The Last Rose of Shanghai(97)

What could he do? Nothing.

“We’ve been through so much, Ernest. I’ve been by your side since you had the bakery. Don’t you . . . at least . . . enjoy my company?”

“I can’t support you.”

“No one is talking about getting rich.”

“But—” He couldn’t say it. At the doorway, some people gathered a pile of rice straws and dried branches to make a fire. A plume of smoke rose, like a slim figure wearing a fitted dress.

“When I escaped from Berlin, I thought life would be better here. But no, I became a baker to survive. Then I met you. I knew I would be happy again. This . . .” She gestured around, sniffing the putrid air filled with coughs and groans. “This is not the life I dreamed of.”

This was not the life he’d dreamed of either. But happiness? It didn’t exist. He gave Golda a pat on her shoulder and made his way out. A sharp cry pierced his ears. A new life had arrived; a wave of happy voices rose. People congratulated one another and clapped their hands, and the boy was reciting, “Love is stronger than death.”

Ernest’s eyes moistened. He had said that line a long time ago. What a surprise to hear this now, in a life of loss, sickness, and sorrows, in a time he doubted the existence of hope and laughter. But it was true—he would always love Leah, his parents, and Miriam, no matter where he was, for as long as he lived.

Golda reached him and threaded her arm through the crook of his, her lips purple in the cold, her eyes pleading. She was losing weight, her plumpness peeling off her like the taro skin. And was that a cough bursting from her throat? A rasp in her chest?

He took her hands—cold and bony—and rubbed them to give her warmth. He had been mired in the dark murk of life for so long, sick of this sickening world for so long. It was tiresome, hollowing, and yet if there was such a thing called love, if there was a way to give happiness, then let him be the one to light the wick of warmth.



He married Golda the next day. For the first time, he entered the shelter for the yeshiva students on Ward Road and listened to the seven blessings he had never heard before. He was calm, transfixed by an inner tree of peace, by the cloud of voices, by the runelike yellow flickers of candles. Because breaking a perfectly good bowl would be a waste, he was given a shard. He stamped on it and heard a chorus of “Mazel tov,” and the ceremony was over.

Old Liang and his wife gave them a gift of eight sweet potatoes, enough to last a honeymoon of four days. The Chinese neighbors, in their tattered tunics, came to congratulate them too. Smiles on their sunbaked faces, they sang a sweet song with a lilt. It sounded like the song he’d once played, the song he’d once loved.

Golda, clad in a borrowed white chiffon blouse and a knee-length plaid skirt, sang and danced, her green eyes sparkling like a spring meadow. She was a good Jewish girl, whom his mother would have liked. And he would look after her, share with her the scraped taro skins and sweet potatoes; he would love her, like a new husband in an old world, like a good husband in a bad war, even though it was doubtful that he could love the same way he had loved before.





79


FALL 1980


THE PEACE HOTEL

Ms. Sorebi rests her elbow on the table, the fringe of her leather jacket draping like wilted straws. It has a strange appeal, I have to admit—the jacket suits her.

“When I interviewed the Jews, I was horrified to hear of the conditions in the designated area. The ghetto was horrendous, infested with scarlet fever, typhoid, and all kinds of diseases. Many got sick and died. They told me about the gravesite outside the ghetto and . . . it broke my heart. Did you know they had to reuse coffins?” Her voice cracks.

All the lives we’ve lost, all the love we’ve forgotten, and all the decisions we must live by. “I wish I could say war was cruel and we all had to endure. But the truth is no matter what hardship we went through, we eventually forget it after it’s over.”

Her head turns away, but her eyes grow brighter.

“Do you see why I want to make a documentary now? I want to remember; I don’t want to forget.”

A beautiful tune is wafting in the air, faint, drifting like a bed of clouds; it has that voice, innocent like a fairy tale, melancholy like the night breeze. It reminds me of the song I loved years ago. “When we’d just met, Ernest played the jazz song called ‘The Last Rose of Shanghai.’ I loved it, and I still remember the lyrics. It says in English, ‘There is a kind of love that strikes like a thunderbolt; it blinds you, yet opens your eyes to see the world anew.’”

I remember it was at that moment that I fell in love with him. He knew my music, and he played the tune like it was his. Had I explained to him the meaning of that song? That the lyrics have Buddhist influence? That a thunderbolt is also a weapon used by the thunder deity in Buddhism? That I firmly believed in karma?

Ms. Sorebi is quiet, gazing at a spot to my right, listening to the music, as if she has become part of my story, as if she can envision all the winding lanes in my memory. Is this a show of hers or her genuine interest in my story? I can’t tell, but I like this, this silence, this wordless reflection, this reach of a long lasso to the past.

“Ms. Shao?”

I’m not ready to answer, for I can see him right in front of me. His bright smile, his blue eyes. As if he had never left me.