She heard stomping feet and rumbling vehicles before she even reached the sidewalk. A crowd lined the street, but the parade was unlike any she had ever witnessed. The air was thick with tension. Aside from a smattering of pro-Japanese cries, the crowd was quiet. There was not a child to be seen.
Columns of armed Japanese soldiers and sailors in dress uniform trooped along the street, eight abreast, in near-perfect synchrony. Their eyes were unblinking and their faces blank. Numerous tanks and other vehicles rumbled along interspersed between them. The Rising Sun flag flew everywhere, hanging from the sides of buildings and poking out through the windows.
Sunny scanned the crowd but saw no sign of her housekeeper. Suddenly a group of marching sailors inexplicably caught her eye. She scrutinized the rows of passing men, able to make out little more than their profiles. Anxiety gripped her as she sensed something familiar about an approaching sailor, the nearest in his row.
Could it be Father’s killer?
Sunny’s breath caught and her stomach plummeted. The rhythmic slapping of boots on pavement matched the pounding of her heart. The conflicting urges to lunge out at the sailor and to flee nailed her feet to the ground.
As the sailor passed before her, Sunny focused on his face. His lip bore no scar. He was only a look-alike. But it was still two or three minutes before her breathing steadied and her legs responded again.
She forced herself to concentrate on Yang. She scanned the faces of the parade observers again, without sighting her. Sunny realized her housekeeper could be anywhere, possibly even home, but she was not ready to abandon her search. She slipped out of the lineup and began walking westward, stopping every hundred feet or so to scour the crowd.
Two blocks later, she spotted Yang, planted dutifully along the parade route. The woman’s gaze was frozen on the passing soldiers. Sunny touched her shoulder and Yang’s head flinched as she turned with a start. Her eyes were huge and, through Yang’s thin coat, Sunny could feel her housekeeper’s bony frame trembling. “Everything is going to be all right, Yang,” she soothed. “I am taking you home now.”
Sunny led the petrified woman by her still shaking arm toward the car. As soon as Fai saw them, he yanked open the back door. Sunny guided Yang into the back seat and closed the door after her.
Fai motioned frantically toward the road. “Missy, we hurry! Go now!”
“Take Yang home, Fai,” Sunny said. “I’m going to walk to the hospital.”
Fai shook his head urgently. “Better if you come too. Missy, please, now …”
Sunny shook her head and turned away. “I will see you at home.”
She wove through the alleys and side streets to the Bund. In their ever-present white armbands, the feared Kempeitai military police patrolled the major road, allowing only vehicles that sported the Rising Sun flag to pass. The symbol was everywhere. Sunny felt disoriented and heartsick at the sight of the grand European-style buildings, which she had known her entire life, flying huge Japanese flags. She even spotted several swastikas hanging from windows.
Franz, oh Franz!
She knew he had to be consumed with worry for his daughter.
Are you thinking of me too?
Sunny hurried on to the Garden Bridge. Although the soldiers were everywhere else, for the first time in four years, the bridge itself was unguarded. The sight deepened her despondency. No longer did she live on the fringe of the Japanese rule; she was trapped fully within it.
Sunny felt almost relieved to be back in Hongkew, where existence
under the Japanese boot had been a way of life for so long that it felt familiar. She hailed a rickshaw and arrived at the hospital just as the clouds finally burst. Her hair was dripping wet by the time she squeezed through the front door.
The corridor was deserted. As she passed the laboratory, she saw Max Feinstein sitting on a stool, staring at the wall beyond his microscope. His face had aged decades in the past year, but Sunny had never seen him looking so downcast. “Dr. Feinstein, is everything all right?”
“Fine, yes, thank you, Sunny,” he mumbled.
The abject resignation etched into his face stopped Sunny from prying further. “Are any of the other staff here today?” she asked.
Max shrugged. “I saw Berta earlier. And, of course, Dr. Adler is on the ward.”
Anxious to find Franz, Sunny began to back out of the room.
“What were we thinking, Sunny?” Max muttered without looking up. “Did we really believe we could outrun Hitler? How foolish! He was bound to catch up with us.”
Sunny wanted to reassure Max that the Japanese were not the Nazis and that, at least in Hongkew, nothing had changed. She could tell from his expression that her words would have no impact, but she tried anyway. “It will be all right, Dr. Feinstein. You will see.”
