7

RUSSIAN REFUGEES

PATHETIC CIRCUMSTANCES.

Pathetic details of the flight of Russian refugee women in Shanghai are given in a report of the Nansen International Office for Refugees, issued in Geneva. After appealing to the League to supply funds for the relief of the Russian exiles, the Nansen Office presents the report of its Shanghai representative, who, referring to the large number of Russian women in disreputable houses, contends: “I cannot but add the general complicity, not only of residents, but often also of distinguished travellers.”

Singleton Argus, 2 November 1934

In the course of the first dance, Alexandra Romanova chatted gaily about music, the club and her favourite drinks. At the end of the song, she politely informed Rowland that the next dance would cost him another pound. Somewhat relieved that the nature of the transaction was at least now clear, Rowland paid for another turn about the floor.

“Were you born in Shanghai, Miss Romanova?”

“No, we—my family—fled Russia during the revolution. I was a little girl.”

“I see.”

“Papa was a soldier, loyal to the tsar. They fought the Red Army but, in the end, there was nothing left but to run. Now we must work in small jobs, as taxi girls and security guards, but one day, Mr. Sinclair, we will return and reclaim what was ours from the filthy Bolsheviks.”

Rowland led into a turn. Milton and Clyde, both of whom were Communists, seemed to have quit the dance floor. He couldn’t see either. “Do you remember much of Russia?”

Alexandra looked up at him, her sky-blue eyes moistening. “I remember a big house, and servants. I had a pony called Mischa. My brother played violin and I wanted to dance with the ballet.” She laughed bitterly. “Now we are without a country, Sergei teaches fat, tone-deaf children to play, and I dance here.”

Rowland hesitated, unsure how to respond, guilty now for dancing with a girl who clearly resented having to do so. In the end he said simply, “I’m sorry.”

“No, Mr. Sinclair,” she said hastily. “You dance beautifully! You don’t haggle about price! The Italians haggle—‘I have only two shillings,’ they say. You are polite and handsome and you smell very nice.”

Embarrassed now, Rowland laughed. Alexandra seemed to relax. She told him about the Russian theatre opening in the French Concession—that part of Shanghai which had been conceded for French settlement. “There are more Russians than French people living there now.”

When the song finished, Rowland suggested a drink. They returned to the table, and found Milton and Clyde already there.

“Did you not wish to dance again?” Alexandra looked for her friends. “Anya and Natalia are excellent partners and very pretty.”

“Anya’s toes took a bit of a battering dancing with Clyde,” Milton replied. “Natalia’s card was booked, I think.”

“Do you work here every day?” Rowland handed Alexandra a cocktail of champagne and cream.

“In the evenings, yes.” She sipped the drink and then accepted Rowland’s handkerchief to wipe the froth from her upper lip. “You did not say, Mr. Sinclair, why do you come here?”

“We’re staying in the hotel,” Rowland replied. “The Jazz Club was recommended by the valet.”

“No, no, I mean Shanghai. What brings you all to Shanghai?”

“Rowly’s here on business,” Milton said. “We just tagged along.”

Alexandra locked her eyes on Rowland’s. “Perhaps you will come back tomorrow.”

Before Rowland could reply, a gentleman interrupted to present his ticket and claim the dance for which he’d paid. Alexandra reacted with professional courtesy, detaching herself immediately to attend to this new client.

As the taxi girl disappeared into the crowd upon the dance floor, Edna returned—the man with whom she’d been dancing earlier in tow: a handsome, if slightly heavy man who looked to be about thirty-five. His hair was fair, parted cleanly and slicked back, his attire evocative of the uniforms worn by the European military elite. She introduced him as Count Nickolai Kuznetsov. He nodded stiffly.

Rowland offered the count his hand. For a moment Kuznetsov stood motionless and then he accepted the handshake warmly. “Yes!” he said. “Let us do away with formalities. You must call me Nicky. I will call you…” He looked at Edna questioningly.

“Rowly,” she said.

“Rowly! I will call you Rowly!”

He shook Clyde and Milton’s hands in turn, and for a few minutes they exchanged the usual pleasantries. Kuznetsov was in flamboyantly high spirits, buying drinks with a generosity that was commensurate with his title.

Even so, it seemed the count worked as a private security guard for a Shanghainese businessman.

“Are you good gentlemen filmmakers?” he asked. “Shanghai is popular in Hollywood films now.”

Milton shook his head. “I suppose Ed’s been telling you about her camera. It’s a bit of a stretch to call her a filmmaker.”

“Oh no, Edna belongs in front of the camera. She is too beautiful to be otherwise.”

Clyde groaned.

“I do act, as it happens.” Edna smiled at Kuznetsov. “I even had a part in a film back home.”

“You were sacked,” Milton reminded her.

“The director and I had a difference of opinion.” Edna tossed her head indignantly. “He was entirely unreasonable.”

