Heart of Lies (15 page)

He interrupted the growing silence, correctly reading her thoughts. Taking her hand, he asked gently, “Do you think God cares? Don’t you think that our relationship with God can transcend the label others have given us?”

“I don’t know, Leo. It doesn’t seem right, somehow. It seems like a charade.”

“Listen, my darling.” His face was close to hers now. “We’ve come to a place where we can begin our lives all over again. Without stigma, without fear, without poverty. Why handicap ourselves? Why handicap our children? We have nothing to lose.”

Martha pondered all that he had said. The idea still disturbed her, but she couldn’t find a way to contradict Leo’s logic. As a young girl she’d seen, firsthand, a man called Adolph Hitler try to take control of the government of Bavaria, mesmerizing his followers with a speech given in a Munich beer hall, preaching hatred of the Jews. Hitler had gone to jail for his attempted coup. But what about the ones who listened so raptly to his hateful words? Were there others like Hitler out there?

Martha looked at her husband, who was toying with the remains of his dessert, similarly lost in thought. He was so handsome, so intelligent, so tender. Why should it matter if he chose to evade a heritage to which he felt no connection? A heritage that had probably caused him only pain. Many people in Germany were aware of what had happened in Hungary after the fall of the short-lived communist government: the slaughter of the communist ministers, the massacres that followed in the countryside, and the killing of people whose only crime was their Jewish ancestry. Had Leo’s family been caught up in the bloody aftermath of the war?

She started to ask, then relented. She would ask someday, but not today. Not on their wedding day. She did not want him to relive any nightmares today. There was so much about him that she did not know. She would have years to solve Leo’s many riddles. For the time being, she must be satisfied with his explanation; he wanted to protect her and their children.

Her glass of champagne had gone flat. The violets on her wrist had wilted. Her giddy mood had evaporated, replaced by a sleepy melancholia. She wanted his arms around her; to fall asleep surrounded by his strength. She touched his sleeve.

“My husband, let’s go home.”

“Whatever you desire, my love.”

“Could we just spend the rest of our wedding day in bed?”

“Why of course, Mrs. Hoffman. Of course.”

Later that evening Leo gave Martha a wedding present.

“But Leo, that’s not fair. I have nothing for you,” she insisted, making an effort to hand him back the small silver box.

He pressed it back into her hand. “Martha, your presence is the only present I will ever need. And no more struggling, or I will open it for you. It’s fragile.”

Enticed by her love of surprises, Martha yielded and opened the box. She lifted out a miniature porcelain swan, no more than six inches long, but so lifelike it seemed ready to float from her hands into the air. Two tiny emeralds glittered in its eyes.

“How lovely,” she exclaimed, genuinely pleased. She placed the swan on her dresser. “He’ll be there to greet me every morning.”

“Perhaps if we ever run out of money, it will lay us a few golden eggs, too.”

“Sorry, sir. I think it was a goose that did the golden-egg laying. Swans are only useful for decoration.”

“Then he will be in good company in this room.” Leo took her in his arms and planted a barrage of kisses on her hair.

Martha pretended to be insulted. She dodged her head this way and that to avoid his continuing kisses. “Are you implying that I am only good for decoration?”

“Far from it,” he replied, his forehead touching hers. “I meant only that you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

“Why thank you, Mr. Hoffman.”

“You are most welcome, Mrs. Hoffman. Come to think of it, I know a very good way for you to thank me.”

Martha rolled her eyes and giggled, her good humor completely restored.

“Again?” she asked, with false exasperation.

He grinned a truly lascivious grin. “And again and again and again and—”

Martha interrupted him, putting a finger to his lips. Her other hand reached out to his waist and untied the loosely knotted sash of his dressing gown. Her eyes glowed.

“With so much to do, we’d better get started.”

And so, they did.

SHANGHAI, 1927

During the 1920s the collective consciousness of the civilized world turned its back on the horror of the Great War and concentrated, instead, on the pursuit of pleasure. Fed up with sacrifice and responsibility, the citizens of the victorious countries threw themselves into a celebration that lasted for close to a decade. Life became an unending party. And nowhere was the party longer, louder, or more festive than in Shanghai.

