CHAPTER 26

PEARL HARBOR 1941

Mama has been buried in the Jewish cemetery. After the funeral I often go to visit her grave. At first there is just a mound of freshly dug earth and a wooden marker. She is gone, but I still feel her presence as I always have with Papa. The pain of grief twists like a knife inside, a dull heartache that remains with me every day as I go about my regular activities. Simple things remind me of her – the chair where she used to sit, the coffee house where we would go and gaze at the strange thoroughfare, or someone passing wearing a hat like hers. After a few months my sisters and Willi and I with the rest of the family gather to watch as a headstone is erected. The ceremony is called an unveiling and is considered to be a final farewell.

After that we visit her whenever we can. When Poldi and I go, we see small stones set around the gravesite, mementos from others, messages to show that she is remembered and honoured for the good that she did throughout her life. We each place a pebble on the headstone and shed more tears.

We continue with our lives, managing the bar, spending time with the family, going to the movies or out to restaurants. In fact, our lives are better than they have been for years. The family is well fed and everyone has a reasonable form of livelihood. Despite the sadness, we manage to find a degree of normalcy in this abnormal environment.

“Well, it’s not Vienna,” we often hear people say in the familiar Viennese dialect, followed by the typical reply, “But we can walk in freedom, for now at least. If we can endure the food and avoid the disease and not anger the Japanese, it’s not so bad.” The exchange is ended with a smile and a nod.

Emotions sit just below the surface all the time. We are either giddy with a momentary spurt of good humour or depressed by the remembrance of the reason for our exile. These feelings are common among the refugees. Who could remain even-tempered and constantly rational in this chaotic environment? But even in the bible the Jewish people are considered stubborn survivors and are described as “stiff-necked.” We mean to overcome the most severe obstacles, even here.

“We are nothing if not an organized people,” Poldi says to me one day while he’s reading the Jewish newspaper. It’s printed in Shanghai now and circulated among most of the refugees, outlining current events, meetings, and gatherings. “I suppose it’s a way to replace the structure that’s lacking in our lives after all the upheaval.” He adds with a wry smile, “Even wandering the desert, Moses had to get the Ten Commandments for us.”

The biggest refugee organization in Shanghai is the Jewish Community of Central European Jews called Juedishe Gemeinde. It is an umbrella group encompassing each religious affiliation from Reform to Orthodox and covers a broad range of services and activities. Institutions have been put in place that include Jewish education, Kosher ritual slaughter for our meat, welfare services, and the establishment of Jewish hospitals. Religious ceremonies, marriages, divorces, births, and deaths also come under the auspices of the Gemeinde.

Our group of exiles is not a raggle-taggle company of illiterates and vagrants. We comprise a full spectrum of people with talents and intelligence, who have come from the most civilized cities in Europe and carry our highly organized culture with us. Jewish pride is flourishing once more – although, as might be expected there is bickering about religious practice, whose way is the best way, and so on.

Several synagogues already exist where wedding ceremonies are performed. The Sephardic shuls Beth Aharon and Ohel Rachel provide a meeting place for those who were living here before we arrived. As their customs differ from those of our community with European ancestry, we assemble in the Ashkenazi Oihel Moishe Synagogue, where Poldi and I were married by Rabbi Ashkenazi, an interesting name I always think, for the chief rabbi of Shanghai. A Jewish hospital has been opened where doctors who were ostracized and forbidden from practising in Vienna are saving lives and delivering babies.

We have various clubs and relief organizations, including ORT, which was founded in Russia in 1880 to help the peasant population develop useful skills. The letters “ORT” are an acronym of three Russian words that mean “handicrafts, industry and agriculture.” In English it is called “Organization for Rehabilitation through Training.” In Shanghai, as in Vienna and elsewhere, it provides training to those who need to find useful vocations to deal with transition.

