The Last Rose of Shanghai(90)

Outside Cheng’s mansion, I came to an oak tree. It was early April, the air damp and chilly. I wore my black mink coat; in my hands I carried the suitcases. Alone, I had no chauffeur, nor an automobile, nor a servant. In front of me passed rickshaw pullers, toothless beggars, hunchback street vendors, and a dour-looking Imperial Japanese Army soldier. Cheng’s chauffeur, out of pity, stuffed ten fabi into my hands so I could use it to take a tram or a rickshaw.

I didn’t know what else to do, so I climbed on a bus.





74


ERNEST


Today Yamazaki would come to view the drafted proposal. Ernest sat at a desk by the window. He was ready, the proposal in a manila folder, a pistol in his drawer.

He had purchased the gun on the black market, determined to take matters into his own hands when necessary. But he must be careful. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake.

“Shouldn’t he be here by now?” Mr. Schmidt asked, taking off his tall hat. He had grown plump and bought an automobile and an apartment near the racecourse. He sat with Golda and several associates in the meeting room; everybody looked worried.

“He’s late,” Golda said.

“What if he declines the proposal?” Mr. Schmidt asked.

“We’ll draft another one.” Ernest felt sick at heart thinking about killing Yamazaki. He hadn’t told anyone about the pistol. The less they knew, the better.

“I hear there’s a rumor that the Japanese had a fallout with Meisinger.” Golda was smoking a cigarette on the leather couch covered with a leopard print fur blanket. Her red hair curled delicately, framing her face like an elegant wave, her green eyes alluring. In her boredom, she had been playing different roles: a prim British governess, a jealous Paris courtesan, and today a Chinese singer. She wore a traditional Chinese fitted dress with a slit near her thigh, her skin shining like pearls, but all he could think of was he had seen the same dress on Aiyi. Maybe not the same dress. Maybe not the same color. Maybe not the same style at all. He should go find her at Cheng’s house.

“Yamazaki is evil; don’t forget that,” he said.

“He’s evil, but courteous. Isn’t that curious? They didn’t send us to the internment camp. They let us run our businesses, allow us to purchase apartments,” Mr. Schmidt said.

There was a tinge of admiration in Mr. Schmidt’s tone that irritated Ernest. Mr. Schmidt was too blind and deaf to know what was happening. The Japanese left them alone because they were busy warring against the Chinese in the hinterlands and the Americans in the Pacific. They didn’t forget them, though, or Yamazaki wouldn’t come asking for a partnership.

“A courteous tiger is still a tiger.” Ernest stood and put his hands in his trousers’ pockets. He was dressed in his favorite attire, a gray single-breasted jacket with a tapered waist, a gray tie, and black leather loafers. With all his wealth, he didn’t wear any jewelry, only a Rolex watch. He was strong, his body straight and healthy, his face sculpted, his eyes sober.

From the street came a loud screech. He jerked. Two Japanese soldiers jumped off a truck and rushed inside his building. Something was wrong.

“Ernest, they’re arresting people.” Sigmund raced into the meeting room.

In a few strides, Ernest reached the door, where he nearly crashed into Yamazaki in his uniform. He had to assert great control not to yank the man’s collar and spit into his face. “Sir, what seems to be the problem?”

“Mr. Reismann, I regret I didn’t have time to inform you properly. I’ve received an imperial order decreed by my emperor, Hirohito.” He gestured, and the soldier beside him took out a set of handcuffs.

Blood rushed to Ernest’s head. “What’s this? Is it necessary?”

“Ah, you’re right. Leave off the handcuffs, please. Mr. Reismann is an honorable man. He won’t resist. But I’m afraid it’s my duty to take you to the designated area.”

He had never heard of such a place. “Pardon me. What’s the designated area?”

“I shall be pleased to explain, Mr. Reismann. Recently, we were recommended to take actions to isolate the Jewish refugees in this country, and my emperor has conceived a special plan for people like you.” Yamazaki whipped out a piece of paper from his pocket; in his heavily accented English, he read the Proclamation for Stateless Persons, which ordered the restriction of residences and businesses of stateless refugees who came to Shanghai during the war in Europe, the previous German nationals now unclaimed by any country—people including him. All the stateless people must be relocated to a designated area.

They had decided to imprison them after all. A designated area or an internment camp. Same thing. They would be prisoners. But he couldn’t leave. His business, his people, and the refugees needed him. “Is there a chance to appeal, sir?”

“I’m afraid any appeal on your part will be denied, due to your special status as the owner of many enterprises. I was ordered to keep you under watch at all times, with specific instruction to look after the large portion of business and finance under your name.”

“The paperwork for the joint venture has been drafted.”

“Our deal is no longer on the table. Your newly purchased cargo ships, your finances, and all your assets now belong to the Japanese government with this order. Legally.”