The Last Rose of Shanghai(79)

I saw Sinmay off at the wharf, at the same spot where I bade farewell to Emily. When I left, my thoughts swirled like tea leaves in hot water. Sinmay was broke; I had lost my club. The wealth of my family had declined dramatically. But maybe the situation wasn’t that bad. His factory was still there, and our home alone was worth a lot. Peiyu, a formidable woman with a good sense of finance, would know what to do.

And Sinmay had given me his blessing to plan my future with Ernest, the most wonderful outcome. I should tell Ernest of this, tell him of the child I carried. Perhaps he would live in my house, and we would play mah-jongg, drink tea, and listen to music. We would be like Emily and Sinmay, but happier.

It was a rare sunny afternoon, late in the day. The streets were paved with pebbles of sunlight, the sky whirled with white jasmine petals, and the wind surfed on an opaque silky sleeve of smoke.

I went to Ernest’s bakery to surprise him.





63


ERNEST


The soldiers were back again, talking to an officer with a mole under his eye. By the window, Ernest watched them with the nagging unease that he was being watched too. When the piano had been unloaded from a rickshaw earlier this morning, one of the soldiers had examined it before giving permission to have it moved inside the bakery.

But perhaps he was overly anxious. He had heard the same story again that the Japanese had left the German Jews alone. Perhaps, he was safe. He walked away from the window, sat on the bench in front of the piano, and ran his right hand, ungloved, completely healed, up and down the keys, reveling in the rushing sound of piano. Aiyi would be so pleased. “The Last Rose of Shanghai” rang in his ears; his heart lifting in happiness, he played. His Chinese, in his opinion, was much improved, but Aiyi always said he got the tones wrong. So he switched to Beethoven.

“This piano must have cost a fortune,” Mr. Schmidt said near the counter.

“Fifty American dollars,” Sigmund, who had helped move the piano from the hotel to the bakery, replied for him. “Ernest bought it for his girlfriend.”

“Did you use up all your savings, Ernest?” Miriam said.

Ernest smiled. He loved it that Miriam looked out for him. “Don’t worry. We have enough.”

“Will you bring your girlfriend here? Will you let us meet her?” Sigmund asked.

“Of course. She doesn’t know about the piano yet. I want to surprise her.”

“Is she still cold?” Miriam crossed her arms, a gesture reminding him of his mother.

“I told you, Miriam. She was a bit aloof, but not cold.”

“You said she’s Chinese.” Mr. Schmidt was shaking his head; near him, Golda, tying a plaid apron over her waist, frowned at him as if he were a loaf of overly baked bread.

He knew what was in their minds. They didn’t know Chinese people very well; they didn’t speak Chinese and had few interactions with the locals. But once they met Aiyi and got to know her, they would like her.

“My friends, I’m going to marry her and start a new life with her. I’m beyond excited.”

“This is so fast. Have you discussed it with a rabbi?” Mr. Schmidt looked as though he’d just swallowed a ball.

If he wanted to—if Aiyi wanted to—they could go to the synagogue. Ernest was just about to say that when a man in a khaki uniform and an officer’s cap staggered through the door. The pungent scent of alcohol permeated the room.

A sudden silence fell; everyone froze.

Ernest’s skin crawled. The Japanese had discovered them. He would demand to see his identification card and arrest them all.

“Nice piano music. Very nice.” The officer stumbled to him. His words were slurred; his English had a heavy accent. He attempted to lean against the piano but missed it and nearly slipped to the floor. “Please excuse me. Today is a good day. A new shipment of sake arrived from Japan and we all had too much. I love Beethoven. Beethoven is the best! Do you agree? The best music! Keep playing.”

The man was drunk, his eyes glazed, his face red, the mole shining beneath his eye. He looked familiar, but Ernest couldn’t recall where he had seen him. “I’m happy to oblige, sir.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ernest could see Sigmund pull Miriam protectively behind him. Mr. Schmidt looked shorter behind the counter; Golda and the other bakers crouched near the table in front of the counter. Fear penetrated the hot air.

The man gave him a bow. “Thank you. I haven’t heard such beautiful music for years. And on such a good day. Have we met before?”

“I don’t believe so, sir.” Ernest eyed the Mauser in the officer’s holster.

“But you look familiar. And your hand. Is it a star?”

He should have kept the glove on.

“Pardon me. I’m Officer Yamazaki. Your name?”

The officer who had been hunting him, the officer who had almost shot Aiyi in her club. Did he still remember him? Ernest’s hands trembled. “Ernest Reismann.”

“Liceman, Liceman,” Yamazaki murmured. “Foreigners are our guests, and I believe they’re protected in special places. Why are you here? And these people? What’s your nationality?”

His heart raced faster; his fingers shook as he began Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. What he said would determine his fate and the fate of all the people in his bakery. Certainly he couldn’t feign being British or American; he couldn’t say he was Asian, since even a drunken man could tell his eyes were blue. He could lie and say he was German without a German passport, but Yamazaki would discover he was stateless sooner or later. “I’m Jewish, sir.”