CHAPTER 20

THE FRENCH CONCESSION 1939

We have spent merely three months in the Missionary Home but we’ve found the atmosphere of the place suffocating. Usually refugees are sheltered for just a short time and then expected to make their own way. New immigrants arrive while others are leaving in a constant flow. Because we have resisted conversion, we expect no further contact and no aid from the Church when we go. Despite Mama’s worries and foreboding, Willi and I insist that we must leave and set out on our own. We have promised her we will manage to find work and will be able to support ourselves.

The Jewish relief organizations in Shanghai are overloaded with the sudden influx of so many needy. As there is no other solution, we stand in line with the others to ask for initial aid in finding a small flat where we can live and some rations to keep us from starvation. The feeling of such poverty weighs the refugees down like a physical burden. Heads are bent, faces are dour. With the few remaining pennies from the pittance allotted to us on our departure from Vienna, we are virtually destitute. The Nazis have managed, as they had planned, to send us into the world as beggars.

I have been in contact with Herr Berger, and in a brief letter to Poldi I bring him up to date on Herr Berger’s progress, as well as our own.

“Dear Poldi,

“I can only pray that you and Dolu are still all right. What a terrible time we are enduring. Will we still awaken in our own warm beds and laugh at the nightmare that we have had? No, of course this is all too real.

“Herr Berger has still assured me he will be able to rescue your parents and that he will get safe passage for them to escape from Vienna. I hope he is right.

“I worry about Mama too. She has been despondent since we arrived here. The pervasive poverty of the Chinese, the overpowering heat that we have never before experienced, the strange faces that surround us are all too much for her. I am also homesick for Vienna, but I am trying very hard to deal with this place.

“We have decided to leave the Missionary Home. The missionaries and the nuns at the convent where we work are kind enough but they want us to convert. How could we do that? They wanted to keep Lily but I was adamant in my opposition to such an idea, and so she is still with us. Now Erna and Fritz as well as Stella and Walter have moved into cramped apartments in the French Concession.

“At this point I don’t know where we will be. Willi and I will try to get employment and support ourselves and Mama. We will go to the Jewish relief agencies for help. If you can escape from Italy and do arrive in Shanghai, go to the agencies to look for us. I will try to write again but hope, with God’s help, that it will not be too long before I see you here.

“Pray for us as we do for you and one day, maybe we will be together again.

“With love as always,

“Nini”

Without much regret, we prepare to leave the Missionary Home and make our way into the mainstream life of Shanghai. My sisters and brothers-in-law are unable to do much for us as everyone has only enough for himself, so we are mostly on our own to establish living quarters and find a way to keep ourselves fed.

We are overwhelmed by every new sight. We dissolve into the flooding humanity, a population of four and a half million that throngs in the streets, so dense with people that walking through them is like wading in living quicksand. Men balancing heavy bamboo poles with baskets of food swinging on either side rush about trying to sell their wares, and small, thin women tend to cooking odd foods in bamboo steamers, looking as if they never have enough to feed their starving children. Others, more desperate, are offering to sell swaddled babies wailing at their breasts, to be raised as servants or prostitutes by passing Europeans. Poverty and over-population threaten to annihilate them all.

Coolies, wearing their distinctive triangular straw hats, pull bizarre two-wheeled wagons with people sitting inside. Watching them strain every muscle, padding along the streets, I am appalled and believe this to be the most uncivilized country on earth, where people are being used as beasts of burden. They are everywhere, thousands of men pulling thousands of others to their destinations. The carts are rickshaws, we are told, and before long we too begin to use them for transportation. They weave in and out, adding to the mad confusion of traffic that teams day and night in the city streets, among the trolleys, automobiles and pedestrians, always rushing towards their destinations, rushing without a glance, rushing to a better place. Shanghai never rests.

Beggars roam the streets accosting foreigners, hands outstretched, eyes sunken. We soon learn which are the opium addicts who stumble from dark, smoke-filled caverns into the horrid streets and back again when they have scrounged enough for the next heroin fix. Pitiful half-naked children run a jagged course for blocks after every émigré, small dirty palms upturned, pleading and chanting in repetitious monotony the only English words they know, “No mama, no papa, no whiskey, no soda.”

Dead bodies litter the sidewalks, having perished from hunger and heat exhaustion or the ravages of leprosy, malaria, cholera, dysentery, or typhoid. Others have succumbed to the numbing opium that has permeated their veins and gnawed at their brains with its poison. Corpses languish like sacks of trash or dirty laundry waiting to be tossed unceremoniously into carts and hauled away. We walk cautiously around the decaying bodies covering our mouths and noses, trying to keep our distance, clenching our lips tightly in determination to be strong despite the horror. Don’t look down, I think, just walk on. It’s too late for that one. Don’t stop.

