CHAPTER 19

SHANGHAI 1939

From the vast Pacific our ship glides into the China Sea, then enters the broad mouth of the Yangtze River. The river extends over three thousand miles, its muddy currents winding through the heart of China. We stare agape, pointing and gasping at the sights before us, exhilarated, frightened, sensing the tingle of discovery and entrapment at once. The ship can only move ahead, being swallowed as though it were entering into the mouth of a giant beast. We dare not look back to where we have been, knowing there is no way of return.

Miles out from the shoreline, we crowd together at the railing of the ship’s deck, our necks craning forward, jostling one another for a better view of our new destination. Before the image is clear, our senses are already attacked by the foul odour of garbage and raw sewage. Everyone is moaning, holding hands over mouths and noses to keep out the offensive smell. The cooling breeze of the ocean behind us has dissipated and we begin to feel the oppressive heat hovering like a heavy blanket in the air. Though we are still far from the Whang Po Wharf, the water is no longer the clear azure of the open ocean, but has turned to a murky stew, littered with debris. The huge Chinese population cannot be confined to the land mass and spills over into the sea. Strange houseboats, called sampans, their sails rounded as they fill with the wind, dot the sloshing mucky water. They are loaded with women and children, baked brown from the sun, clothed scantily in rags. Fussing babies howl for mother’s milk. The odours of rancid cooking oil and dead fish accost us as the ship drifts closer to the dock. Men are standing on the pier, openly urinating into the stinking water, laughing boisterously. Are they congratulating themselves for the clever greeting they have provided for this new boatload of unwanted foreigners?

As the huddle of European refugees piles down the gangway onto the shore, everyone is visibly ill from the powerful sights and smells. In our heavy woollen suits and overcoats, some still in furs and stylish hats, we all seem suddenly so incongruous and inappropriate. Debarking from the ship and setting foot for the first time on the wharf, I am filled with overwhelming nausea. Heavy, sickly odours attack my nostrils. Thick hordes of people swarm the pier and coalesce into one throbbing dark mass, a monster with hundreds of wriggling arms and legs that surrounds and threatens to devour us whole. Staring at my white skin and round blue eyes, the filthy, ragged strangers laugh and cajole in their unintelligible language. I cringe as they stretch bony fingers to point and tug at my foreign clothing. We have chosen life over death and now find ourselves in a place that we hardly believed existed, the distant underbelly of the globe, a mysterious blob on the map, China.

I think of my beautiful things packed away in my dowry trunk and all the other belongings we left behind or were taken by the Nazis. Then I look around at these peculiar people bending to spit disgusting gobs on the sidewalk, the stench from the river rising as the heat of the day chokes like a cord around our necks. Standing on rotting wooden planks, I retch into the rank water and wonder if we have fled the peril in Europe only to perish in a hell never imagined.

Herta waves to me as she steps onto one of the many rickety buses, jammed in among a crowd of other dazed people, to be taken to one of the charity homes – Heime – that have been established to await the sudden influx of impoverished refugees. We have been told on ship about these places, which have been established by Jewish relief agencies, but they are the least desirable places, reserved for those with no resources or connections. As she has no money and no family, Herta is one of hundreds who are shuttled away to the buildings that have been converted to vast crowded dormitories to shelter the most destitute of us all. I see her grim face staring back at me and I wonder for a moment what will become of her as the bus rumbles out of sight. But then, huddling with Mama and Willi, my thoughts return quickly to our own situation. We remain standing together, our eyes flicking over the mob of strange faces, hoping for a better reception for ourselves, eager to reunite with our family who have already arrived here and will surely be trying to find us and make contact. We dare to dream of an improved life but are aware we have little reason to expect much. Mama’s face is contorted with a mixture of anxiety, worry, and discomfort. We are all unnerved yet feel some faint satisfaction that we have outrun the Nazi horde.

