CHAPTER 31

BOMBS FALL IN HONGKEW 1945

On the wide khaki-coloured waters of the Yangtze River a number of barges stand empty, swaying, awaiting cargo. What are they waiting for? Ordinarily the commerce is swift with loads of goods transported without delay. Hundreds of coolies, bandannas tied around their foreheads, toil for endless back-breaking hours, lifting sacks and crates, grunting and moaning under the weight of their burdens. Their singsong working chant, “Aaay ho,” is a familiar sound echoing from one man to another, along the length of the docks. It is unusual to see vacant boats anchored and immobile for any period of time.

Whispers and hushed rumours are circulating within Hongkew, and people are panicked with fear. We are told that the barges are meant for us. They are death ships. This time there will be no escape. We are mice caught by the hungry cat that has wanted to devour us from the start. Each time we have narrowly escaped its grasp but now it can taste our blood in its gaping jaws, hot and sweet. Before their defeat the Germans suggested this plan to the Japanese, who now seem prepared to comply. Gradually, we learn the full extent of the scheme for our extermination and in disbelief, the word spreads throughout our community.

An underground communication network equipped with shortwave radios has been set up among the refugees to receive the current news from Europe and the Pacific. Throughout the war spies, even some among the German officials in Shanghai, have dispensed bits of information. The Germans have now disappeared, racing away to find hiding places in the Orient or, we have heard, in South America. But the Japanese are still in power here and we remain in Hongkew, awaiting our fate. The news this time is terrifying. Can we believe it?

Those with day passes from the ghetto have clandestine meetings in Shanghai to try to find out the latest information, then pass it on when they return to Hongkew. Poldi has made friends with some of those involved and tells me there is limited hope as the Japanese are tenacious and unwilling still to capitulate.

Truth and conjecture mix in a frenzied outpouring regarding the plans for our fate, talk about concentration camps and gas chambers. We know that at least some of what we hear is factual as Poldi has seen such structures himself. He has told me they are already erected and standing vacant and ominous, across the Whang Po River on an island called Woosung, where the Jews of Hongkew might be transferred en masse and annihilated. Lists of Jewish names have been posted for all to see. For us this is a haunting repeat of events in Vienna. We are told by the Japanese authorities to sign up but Poldi and I decide to wait. If this is a death list, we are in no hurry to add our names to the roster. Where to run this time? Some are trying to hide illegally in Frenchtown or in the International Settlement, sneaking out at night like criminals, hoping to dissolve into the dense crowds of Shanghai. But if they are caught, they will have to deal with the wrath of Goya, who is forever watchful of the comings and goings of the prisoners under his command. Those found in hiding are beaten severely and returned to captivity in Hongkew with no allowance for exit passes. Their fate is meant to be a warning to the rest of us. The bruises and welts on their faces and arms are clear enough to make the point. Our family has no safe place to hide outside of Hongkew, but we are still together and are not prepared to separate.

Every day, the hostility of the Japanese occupation forces is increasing towards us but even more towards the Chinese. At the same time, the Chinese are feeling more confident and are aggressively attacking their enemies. Japanese officers are disappearing mysteriously, murdered in gruesome ways, and in return there are horrendous reprisals. The Japanese are worried, afraid of a revolt. If the Chinese take to the streets in a blind rampage, a deluge of blood will flow through all Shanghai.

It is July 17, the height of the scalding summer heat. The rising sun of the early morning amplifies the heat of the preceding night. By noon it is unbearable. Poldi and I are sitting on two wooden stools out on the small porch where our cooking implement is located. Sweat trickles into our eyes and down our necks. Clothing is merely wet rags hung on our drenched bodies. We drink boiled water and wipe our foreheads and arms with the fluid, but the heat is oppressive, steady, day and night, without the relief of a breeze. The air is thick with smells of rotting garbage and decaying human flesh, buzzing with flies and with mosquitoes carrying malaria. And still, we are holding on, unwilling to give up. Poldi is wearing just a sleeveless white undershirt and shorts. I am in a thin summer dress but it is clinging from the streams of perspiration. Our hair is damp, sticking to our skin. I flick a Chinese pleated paper fan across my face but the air doesn’t seem to move. Sleep will be fitful this night.

Time is against us if the Japanese are truly prepared to exterminate us by September as we have heard. The most frequently circulated rumour is that we will be rounded up, most likely during our High Holy Day of Rosh Hashana, when we will all be together and easy prey, vulnerable, huddled in the various synagogues where we congregate to worship. Then every man, woman, and child is to be herded onto the barges that stand silently on the water. The boats are to be sent out onto the river, and there we are to be set on fire, burned alive.

