Trail of Blood (2 page)

I can’t wait for the day when we’re together again! In Shanghai Paul and I will ready a home, and when you arrive we’ll rush to meet you. Perhaps, in years to come, bedtime tales of the Chinese adventures of the Gilder family will be told to wide-eyed children, who will then dream wonderful dreams.

Paul sends his love, and promises to write though I think he will not. But no matter; I will faithfully correspond for us both. Please, please, Mama, come soon!!!

With all my heart,

Your Rosalie

In the silence I became aware of comings and goings in the Waldorf lobby. A bellhop pushed a luggage cart across the carpet. Well-dressed men and women read newspapers and sipped coffee. If you ignored the taxis beyond the doors, this could be the saloon of a great ocean liner itself.

I looked at Alice Fairchild. “I don’t understand. These were Jews escaping the Nazis? But—they were going to
Shanghai
?”

“It was their only choice.”

“What do you mean? I thought they went to other countries in Europe, or came here.”

“Survivors did, after the war. But as the Nazis rose in the thirties, countries all over the world closed their doors. Everyone knew what was happening, but no government was willing to deal with a flood of desperate refugees.”

“Even the U.S.?”

“The U.S. had small quotas by country and looked at the Jews as Germans, Austrians, Poles, wherever they were from. All the normal paperwork was required.”

“This is a surprise?” Joel asked me. “There were Chinese quotas, too, you know.”

“I know that. But I thought—”

“It was just you? Wrong.”

I sipped tea to hide my annoyance that Joel had caught me out being ignorant, and in front of the client, too. “Well, but Shanghai? It seems so . . . unlikely.”

“I’m sure it did to them, too,” Alice said. “But visas were relatively easy to get, and often passengers off ships weren’t asked for papers in any case. Anyone who could get there could stay. It was the only place.”

“How many refugees went?”

“Twenty thousand.”

“Twenty
thousand
?” Where had I been during world history class?

“The story’s not well known.” Alice read my mind. “It’s been eclipsed by the war, the concentration camps. They began arriving in numbers in 1937. By 1942, fighting in Europe and the Pacific had closed the routes.”

“But 1937—that’s when Japan invaded China.” I hadn’t slept through world history completely, after all. “The Japanese let them in?”

“Shanghai’s open port was what made it wealthy. That early, Japan wasn’t planning on war with the West and saw no reason to change anything.”

Alice looked at Joel, then at me. “Rosalie Gilder was eighteen, her brother Paul fourteen, when they fled Salzburg by train for Trieste, to board the
Conte Biancamano.
Their mother, Elke, a widow, and her brother, Horst Peretz, had tickets to Shanghai three months later by the overland route—Trans-Siberian Railway to a ship at Dairen.”

I asked, “Why didn’t they all go together?”

“Germany had annexed Austria a month before. Extermination wasn’t yet the Nazis’ plan for the Jews; they meant to force them out. They’d arrest Jewish men, and only let them go once their families produced travel documents. That happened to Horst. Elke was able to get train tickets, so he was released, but three months was a frighteningly long time to wait. She moved heaven and earth to get berths on a ship leaving sooner, and managed two. She sent her children. She hoped she and Horst could follow on another ship.”

“Did they?”

“No.”

“So they went by train?”

“They never got out.”

My gaze fell to the photo again, sister and brother smiling on a windy day. I looked at Joel. His face was carefully blank. It occurred to me he must have grown up hearing countless tragic variations on this same story.

“In the letter you see a reference to their suitcases,” Alice resumed briskly. “Jews who left weren’t allowed to take much money, or anything valuable. Paul and Rosalie packed only clothing and a few household items—a pair of pewter candlesticks, for example.”

“What happened to things people left behind?”

“The Nazis seized them. Most can’t be traced. My work involves trying to recover the ones that can—paintings, antiques. In this case, though, that’s not what I’m after. As Rosalie predicted, Paul turned out to be not much of a correspondent. But he was good with his hands. He’d built hidden compartments into the suitcases, where they concealed their mother’s jewelry.”

Joel raised his eyebrows. “That’s why she says the suitcases are intact.”

“Yes. She was telling her mother they’d held on to the jewelry. Earning a living in Shanghai was hard for the refugees, and these were teenagers. The jewelry was their safety net.”

“What happened to them? Rosalie and Paul?”

“That’s actually unclear. After the end of the war they can’t be traced. You can imagine what chaos those times were. Record-keeping wasn’t anyone’s priority. Now, as I’m sure you know, Shanghai’s in the middle of a building boom.”

I nodded. That was something I did know.