Lined up on the dock to meet us are a number of Christian missionaries – a row of pale women, their hair pulled back severely from their faces, wiping their perspiring foreheads with white handkerchiefs and smiling weakly as they approach. Heavy chains hang from their necks, each with a large gold cross securely weighted on their chests. We are weaving like drunkards as we feel the first solid ground beneath our feet after so long at sea, and stumble unsteadily towards them. With mingled dread and relief, we accept their welcome, because there is no other.

We feel like lost children, uncertain of what to do next, waiting for someone to take us by the hand and lead us to a safe home. Unquestioning, we go with them. We and our stack of baggage are loaded haphazardly into open trucks, then we climb aboard, many of the elderly struggling for a space. We are crushed together, standing like cattle, rocking with the movement of the vehicle, holding onto one another’s hands for support and encouragement, not knowing where we will be taken, simply hoping it will be to some refuge where we can stay in peace.

Our first impression of the city engages all our senses. We look in dismay at the dark masses of people, the sidewalks thick with pedestrians. Individuals break from the herd and go running in varying directions with determination and purpose. There is a powerful mixture of odours from bodies pressed too closely together and the peculiar aromas coming from the food being cooked in steaming pots out in the open. Our expectations of a bizarre world are exceeded at every turn as our vehicle rumbles through the streets, and as we are being jostled about we observe all manner of wares being loudly hawked – tiny bright-feathered birds twittering in bamboo cages, frogs croaking in others, eels writhing in barrels and live carp sloshing in tubs. Our stomachs bob up and down and many of us are sick along the way, fainting, vomiting, overcome by it all, and still the truck does not stop until we reach our destination.

We arrive at an old church being used to house those like us, considered transient refugees. As we enter, our shoes click against the wooden plank floor and the sound echoes within the vaulted ceilings of the hallway. There is a smell of damp timber and old books. We are settled in a small room, exhausted from the journey. Still in our travel clothes, we drop onto the cots that we have been assigned, thankful to be on solid ground. We are fatigued but unable to truly accept the reality of our escape. Besides our meagre possessions, we have brought something with us from home: the constant sense of apprehension that still haunts us.

I examine the surroundings, so strange, so foreign. At least clean sheets and solid walls separate us from the strange and hostile city outside. Huge wooden crosses are mounted everywhere around us. In the sparsely furnished rooms, the crucifixes are all the more startling. We gaze up at the carvings of an emaciated figure of Christ, every rib visible beneath the skin, arms outstretched, nails driven through the palms and feet from where blood drips for eternity. The representation of tortured agony only reminds us of the death and pain we have fled, and we are repelled by it. We feel our alienation here all the more because of our non-Christianity, our tangible Jewishness.

Our belongings arrive a day or so after our arrival but of the four trunks that we had in Vienna, only one has reached us. When Willi manages to pry the lock open, I am relieved to see that it is the one containing my skis. Mama and Willi are disappointed, though, that most of what they had packed has not come, and after considerable efforts to locate the missing baggage we accept that the rest is gone and will never be retrieved.

We live with the sisters at first and work for our food and shelter but must endure their daily efforts at conversion. We have seen them pack care baskets for Jewish hospitals but everything is wrapped in pages of the gospel and none is complete without a pamphlet with a cross on the cover. Having survived the ordeal of Hitler’s attempt to purge our faith, we are not tempted to abandon it here.

As soon as possible we make inquiries about our family members, asking the sisters to check their rosters of recent arrivals, and within a few days we are elated to learn that they did pass through this same place and were then relocated. Finally we are able to make contact with our family when one of the sisters mentions that Erna is working at a nearby convent, a position that was arranged for her. When, at last, the whole family comes through the doors, tears of suppressed anxiety flood down our cheeks. We hold onto each other for long minutes and Mama, her body heaving with emotion, clutches each one to her.

“Where have you been all this time, tell us,” Mama says. “And how is my little granddaughter?” she asks, swinging Lily up in her arms and hugging the giggling bundle of spindly legs and arms, freckled just like Fritz.

“What a time we’ve had, Mama,” Erna replies. “We were first put in a refugee Heim, that’s what they call the Jewish shelters, but they are anything but a home.”