Poldi is talking about the latest information from outside the ghetto, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His face is grim as he says, “Our only hope is the Americans. The Japanese attack at Pearl Harbor brought them into the war, seeking revenge. But they will need determination to overcome these enemies. The Japanese are not prepared to surrender. That is not their way. There are kamikaze pilots by the hundreds on suicide bombing raids, blowing up American ships, killing as they are killed. That is how they die with honour.”

“Honour through more bloodshed,” I reply in disgust. “The Earth should be soaked red by now. Nothing has been achieved – just more human misery.”

We become aware of a distant rumbling noise and the walls quivering. The sounds are growing closer and closer until they erupt in a violent burst. I scream in terror – is it an earthquake? We rush inside and crouch down on the floor.

The roar of war planes zooming overhead is deafening. We throw ourselves to the ground in our little room and lie sprawled on the floor, Poldi’s arm wrapped around my shoulder, our hands clasped together. The screeching bombs tear through the sky, followed by a loud thud as they hit their target. We can hear wild shouting outside. Incredibly, amid the horrific sound of the aircraft, we can hear cries of celebration from outside.

“It’s the Americans!” they are saying. “They have come to save us at last!”

“Poldi,” I whisper from our spot, still on the floor, “is it true? Do you think we will be rescued in time?”

“It’s our last and only hope,” he answers, standing up slowly with caution, and peering out the window. “If we’re not found and released now, or if the Americans are defeated, I don’t think there will be another chance.”

“God help us.” We feel the floor below us quivering again and Poldi throws himself down, next to me again.

Bombs are falling everywhere in Shanghai. Explosions are crashing in violent retaliation against the Japanese who dared harm American citizens. We, hardly noticeable specks, are caught in the line of fire, hanging on for bare survival.

The Americans are bombing directly on Hongkew, aiming to destroy the strategically placed Japanese radio transmitter. Before long we may be washed away in the tide, killed by one side or another, it doesn’t matter which. The thin walls shake as though thunderbolts are colliding within our very rooms. Plaster is crumbling, falling in chunks, with clouds of dust filling the air. Pieces of the patched ceiling are littered around us. Windows are rattling and cracking and splintered glass is everywhere. “I thought the Americans were going to rescue us. Why are they trying to kill us?” I ask Poldi my voice hoarse with fear.

“Keep down!” he shouts.

“But, why are they bombing us?”

In the midst of the chaos, he shouts over the noise, “We’re not the target, Nini. We’re just stuck in the middle.”

I can hardly make out what he’s saying. I press my hands against my ears to block out the sound. He puts his mouth closer to my ear, trying to explain the fierce battle around us.

“The Americans are trying to destroy the Japanese. Who even knows or cares that we are here?”

All night bombs continue to crash in ear-popping explosions. The sight from our window is a wonder to see. Chinese men are squatting, bare-chested and cross-legged on the shattered rooftops, pointing upward, waving their spindly arms at the American bomber planes. They are shouting their greetings as well. Having suffered for years under the rule of their oppressors, they too are hoping for an American rescue. They have lost so much that caution is not a concern. We understand the purpose for their reckless actions. They must have felt as invisible and neglected as we have. They want to be seen.

We can see and hear them as they shout up to the sky as the bombers soar overhead, “Amelicans, Amelicans! Kill bad Japs. Save China people. Yanky, save us! We wait too long. Time is now!”

Our flimsy apartment walls are beginning to buckle from the tremors. “We’d better get out!” Poldi shouts above the clamour.

He takes my hand and we manoeuvre our way down the loosened planks of the stairs. We have decided to stay out in the street with a number of others who have left their homes in fear. Buildings are tumbling like sand castles amid the screams of those taking flight. We don’t know which way to turn, but then there is more noise overhead.

The red flares of Japanese anti-aircraft tracer shells float skyward, and the cacophony starts again. Beneath the bombs’ crashing blare, muffled human wails can be heard. Many of the Chinese, caught in the line of fire, are hit as they perch on the rooftops. Jewish doctors are rushing around in the streets, amid the confusion and shrieking voices, trying to save the lives of those who have toppled to the ground. People scurry about in delirious fear mixed with the intoxicating hope of freedom.

Fire is raging through the ramshackle buildings. In the streets screaming Chinese and terrified Jewish refugees alike scatter in every direction, scrambling for shelter. People are frantically trying to douse the flames, to preserve whatever still remains of their homes. A few blocks away we can see the flames rising. There has been a direct hit on “The Safe Place.”