“A month ago, excavation for a tower in what had been the International Settlement, in a place called Jiangming Street, unearthed a carved box containing five pieces of jewelry. I was able to identify it as Rosalie Gilder’s.” Reaching into her briefcase again, she handed us photographs of a necklace, two rings, and two bracelets. “I represent the grandchildren of Horst Peretz, Rosalie and Paul’s uncle. He’d sent his daughter to live in Switzerland in 1935. She survived the war. My clients are her sons.

“The Chinese government considers anything found on their soil Chinese cultural patrimony, not to be removed from the country without permission. In this case, because the jewelry is so clearly European in origin, I was able to persuade them to negotiate. I went to Shanghai, and things were going smoothly until a few days ago, when the jewelry, and a midlevel official from the Shanghai Ministry of Culture, disappeared.”

“The official ran off with the jewelry?”

“Oh, well, I don’t know that, do I?” Her eyes sparkled. “But I have reason to think that he—Wong Pan is his name; this is his picture—arrived in New York two days ago.” She handed us photos of a round-faced man.

“Is the jewelry very valuable?” I asked.

“By jewelry standards, no. Each piece is probably worth between twenty and forty thousand dollars. But for a Chinese bureaucrat, you can see the temptation. To my clients, of course, it’s priceless.

“So now you can see why I need you both. Under most circumstances, if I were trying to sell antique jewelry in New York, I’d head to the Diamond District.” She nodded at Joel. New York’s Diamond District on Forty-seventh Street is almost exclusively the province of Orthodox Jews.

“Except maybe if you were Chinese.” I began to catch on.

“Exactly. Then I might try Canal Street, even though I understand antiques aren’t Canal Street’s specialty.”

“No, those shops deal mostly in new pieces. Still . . .”

“Yes, exactly. So I’d like you to show these photographs around and see if anything’s turned up.”

Joel studied the photos. “And if it has?”

“If you find someone who’s bought any, let them know I’m in New York and interested in recovering it. Between us, the family’s prepared to buy the jewelry back, to save years of headaches. You might stress I’m not the long arm of Chinese law.”

“What if we get a lead on the bureaucrat? Wong Pan?”

“If he still has the jewelry, I’ll be willing to deal with him. I’m not crazy about someone profiting from a stunt like this, but my charge is the assets. Now”—Alice sat back—“I have to tell you, I have another, more personal reason for my interest in this case. I was born in Shanghai. In those years.”

Joel did the gallant thing. “How can that be? Someone as young as you?”

“You’re a very sweet liar. My parents were American missionaries. We spent two and a half years in a Japanese internment camp after Pearl Harbor. Of course I was very young—then.” She smiled. “Most of my memories are from the camp, not Shanghai itself, and they’re not particularly pleasant. Still, when this case came along, it did seem like something I’d want to see through. As if somehow it might, a tiny bit, redeem that experience. I’m not sure that makes any sense.”

Joel said, “It does to me.”

Personally, I had doubts about experiences being redeemable, but I kept them to myself.

We had more tea and coffee while the conversation turned to fees, expenses, and reports. Alice was Joel’s client, so he took the lead, and that was fine with me. I listened, put in my two cents when it was wanted, and tried not to yield to the hypnotic combination of jet lag and the Waldorf.

Finally, retainer checks and receipts having been written and passed around, Alice said, “You’ll have to excuse me. That Shanghai flight’s a long one, and my poor body’s not sure what day it is, let alone what time. And I’ve scheduled meetings with other clients over the next few days, since I’m in New York. Lydia, you just got back from California, didn’t you? You’re probably looking forward to the end of this meeting, too.” I tried to deny it, but she had my number. “I’ll go up to my room and let you two get started. Thank you.”

Joel and I stood, shook her hand, and watched her cross the lobby.

“Well, Chinsky,” Joel said, “ready to do the bloodhound thing?”

“Sure. Thanks for calling me in.”

“Chinsky, as far as Chinese PIs, you’re at the top of my list. I mean, it’s a short list, but still.”

“Gee, thanks.” I had taken a few steps when I realized Joel was still staring toward the elevators, chewing his lower lip. “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know. I feel like something’s off.”

“Like what?”

“For one thing, she’s a shiksa. Her parents were missionaries. It’s an odd profession for a shiksa, Holocaust asset recovery.”

“Maybe she converted.”

He gave me a pitying look. “Trust me on this, bubbaleh.”

“Okay. But so? There must be money in it. She probably gets a percentage or something.”

