I called Alice as I headed back to my office but only got her voice mail. Come on, Alice, pick up! Your clients are bogus! Could this be what Joel had meant by “fishy”? But how would he have known? I left a message to call me, then switched directions for the subway, to go up to the Waldorf and bang on the door myself. Before I’d gone two blocks, my phone rang the Wonder Woman song.
“ Lydia, we were right.”
“We’re always right. About what?”
“A few days ago a pay phone a block from Wong Pan’s hotel made a call to the Waldorf.”
“To the Waldorf? Wong Pan called Alice? But she never said anything. She wasn’t even positive he was in New York.”
“The call was short. He might have tried, didn’t get her, and hung up. The point is, he knows where to find her.”
“If it was him. All you have is a pay phone calling the Waldorf.”
Mary ignored my magical thinking. “I’m here, but she’s not. Have you heard from her?”
“Here, the Waldorf? You’re there? And she’s not? Now you’re worrying me. I just called and got voice mail. I was about to go up there. Was that pay-phone call before the Chinese cop was killed or after?”
“His death can’t be pinned down that exactly, but it was probably within a few hours. Let me know right away if you hear from her.”
“I will. And Mary? I have a couple of other bombshells.” I told her about Mr. Chen, Rosalie’s son, and Mr. Zhang, Rosalie’s nephew, and about Alice ’s clients, not Rosalie’s relations at all.
“Oh,” Mary said slowly. “Oh, Lydia, I’m not liking this.”
“Me either.”
“I’m going to alert the sector cars to look out for her. Meanwhile, Shanghai ’s sending a new cop over.”
“They are?”
“Hey, it’s a homicide of one of their own, plus a theft from the Chinese people. It wouldn’t surprise me if they sent a whole squad. Inspector”-a pause-“Wei De-xu. The e-mail says, ‘Inspector Wei is one of Shanghai Police Bureau’s most esteemed officers.’ I’m going to the airport in the morning to collect him.”
“How come you get to go? Instead of someone from Midtown Homicide?”
“Captain Mentzinger’s squeezing this. Technically, once the John Doe was identified, I was done, but he wants me to stay with it. After the screw-up on the room, Midtown can’t really object. They’re saving face by saying it’s okay for me to collect this guy because I can talk to him.”
“In Shanghainese?”
“What do they know? Besides, would Shanghai send a cop here who didn’t speak English? But don’t tell them.”
After we hung up I redirected myself again, back to my office; there was no point in going to the Waldorf if Mary was already there and Alice wasn’t. At the office I put on water for tea and called Bill, repeating for him everything I’d told Mary and what she’d told me. His reaction was a lot like hers: He didn’t like the sound of things either.
“That seems to be the consensus,” I said. “What are you up to?”
“I’m waiting for a call. And reading a book.”
“A history of Shanghai?”
“Am I that transparent?”
“I’m afraid so. What call?”
“A friend of a friend. An expert on modern Chinese history. I’m hoping he can give us some background.”
“That’s very enterprising.”
“Am I stepping on your toes? I don’t want-”
“No, I meant it. Did I sound sarcastic?”
“I wasn’t sure.”
I was taken aback. Bill, unable to read the tone in my voice? “No, I think it’s a great idea. Let me know if he calls.”
“Where will you be?”
“I think I’ll do some reading, too. I’m going to print out the rest of Rosalie’s letters.”
“They’ve been public property for years. You won’t find anything in them that Chen and Zhang don’t already know.”
“Well, it’s not like I’m looking for a map with a big X on it. But Mr. Chen caught me flatfooted when he said he was Rosalie’s son. I don’t want that to happen again. Right now the letters are the only thread I have.”
I took my tea to the easy chair and settled in.
29 April 1938
Dearest Mama,
Well, your ignorant Rosalie is only slightly less ignorant today, as regards China. But having sat with Chen Kai-rong yesterday long into the afternoon-over coffee and linzer torte, which I’m afraid I devoured greedily; he suggests we alternate the foods of our peoples, a charming offer-I am considerably less ignorant about my new friend.
He made, I must say, a valiant effort to unravel the history of forty centuries. But I became hopelessly lost among the states and dynasties. My floundering amused him, which he tried to hide. (And failed!) His own family traces its roots to a time called “the Warring States”-two thousand years ago, Mama! When our people had already been scattered for millennia, when Christianity was about to rise and scatter us again-Chen Kai-rong has visited the graves of his ancestors from that time!
I confessed to envy, and a wistful longing for a similar homeland. Our books tell us the history of our people is as long as China ’s, but what Jewish family knows the names of its forebears beyond half a dozen generations, or could find their graves?
Chen Kai-rong questioned me about Zionism, and though he pleaded ignorance, he was well informed on the subject. I told him I consider Zionism a collective opium dream of the Jewish people; and then I quickly apologized for the mention of opium, as I understand the drug to be a scourge of the Chinese. The Chinese people carry many burdens, was his answer, and opium, though a curse, at least provides a temporary joy.
The conversation having taken this doleful turn, I moved to another subject entirely, asking how he came by such a fine command of English. English, he said, is the lingua franca of commercial Shanghai. Since I have been finding the prospect of conducting myself in Chinese a daunting one, you might imagine my delight in hearing this! Kai-rong attended the Shanghai British School and has spoken English since he was a boy. He now returns home from two years’ study at Oxford. I asked what his field had been.
“I was reading law,” was his answer. “Though from what I hear, law is a discipline very much needed in Shanghai at the moment, and very little in demand.” He fell silent, staring over the water.
“I’m sorry,” I ventured. “I seem to be touching today only on subjects that distress you.”
At this he stirred himself. “No, no, I’m the one who must apologize. I was… brooding.” And he smiled.
“Over what, if I may ask?”
“Ah, Rosalie. You’ve left a country where your people have lived for centuries, but are no longer welcome. I fear I return to one.”
“How can that be? You’re a Chinaman going to China.”
His smile broadened. “First, you must not say ‘Chinaman.’ ” (Mama, this word has no German equivalent, but is in common use in English. I never knew it was offensive before this.) “It’s a word used by Europeans and carries a condescending odor. You’ll find more friends in Shanghai if you say ‘Chinese.’ I know this seems trivial-”
I assured him it did not, having been myself rudely awakened in the past months to the pain words can cause. “I can’t pretend to understand the nuance, because my English is so poor,” I told him. “But if the word offends you, I shall strike it from my vocabulary!”
“I and my countrymen thank you. And permit me to say, if you’re able to slip ‘nuance’ so neatly into a sentence, you must stop thinking your English poor.”
I thanked him for the compliment (though, Mama, his English really does outshine mine) and asked what he meant by being unwelcome in China, whether he referred to the Japanese occupation.
