The Last Rose of Shanghai(6)

But this was the most beautiful city in the world. It had no sickening swastika flags, no damned Nazi uniforms, no Germans threatening to arrest him. Occupied Shanghai was the only open port for Jews, the only city that accepted him without an entry visa. This city was his dream; Berlin a nightmare. He would not go back until Hitler was gone.

“Ernest! Where have you been?” Miriam stuck her head out from the top bunk, chewing on the chin strap of her trapper hat. The beige shearling hat was a souvenir she’d picked up on the ocean liner. It was for boys, but she loved it.

“I thought you were asleep. I went to look for a job.”

“Did you find one?” Miriam’s large eyes were filled with hope. “I’m hungry. I could eat a dozen Pfannkuchen.”

“Not yet. But don’t worry, I’ll find a job.” And when he did, he would treat her to anything she wanted. She was twelve years old, a reserved girl. He had played the dreidel with her when she was a toddler and trudged in knee-high snow to buy Pfannkuchen, her favorite breakfast, for her. After Leah, he swore he would take good care of Miriam.

“Ernest, the Komor Committee was looking for you,” Miriam said, her innocent voice filled with fear that had begun to creep in since their departure from Berlin. “They said our bunk beds would be reassigned to the incoming refugees. We need to move out. We have five days.”

The committee, a volunteer charity group organized by local Jews, had picked them up at the wharf and transported them to this building, a reception place. He had been told their stay would be temporary. But five days . . .

He turned onto his side and rested his head on his hand. Suddenly, exhaustion enveloped him, and all the courage and optimism that he had forged on the ocean liner evaporated. He closed his eyes. He was just tired. He just needed a good night’s sleep.



The next morning, he felt worse. His head ached, his legs were sore, and listening to the endless din and complaints around him, he became pessimistic—he would never find a job in this city. Eventually he got up and rummaged in the suitcase for a toothbrush and a stub of toothpaste saved from the ocean liner, his hands brushing his entire assets inside: his precious Leica, a Montblanc pen, a stack of music sheets he had salvaged from under the Hitler Youth’s boots, Miriam’s clothes, his clothes, and a pair of gloves his mother had packed.

The line to the lavatory was long. Many people held canteens and tin boxes to refill with water, their faces grim. By the reflection on the windowpanes, Ernest saw his own face ringed with stubble, desperate, just like everyone else. He looked away, wishing the line would move faster, for his bladder was full. But to cut ahead of the line was unthinkable. So for one long hour, he stood rigidly, holding his breath as his bladder expanded, growing heavier and then painful. Who knew after escaping the war in Europe he would face such a human misery? And what he would have done for a stall to relieve himself! When he was certain he was going to have an exploding bladder and die an undignified death, finally came his turn to use a stall.

By God, he swore, it was the most blissful moment of his life, to let himself go, to release every drop that had caused him so much pain. When he was done, standing at a sink to wash his hands, it was as if he were reborn—a new man, unburdened, invincible. He hummed.

“Ah. Chopin in a latrine,” an old man wearing a felt hat mumbled beside him.

Ernest grinned. “Did I come across you on the ocean liner, sir? I’m Ernest Reismann.”

“Carl Schmidt. Are you ready to get out of here? It’s so crowded.”

“As soon as I find a job.” Ernest squeezed out some toothpaste and began to brush his teeth. He’d have liked to chat more, but people behind him were waiting for his sink.

“What do you do? Are you a pianist?”

“Oh no.” He had kept his scores, still remembered how to play Chopin’s C-sharp minor nocturne from memory, but he had given up piano years ago. Now Mr. Schmidt made him think. Surely people in Shanghai listened to music?

“May I borrow your toothbrush, Ernest? I’ll give it back. Mine was stolen. Yes, my toothbrush! Don’t trust anyone here. People are desperate,” the old man said.

Ernest gave his teeth a quick scrub and handed the old man his only toothbrush. “Here, Mr. Schmidt. Wish me luck. I am a pianist, in fact.”





6


AIYI


At the revolving door, I paused cautiously, studying the lobby I had fled a few days ago. The memory of the attack and the blue-eyed man’s arrest came into my mind, making me flinch. Then I saw the Briton holding his silver-crusted cane, limping, making a beeline for me.

Sir Victor Sassoon was a tall man with black eyes, thick graying eyebrows, a carefully trimmed mustache, and a long face. Dressed impeccably in a black suit with tails, a white carnation on the lapel, and a black silk top hat, he appeared severe like an iron rod, plain like rice, and way too withered to be my friend. But what did it matter? He was the wealthiest man in Asia, a billionaire, in all likelihood, and the owner of more than eighteen thousand properties in Shanghai, including this hotel, nightclubs, high-rise apartments, a racecourse, and transportation companies.

He was fifty-nine, still single, living by his own rules, deaf to the salt-and-sugar warning. He ignored his associates’ frowns and openly invited me to many of his perfume-filled parties and silk-swirling balls, even though he couldn’t dance. A womanizer, I believed, he changed his female companions more often than I changed my dresses—an Indian princess wearing a bejeweled head wrap, an American movie star with the face of a doll, and scores of scantily clad Russian dancers with voluptuous bodies. He was proud, showing them off in the hotel.