“We have to go to Erna’s house to see if they’re all right!” I shout in alarm to Poldi, over the clattering noise.

He doesn’t answer at first, listening and waiting for a break in the bombing before he replies, “All right. It’s quiet now. Let’s go.”

We run in spurts, then stop and hide in any small sheltered spot we pass, wait a minute or two then move again. Parts of walls have been blown away, as if sliced through like a melon, and the intimate lives of the inhabitants are exposed. Once more privacy has been violated, belongings destroyed. Some 100,000 Chinese live in Hongkew crammed together with the refugees. Now we all share this latest devastation.

Adrenalin pulses in our veins, and once again fear is as ripe as harvest fruit. We dash towards Erna’s flat but as we approach our hearts leap in terror. We see only a mound of rubble and people running everywhere. Bodies in various states of injury are being pulled out of the wreckage. We can see Willi, wearing his Pau-Chia arm band, tugging someone’s limbs from beneath the heap of ruins. His hair and glasses are coated in dust.

“Willi, have you seen Erna? Are they safe?” I beg him, pulling at his sleeve.

“I don’t know.” He doesn’t take a break from his struggle to release the half-living body from its trap. Walter comes racing towards us, along with other men, ready to help drag the shocked victim from his near-grave.

“We’ve already found thirty-one Jewish people, dead from the attack, and many more Chinese. We hope there won’t be others.” Willi, short of breath, struggles with the weight of the motionless body, covered in plaster dust.

Poldi joins them, clawing with bare hands at the piles of rubbish, searching in desperation for any sign of someone still breathing. Others are running from all directions to aid the rescuers. The men, their backs bent, join together, calling out to the victims, trying to offer encouragement to anyone caught under the rubble, frantically pulling them out and finally dragging the injured and dead from the ruins.

I can’t find the others and decide to try Stella’s place. Heart pounding, I run into Stella’s apartment house, up the broken steps.

“Auntie Nini, did you hear all the noise?” Lily calls out. “I was scared and the whole ceiling fell down on the floor and Daddy told me not to cry but I cried anyway.”

I kneel down and hug the child, who rubs her teary eyes with the back of her dirty hand. Erna and Stella are quiet, trembling and staring into space, still in shock from the proximity of the hit. I try to comfort them, insist that they each swallow a bit of boiled water to settle them down. Fritz is here too. “Nini,” he says, “where is everyone?”

“Down in the street. There are bodies everywhere and they are trying to help.”

“I’m going too,” he says, remembering to kiss Erna and Lily who starts to cry again. Before he rushes out he says, “Tomorrow it may be our turn, but today we are still alive. Be brave my ladies.”

Some ancient words come suddenly into my mind: “In every generation an enemy will arise to destroy us.” So it is written in the Passover Haggadah that we recite every year. “And in every generation the Lord will reach out His hand to save a portion of His people to carry on.” But this time, I think to myself, He has abandoned us.

I leave my sisters and Lily after a while. The bombing has ceased for now and outside there is a frenzy of activity.

The day is long, as we try to sort the living from the dead and to save whichever lives can be salvaged. The whole community has united in this battle. We are mobilized as one, all the factions coming together in the face of such an ordeal. I see Elsa Guttenberg among those who have come to lend their hands to the needy. She has brought torn nightclothes and sheets to make into bandages. “Elsa,” I say, “give me some of those so I can do something.”

She is kneeling on the stoney mounds her face and hands coated in a mixture of dirt and blood. Her red hair is a muddy mop and she, like everyone else is a frazzled mess. She hands me some of the makeshift bandages. I bend down beside her and begin to tend to one of the wounded people lying on the ground, an old woman whose leg is cut from some falling debris.

I can see Poldi lifting rocks with the others of our family who are searching for survivors and I realize I haven’t seen Elsa’s husband. “Where is Kurt?” I ask her.

“Kurt was injured but the doctors have been to see him. I’ve left him in our room. At least the place is still standing. He’s asleep and I wanted to come out and help some others. His left shoulder and hand are broken but the doctors believe they will heal so he can play his violin again – that is if we survive this. I pray they are right.”

I also have seen Herta wading through the wreckage, carrying decanters of boiled water for the injured. She is too far away to hear me if I were to call to her – besides we have lost contact – but I am glad that she still feels a part of the community and that she has not become so hardened that she would turn her back on those in distress. Every muscle is strained as we finally retreat, weary and drained. That night we stay at Stella’s home, collapsing in the meagre comfort of the rooms, in one of the few buildings remaining intact. We say Kaddish for those whose lives were lost.

