CHAPTER 34

LIFE AFTER THE WAR 1946

With the opening of the city, we visit Mama’s grave in the small Jewish cemetery, and once again I find myself repeating the ritual that has become so familiar. I place a stone on her marker and say the few words of prayer I have kept since childhood. My hand touches the roundness of my belly to meet the rippling movement from inside. I am expecting a child.

Standing by the silent grave, I speak to a stone but envisage a face, lined with worry, smiling despite all the adversity and anguish, and as I speak to her, tears stain my cheek once more. “Mama, I miss you so much. I wish you could have lived to see this day, to see that, by God’s will, we have lived through such unbelievable turmoil and have survived. Look, I am going to have a baby, a grandchild for you. How wonderful it would have been for you to see a new life now, after all this pain and death. Although you are no longer here to give me the guidance and reassurance that I need, I see you still in my dreams and wonder if you can hear me.”

Although we face uncertainty ahead, we are happy in a way we feared we could never be again. There will be a child to care for and there is peace at last. For now, we are prepared to remain in Shanghai. After all, we have nowhere else to go but we reason that things may be all right here. There has been such longing for an end to war that we want only to immerse ourselves in the reconstruction of normal life. We don’t ask for more.

Simple peaceful existence, which we doubted would truly return, is being devoured with eager enthusiasm. Food and wine taste better than ever before. Music plays with renewed joy, and the curtain of despair that had descended upon us is finally lifted. We have even gone to a symphony concert and were thrilled to see that our old friend Kurt was there with his wife, Elsa. We soak in the atmosphere of serenity, absent for so long. We are going to have a child, start a family of our own, and become complete people once more.

Shanghai is freer for us than it has ever been, and although we can come and go as we please, the family is staying in Hongkew. We are used to its sights, sounds, and smells, and it is being rebuilt once more to its status as the “Little Vienna of the Far East.” Scruffy rooftops have been brilliantly transformed through hard work and unflagging determination. They have become enchanting roof-garden restaurants decorated with potted plants, bright Chinese lanterns, and little tables topped with clean tablecloths. We, along with other Jewish Europeans, sip brandy or Viennese iced coffee, topped decadently with fresh whipped cream. Even those from the wealthy unrestricted French Concession and International Settlement are coming here to partake in the European ambience. The restaurants, cafés, and cabarets are beginning to flourish. What a waste of time, I think. For all those years there could have been peace and a civilized life and so many would have lived to benefit.

Expensive new automobiles soon appear on the rutted streets, and in the cool months ladies wrapped in the most luscious fur creations, Russian sable, mink, and fox, step daintily on to the cracked pavement. Poldi, having spent so much time studying the fur trade in Italy, remarks in awe on the sumptuous quality of the pelts and obvious wealth pouring into our poor little Hongkew. We have decided to open a fur salon, a business venture in which Poldi is at last able to use his skills. Energized by the current circumstances of renewed life and liberty, we are prepared to gather up the bits and pieces of a tattered life and try once again to build a future.

With the influx of American currency into Hongkew, prosperity has become a possibility once more. Because Poldi was able to sell his goods more easily than before, without the restrictions that we previously experienced with the Japanese, we have accumulated enough to establish a new business.

“This will be so much better than the bar, Poldi,” I say with enthusiasm. “No more rough customers and late nights. No more drunken carousing and smashed bottles. I’m looking forward to a civilized way of living again.”

“I know,” Poldi answers. “That business was hard on us both, but it kept us fed for a few years. Nevertheless, I’m glad we can start something new. Maybe this will give us the foundation for a good future.”

Poldi has contacted his old friend Leon Druck again. Leon, with his many connections in Harbin and knowledge of the fur trade, has been invaluable in setting us up with contacts. He is still waiting for his passage to America but for now he has done what he can to help us. The best fur pelts come from Russia and Manchuria, and we have been able to get suppliers who will give us goods on consignment so that we don’t have to pay until the pieces are sold. Skilled workers in China will make the coats and hats, stoles and wraps that we are sure will do well here. We have found a lovely little shop on one of the main streets of Hongkew, and we have begun to set up the business and plan to work at it together, no partners this time.

