Trail of Blood (13 page)

“As a boy in Shanghai”—C.D. Zhang looked up—“I saw it myself.”

I stared. “You did? Oh, of course! You were family!”

“Despite the mutual aversion between Chen Kai-rong and my father, yes, we were. But I adored my stepmother, Mei-lin. And more than that I adored being family. I was a lonely boy, a dreamy child in a strict and practical household. I barely remembered my own mother, who died before my third year. My amah and tutors were capable but cold. The social reverberations of Rosalie Gilder and Chen Kairong’s marriage were known to me, a boy of ten, but I didn’t understand or care. I was excited that it gave me more family to be part of.”

“Were you at the wedding?”

“I was. Rosalie Gilder wore the Shanghai Moon at her throat.” His eyes found the nighttime photo. “Though by then it was already legendary. You read about it, you say. So you know its story.”

“I know it was made from an antique jade of the Chen family, and stones from a necklace that had been Rosalie’s mother’s.”

“Its legend started before it was made. Please understand what an extraordinary event this engagement was in Shanghai. Of course Europeans had always taken Chinese wives. The exotic bride—a mark of wealth and power! And Chinese men with fortunes kept European mistresses. British girls, Germans, White Russians. And Americans! Very popular, American girls. And yes, some Jewish refugees took Japanese officers or rich Chinese as lovers. They were poor and times were hard. They did what desperate girls have always done, and though few approved, no one was surprised. But
marriage
? A Chinese from a noble family and a refugee? It’s hard to say which community was more appalled.”

“Mr. Zhang, the book I read said the engagement was secret.”

“In Shanghai everything was secret, and every secret was known! Over the charcoal stoves in their alleys, the Jewish women whispered that Rosalie Gilder couldn’t be blamed for taking an easy path to good meals and clean clothes—which meant they blamed her deeply. Among my father’s friends, the wives muttered and the men shook their heads. The Chen lineage, that had served every emperor of the last thousand years, diluted with European blood? The prophecies ran wild: the fury of the Chen ancestors, how their retribution would strike!”

“But the marriage went ahead.”

“It did. And nothing worse happened in Shanghai than what was happening every day. Rosalie Gilder, with her brother, moved to the Chen villa. Where, briefly, they lived a life more comfortable than most of their fellow refugees.”

“Why briefly?”

“The marriage took place in April of 1942. In early 1943, to please the Germans, the Japanese ordered the Jewish refugees to relocate to Hongkew, where they could be controlled and watched. Many already lived there, but many lived and worked elsewhere. Then, with one stroke, businesses were closed and families uprooted. Twenty thousand Jews, many with no way now to make a living, confined together with a million of the poorest Chinese in a single foul square mile.”

“That sounds horrible.”

“Horror, Ms. Chin, is relative. The Germans wanted the refugees exterminated. The Japanese, for their own reasons, didn’t care for that plan. The ghetto was a compromise.”

I supposed, given the choice, he was right. “And Rosalie and her brother had to go?”

“As Chen Kai-rong’s wife, Rosalie Gilder might have been excused. But as it happened, Chen Kai-rong fled Shanghai shortly before the edict was to take effect. That angered the Japanese.”

“Fled? What do you mean? He abandoned her?” This couldn’t be right.

“Ah, Ms. Chin! It was wartime. His loyalty was questioned, he offended a Japanese corporal on the Garden Bridge, a Japanese officer wanted his limousine—I don’t know. But he was gone. So Rosalie and her brother went to live in Hongkew. Taking with them,” he added, “my brother, Li, who was not yet two.”

“Your brother? Why?”

“Because my stepmother, Mei-lin, had disappeared, never to be seen again.”

“What do you mean, she disappeared?”

He gazed at me evenly. “It was wartime.”

Just like that,
I thought.
Your mother disappears forever, and the answer is
It was wartime.

“Why didn’t your brother stay with your father and you?”

“By the time Rosalie went to Hongkew we also were long gone. To Chongqing, where my father, changing allegiances, joined Chiang Kai-shek’s army. As, within a few years, I did myself.”

