The wistful Mr. Schmidt sang his lament as they rolled the dough. “Moses said, ‘I’m a stranger in a strange land.’ Indeed. We’re all strangers in a strange world!”
A familiar fear that had possessed Ernest in Berlin returned. The muscles in his hand started to contract, and his hand wouldn’t stop trembling. He put on gloves, just to be safe, and when people came to his bakery, he offered a seat for them to sit, a warm loaf of bread to eat, a glass of soy milk to drink, and smiles to make them feel better. After all, he was in a better situation than them; he was a lover, a business owner.
Often Ernest thought of his parents, so one day he visited a synagogue, the Ohel Rachel, built by the great-uncle of Sir Sassoon. He didn’t know what he wished to see, entering the majestic entryway with rusticated pillars. Passing scores of white-robed yeshiva students, who had arrived from Europe with forged passports last year, Ernest sat by a round window near the ark that held the Torah; in front of him were empty chairs, tables, and candles, solitary, like something left behind. He heard some prayers from the students but couldn’t join, unfamiliar with what they were praying. Then he sneezed. Embarrassed, he stood up and left.
He visited the synagogue again a few days later. The sanctuary was walled, windows sealed by tar paper, and dim, yet he felt relaxed this time. He breathed in the air, etched by the plumes of pale daylight running through the door; he could hear the beats of winged small flies, the rush of the breeze, and the faint prayer like a distant voice. The place felt vast, endless, full of unfathomable codes, like a great pensive mind.
He put his hand on the chair in front of him. Its armrest was damp from incessant rain and smoothed by many hands before him and would be smoothed again by many after him. He wondered if this was what his parents felt when they came to temple—to feel the togetherness, to feel the pulse of life, to become part of a tradition that bound generations past and generations to come. He was not a religious man, but he was still a Jew.
He prayed. For Leah and his parents, whose faces, smiles, voices, and frowns would forever stand in the altar of his memories; for Miriam, whom he had disappointed but would always protect; for Aiyi, whom he loved and would always love; and for Mr. Schmidt, the people working in his bakery, and the refugees in Shanghai who were his new family, for whom security and comfort had remained elusive. He wished them the light of peace, the eternal joys, the unbroken spirit for years to come.
One early afternoon when the bakery was just about to close, he was leaving with Golda when he caught a young man sneaking by outside the window. He was shivering, without a coat or a hat, wearing a white sport shoe on one foot and a black oxford on the other. A refugee, an Austrian, Ernest knew instinctively.
“Would you care for some bread?” He invited him in, and Golda went to take out a glass of soy milk and a loaf of bread, a leftover. They sat as the young man gulped it all down.
His name was Sigmund Baum; he was indeed an Austrian, having arrived in Shanghai via an ocean liner, now staying in the Heime in the Hongkou district with about eight thousand refugees. They were in trouble, Sigmund said. They were the last group of refugees who had arrived in Shanghai, and for months the JDC had been supporting them, providing food and medical care for them. But since the attack on the Settlement, the eight thousand refugees were left on their own, hadn’t received medical care or food, and were crowded in the old unsanitary building, where four hundred people shared two primitive toilets. They had no support from any countries or the wealthy British or Americans, and they had lost touch with Miss Margolis, the representative from the JDC.
Ernest frowned, remembering the power of attorney in the scarf the social worker had thrown to him. “I saw her on a truck when she was sent to a camp.”
“A camp? Where? We must find her.”
But how? No one knew where the camp was. It could be located in the south of the Settlement, or north of the Hongkou district, or inside the Japanese military base, or even on an island near Japan. “Did she leave contacts in Shanghai?”
“She had an assistant, but he was imprisoned too.”
Ernest was sorry to hear that. The power of attorney was about a relief fund for the refugees, he remembered. “Let me see what I can do, Sigmund. By the way, Golda, do you think you need extra help in the kitchen?”
“Ernest, you know I can never say no to you.” Golda gave him a wink.
He was getting used to Golda’s flirtatiousness. An actress, she didn’t mind working with men or on the Sabbath, and her talent in acting helped lighten the mood in the bakery.