“If she finds anything. And she’d be on retainer, in case she doesn’t. But it’s frustrating. Like she said, most assets can’t be traced. When they can, ownership takes years to prove. Half the time, you never do, and you don’t get your client’s goods back. Everyone I know who does that work thinks of it like a religious calling.”

“She does have that air about her.”

“Yes. The question is, why?”

“Because her parents were missionaries?”

Joel rolled his eyes. We turned and headed to the door. Casually, Joel asked, “Speaking of work, how’s your partner?”

“You’re subtle as a ton of bricks, Pilarsky. I haven’t seen him in a while.” As though it explained anything, I added, “I’ve been away.”

“Mmm. I heard you guys were having problems.”

“Did you? Where?”

“Around. It’s true?”

“Why? You want to go into business with one of us?”

“With you, in a minute. We’d be unstoppable. Cute little Chinese chick and a fat Jewish alte kacker, clients would be falling over each other. No, seriously, it’s just that you guys work well together. That’s not so easy to find.”

That showed a surprising sensitivity, coming from Joel, but I didn’t want to get into it. “He seems to think I’m better off without him.”

“Who asked him?”

“Certainly not me. Listen, is this important? Like, does it have to do with this case?”

Joel smiled and suddenly bellowed,

“You’re nothing without me!
Without me you’re nothing at all—”

“
No
!” I put my hands to my ears. He stopped, and I asked, “What?”

“
City of Angels
. Coleman and Zippel. Last of the great Broadway musicals, and it’s about a private eye, too! You should see it, Chinsky.”

“Where’s it playing?”

“Nowhere. Closed years ago.”

“Then how do I see it?”

“Your problem, kiddo. You need anything before we start?”

“No,” I sighed. “I’m good.”

“Okay.” Joel smiled beatifically. “Go. Have fun.”

2

It was too late to start working my way through the jewelry shops of Canal Street; by the time I got downtown they’d all be closed. I was tempted to go home to bed. If I did, though, I’d spring wide awake in a few hours and spend the rest of the night staring at the ceiling.

I headed for the dojo. I’d worked out in California, but that wouldn’t cut much ice with Sensei Chung. All he knew was I hadn’t been around for a month. I suited up, stretched, and offered to take a class of younger students through their forms. Sensei bowed, accepting the offer. I worked with the kids for forty minutes, until they, and I, were sweaty and panting. Then Sensei dismissed them and smiled, ready to show me why it wasn’t a good idea to disappear.

I got home exhausted enough that I had hopes of falling asleep and getting back on New York time. I found my mother watching a soap opera on the Cantonese cable channel.

“Oh, will you be home for dinner?” she asked innocently. “I think there are vegetables.” I peeked into the kitchen and saw mountains of chicken, broccoli, peppers, and ginger chopped and ready to stir-fry.

Sometimes this transparent kind of thing flips my switch. Our deal is, I’ll live here as long as she lives here, so she won’t be alone; but she doesn’t get to give me a hard time about where or when I come and go. Or whether I’m home for dinner.

But I
had
been away a month. Besides, I was starving.

“Ma, it looks great. Let me change, and I’ll cook.”

“You make the chicken dry. Go shower. Dinner will be ready when you come out.”

Which meant she’d already made two people’s worth of rice.

Clean, dry, and full—truth be told, my mother’s a great cook—I headed for bed at a ridiculously early hour. Which turned out to be a mistake. Sensei Chung’s private lesson and my mother’s stir-fry were no match for jet lag, and though I fell asleep before my head hit the pillow, by midnight I was, in fact, staring at the ceiling.

I tried deep breathing, Advil, counting sheep, and everything else I could think of, but I couldn’t get any closer to sleep than a stone skimming the surface. Around two I gave up. I switched on the light and looked for something to do.

The image of the skimming stone brought to mind a vast ocean, and that brought a ship. I went to my desk and looked at the photos: the jewelry, Rosalie and Paul Gilder, Wong Pan. I reread the letter. I wondered if there were others at the Jewish Museum. I wondered what had become of Rosalie, of her brother. It wasn’t relevant to the job I’d been hired to do, but I wondered.

Ah, the magic of what my mother refers to as the Interweb. A search for “Rosalie Gilder” on the Jewish Museum Web site brought me to Holocaust/Survivors/Documents/Shanghai/Gilder.

Rosalie Ruchl Gilder. Salzburg to Shanghai via the
Conte Biancamano,
April 1938, age 18. Accompanied by brother Paul Chaim Gilder, 14. Letters to Elke Chana Gilder, mother, 1938–1941. Acquired 1967. In German. English translation available.