“The occupation, yes; though I can understand foreign invaders better than I can the puppet government-Chinese so hungry for power and wealth that they take orders from invaders, against their own people.”
“But what of the government this puppet one replaces? Is there no resistance movement of loyal Chinese, working to retake the country?” I was of course thinking, Mama, of the situation at home, of those loyalists who refuse to accept Herr Hitler’s Anschluss.
“What they replaced,” Kai-rong replied, “was hardly a government. Chiang Kai-shek and his Nationalists are two-faced thieves who betrayed the Republic many years ago, before it could take root. And half the country, in any case, was never under their control-and isn’t under Japanese control now. It’s strangled by warlords. Greedy thugs to whom ‘ China ’ is an abstract concept, while wealth is a concept they understand.” He paused, sipping coffee; I had no idea how to respond. And then, Mama, he made this extraordinary statement: “As painful as your situation is, Rosalie, there may be an advantage in having no country to fight over. Your traditions are long and beautiful, and your spiritual nature has flowered in the absence of the distractions of politics and the necessity, once power is gained, to keep a grip on it.”
I was amazed by this, and had to answer: “Also in the absence of safety, and often of food to fill our bellies!”
Surprised, he said, “Did I sound patronizing? I apologize.”
My indignation vanished and I began to laugh, pointing out we were apologizing to each other with every third breath!
“You’re right,” he said, “and if that’s my fault, I apologize.” He laughed with me.
Then he grew pensive and added, “But it seems we have something to envy in each other’s history, if not in each other’s circumstances. Come now, there’s still linzer torte to fill your belly. And I can return, if you want, to the Northern Song, and pick up where we left off.”
I sighed. “Yes, please, though I don’t think it will do much good. But first, you never gave an answer to my question: Is there in China a resistance movement against the Japanese?”
I thought he wouldn’t reply, but at last he said, “Yes. There is. Fighting to regain China for the Chinese people.”
“Will they win?”
“If you’re asking me to tell the future, I can’t do it. But I can tell you this: History is on the side of China. Now pick up your plate and let’s return to history.”
And we did. Not that, as I say, I’ve managed to learn much about the past. But I’ve learned enough about Chen Kai-rong to look forward to the future-tomorrow’s lesson, accompanied by fragrant tea and curious Chinese cakes.
Stay well, Mama!
Your Rosalie
3 May 1938
Dearest Mama,
I haven’t written for some time, I know, but as I’ve been told there will now be no mail service until we reach Singapore, I feel foolish putting pen to paper to produce a letter that will sit on my bureau for days. Paul applauds this lack of enterprise on my part, seeming to feel it justifies his own, though I have a number of previous letters to point to, which makes me feel quite superior but has little effect on him.
But this morning I awoke feeling melancholy, Mama, and missing you greatly. Perhaps the fog which enshrouds us affects my mood. People speak softly; even the children are subdued. We’re less than a week from Shanghai. I believe the enormity of this undertaking has at last forced itself on our understanding. I have had glimpses of it over the past weeks, but have resolutely refused to acknowledge it, preferring the luxury of the ship, the exhilaration of new acquaintances, and the adventure of sailing into the unknown. But the fog brings about an odd sensation. There is little wind, and in no direction can anything be seen beyond the rail. At home a chill fog precedes a change of weather, but this warm, featureless mist seems as though it might continue forever. Ah, and there you have it, Mama: I’ve said “home,” and the word fills me with sadness.
When I look toward the future, excitement and curiousity lighten my trepidation. My new friend, Chen Kai-rong, has taught me much about his country. It’s clear he loves his homeland deeply and longed for it when he was away, equally clear he knows China ’s shortcomings and is eager to see them corrected. His devotion in spite of all he thinks wrong is reassuring, and I hope his feelings will color my own. In this way, I find myself already connected to Shanghai; but when I turn toward the past, my feelings are exactly opposite. I’m no longer connected, but uncoupled and adrift. My every happy memory is shaded by a forlorn longing for the home we’ve lost.
Mama, have you written to us? I understand the fast liners are few and I do not expect a letter from you on each tender that meets us; and yet, as Paul asks, if that’s true, why do I continually put myself in the path of the steward who distributes the passengers’ mail? I should dearly love a letter, Mama. But much much more, I should love to find you and Uncle Horst on the ship that follows immediately behind this one.
I’ll seal this letter now, and lay it on my bureau until tomorrow, when the tender sails out from Singapore. Perhaps by morning the fog will burn off, and I’ll be
Your strong and sunny Rosalie, again.
9 May 1938
Dearest Mama,
Yesterday we arrived in Shanghai.
What a place this is!
How to tell you? How to begin? It’s all so strange, Mama, and we’re so unprepared! On shipboard Chen Kai-rong painted such vivid word-pictures that I felt quite ready to step into life as a practiced “Shanghailander.” But oh, how wrong I was!
Though I’m finding great difficulty, Mama, in putting words to this experience, nevertheless I’ll try, so things won’t be as strange for you when you arrive; and also so you’ll have an idea what Paul and I, in this dizzying world, are feeling.
The night before last, in a thick mist, we bore down on the mouth of the harbor. Everyone ran to the rails, though for some time nothing could be seen. The air became electric when ships loomed from the fog: two liners at anchor, gunships of many nations, and our first sight of the square-sailed junks and flat sampans of the Orient.
We dropped anchor to await the turn of the tide. The kitchens put forth a sumptuous banquet of fish, goose, and dumplings. Not knowing what our situation would be from that moment forward, I ate my fill and encouraged Paul to do the same. (Though he needed no encouragement; as costly as this passage was, I don’t believe that in the end the Lloyd Triestino Line has made any profit on Paul.) Stewards stacked luggage on deck, and many emotional farewells and promises of continued friendship were made. Neither Paul nor I slept that night; had we, I believe we would have been the only passengers to do so.
As the sun rose the engines rumbled, and the ship was on the move. We made our way up the Whangpu, as the river is called where it flows through Shanghai. Though the fog was thick, we refugees once again jammed the rails, straining for a glimpse of our new home.
That “glimpse” came first not as sight, but as scent. Though “scent” is too gentle a word: This was a full-on reek, a riot of tangled odors that, had it been noise, would have deafened us all. Imagine, Mama, the sea at low tide; add diesel oil, rotting vegetables, and the smoke from a thousand factories, and stir into a haze of damp heat! Such was our first impression of our new home.
