“Ernest, they’re arresting people.” Sigmund raced into the meeting room.
In a few strides, Ernest reached the door, where he nearly crashed into Yamazaki in his uniform. He had to assert great control not to yank the man’s collar and spit into his face. “Sir, what seems to be the problem?”
“Mr. Reismann, I regret I didn’t have time to inform you properly. I’ve received an imperial order decreed by my emperor, Hirohito.” He gestured, and the soldier beside him took out a set of handcuffs.
Blood rushed to Ernest’s head. “What’s this? Is it necessary?”
“Ah, you’re right. Leave off the handcuffs, please. Mr. Reismann is an honorable man. He won’t resist. But I’m afraid it’s my duty to take you to the designated area.”
He had never heard of such a place. “Pardon me. What’s the designated area?”
“I shall be pleased to explain, Mr. Reismann. Recently, we were recommended to take actions to isolate the Jewish refugees in this country, and my emperor has conceived a special plan for people like you.” Yamazaki whipped out a piece of paper from his pocket; in his heavily accented English, he read the Proclamation for Stateless Persons, which ordered the restriction of residences and businesses of stateless refugees who came to Shanghai during the war in Europe, the previous German nationals now unclaimed by any country—people including him. All the stateless people must be relocated to a designated area.
They had decided to imprison them after all. A designated area or an internment camp. Same thing. They would be prisoners. But he couldn’t leave. His business, his people, and the refugees needed him. “Is there a chance to appeal, sir?”
“I’m afraid any appeal on your part will be denied, due to your special status as the owner of many enterprises. I was ordered to keep you under watch at all times, with specific instruction to look after the large portion of business and finance under your name.”
“The paperwork for the joint venture has been drafted.”
“Our deal is no longer on the table. Your newly purchased cargo ships, your finances, and all your assets now belong to the Japanese government with this order. Legally.”
“Asshole!”
“I have reason to believe that you’ll comply with the law for your own safety and those working for you.”
All his assets. The immense wealth that he’d accumulated through hard work, the money he used to support his people and the refugees. He laughed.
“You will not comply, Mr. Reismann?”
“I’m afraid I need time to reflect on that.” Boldly, he headed back to his desk, ignoring the twinkling anger in Yamazaki’s eyes and the soldier’s rifle. He opened the drawer and reached for the pistol he had prepared. To hell with the Japanese. Enough of this barbarism. It was time to take the matter into his own hands, to protect himself and his business and avenge Miriam’s death.
“Ernest.” Mr. Schmidt, his face pale, appeared in front of him. Beside him, Golda, ever dramatic, cursed, wrenching her arms from a soldier. Behind them was Sigmund. His friends, and fellow businessmen. All handcuffed.
It was one thing to kill Yamazaki, another to put his people, the very people he had sworn to protect, in harm’s way. He loosened his fingers on the pistol and closed the drawer. With Yamazaki watching his every movement, Ernest put on his coat, his gloves, and his hat and walked out of the office to the truck on the street. He sat between Mr. Schmidt and Golda, who wept, and he put his arm around her shoulder.
Half an hour later, the truck drove down the metal Garden Bridge, the same bridge he had crossed years ago to the Settlement to find a job. The truck passed a pawnshop where a wooden picket said BRIDGE ROAD, turned onto a muddy track, and stopped in front of a two-story brick building with a rising sun flag. After so many turns of fortune’s wheel, he was back in the Hongkou district.
Yamazaki told him to get off.
He dusted off his sleeves and got off, but the truck sped off with his people. “Where are you taking them?”
“The designated area. You’ll join them soon. Please follow me.”
“What’s this place?” Ernest asked, looking at the brick building with a sign in Chinese he couldn’t read.
“A place for you to reflect,” Yamazaki said.
A uniformed sergeant, wielding a thin, long bamboo-shaped sword, stomped toward him, but it was his armband that caught Ernest’s attention. KEMPEITAI, it said. Ernest shuddered. Kempeitai were the law enforcers, sadists known for torture, like the notorious German Schutzstaffel.