He had been in Shanghai for close to a year, and he would turn twenty in a month. He liked this city, clothed in gray smoke mixed with odors of peanut oil, engine fumes, and women’s perfume, and noisy with human voices, rickshaw squeaks, and trams’ thunderous clunks. How strange the world was. In Berlin, he’d been forbidden to play the piano; here he was known as a pianist. In Berlin, he’d been haunted by nightmares and pain; here he was free to dream, free to love. He had thought to return to Germany eventually when he first arrived in Shanghai; now he would not leave. This city was his home now—she was his home.
He could speak some Shanghai dialect, some simple Chinese phrases, and even some expletives. Chinese was a challenging language, with erratic tones and messy grammar, but he supposed German was equally exhausting to a foreigner. Strangely, to him, English—which he had learned from his father—was sensible, with a reasonable degree of bewilderment.
When he arrived at the pier, a horn from an ocean liner sounded. His heart racing faster, he dashed to the edge of the pier, watching intently. The river hadn’t changed since his arrival, still a roiling yellow sluice, a parking lot for banana-shaped skiffs with cages of chicken, coal-stained sampans loaded with barrels of petroleum, and commercial boats. On the distant wharf across the river, where an ocean liner docked, a stream of refugees carrying suitcases walked down the gangway.
He caught sight of a yellow dress and cried out in elation. “Mother! Mother! Chava!” That sunflower-yellow dress was her favorite; she had been wearing it on the train platform when she saw them off.
“Chava!” He cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting. Happiness chugged inside him like an engine. She had received his letter and arrived. He couldn’t wait to embrace her, to dance a hora. But the figure didn’t turn in his direction and disappeared among a group of men in black coats and hats, just as he caught a glimpse of a cadaverous face. She was not his mother.
His heart sank. Where was she? And his father? Had they received exit visas? Had they left Germany yet? They must leave as soon as possible.
But maybe they had left for another country; maybe they were still on the way to Shanghai. They had received his letters, they knew his address, and they would find him.
He turned around, facing the Japanese warship Izumo docked nearby, a massive gray superstructure with gun towers and three immense funnels spilling columns of black smoke. He had seen the warship with the rising sun flag and had rarely paid attention. But now he could see rows of marines in white robes wielding swords in a slow and solemn ceremony, their shouts, strange and piercing, hovering over the turgid river like a cloud.
Izumo was not the only warship on the river. Downstream, far away from the Japanese warship, behind sailboats, sampans, and other ships, were two cruisers: the American USS Wake and the British HMS Peterel. Three gunboats, each belonging to a different country, docked on a river that belonged to none of them.
27
FEBRUARY 1941
AIYI
One evening when I passed the coatroom, I heard some passionate groans coming from inside it. Which only meant one thing.
Dancers: they were always trouble. They were the beacon of my business in good times and the shipwreck in bad. When I’d bought the club, ballroom dancing was already popular, but the business wasn’t stellar as the guests needed to bring their own partners. My hired taxi dancers solved the partner problem and brought in extra revenue. In effect, I created the first professional ballroom dancers in Shanghai, who then became independent breadwinners.
I stood at the counter of the coatroom and coughed. I had a strict rule that my dancers must not act improperly with customers. My club was not a brothel.
The groans ceased, and a figure appeared from inside. Lanyu, the most popular dancer, buttoned the knots at her neck. “Oh, Miss Shao. I was changing my dress.”
I could fire her for this. But she had lost her mother and two siblings during the bombing, and she was supporting her father with her wage.
“Next time, change your dress alone.” I let her go on with her work.
She skidded away, giving me a look of gratitude. I hoped she would make things easier for me from now on.
I was near the bar when I glimpsed a man in a bold chalk stripe suit standing on the edge of the dance floor, facing the stage. The light shifted, shining on his face. A sharp countenance with a sharp jaw, a black mole under the right eye. The enemy of my family, the enemy of my country.
“Miss Shao.” In a few strides, Yamazaki stood in front of me. He looked courteous, and his voice was placid, mild, but fear surged through me.