“Will we ever get out of here alive?” Erna asks, in a whisper trying not to wake Lily who is sleeping in her lap.

“Don’t talk like that,” Stella says, tears soaking her cheeks. “It’s not over yet.”

Exhausted, slumped on a chair, I say, “How ironic – we escape Hitler only to be bombed by the Americans. My nerves are too strained and my courage is at its limit.”

But Poldi is not ready to surrender, and he grips my arms firmly. “We have to be strong, now more than ever. Maybe we’re the ones meant to survive. Have faith. I believe it still, and so should you. Don’t give up now. I need you. I love you.”

He is stronger than I have ever seen him, stubborn and relentless in his belief, and as I look into his bright eyes, I believe too.

Willi and Fritz fall asleep on the floor, Poldi and I are on chairs. Stella and Walter are in their bed, Lily is sleeping with Erna on the sofa.

By the next day we know that the Jewish victims have already been buried in our cemetery, whisked away in haste during the night to prevent desecration of the bodies. We have no dead in our own family, thank God, but those who have had losses would have stayed with their deceased overnight as is the ritual. The body is not to be left alone until the soul has had time to depart to the next world.

As daylight breaks it is still quiet. We look out our window at the broken heaps of debris of the aftermath; we see patches of dried blood, stained reddish-brown blotches on the dusty street. The whole of Hongkew is a web of partially standing structures. We see people out in the street rummaging through the waste, searching for bits of their lives, any fragments that might have survived the bombing.

On the road outside our building and against the backdrop of devastation, the Japanese have laid out the bodies of dozens of dead Chinese. The soldiers, standing guard over the corpses, are burning an American flag and shouting slogans against the Allied forces who, they say, are responsible for the carnage. The surviving Chinese eye their oppressors with renewed hostility as they grieve for their lost family members, dumped like animal carcasses on the street. Their eyes reveal hatred for their enemies. This violation of the dead is a great dishonour, more painful than the actual death. Over this period of bombing, the Chinese and the refugees have formed a new bond of friendship. The Chinese offer their help and smile with gratitude at the Jewish doctors and volunteers who stood with them.

For weeks the bombing continues with quiet spells between. Morale among the refugees is as low as it has ever been. Finding food and clean water occupies our time. There are no movies or musical performances, no diversions. Everyone sits in the ruins of the formerly rebuilt structures waiting, waiting and wondering what to do next. Poldi has tried to get out of Hongkew to find some rice and cigarettes but it is getting more difficult. The Japanese authority is not about to grant passes. They are concerned with the attacks on our ghetto and are not favourably disposed to the refugees. People are no longer smiling. If this lasts much longer, we will starve to death and there will be nothing left to save in Hongkew. For now, though, a soup kitchen has been set up and whatever food can be found is stored and shared so that at least the children are fed. We stand in line with the others and wait for some rations to sustain us.

We don’t know when to expect another hit. It is August now. The heat is oppressive, water and food are in increasingly short supply, and every new day may be our last. My courage is waning, despite Poldi’s efforts at encouragement.

The sweltering heat does not abate. Each new day is as brutal as the one before. Our nerves are fragile, ready to snap. On the fifth of August we are awakened again by the crashing sounds of another air raid. I cry hysterically as the bombing continues around us. I shake with fear, hunger screaming in my stomach, thirst tearing at my throat. Then, there is silence again. We wait, unable to move for hours, looking up at the ragged ceiling, expecting a new barrage to begin again at any time. We are back in our old apartment – that is, what remains of it. Our furniture is damaged and even more pathetic than before. We look into the darkness, numb and immobile, then finally fall into the sleep of exhaustion on our bed. All our clothing is covered in a layer of dust from the falling plaster. The lamps are smashed and we have only a few candles that we are hoarding.

Word of what’s happening outside our small world filters in to us. Despite the devastation of the bombs, the Japanese have refused to give up, hitting back with endless storms of suicide missions. They are resisting the Allied forces with relentless determination, ordered to carry on by their obsessed emperor. Inflamed by nationalistic fervour that goes beyond reason, driven by blind obedience and faith in his holy wisdom, they proceed in their crusade. More and more of their young men are sent to their plummeting deaths, taking countless lives along with them to early graves.

I still can’t comprehend the seemingly unquenchable thirst for power that is driving this war and the suicide attacks that don’t relent. “Why don’t they surrender now?” I ask Poldi.

“That is their way,” he answers. “The Japanese have a different philosophy of life and death than we do. Death is a certainty but the form of death is of the utmost importance.”

I shake my head. If they don’t value their own lives, then what chance do we have to defeat them?