As the fog burned off we saw the shore. In contrast to the report of our noses, our eyes suggested a dreamlike scene. We floated past fields and rice paddies dotted with low huts and with farmers trudging behind what Kai-rong informs me are not oxen but water buffaloes. Soon, though, we approached the outskirts of Shanghai, and oh! what a disheartening sight! The area we passed, called Hongkew, suffered much in the Japanese invasion. The devastation, drifting smoke, and rubble, and the poor souls wandering through them, were not encouraging omens.
Next came the wharves. Junks, sampans, and rafts crowded the water, riding our wake or fearlessly crossing before us; how we failed to swamp them, I cannot say. On the docks all was chaos. Trucks loaded and unloaded and automobiles inched along. The rickshaw, that odd vehicle of the Orient, could be seen, with men pulling like horses at its rails. But the chief element of the boiling, eddying commotion was people, oh so many people! A few wore European dress, but most, both men and women, rushed or trudged or sat about in short trousers and conical hats. I felt dismay at the sight of such a dense and endless crowd; but also, a strange exhilaration that made me impatient to join them.
Next came into view grand buildings in the European style. The streets, though still bustling, became less frantic. Kai-rong gazed upon his home city for the first time in years. The light in his face strengthened my resolve to try to love this place.
Kai-rong informed us we had reached the Bund, a riverfront promenade lined with banks, office blocks, and grand hotels. This is the heart of the International Settlement, an area that by treaty is governed not by China but by the foreign powers whose subjects reside there. And this word is not our German Bund, as one might expect, but Hindustani, and meaning “dock.” (Do you see how much I’ve learned, in these few weeks? Though I haven’t yet learned to love Chinese sweets.)
Our engines quieted; we were met by pilot boats. Paul ran to join a group of friends his own age at the bow, to be the first to see our dock. Spying a garden along the Bund, I asked Kai-rong if it was as lovely as it appeared. He said he thought it must be, but he’s never been inside, as Chinese aren’t allowed.
Mama, my heart froze. I saw before me the “Jews Forbidden” sign at the gate of the Mirabell Garden the last time you and I tried to go for our accustomed Sunday stroll.
“But how can that be?” I was vehement, Mama; I think I wanted him to say he’d been making some odd joke, or I’d misunderstood. “How can that be? This is China! This area may be governed by foreigners, but surely they cannot-”
“They can. By treaty they can and for a hundred years they have. A mile behind that”-indicating the Bund-“and thousands of miles beyond, is China. The International Settlement and the French Concession might as well be Europe. Though I can tell you, Rosalie, I was never treated with as much disdain in Europe as I have been here in the city where I was born.”
This saddened me, Mama, more than I can say. Looking with dismay across the water, I asked whether he meant to tell me the international areas, so prosperous and attractive, are entirely closed to Chinese.
“Oh, by no means,” he answered with a wry smile. “Just this ‘public’ garden, and the gentleman’s clubs, sports clubs, and private dining establishments. A million people live in the International Settlement, half a million in the French Concession. Of those, if more than sixty thousand are European, well, then, as they say in England, I’m a Chinaman.”
I smiled also, and asked, “Sixty thousand people rule the lives of one and a half million?”
“But isn’t that how things are done everywhere? In China ’s treaty ports the disparity is sharp because the rulers are foreigners. But”-again sweeping his hand-“in those thousands of miles, for thousands of years, it’s been millions of peasants sweating and starving while aristocrats sip tea. In most of the world, the few govern the many.”
“Now, take care what you say, or you’ll be thought a Bolshevik.”
“Oh, hardly. In fact,” said he in ironic tones, “my own home is in the International Settlement. My father trades in cotton and silk, as his father did, and his. I’m expected to continue this dynasty.”
“Are you? And yet in your voice I hear something else.”
He turned to me, briefly silent, and quite somber. Then he smiled. “Your hearing is acute. Come, let’s find your brother. When the gangway is lowered, chaos will descend with it.”
Mama, I’m told the lights will soon be turned off in this place where we’re staying. I’m quite exhausted. I’ll end here and post this letter tomorrow, hoping it crosses the path of the ship on which you and Uncle Horst are steaming toward Shanghai right now! Though were I assured you were on such a ship and would never see this letter, I’d still continue my account. I’m oddly comforted by the attempt to decribe this extraordinary place for you. To envision your smile as you read makes me feel less alone than, surrounded by the crowds and ceaseless bustle in this room and in Shanghai, I know myself to be.
Your Rosalie
Crowds and ceaseless bustle. That was Chinatown; that was Mary and me and the thirty-six other kids in our tumultuous first-grade class; that was my parents, my mother’s older sister, and my four big brothers in our walk-up apartment. I wanted to tell Rosalie, Don’t worry, once you get used to it it’s kind of fun. I reached for the next letter; maybe she’d found that out herself. But my hand had to detour to pick up the ringing phone.
“Ms. Chin? This is Leah Pilarsky. Joel’s sister-in-law. I’m so sorry to bother you, but…”
“Please call me Lydia.” I wrenched myself back to this familiar room. “And you’re certainly not bothering me. Is something wrong?” Besides the obvious, I thought.
“That’s why I’m calling. I’m not sure you can help, but we don’t know where else to turn. It’s about-Joel’s body.” Her voice caught. “I’m sorry, it’s just such an odd thing to say, his body…” After a tiny pause she went on. “ Lydia, I don’t know if you know this, but our religious laws call for burial within twenty-four hours of death.”
“I think I did know that. But that’s already past.”
“Yes. We also prefer not to do autopsies, but in cases like this, the rabbis permit it. Our laws are ancient, but we do live in the modern world.” Her tone was ironic, almost amused. In better times she was probably the funny relative, full of mordant humor. She was also, clearly, the competent, steadfast one you turn to in times like this. “We’ve been told the autopsy’s been done. But they won’t release the body.”
“Why not?”
“They say with violent crime it’s protocol to wait a few days. I understand that, but it’s a problem. Ruth is having a terrible time. She’s clinging to the rituals and laws-well, that’s what they’re for, to give you something to hold on to in bad times. She’s become obsessed with the funeral: a kosher burial, starting the shiva period. It’s the last thing she can do for Joel, and she really needs to do it. But all I get from the medical examiner’s office is ‘as soon as we can.’ I started to harangue them-sweetly-and they let it slip that if the police okay the release, it can be expedited. So I talked to that detective, Mulgrew.”
“Ah. But that was like talking to a stone wall in a bad mood, right?”
“Exactly.” I heard that faint amusement again, and I was glad I’d caused it. “ Lydia, I know you don’t work for the city-”
“But you’re hoping I know someone who does. I’ll call you right back.”
I clicked off and punched my speed dial.
“Hi, Lydia. What’s up?”
