The Last Rose of Shanghai(13)

“That would be lovely. Who is that special person?”

“Ernest Reismann. I hear you dedicated a section to him.”

She nods. “Mr. Reismann. Of course. He was one of the highlights of the exhibit. He was a hero, a legend in Shanghai in the 1940s. Many people I interviewed were grateful to him. They said he was selfless and had a heart of gold.”

I smile, but I control myself beyond that. “I hear you found more than a dozen photos of him.”

“I did. I found a treasure trove of photos about Shanghai in the 1940s. They were very interesting, but I didn’t show all of them in the exhibit. I brought some with me. I can show them to you if you’d like to see.”

Somehow the word photos is stuck in my head. “I’d like to see them. If you don’t mind, I’d like to see what you’ve showed in the exhibit as well. I didn’t have a chance to see it while it was open.”

“I actually brought a lot of documents with me. Let me see.” She takes out a manila folder from her fringed handbag, pulls out a notebook from inside, and flips open to a page.

I hold my breath. I shouldn’t be nervous. There can’t be anything she found that I don’t already know.

“Mr. Reismann, right? Here’s the background about him. According to my research, the Jews in Berlin faced inhumane pogroms after the Kristallnacht. They were ordered to get out of Germany or risk being sent to concentration camps, but many countries were reluctant to accept them. With the world closed to them, about eighteen thousand Jews found their way to Shanghai. Mr. Reismann was one of those refugees. He was nineteen years old.”

Phoenix presses her fist to her lips; I want to close my eyes. It has been so long since I’ve heard someone talk about Ernest. “Right. He was one year younger than me.”

The fringe of Ms. Sorebi’s sleeves sways as she continues, “Mr. Reismann grew up in a two-bedroom apartment in the district of Mitte in central Berlin and spent most of his time in a music conservatory until he was expelled for being a Jew. He was a bright, optimistic youth. At school, he was always the first one to class and the last to leave. When he made extra money at a cabaret, he treated his friends to beer. Until all the cabarets refused to hire him. His parents lost their jobs in the university. His two uncles, in despair, had committed suicide among the rising hostility in Berlin. His older sister, a promising painter who had displayed her works in a famous gallery, stole a can of olives in hunger and was caught. She was beaten to death by a group of Hitler Youth. Her body was left inside a dumpster while the whole family searched for days.”

I’d heard of this straight from him, but still a shiver runs down my spine. “Go on.”

“In Shanghai, life was different for him and his sister. Let me see. Miriam Reismann. Am I right? They came to Shanghai together. They were very close, and he cared for her deeply.”

My heart stops for a moment.

“Mr. Reismann also found a job in Sir Victor Sassoon’s nightclub.”

“My nightclub. The One Hundred Joys.”

“Your nightclub? Gosh. Is it true? That was what I said in the exhibit. Did I get it wrong? How would a woman own a nightclub in Shanghai in the 1940s? I thought many Chinese women had bound feet.”

It’s naive of her to make assumptions about me. “You’re right. Many did, but not me. I wasn’t an average Chinese woman in the 1940s.”

Ms. Sorebi massages her temple, and her voice is softer when she speaks. “I’m sorry. I do apologize if I made a mistake. I only recorded what I was told.”

“I was not in the exhibit, which is understandable. But did your interviewees mention me? A Chinese girl who got involved with Ernest?” I ask.

She hesitates. “I’ll need to think about it, Ms. Shao.”

But by the look in her eyes, I can tell she doesn’t need to. “Do you believe what they said?”

Something in me has not changed after forty years. I still care about people’s opinions of me.

“Well . . .”

I take a deep breath. I should have presented my donation earlier, and now it looks like a bribe. “Ms. Sorebi, I forgot to mention that if you agree to make a documentary about Mr. Reismann, I shall donate the Peace Hotel to you.”

Her jaw drops. “This hotel?”

I see she understands the value. The Peace Hotel, opened in 1929, was originally named the Cathay Hotel. It had guest rooms from floors four to nine inside the towering Sassoon House. Described by many as the Waldorf Astoria of the East, it’s a valuable asset culturally, historically, and financially. In the course of the fifty years since it opened, the hotel has had different owners: Sir Victor Sassoon, the Nationalist government, and the pro-Japanese Wang Jingwei government, and now it’s my property. I have had it privately evaluated, and it is said to be worth at least ten million dollars.

“But I have a request. You must listen to my story.”

“I’d love to, Ms. Shao.” She turns to her fringed bag and tries to dig something out but stops. Her hands are shaking. My offer has taken her by surprise, and she obviously doesn’t know how to react yet. “I’m honored to make this documentary about Mr. Reismann, but I must make it clear, and I don’t mean to be rude, Ms. Shao, but as a documentarian, I’m not allowed to twist the truth or distort the history.”

“Of course. So you must hear my story.”