his palms. He glared at Schwartzmann. “No,
you
must understand. You work for the German government.
That makes you a Nazi.
Nothing less.”

The water turned from navy to azure and the days grew longer and warmer as the
Conte Biancamano
rounded the Greek mainland into the Mediterranean, heading for North Africa.

Despite the uncertainty ahead and heartbreak behind, Franz found it impossible not to relax aboard. The ship was a floating resort where their needs were not only met but often anticipated. After five days of grazing at bottomless buffets, Franz’s clothes hung less loosely than they had in those final days in Vienna, when he had barely eaten. A deepening bronze tan replaced his winter pallor. And he could feel his muscles strengthening and endurance growing from his long strolls around the deck in the warm salty air.

From time to time, Franz spotted Hermann Schwartzmann in the company of his lean, pointy-faced wife. The diplomat had waved faintly at their first passing, but Franz did not acknowledge the gesture and, from then on, they ignored one another.

Esther never strayed too far from Hannah but otherwise kept to herself, consuming a steady diet of books that she borrowed from the ship’s library. Since her fair skin was prone to sunburn, Esther sat in the shade
and covered herself with a hat and long, loose clothes. She continued to wear only black, and at night after Hannah had fallen asleep, Franz would hear her quiet sobs as she whispered Kaddish, the Hebrew prayer of mourning.

Ernst joined the Adlers for most meals but disappeared for long stretches during the day and evening. Franz never knew if the artist was back in the cabin, “planted at the bar” as he jokingly claimed or somewhere else altogether.

Hannah spent most of her time in or around the swimming pool. She had formed fast friendships with some similarly aged children, most of whom were also Austrian Jews. She frolicked one afternoon away with a boy, Otto Goldstein, who was on board with his mother and grandparents. A year older and considerably taller than Hannah, Otto was a gentle soul and so sensitive to her handicap that she accused him of not trying in their games of water tag. That evening, Hannah asked, “What is Buchenwald, Papa?”

“A prison of sorts,” Franz replied, taken aback by her interest in the concentration camp. The Nazis had originally built Buchenwald, Dachau and the other camps to intern Communists and political prisoners, but Franz had heard that lately, especially following Kristallnacht, thousands of Jewish men had been imprisoned there. Several of the men aboard had been released from concentration camps but only after their loved ones had secured proof of emigration. At the dining table the evening before, Franz had witnessed a passenger turn ghostly pale at the mention of Buchenwald. His silence said more than all the rumours of torture, starvation and executions.

Franz frowned. “Why do you ask, Hannah?”

“Otto told me that the soldiers took his father there.”

“It does not mean he did anything wrong,
liebchen.”

“Otto’s mother says his father will meet them in Shanghai.” Hannah paused. “But Otto doesn’t believe her.”

“Why not?”

“Every night, his mother cries herself to sleep. Otto does not think
they will ever see him again.” She looked away and added, “Sometimes, at night, I hear Tante Esther crying too.”

Franz braced himself for the inevitable question about Karl, but Hannah didn’t ask. And he could not bring himself to ruin his daughter’s recent cheerfulness by confirming what she clearly suspected.

The next morning, Esther voiced a similar concern. “Your daughter worries about me.”

He patted her shoulder. “I do too, Essie.”

“You should have far greater worries,” Esther said, shrugging. “I think Hannah knows something happened to Karl. She keeps asking when and how he plans to reach Shanghai.”

“I want to tell her, Essie, but I haven’t seen Hannah this happy in so long.”

“It’s not the time,” she agreed. “But I hate lying to her.”

They stared out at the busy harbour. The
Conte Biancamano
had reached Africa. She moored outside the Egyptian city of Port Said at the entrance to the Suez Canal with several other vessels that included passenger liners, freighters and a couple of cruisers and destroyers flying the Union Jack. Esther and Franz stood at the starboard railing, gazing out at the Old Town of Port Said on one side of the canal and the endless sand of the Sinai Peninsula on the other.

Franz spotted a small cutter motoring toward them. Armed British soldiers sat on either side of two young men whom Franz recognized as fellow passengers. “I wonder what this is about,” he said.

“Ach so.”
Esther nodded to herself. “So they tried it after all.”

“Tried what?”

She pointed at the two prisoners, who were huddled in blankets. “The Irving brothers. I had heard a rumour that they were going to swim for shore.”

“Why?”

“They’re stateless refugees. Like us.”

Franz bristled at the term, still unable to wrap his mind around their descent to homeless outcasts. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Without visas, of course, the Irvings weren’t allowed ashore. I had heard they were going to try to swim for land and then make their way across the Sinai.”

“To Palestine?”

Esther nodded. “Good for them for trying.”

Franz swept a hand toward the sand dunes that stretched out to the horizon. “You think Palestine would be so preferable to Shanghai?” “Of course! Palestine is destined to be the Jewish homeland.” “According to the Zionists.”

“No, the British. They promised as much in the Balfour Declaration.” “Essie, they’re not allowing any more Jews to enter Palestine. They couldn’t be clearer about it.”