The Last Rose of Shanghai(19)

His passion for jazz swelled. He learned the music had arrived in Shanghai during the late 1920s when many American musicians came there during the Great Depression. Aiyi’s favorite song, “The Last Rose of Shanghai,” was composed during that time, by Buck Clayton and Li Jinhui, a Chinese composer. After the musicians left, their songs were recorded, copied, and fused into traditional Chinese ditties. Inspired by jazz, the music industry in Shanghai, once almost nonexistent, flourished in the 1930s. Songs blending the notes of jazz and folk tunes were broadcast on the radio and composed for films, a new breed of female singers rose to fame, and companies were founded to produce gramophone recordings.

Ten days had passed when one evening he noticed something. “Why does your band never play your favorite song, Aiyi?”

She put a finger on her lips.

No one in the club knew what her favorite song was.

One day, Ernest finished his work near dawn. On the way to his apartment, he bought a block of tofu and some bits of coal from a peddler in order to boil some water since the tap water in the kitchen was unsanitary. Ten fabi a night was still his payment, thanks to Aiyi’s kindness, but he was barely scraping by, feeding Miriam and himself. The other day he had bought a cup of rice. When they were ready to eat, Miriam had found ticks and two squirmy mealworms in her bowl. He dared her, and she swallowed the invaders, giggling. Life was hard, but as long as they were together, they could glean small jewels of joy from a bowl of rice with mealworms.

He was humming when Miriam, in her beige shearling trapper hat, opened the door. She was barefoot, holding a fly swatter. He lifted his hands. “Look what I got.”

“Tofu? I told you I don’t like it. It tastes like dirt.”

Miriam was moody. Since they moved to the apartment, he had told her to stay inside for safety. It might be out of his fear or him being overprotective, but after Leah, he was not going to take any chances. Miriam had agreed, especially seeing him wounded, but the confinement was taking a toll on her.

He placed the coal bits and food in the cabinet. “Look, I have a job now. When I get paid more, I’ll get you better food.”

“Can we talk, Ernest?”

“Later, maybe? I’m tired. It’s been a long night.” He took off his shoes and coat and dropped on the bed with a groan. He was spent, unable to keep his eyes open. After all these days, he still couldn’t get used to staying up all night. “Wake me up at noon, will you?”

“I don’t have a watch.”

“Fine. I’ll get up myself. Do you want to go back to sleep, too, Miriam? It’s still early.”

“I can’t. Too many rats and cockroaches. Do you know how many cockroaches I squashed? Thirty-four!”

To cheer Miriam up, he had started a human-against-pest game.

“That’s good. Keep it up, second lieutenant.” He yawned and closed his eyes.

“Ernest? Ernest! Don’t go to sleep. Talk to me. I have no one to talk to. I have nothing to read. I can’t understand what people are saying. This is so boring. I don’t like this life. How long are we going to stay here?”

Miriam was a typical bookworm. At five, she’d read about the well-behaved bunnies Hans and Grete in Die H?schenschule and entertained herself with the stories of mischievous Max and Moritz in Eine Bubengeschichte in sieben Streichen. By ten, she became an avid fan of Franz Kafka’s Die Verwandlung. Since schools refused to admit Jewish kids in Berlin, she had read and reread Kafka. Ernest had wrenched the book from her, tired of hearing her scream in her sleep. Kafka was not for kids.

Miriam was lonely. If he were not so exhausted, he would spend some time with her, talk to her, or play a game, but his limbs slackened, and sleepiness crept over him. “I don’t know. But Mother and Father will come soon. Remember that.”

“Can I go to the club with you?”

“It’s not for a twelve-year-old girl.”

“I just turned thirteen.”

He had forgotten her birthday. “It’s not for a thirteen-year-old either.”

“But I want to do something. Get a job, like you. Can I get a job? Wake up, Ernest!”

He yawned. “Who will hire a thirteen-year-old? Actually, you should go to school. But I hear the Japanese had shut down Chinese schools, and they are still not allowed to open. Schools owned by the Americans and British might be open, but I doubt there is a Jewish school.” He was about to fall asleep when he felt Miriam’s hand shaking him, and he caught something she said. “What did you say? Opium den?”

“I didn’t know it was an opium den. It was dark inside. Many Chinese were smoking on cots. I thought they were sleeping, but they were holding long pipes. The place smelled so good! Like a flower shop. They almost caught me.”

Ernest sat up. Exhaustion, lack of sleep, and fear pounded in his head. “Did you wander to the Chinese area? I told you not to go out. The streets are not safe for girls. What if, what if—”

“It’s fascinating, the Old City, so different from Berlin. The buildings had curved eaves perched with dragons, like an emperor’s palace in the history books I read. The streets were dirty, and there were many weird things going on. There was a stage for executions or something. I saw a man hanged! Near the temple, some girls were—”

His sleepiness vanished. “Miriam, it’s dangerous. You need to stay inside.”