At seven months into my pregnancy, I’m feeling the physical discomfort of my changing body, the aching back, swollen ankles, and weakened bladder. I’m aware that I have become a cocoon, sheltering within myself the kernel of unformed life. Bulky and unable to easily rise from the soft, cushioned chair, I finally push myself up from my seat, then pad around our apartment in the Chinese embroidered slippers I like to wear. I can feel my face relaxing into a smile, experiencing contentment amid the new whirlwind of our lives. We have moved into a larger apartment with room for the baby and for a nanny to stay with it when I go to work at the store. This time, we may allow ourselves the pleasure we have not had for so long. I try to shake off the superstitious taboo of feeling too much happiness for fear of bringing bad luck and some new sorrow.

When the time comes for the birth, I feel estranged again. I had always relied on my mother, the heart of the family, and expected her to be with me in this crucial moment. Now she is gone. When the labour pains begin I think of her and believe it is her strength that will guide me through. In my mind, I hear her trying to comfort me as she would have done if she were here. She tells me everything will be all right.

Our daughter is born in the small Jewish hospital in Hongkew in 1946. We name her Vivian, after V for victory, vivre to live, and for my favourite movie star, Vivien Leigh, and Jeanette after Mama’s name, Johanna. Our daily prayers are simply that she may know peace in her lifetime and never suffer the agony of war. Our child becomes the centre of our lives and the focus of all our dreams. For me, she is the salvation that can pull me from dark thoughts and melancholy. I want to be strong for her sake.

Poldi and I are thrilled with our little daughter. Poldi’s eyes glisten with joy when he holds the baby in his arms for the first time. He kisses her on the forehead and on the tips of her little fingers. How much greater is happiness, I think, when sorrow has been so immense. I feel the most serene and content I have been for years.

“Some day,” Poldi says, “when she’s grown, we’ll give her the gold watch from my mother. We’ll save it for her as we’ve done until now, and she’ll be proud to wear it. We’ll tell her the story of her grandparents so she may know her heritage.”

When we bring Vivian home, a Chinese nurse – an amah – has already been installed to care for her. We treat the baby with the utmost care and despite the difficult conditions in Shanghai, where disease is prevalent and infant mortality is high, she grows and develops well in her first year. She is always dressed in pristine white linens, embroidered by hand, with matching bonnets framing her small heart-shaped face. The amah washes and irons her things and makes sure that she is perfectly clean. Ash blond curls peek out from under the wide brims shading her from the harsh sun. She has bright hazel eyes with flecks of green. Encircling her little wrist is a bracelet strung with beads of red coral. Both the Chinese and the European Jews are superstitious people. We believe evil spirits are hovering over human beings, ready to create havoc, to derail happiness, to cause illness and death. The colour red is worn by Chinese children to prevent harm from these supernatural forces, and coincidentally, Jewish babies often have red ribbons tied to wrists or ankles to combat a “Gitoig,” or evil eye.

We have a fine navy blue English pram, a gift from the family. All the relatives dote over “Vivi,” and she loves the attention. No babies have been born into the family in years. Lily is eleven now and is delighted with her new cousin. She learns to speak in an infantile version of German words mixed with Chinese, taught to her by the amah. She is our cherished angel. We have nicknamed her “Poupie,” or little doll. Everything that has been taken from us, we plan to restore to her. It becomes our driving obsession to give her the life we have lost. We allow ourselves to contemplate a better life, to make plans now that peace has returned, and to laugh again. On her first birthday, we invite all the family for the afternoon to celebrate, just like we did in Vienna, with hot coffee and fresh pastry and a reason to be happy again.

The paralyzing heat and primitive sewage disposal make hygiene in Shanghai nonexistent. We boil all water that is to be consumed. Vivi’s room is kept scrupulously clean, and anything she is to touch is meticulously sterilized. Every possible precaution is taken to safeguard her from the rampant bacteria and disease that have brought so many European immigrants to devastating illness and death. Insulated within this pure scrubbed world, our child is sheltered, protected and apart from the ravages of an unsanitary environment. We are determined in this way to keep her secure and safe, unaware that we are preventing her from building any immunity to the inevitable intrusion of any malady.

