The Last Rose of Shanghai(59)

46


ERNEST


Two days passed since he refused the adoption. Miriam had been sulky. She slunk away to the street during the day; by nightfall she came back and slept on a pile of coats in a corner. When he tried to talk to her, she screamed, “You ruined my life. Leave me alone!”

Guilt hammered his heart. He itched to do something to make it up to her. He went to search for bookstores that sold English books and finally found one. With five American dollars, he purchased a Webster dictionary and left it on the pile of coats where she slept. When Miriam saw it, she took it, held it, and turned her back on him.

He could do more. He set out to scour for a bakery. Near a church in the Settlement, he found one, owned by Mr. Kauser, a stout American, and his wife. The bakery was crowded with European refugees who wore double-breasted coats and hats he knew well. It was such a joy to see them, even though they were from different countries. Beaming, Ernest asked Mr. Kauser if he could make some Pfannkuchen.

Mr. Kauser shook his head. “We only make bread and bagels, sir.”

So Ernest bought some flour from the bakery, and with another five dollars he bought two eggs and expensive milk—dairy was rare and hard to find. In the dim kitchen in the hallway, he mixed up the ingredients and made Pfannkuchen with care as if his life depended on it. And finally, a dozen golden Pfannkuchen. He stacked them on a plate and left them in a pot to keep them warm.

When Miriam saw the Pfannkuchen, she growled and looked away, but the moment he turned around, she took the pot and devoured all in the hallway.

Ernest sighed in relief. He could never give back the life she had lost, but he would keep doing his best, to apologize for his negligence, to show how much he cared for her, and he would never, ever neglect her again.



It was the first day of December. The day wasn’t special, and it normally would have slipped into the muddy river of history like a sodden leaf. But it was the day they would leave for Hong Kong.

In the morning, Ernest reminded Miriam of their departure that afternoon. She growled and left. He scratched his chin, hoping she would be back on time.

There were still hours before the departure, so Ernest went to Mr. Kauser’s bakery again. He tried a bagel with peanut butter since jam and butter were scarce. But peanut butter went well with bagels; it was nutty and rich, and the bagel was freshly baked.

Across from him, an old man with a felt hat was peering at a newspaper on the table; suddenly he pushed the paper aside and sobbed.

Ernest recognized Mr. Schmidt, the man who had borrowed his toothbrush in the Embankment Building. “Mr. Schmidt? I’m Ernest Reismann. Remember me? So good to see you. What’s wrong?”

“Read it! Germany. Germany has—” The old man choked up and stuffed the Shanghai Jewish Chronicle into his hand. People around them gathered to see.

Maybe Germany had utterly destroyed Britain. Or maybe Hitler was dead. Ernest spread the newspaper on the table. Unable to believe what he had just read, he read it again.

It was not about the war; it was about him. The German government had announced that a Jew living abroad could not be a German citizen and all the assets of the Jews would be taken over by the Third Reich. It was official. He, who had been born in Berlin, spoke German, went to German schools, became a bar mitzvah in a fine restaurant in central Berlin, played the piano in music halls and cozy apartments near the Brandenburg Gate, went skiing at the Alpsee-Grünten resort, and bought his Leica in a shop in Berlin, was no longer a citizen of Germany. After all the pogroms, all the suffering, all the anguish, his sister’s life, his parents’ lives, and Miriam’s and his futures, the Nazis still wouldn’t leave him alone.

Ernest took out the passport in his pocket and tore up the first page, the second, and then the entire book. He was now a man without a country. Had there been such a thing before? A curiosity, a tragedy, a man without a country.

He laughed, and he couldn’t stop laughing even when tears spilled. From now on, he was a wanderer, a drifter, unclaimed, unbound, unidentified.

Mr. Schmidt was moaning, “Oh, Lord,” then added a comment that seemed to show how much his time in Shanghai had influenced him: “We are only the lotus flowers in a pond, a shallow bloom. Our shallow roots grasp for water and air, and we drift in the tide of cruelty.”

Some people wailed; some dug into their pockets and began to rip their passports too. “Good riddance!” they cried out with tears in their eyes.

Ernest stared at the pile of scraps, his heart wrenched in pain. Without a passport, he was a ghost; without a passport, he couldn’t leave Shanghai.



He didn’t remember how he left the bakery. Walking toward the apartment where he had stayed for nearly two years, he came across a checkpoint near the Chinese district, where a Japanese sentry was hitting a long-robed Chinese man with a rifle stock. He shivered. A stateless man, he was a target that bullets, bayonets, and bombs could aim at. Even if he bled to death, the killer would claim no responsibility.

The same fate would fall on Miriam. Poor Miriam. Had he known they would be stateless, he would have let her go with Mr. Blackstone. For his selfish reasons, he had kept her and had inadvertently destroyed her future.



In the next few days he rushed from one consulate to another. First the British consulate, which was closed due to lack of staff, then the American consulate inside the towering Development Building. He had never gone there before—America seemed so distant.