Flush with new wealth and inebriated by love, Leo and Martha cheerfully joined the revelry. They danced away the afternoons at the tea dances hosted by the Astor House Hotel; dressed in white tie and sequins to attend the latest Hollywood movie at the new cinema in the French Quarter; led the charge to investigate the newest, most promising restaurants; and were regularly seen at the clubhouse of the municipal racetrack, where Leo’s love of horses grew to include the stubby, native Mongolian ponies that only the smallest jockeys could ride.

Often, they finished their evenings in the company of gossipy
friends at the glamorous Club Casanova, or took in a show at the notorious Lido. They entertained frequently at their home, and at their country club, the newly built Cercle Sportif Français, which boasted a roof garden for summer dancing, a ballroom for winter parties, and a magnificent indoor swimming pool decorated in vivid Art Deco style, as well as badminton and tennis courts.

During the searing heat of summer they fled north to Tsingtao, the heart of “the Asian Riviera” on the western coast of the Yellow Sea, where they stayed in the historic Grand Hotel, an imposing white structure decorated like a fanciful gingerbread castle. Beauty and laughter floated through their lives with the welcome regularity of a sultry summer breeze.

Martha was rarely homesick. She soon abandoned her native German, speaking only the more popular tongues of French and English. She took great joy in little frivolities, activities that would have caused her father to shake his head in disapproval. She joined a garden club, a music appreciation club, a literary society devoted to the popular novel, and an amateur drama society. Her lifestyle was not atypical, for while the men of Shanghai made money, their wives had to keep busy, and with a house full of servants there was little to do in the way of household chores, other than plan menus and periodically redecorate.

At times Martha felt as if she’d been given a second chance at childhood, untainted by tragedy and war. She knew she was ridiculously lucky, but seldom questioned why she deserved her new life. Leo loved her. That was reason enough.

Occasionally she would rebel against the self-centered nature of her daily routine, and throw her boundless energy behind one of the charities attempting to do something about the plight of the poor in
Shanghai: the beggars, the abandoned children, the homeless families. But the infinite scope of the poverty and suffering she witnessed would soon overwhelm her, and she would retreat to the security of the celebration that was her life with Leo. Leo, who spoiled and pampered her, who brought her laughter and made endless, enchanting love to her, who never talked down to her or made her feel foolish or unintelligent. Leo, who made her life begin.

Leo loved being responsible for Martha. He took delight in all of her accomplishments, from a beautifully executed dinner party to her mastery of a new English phrase. His heart told him that he’d been given custody of a special treasure; he was the devoted trustee of an incomparable work of art. It was his duty to ensure her happiness.

It struck him hardest when he caught sight of her suddenly, hurrying through the front door, back from one of her social gatherings, or emerging from the bath, her glorious auburn hair wrapped up in a towel. At those impromptu moments the depth and intensity of his love for her seized him with a physical force that could have been agony. But it wasn’t, any more than the violent muscular contractions of an orgasm could be called pain. She was part of him.

They were gregarious and generous with their time, but their special closeness to each other excluded all others from any bond deeper than casual friendship. Both enjoyed the companionship of their own gender, but they never lingered long within it. Lawrence Cosgrove was the closest friend Leo ever made in Shanghai. His return to England six months after Martha and Leo’s wedding caused a moment of sorrow and gave them a good justification for a lavish party, but it caused no deep sense of loss. The company of others was a pleasant entertainment, but only Martha was essential. And only Leo was essential to her.

“It’s so unseemly,” complained one wealthy British widow, whose long list of companions included many married young men new to the wicked ways of Shanghai, “for such a handsome young man to be so blatantly in love with his wife.” And the men of Shanghai felt the same way. It was heartlessly unfashionable for anyone as enchanting as Martha to be so taken with her husband. Such a shame. Her brilliant smile and charming conversation yielded occasional comfort, but no hope, as she and Leo moved like brilliant particles through the kaleidoscope of concentric circles that shaped Shanghai society.