Mama prefers to stay in the one-room apartment that we have been able to find with the aid of the relief organization but Willi and I set out immediately to explore the layout of Shanghai, walking the maze of busy streets, or riding the crowded streetcars that rattle and chug along the main boulevards. Double-decker buses and cars stream in every direction and horns sound loudly at the many weaving rickshaws that dart in and out along the congested thoroughfares. Pedestrians and bicycles thread their haphazard way through the traffic without apparent concern. The city, we discover, has been segmented, each section distinct and inhabited by different nationalities although the Chinese are everywhere.

The International Settlement spreads to the Garden Bridge. Soochow Creek forms the dividing line between Hongkew District, the poorest side of Shanghai, and the rest of the Settlement. Ruled primarily by British and American interests, the area has become a buzzing cosmopolitan hub where many European and Asian languages are spoken in an agitated cacophony and every shade of skin colour forms a human patchwork. The mixture of distinct and varied cultures is an amazing revelation for me, compared to the strictly homogeneous whiteness of Austria.

Moving from Hongkew, where some of the Jewish refugees have settled, across the bridge, we see the Public Gardens and the extensive British Consulate immaculately maintained with well-groomed lawns and refined facilities. A few blocks farther along is Avenue Edouard VII which divides the International Settlement from the French Concession, so-called because it had been occupied by France and ruled by their consul general. Now though, it is controlled by the Japanese. Within “Frenchtown” can be found the large French Club, called Cercle Sportif Français. Although refugees seldom have access to any of the facilities located within the splendid club grounds, we have been told they house every imaginable luxury from tennis courts to swimming pools.

We know nothing about China and didn’t expect to find any Jews here, but we have discovered, since our arrival, that two Jewish communities have already been established in Shanghai. We learn there is a very select group of Sephardic Jews, numbering only about five hundred, who originally came here from Baghdad around 1870. This group consists mostly of very wealthy and influential families who possess enormous holdings, including valuable property such as large deluxe hotels. They are powerful icons wielding considerable influence. Names like Sassoon and Kadoorie are spoken with awe. Through philanthropic efforts, they have set up relief organizations to aid the newcomers being dumped on the shores. Refugee camps, shelters, and basic food are supplied to help us to live. They have established the charity homes where hundreds of people are cared for and fed. Without the generosity and intervention of these people, many of us would have starved to death by now.

The other group is a large one, consisting of about forty-five hundred Russian Jews who fled during the Bolshevik Revolution in 1917. They have also gained social status and respect. The Russian Jews have established themselves in Frenchtown, where there is already an existing community of those from a European background. This is also where our family is relocated in small flats. Avenue Joffre, leading from the heart of the city, is often called “Moscow Boulevard.” We are comforted by the familiarity of shops, doctors’ and dentists’ offices, nightclubs, and a small synagogue, but we cannot forget for one moment that this is Shanghai as Chinese workers of all descriptions fill the streets, vendors and beggars, the high and low churning together in a unique ethnic pot.

A mile farther along, Nanking Road, the main artery heading out of the city, leads into Bubbling Well Road. The British Country Club is there on Bubbling Well and opposite it stands the expansive French Club, the Cathay Mansions apartments, and the Cathay Hotel. We stare in wonder at the splendour of these formidable structures where wealth and power find an ideal home.

Within the French Concession magnificent streets emulate posh Parisian boulevards – exclusive shops sell designer fashion, Chanel perfume, and imported liquor. The Bund is the centre of commercial activity, filled with modern automobiles, chauffeur-driven limousines, as well as the ever-present rickshaws zipping in and out through the traffic, and thousands of Chinese on bicycles or on foot. There are grandiose homes with air conditioning, tropical gardens with swimming pools and every extravagant luxury imaginable, where Chinese servants are employed at a miserly wage to tend to the needs of the powerful. We, as refugees, are not part of that rarefied milieu.

When daylight dawns on our new home, a single room really, with a bathroom and tiny kitchen, one cot for each of us, I stir from sleep and dreams of Vienna, to the realization of our poor surroundings. Mama is still asleep in the corner, Willi is in his bed beside hers. Our cases are lined up against the wall near a frayed and faded upholstered chair beside a chipped wooden table with a lamp and dull stained shade. The task of finding work is urgent, fraught with hurdles. We are completely destitute so Willi and I can waste no time. We kiss Mama on the cheek as we leave her in our little home early in the morning, wishing luck to one another as we set off on a desperate search for any way to feed ourselves. Many jobs require only native Chinese workers, others are out of our reach as we have no qualifications. We are fighting against time. We need some money immediately or we will soon starve.

My shoes are wearing at the heels as I walk the streets in search of some opportunity. Along the cracked and uneven pavement, I hobble alone, fear prickling my skin, my throat dry with thirst and panic. There is not a crust of bread in our poor room and Mama has become depressed, having lost her strength and will to live. Hunger is an aching hollow deep within, a growling voice in my bowels, demanding the food I cannot supply. Lost in worried thoughts of our plight, I almost stumble over a Chinese beggar’s lifeless body. He has died in the street, his rags barely covering his pitiful bones. He serves as a further omen, that death is everywhere and that we are treading a narrow pathway through it, easily tripping and falling, to be lost here in this wasteland. There is no time to stop, must go on, can’t rest, have to find work, money, food. Mostly I have to keep myself from slipping into delirium.

