The Last Rose of Shanghai(91)

“Asshole!”

“I have reason to believe that you’ll comply with the law for your own safety and those working for you.”

All his assets. The immense wealth that he’d accumulated through hard work, the money he used to support his people and the refugees. He laughed.

“You will not comply, Mr. Reismann?”

“I’m afraid I need time to reflect on that.” Boldly, he headed back to his desk, ignoring the twinkling anger in Yamazaki’s eyes and the soldier’s rifle. He opened the drawer and reached for the pistol he had prepared. To hell with the Japanese. Enough of this barbarism. It was time to take the matter into his own hands, to protect himself and his business and avenge Miriam’s death.

“Ernest.” Mr. Schmidt, his face pale, appeared in front of him. Beside him, Golda, ever dramatic, cursed, wrenching her arms from a soldier. Behind them was Sigmund. His friends, and fellow businessmen. All handcuffed.

It was one thing to kill Yamazaki, another to put his people, the very people he had sworn to protect, in harm’s way. He loosened his fingers on the pistol and closed the drawer. With Yamazaki watching his every movement, Ernest put on his coat, his gloves, and his hat and walked out of the office to the truck on the street. He sat between Mr. Schmidt and Golda, who wept, and he put his arm around her shoulder.



Half an hour later, the truck drove down the metal Garden Bridge, the same bridge he had crossed years ago to the Settlement to find a job. The truck passed a pawnshop where a wooden picket said BRIDGE ROAD, turned onto a muddy track, and stopped in front of a two-story brick building with a rising sun flag. After so many turns of fortune’s wheel, he was back in the Hongkou district.

Yamazaki told him to get off.

He dusted off his sleeves and got off, but the truck sped off with his people. “Where are you taking them?”

“The designated area. You’ll join them soon. Please follow me.”

“What’s this place?” Ernest asked, looking at the brick building with a sign in Chinese he couldn’t read.

“A place for you to reflect,” Yamazaki said.

A uniformed sergeant, wielding a thin, long bamboo-shaped sword, stomped toward him, but it was his armband that caught Ernest’s attention. KEMPEITAI, it said. Ernest shuddered. Kempeitai were the law enforcers, sadists known for torture, like the notorious German Schutzstaffel.

The sergeant hit him with the hilt of the sword, and he passed out in pain. When he came to his senses, he saw he’d been thrown into a foul-smelling, straw-covered cell, where he received more blows. But that was barely torture compared to what his jail mates suffered. Especially the woman on a bench across from him. She was naked, her face covered with blood and feces, her nipples and her private parts pierced with electric wires. Each time the Japanese soldier turned on the switch of the electric shock board, she jolted and screamed.

A man with a bloody face and bloody fingers sang across from him. The poor soul’s fingernails had been pulled out, and he was giddy. Ernest recognized him as an executive from the Jardine Group, who’d often patronized the Jazz Bar.

Near the wall two Japanese held a naked man and poured into his mouth gallons of urine mixed with pungent kerosene. The man groaned, his stomach bloated, but the torture had just begun—they beat him over and over with a steel rod. When they were tired, they kicked the poor man’s stomach just for the fun of it.

Ernest shivered. Nausea, pain, and fear writhed inside him.

For days he watched the sickening torture and grew weak from lack of sleep, water, and food. His bones ached from daily blows, and he was running a fever. Finally, Yamazaki showed up in the dark cell. “Mr. Reismann, I hope you’re comfortable.”

He elbowed up, leaning against the dank wall. “You’ve already taken my assets; you got what you want. Why take me here?”

“I still have unfinished business with you. I need your signature for a few accounts. But you’re right. You’re here for a reason. I spent six days in the hospital after you hit me. I never forgot the man who hit me. And I have been watching you. You’ve amassed great wealth, and you’ll give it all to my emperor. You’ll confirm all your assets on these forms and write down your bank accounts.” Yamazaki took out a stack of paper from a bag he carried.

If he had a rolling pin, anything, he would kill the man there. “How long have I been here?”

“Six days. Pen?”

He closed his eyes. He could refuse and die a rich man. Or go insane like the executive of the Jardine Group. It didn’t matter anymore. He had lost Aiyi, lost Miriam. Oh, Miriam, Miriam. She had given her life for him; she had died so he could live. He wanted to weep. “If I do as you say, would you let me go?”

The man gave a bow, a most laughable gesture. “You have my word.”

The statements on the forms were clear. All ownership of his newly founded shipping company and his financial services would be transferred to the Japanese government, and there were bank accounts that he needed to fill out. He wrote down the two account numbers he had in a Swiss bank branch. Flipping one page after another, he signed.



He stumbled out of jail, the afternoon sun stinging his eyes. His legs were cramped from sitting on the damp ground, his mind taut and twisted like electric shock wires. Shuffling like a convalescent, he studied the angle of the sun, trying to figure out the time and direction.