Romy and her father caught the trolley bus from Frenchtown, switching to a different trolley in the International Settlement. Soon they reached the border of Hongkew at Garden Bridge where, on the opposite bank, Russian scythes flapped above the foreign consulate. Their trolley bus didn’t stop for the Scottish soldiers standing sentry at the western end of the bridge; instead it braked for the Japanese soldiers standing to attention at the far end. Every Chinese passenger stood and bowed to the soldiers of the Imperial Japanese Army, fearful of receiving a beating or being hauled off and questioned. For the first time since she had arrived in Shanghai, Romy felt scared.

The windows were low and a warm breeze filled the trolley, bringing with it the fetid stink of sewage, garbage and rotting animal corpses floating in the Soochow Creek below. Romy also caught a trace of boiled rice, frying fish and vegetables as refugee Chinese families, huddled on the hundreds of sampans lining the creek between the two territories, prepared their meals.

With its thick steel trusses enclosing its top and sides, Garden Bridge felt like a cage. Romy took a step closer to her Papa. Everyone trying to enter Hongkew on foot lined up to one side—Chinese and foreigners in one line, Japanese in another. Trucks and jeeps loaded with bags of rice and flour, bamboo baskets of pink dragon fruit, guava and lychees drove past. There were often glassy-eyed coolies in the back of the jeeps, squeezed between produce or sitting on jute gags, bobbing with every rev of the motor, smoking.

Romy and Papa waited for the Chinese to bow and show their papers to the Japanese guards. Romy squeezed her father’s hand as they entered this new territory and joined the wave of people and rickshaws moving past the bombed-out terraces and lilong houses on Seward Road—the devastating legacy of Japan’s invasion in 1937. Romy knew the Japanese had attacked Chungking in south-west China, and there was bombing in the north. Rumours swirled at her school that the Japanese would not settle for this little corner of Shanghai. Her heart started racing and her throat felt dry. This was what a war zone looked like. The thwack of hammers and repair works filled the dusty air; walls were being re-bricked, window frames knocked back into place.

Like many parents based in Frenchtown, Mutti insisted that Romy was never to enter the old city or Hongkew. She wanted her daughter close—and safe. Visits to the Bund and Nanking Road were permitted only with a parent. Nina came to visit the Bernfelds with Miss Schwartz every other week. On alternating weeks, Papa would visit Nina at the Heime with a care package. Papa’s words had stung: Don’t take this good fortune for granted. It was time for Romy to see the other side of Shanghai. To see how Nina was forced to live—despite the Bernfelds’ constant pleas for the child to come and live with them.

Unlike Frenchtown, the footpaths were filthy, narrow and crowded. Piles of rubble blocked roads and there was not a tree in sight. The smell of frying fish, garlic and ginger lingered, along with manure and sweat. Romy resisted the urge to cover her mouth and nose with a handkerchief. Washing flapped on balconies overhead while the shopfronts below boasted neat signs:

DENTIST

E. Warschauer

Wiener Café Restaurant

DELIKAT

Half the signs were in Chinese, the rest mostly in German. No wonder Nina called this area Little Vienna.

Romy stood at the gates of Nina’s school with her father, watching as children in faded, shabby clothes poured onto the footpath. Papa had told her the school had been recently opened to cope with the hundreds of refugees arriving each week from all corners of Europe.

When some young boys took it in turns to twirl a soccer ball on their index fingers, Romy’s chest tightened. Daniel and Benjamin used to do that all the time, often in their apartment, until Mutti shooed them outside. Romy closed her eyes and remembered the deep laughs of her brothers.

She held up four fingers for each of the languages she recognised: English, Yiddish, Polish and German.

Her father held up six. ‘You missed Lithuanian and Russian.’

‘Look, there’s Miss Schwartz with Nina!’ Romy waved her arms furiously at the pair. Nina was wearing the same blue-checked dress Romy’s mother had given her aboard the Conte Verde, though now the hem sat well above her knee. Her stockings were spotty where they had been darned.

Romy wore a freshly laundered white shirt tucked into a navy skirt. She immediately regretted wearing her second-best outfit to Hongkew. She tried to swallow, but her guilt sat like a lump in her throat. At least she knew Papa had a present of a new dress for Nina tucked in his doctor’s bag.

Miss Schwartz was wearing khakis, a military shirt and a fuchsia bandana. She reminded Romy of Greta Garbo—her lips were painted bright red and she was by far the sassiest woman Romy had ever met. She had no doubt the straight-shooting Miss Schwartz could lead an army. Romy wished she could be like Miss Schwartz. The older woman was so sure of herself.