“Detective Mary Kee, this is your lucky day. Special offer, improve your karma with one easy phone call.”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes. Double karma points if you act without delay.” I told Mary about my conversation with Leah Pilarsky.
“What are you saying? I’m supposed to deal with that?”
“They’ll release the body on an okay from the NYPD.”
“Not from me. I don’t have the rank and it’s not my case.”
“No, your captain does and it’s Midtown’s.”
“Oh, now-”
“You didn’t want your apartment painted anyhow.”
“You want me to call in my chips for this?”
“To help a grieving widow. Like I say, the karma’s real good.”
Silence; then a sigh. “I can’t believe I’m falling for this. Call me back in ten minutes.”
I picked up the next letter, thinking, See, there’s something to be said for ceaseless bustle.
12 May 1938
Dearest Mama,
We’ve been here three days. At the beginning, sensations flew at me so fast my head spun; but now I believe I’m finding what sailors call “sea legs”-the knack of taking a ship’s motion into account as you move about. The streets and buildings of Shanghai don’t move, Mama, but I promise you they are the only things here that don’t. All is constant, frantic activity, day or night. It requires attention and a steeliness of will to step out one’s own door onto the churning streets. Though in truth it might be more difficult to do so, were the place we’re staying not, on a smaller scale, an exact mirror of Shanghai ’s chaos.
Oh, that sounds so ungrateful! And I’m not, Mama, really. The people who received us are doing the most they can with resources stretched to their limits. We’d be on the streets if not for their kindness. The reception of refugees is managed by a number of committees supported by wealthy Jewish families-British citizens from Bombay -who have seen the need and responded generously. Nevertheless, the need is so great, and so rapidly growing, that this generosity results in conditions which, while providing minimally for us, underline the dismal reality of our situation.
But Mama, reading over what I’ve written, I find I’m failing you as a journalist; my complaining has superseded my obligation to be your eyes and ears. I’ll stop my grumbling instantly, and take up my account from the moment the gangplank connected with the dock.
So, then: We descended in the same orderly chaos in which we’d boarded, though with considerably more trepidation. A small number of passengers were met by relatives or friends who’d come here earlier. (As you and Uncle Horst will be, by us!) Kai-rong had a car waiting, and offered to take Paul and myself to our destination. But we didn’t know our destination! So he left us with careful instructions on how to find him, and went off, his driver employing the car’s horn (with little success) to blast a path through the crowd. I watched until his car was swallowed up; then with Paul I joined the stream of refugees along the wharf. We had been told of a meeting point and were making for it, but before we reached it we were found and warmly greeted by men and women speaking German.
From here, the story becomes less fairy-tale-like, and more befitting the truth of our situation.
We were escorted onto open trucks-trucks, Mama!-and carried through the bumpy streets to our new home. Some people sat on luggage as we inched along, but most crowded the truck’s sides as we had the ship’s rail, to see Shanghai close-up.
Alas, the sight was not encouraging. Narrow lanes, torn pavement, low doorways; windows that were no more than gaping squares, having shutters but no glass; hanging wash; women stirring pots outdoors; children practically naked; men carrying burdens on poles across their shoulders. Debris, and worse, swirled through open gutters. Everywhere, the smells that had greeted us on shipboard, concentrated tenfold; and everywhere, the dense, swampy heat. People who had dressed their best for disembarkation removed coats and loosened starched collars, and it became a contest, whether one’s hat was better used to shade one’s face, or fan it.
As we lurched on we learned our destination: Hongkew! That desolate bombed area we’d floated by on the Conte Biancamano. Which, half a week behind us, now seems like just a dream.
Finally we came to a halt. Gentlemen helped ladies from the trucks, and we faced our new home.
This shelter-there are a number, and they are called “Homes,” a well-meant but mocking title-fills an abandoned warehouse. Walls are bare brick and floors are concrete and all are in bad repair. On the ground floor are kitchens, a dining hall, and a medical clinic. Large rooms upstairs serve as dormitories, partitioned by hanging bedsheets. Beds are double-decked bunks or military cots; mine is in the family section, while Paul has been assigned to the room for bachelors. He’s proud to have been placed with the men and not with me as he would be if considered a child; but Mama, I believe he’s lonely, as I know I am.
The kitchen produces barely adequate and unpalatable meals, which nevertheless we’re grateful for. Sanitary facilities are shared, and there is no hot water. Never can you find a moment’s silence: Some child is always crying or some adult talking or coughing. If couples argue, everyone hears; and if they whisper tenderly to each other-the same.
So you can see why finding a place of our own-which from what I’m told is likely to possess many of the disadvantages of this Home but will have one great advantage, privacy-has suddenly become my heart’s desire.
And I suppose I’ll have to continue this account tomorrow, because once again, as-but not at all like-when Paul and I were children in the nursery and you came to kiss us good night, the lights are about to be put out.
Good night, dear Mama.
Your Rosalie
16 May 1938
Dearest Mama,
I know I have not written for days, but it’s so hard to put into words the bewilderment of our daily lives.
The thick, damp heat is unforgiving. Noise is constant, with many sounds unidentifiable and therefore disconcerting. Hongkew’s narrow lanes are so like each other that getting lost is inevitable and finding your way again all but impossible. Yesterday, searching for a vegetable market, I became so hopelessly confounded in an area all Chinese that I was almost brought to tears, rescued only by a Polish refugee child. She spoke no German, so could not direct me, but took pity and led me to a main avenue. In Shanghai the avenues bear English signs, and so I was able to locate myself. I returned to the Home grateful, though carrotless.
The streets are overwhelming, Mama. The heat and crowding combine to assure that life is lived out of doors, and thus publicly. Beggars abound, both adults and children, a sight I have not gotten used to; but also shoemakers, dentists, druggists, teahouses, and public letter-writers-a lending library, Mama, of Chinese books, attached to shelves by strings just long enough to reach nearby benches! All are on the streets, and one is expected to step around them, as work takes precedence over passing by. Everywhere we hear the competing shouts of vendors, the clack of mah-jongg tiles, and the clangs and mournful strings of Chinese music, as these are also activities for the street.
All this, I think, would be exotic and strange, and yet I’d square my shoulders and get on with learning to recognize a streetcar stop and distinguish the currency-as well as adjusting to boiling the water, and peeling what little fresh fruit I find-were it not for the intermittent intrusions of sounds and smells from home. Acrid smoke carries the stench of sewage and the unfamiliar aromas of Chinese spices-but then we catch a whiff of coffee or cinnamon from some lucky refugee’s kitchen. These things are not unavailable here, only beyond most refugees’ reach. People will save for weeks to buy enough coffee to brew a single pot, which they’ll sip slowly, not knowing when they’ll taste it again.