Because Jews are used to being displaced and needing retraining to adapt to new societies, ORT continues to thrive. With thousands of us relocated in China, we need this society more than ever. Trades are taught to those who were musicians or professionals back home but who need more marketable skills here. Men are taught mechanics and women learn the dressmaking trade. In this way our people try to ensure that Jews, regardless of where we might find ourselves, are not a burden through demands on social welfare or, worse, begging for handouts. We try to make our own way and fit in wherever we surface. “Normal” is what we want, but that is not what we can have. “Normal” means peace, and no matter what we do, we are not in a world at peace.

Just as soon as we put the thoughts of war behind us, a news broadcast or headline in the papers reminds us of the events drawing us into the vortex of the storm. It’s December now, and the onset of the winter months is sure to put more frozen corpses on the streets. We wear our warm coats and make our way into the cold night air for our regular walk to the bar. As we are up till late hours, we sleep most of the day and only catch up on the latest news when we get to work, but as we hurry along the street on the evening of December 7 there is a different sense of anxiety and we notice a frenzied buzz in the air. We overhear bits of conversations, things like “Can you believe what happened at Pearl Harbor?” and “Thousands were killed.” People are bustling about even more than usual and we hear one question repeated over and over: “Will America declare war against Japan?”

Every evening before we open the bar, we and Marco sit and listen to the latest news broadcast. The static crackles, and when the voices break through, they have a characteristic reverberation. When we enter the bar this evening, Marco is seated on his usual stool, his ear cocked to the large wooden-boxed radio by the counter.

“Marco, you heard about Pearl Harbor?” Poldi asks.

“They’ve been talking about it all day. It happened this morning. Shh, I’m just listening to an American news report,” he says as he tunes the radio and raises the volume until we can hear the words.

The radio announcer sounds agitated. There is a brittle sound of papers shuffling and a break in the transmission and then he continues, “Ladies and gentlemen, early this morning the American naval base in Honolulu was bombed. At 7:53 a.m. our armed forces sustained the first of two shattering attacks. At 8:55 there was another. Many planes and battleships have been destroyed. We still do not have an exact number of American casualties but the estimate is over two thousand. Our nation is in shock. President Roosevelt is expected to declare war against Japan. Remember this date, folks, December 7, 1941. Pray for our boys and girls overseas and God bless America.”

I clasp my hand over my mouth in disbelief.

“Well,” Poldi says, “the Americans are in it now whether they want to be or not.”

“And right here in our backyard,” Marco adds, lifting a glass of beer to his mouth. “The Japs have done it for sure, brought the Yanks into it, the whole damned U.S. army, navy, and marines.”

“And now what will happen?” I wonder aloud.

Marco replies, grinning, “Who can say what this might bring to us refugees? In Shanghai, one never knows, right?”

He finishes the foamy brew and sets it down, then lifts his arm towards the entrance, and announces, “My friends, let’s open the doors. War or peace, business still goes on.”

As a rowdy bunch of soldiers pile in Poldi tells the piano player to play loudly, a quick-tempo upbeat tune to keep everyone amused. All anyone talks about is the war in the Pacific. The European front was too distant to impact on those living in Asia but now it has hit this region with a thunderous blow. We are dead centre in the latest conflict.

At the bar that evening we listen spellbound to the latest from around the world. President Roosevelt’s voice sounds strained as he proclaims that December 7, 1941, will live in infamy. He calls the attack premeditated and unprovoked and pledges to wage a righteous fight that will not stop until there is absolute victory.

It seems as though violence and devastation have followed us even to the other side of the world. Pearl Harbor has become another milepost for the refugees – already we refer to this or that happening before or after Pearl Harbor. The very day after the attack, our situation is already beginning to change.

Before Pearl Harbor, the Japanese mostly respected the international zones, though there were incidents from time to time, and we lived in relative peace. But now they are mounting a heavy-handed takeover. Like the Nazis in Europe, they sweep through Shanghai. Private art collections are looted, then in quick succession, the mansions of the ruling class, the stock exchange, and vast factories are confiscated by the Japanese authorities. The glorious and grand landmark, the Cathay Hotel, has been commandeered to house their officers. Residents of the hotel have been evicted without concern or consideration. Many of the wealthy who are Allied nationals are arrested and imprisoned in camps erected on the outskirts of the city. I remember General Whitehall and his haughty wife from the Bolero Club when we read that the British, in particular, have been roughly treated, removed from their ostentatious homes and dragged into the squalid camp. The Sassoon office buildings are converted into a propaganda centre. Everywhere we go we see signs of change, and the ubiquitous flag of Japan, with its radiating rays of the red sun, flutters menacingly wherever we look.

