That last night in the camp, they hadn’t talked about keeping in touch. In the brief snatched moment under the trees, she hadn’t thought to ask if he would write. But she longed to know that he was safe, that he hadn’t been marched off to some terrible prison camp in Siberia for the crime of having lived in the West. She was riven with guilt every time she thought about him searching the ruined city of Warsaw for his missing wife and child. It had been more than a month since he’d gone, but her feelings for him refused to subside. She hated herself for wanting him to be free, for imagining him writing to tell her that his search had been in vain. She told herself that if she truly loved him, she would be happy to receive news of a reunion with his wife. But the voice inside her head hissed that she was incapable of such selflessness.
There was no letter from Poland. Martha drew in a breath and blew it out. Nor was there anything from America. She had addressed her most recent letter to the bar that had been Arnie’s second home—but there had still been no response. As she shuffled the envelopes in her hand, she saw one addressed to Kitty that was postmarked “Bruxelles.” Martha started walking faster. She prayed that it contained good news.
Kitty ripped open the envelope and pulled out the letter. Martha could see that it was handwritten, not typed. And there looked to be at least three sheets of paper. Whatever this person had to tell Kitty, she’d clearly taken a lot of time and effort over it.
“Would you like me to leave you alone?”
“No—it’s okay.” Kitty was scanning the first page, her expression unreadable. Soon she was on to the second sheet.
When Kitty laid the last sheet down on top of the others, the only change in her face was a narrowing of the eyes, as if she were pondering the answer to something unfathomable. “What does she say?”
“I’ll read it to you.” Kitty’s voice gave no hint of what she was feeling.
“‘Dear Miss Bloom,’” she began, “‘I read your letter with great interest and enormous sympathy for the situation in which you find yourself. The information you were given is quite correct: I was the representative of the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee in China for two and a half years—from May 1941 to December 1943. I lived in Shanghai at the organization’s headquarters and oversaw the aid program to the Jewish refugees who had sought sanctuary in the city.
“‘What you are longing to know, of course, is whether I encountered your parents during that period. I have to tell you that their names are not familiar to me. But you should not be disheartened by that—there were approximately eighteen thousand Jewish refugees resident in Shanghai during my time there, so you will understand, I’m sure, that I could not have known everyone by name.’”
Kitty looked up. “If only I’d had a photograph of them. She might have recognized their faces.”
“What else does she say?”
“She says that Shanghai was a safe place for Jewish immigrants from Europe until the attack on Pearl Harbor in December 1941.” She began reading again: “‘I was placed under house arrest for a time, but it was still possible to operate the soup kitchens our organization ran for the refugees. By March 1943, all Jews had been moved by the Japanese into what was known as the “Shanghai Ghetto”—a section of the city from which movement in and out was forbidden. This, I know, will sound alarming to you. But conditions there were nowhere near as bad as in the Jewish ghettoes in places like Warsaw. The Japanese had no antipathy to the Jewish people—in confining the refugees to a designated area, they were merely bowing to pressure from their Nazi allies.
“‘Many people were forced to leave their homes and businesses around the city and move to Hongkew, where the ghetto was, so it is unlikely that you will receive a reply to any letter sent to the address of the silk merchant. I know the name of the business, but not what happened to the Medavoy family. It is possible they may have gone into hiding—as some people did—rather than move into the ghetto.’”
Kitty laid down the paper and picked up the final sheet.
“Does she have any suggestions?” Martha asked. “Is there anything you can do?”
“She says that the Joint hopes to reopen their Shanghai office in December, and that lists of Jewish refugees will be issued via the Red Cross as soon as possible. This is the last paragraph: ‘I will forward your name and address to our representative in Shanghai, along with the details you supplied. Meanwhile, the only other suggestion I can offer is that you write to Rabbi Meir Ashkenazi at the Ohel Moshe Synagogue in Hongkew. If your parents worshipped there during the war, their names will have been recorded. My sincere good wishes in your search for your family. Laura Margolis.’”