“You don’t seem old enough to have fought with Chiang Kai-shek.” I’d seen the remains of the Nationalist army marching defiantly through Chinatown every October, and though C. D. Zhang was not young, those men definitely had years on him.

“I joined up at fifteen, not the youngest in my brigade. To my surprise, military life suited me. Soldiers are family, dependent on each other. People helped me and expected me to help them. I could be useful, you see! And appreciated for it! An unfamiliar situation in my life until then.

“However, my talents, such as they were, were more logistical than martial. I was valued in my unit because I could provide. We always ate. Sadly, in actual battle, I was a poor soldier. A disappointment to my father in that as in so much else. But Ms. Chin! Again we stray. My military career, not even a footnote to an addendum to history, is not why you’re here. I fear we’re caught up in the romance of the past. Always more alluring than the mundane present.”

Mundane? Shanghai’s shadows vanished in an instant: Joel was dead, and the Shanghai Moon might be to blame.

“You’re right.” I put my teacup down. “Can we go back to the Shanghai Moon? You saw it. What do you think it’s worth?”

“I saw it, yes, as a boy. But childhood memories are unreliable.”

“Still. You’re an expert in this field, after all.”

“Ah, such barefaced flattery! But all right, I’ll take that bait. As described—as its legend has it—the value of the Shanghai Moon would approach two million dollars. More, if collectors let their hearts rule their heads. And they always do. That truth has brought me a good livelihood. But I deal in gems I can hold in my hand! The Shanghai Moon is a shadow. A quicksand. Tread carefully.”

“It may be too late for that. Mr. Zhang, I’m not the only investigator hired to look for Rosalie Gilder’s jewelry. The other was shot dead in his office.”

The traffic must have stopped for a light, because the room went silent. “Shot dead?” C. D. Zhang paused. “And the search for Rosalie Gilder’s jewelry was the cause?”

“I’m not sure of that,” I admitted.

“And you’re not sure the Shanghai Moon has reappeared, even if it was.”

“No, but—”

“Exactly my point. The Shanghai Moon attaches itself to danger, to romance. The way a shadow attaches itself to substance. My cousin is sure, no doubt.”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, I can promise you he is. If he hasn’t said as much, it only means he thinks he’s close to the Shanghai Moon and wants to keep it for himself. It’s always the same.”

“You’re saying he was freezing me out?”

C. D. Zhang just smiled.

“Will he try to freeze your brother out, too?”

“Well, he hardly can, can he?”

“Why not?”

“My cousin’s wasted a great deal of money on this wild goose chase over the years. That money has all been my brother’s.”

“Zhang Li’s been financing him? I didn’t know that.”

“Does it surprise you?”

“Yes. He seemed more, I don’t know, down to earth.”

“They’re both mad, not just the one. Although Brother Li lives in less of a dreamland than Cousin Lao-li, perhaps precisely because the money’s his. He’s seen through some of the more absurd hints and offers, over the years. Chases Lao-li would have dashed off on if he had his way. And this, Ms. Chin, sounds like another of those. That a long-vanished jewel should be involved in a recent killing . . .” He fixed his eyes on me. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? You’re caught in the web.”

My cheeks grew hot. “I’m trying to solve a murder.” Which didn’t mean he was wrong, but I ignored that. “The book I read said the Shanghai Moon disappeared in the last days of the civil war. I asked them—Mr. Chen and Mr. Zhang—about that, but they wouldn’t talk about it. Can you tell me anything?”

“The gem’s disappearance?” He shook his head. “My father and I didn’t return to Shanghai until a Communist victory was clearly inevitable. Even then we were there just hours, racing for a ship for Taipei. My final memories of Shanghai are dark ones: dodging down alleys and lanes, running to meet my father on the
Taipei Pearl,
ahead of the slow, silent march of Mao’s soldiers toward the Bund.”

“How old were you?”

“By then, eighteen. Ms. Chin, let me ask you: Where was Rosalie Gilder’s jewelry found?”

“In a construction excavation.”

“In Hongkew?”

“No, in the area that used to be the International Settlement. On Jiangming Street. Mr. Zhang? What is it?”

