Mrs. Kauser wiped her face and stared at him in surprise. Ernest glanced at Miriam; she was smiling. A trickle of warmth coursed through him. It struck him—this was the purpose of his life now: Miriam’s happiness. He would do anything for her. So five minutes later, Ernest became the owner of Mrs. Kauser’s bakery. He took the offer from her without negotiations—110 American dollars, a decent deal even before the war, and Mrs. Kauser, grateful, hugged him and kissed him on his cheeks. She gave him all the flour sacks in storage and the names of her soy milk suppliers.
A business owner now, Ernest was pleased, but he had never run a business before, and he was no baker. He turned to Mr. Schmidt, who stared at him incredulously. “Will you help me?”
“Of course, Ernest, it’ll be my pleasure. But how on earth did you manage to get that much money?”
He smiled. “It’s a long story. I’ll be happy to tell you when we have time. Miriam, what do you say, would you work for me?”
“I can’t.” She sat in a corner, her head shrouded in the hood like a priestess. But her voice, he thought, had lost the edge of bitterness.
Ernest set to work with Mr. Schmidt, now the manager, and they let the word out that they were hiring people. By the end of the day, he’d hired ten people, all stateless refugees like him. Some came from Austria, some from Berlin. Some had baking experience; some didn’t, like Golda Bernsdorff, an actress in her late twenties. She had just arrived in Shanghai via Japan.
It was wonderful to see people bustle around the bakery, talking in Yiddish and English, their faces smiling in the warm glow of the oven. But outside on the street, trucks raced by loaded with foreigners carrying their suitcases—Americans and Britons wearing armbands. What would the Japanese do with him, Miriam, and all his friends in the bakery, all stateless? Ernest looked away, forcing himself not to think about that.
What he didn’t expect was that Mrs. Kauser would introduce him to a Canadian national who worked in an accounting firm for rice rationing. Spooked by the Japanese invasion of the Settlement, the Canadian had put his apartment and businesses on fire sale to flee Shanghai. He asked if Ernest was interested in his apartment. A deal was struck; Ernest bought it for five thousand dollars.
It was a nice apartment with two bedrooms and a balcony. Ernest wondered if he should move out of the apartment Aiyi had rented and live here instead. It would be more comfortable for Miriam. But the apartment, located in the area where many foreigners lived, was a target of Japanese soldiers’ constant roundups. It was not as safe. Besides, if he moved, he might lose his last connection to Aiyi, and she would never be able to find him.
But that deal led to another. Three days later, he took out 4,390 dollars from the messenger bag and became the owner of another apartment located in the busy commercial street of the Huaihai Road.
Investing in real estate was risky during the occupation, he was aware. Buildings could be pulverized; money would turn into dust. But he would rather see his money in shapes of apartments than have it tied to the back of the headboard. Besides, he soon found out, inflation was rising rapidly, and American currency was devalued overnight. His remaining five hundred American dollars, that once had fetched five hundred thousand Chinese fabi, now only were worth five thousand.
However, soon after his purchases, more apartments and villas were put up for sale as more foreigners fled to escape the Japanese’s arrest. With many apartments and villas on the market and fewer buyers, the value of his two apartments plunged.
That night in his room, he thumbed the last few bills left in the leather bag and rubbed his chin ruefully. He had bought too early.
At noon, while the bakery was not as busy, Ernest went to the One Hundred Joys Nightclub, hoping to come across her somehow. The club remained closed; the windows boarded up. He made a bold phone call from a post office to her home—as a friend, a former employee. Again the man with a British accent answered.
“Are you that pianist? Aiyi refused to get married because of you. Would you please stop calling?”
Ernest put down the phone and laughed.
When he returned to his apartment that evening, he stopped short in the alley. In front of the building stood a familiar stocky figure of a Chinese man with a cap. Aiyi’s chauffeur.
54
AIYI
Two days before my wedding, my chauffeur came to me with good news. Ernest was safe, unscathed, not arrested or imprisoned in a camp. And he had set a meeting place, the inn.
I was so happy I cried out. I needed to see him. Now. I couldn’t marry Cheng.