“Arrest them, arrest them.” Loud protests burst from near the revolving door, and the Sikh stomped closer.
“Sorry, miss.” He grabbed the front lapels of the man who had helped me.
It happened so fast: The foreigner pulled away, dropping my purse and scarf, and stumbled backward. Unaware of the staircase behind him, he missed a step, fell, and rolled off the landing to the street. The Sikh policeman lunged after him, those hateful attackers roaring with laughter.
I rushed to pick up my purse and scarf and hurried down the landing to my Nash on the street. Only after I reached my car did I look back. In the distance, among the mass of speeding rickshaws, long-robed pedestrians, and crawling black automobiles, not far from the biker’s body, was the enormous Sikh policeman, who clutched the hands of the foreigner, the innocent man, behind his back, and led him in the direction of the police station.
3
ERNEST
Fresh from the boat, now fresh heading to jail. This was not the new life Ernest Reismann had envisioned in Shanghai. He struggled to loosen the grip of the giant policeman but with no success. The man was frustratingly strong, and he muttered something about Ernest being stupid to get caught with the hooligans, his voice surprisingly gentle. No foul racial slurs or vicious threats either. A relief. So he would not be imprisoned for his religion in Shanghai, but in this new city where he was determined to build his future, he’d rather not be imprisoned at all.
Ernest had to think fast. They were turning onto a crowded street with shops selling jars of pickles and bags of roasted chestnuts and dried mushrooms, and he was being pushed around by the jostling long-robed men weaving through the bicycles, carriages, and one-wheel wagons.
“Sir, what are those called?” Ernest tossed his head in the direction of a skinny fellow who raced past pulling two poles attached to a vehicle shaped like a baby stroller. A diversion. He had seen these vehicles earlier, the pullers perspiring profusely while their customers sat with their legs crossed as if it were the most enjoyable ride. That transportation, perhaps, was the strangest sight of all things in Shanghai. He felt sorry for the pullers, the human oxen.
“Rickshaws.” The Sikh steered him away. “New to Shanghai? This way.”
“You seem like a good man, sir. I’m sorry about this.” He thrust hard into the Sikh’s chest with his elbow, pulled away, and ran. He raced past a carriage, a row of rickshaws, and then a man plodding along, carrying a pole with a basket at both ends, each holding a small child. A shout came from behind Ernest: the Sikh, at his heels, had crashed into a basket, and the children had dropped to the ground. Murmuring an apology, Ernest passed a red double-decker bus and raced into an alley behind an art deco building. At a building with red bricks, he looked behind. The policeman was not in sight.
He smoothed his coat, ran his fingers through his hair—he had lost his hat—and put on his glove, the glove for his scarred hand, which he had taken off to shake hands with the hotel manager earlier. He did not care about fashion, but the glove was the only accessory he couldn’t part with. Without it, he often felt as if he were walking naked in public.
Spinning around to check once more that he wasn’t being followed, he submerged into the tide of the crowd on the street. He’d had a rough start looking for a job. Not a big deal. He should try again.
Ernest Reismann, a Jew fleeing from Nazi Germany, had just landed in Shanghai on an Italian ocean liner hours ago. After he was transported from the wharf to the Embankment Building, the temporary shelter for Jewish refugees, he had left his suitcase on the bunk bed with his sister, Miriam, and gone out to look for a job without changing his clothes.
He didn’t want to waste time. The twenty Reichsmarks, all that he’d been permitted to bring out of Germany, had been spent. He planned to find a job as quickly as possible and then settle down in an apartment so Miriam would have a place to stay.
He had gone straight to Sassoon’s hotel, located at the bustling waterfront where the ocean liner had docked. The wealthy Briton, Ernest had heard, was most charitable, having given an entire floor of his Embankment Building, free of charge, to shelter the refugees so they could get on their feet in this foreign city. But Ernest was unable to meet the man, only the bespectacled hotel manager who scrutinized him through his glasses and said they were not hiring. Disappointed, Ernest had been passing through the lobby when he saw those schmucks throw bottles at the girl. He had rushed to help, memories of pogroms, violence, and pain fresh in his mind.
He had never seen a Chinese girl in Berlin. The one today had been fascinating, a creature of beauty. She’d had an oval face, flawless pale skin, expressive black eyes, a small nose, and red lips. Her hair was short, reaching her shoulders, her bangs evenly trimmed and meticulously curled, framing her face. She seemed about his age, but her mannerisms were sophisticated, distant, with a strong sense of aloofness.