Trail of Blood (9 page)

The night before last, in a thick mist, we bore down on the mouth of the harbor. Everyone ran to the rails, though for some time nothing could be seen. The air became electric when ships loomed from the fog: two liners at anchor, gunships of many nations, and our first sight of the square-sailed junks and flat sampans of the Orient.

We dropped anchor to await the turn of the tide. The kitchens put forth a sumptuous banquet of fish, goose, and dumplings. Not knowing what our situation would be from that moment forward, I ate my fill and encouraged Paul to do the same. (Though he needed no encouragement; as costly as this passage was, I don’t believe that in the end the Lloyd Triestino Line has made any profit on Paul.) Stewards stacked luggage on deck, and many emotional farewells and promises of continued friendship were made. Neither Paul nor I slept that night; had we, I believe we would have been the only passengers to do so.

As the sun rose the engines rumbled, and the ship was on the move. We made our way up the Whangpu, as the river is called where it flows through Shanghai. Though the fog was thick, we refugees once again jammed the rails, straining for a glimpse of our new home.

That “glimpse” came first not as sight, but as scent. Though “scent” is too gentle a word: This was a full-on reek, a riot of tangled odors that, had it been noise, would have deafened us all. Imagine, Mama, the sea at low tide; add diesel oil, rotting vegetables, and the smoke from a thousand factories, and stir into a haze of damp heat! Such was our first impression of our new home.

As the fog burned off we saw the shore. In contrast to the report of our noses, our eyes suggested a dreamlike scene. We floated past fields and rice paddies dotted with low huts and with farmers trudging behind what Kai-rong informs me are not oxen but water buffaloes. Soon, though, we approached the outskirts of Shanghai, and oh! what a disheartening sight! The area we passed, called Hongkew, suffered much in the Japanese invasion. The devastation, drifting smoke, and rubble, and the poor souls wandering through them, were not encouraging omens.

Next came the wharves. Junks, sampans, and rafts crowded the water, riding our wake or fearlessly crossing before us; how we failed to swamp them, I cannot say. On the docks all was chaos. Trucks loaded and unloaded and automobiles inched along. The rickshaw, that odd vehicle of the Orient, could be seen, with men pulling like horses at its rails. But the chief element of the boiling, eddying commotion was people, oh so many people! A few wore European dress, but most, both men and women, rushed or trudged or sat about in short trousers and conical hats. I felt dismay at the sight of such a dense and endless crowd; but also, a strange exhilaration that made me impatient to join them.

Next came into view grand buildings in the European style. The streets, though still bustling, became less frantic. Kai-rong gazed upon his home city for the first time in years. The light in his face strengthened my resolve to try to love this place.

Kai-rong informed us we had reached the Bund, a riverfront promenade lined with banks, office blocks, and grand hotels. This is the heart of the International Settlement, an area that by treaty is governed not by China but by the foreign powers whose subjects reside there. And this word is not our German
Bund
, as one might expect, but Hindustani, and meaning “dock.” (Do you see how much I’ve learned, in these few weeks? Though I haven’t yet learned to love Chinese sweets.)

Our engines quieted; we were met by pilot boats. Paul ran to join a group of friends his own age at the bow, to be the first to see our dock. Spying a garden along the Bund, I asked Kai-rong if it was as lovely as it appeared. He said he thought it must be, but he’s never been inside, as Chinese aren’t allowed.

Mama, my heart froze. I saw before me the “Jews Forbidden” sign at the gate of the Mirabell Garden the last time you and I tried to go for our accustomed Sunday stroll.

“But how can that be?” I was vehement, Mama; I think I wanted him to say he’d been making some odd joke, or I’d misunderstood. “How can that
be?
This is China! This area may be
governed
by foreigners, but surely they cannot—”

“They can. By treaty they can and for a hundred years they have. A mile behind that”—indicating the Bund—“and thousands of miles beyond, is China. The International Settlement and the French Concession might as well be Europe. Though I can tell you, Rosalie, I was never treated with as much disdain in Europe as I have been here in the city where I was born.”

This saddened me, Mama, more than I can say. Looking with dismay across the water, I asked whether he meant to tell me the international areas, so prosperous and attractive, are entirely closed to Chinese.

