Ernest took out the passport in his pocket and tore up the first page, the second, and then the entire book. He was now a man without a country. Had there been such a thing before? A curiosity, a tragedy, a man without a country.
He laughed, and he couldn’t stop laughing even when tears spilled. From now on, he was a wanderer, a drifter, unclaimed, unbound, unidentified.
Mr. Schmidt was moaning, “Oh, Lord,” then added a comment that seemed to show how much his time in Shanghai had influenced him: “We are only the lotus flowers in a pond, a shallow bloom. Our shallow roots grasp for water and air, and we drift in the tide of cruelty.”
Some people wailed; some dug into their pockets and began to rip their passports too. “Good riddance!” they cried out with tears in their eyes.
Ernest stared at the pile of scraps, his heart wrenched in pain. Without a passport, he was a ghost; without a passport, he couldn’t leave Shanghai.
He didn’t remember how he left the bakery. Walking toward the apartment where he had stayed for nearly two years, he came across a checkpoint near the Chinese district, where a Japanese sentry was hitting a long-robed Chinese man with a rifle stock. He shivered. A stateless man, he was a target that bullets, bayonets, and bombs could aim at. Even if he bled to death, the killer would claim no responsibility.
The same fate would fall on Miriam. Poor Miriam. Had he known they would be stateless, he would have let her go with Mr. Blackstone. For his selfish reasons, he had kept her and had inadvertently destroyed her future.
In the next few days he rushed from one consulate to another. First the British consulate, which was closed due to lack of staff, then the American consulate inside the towering Development Building. He had never gone there before—America seemed so distant.
The building was crowded with many refugees seeking asylum like him. The staff tossed his application in a large bin overflowing with forms, said their monthly quota of visas was five and good luck, and then shut the window. The office hours were ended early so the staff could attend a Christmas party.
Down the street, the green pyramid of Sassoon’s hotel appeared. Something like hope rose in his heart. He would stay in the city, and perhaps he could see her again. He went in the hotel and phoned her.
Her voice, distant, came through the receiver. “Don’t call me again, Ernest. I’m getting married.”
Ernest walked out of the hotel and wandered on the streets, his ears filled with incessant noise: the ubiquitous drone of jets, the squeaking of rickshaws, the shrieks of thieves beaten by clubs, and the ever-present hawking of street vendors. “Tofu, two cents a block. Tofu, two cents a block . . .”
In his dark room, Ernest sat on his bed, yawning. His fingers fumbled for a button but were unable to find it. He gave up. Everything seemed pointless: finding another job, or getting out of bed, or moving out and finding another apartment. Another endless repetition of life. He didn’t feel like doing anything. He was going to stay here until he was evicted. Maybe Aiyi would come to evict him.
A crack came from the glass windowpane, startling him. As he turned to watch, a streak of light appeared. The windows burst; a hot storm roared toward him. He dove to Miriam sleeping behind the cabinet to cover her, all his sleepiness vanishing. When the room was quiet again, he leaned over the broken window and looked out. There was no daylight; it was perhaps around four o’clock.
In the distance, the gray predawn sky of Shanghai was set ablaze by a wheel of violent orange mushrooming above the dark muddy river. By the raging flame, he could see that all the boats—the sampans, the commercial ships—had vanished.
The warship Izumo, lit up by stark white light on the deck, its funnels pumping fumes and smoke, sailed downstream toward the American and British cruisers, both in flames. Above the river, three fighters emblazoned with the rising sun fired at something on the street near Sassoon’s hotel.
The Japanese had attacked the Settlement.
Her photos.
“Miriam, wake up, wake up.” He shook her shockingly still-asleep form. He rubbed his face, didn’t know what to do. “Miriam, I’m going out for a minute. You stay inside, stay safe. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”
Ernest grabbed the key Sassoon had given him from under his pillow and dashed out. The streets were empty, the air heavy with gasoline and gunpowder, choking him, making his eyes water. Dazzling headlights almost blinded him; straight ahead rolled the armored vehicles with the rising sun flags.
He dove toward an alley, stumbling, fumbling on the wall to make his way to Sassoon House. Somewhere a bomb exploded, the ground rattled, and a wall crashed near him. He covered his head, continuing to run. By the time he reached the pier, dawn was breaking, and from the river came a thunder—a cannon had fired.