The Far Side of the Sky (26 page)

“Unglaublich!
Can you believe we have already been in Shanghai for almost a year and a half, Franz?” Esther asked from the armchair where she sat lengthening Hannah’s school skirt.

“Feels more like a lifetime and a half,” Franz replied.

“Ja,”
Esther sighed. “Quite a lot has happened since, no?”

“You might say so, Essie!” Franz chuckled at her understatement. Europe had gone to war. The Germans had trampled Poland in the fall. While fighting had reached a stalemate over the winter months, with the dawn of spring, the Wehrmacht had launched a new blitzkrieg and invaded Scandinavia. Denmark had already surrendered, and now Norwegians shuddered as hostile forces occupied the streets of Oslo. The Adlers kept their wireless tuned to the BBC night and day, hoping and praying to hear word that the British and the French had struck back decisively. But each day brought only bleaker news from Europe. Rumours ran rampant among the refugee community about Jews caught in the Nazis’ clutches inside Germany, Czechoslovakia and especially Poland. Franz had heard frantic stories of walled ghettos, mass arrests, starvation and torture. With
the borders closed and escape routes cut off by the hostilities, the flow of new refugees into Shanghai had stemmed from a flood to a trickle.

Locally, tensions had steadily risen as the Japanese sabre-rattling intensified. More and more Shanghailanders and expatriates had packed up and departed for Hong Kong, Singapore and other safer harbours. Leaving was not an option for the Adlers or the twenty thousand other German Jews. Esther’s multiple visa applications and letters to the American, British, Canadian and Australian authorities had all been politely declined or ignored altogether. Esther remained optimistic, but Franz was more convinced than ever that no one wanted the displaced Jews.

Still, Franz was astounded at how the refugee community had gelled. On his walks and rickshaw rides around the city, he saw that the German Jews had made a home for themselves, ironically, replicating the towns and streets they had escaped. Franz had never felt a strong affiliation to the Viennese Jewish community, but in Shanghai, through his work at the refugee hospital, he had already come to know several families in his same predicament. Many were secular Jews like him; some were only half Jewish or married to Gentiles. Franz took unexpected pride in how their resourcefulness had largely overcome the poverty to which most of the refugees had arrived. Cafés, restaurants, theatres, bakeries and sports clubs had sprung up all over, especially in the streets surrounding the refugee hospital—a neighbourhood that had come to be known as Little Vienna. All kinds of authentic fare, from matzo, bagels and smoked meat to non-kosher Austrian delicacies such as Wiener schnitzel, were readily available. In the evenings, Shanghai buzzed with Jewish culture.

The sharp whine of strings drew Franz’s attention. Across the room, Lotte Weczel sat beside his daughter. Hannah’s face was creased in concentration as she balanced a diminutive cello between her legs. Franz had yet to adjust to the sight of his daughter’s lopsided playing style. Her bow hand sawed fluidly across the strings while her contracted left hand fumbled to finger each note. The music emerged in squeaky bursts, but the tune was identifiable and her improvement undeniable.

Lotte had suggested the cello to Hannah, lending her a child-sized
instrument and offering to teach her. Despite her handicap and unremarkable musical aptitude, Hannah embraced the instrument with the same ferocity that she tackled every new challenge.

Lotte muttered a few quiet words of encouragement and then glanced to Franz with one of her shy smiles. They had been seeing one another for over a year. They shared an appreciation for music and old-time architecture. Lotte often toured him through the lesser trod areas of the International Settlement, exposing him to eccentric villas and other turn-of-the-nineteenth-century gems that he might never have otherwise found. She also cared deeply for Hannah, and vice versa. However, Franz’s relationship with Lotte remained passionless and, aside from a few staid good-night kisses, platonic. Little about Lotte stirred him romantically or sexually. And though she would occasionally reach for his hand while walking or sitting in the cinema, he sensed no more interest on her part than his.

While neither Franz nor Lotte were in any hurry to advance their relationship, Clara Reuben made it her priority. She no longer relied on persuasiveness or guilt alone, but had become even more direct, suggesting that unless Franz married into the family, her husband would have trouble continuing to fund his modest salary at the Country Hospital. She also implied that Hannah’s scholarship at the exclusive Shanghai Jewish School would be in jeopardy. For Franz, the latter was a far weightier threat. Hannah was thriving at school, where both the teachers and students seemed sensitive to her handicap. Franz was prepared to do anything to protect his daughter’s well-being, even marry a woman he did not love.