Every night I awaken several times to check that she is all right. One early morning, before dawn, I discover a change. Alarmed, I call Poldi in wild fear. “Poldi! Look at the baby. Something’s wrong. Her whole body is burning with fever. Get the doctor – he has to come right now!”

Poldi runs out into the dark street and down the narrow lanes to the doctor’s home, and within an interminable hour they are back. As the doctor examines her, we can hear only her weak cries. Poldi puts his arm around my shoulder as we stand waiting for the verdict. The doctor’s grim face prepares us for the news he is about to deliver, and before he can speak, I feel myself shivering, my knees ready to buckle. He approaches us, trying in some way to soften the impact of the words that he must say: “I’m afraid that she has contracted typhoid fever.” He has told so many others the same thing, for this virulent illness has spread mercilessly through Hongkew, infecting and killing many of the refugees.

“What is there to do?” Poldi asks anxiously.

“We have very little for it,” he replies, “but I will consult with some of the other doctors from the hospital in the morning and see if there’s anything they can suggest. Try to get her to drink the boiled water, so that she doesn’t dehydrate. Sponge her body with cool damp cloths to bring the fever down. I’ll speak to you again tomorrow.”

As Vivi lies in her crib, limp and pale, we face a terror that surpasses everything we have encountered before. In her feverish state, no smile crosses her dry lips, no sparkle gleams in her eyes. Every day the doctor arrives to visit but has no encouragement to offer. He hangs his head in solemn sorrow and apology.

Once more, I begin to succumb to the ever-threatening lure of madness and feel that whatever fragile sanity yet remains is slipping away. Of all the obstacles that I have had to face and conquer, this one seems beyond my limits. A consortium of European physicians, dressed in black coats, each carrying a small leather satchel of supplies, converges at our home. They whisper at length, leaning over the motionless body of our little girl, then emerge in silence from her room. They have concluded that the situation is hopeless. The eldest of the three doctors, a man of about sixty, is the spokesman. He adjusts his spectacles, rubs his bristled grey beard, and announces, “There is nothing more that can be done. Now, we can only pray.”

His words hang in the air like a death sentence.

“No!” I scream, consumed by an overwhelming fear. “You have to save her! She is all we have in this world, all that means anything to us. You can’t walk away from us.”

“We’re sorry. We have nothing more to offer.”

“Poldi!” I scream again. “Tell them to do something. There must be something!”

Poldi is devastated and speechless. He retreats slowly, shuffling his feet like an old man, hunched and forlorn. He goes to a little wooden chair beside a small round table set in a dark corner, and sits down, his back towards us. Shoulders heaving in despair, he weeps in silence. He reaches for a half-empty bottle of vodka and pours some into a small glass on the table. He stares vacantly into space, unable to speak. Our previous worries about running the business have been pushed aside. The doors of the shop remain closed. We have no cares but one.

Out of control with despair, I scream deliriously and pull my hair. Tears burn my face. I try to attack the doctors with my fists as they rush out the door. I want only to die.

How can we give up when there is still life? We have fought to survive to this moment and place. By sheer determination we have escaped the death camps that were meant to be our fate. Surely there must be a way to defeat this foe no matter how powerful its grasp.

I run out of the house and down the street to Erna’s home.

“Vivi is sick. She’s dying,” I weep frantically. “What can we do? What can we do?”

“Did you try to get advice at the hospital?” she suggests, in helpless concern.

Erna watches me rush madly out of her house again and down the narrow streets. To the Chinese coolies, who look up briefly from their tasks, I must appear to be insane, ranting, running with my hair tangled and wild.

I fling open the door of the Jewish Hospital, the very hospital where my baby was born just over a year ago.

“Please,” I beg, “please help me.”

The nurse behind the desk looks up from her papers but doesn’t seem particularly surprised or alarmed. I’m sure many hysterical parents have come here before, hoping for some medical miracle to save their children from the scourge of one of the lethal tropical diseases so common in this place. “What can I do for you?” she asks matter-of-factly.

