“Oh, ma’am, I was just saying I did some research about you before the flight. I hear you’re the owner of an international hospitality company that has a portfolio of many hotels around the world. You’re a Canadian citizen, aren’t you? People in the US have yet to know you. There’s not a single article or a photo of you. You’re perhaps the most reclusive billionaire in the world.”
She’s making an effort to befriend me. “I’m old now. I don’t care for fame as I used to. But, Ms. Sorebi, you must be wondering why I asked to meet you in person. Allow me to explain. When my niece told me about the exhibit you showcased in LA, I was impressed. It’s remarkable that you’ve conducted the interviews about the Jews who survived in Shanghai during World War II and featured the stories of so many people. One of them is very precious to me. I would like to offer you an opportunity to make a documentary about that special person, since Phoenix said you’re a trained documentarian.”
“That would be lovely. Who is that special person?”
“Ernest Reismann. I hear you dedicated a section to him.”
She nods. “Mr. Reismann. Of course. He was one of the highlights of the exhibit. He was a hero, a legend in Shanghai in the 1940s. Many people I interviewed were grateful to him. They said he was selfless and had a heart of gold.”
I smile, but I control myself beyond that. “I hear you found more than a dozen photos of him.”
“I did. I found a treasure trove of photos about Shanghai in the 1940s. They were very interesting, but I didn’t show all of them in the exhibit. I brought some with me. I can show them to you if you’d like to see.”
Somehow the word photos is stuck in my head. “I’d like to see them. If you don’t mind, I’d like to see what you’ve showed in the exhibit as well. I didn’t have a chance to see it while it was open.”
“I actually brought a lot of documents with me. Let me see.” She takes out a manila folder from her fringed handbag, pulls out a notebook from inside, and flips open to a page.
I hold my breath. I shouldn’t be nervous. There can’t be anything she found that I don’t already know.
“Mr. Reismann, right? Here’s the background about him. According to my research, the Jews in Berlin faced inhumane pogroms after the Kristallnacht. They were ordered to get out of Germany or risk being sent to concentration camps, but many countries were reluctant to accept them. With the world closed to them, about eighteen thousand Jews found their way to Shanghai. Mr. Reismann was one of those refugees. He was nineteen years old.”
Phoenix presses her fist to her lips; I want to close my eyes. It has been so long since I’ve heard someone talk about Ernest. “Right. He was one year younger than me.”
The fringe of Ms. Sorebi’s sleeves sways as she continues, “Mr. Reismann grew up in a two-bedroom apartment in the district of Mitte in central Berlin and spent most of his time in a music conservatory until he was expelled for being a Jew. He was a bright, optimistic youth. At school, he was always the first one to class and the last to leave. When he made extra money at a cabaret, he treated his friends to beer. Until all the cabarets refused to hire him. His parents lost their jobs in the university. His two uncles, in despair, had committed suicide among the rising hostility in Berlin. His older sister, a promising painter who had displayed her works in a famous gallery, stole a can of olives in hunger and was caught. She was beaten to death by a group of Hitler Youth. Her body was left inside a dumpster while the whole family searched for days.”
I’d heard of this straight from him, but still a shiver runs down my spine. “Go on.”
“In Shanghai, life was different for him and his sister. Let me see. Miriam Reismann. Am I right? They came to Shanghai together. They were very close, and he cared for her deeply.”
My heart stops for a moment.
“Mr. Reismann also found a job in Sir Victor Sassoon’s nightclub.”
“My nightclub. The One Hundred Joys.”
“Your nightclub? Gosh. Is it true? That was what I said in the exhibit. Did I get it wrong? How would a woman own a nightclub in Shanghai in the 1940s? I thought many Chinese women had bound feet.”
It’s naive of her to make assumptions about me. “You’re right. Many did, but not me. I wasn’t an average Chinese woman in the 1940s.”
Ms. Sorebi massages her temple, and her voice is softer when she speaks. “I’m sorry. I do apologize if I made a mistake. I only recorded what I was told.”