Mama, it’s these familiar things that make the heart pound. One feels as if in a dream, where the real and fantastic exist side by side, where it’s no good to determine to get on with anything, as one could be lifted into the sky, or houses in a lane could turn to trees in a forest, at any second.
Oh, I sound so foolish! And yet this is how I’ve felt this past week, as I make my way around Shanghai. More than once I’ve stopped still and tried, as I do in frightening dreams, simply to will myself awake. The Nazis never marched into Austria. Paul and I never fled to Shanghai – Shanghai, how absurd!-leaving you and Uncle Horst behind. The Nazis themselves don’t exist, but are monsters of my imagination. But my efforts result in no effect: I’m awake and all this is only too real.
Now you’ll worry I’m going mad. Please don’t fear. As long as I have Paul to look after I’ll keep my feet on the ground, I promise. And I don’t hesitate to admit I’ve been greatly aided by my friend, Chen Kai-rong. Though he made sure I had his address before we parted, I’d decided not to contact him until Paul and I were no longer living in these squalid, communal conditions. Pride, I suppose, made me want to meet him again as an equal, as aboard the ship. But two days ago, Paul and I were summoned from the roof where, on the lines that crisscross it, we were hanging out laundry. (This in itself is almost a joke, Mama, because nothing dries in Shanghai.) The child who’d run to fetch us said a Chinese gentleman was at the door in a fine car, asking if he’d found the Home in which the Gilders stayed. I hesitated, but Paul-who does not find laundry entrancing-let out a cheer and galloped down the stairs. I followed, to find Kai-rong standing beside a Mercedes-Benz. He quite beamed when he saw us, and I’m afraid I did the same, though propriety might have demanded a more restrained response. He requested the pleasure of taking us to tea. I was embarrassed by the state of my hands, my hair, my dress; but I couldn’t refuse Paul this treat. We set off, ignoring the pursed lips of some of our fellow residents, who seem to think a refugee girl entering a Chinese gentleman’s car can mean only one thing, even with her younger brother at her side.
My discomfort at having been discovered in our meager circumstances found no echo in Kai-rong, who was full of practical questions: Was the food passable, were we learning our way around, did we understand the bank notes? We spent a lovely hour at a lakeside teahouse occupied, except for Paul and myself, exclusively by Chinese. Paul devoured the tea cakes; as for me, even the mediocrity of my recent diet hasn’t increased my enthusiam for these dainties. But the tea was sweet, and swans floated by, and I suppose I’m growing used to Chinese music because I found the quartet quite pleasing. Kai-rong explained the instruments and their tuning, we discussed Mozart and literature, and I was very sorry when we had to leave.
Kai-rong had his driver take us back on a wandering path, as he pointed out landmarks to familiarize us with our new home. The tour was enlightening; but it was the comfort of Kai-rong’s presence that made me feel, as on shipboard, connected to this time and place.
Your foolish, but entirely rational,
Rosalie
23 May 1938
Dear Mama,
We’ve been here two weeks and it seems a lifetime.
Who could ever have imagined? The Pesach tales of oppression, which I once dismissed as part myth, part ancient history, and wholly unrelated to our enlightened age, have risen from the pages of the Haggadah to come howling after us. Once again we’re fleeing, scattering to the winds. Over the thin kasha soup and rough bread that serves as dinner at the Home, one hears of relatives making for Australia, Argentina, the Dominican Republic-oh, Mama, I don’t believe I could find that island on a map, and yet it’s rumored that, alone in the world but for Shanghai, its doors remain open.
And reverently people speak of the Promised Land, America. America? Which issues only a miserably few visas to refugees, desperate as we are? Why does anyone believe America will be more hospitable once they pry open its doors? And yet so many plan and scheme and hope: A former employer who fled to Chicago will send for them, or cousins in New York will sponsor them, and the gates of paradise will swing wide.
No, I say. Shanghai is mystifying and often harsh; nevertheless, it’s welcomed us. Until insanity is overthrown and our homes restored, my home is here.
Oh, what a demagogue I’ve become! I’m sorry; worry over you and Uncle Horst, over the future, over how to know I’m doing the right things for Paul-over whether I’ll find kasha soup in my bowl again tomorrow-combines with a helpless anger, and leads to a darkness I haven’t known before.
Others feel this darkness, too, the result of worry and the inability to find work, a place to live, decent food-to take any action in any direction. At the Home you see people-a small number, but real-who sit all day in the canteen or on their cots, who have little to say and will not try the streets of Shanghai, who no longer spend effort to stay clean and groomed-and it is an effort here, Mama, but one I force myself to make and demand of Paul. This darkness thickens imperceptibly: I didn’t realize I had fallen into its shadow until our outing with Kai-rong. For the brief period of that afternoon, Shanghai seemed not like a frightening dream, but merely a place. Bizarre and mystifying, admittedly, but nevertheless a solid, daytime place whose streets and customs could, with application, be understood.
I’m telling you this, Mama, because I want you to understand a decision I’ve made: after wrenching consideration, I’ve determined to sell Grandmother Gilder’s ruby ring. I’m afraid to stay too long at the Home, afraid of what the dreariness will do to my heart and Paul’s. The price of the ring should enable us to pay what’s called “key money”-pure extortion, but every landlord demands it-and also, I hope, to pay Paul’s school fees when I find him a place. He claims to be perfectly happy in his truancy, and asks that I not sell anything for his sake; but I don’t believe him. He hasn’t seen the inside of an incomprehensible science text since we left the ship, so how could he be happy? And even if he were, nevertheless he should be in school.
Accordingly, tomorrow I’ll set off into the French Concession-a beautiful area, with villas on tree-lined streets, as opposite to Hongkew as you can imagine; Kai-rong took us through it. The finest shops are there, and Kai-rong has given me the names of jewelers of good reputation. I’ll search one out, and return to Hongkew richer, though, I think, much poorer also.
I’ve chosen the ring because it’s mine. Yes, I remember my vow to renounce sentimentality; but to regard your jewelry, Mama, as mineral banknotes isn’t easy without you here to tell me to do it! Until you come, I have nothing but your photograph and my memories. These include watching you dress for elegant evenings, and the magical moment when you fixed the diamond necklace at your throat and became Queen Mama, and I became Princess Rosalie. That necklace especially, but also the gold bracelet, and the others-yes, yes, I will sell them if I must, I won’t let Paul starve! But if there’s a way, I would dearly love to see you, when you are here in Shanghai, as Queen Mama once more!
I hope you approve of my decision, Mama; and if you don’t, I can’t wait to hear you tell me so yourself.