“That’s for sure,” Fritz adds. “But we applied for an apartment and because of Lily we were given some preference and we have a small place in French Town – well, that’s what we all call the French Concession. Shanghai is divided up into sections but a lot of the refugees end up there.”

“We have an apartment now too,” Stella says. “Walter managed to sell a lot of the things that we brought from Vienna – some watches and a camera that he had packed away that the Nazis didn’t take. I had fur coats, too, that arrived in our trunks. We sold them and with the money we have a large enough place that we have been able to rent part of it and get an income.”

“Good for you, Stella,” Mama says proudly with a smile.

Erna turns to me. “You know, Nini, I have a job teaching needle-point at the convent. Do you want me to put in a word for you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I can find something else.” I think I would be unhappy in the convent and not nearly as good as Erna at the needle-point.

“All right, Nini, but the nuns have been good to us. I think you could consider coming to work there – and you will need the money soon,” Erna answers.

I recognize the truth in her practical approach. Reluctantly, I reply, “Well, I suppose you’re right. I’ll work there for a while but you know I don’t trust them.”

Something about the way Erna and Fritz have exchanged a knowing look and turned to one another alarms me. “What is it? Did something happen?”

They tell us that missionaries are especially drawn to Lily, only three years of age. Some Jewish children have been surrendered to the Church for “safekeeping,” and their offers to preserve her from hunger or death are a real temptation. Erna and Fritz are terrified for her safety. “Nini, please understand,” Erna pleads, “we are so frightened that she will die too if we are taken away. At least the sisters will protect her life. You are so sure but we are not. They have promised to guard her if only we give them the right.”

“It may be the only thing to do,” Fritz says, desperation in his voice, “the only way to spare her.”

“Now?” I ask, my voice shaking in anger. “Now, when we have reached a safe shore, you will give your baby to them?”

Holding the pieces of the family together is becoming more and more the driving passion of my life, just as it has been to Mama, and I am outraged by their suggestions. I know my sisters consider me high strung and given to dramatic outbursts, but the thought of losing a child in this way is unbearable. I don’t want to hear any explanations or excuses. I can see nothing but the travesty about to be committed and become incensed at the idea of giving Lily away. I rant uncontrollably at the parents, who stare at me in sorrowful desperation. “No!” I scream. “No! Don’t you understand? If you sign away her life to them, you will never get her back. They will make sure of it. Every Jewish soul, especially a young child ‘saved’ is a celebration for their cause. You will not give her away!”

Finally they accept my argument and, nodding their heads in agreement, doubt and fear filling their eyes, they promise they will keep her no matter the consequences. I sigh in relief as I look at the child playing contentedly with her rag doll. If the past is destroyed, I think, we can at least hope for the future, a new generation of this family.

When we were travelling to this alien place, above all else we had hoped, and truly expected, that we would find peace here. We were prepared for a strange culture, poverty, and struggle, but were unaware that we would also be plunged into the midst of a fierce war. We soon discover that we have been tossed into a battle zone, the centre of a brutal conflict that began in 1937. Japanese forces have been stationed here for the last two years, waging a bloody attempt to conquer and annex China. The hatred between the two peoples is almost tangible. Japanese soldiers in full military attire, heavily armed with rifles equipped with dagger-sharp bayonets, march through the streets. Sporadic gunfire is heard everywhere, and the havoc of war surrounds us again. Rape, pillage, and murder are common daily activities in this battle zone, and the civilian toll of misery lies, as always, in the wake of the skirmishes.

We are awakened one morning by the sound of shouting voices and ear-piercing screams. Willi and I, still in our sleepwear, join other befuddled refugees and a number of the sisters who run into the courtyard to see about the commotion. There we discover a gruesome display before us. On the gate’s spiked rails are mounted about a dozen severed heads of Chinese who were captured through the night by their Japanese enemies, decapitated and impaled like slaughtered deer as a warning. No one could mistake the message that this sight was meant to impart, a graphic show to all that Japan is prepared to murder every Chinese, if need be, to bring the country to surrender and gain the control they are determined to secure over this country.

