The Last Rose of Shanghai(28)
“Why? Was your country under their occupation?”
“Not like that. Mostly because of my religion.”
It was hard to imagine people were tormented because of their beliefs. Buddhism had many sects scattered over Asia, yet Mother often said Buddhists believed in peace and discouraged waging war against one another. But I could see, he, a foreigner, a man of a religion unknown to me, was as much a victim of cruelty as I was, a woman in an occupied city.
“But I still have this hand. My sister Leah . . . she tried to protect me. I was able to get away . . . But she didn’t come home that day. People said she stole some olives and was caught by the Hitler Youths, but we couldn’t find her. We finally found her . . . found her in a trash bin . . .”
The horror and the grief on his face. It tugged at my heart. I had lost my parents and a brother to diseases and an accident. I knew the hollowness that opened in your heart, but to bear this wound of witnessing a sibling lost to violence and human cruelty was a suffering I couldn’t imagine.
His eyes were bright. “But you know this saying—love is stronger than death?”
“Never heard of it.” I did something scandalous for girls of my upbringing, something startling to myself—I held his scarred hand and kissed it.
The club felt different without Ernest the next evening. Before the session started, in the quiet ballroom without customers, I sat on the bench, his bench, and I imagined the exact spot where his legs parted. I didn’t know what was going on with me. It was only one day, less than twenty-four hours, but I missed him. If he had kissed me, or made a hint, any hint at all, I would have taken my clothes off and lain with him, and I wouldn’t have cared if that would ruin me.
When I saw Cheng, I couldn’t help comparing him with Ernest. Cheng had a solid, athletic build with hard muscles and a grip like a vise; Ernest was slender and artistic with a gentle glow in his eyes. Cheng was petulant; Ernest was daring. Cheng, a scion, had all the riches in his hands; Ernest, a refugee, must fight for his survival—similar to me, struggling in a man’s world.
“Are you sick?” Cheng asked.
“No. Have you thought to learn to play the piano?”
His black eyes pierced me. “You’re sick, Aiyi.”
20
ERNEST
On the day of his break, Ernest was reminded by Miriam to register at the Jewish school since the fall semester would start soon. So he took her to the school. The weather was gloomy, yet he was content, chatting with Miriam, joking with her. They walked for half an hour to a bus stop, took a tram, and continued walking to the school at the west end of the Settlement. He shouldered through the crowd on the street, holding Miriam’s hand even though she protested. Now and then he patted the envelope filled with the twenty American dollars in his coat pocket to make sure it was not stolen.
When they arrived at the school’s courtyard, he finally let Miriam go in order to meet the headmaster, a man wearing a black apron, who gave him the enrollment form and explained the fees. Ernest paid them all; afterward, he and Miriam went to meet the host family. He was no longer in a joking mood—Miriam would stay with the host family for the semester, and he was having second thoughts. They were strangers, and Miriam was only thirteen, no longer a child but not yet a woman.
They were Americans. Mr. Blackstone, a middle-aged man with a baritone voice, was dressed in a brown flannel jacket, and his wife in a black coat and a black wool skirt. They were Protestants, childless. It was agreed that the Blackstones would provide lodging and food for Miriam, and Mr. Blackstone, who worked near the school, would drive her in the morning and pick her up in the afternoon.
When it was time for Miriam to leave, she looked at him with an expression that pained Ernest. Since the robbery, Miriam had lost weight, her shoulders now thin and her eyes timid. It seemed all the fire that burned inside her had been extinguished and she was scared about what to do with her new life. “Will you come to see me at school?”
Ernest teared up. Miriam was not the affectionate type. This was perhaps the closest she would come to expressing her love. “Of course I will.”
“The headmaster said Sir Kadoorie, the sponsor of the school, would like to throw me a bat mitzvah. Will you come?”
Bat mitzvah was the ultimate honor for Jewish girls as they were called by God, an important coming-of-age ceremony, a recognition for the child becoming an adult. Had they been in Berlin, their parents would have organized an extravagant party, inviting all their friends and relatives to celebrate the occasion.
“Of course. I won’t miss it for the world. I didn’t know they had bat mitzvah for girls here.”
“I didn’t know either. Headmaster said Sir Kadoorie was following the practice in America and he didn’t want me to be left out. Isn’t that nice? You had your bar mitzvah.”
“I see. Now you’ll need to learn how to read the Torah.”
Miriam smiled. “I’m going to learn everything, Ernest. Everything. So you’ll come? You’ll be my only family at my service.”
He held her shoulders and gave her a firm squeeze. “Believe me, Miriam. I won’t miss it for the world. If Mother and Father were here, they would come too. They would be so proud of you.”
Miriam’s smile broadened, and she climbed into Mr. Blackstone’s gray Packard. Ernest watched her and waved as she turned to him from inside the car, waved when the automobile began to drive away, and waved until its red taillights were replaced by honking Packards and racing rickshaws.