Trudging halfheartedly along, I nearly bump into another young woman coming the other way. She seems just as preoccupied as I am, looking in shop windows for signs offering employment, her clothes wrinkled and worn. It is Herta, from the ship. We laugh at the near collision and greet one another after the months that have elapsed.

“Where have you been, Herta?” I ask.

“I’m still living in the Heim, but the conditions are awful,” she says. “We’re crowded into dingy rooms in an abandoned building where there is neither heat nor ventilation. In every room, thirty or forty of us are lumped together in barracks, sleeping in rows of narrow bunk beds, afraid of theft, hungry all the time, and waiting like beggars for our handouts, a crust of stale bread or a cup of weak tea. Children are crying night and day. The smells of misery and poverty are unbearable. I can’t stand it. I’ve got to move out, if only I could find some work to support myself. There are so many of us and so few opportunities. The Nazis have sent us to a sure death here. I’m afraid I won’t survive.”

I shake my head in sad reply, thinking that however badly we are faring at least we are together, but Herta is alone. “I’m also trying to find something to do,” I say. “We’re living in a little flat right now but the few dollars we have from the things we sold on the ship are nearly gone and we’re struggling to feed ourselves. I’m worried about Mama, too. It’s so hard on her. But you, Herta, you are young. I’m certain you’ll find work and that you’ll be all right. And besides, maybe the the situation will improve and we’ll be able to find our way out of here.”

“I don’t know. I hope you’re right.” Herta’s tone reveals a multitude of worries and sorrows. She is distracted and soon makes her excuses for a quick farewell. “Well, Nini, I’m glad to have seen you but I have to rush away now. I’m afraid I can’t even afford the luxury of a cup of coffee or the time it takes to drink it. I wish you good luck – maybe we will meet again soon in better circumstances.”

“Please, God,” I answer. As we hug in a sad embrace, I can feel the bones of her thin body through her frayed coat. Then we continue on our separate ways.

A few blocks farther along, I pass a hotel window and notice a sign requiring a manicurist. Having gone for many hours with nothing to eat, I feel unsteady, worried that I might collapse from weakness and realizing that I dare not do so. I swallow hard and walk into the salon, trying to show a confident demeanour although I have no experience for the job. My English is poor and I wish now that I had paid more attention to my lessons in school. But I must say whatever is necessary at this stage to procure the position. “Yes,” I lie, “I am skilled as a manicurist. Yes, I speak English very well.” And so I am hired on the spot and put to work right away.

An affluent American gentleman, dressed in a cream-coloured suit of slubbed natural linen, his jacket removed, revealing a matching buttoned vest and an elegant silk shirt with a monogram embroidered on the cuff, is seated in the chair. His wrist is extended over the armrest for me to groom. My hands are trembling terribly as I begin the task. Every time I prick him or poke his fingers with one of the metal utensils, he flinches and groans. Unfortunately the result is a mess, his nails bleeding at the cuticles, cut mercilessly and patched with bandages by the time I’m done. I can only apologize over and over, begging him to understand that it is my first time. He looks down at me with a disgruntled shake of his head and hands me a five-dollar bill, a fortune. The manager, seeing the incompetent effort, fires me without hesitation while bowing in deference and profuse regret to the gentleman. But I am too elated with the faded green paper in my hand to worry about that. I bolt from the shop and run all the way home, shouting breathlessly for Mama, and when I find her, my face beaming with pride, I press the note into her palm.

The exuberance of youth perishes in a slow painful death. We wither in the unbearable summer heat, drenched in sweat without relief, day or night. Our clothing clings to our bodies. When the monsoons come, relentless rain falls in a solid wall, hissing on the broken pavement, turning instantly to steam. We can’t bear the sights or smells of the food being cooked and hawked by street vendors. Heaps of croaking frogs, squirming eels, tangles of lazy snakes, and crates of screeching chickens are kept alive in crowded cages and killed just before they are to be consumed. Huge bulge-eyed carp sink to the bottom of wooden barrels, waiting to be devoured in their turn. Piles of living crabs crawl over one another as fishmongers call out in their strange language, and flies buzz over mounds of wilting vegetables.

We have become undernourished, sallow skin pulled tight over our cheekbones, our fingers, nicotine-stained, clutch precious American cigarettes that are smuggled into the country and sold on the black market by clever Chinese entrepreneurs. It is difficult to gather my courage to face every new day, but I feel a different kind of strength building within me. I think of myself as an unborn moth within its cocoon, tightly weaving a crusty shell around my soft vulnerable core. All the misery I have seen, the Nazi torment, the dead bodies stinking on the sidewalks, the brutality of the Chinese and Japanese towards one another, the daily battle with hunger and disease, all are weighing on my mind and all must be overcome. Nothing can permeate the outer layer and destroy my inner self. In the small cracked mirror on our wall I see an older, more sombre reflection although I am still a young woman, but the circumstances that I have already endured have added years to my soul. Joy is rare, hardship is constant, but I am determined to survive.