I stand very close to Willi, our arms hanging leaden at our sides. Then we cover our eyes with our hands and turn our faces away in revulsion and horror. With the grotesque image still fresh in our minds, we rush back into the Missionary Home. The children have been hustled inside by the sisters and Mama is still in her room. We are haunted by the grisly sight of the severed heads, dried blood caked around the vacant eyes and open mouths, expressions of anguish and terror frozen beyond death. We are shuddering in shock and nausea and try to blot out the sight we have just witnessed, a vision of such cruelty that I cannot wipe it from my mind.

The bloody conflicts between the Japanese and their Chinese “cousins” rage day and night with many more such exhibitions of savagery on both sides. Hatred burns all around us here just as it did in Europe. I feel as though we live in a little fortress, bricks and stones forming an isolation from the harsh conditions beyond. We work at the many chores needed to keep the mission functioning, each of us completing assigned daily tasks, scrubbing laundry, peeling vegetables, sweeping floors, and collapsing in exhaustion at the end of the day on our cots. We speak to the others who come and go on a regular basis, but there is no real time to establish friendships between the monotonous work and the transitory nature of those we encounter. Besides, when we have any free time we try to arrange to meet with our family again. Mama helps too, doing the less rigorous jobs of setting tables for meal time and clearing up afterwards with others of her age. She is finding it difficult to adapt to the new life and quite often drifts into depression. We try to cheer her but find it more and more challenging to come up with words of encouragement. She has said she has no more strength left to exist here or to start again somewhere else, that another voyage would kill her.

In despair, I turn to Willi. “What do you suppose we can do about Mama?” I ask him.

“You mean about her mood?” he asks.

“It’s more than a mood. Her life has been so changed and she has fought so hard for so long that it seems all of the spirit is gone, used up like firewood.” Our trials have worn us all down and Willi has nothing to offer but a shrug.

“What is there to do?” he answers. “We have to worry about survival first. If this damned war ever stops and we can get her to a safe place, things might be better for us all.” His voice falters, and I can see he is as uncertain as I am. “If not … I don’t know what will happen to any of us.”

The most senior and respected of the missionaries is Mother Laula, an American. Her pale blue eyes are buried in a lined face, and her grey hair is pinned up at the back of her head. She wears severe and drab clothing, but her garb is a contrast to her soft smile and the brightness in her eyes. Her age is indeterminate but she seems to have absorbed ages of misery and pain into her very soul. A settled reserve surrounds her like a shroud, a quiet acceptance of the things she has witnessed throughout her life, and an unshakeable faith in her God that give her the courage and strength she needs. Although she has seen hellish things, she devoutly believes in goodness, salvation, and heaven. She has shown us more genuine kindness than we have encountered in a long time, and we have begun to trust her and to value her wisdom.

One day, I find myself seated beside her. We are having our regular break from our routine at midday; it’s a quiet time to read or talk. As she and I share some hot tea and a few biscuits, I find myself letting my guard down a bit, which is unusual for me. The circumstances of my life have created a suspicious nature. It is not easy for me to trust, and I tend to keep my feelings to myself, but when Mother Laula asks me how I am dealing with my life here in Shanghai, I speak frankly and ask her the things that are most pressing in my mind.

“How do you live here?” I ask her. “How is it possible to see this bloodshed and agony day after day and still keep your faith?”

She’s not startled by my questions. She’s heard them before from others who’ve been displaced, and she’s a paragon of patience. She looks at me and I wonder what she must be thinking, that my clothes are starting to show signs of wear, that my fingers are reddened by the harsh soap that we use and the disinfectant that burns the flesh, that my hair needs to be fixed. I soon realize that none of these matter to her at all and I blush at my own vanity. She has gone beyond the outer appearances of the refugees and is looking deeper into our souls, trying to help those who have no one and to offer an explanation for the turmoil of our lives.

