The Last Rose of Shanghai(86)

“Horseback riding.”

“It’s an unusual sport.”

“Not in Texas. He grew up there. But enough about my kid. I don’t want to bore you. You’ve told me so much about your past, and this is precious material to work with.”

The moment has come. “So, I’ve told you that I’ve given away my daughter. Are you going to put that in the documentary too?”

Actually, I know she will, but I try to ascertain how she might handle it. If she writes as I have confessed, people will understand my pain, but if she is biased against me, then my reputation as a heartless mother is all but sealed.

She puts down her chopsticks; her face blooms with dismay—or is it disgust? “The only thing I can promise is that I won’t judge you, Ms. Shao. It’s unthinkable to me, yet I hear things like that are rather common in China. It’s sad.”

It bothers me, the sense of privilege, and the arrogance in her voice—her, America grown. Yet what can I say, being the one who’s judged? No donation I gave to the temples for the past decades can wash off my sin.

“I’ve heard of Miriam’s death from the Shanghai Jews, and I confess it was very difficult to understand. Everyone told me a different story. Some said she died of sickness, some said she was shot because she fought, some said you brought the Japanese there. Now I can see how it really happened. This is very helpful, Ms. Shao.”

I nod and open my mouth. I need to tell her something extremely important, but I can’t bring up my courage.

“Ms. Shao?”

“Yes?” The wall warps. Did I take my medication today?

“Are you okay? Would you like to have some water?”

“Yes, water will be wonderful. Where were we?”





70


FEBRUARY 1943


ERNEST

Mr. Bitker was right. The war went on, and Miss Margolis’s loan was spent by October last year. Since then, for four months, Ernest supported the refugees with his own money. He even took one step further, refurbishing the old boiler in the Heime with a new one, so the kitchen would be efficient enough to produce much-needed heated water for everyone. Without Miss Margolis’s charity, he was the only man in Shanghai who looked after the destitute refugees, and he planned to continue to do so for whatever it took, for as long as possible.

Miriam. What if she had been there? She would have been happy to work in the bakery, happy to see him take care of his people. What if he had allowed her to leave with Mr. Blackstone? She would have been in Vassar College. She would have been alive.



Ernest put down the jug of pilsner and shook hands with the long-robed Chinese man across from him. The deal was struck. He’d just acquired a fleet of paddle steamers, a coal-burning steamer, a cargo ship, and a second coal-burning steamer with 9,500 dead-weight tonnage.

After months of hard work and his timely investment, he had become a rich man. With the large profit he had made, he had taken steps to diversify his business and expanded to the banking industry with the help of Mr. Bitker’s friends. Now with this deal, he became the largest ship owner in Shanghai. His ultimate goal was to purchase large cargo ships, very large crude carriers, and even ultralarge crude carriers to become the leading ship owner along the Chinese coast from Hong Kong to Qingdao. It gave him great confidence that with his growing wealth, he would be able to provide for the refugees in the long run.

He was invited to the parties organized by a small group of wealthy, dauntless foreigners seeking fortune in Shanghai. The parties were quiet—no piano music to avoid attention—but decadent, with cigars, gin, and whiskey; often they were held underground, or in private buildings far from the clubs and hotels. In those ballrooms covered with tar and insulated with sandbags, he smoked cigars and drank whiskey rumored to have been pillaged from Sassoon’s private cellar. All the Briton’s fortune in Shanghai was lost, his hotel ransacked by Japanese soldiers, his apartments occupied by Germans and his racecourse by Japanese marines.

Occasionally, Ernest’s thoughts shifted to the Briton who had changed his life. He would like to shake his hand as a friend if he saw him again, and he would listen to his advice too.

Sometimes, at those parties, Ernest was questioned about why he remained a bachelor. Unwilling to elaborate, he started bringing Golda with him. With her striking beauty and suave actress’s charm, Golda walked arm in arm with him, her flaming-red hair rolled in a vibrant curve to frame her pale face. Whatever she asked for, he bought. Jewelry, dresses, fur, shoes, and hats. She loved hats. A cream crochet with a wool ribbon, a velvet pillbox in claret, or a wool pillbox with a black veil. Cloaked in a luxurious fur coat over an ivory blouse with a lace collar, her arms fitted in wine-colored gloves, Golda was the summer rose among withered fall grass.

He didn’t sleep with her after the one-time madness, and he gently pushed her away as she sought him out at night. Golda was the banner of his success, not the destination of his happiness.

Despite all the luxury, his growing wealth, and his lush image embellished by Golda, Ernest was unhappy. In the office on Bubbling Well Road, where he had purchased the entire floor of a Gothic twelve-story building designed by the architect László Hudec, he stared at the piano, which he had moved from the bakery. He could still make beautiful music, still remember the songs’ lilt and lyrics, but the woman whom he had played for lived in another room of his memory.