“Oh, by no means,” he answered with a wry smile. “Just this ‘public’ garden, and the gentleman’s clubs, sports clubs, and private dining establishments. A million people live in the International Settlement, half a million in the French Concession. Of those, if more than sixty thousand are European, well, then, as they say in England, I’m a Chinaman.”

I smiled also, and asked, “Sixty thousand people rule the lives of one and a half million?”

“But isn’t that how things are done everywhere? In China’s treaty ports the disparity is sharp because the rulers are foreigners. But”—again sweeping his hand—“in those thousands of miles, for thousands of years, it’s been millions of peasants sweating and starving while aristocrats sip tea. In most of the world, the few govern the many.”

“Now, take care what you say, or you’ll be thought a Bolshevik.”

“Oh, hardly. In fact,” said he in ironic tones, “my own home is in the International Settlement. My father trades in cotton and silk, as his father did, and his. I’m expected to continue this dynasty.”

“Are you? And yet in your voice I hear something else.”

He turned to me, briefly silent, and quite somber. Then he smiled. “Your hearing is acute. Come, let’s find your brother. When the gangway is lowered, chaos will descend with it.”

Mama, I’m told the lights will soon be turned off in this place where we’re staying. I’m quite exhausted. I’ll end here and post this letter tomorrow, hoping it crosses the path of the ship on which you and Uncle Horst are steaming toward Shanghai right now! Though were I assured you were on such a ship and would never see this letter, I’d still continue my account. I’m oddly comforted by the attempt to decribe this extraordinary place for you. To envision your smile as you read makes me feel less alone than, surrounded by the crowds and ceaseless bustle in this room and in Shanghai, I know myself to be.

Your Rosalie

Crowds and ceaseless bustle. That was Chinatown; that was Mary and me and the thirty-six other kids in our tumultuous first-grade class; that was my parents, my mother’s older sister, and my four big brothers in our walk-up apartment. I wanted to tell Rosalie,
Don’t worry, once you get used to it it’s kind of fun
. I reached for the next letter; maybe she’d found that out herself. But my hand had to detour to pick up the ringing phone.

“Ms. Chin? This is Leah Pilarsky. Joel’s sister-in-law. I’m so sorry to bother you, but . . .”

“Please call me Lydia.” I wrenched myself back to this familiar room. “And you’re certainly not bothering me. Is something wrong?”
Besides the obvious,
I thought.

“That’s why I’m calling. I’m not sure you can help, but we don’t know where else to turn. It’s about—Joel’s body.” Her voice caught. “I’m sorry, it’s just such an odd thing to say, his body . . .” After a tiny pause she went on. “Lydia, I don’t know if you know this, but our religious laws call for burial within twenty-four hours of death.”

“I think I did know that. But that’s already past.”

“Yes. We also prefer not to do autopsies, but in cases like this, the rabbis permit it. Our laws are ancient, but we do live in the modern world.” Her tone was ironic, almost amused. In better times she was probably the funny relative, full of mordant humor. She was also, clearly, the competent, steadfast one you turn to in times like this. “We’ve been told the autopsy’s been done. But they won’t release the body.”

“Why not?”

“They say with violent crime it’s protocol to wait a few days. I understand that, but it’s a problem. Ruth is having a terrible time. She’s clinging to the rituals and laws—well, that’s what they’re for, to give you something to hold on to in bad times. She’s become obsessed with the funeral: a kosher burial, starting the shiva period. It’s the last thing she can do for Joel, and she really needs to do it. But all I get from the medical examiner’s office is ‘as soon as we can.’ I started to harangue them—sweetly—and they let it slip that if the police okay the release, it can be expedited. So I talked to that detective, Mulgrew.”

“Ah. But that was like talking to a stone wall in a bad mood, right?”

“Exactly.” I heard that faint amusement again, and I was glad I’d caused it. “Lydia, I know you don’t work for the city—”

“But you’re hoping I know someone who does. I’ll call you right back.”

I clicked off and punched my speed dial.

“Hi, Lydia. What’s up?”