C. D. Zhang had gone still. “If I’m correct, what is now Jiangming Street was once Thibet Road. The Chen family villa was at Number 12.”

“You mean . . .”

A long pause. “The story, the romantic one the wives whispered, was that Rosalie Gilder was never without the Shanghai Moon, wearing it always hidden on a chain around her neck. But there was another rumor, counter to that and equally persistent, that she didn’t take it to Hongkew. She was said to never lock her door, to underscore the fact that the brooch wasn’t there.”

I thought about this. “If she’d buried her jewelry before she went to Hongkew, why wouldn’t she dig it up once the war was over? The Jews didn’t have to stay in Hongkew after that, did they? Couldn’t she go back to the villa?”

“She could, and she did. But after the Japanese surrendered and left China in 1945, tyranny was replaced by anarchy as Nationalists and Communists tore at each other’s throats. Treasure of any kind was better buried, denied, declared already stolen. And after 1949, with the revolution blazing a glorious path into China’s future, it was both vulgar and perilous to admit to wealth.”

“So do you think it could be true?”

“I think, Ms. Chin, that each tale of the Shanghai Moon’s re appearance is credible to those who want to believe.” Then, slowly, came a different smile: indulgent, almost conspiratorial. “I will admit, however, this tale is more compelling than most. What will you do now?”

“I’m not sure. Your brother may yet talk to me: He said he would, though that may have been just to get me to leave. But I don’t know how much use he’d be. Any memories either of them have that could help in the search, they’d have followed already. As you say, childhood memories are unreliable, and they were both very young.”

“Yes.” C. D. Zhang nodded. “They were young. And I suppose Dr. Gilder is too old?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Dr. Gilder. He and I are nearly of an age, though we barely know each other. I understand his mind has been slipping for some time now. So I suppose he’s of no help?”

“Who’s Dr. Gilder?”

“Paul Gilder,” said C. D. Zhang, surprised. “Rosalie’s younger brother.”

17

“You still have that car?” I asked Bill the second he answered the phone.

“What car?”

“Any car.”

“Sure. Why?”

“Pick me up. We’re going to New Jersey.”

Teaneck, specifically, our goal was. Where Dr. Paul Gilder, eighty-four, lived with his granddaughter’s family.

“It never crossed my mind he might still be alive,” I said as I snapped my seat belt. “Much less near here. He’s like a fairy tale character. I didn’t expect him to be real.”

“I wonder if he’ll be happy to know that.” Bill pulled the car into traffic.

“According to C. D. Zhang he doesn’t know much. His granddaughter said the same thing: He’s in and out. Why are you stopping here?”

“So you can get a cup of tea for the drive. I’m well trained.”

“Very. But please, no. I’ve spent the whole day with old Chinese men. You have no idea how much tea that involves.”

As we drove I told Bill about my phone conversation with Paul Gilder’s granddaugher, Anita Horowitz. “I came clean with her: told her I’d spoken to Mr. Chen, Mr. Zhang, and C. D. Zhang, told her about the Chinese cop and Joel, and about Wong Pan and Alice. The whole thing worried her, but she’s willing to let us speak to Paul. Though she doesn’t see how he can help. He’s only lucid sometimes, for one thing, and anything he ever knew, Mr. Chen and Mr. Zhang would know.”

“Maybe not, if they were just kids when the Shanghai Moon disappeared.”

“No, but since they came here in ’sixty-six they’ve been in touch with him. They’ll have pumped him long since.”

Bill’s GPS led us to a neat raised ranch with bright plastic toys dotting the lawn. A dark-haired woman answered the doorbell.

“You’re the detectives? I’m Anita Horowitz. Paul Gilder’s granddaughter.” As she stood aside to let us in, a toddler clomped up. She looked from one of us to the other and offered Bill half a cracker.

“Thank you.” He accepted it gravely.

“This is Lily,” Anita Horowitz said. “Lily, these people are here to see Zayde. Can you show them where he is?”

Lily ran off. As we followed, Anita Horowitz smiled at me. “You’ll be pleased to know you have a sterling reputation.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“After we talked, it occurred to me I should find out more about you. I called our lawyer and asked him to check around. I was prepared to send you packing, but he called back with a glowing report.”