Although life is as precarious as ever, the Jewish refugees in Shanghai see this sudden change as a reason for optimism. In the Jewish papers the news is accompanied by vaguely hopeful editorials. When we speak to other refugees and to our family the same cautious phrasing is heard. Maybe, we hear, maybe this will lead us to a way out. Until now, the Far East was not of much concern to the Americans, and any chance of our rescue was slim, but now that they have been angered and drawn into the war, maybe they will stumble across us, living in this distant enclave, and bring us salvation.

Radio and newspapers are more heavily controlled than ever by the rigid Japanese occupation forces. We get information from outside almost exclusively through the Jewish underground network. From there we discover the effects that the bombing of Pearl Harbor has had, that the entire globe is now at war.

Despite it all we continue with our lives. The bar remains open for business but the British and Americans have gone. Mostly the patrons are Japanese or Korean soldiers.

“I miss the Brits and Yankees,” I tell Poldi as we are closing up one night. “I can’t speak to the Oriental soldiers or understand what they are saying and I find them rougher somehow.”

“They do have a brusque manner,” Poldi answers, “but they’re heavy drinkers all the same, which is good for business and probably no rowdier than the others.”

We make our way home as always at dawn, a time when Shanghai is at its most quiet, just before the early morning activity is about to begin once more. To me it seems that the city itself is as tired as I am, worn down by all the hostility and suffering of the Chinese people. The sun creeps up from the horizon, looking as though it’s reluctant to shine once more on this battered and maligned spot on the globe.

In our flat we flop into bed, with a kiss and a wish for a better tomorrow. Fatigue swamps us. Before I fall asleep I say drowsily to Poldi, “Is this bombing a good thing for us? Do you think we might be saved?”

Poldi is already snoring.

The world of the Jewish refugees, or Shanghailanders as we call ourselves, has been altered once more. It is evident that the Japanese government had this scheme well orchestrated. On the morning after the Pearl Harbor offensive, a parade of Japanese forces marches down the Bund. We hear about it on the radio. In a show of impressive might, columns of tanks and armed soldiers and hundreds of red sun flags wave and there is no doubt of the intention. These are the self-proclaimed conquerors taking full and unequivocal control of all Shanghai. Notices tacked to every post and building proclaim war with the United States and Britain.

Although meetings have been planned at the community centre and in the synagogues, we decide not to go. Our family gathers at Stella’s apartment. We warm our hands over the radiator but its heat is not sufficient to combat the first chill of the winter months ahead. The room is crowded, for we are all here, even Dolu and Eva, who live in the Russian Settlement. We cling together as a cohesive group. There are no outsiders. We trust each other exclusively.

News is not just a story on the radio to us. History is not something to be read about in books. It is our reality, our life. Our very existence is tied to the political furor that is brewing. Dressed in warm woollens and clutching hot cups of coffee, we also help ourselves to biscuits and some hazelnut torte that Stella was able to get in the Jewish bakery down the street. We are here to discuss the current political strife that has erupted around us and to await Poldi’s return. He has been to the Juedishe Gemeinde office, where he usually finds ways to extract the most current information.

When he arrives, I welcome him at the door. His coat is not heavy and he rubs his hands and blows on them for warmth, then gratefully accepts the cup of coffee mixed with three lumps of sugar that I hand to him. As he sips it I see some colour return to his face.

While he removes his hat and coat, everyone starts asking questions at once. “Tell us what you have discovered, Poldi. What will all of this mean to us?” Stella asks.

“And what will the Japanese do now?” Walter adds.

Still trying to shake off the cold he manages to answer, “The Japanese have put themselves into the limelight. They don’t want to give Hitler all the glory he’s claiming for himself.”