Esther did not share his opinion. She had made her view clear the week before over tea. “Lotte is a sweet woman, but that’s not reason enough to marry.”

“Her aunt might be reason enough.”

“You can’t let
that
woman bully you, Franz! It’s just not right. For you or Lotte.”

“Essie, we are discussing Hannah’s future.” “No, Franz. We are discussing
your
future.”

“What if they expel Hannah from school?”

She held up her hands. “Because her father refused to marry a board member’s niece?”

“For not paying the dues. We both know Clara secured us the grant for Hannah.”

“Maybe so, but Hannah is a good student. They would have no cause to withdraw her scholarship now.”

“Her mother was not Jewish. So, technically, neither is Hannah.”

Esther shook her head. “Did you hide this from the school when she enrolled?”

“No, but Clara says the pressure for spots is greater than ever. And the board feels other,
fully
Jewish children are more deserving of scholarships.”

“Oh, Franz, that woman would tell you that the sun will not rise again until you marry her niece. She is bluffing.” “How can you be so sure, Essie?” She sighed.
“Ach.
I do not trust the old turtle.”

“Lotte is a kind soul. She is good to Hannah. It would not be the end of the world.”

Esther patted his arm. “You and I have both been blessed to know what it means to marry for love. There is no other reason, certainly not blackmail! What kind of marriage would yours be?”

The music stopped and the momentary lull pulled Franz back to the present. Hannah lowered her bow to the ground.

Franz clapped enthusiastically. “Brava!”

Esther put down her sewing to join in on the applause.

“I am still terrible, Papa,” Hannah said with a timid smile.

“Not so,
liebchen.
I hear improvement each time.” Franz motioned to her cello. “You remember when you first tried?”

She giggled. “Onkel Ernst said I sounded like a cat trapped beneath the wheel of a cart.”

“Wait until he hears you now.” He laughed. “No more crushed cats. Only lovely music.”

“Is he coming tonight for dinner?” Hannah asked hopefully. “Maybe I can play for him?”

Ernst no longer lived with the Adlers. A few months after their arrival, Lady Leah Herdoon had made good on her shipboard promise and toured them through the city in the back of her Rolls-Royce limousine. After a sumptuous dinner at her mansion on the western outskirts, Lady Leah commissioned Ernst to paint two original pieces. The money was enough for him to rent a suite in a building a few streets over from the Adlers. Lady Leah also introduced Ernst to one of Shanghai’s top art dealers, Lawrence Solomon, who invited Ernst to show at his gallery. Ernst produced several large oil canvases that captured the haunting vulnerability of his subjects—female nudes he had chosen from the youngest of the dockside prostitutes. The show was a critical and commercial success. As soon as it closed, Ernst threw himself into his next project and, in the process, had become a relative recluse.

“No, Hannah, Ernst is not coming tonight,” Esther said.

“When will we see him again?”

“Soon,
liebchen,”
Franz said. “Sometimes artists become consumed by their work.”

Hannah giggled. “You mean his paintings are eating him?”

“Something like that.” Franz smiled. He treasured such small moments of naïveté; they were fewer now. In a month, Hannah would turn ten. Lean and lanky—she was destined to be tall like her mother—her face had already shed most of its childlike roundness. She was maturing into a lovely girl with poise and confidence.
Where did my little child go?

Lotte gathered up Hannah’s sheets of music and rose from the chair. “I am to meet Aunt Clara for lunch. I must be going.”

Franz checked his watch, surprised to see that it was almost noon. “Yes, me too. I have to go to the hospital.”

“It’s Sunday, Papa. I thought we were going to the market.”

“Later,
liebchen,
but first I need to check on my patients.” And, since Sundays were the only days that Franz didn’t have duties at the Country Hospital, he often ran an afternoon clinic for new patients at the refugee hospital.