“My baby is dying of typhoid. The doctors have said there is nothing to do, but they must be wrong. They are wrong!”

She sighs and pulls out her pad of paper and pen. “Give me your name and address and I will see if there is anything else to be done. There are always new drugs, but you must accept the reality of Shanghai. Don’t get your hopes too high. I’ll do what I can.”

Beaten and demoralized, I leave the hospital again. Walking around aimlessly, I wander, dazed, up the alleyways and down again, nearly stepping in the path of a truck rumbling by. Why, I think, why is this happening? Maybe this is a punishment for something I did wrong. But what could I have done that was so evil to have this thrust upon us? I think of all the family superstitions that could bring retribution. What have I done?

At last I reach our home again and open the door to see the same dismal sight before me. There is our baby lying still and silent in her crib and Poldi sitting in the corner. The sun is starting to set and the room is in shadows. I go and sit opposite him.

“I went to the hospital. They’ll let us know if anything can be done.”

He nods his head in understanding but neither of us says any more. The night is long and quiet, disturbed only by shallow breathing and the sound of our whimpering sobs.

Early next morning, there is a hard knock at our door. When we open it we see a stranger at the threshold. He explains he has been sent by the hospital. “There is an experimental and very costly new drug, called penicillin,” he says, “but its success is not assured. Many have already died of these diseases and we have been powerless to prevent them. We’re hoping this will be the miracle drug we have been waiting for.” We can scarcely take in his words – all we know is that he is giving us hope. “If you give your permission, I will advise a doctor to come today to administer it to your child. We have nothing else to offer. I suggest strongly that you agree before it is too late.”

We are prepared to try anything. Vivi is hovering at death’s door. Later that day, the medication is administered to her with warnings that she has only twenty-four hours to live in her present condition. If the crisis is not averted by then, she will perish. Through the night, we remain hunched over the side of her crib, which is swathed in mosquito netting. We fall in and out of tormented, unsettled sleep. I have a recurring dream in which I am running desperately, carrying something in my arms, glancing behind me again and again, to see the vague figure of a stranger whose footsteps are coming closer, pounding with increasingly louder thuds against the pavement. I can’t see his face in the dark but I know I must keep running. Then I look down at the bundle in my arms, the lifeless body of my child. I awaken suddenly in a startled jump, soaked in cold sweat.

I flutter a paper fan over my baby’s body and sponge her with a damp cloth, in a vain attempt to cool the raging heat on her skin. Hope has been reduced to the fragile thread of a spider’s web. We are in shreds, fragmented and lost, but our thoughts are as one. If the child dies, we will not go on.

In my delirious state, half-conscious, half-dreaming, an image returns again and again: a vision of green glass at my feet, shards and splinters piled up to my ankles, cutting bleeding tears into my flesh. I see before me a brick wall where one single bottle, the last of the imagined ten green bottles, remains precariously tipped on a ledge. I have come to the last of my travails, the last that I can endure.

The room is hot and achingly quiet. A ceiling fan churns the stagnant air with a dull whir as the minutes of our vigil click by, measured by the clock on the nightstand. Despite the heat I find myself shivering. A mound of curled cigarette butts in the ashtray reveals the only thing we have been able to put to our lips.

My mind wrestles with doubt and dread, resorting at times to desperate prayers, mumbled incoherently, “Please God, with all my heart and everything that I have in this world, I implore You, don’t take this child from us. We have suffered, You know how we have suffered. We have gone through fire and water, blood and tears to come to this point.

“What can I offer but my own life? I beg you, take me instead. If only you save her to live and to see freedom, to grow up in peace, I will gladly die. Please give the disease to me. My God, for the sake of my father and mother already buried and gone, and Poldi’s parents tortured and murdered in Dachau, allow this one child to survive.”

As the first rays of dawn streak rose-pink through the window, we are startled by a sound, weak and barely audible. At first we believe ourselves caught in one of the many disjointed dreams that have filled our minds throughout the night. Vivi speaks for the first time in days. Her small, white forehead is moist with perspiration as the fever breaks and she lifts her tiny hand up to our incredulous faces. She asks for something to eat, her favourite, tomato soup with rice.