Sunny stepped into the hallway, rounded the corner and almost slammed into Franz. “I thought I heard your voice!” he cried.
His eyes were sunken and cheeks unshaven, but his face lit with a smile that warmed her heart. “Are you all right?” she asked.
He folded his arms around her. “Everything is better now. And you?”
“Better, too.” Sunny relaxed, feeling so much safer in his arms.
She leaned into the embrace. The stubble on his chin scratched her cheeks. “Oh, Sunny,” he breathed.
The desires stirred inside her. She wanted to feel his lips on hers again. She longed for the contact of his skin. His mouth moved closer to her lips.
Suddenly, the reality of their predicament hit her like a bucket of cold water, and she stiffened in his arms.
Franz released her and took a step back. “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I was just so relieved to see you.”
“Of course, Franz. Me too. How are Esther and Hannah?” “Frightened. Same as everyone else. But otherwise all right.” “The uncertainty is the worst,” Sunny said. “Let’s hope it is the worst, anyway.”
She laughed nervously. “Poor Simon is most worried about the hospital’s funding.”
Franz nodded. “He has a point. Everything is going to change now that—”
The front door flew open. Boots stamped against cement. Instinctively, Sunny squeezed Franz’s upper arm. He stared back at her, jaw clenched and face taut. “Let me handle this, Sunny,” he said grimly.
Two Japanese soldiers approached. Sunny’s jaw fell open when she saw their white armbands.
The Kempeitai!
Franz stepped forward and gently manoeuvred Sunny behind him. “May I help you?”
The nearer guard shook a finger. “Franz Adler?” he spat in heavily accented English.
Franz hesitated a moment. “Yes, I am Dr. Adler.”
“You come with us!” the Kempeitai officer snapped.
“I don’t understand. I have done nothing—”
The soldier grabbed Franz by the arm and jerked him forward.
“Now!”
“Franz!” Sunny reached a hand out but missed as he lurched past.
Franz regained his footing and dug his heels into the ground. He looked frantically over his shoulder to her. “Sunny, let Esther know what is happening. But not Hannah! Tell her I had to go away on urgent business. You understand?”
The second policeman grabbed hold of Franz’s other arm and began to pull also.
Sunny took a step toward him.
“Franz!”
“No, Sunny!
Let them take me.” He stopped resisting and allowed himself to be dragged away by the soldiers. “Tell Esther! Please … please, my dear one.”
Rain pelted the windshield. Franz’s pulse hammered in his temples as fast as the wipers. The same dread gripped him as three years before, when he had sat sandwiched between the two SS men on the ride to Eichmann’s office in Vienna. Only the stench of the Nazis’ hair oil was missing.
Neither of the stone-faced Kempeitai men flanking Franz had uttered a word since dragging him from the refugee hospital. Franz’s pulse sped even faster as the car turned onto Soochow Creek Road.
Please, not Bridge House!
Bridge House stood a stone’s throw from Soochow Creek, and only a few hundred yards from the Garden Bridge. Franz had passed the heavily guarded prison numerous times on his way to and from the refugee hospital. He knew the Kempeitai took suspected spies, saboteurs and other captured enemies to Bridge House for interrogation. Rumours of round-the-clock screams, water torture and electrocutions abounded among the Westerners. Franz had heard that, as often as not, prisoners taken to Bridge House never emerged.
Assuming his association with Ernst must have drawn the Kempeitai’s attention, Franz wished again that he had never accompanied the impetuous artist to Colonel Kubota’s office.
What will happen to Hannah without me?
The mental image of Hannah clutching her rag doll reminded Franz that she was still only a child—one with a subtle but visible handicap. Franz knew that, culturally, the Japanese had little tolerance for disfigurement. He had once seen soldiers chase a child beggar off the street because the boy was missing half of his arm and most of an ear.
Franz caught a glimpse of Bridge House ahead of them. The blood in his veins turned to ice. But the car didn’t slow. Instead, they flew past the building and continued east toward the river. The car slid to a stop in front of the military headquarters at Astor House.
The man to his left jabbed Franz in the ribs with an elbow and shoved him out of the car. The guards led him toward the entrance of Astor House, their boots drumming the pavement like an executioner’s march. The sentries guarding the door parted to make way for them.