Your Rosalie
The alarm on my cell phone beeped. Ten minutes? That’s all? I felt like I’d been in Shanghai, walking beside Rosalie, for weeks.
When I called, Mary picked up right away. “You owe me, girlfriend. And you owe Captain Mentzinger, too.”
“Was he mad?”
“You mean how much do you owe? Actually, it was another chance to stick it to Midtown. Remind them they owe us. Still-”
“Okay, I just entered it in my karma ledger.”
She gave me the details, and I called Leah Pilarsky. “Midtown Homicide is contacting the medical examiner. You should be able to pick up Joel’s body by the end of the day.” She was right, it did feel weird to say “Joel’s body.”
“Oh, Lydia, thank you! This will mean so much to Ruth! If there’s ever anything I can do for you-”
“Just let me know when the funeral is. I’d like to be there.”
“Of course! We can plan now for tomorrow. I’ll call you. Now I’d better go. So many people have been calling, people who need to travel in-cousins from Seattle, his old partner in Florida, his college roommate in Zurich. I have to let them all-”
“Leah? Who’s in Zurich?”
“Joel’s college roommate.”
“The roommate’s in Zurich?”
“He’s lived there for years. David Rosenberg. He publishes a business magazine.”
“I’d like to talk to him.”
“Yes, of course. But the police already talked to him.”
“I’m sure.” Three calls, Joel made the morning he died. Alice, me, and first, his college roommate. Mulgrew had said that. He hadn’t said the roommate was in Zurich.
I called the number Leah gave me, but David Rosenberg, as it turned out, had already left for New York.
“He wanted to be with Ruth,” Rosenberg’s wife explained, in accented English. “His plane will land eight at the morning. No, no, that is my time. In New York it will be night.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
I called Leah. “If you hear from him, will you ask him to call me?”
“Yes. And if not, the funeral’s tomorrow at ten.” She gave me the details.
“I’ll be there. But that’s not a nice thing, to bother Mr. Rosenberg at the funeral.”
“You’ll come back to the house afterward. You can talk then.”
All right. Joel’s friend in Zurich; that sounded like movement. Feeling a little less stuck, I went back to Rosalie.
24 May 1938
Dearest Mama,
I admit to an odd feeling of satisfaction today. I set off to sell Grandmother Gilder’s ring, and returned unsuccessful. But the very reason for my failure is the main source of my gratification.
This afternoon I approached three of Shanghai’s finest jewelers. Each made an offer, but I did not like their prices. They were low, Mama, they were the offers of men taking advantage of a young woman in need. And so, thanking each, I turned on my heel. With every abandoned transaction I found, to my surprise, a growing sense that life here might not be beyond my control after all.
Do you understand that, Mama? Until today disorientation and uncertainty have made me progressively more passive, deflated, and defeated, in ways I’ve not always recognized. But dealing, in German and English, with these arrogant men, and scorning their offers (politely, always politely!) began to restore me to myself.
Which sense was then magnified by the adventure that ended my day! As I left the third jeweler’s shop, the sky darkened and a torrential downpour swept in-that happens often here, as though the very air, impatient of the thick dampness, is trying to throw it into the gutters. Waiting beneath a colonnade for the sky to lighten, I noticed a foreign-language bookstore. What choice had I but to enter? I discovered shelves of volumes in English and German, as well as French, Spanish, Polish, and Russian. There was no question of a purchase-where would I keep anything, I whose home is a cot behind a bedsheet? and with what would I buy it, I who am selling a treasure?-but it cheered me to be in the presence of so many books. I was searching for the works of P. G. Wodehouse when voices erupted. A Chinese in military uniform was upbraiding the clerk in English. The clerk’s helpless “Bitte?” made it clear he didn’t speak the language, but the officer seemed to take his befuddlement as a deliberate affront. The officer’s rudeness was unfortunate, for his broad shoulders and erect bearing cut a handsome figure.
Before I was aware of myself I’d offered my help. The clerk accepted gratefully, but the officer disdainfully inquired whether I was employed in this establishment. I apologized for intruding and began to walk away.
“Wait!” he ordered. Now, Mama, you know how well I respond to orders, but I told myself he was a military man, so perhaps it was natural to him. And as I didn’t like to leave the poor clerk to be abused again, I turned.
The officer, bowing stiffly, introduced himself as one General Zhang. It seemed a young lady of the general’s acquaintance had expressed a desire to improve her English. “This fool’s idiocy has made me lose my temper. I should not have permitted myself the indulgence.”
On that poor excuse for an apology I would have given him a cold good-bye, but the clerk was following our exchange with eager eyes. Perhaps, I thought, I could enable a transaction that would leave the general’s money in the clerk’s hands, and bring joy to a young lady. If my assistance gratified the general also, that couldn’t be helped.
I inquired after the young lady’s tastes, concerning which the general was poorly informed. Left on my own, I suggested various English and American poets. General Zhang settled on a volume of Elizabeth Barrett Browning in a costly binding. In German I recommended the clerk double the price, but though he smiled, he didn’t do so.
The general offered to repay my kindness by taking me to my next destination in his waiting car. The steady rain made the offer tempting, but the general’s eye had taken on an odd look. I thanked him, saying I hadn’t concluded my business in the bookshop. He declared he’d wait. I begged him not to trouble himself and turned back to the shelves. The general, after a moment, swept out.
During this operation a mustached European entered, shaking off an umbrella. He listened so closely as I extolled my poets that I thought I might make a second sale; but after the door slammed behind the general, this gentleman addressed me in English: “Splendid, my dear, simply splendid!”
Astonished, I laughed.
“Robert Morgan, at your service. Londoner by birth. Washed up on these shores a decade since. This misbegotten establishment, I’m sorry to say, is mine. Drinks money like water. I can’t afford to chuck out blighters like General Zhang, though I’d dearly love to, and I know Walter would also, eh, Walter?”
Walter, the clerk with no English, didn’t follow a word. Mr. Morgan repeated the salient points in German, making him laugh.
“This young lady saved my hide, sir.”
“Yes, well, I can see that. Perhaps the young lady will pause from doing God’s work rescuing doomed clerks, and favor us with her name?”
“Rosalie Gilder, sir.”
“Well, Rosalie Gilder, I hope you won’t say no to a cup of tea.”
I did not. For the next half hour, to each customer who entered, Mr. Morgan celebrated what he called my “adroit handling” of General Zhang. “Sent him away with his tail between his legs!” At first I demurred, as it was never my intention to offend my hosts, the Chinese; but I was informed the general was a well-known and widely despised collaborationist in the “puppet government” army. By the time the storm abated and I began the long trek to the Home, not even the prospect of kasha soup could dampen my pride in having bested four arrogant opponents in one afternoon!