There were fifteen more. I clicked on “English,” then hesitated. Read someone else’s letters? That wasn’t right.
But these are historical documents,
I told myself.
In a museum collection.
Yes, but they weren’t written that way. A young girl wrote them to her mother, who she never saw again.

In the end my curiosity overcame my scruples. It’s one of the things Bill always liked about me. Though why I should care what Bill liked now that we didn’t seem to be speaking, I had no idea.

I printed out the translations of the first half-dozen letters and curled up with them in bed.

18 April 1938

Dearest Mama,

This will be the briefest of notes, because the tender is leaving soon to take the ship’s mail. But I can’t give up the chance to describe the scene before us: We’ve docked at Port Said, and the setting sun is bathing the Sinai range with gold! Along with many fellow Jews, I stand at the rail, my heart stirred at the sight. Paul laughs at me, his skeptical sister; and truthfully, I have no idea which of the peaks before us might be Mt. Sinai itself. Nor does he, I might add. Nor do any of the crew seem to know, though they’ve made this voyage before.

The crew, by the way, treat us quite respecfully. An Italian steward confided, in poor but heartfelt German, that he was grateful to be at sea. On land, as he put it, “She’s all gone crazy!” This cordiality extends to the ship’s engineer, a Bavarian. He seems amused by Paul’s fascination with the machinery, and is pleased to have someone with whom to discuss it in German. He’s invited him to visit the engine rooms at any time. I take hope from the attitudes of these men that the madness sweeping Europe will soon come to an end.

But until it does, and despite my own impatience with the Talmud’s more ridiculous tales and constricting injunctions, I stand at this rail with my fellow refugees, and declare myself a Jew.

Your Rosalie

You go, girl,
I thought. I snuggled more deeply into my blanket and went on to the next letter.

23 April 1938

Dearest Mama,

I hope you and Uncle Horst are keeping well, and are at this moment racing to Trieste to board a ship! Paul points out that if you are, of course, this letter will miss you. But I won’t mind having written in vain, if it means we’ll be together soon. I would gladly repeat myself as we sit over coffee—or fragrant flowery tea, as taken by the Chinese.

Now, you ask, how is it I can speak about Chinese tea, still three weeks from China’s shore? Mama, I’ve had the most fascinating encounter! Here is what happened:

As I wrote you, most of our fellow passengers are also refugees heading to the Orient with no more experience or knowledge of the place than we have. Many are families with children, who, with their natural high spirits, are treating this voyage as a great adventure. I don’t mind—in fact I find their sunniness reassuring—but not all my fellow passengers feel the same.

Aboard also are some dozen Chinese men, returning home. They look like the illustrations in that lovely poetry book; if anything, more elegant and impressive, with their pale skin and slanted eyes. The two most elderly dress in long dark gowns; all the rest wear jackets and trousers, but still, they’re quite exotic and I’ve had to be strict with Paul, that he must not stare at them.

Now, this morning, as I sat on deck with a novel from the ship’s library—it’s quite large, Mama, with books in so many languages!—I observed a young Chinese man run afoul of some boys playing with a ball. Almost knocked over by their pandemonium, he shouted that they were ill bred and worse behaved, and that as they were no credit to their families, they ought to be ashamed.

With my usual self-restraint I was on my feet in seconds. I thundered that it was he who ought to be ashamed, for frightening small children. He spun around, finger raised to scold me—then stopped, as if in confusion. Then he smiled, Mama, and bowed to me, a deep Oriental bow!

“Well,” said he. “I was under the impression that with the exception of my countrymen, the passengers on this voyage were largely German and Austrian. I suppose I shall have to watch my tongue.”

It was only then that I realized with astonishment what he’d grasped first—that we were both speaking English.

“If you intend to continue berating the children, indeed you will,” I drew myself up and answered, as though conversing in English with a Chinese aboard an Italian liner plowing the Red Sea were an everyday thing. “Perhaps you’d at least consider insulting them in your native language, so they might learn something they’ll find useful in their new home.”

At this he smiled again, but looked quizzical, and inquired where their new home might be. When I told him Shanghai, he seemed truly surprised.

“Madame, Shanghai is under Japanese occupation. Civil war rages in the countryside, and foreigners abandon China on every ship that sails. I understood my fellow passengers to be refugees from oppression, but Shanghai seems an odd choice of new home.”

“Choice? We are Jews, sir—we have no choice! The countries we leave hound us, steal from us, throw us behind bars. We’re ordered into exile and would gladly go, but no place will have us—except Shanghai!” I swept my hand toward the boys. “These children leave home, family, and friends for an unknown place where the language, the streets, the very food will be wholly new to them. Yet they laugh and play. And you dare take them to task for it!”