After goodbyes, which included an awkward hug with Lotte in front of Esther and Hannah, Franz headed out. He intended to walk, but the streets were soaked from the latest downpour. He had not seen the sun in weeks. None of the locals could remember a damper spring. Concerned that the passing cars might soak him with sprays of filthy water, Franz opted against taking a rickshaw and splurged instead on a taxi.

As the cab wove through the traffic of Frenchtown, the International Settlement and finally Hongkew, Franz realized how familiar Shanghai’s streets had become. Night soil men balancing loads on bamboo poles, corpses abandoned on the curbs, natives wandering the sidewalks in pyjamas and street dentists extracting teeth in public were all second nature to him. Even the aromas and stenches barely registered. Shanghai was still not home—he doubted it ever could be—but it felt more comfortable than he would have once dreamed possible.

The taxi driver dropped him off in front of the refugee hospital. Franz headed to the staff room. Sunny sat at the small table, using chopsticks to pick at a bowl of rice. “Good afternoon, Franz.”

“Oh, hello, Sunny.” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”

She smiled in the distant way that she had taken to since her father’s murder. “I promised Miriam I would cover her shift. It’s her son’s birthday.”

Franz slipped off his wet coat and hat and hung them on the rack. As casual as he tried to appear, he was aware of his pulse speeding. Though he had seen Sunny often over the past year and a half, she had only recently begun to emerge from the mourning that enshrouded her like a dense mist.

Sunny had returned to work within two months of her stabbing but, traumatized and heartbroken, she functioned more like an automaton. Almost a year passed before she approached Franz about accepting his offer to apprentice under him. It took months more before the sparks of her former self reappeared. When she emerged, it was like a bud blossoming. His attraction to her was stronger than ever; they were bound by grief now.

“How are the patients today?” Franz asked.

“Mr. Irving’s wound infection has improved. And I suspect Mrs. Klein could go home today.” She continued to list off the status of each of the patients.

“Good,” Franz said. “Sunny, on Tuesday Mrs. Kolberg is scheduled to have her gallbladder removed.”

“Would you like me to assist you?” “No.”

She jerked her head back. “No? Fr—Dr. Adler? Did I do something to …”

Franz fought back a smile. “I intend to assist
you
on this particular operation.”

Her face lit up. “Do you think I am ready?” “I am eager to find out.”

“I would like that,” she said quietly. “Very much. Thank you.”

“It’s time,” Franz said, drinking in her gratitude.

Sunny stood from the table. “I brought you something from home.” She rummaged through the bag at her feet and extracted a square leather box that Franz recognized as a Kodak Brownie box camera. “My father bought this seven or eight years ago. He claimed he never could find the time to use it.” She grinned. “Truth is, I don’t think he was much of a photographer. The few images I saw of his were almost too dark or blurry to identify.”

She held the camera out to Franz, but he waved it away. “Sunny, I couldn’t.”

Her cheeks flushed but she didn’t lower her hand. “I have no use for it, Franz. I would not even know which end to point. And I thought you used to enjoy photography in Vienna.”

He wavered, admiring the Brownie’s black-and-burgundy design. “Are you certain?”

“My father hated wastefulness,” she encouraged. “He would be very pleased to know that it might bring you some pleasure. So would I.”

“It will. Thank you, Sunny.” The weight of the camera in his hand filled him with excitement.

Sunny cocked her head. “Have you seen Dr. Feinstein today?”

“No. Is he in the laboratory?”

She bit her lip. “He does not look right, Franz.”

“Perhaps I should speak with him.”

Franz found Max hunched over his microscope in the cramped laboratory. When the internist looked up, his eyes were red and his face as pale as his lab coat. “What is it, Max?” Franz asked.

“Rachel,” Max gulped. “My daughter, Rachel.”

Max had not spoken of her in over a year. Rachel’s situation—trapped with her family in Germany after her husband had gambled, and lost, on the hope of landing an American visa—was tragically common among the relatives of the refugees in Shanghai. “There is news?” Franz asked.

Max nodded despondently. “We received a letter from a neighbour. A Gentile widow who was … was always kind to us. The SS … they took them away—Rachel, Erik and the children, all of them—to a ‘relocation camp.’ The letter was dated almost six months ago.”

“Perhaps …” Franz started but he couldn’t conjure any words of reassurance. “Oh, Max, I am so sorry.”