And so the party continued, until the winter of 1927. Then, for a few brief and bloody days, the music stopped.

Leo woke with a start. He lay rigid in his bed, his heart beating ferociously in his chest. The nightmares came so rarely now. He had forgotten how real the terror of war felt when recaptured in the silence of his dreams.

In this dream he lay in a ditch, trapped beneath barbed wire, struggling to free himself. The wire cut into his flesh, and the stench of blood and sulfur was suffocating. Then a hand stretched toward him. “Get out man; get out,” a male voice bellowed. Leo closed his eyes, trying to recall the image. Whose face had it been, reaching down to him?

The soldier trying to help him had been Lawrence Cosgrove. Martha stirred beside him. Leo rested a hand along her thigh, seeking comfort in the peacefulness of her sleep.

Lawrence Cosgrove. How odd.

Then he heard it, in the distance, a sound like thunder that was not thunder. The low, booming rumble set his heart hammering again, with renewed vigor.

Mortar fire.

The bedroom window rattled slightly as the echoes of sound reached the panes. Leo slid cautiously out of bed, making sure not to wake his sleeping wife. He crept toward the window, and drew the curtain back.

Nothing.

The glow from a three-quarter moon revealed only the familiar shadows of homes and gardens, tranquil in the chill of a frosty February night. No strange lights on the horizon. No fires. Nothing to suggest war or catastrophe.

But there it was again, coming from the direction of the river. Another booming rumble.

Leo quickly donned his cashmere dressing gown and headed downstairs. He could not see the river from their house, but someone would be on duty at the desk of the Palace Hotel. Someone there would know what was happening.

He went to the telephone in his office and rang the hotel. The clock on his wall showed four thirty. Two rings. A dignified British voice answered.

“This is the Palace Hotel. How may we be of service?”

“Leo Hoffman here. Who is this speaking?”

“Mr. Hoffman, good to hear from you. This is Richard Fletcher. I was the bell captain when you were residing here.”

“That’s right. Good to speak to you, Richard. So you’re working the night desk now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, congratulations on the promotion. You’ll soon be running the place.” Leo had little patience for small talk at the moment, but
small talk, especially flattery, was a necessary precursor to the extraction of significant information. Patience.

“Thank you, sir. So kind of you to say so. What can I do for you this evening? Or rather, this morning?”

“I’ve been hearing some thumps and bumps that sound like mortar fire. Is that possible?”

“I am afraid so, sir. It seems that General Chiang Kai-shek is making his presence known.”

“What? Is the bastard actually going to attack Shanghai?”

“Well, we all hope not, sir. But he did a nice job of it in Nanking, didn’t he?”

“Almighty God. What’s being done?”

“Well, I’ve heard the Americans are moving their warships down the Yangtze to protect the harbor here. I imagine the others will jump in soon. No one would want the Yanks to get all the credit for saving us, eh?” The young Englishman chuckled at his own slim wit, and Leo joined him, feigning amusement. He had to know more.

“So what’s the artillery fire about? Who’s Chiang fighting?”

“Well, it’s not really clear at the moment, sir. Civil war does get confusing, doesn’t it? Last report is that he’s just shelling a bit as he goes, to ward off potential resistance from Sun Chuan-fang, the reigning war-lord at the moment. We can’t see anything burning from here.”

“Good.”

“You should think about coming down, Mr. Hoffman. There’s quite a party going on. Loads of reporters. Most of the Municipal Council. They’re running between here and the Astor House like it was a relay race. Highly entertaining.”

“Thank you, but I think I’ll wait for the sun to come up. There’s no serious danger at the moment? No call for evacuation?”

“No, sir. No real trouble yet. Just Chinaman against Chinaman. They all know better than to bother the International Settlement or the French Concession. A few European warships would make pretty short work of the whole Chinese Nationalist Army.”

“Right you are. Thank you for the information. It’s been a pleasure talking to you.”