“Detective Mary Kee, this is your lucky day. Special offer, improve your karma with one easy phone call.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. Double karma points if you act without delay.” I told Mary about my conversation with Leah Pilarsky.

“What are you saying? I’m supposed to deal with that?”

“They’ll release the body on an okay from the NYPD.”

“Not from me. I don’t have the rank and it’s not my case.”

“No, your captain does and it’s Midtown’s.”

“Oh, now—”

“You didn’t want your apartment painted anyhow.”

“You want me to call in my chips for
this
?”

“To help a grieving widow. Like I say, the karma’s real good.”

Silence; then a sigh. “I can’t believe I’m falling for this. Call me back in ten minutes.”

I picked up the next letter, thinking,
See, there’s something to be said for ceaseless bustle.

12 May 1938

Dearest Mama,

We’ve been here three days. At the beginning, sensations flew at me so fast my head spun; but now I believe I’m finding what sailors call “sea legs”—the knack of taking a ship’s motion into account as you move about. The streets and buildings of Shanghai don’t move, Mama, but I promise you they are the only things here that don’t. All is constant, frantic activity, day or night. It requires attention and a steeliness of will to step out one’s own door onto the churning streets. Though in truth it might be more difficult to do so, were the place we’re staying not, on a smaller scale, an exact mirror of Shanghai’s chaos.

Oh, that sounds so ungrateful! And I’m not, Mama, really. The people who received us are doing the most they can with resources stretched to their limits. We’d be on the streets if not for their kindness. The reception of refugees is managed by a number of committees supported by wealthy Jewish families—British citizens from Bombay—who have seen the need and responded generously. Nevertheless, the need is so great, and so rapidly growing, that this generosity results in conditions which, while providing minimally for us, underline the dismal reality of our situation.

But Mama, reading over what I’ve written, I find I’m failing you as a journalist; my complaining has superseded my obligation to be your eyes and ears. I’ll stop my grumbling instantly, and take up my account from the moment the gangplank connected with the dock.

So, then: We descended in the same orderly chaos in which we’d boarded, though with considerably more trepidation. A small number of passengers were met by relatives or friends who’d come here earlier. (As you and Uncle Horst will be, by us!) Kai-rong had a car waiting, and offered to take Paul and myself to our destination. But we didn’t know our destination! So he left us with careful instructions on how to find him, and went off, his driver employing the car’s horn (with little success) to blast a path through the crowd. I watched until his car was swallowed up; then with Paul I joined the stream of refugees along the wharf. We had been told of a meeting point and were making for it, but before we reached it we were found and warmly greeted by men and women speaking German.

From here, the story becomes less fairy-tale-like, and more befitting the truth of our situation.

We were escorted onto open trucks—trucks, Mama!—and carried through the bumpy streets to our new home. Some people sat on luggage as we inched along, but most crowded the truck’s sides as we had the ship’s rail, to see Shanghai close-up.

Alas, the sight was not encouraging. Narrow lanes, torn pavement, low doorways; windows that were no more than gaping squares, having shutters but no glass; hanging wash; women stirring pots outdoors; children practically naked; men carrying burdens on poles across their shoulders. Debris, and worse, swirled through open gutters. Everywhere, the smells that had greeted us on shipboard, concentrated tenfold; and everywhere, the dense, swampy heat. People who had dressed their best for disembarkation removed coats and loosened starched collars, and it became a contest, whether one’s hat was better used to shade one’s face, or fan it.

As we lurched on we learned our destination: Hongkew! That desolate bombed area we’d floated by on the
Conte Biancamano.
Which, half a week behind us, now seems like just a dream.

Finally we came to a halt. Gentlemen helped ladies from the trucks, and we faced our new home.

This shelter—there are a number, and they are called “Homes,” a well-meant but mocking title—fills an abandoned warehouse. Walls are bare brick and floors are concrete and all are in bad repair. On the ground floor are kitchens, a dining hall, and a medical clinic. Large rooms upstairs serve as dormitories, partitioned by hanging bedsheets. Beds are double-decked bunks or military cots; mine is in the family section, while Paul has been assigned to the room for bachelors. He’s proud to have been placed with the men and not with me as he would be if considered a child; but Mama, I believe he’s lonely, as I know I am.