“Clearly the man was a buffoon,” Kuznetsov declared. “My cousin Ivan drives for Warner Orland. I could arrange an introduction, perhaps he might find you a part in the film he is making here.”

“Who’s Warner Orland?” Clyde asked.

“He’s the actor who plays Charlie Chan, I think,” Rowland said.

Kuznetsov nodded. “He is what they call a Hollywood star.”

“That would be wonderful, Nicky,” Edna said enthusiastically. “I saw Charlie Chan in London at the cinema last year. I’d love to meet him.”

Kuznetsov puffed a little. “I will speak to Ivan tomorrow. He will tell this Warner Orland that he must find a part for you.”

Milton shook his head. “You know not what you do, comrade.”

The count’s face clouded. His eyes flashed dangerously. “Do not call me comrade, sir! That is the title of red vermin traitors.”

Milton shrugged. “Well, I could call you sweetheart,” he said airily, “but we hardly know each other.”

Kuznetsov pulled back a clenched fist. Rowland stepped between the two. “Steady on there, Nicky.”

Edna moved to defray the tension by taking Kuznetsov back onto the dance floor.

“Our friend Nicky is a White Russian I expect,” Rowland said under his breath as he watched them embark on a quickstep.

“I gathered,” Milton replied quietly. “You know, once upon a time I would have said bugger it—his type deserved everything they got in the revolution.”

“Once?”

Milton shrugged. “I’m no longer as hostile to the privileged upper classes as I once was.”

“Why?”

Milton grinned and nudged Rowland companionably. “Let’s just say my standards have slipped.”

Rowland laughed.

“Don’t get me wrong, I still believe in the revolution, I just find myself more able to have some sympathy for the usurped.” He grimaced. “I’ll try and remember not to call him comrade.”

“I’m not sure it’ll make a difference.” Clyde scowled. “He looks pretty bloody dark.”

Milton folded his arms. “Well, it’s not as if Ed’s likely to marry the bloke. He’s probably just one of her passing fancies.”

“Yes.” Rowland’s eyes were still on the dance floor. “It’s not necessary that Count Kuznetsov likes us.”

Clyde and Milton stood by him sympathetically. Rowland’s torch for Edna was well established, as was her determination to keep the men she loved separate from those she took as lovers. Her reasons were complicated and probably irrational, but her resolve was absolute. Edna Higgins would be known for her art, and not by the name of a husband. It was, to be honest, not an uncommon decision among the free-minded suffragists of the modern age. It was probably more unusual that her passion for an independent life seemed only to strengthen Rowland’s passion for her.

When Edna and Kuznetsov finally left the dance floor, the sculptress had managed to mollify the Russian. He apologised for any bad temper on his part and ordered champagne for them all. Milton called him Nicky loudly and often and it seemed all was forgiven.

Alexandra Romanova found Rowland again. “I have a gap in my card. Would you care to dance with me again?”

“It would be my pleasure.” Rowland took her into his arms for a jazz waltz. She asked him about London, and once he’d corrected her misapprehension that he was English, he told her about Sydney and the grazing property near Yass on which he’d been born.

Edna waved as she and Kuznetsov whirled past.

“Is that your wife?” Alexandra enquired. “She is very beautiful.”

“No, she’s not my wife, but yes, she is very beautiful.”

“Your wife is not here?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have a wife.” Rowland was somewhat bemused by the question.

She frowned slightly then shook her head, laughing. “I am sorry. So many men take a wife and then will not admit to having done so, and do not behave as if they have done so. Especially when they are dancing with another.”

“I see.” Rowland met her eye. “I’m not married. I give you my word.”

At the end of the dance, Alexandra declined to take her fee. “No, that time was my gift to you. You may return it by inviting me to take tea and cakes with you, tomorrow.”

Rowland smiled. Perhaps this was why she had wanted to establish that he was unmarried. “Would you do me the honour of joining me for tea and cakes tomorrow afternoon, Miss Romanova?”

“I do believe I’m free at four, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Shall I send a car for you?”

“No, I’ll call here at the hotel. The Cathay’s tea room is the best in Shanghai.”

Edna stood at the window of the Chinese Suite filming the awakening Huangpu. The river came gradually to life in the soft light, many thousands of stories floating on its waters. Engrossed in trying to capture the vista on celluloid, the sculptress was humming along before she fully registered that someone was singing: “Honeysuckle Rose”, belted out with a gravelly volume of which Fats Waller would have approved. Intrigued, she placed her camera on the window’s wide sill and peered quietly around the moon gate into the dining room. Wing Zau danced as he filled the warming trays on the sideboard in preparation for breakfast. He took the plates from the traymobile and shuffled to the sideboard, crooning “Goodness knows, Honeysuckle Rose” like he was centrestage at the Tivoli.

