The Last Rose of Shanghai(113)

“So you married Mr. Reismann, forgot about the daughter you gave away, and never came back to Shanghai again.”

“I couldn’t, my dear. After the Communist party took over, I was named a traitor for marrying a foreigner and banned from entering Shanghai. Then the Cultural Revolution swept across the country. Any news about you and the family who adopted you was cut off.”

“How did you and Mr. Reismann end up in Canada?”

“We led a happy life in Austin, Texas, the three of us, but I was an outsider, to say it nicely. I was wheelchair bound and perhaps one of the only two Chinese women in Texas. The other one I knew was Claire Lee Chennault’s wife, Anna Chen. They called me ma’am and then told me I was not welcome in grocery stores, concerts, parks, or restaurants. I was housebound, a prisoner. That was why your accent brought up many bad memories for me at first.

“Ernest thought it was not worth living there, so we moved to Vancouver. Vancouver was quieter, had more Chinese people. We started a small restaurant, which became a successful chain, which led us to invest in more restaurants and hotels. Ernest was a capable businessman, as you’ve learned, and I made by hand all the dumplings from my wheelchair. Now we have the international hospitality company that manages a broad portfolio of hotels, restaurants, and resorts, the Shao Holdings Company.” Which she knows.

“Do you have other children?”

“Sadly, I couldn’t have children after you. My body suffered too much during the war.”

She looks toward the window, toward the void between the sky and the earth that must be the size of the absence of a mother in her heart. A moment later, she says, “My adoptive parents were kind to me. They loved me as their own. If my aunt hadn’t let it slip, I would never have known. But when I lost my parents and found out about the adoption at fourteen, I thought my world was over. I tried to find out who my biological parents were. That was why I came to Shanghai years ago, since my aunt mentioned Shanghai. But I found no proof, and the near arrest was enough to stop me.”

I listen; I have waited for this for so long.

“After so many years, I’d given up. As I was growing up, people said I looked Italian, European, or even Latina. I didn’t know what to say, but I had a feeling I might have Asian blood. I tried not to dwell on that, though. Sometimes it’s better to forget about your origin. It’s easier, you understand? Because this feeling . . . this thought that I was not wanted, that it was probably better off if I hadn’t been born . . . Do you understand what it was like?”

What else can I say? The unforgivable sin that I have committed and can never atone for?

“It’s like—” She stops, covering her face, but then she speaks again through her hands. “It’s like your heart is a leaky bottle that you’re trying to fill. All the love, joys, and happy moments go right through it, and it can never be filled up.”

I have tears in my eyes. “If I could alter time, I would not have left you. If we could go back to those years, I would spoil you like a doting Chinese mother. My daughter, I can never make up for the lost years, for what has been missing in your life, for what has been missing in your heart. But I wish to tell you that you were missed and you were loved, since the moment you were given away, for every moment of your life, even though you never knew, even though we were continents away.”

She puts down her hands and looks at me, her face a river.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book was written after the losses of my mother and my father-in-law. I was confused and depressed but didn’t know it. Many struggles, detours, and false starts took place because of that. I’m deeply thankful to all the people who helped create this book.

I’m incredibly grateful to my brilliant editor, Jodi Warshaw. Thank you so much for your patience, your vision, and your faith in me. I cherish the opportunity to work with you.

Thank you to my agent, Rachel Ekstrom Courage, for your devotion, your phone calls, and your excellent feedback. Many thanks, too, to Maggie Auffarth for your astute comments on an early draft. To Tegan Tigani, for your peerless intelligence and insight—your editing skill is in a class by itself. To my copyeditor and my proofreader, the warriors behind the pages, thank you so much for saving me!

Thank you to Andrea Peskind Katz, the founder of Great Thoughts’ Great Readers, who urged me to write a novel about Jews in Shanghai. It’s fair to say that without your suggestion, this novel would never have been written. I’m so grateful for our talks and texting and your lavish encouragement and support along the way. You’re a friend a writer can only dream of!

Thank you to my boy, Joshua, for the tank. I promised to acknowledge you, so here you go. You have walked around the neighborhood with me, distracted me, and enthralled me with your magic talks of World War II bombers, fighters, and pilots, and much more.

Thank you to Mike Leibling for your generous guidance, your open-mindedness, and your subtle but wonderful British humor when I needed it. To Dianna Rostad, for reading anything I wrote, for the tears and laughter, and for your decades-long friendship. To my dear friend Janie Chang, for your gentle talks, our shared heritage, and the dim sum.

Thank you to Rabbi Geoffrey Dennis for helping research the bat mitzvah tradition in the US in the 1920s. Without your help, the details of Miriam’s momentous ritual would be told differently. To Sofie Delgado and Sabrina Moormann, for helping me with the German passage in the novel. Thank you to my talented friends at Tall Poppy Writers—Amy Reichert, Ann Garvin, Aimie Runyan, Hank Phillippi Ryan, and of course all the others I don’t have a chance to add here—for all the lovely conversations, the expert suggestions, and many thoughtful comments and generous help on my publishing journey.