“After a while,” she responds, “everything becomes commonplace. You have to accept the existence of evil as well as good in this world. For every new day that God grants us, we must do our best to live. Each one of us is destined to die as God sees fit. Our lives are in His hands. You must preserve your faith in His power and give in to His will. There is no other way. Without such faith, there would be no explanation for the horrors that we have seen. Without faith, we could have no reason to live.”

“But what do you do if your faith wavers?” I ask.

“You have to bury your doubts as I have done and surrender to a higher power. I still believe in the virtues I was taught despite all I have witnessed and endured. Our lives are meant to be difficult and how we overcome our hardships is the true test of our faith. Charity is a reward of its own, for the pure sake of helping your fellow man.”

Her mention of charity is a sudden jolt. It is as if Papa were suddenly speaking to me through this woman.

“That is something which is most important to me,” she continues. “When a beggar asks for mercy and a few pennies, I believe that one must give with an open hand and open heart. Don’t ask his reasons, for whether his need is food, or liquor, or even opium is not for us to judge. The Lord will judge him when the time comes, just as He will measure each of us.”

I am still uncertain. Everything that was important in my life has been cast aside and negated. There has already been so much violence that it is not easy to preserve any faith. We have no time to ponder the mysteries of life and death here where simple survival has become the only possible goal. But, the next day when a ragged child offers his grimy hand to me and beseeches me for help, I drop a coin into it and watch him patter away. I understand the lesson taught to me by Mother Laula and remember Papa once more.

I am soon put to work with Erna, who is already at the Convent, not far from the Missionary Home where we live. I go there every day to teach the skill of European needlepoint to Chinese women. We also help in the kitchen in the preparation of meals for the Catholic sisters and for the many refugees who depend on this food to survive. The fare is meagre. It consists mainly of rice, washed over and over to remove bacteria and insects and then cooked in huge vats. Drinking water must be boiled to make it potable. We are shown the trick of adding a drop of red iodine as a disinfectant to water used for washing food. There are other supplies like powdered milk, dehydrated eggs, coarse bread, and thin jam that are used to feed us all.

One day while I am at work in the kitchen, one of the nuns calls me to come along with her. She needs help with some items to be brought from the pantry. I follow her through some heavy wooden doors to a small corridor and then another set of doors that I have not seen before. When she opens them, I am stunned at the sight within.

Before me is a wondrous cold storeroom, shelves laden floor to ceiling with thick yellow circles of cheeses, pounds of butter wrapped individually in white paper, smoked sausages and hams hanging from hooks, plucked chickens and geese, their necks dangling loosely, all lined up in bountiful splendour. There are cans of Belgian cocoa and South American coffee. The array is dazzling and hardly believable. Not since Vienna, before the war, have I seen such abundance. Here in Shanghai, people everywhere are scrounging for morsels and barely subsisting on the most minimal supplies, yet here, in remarkable decadence, concealed and hoarded from view, lies a feast for royalty.

“Sister,” I stammer, “who are all these things for?”

Her grey eyes are steady and bright, her smile unwavering as she replies, “Well, of course, for good and faithful Christians. You could so easily convert here with our help and free yourself from the curse of your birth. If you accept Jesus Christ, Our Saviour, you will find salvation and He will provide all of life’s rewards to you in this world and eternal peace in the next, for you and for your suffering family. You will not know hunger again. Think of your elderly mother and of your sister’s child, if not just of yourself. Life would be so much easier for you all if you would extricate yourself from the blot of sin and heresy that has been the cause of all your hardship.”

Although my stomach, at that very moment, is so torn with hunger that it feels as if wild dogs are tearing at my insides, I face her placid stare with my own. Her words have startled me, torn me from my state of frozen immobility and given me courage. I remember Poldi’s brave words and Mama’s proud defiance before the Nazis and even my encounter with the girl in the schoolyard who had taunted me so many years before and I respond, my face flushed with rage, “If the Nazis, in their cruelty, could not change me, then you with your oily words and temptations will not either. I was born a Jew and whether I must die tomorrow or in many years as an old woman, it will be as a Jew!”

Her smile turns grim as she ushers me out of the pantry without another word and closes the heavy doors with an unforgiving slam.