“Well,” I said, straightening. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

“Now you, on the other hand . . .” She turned to Bill, but still with a smile.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll keep him in line.”

We came to a glassed-in porch, where Lily leaned against the knee of an old man in a wheelchair. He was smiling at her, smoothing her hair.

“He’s usually not sure who she is,” Anita Horowitz whispered. “He’s always asking her if anyone’s taking care of her. He’s relieved to see me with her, though half the time he doesn’t know who I am either. Wait here a minute.” She crossed the room and crouched next to him. “Zayde, some people are here to see you.” He looked up with interest, and she gestured us in.

“Dr. Gilder,” I said, pulling over a chair, “I’m so pleased to meet you.”

He peered through thick glasses. I tried to match his crumpled face to the photo of the young boy grinning next to Rosalie, but I had trouble. He looked up at Bill, then back to me, frowned, and leaned forward. A slow, marveling smile lit his face. “Mei-lin!”

I glanced at Anita, then back as Paul Gilder’s stiff fingers grasped my hand. “I’m so glad to see you, Mei-lin! Oh, my goodness, so glad! Why has it been so long?” His voice was weak, his English German-accented: “gled” and “vhy.” “And who is this? Ah, I know. An American, a soldier.”

“Navy, sir,” said Bill.

Paul Gilder shrugged. “Soldier, sailor. You’re very welcome in Shanghai, my friend. Mei-lin.” He searched my face. “You’re all right?”

“I—I’m fine.”

“When we didn’t hear, we feared . . . It was said the general . . . but enough! Rumors, all rumors. Such a relief! Where is Rosalie? Does she know you’re back? Have you seen your little Li? What a handful he is! Oh, he’ll be so happy to see you!”

“I . . .”

“Zayde,” Anita said, leaning toward him, “this is Lydia Chin. From New York. She wants to ask you some questions.”

Paul smiled. “Anita, my dear. Have you met . . .” Confusion seeped into his face. He looked from her to me. “Mei-lin? How is it . . . Anita . . .” He trailed off.

“This is Lydia Chin,” Anita patiently repeated. “She wants you to tell her about Shanghai.”

“Shanghai, yes, Mei-lin has come back to Shanghai.” But his voice was uncertain, and his gaze wandered into the garden.

Anita stood and spoke softly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think he’d be able to help you. I don’t want him getting upset.”

“I understand.” I squeezed Paul’s hand. “I’m happy to have seen you. I’m sorry, but we have to go now.”

He turned and met my eyes. “Mei-lin. Wait.”

“Zayde, they have to go,” Anita said.

“But Mei-lin’s book. Haven’t you come for your book?”

“What book, Zayde?”

“In the chest. With . . . with the letters.” His brow furrowed. “Rosalie kept it safe for you, as you asked. And I . . . after Rosalie . . .” He set his chin, determined to go on. In a firm voice he spoke to Anita. “In the chest.”

“The red chest?”

“Of course.”

“All right. I’ll get it.”

She left the porch, Lily thumping after her. I stayed sitting by Paul. I didn’t intend to ask him anything, just to be companionable. But he suddenly spoke. “Have you seen Kai-rong since you’ve come back? I don’t know where he’s gone . . . he wasn’t hurt badly, you know. They hadn’t had time.” He smiled at me. “You saved his life. You were very brave.”

I said, “I’ve never been brave.”

He laughed, and suddenly I could see the fourteen-year-old in the garden. “Mei-lin, when did you learn modesty? How will we get used to such a change? Never mind. Kai-rong and I are lucky to have such sisters.”

Anita came back with a shoebox-sized chest of lacquered wood. A lock clinked against a bronze disk. “He brought this from Shanghai,” she whispered. “He never opens it.”

My breath caught. A box from Shanghai, that Rosalie Gilder’s brother has had all this time and never opens—could it be?
No, Lydia, that would be too easy
.

“Where is the key?” Paul asked Anita.

“You have it, Zayde.”