Be well, Mama!
Your adroit
Rosalie
27 May 1938
Dearest Mama,
I have found a job!
I’m quite delighted, so please don’t be angry. I know we agreed I should try to continue my studies, but that won’t be easy. The number of universities here is small, smaller since the Japanese have closed some down. The number that give instruction in a language I speak is smaller yet! I have a wild idea of someday studying alongside the educated Chinese. The students, whom I glimpse in streetcars and cafés, are a fascinating group: animated in their discussion and chic in their dress. That dream will have to wait, however, until I’ve mastered more Chinese than “Good morning,” “Thank you,” and “Your tea cakes are delicious.” (This last was taught me aboard ship by Kai-rong and is my first lie in Chinese.)
But Mama, flights of fantasy aside, Paul’s education must come first. I have my secondary diploma, but he hasn’t, and he won’t be able to go on to medical studies once the world regains its senses unless he takes up classes very soon. The daily tasks of living here, I’m learning, demand more time and energy than at home. Paul and I can’t both be in school at once, at least until you arrive. Once you do, I’ll abide by your every instruction! (And what a change that will be, I can hear you say!) Until then, I must do what I think best.
The position I’ve taken, that of English tutor, comes from a not surprising source, but one that I admit gave me pause. My student is to be Kai-rong’s younger sister, Mei-lin. When Kai-rong first suggested the idea I bridled, thinking his offer thinly disguised charity. But he explained that his sister is largely confined to the family house and grounds, as is the Chinese custom for unmarried women of a certain class, and is greatly in need of society. He maintained he was determined to find her a tutor from among the European community, and would account it a favor if I, with whom he is already acquainted and in whom he feels he can place his trust, were to accept the position, freeing him of the responsibility of discovering and interviewing strangers. As he, who has done so much for us, was asking this, I hardly felt I could refuse to consider it. I agreed to take tea at the Chen home and meet my potential charge. Accordingly, this afternoon Paul and I, in our finest clothes (and to hear Paul tell it his starched collar threatened any moment to choke the life from him) presented ourselves at the gates of the Chen villa. And oh, Mama, within those gates, what a life is led! There are gardens with flowering shrubs, willow trees, emerald lawns, and a fish pond; the mansion is in the European manner, with wide halls and many rooms. The marble floors are carpeted in Persian rugs and the walls hung with scrolls of forests, storks, and misty mountains, plus beautiful, flowing calligraphy. Tea was served in a parlor whose furniture is a harmonious blend of Chinese antiquities and European pieces in the modern style. In addition to Kai-rong and his sister, we were joined by their father and a woman of a certain age introduced only as Mei-lin’s “amah,” meaning governess. Apparently I needed to pass the inspection of the assembled multitude before the position was to be mine. Given Paul’s appetite for the napoleons, apple squares, and linzer torte spread before us, I feared we would be ejected from the premises; but the senior Chen, with dry humor, instructed the houseboy to inquire of the cook what additional sweets might be on hand. Soon we were presented with a new tray, of Chinese tea cakes. I pleaded an appetite already satisfied by the first wave of dainties; but everyone was approvingly impressed by Paul’s appreciation of their cuisine. Mama, these are such charming people! Educated, well spoken, and welcoming. Mei-lin, who is sixteen and quite effervescent, is indeed anxious I should come to her, though I suspect my exotic status here in Shanghai and the tales I can tell of the wider world are as much of an attraction as the opportunity to improve her English.
Before the afternoon was out we had settled on a schedule-I will be visiting three times weekly-and a wage, which I consider high but which Kai-rong claims is standard for such services. Paul is welcome to accompany me anytime, I am told. The schedule will permit me the time required to accomplish the errands of daily living and to keep house (as soon as I find us one!), and the wages will be a great boon. And as Mei-lin’s company promises to be agreeable, I could see no reason to refuse this position; and thus, Mama, I am employed!
Your professorial
Rosalie
30 May 1938
Dearest Mama,
A letter from you! You have no idea how my heart pounded when, calling at the Main Post Office, I found the General Delivery clerk-who by now knows me well and is apologetically weary of disappointing me-smiling and holding out a letter as I approached his window. Oh, Mama, I sank onto a bench and opened it then and there! And though it’s nearly three weeks since you wrote it, I read and reread every word. I’m vastly relieved that you and Uncle Horst are well; and at the same time terrified to hear how things are at home. The speed and zeal with which our neighbors have taken up the Nazi cause is horrifying; your report of the destruction of Herr Baumberg’s shop and the treatment of his children made me ill. Mama, Mama, you must make every effort to stay out of sight, and to leave Austria as soon as possible!!!
You write that my stories of our travels bring you joy and relieve your worry. Very well, I’ll go on telling them, though the situation at home makes the hardships we’ve found seem so trivial. We are poor; we are crowded; we are hot and sometimes hungry. But many in China-the Chinese, Mama, whose country this is!-are much worse off than we. Yes, Shanghai has its own misery and perils. But Mama, please believe we’re well, as happy as possible under the circumstances, learning to negotiate our new home with daily increasing confidence. And we can walk down the street, not entirely without fear-I won’t lie-but at least knowing that any danger we encounter is encountered by all. We’re never menaced here solely because we’re Jews, and it breaks my heart to know that, in my beautiful Salzburg, this is no longer true.
Waiting eagerly for your next letter, and your arrival!
Your Rosalie
2 June 1938
Dearest Mama,
The tone of your letter and its awful news have been weighing on my mind, along with the uncertainty of your situation. Reading it when I first had it in my hands, I felt as if you were sitting beside me; but I can no longer ignore the fact that you wrote it weeks ago, and I have no real knowledge of today. I just pray-I pray, Mama, can you imagine?-that the thugs who found Herr Baumberg don’t find you, that you and Uncle Horst pass invisibly through your days until your train leaves for Dairen-or better still, that you’ve long since left Salzburg for an ocean crossing or an earlier train!
As you ask, I’ll continue my account of our days-because I have no other way of doing anything you ask. As I imagine my letter in your hands, I see you in the parlor, safe and comfortable; and so I’ll keep writing until I truly see you, hot, weary, and bewildered, as we all are, but here, in Shanghai.
So to the news: Mama, I’ve sold the ruby ring. Oh, it was a sad moment! To see it placed on velvet in a glass case, to catch a stranger’s eye. But I comfort myself the price of it will enable Paul to resume his schooling, and the two of us to find a measure of privacy and a life closer to normal. And the transaction was made less painful by the extraordinary kindness of the jeweler, a refugee himself. Presciently assessing the situation in his native Germany, he brought his wife and children to Shanghai five years ago. He understands we do not sell our possessions lightly. His patience and gentle good nature were reassuring, and the sum he offered fair. With it, Paul will soon return to his test tubes and electromagnets, and-with luck-I will find us a room with solid walls.