Finally reining in the runaway horse that is my temper, I felt myself redden up to my scalp and was appalled at my effrontery.

The gentleman regarded me, his face grave. He asked if there were truly no other place for us. “I’d thought Shanghai was a transit port,” he said. “A stop on the way to someplace more hospitable.”

Surprised by the catch in my throat as I spoke, I told him “hospitable” was not a sentiment the world felt toward Jews.

He kept his gaze on me for another brief time. Then he turned to the boys, who’d been watching in part fear, part fascination. He bowed—at which they took a step back, as though afraid of what might happen next!—and requested that I convey his apologies. I told them in German they might continue their game but must take care not to disturb their fellow passengers, and I shooed them off.

The gentleman turned again to me, and again, he smiled. “I am Chen Kai-rong. Chen is my family name, and so, if we’re to be friends, you must call me Kai-rong. I’d be honored if you’d take tea with me.”

And that, Mama, is how I’ve come to know about Chinese tea!

I receded to my deck chair. Mr. Chen Kai-rong settled himself also and spoke to a steward. As we awaited our tea he glanced at my book. I’d been reading Thomas Hardy, to improve my English; he asked whether the author was a favorite of mine. When I told him Mr. Hardy was rather dark for my taste, he agreed, and asked what writer in that language I enjoyed.

And Mama, now you’ll laugh, because what popped from my mouth was “William Shakespeare.” All the times you despaired of me, devouring Wilkie Collins while
King Lear
gathered dust, and now to a stranger on the deck of a ship I tell such a fib! But this gentleman holds himself with such grace, Mama, his English is so good and his manners so refined! I wanted him to think well of me.

I then asked if there was an English author he particularly admired, and he responded with P. G. Wodehouse. Do you know this writer, Mama? I don’t, and I told him so. His answer: “Well, I commend him to you. I think you’ll find him compatible.” Later, I sought out the works of Mr. Wodehouse in the ship’s library, but they are not carried.

Our tea tray arrived, bare of milk, sugar, or lemon. The accompanying cakes were entirely unfamiliar. Mr. Chen Kai-rong instructed me to swirl the teacup to release the scent, as we do with wine. I found the tea’s golden color and sweet fragrance appealing, and discovered it to be delicious, though I was less successful in enjoying the cakes.

“Never mind,” he said. “At least now the very food of China isn’t wholly new to you.” At that I couldn’t contain a smile, though I tried to conceal it. He continued, “I confess to a weakness for linzer torte, myself. Tell me, Miss Gilder, are all Jews as firm in their opinions and as outspoken as yourself? If so, Shanghai can look forward to some excitement.”

“We are indeed firm in our opinions,” I replied. “Though I think you and Shanghai will find most of my fellow refugees more capable of holding their tongues than I. Please accept my apology; I had no right to speak to you that way. But if we are to continue speaking, and even, as you hinted, to be friends, and if I’m to call you Kai-rong, you must call me Rosalie.”

He nodded gravely, as though I had proposed terms for a political treaty. “Well, Rosalie,” said he, “it seems I’m indebted to those young hooligans. If they hadn’t tried to trample me, I’d not have discovered the pleasure of your company. To my regret, though, I now have an appointment to keep.” He stood and bowed in farewell.

“Please wait, sir,” I said before he could take two steps. My boldness makes me blush, thinking of it now, but Mama, the half hour we’d spent over tea was the only half hour since the train pulled out of Salzburg that I haven’t been afraid. Can you understand that? I’ve been trying so hard to be brave, to look after Paul and be
responsible,
and really, Mama, I’ve been managing, please don’t think I haven’t. But this brief time spent with someone who is neither a frightened refugee, nor in the business of frightening refugees—I’d nearly forgotten what it was to converse, to speak of things beyond fear and loneliness and the horrors of our situation. So I called after Mr. Chen Kai-rong, and when he quickly turned back to me, I had to have something to say! I blurted, “Sir? My young brother and I go to China alone, with no more knowledge than we could glean from a children’s poetry book. If you’d care to educate me about your country, so I’m not a total dunce when we arrive, I should like that very much.”

He smiled. “I think, Rosalie, you stand no chance of being a dunce. But I’d be honored to talk with you about my country. Will you take tea with me again tomorrow afternoon? I can arrange for a group of rowdy children with dangerous toys, if that will entice you.”

“I need no enticing,” I told him, and the deal was struck.

So, Mama, soon I’ll be what the British call an “old China hand.” I’m looking forward to my education, but more than that, to another half hour with someone in whose presence I can forget that I’m afraid.