“And you, sir.”

They rang off. Leo lowered the receiver back in its cradle. No danger. Was such unruffled bravado justified? He knew this wasn’t the first time that political unrest had threatened Shanghai. China had gone through varying degrees of internal revolt since the collapse of the Manchu dynasty. But for the most part, other than the inconvenience of an occasional influx of Chinese refugees, the Concessions of Shanghai were unaffected by the war raging between Peking and Canton. They stood untouched: a rich, glittering sanctuary from civil war, a tribute to capitalism and the power of gunboat diplomacy. And, the Shanghailanders believed, an invincible one.

Until now. For this new general, Chiang Kai-shek, in his quest to recreate a nation out of the private kingdoms of China’s many warlords, seemed willing to take on the foreign powers as well: those countries that had, for close to a hundred years, kept strategic pieces of his homeland as private playgrounds. Worse, he had the backing of Soviet Russia. The general and his troops had already forced Britain to return its concessions further north, at Hankow and Kiukiang. Would Shanghai be next?

The Western powers were not willing to take any chances. Too much money was at stake; they moved quickly to protect their investment. Britain, America, Japan, France, Italy, and Spain rushed troops to Shanghai. They were to serve as a warning to the general, and to the Soviets: leave Shanghai alone.

Their faith bolstered by this evidence of the world’s commitment to their safety, the Shanghailanders turned the threat of invasion into yet another excellent excuse for a party. They arranged entertainments for the arriving troops, ranging from brothel trips to hockey games to billiard tournaments, and waited for the general to arrive.

Now, one month later, he was pounding on Shanghai’s door. For the first time in over a year, Leo felt fear. But he had nowhere to go. No safe place to take Martha. They had to wait and hope the foreign powers were prepared to back up their bluster with action.

When the sun came up the following morning, residents of the Concessions found themselves inhabiting an armed camp. Barbed wire barriers had been erected around the Settlements. Military guards patrolled the streets.

Within a few days the real show began, and the Shanghailanders discovered they once again had front row seats to the Chinese civil war theater. Smoke clouded the horizon. Gunfire and mortar shells could be heard above the usual panoply of commercial noise. But as the Shanghailanders had hoped, the violence remained strictly confined to the sections of city under Chinese control, and the fighting lasted only a few days. With the help of communist forces loyal to Soviet Russia, Chiang Kai-shek conquered the Chinese sections of Shanghai.

Then, nothing. For weeks there was no significant military activity. Spring came, and the foreign residents began to relax. It seemed the general would respect the Concessions after all.

To celebrate the end of the hostilities, Leo and Martha decided to go in search of a Russian teahouse Leo had visited once, before Martha’s arrival. Leo loved the ritual of late afternoon tea. It reminded him of happy times at home with his foster mother, Erzsebet: a time when life was civilized, and his expectations knew no limits.

“Isn’t it lovely to walk outside again, without worrying?” sighed Martha with languid contentment, hugging Leo’s arm as they strolled along the Avenue Joffre. The April air was cool and crisp, and the heavy fragrance of cherry blossoms blotted out the smell of the river. Leo could not remember the precise address of the tiny establishment they were seeking, so they explored at their leisure, poking their noses around every corner. Soon they left Avenue Joffre behind, and found themselves on the outskirts of the French Concession, where restaurants and cafés competed with innumerable small shops for space and the attention of the passing public.

Leo found a small street that looked encouragingly familiar and started down it, Martha in tow. He was by this time so intent that he scarcely noticed the small group of Chinese men huddled across the street. Chinese men always gathered on the streets in the early evening to gamble, gossip, or to argue about politics; they were part of the scenery.

But Martha noticed something unusual, and slowed her pace. Three men stood in a semicircle with their backs to the street, clad in the ubiquitous blue cotton suits worn by the working class Chinese. Two more men stood in the center of the circle, and another, a young man, knelt in the center of the small ring. Why was the young man on his knees? Were his hands tied? Martha tugged on Leo’s arm.