The Kempeitai men led Franz up the spiral staircase. His heart sank as they shepherded him down the hallway, stopping outside Colonel Kubota’s office. The door opened, and Franz recognized the triangular face of Captain Yamamoto, Kubota’s aide. The Kempeitai men backed out of the room with deep bows, leaving Franz alone in front of the desk. He stole a glance at the wall, where a bland landscape painting hung in place of Ernst’s portrait.
Three uniformed men clustered behind the desk. It took Franz a moment to recognize Colonel Kubota, who had shaved off his moustache and, instead of his usual civilian suit, wore a dark green uniform and matching officer’s cap. A gaunt older man in an all-white naval dress uniform stood beside Kubota. To his left, a shorter man wearing round wire-rimmed glasses, knee-high leather boots and the tan Kempeitai uniform glared at Franz.
“Ah, Dr. Adler, it is good to see you again.” Kubota smiled as though they were meeting at one of the Reubens’ dinner parties.
Franz nodded nervously.
“Allow me to introduce my colleagues.” Kubota motioned to the older man in the white uniform. “Vice-Admiral Iwanaka, the senior naval officer
in Shanghai.” He swung his hand toward the man in the glasses. “Colonel Tanaka, the Chief of Kempeitai for Shanghai.” He nodded to the door. “And you will remember Captain Yamamoto from your previous visit.”
Yamamoto and Iwanaka offered unsmiling bows, but Tanaka’s scowl only deepened.
“I must apologize for our abrupt summons,” Kubota said with a helpless shrug. “Unfortunately, we are facing an unexpected emergency.” “The artwork?” Franz blurted.
The Japanese officers shared confused glances. Kubota’s face filled with sudden understanding, and he broke into a quiet chuckle. “I am afraid, Dr. Adler, that now is not the time to concern ourselves with artistic differences.”
“I see,” Franz said with a mix of relief and confusion.
Kubota turned to Iwanaka. “I will let the vice-admiral explain.”
Iwanaka nodded sternly. “Earlier this morning, General Nogomi, the military governor of Shanghai, became unexpectedly ill.” He spoke English with a slight stutter, but his pronunciation was nearly perfect and his accent not much thicker than Kubota’s. “Our military doctors believe his condition is a result of a ruptured ulcer but, unfortunately, most of our field surgeons have been mobilized.”
Franz’s shoulders sagged with relief. “And you would like a second opinion?”
Iwanaka shook his head. “We are requesting that you operate on the general.”
“Me?” Franz gasped. “You want
me
to operate on the governor?” Kubota nodded. “As the vice-admiral explained, our most experienced surgeons are unavailable. And you have an excellent reputation.” “But I am a …”
“A stateless refugee!” Tanaka spoke up for the first time. His accent was thick, and his clipped nasal tone hostile. “A possible enemy of Imperial Japan.”
“Come now, Colonel Tanaka,” Kubota said. “We are seeking Dr. Adler’s assistance.”
Tanaka turned and snapped at Kubota in Japanese.
“Not only me,” Kubota replied calmly in English. “Vice-Admiral Iwanaka and I agree that Dr. Adler is the correct choice. And we are the highest-ranking officers still fit for duty to make such a decision.” He finished with a few Japanese words in the same even tone.
Tanaka stiffened as though insulted, but he nodded his acceptance.
“Excuse me, Colonel Kubota,” Franz spoke up. “May I ask why you have not turned to your friend, Dr. Reuben?”
Kubota glanced at Iwanaka before answering. “We are informed, Dr. Adler, that you are the best surgeon for this procedure.”
Franz cleared his throat. “Colonel, are you asking or … or telling me to operate?”
Kubota merely smiled. “We believe it would be best for everyone involved if you were to agree to help.”
Tanaka’s lips curled into a sneer and his dark eyes simmered. The unspoken threat was clear. Suddenly, Franz understood the purpose of the Kempeitai man’s presence.
“Where is General Nogomi now?” Franz asked.
“At the Shanghai General Hospital.”
“May I see him?”
“Straight away,” Kubota said.
As they were filing out the door, Tanaka caught Franz by the arm and squeezed hard. “I am responsible for security in whole of Shanghai,” he snapped.
Franz’s neck and shoulders tensed again. “I understand.”
“You German Jews.” Tanaka nodded knowingly. “You hate Nazis.”
Uncertain whether it was a question, Franz nodded.
“You would do anything to lose them the war.” Tanaka’s glare intensified. “And Japan fights beside Germany.”