The Last Rose of Shanghai(72)

He prayed. For Leah and his parents, whose faces, smiles, voices, and frowns would forever stand in the altar of his memories; for Miriam, whom he had disappointed but would always protect; for Aiyi, whom he loved and would always love; and for Mr. Schmidt, the people working in his bakery, and the refugees in Shanghai who were his new family, for whom security and comfort had remained elusive. He wished them the light of peace, the eternal joys, the unbroken spirit for years to come.



One early afternoon when the bakery was just about to close, he was leaving with Golda when he caught a young man sneaking by outside the window. He was shivering, without a coat or a hat, wearing a white sport shoe on one foot and a black oxford on the other. A refugee, an Austrian, Ernest knew instinctively.

“Would you care for some bread?” He invited him in, and Golda went to take out a glass of soy milk and a loaf of bread, a leftover. They sat as the young man gulped it all down.

His name was Sigmund Baum; he was indeed an Austrian, having arrived in Shanghai via an ocean liner, now staying in the Heime in the Hongkou district with about eight thousand refugees. They were in trouble, Sigmund said. They were the last group of refugees who had arrived in Shanghai, and for months the JDC had been supporting them, providing food and medical care for them. But since the attack on the Settlement, the eight thousand refugees were left on their own, hadn’t received medical care or food, and were crowded in the old unsanitary building, where four hundred people shared two primitive toilets. They had no support from any countries or the wealthy British or Americans, and they had lost touch with Miss Margolis, the representative from the JDC.

Ernest frowned, remembering the power of attorney in the scarf the social worker had thrown to him. “I saw her on a truck when she was sent to a camp.”

“A camp? Where? We must find her.”

But how? No one knew where the camp was. It could be located in the south of the Settlement, or north of the Hongkou district, or inside the Japanese military base, or even on an island near Japan. “Did she leave contacts in Shanghai?”

“She had an assistant, but he was imprisoned too.”

Ernest was sorry to hear that. The power of attorney was about a relief fund for the refugees, he remembered. “Let me see what I can do, Sigmund. By the way, Golda, do you think you need extra help in the kitchen?”

“Ernest, you know I can never say no to you.” Golda gave him a wink.

He was getting used to Golda’s flirtatiousness. An actress, she didn’t mind working with men or on the Sabbath, and her talent in acting helped lighten the mood in the bakery.

He turned back to the boy. Sigmund had large black eyes, skinny arms, and a boyish look. He was about fifteen or sixteen, just a little older than Miriam. “Sigmund, I don’t want you to leave yet. Say, would you like to help me in the bakery?”

Sigmund jumped and hugged him. Ernest patted his shoulder; Miriam could use a friend.

On the way to the inn, Ernest thought about how to find Miss Margolis. He must find her and deliver the power of attorney to her. Without the fund, the eight thousand refugees could starve to death.





56


AIYI


“But why?” I said. We were in bed. I had one leg on his stomach, the other brushing his thigh. We had just made love. My veins were still pulsing, a sweet sensation coursing through me like a dream. It was so comfortable I was about to fall asleep.

“She threw me the scarf with the power of attorney that has something to do with a half-million-dollar loan for the refugees. Now she’s missing, and the refugees are starving. I need to talk to her.”

“You don’t have to, Ernest. You don’t know where she is. You barely know her.” Ernest’s kindness was his strength and his flaw. He needed to be more selfish.

“Will you help me?”

“Me? How?”

“You know many people in this city. Someone must have heard of the camp.”

“Maybe. But why do you want to help them?” There were many helpless Jewish refugees, that was true, but with the Japanese still bombing our cities every day and trying to conquer all of China, there were thousands of Chinese refugees. Ernest couldn’t help everyone. Besides, if the social worker was in a camp, it would be dangerous for Ernest—he could get arrested himself. There was no reason Ernest should risk his life for some refugees he didn’t know.

“These people don’t have anyone else to help them. They can’t speak Chinese, don’t have a job, and they’re starving.”

“Many people are starving.”

“Aiyi.”

I rubbed myself against him. “Would you listen to me or the refugees?”

It was only a tease, hardly a test, and by no means a trial, but I couldn’t explain it. A new sense of possession, like a web, had expanded with our intimacy, and he, like a dress that was tailored for me, had become a prize I was unwilling to share.

“Of course I’ll listen to you. I just need to find Miss Margolis.”

“Then what? Get her out?”

“I don’t know. Help me, Aiyi, please. Help me find out where the camp is. People’s lives depend on it.”

His eyes glistened brightly. I had seen men lecturing, laughing, boasting, throwing tantrums, and beating women, but I had never seen a man cry for other people’s plight. I sighed. “Let me see what I can do.”