“Greedy bastards,” Walter exclaims. “Each of them wants more. I wonder if the whole world is enough for them.”

“Every time the Nazis swallow up another chunk of Europe their appetite increases again,” Fritz comments. “Now the Japanese want a bigger piece for themselves, the game of tug and pull, like little boys in the schoolyard.”

“Except that it is a game of life and death,” Stella says, with a sigh.

“When Germany toppled France, Hitler shared his plunder with his Japanese allies,” Dolu says. “But, you see, Hirohito’s gluttony was only appeased momentarily with his share of Indochina and Thailand. He has wider ambitions.”

Eva is sitting quietly next to Dolu. She is dark-haired, slightly plump, well-dressed, well-educated. She speaks German with a Russian accent and is devoted to her husband. She seldom disagrees with him in public. She looks at him with admiration, nodding and smiling when he speaks.

“That’s true, brother,” Poldi answers, “the Japanese are eager to control the entire Far East. They consider themselves to be a master race among the Asian nationalities. They are determined that nothing will stand in their way, not the Americans, not the British, no one.”

“But what about us Jews in all this? We ran from Hitler and now we’ll be devoured by a new monster,” Erna worries, her forehead creased with concern as she looks at Lily, who is munching some cake. “Gott in himmel, what are we to do now?”

“I’ve been told that the Juedishe Gemeinde will be more than a religious and relief organization now,” Poldi says. “The Japanese have designated it as our representative political body. Anything they have to tell us as a whole will be done through this one group. For now, there are no changes for us, but who knows.”

Baffled by the new turn of events, I respond, “I can’t understand why Hirohito wanted to draw the fire of the Allies. Didn’t he have enough of a battle with the Chinese?” Longing for a smoke, I ask, “Poldi, did you get more cigarettes? I’m all out.”

He takes a pack from his jacket pocket and lights two, one for me and the other for himself. I inhale thankfully.

“Nini,” Poldi answers, “you have to understand their motivation for all of this. Hunger for power is not easily sated. It’s like opium addiction, the craving increases and increases, always pushing the addict to demand more to feed his habit until the drug spreads its poison into every pore and finally kills him. Hirohito wants unrestricted control of Asia. The American fleet at Pearl Harbor was an obstacle to his domination of the region.”

“But what does it mean to us?” Willi asks. “What will happen to us now?”

Walter replies with conviction, “The Japanese don’t care about us. We’re insignificant. After all, they don’t divide Whites by religion. We’re all the same to them.”

Poldi disagrees. “I don’t know if the Germans won’t have something to say about that.”

I interrupt, “I can’t believe that they would care about us here in the middle of nowhere, so far removed from European civilization.”

And so it goes on, the talk, the speculation, the worry. One thing we all agree on is that American involvement is our only hope for rescue. We drink coffee and finish most of the cigarettes before the evening is done. Tension bristles in the room. Erna and Fritz are first to leave. Lily has fallen asleep in her father’s arms and they bundle her in her winter coat as they prepare to set out for their own home. Eventually the rest of us leave too.

In our room that night, Poldi and I are still talking about the latest development in the war as we get ready for bed. I ask him, “Do you think we might still be rescued from this place? But where would we go?”

He replies solemnly, “There is nowhere safe. I’m going to write to Leon tomorrow and see if he’s all right. Harbin will probably have the same rules as Shanghai, but maybe he has some other information he can give me. I don’t really know what might happen to us now.”

I sigh. “Well, the U.S. won’t be interested in letting in more refugees now that they’re at war.”

Poldi flicks off the light and we lie there, staring into the blackness. “If somehow Hitler is conquered in Europe and if the Americans defeat the Japanese here, maybe the world will be free again and some doors might open,” he says. “For now, we are nothing but pawns in this game. We will be moved by the hands of these giants and can only wait until the play is finished and see who the victor will be.”

“Too many ‘ifs’ and ‘maybes’ for my liking,” I say, yawning and settling into my pillow.

“If my grandmother had wheels, she would have been a bus,” Poldi says half asleep. I smile at this old-fashioned saying of his as he squeezes my hand and we drift off to sleep.