Be safe, Mama!
Your Rosalie
10 June 1938
Dearest Mama,
I apologize for my silence. For over a week I’ve been incapable of anything but collapse at the end of each day-but for many wonderful reasons! First: I’ve found a school for Paul. He’ll attend the Shanghai British School, to be educated in English-hurrah, Mama, for your insistence on “treasure Island” and “Robin Hood!” This good fortune was made possible by Grandmother Gilder’s ring; and by Kai-rong, who suggested the place, and, as an alumnus, had a word with the headmaster. (I believe, Mama, he was prepared to pay the school fees himself, but after I ignored his hints to that effect, he gave the subject up and waited until I told him we had the sum in hand.)
And equally important: We’ve found and moved to a place of our own!
I say “we,” but it was Paul’s doing, I having been a total failure at the project. Since a few days after our arrival here, Paul has been busy in an unexpected and enterprising way. Once we began somewhat to understand the city, he and I embarked upon serious negotiations, coming eventually to an agreement over where he may venture and which streets, on the other hand, he may under no circumstances cross. (I felt the dangers of Shanghai’s streets to be less than the dangers of being confined all through the day in the wretched Home; I hope you’ll agree.) The streets on which he is allowed he wanders daily, in the company of other boys. He returns with odd treasures-two fresh apples, a bicycle tire-for which he has traded yesterday’s treasures. Today’s will be assessed, and, if not eaten (and I believe if he put his mind to it he could eat a bicycle tire) will be taken tomorrow to some shop keeper of his acquintance who needs precisely that item and will offer in trade another item which Paul knows is needed at a shop across town. A yuan or two often finds its way into Paul’s pockets in the course of these transactions. The yuan is almost worthless, but with a pocketful of them certain items may be obtained: Yesterday, in celebration of our new home, Paul presented me with a single gingersnap! Mama, I was touched to tears. Something to which at home we gave not a second thought here becomes a gem to be marveled at. I did marvel; then I shared it with him, and in four bites it was gone. One does not save food in Shanghai. Refrigerators are unknown except to the wealthy, and too many of God’s creatures-flies, worms, mice, and rats-are as interested in your comestibles as you are.
Oh, but how far afield I’ve flown! But you see, flies and rats aside, I’m happy today, and want to share that happiness. Paul’s trading expeditions led to the discovery of the rarest treasure of all: a room to let. The owner of a typewriter shop in the International Settlement which he supplies from time to time with screws and bolts had lost a tenant, bound for Australia. As he remembered Paul inquiring about rooms, he telephoned to the Home requesting the honor of Paul’s presence. We set off immediately! The room in question is the rear of two above the shop, facing a courtyard used for cooking and washing, as I imagine we will use it. It is not large-nothing in Shanghai is large, Mama, nothing! with the exception of the banks and great villas-but it is irregularly shaped, with an alcove for a bed. So Paul and I will have privacy now not only from the population of the Home but, up to a point, from each other! We have a basin with cold running water and wonder of wonders, in the hallway, shared with the room at the front, a water closet! Indoor plumbing, whoever would have thought that something to aspire to? But the norm is a bucket, whose contents are taken off each morning by night soil collectors. So a flush toilet, shared with but one other family, is very heaven! The past days have been a matter of scrubbing and airing, of negotiating the price of beds, chests, and linens, of finding coolies to pile them on carts and push them through the streets. This morning we said our good-byes at the Home, with little regret. Friends we’ve made we’ll continue to see, and as for kasha soup, I hope never to see another bowl!
And Mama, it is Shabbos here. Though I do not expect to continue observances, it does seem fitting that on our rickety table in our odd-shaped attic I have set out the pewter candlesticks. I’ve sent Paul out with a few yuan for candles; when he returns, we’ll light them, and say a barucha, in thanks for our new home and in hopes to see you speedily in it!
Stay well, Mama.
Your Rosalie
17 June 1938
Dearest Mama,
Oh, I am tired! But I could not go to sleep without writing to tell you what a lovely dinner we’ve had!
Dinner, you say? I’m writing about a meal?
Well, first, a meal in Shanghai is not a small thing. Wait, that’s phrased incorrectly: Often it is a small thing: some rice, a carrot boiled with an onion, and there you have it. (Though I have not yet had to resort to kasha.) But after a complicated transaction that began yesterday with a shoemaker’s awl and proceeded through several shop keepers, Paul marched triumphantly up our stairs this afternoon with a chicken! Plucked, cleaned, and ready for the stewpot, the bird became the centerpiece of a Shabbos dinner at which we had our first guest. No, Mama, I am not taking up religion, I assure you. But Kai-rong had expressed a desire to attend a Shabbos dinner, and after his kindnesses, how could I say no? We lit candles, washed, and said the correct prayers, Paul explaining the meaning of the various rituals to Kai-rong. (And he has absorbed much more from his bar mitzvah preparation than I’d have suspected!) We ate chicken, stewed with onions on our charcoal stove in the courtyard, and challah, a great delicacy, purchased from a Viennese bakery. I even managed to sauté some thin Chinese beans into a reasonable side dish. Kai-rong brought linzer torte and a pound of coffee! We sat and ate and talked in our tiny room, at which Kai-rong showed no dismay but also, to my relief, no false cheeriness. We never ran out of conversation, the three of us, and the hour at which Kai-rong finally took his leave would have scandalized our neighbors, had they not been scandalized already by the fact of his unchaperoned presence. Luckily, I and Paul-who in any case considers himself as much of a chaperone as we could ever need-remember your own attitude toward the opinion of neighbors, and are fashioning ours after it.
Mama, it was so lovely, to have a guest for dinner, as we used to at home; it made us feel, nearly, that this could be home, too. All that’s missing is you and Uncle Horst, but the day is fast approaching when your train leaves! Oh, Mama, I cannot wait to see you again!
Your tired but happy! Rosalie
That was it.
That was it?
Apparently so. I’d reached the end of the stack of printouts. Suddenly Rosalie was silent. Her romance, her marriage, the birth of her son-I wanted to follow her through that. I knew her now, and I wanted to stay with her. But I couldn’t. She was gone.
I stared into the dimness of my office, feeling the cloud that had begun to lift rolling back in. In my growing affection for Rosalie, my joy in watching her find, as she said, her sea legs in Shanghai, I’d almost let myself forget that at least part of her story had a tragic ending.
Elke and Horst never made it out of Austria.
That must be why the letters stopped. Rosalie must have learned there was no one to write to.