When finally he noticed Edna, he froze, the song dying suddenly on his lips, an embarrassed stutter in its place.

“Oh don’t stop, Mr. Wing.” Edna walked over to take the plate of bacon from his hands and placed it in one of the silver dishes. “I love this song.”

“I apologise, Miss Higgins.” Wing looked mortified. “I was just humming, and then I sang a couple of bars, and then… I didn’t intend to become so loud.”

“I do that all the time.” Edna closed the lid of the warming tray. She collected the teapot from the traymobile and sang “Every honeybee fills with jealousy, when they see you out with me” as she poured tea into two of the cups set out on the table. “Sit down and have a cup of tea, Mr. Wing. The others won’t be up for ages.”

Wing hesitated.

Edna reached for the sugar bowl. “Please?”

Wing took the chair beside hers reluctantly, sipping his tea stiffly. Edna peppered him with questions, searching for his opinions about the city. It was not long before her complete disregard for the proper way of things thawed the manservant’s reserve. They talked about Shanghai and Sydney and the world in between. Wing told the sculptress of his Australian-born cousins who, fearing persecution, had returned to Shanghai when Australia’s immigration laws made it clear the Chinese were not welcome.

Wing nodded sadly. “As civilised as we have become, it is still skin we see first. The tiger recognises his own kind and devours all others.”

“Is that an old Chinese saying, Mr. Wing?”

“Chinese—yes, but not old. I just now made it up.” He smiled. “Still, I’m sure my honourable ancestors would have agreed.”

Edna laughed.

Rowland was the first of the Australian men to venture out. He paused by the moon gate, taking in the scene framed within its circular perimeter—Edna and Wing chatting like old friends over tea. At first neither the sculptress nor the valet noticed him, engrossed in their own conversation. “Did you have a good time at the Jazz Club, Miss Higgins?” Wing asked Edna.

“Oh yes. I danced with a Russian count!”

Wing clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Every second Russian in Shanghai seems to be a count or a duke, Miss Higgins. I do not mean to be cynical but I do not wish you to be disappointed.”

“I shan’t be disappointed, Mr. Wing. I only danced with him.”

“You must be careful. Wealthy foreigners are often targeted by unscrupulous men with spurious titles.”

“I’m afraid my wealth is as spurious as their titles, Mr. Wing.” Edna sipped her tea, as amused by the valet’s concern as she was by the notion that she was wealthy.

“Good morning.” Rowland announced his presence.

Wing Zau stood hastily, guiltily. “Mr. Sinclair, I did not realise you were awake, sir. You didn’t ring—”

“Sit down, Wing. I really don’t need anyone to help me dress.”

The butler remained on his feet. “Mr. Isaacs and Mr. Watson Jones—”

“Can also dress themselves.”

Wing remained standing. The pause became slightly awkward.

“Taxi girls—are they all Russian?” Rowland asked suddenly.

“Many are. Despite their titles, the Russian refugees are penniless.” Wing was clearly relieved to have something asked of him. “As taxi girls, they can earn a living, which, if not respectable, is not shameful.”

“Nicky didn’t seem penniless,” Edna said, glancing at Rowland. The Russian had been insistently generous.

Wing nodded knowingly. “Russians!” he said, throwing up his hands. “They will spend a month’s wages in a single night. It is as if they have not realised that their circumstances have changed.”

“I see.” Rowland grimaced, now uncomfortable that he had enjoyed Kuznetsov’s largesse.

“It is difficult for the refugees.” Wing was warming to his subject. “The better jobs are reserved for the expatriate population, the labouring jobs for the Chinese. It is not so bad in Shanghai because there are rich people here who need guards and music teachers, but north of the wall I have heard that many Russians have starved to death.”

“Oh how dreadful,” Edna said. “Those poor people.”

The look on her face seemed to startle Wing. “I apologise, Miss Higgins. I should not speak of such things. I apologise.”

“Nonsense. We want to know.” She turned to Rowland. “Maybe we could help somehow… some of them at least.”

“Oh, you cannot venture north of the wall, Miss Higgins. The Japanese control most of Manchuria now. It is not safe.”

Rowland frowned. Having invaded Manchuria almost four years ago, the Japanese had been consolidating and expanding their control of north-east China. International condemnation seemed to have had no effect. Japan had left the League of Nations and continued on its own course. News of Japanese atrocities and the plight of the White Russians, as well as the Chinese, in Manchuria had been widely reported in Australia, sparking a kind of removed outrage and occasional fits of fundraising. He shared Edna’s impulse to help but he wasn’t sure how exactly they could, on a large scale at least. “I believe the Red Cross is active in Manchuria. I’ll see what I can find out,” he said in the end, hoping that it would be something.

“I fear that Manchuria is beyond even the magnanimity of the West,” Wing said quietly.