Phoenix is clearing her throat. So I say, “I’ll see you tomorrow at the Cathay Room at eleven for lunch. Will that be fine with you?”
“Of course; I’ll be there. And I’ll bring some photos to show you. But forgive me. I have to ask you something that’s stuck in my mind. You know well the value of the hotel. It’s worth millions. Why would you propose to donate it to me?”
I’ve expected that question. “You don’t wish to accept it?”
“Oh, gosh. Yes, of course, I’d love to. It’s just, you know, this is so difficult to believe.”
An interesting habit of hers, making exclamations. “You’ve spent three years on a project that involves the man dearest to me, and you’re the first one who looked into the plight of the Jews in Shanghai. I think you deserve the reward. And don’t forget, you still need to make a documentary and show it to the world.”
“It’ll be my pleasure. I believe Mr. Reismann’s survival in Shanghai and his relationship with you will touch many people’s hearts today. But may I ask you, Ms. Shao, why you wish to make a documentary about him?”
I take a deep breath. “Because, Ms. Sorebi, I did something most unforgivable.”
38
AUGUST 1941
ERNEST
For many days after he discovered the Japanese secretively transferring guns, Ernest, the camera around his neck, had spent any time not at work searching for his giant friend in order to warn him. But Ernest was disappointed. Jyo was nowhere to be found.
Sassoon could use the film and alert the Settlement if necessary, but Ernest was still angry at him. After much consideration, though, Ernest decided to put aside his personal feelings for the good of the Settlement. Finally, one day in August, Ernest asked the front desk to see the old man, but he was declined—Sassoon was busy.
Suddenly the British people from India and England seemed to vanish from the streets and inside the hotel. When he looked up from his piano, Ernest could see the Americans were drinking and glaring at the Japanese, who had crowded the entire bar. With a mysterious look, the Japanese men stared at him. He flinched at a twinge of pain from the wound on his arm the nuns had stitched.
Fall arrived. After everyone left the bar one night, Ernest packed up. Outside the bar, the lobby was almost empty. The unlit sconces sat on the wall like black spiders. It was past midnight; there were few guests ambling about, the only sound the tap of his shoes and the soft hum from the radiator grilles. It gave him an eerie feeling, as if he were treading in a forest where all living things were holding their breath.
“Have you seen Sir Sassoon?” he asked the bellboy, a skinny youngster with long arms at the revolving door.
He shook his head. “He’s resting, sir.”
“Have a good night.”
Ernest waved at Miriam as she appeared in the courtyard, which was crowded with refugee children shivering in thin black jackets. It had been drizzling all morning, and the air was chilly. He had walked for an hour and changed five buses—two had dead engines on the road—to see her.
He had counted the money he’d saved—almost one hundred American dollars. Not bad after paying for Miriam’s summer school, fall semester, host family, clothes, and one year’s rent for his apartment. Today, he had brought a coat and a canvas bag for Miriam.
“What are you doing here, Ernest?” Miriam stood, clad in a black blazer over a white necktie blouse and a black skirt—from Mrs. Blackstone, he figured. She looked prim, graceful. He was amazed, unprepared. Since when had his little sister turned into a proper woman? But the indifference on Miriam’s face pierced him.
“I bought this coat for you.” He was suddenly awkward. He’d only managed to see her briefly the past few months, since she stayed at the Blackstones’ home over the summer. “I need to tell you something important. Want to have a treat? Let’s go. I’ve talked to your school, so we can spend some time together.” He walked her out of school and crossed the street to a shop selling baozi, youtiao, and fried cakes with green onions.
Miriam picked two youtiao, fried flour strips. “What’s in your bag?”
“It’s for you. Look, I want to warn you. Shanghai will be at war and—”
“I know that.”
“How did you know?”
She shrugged. “Mr. Blackstone told me. He said his colleagues were leaving Shanghai. He’s thinking about it too. He said Germans were winning the war in Europe and bombed aircraft factories and radar stations in London. What’s his name—Churchill, right? Churchill has withdrawn the navy from China to Singapore, and what else . . . I don’t remember.”