“I have? Ah.” His stiff fingers worked into a pocket and brought out a key ring. He carefully separated keys, until he found the smallest. “This,” he told Anita. “It sticks,” he added. With a little jiggling—it did stick—Anita opened the box, releasing a swirl of rosewood and age.

Inside, a string-bound bundle of letters nestled on a small book, but the box held nothing else. I caught Bill’s eye; his shrug told me we’d been thinking the same thing. Paul lifted out the book and shut the box. No one spoke while he gazed at the book’s once-rich leather cover, now mildew-spotted and flaking. Then he presented it to me with both hands, the formal Chinese way.

“I’ve waited . . .” Again, the confusion. “I’ve waited a long time to return this, Mei-lin.” Briefly, his eyes closed.

“I’m very grateful.” I glanced at Anita, who was looking worried. “You’re tired,” I said to Paul. “We’ll go now. Thank you very much.”

“I am tired. Lately I’m often tired. But Mei-lin. You’ll come back?”

“Yes, of course.”

“It was an honor to meet you, sir,” Bill said.

Paul Gilder, his arm wrapped around the box, looked at Bill. “Mr. American Sailor.”

“Yes, sir?”

“If you’re keeping company with Mei-lin, be careful of the general.”

“The general, sir?”

“He’s a dangerous man. We thought . . . After Mei-lin went to Number 76 . . . Just keep an eye out.”

“Sir? Number 76?”

“Very brave. Mei-lin, you were very brave.” Paul nodded. Lily ran over and leaned into his knee. He looked at her in surprise, then smiled. “Lily.”

“Please,” Anita whispered.

Leaving Paul cradling the rosewood box, Bill and I followed Anita to the living room. She said, “I’m sorry. I was afraid he wouldn’t be much help.”

“He thought I was Mei-lin. Kai-rong’s sister. Do you know what he meant about her being brave?”

“I barely know her name. I told you on the phone, he’s never talked much about Shanghai.”

“Or the Shanghai Moon?”

“That, never. The first I heard of it, I was eleven. My Hebrew School teacher invited Zayde to come talk about the Shanghai ghetto. He said he would if I did research and could give the facts—how many refugees, from where, things like that.” She smiled. “I wasn’t very bookish, and he was trying to help. Anyway, I found a reference to the Shanghai Moon, and that it had been Great-Aunt Rosalie’s. I was a little girl with my head full of princesses, so I loved the idea of a romantic lost gem, but when I asked Zayde he just said it was gone.” She looked through the doorway at her grandfather and her daughter. “He said wherever it was, it was cursed, and he wished it had never existed. He said the important things about Shanghai were the Yiddish theaters and the coffeehouses, that people had bar mitzvahs and seders and lit Shabbos candles for ten years on the coast of China, and I should remember that and forget this nonsense about gems. That he didn’t want to hear about it again.” She paused. “It was the only time he was ever short-tempered with me.”

“So you don’t know what happened when it disappeared?”

“No. The only times I heard it mentioned were when Cousin Lao-li visited. Rosalie’s son. Even then they hardly ever spoke about it.”

“Do you see him often, Chen Lao-li?”

“More often now, since we moved here. He comes for holidays and the kids’ birthdays, things like that. I grew up in California, so when I was little I didn’t see him much. I wasn’t born yet when they came here, he and his cousin, but my big brother used to tease Zayde about how excited he’d been when he got the letter that they were coming. He flew to New York three days early, so if he got delayed he’d still be there to meet them.”

“I wonder why they didn’t ask him to sponsor them?” Bill said. “Instead of C. D. Zhang, whom one of them didn’t know and the other didn’t like.”

“They did, and he tried. But he wasn’t a close enough relative for the INS. So Zayde tracked down C. D. Zhang. I have the feeling they might not have contacted him at all if they didn’t have to.”

I asked, “When did Dr. Gilder come to this country?”

“In 1949. He was one of the last refugees to leave. Very few stayed, but Zayde had been planning to. My father used to say we all could have been Chinese.”

“Why didn’t he?”

“Stay on? Well, I suppose he had less reason to, after Rosalie died.”