‘Hello,’ said Nina as she gave Romy a hug.

‘Hi, Nina,’ replied Romy, trying to sound cheery.

Miss Schwartz shook Papa’s hand then turned to Romy. ‘I see you’ve come to take our girl out. Don’t you look well, Romy?’ Miss Schwartz beamed.

Romy’s guilt intensified.

‘The principal says our Nina is top of her class in English, and an excellent dancer and gymnast.’ She winked at Nina as she ushered Papa a few steps away. ‘I’m sure you girls have plenty of catching up to do,’ Miss Schwartz said over her shoulder. ‘I’m just going to borrow Dr Bernfeld for a few minutes to talk hospital business.’

As the adults spoke in hushed voices Nina looked shyly at Romy, as if not sure who should speak first.

‘We had an English test today,’ she said with a trace of an English accent.

‘I bet you did well,’ said Romy as half a dozen Japanese soldiers marched past, rifles slung over their shoulders.

Nina froze and looked fearful. ‘They’re everywhere…’

Romy reached out to take her friend’s hand.

‘Apparently, they help themselves to whatever they want at the markets. The old man on the bean stall complained last week and a whole troop came in, tipped over his table, shot the old man and left him in the gutter.’ Nina shivered. ‘I was walking past and I could smell the burning from the gunpowder.’ Nina gulped, and Romy could tell she was trying not to cry. ‘Half his head was missing.’

Romy squeezed her friend’s hand tighter and tried not to think of Benjamin. ‘Go on,’ she said.

Nina said softly, ‘The old man—he used to slip me food on my way home to the Heime from school. Some pumpkin seeds, leftover beans, a couple of dumplings. He wore blue rags thinner than mine—’ Nina flushed ‘—and he was so kind.’ She sniffed, then her voice hardened. ‘The same thing that happened at home is happening here, Romy. There’s a war. We left home for nothing!’

Surely she couldn’t be right. But Romy recalled how the Chinese had bowed to the Japanese soldiers while they inspected their paperwork at Garden Bridge, how fearful they had looked. And Li had told her about Chinese professors being dragged to Bridge House, at the rear of Shanghai’s GPO, and stretched out on a rack and tortured. She’d thought her friend must be exaggerating—life in Frenchtown seemed the same as ever, with its endless social events, tennis matches and coffee shops. Now she wasn’t so sure. Romy’s luck—her comfortable life—seemed undeserved. This was what Papa had been trying to tell her yesterday in his study.

‘We’re safer here than at home, I promise you, Nina. This will all be over soon.’

But was that true? On the footpath opposite sat an old man dressed in rags, a blue skullcap atop his head. Beside him were three small boys, the tiniest one curled up, asleep. In front of them was a white soup pot; they were begging for coins. They cowered as the soldiers walked past, and the old man raised his skullcap and gave the soldiers a respectful nod, then flinched as a Japanese boot landed hard in his gut.

Romy put a hand to her mouth to smother her gasp.

The sleeping toddler opened his eyes as the same Japanese soldier who had kicked the old man stopped and gently stroked the child’s head. Perhaps he had left a child of his own at home? It was strange to see this tenderness coming from a man who had just acted with such brutality.

Papa and Miss Schwartz joined them. Papa’s brow was furrowed with concern.

‘Be careful, Dr Bernfeld,’ Miss Schwartz warned.

‘I will,’ he responded. ‘But it’s your safety I worry about.’

‘Don’t you worry about me.’ She pointed to a small two-storey terrace further up the road. ‘There are twenty people living in that house and the youngest couple is expecting a baby next month!’ She shook her head. ‘They’re the ones I worry about. We could do with some more doctors, nurses and midwives. There are more refugees depending on us every day.’ She shook her head and smiled. ‘Enough of that. Have fun at Café Louis, girls. Eat some peach torte for me—and say hi to the divine Delma.’ With a wave, she strode over to her truck.

Nina and Romy walked with Papa past a row of shops—Romy noticed a Polish delicatessen with fat salamis dangling in the window, a kosher butcher and a barbershop—towards the red and white striped awning of Café Louis.

Three coolies were trying to urge a flock of goats across the road with long bamboo sticks, yelling and tapping at the animals’ backs as cars beeped their horns and rickshaws tried to cycle around them.

On the corner, a newspaper vendor had piles of newspapers and magazines—Shanghai Jewish Chronicle and the Jewish Voice, Die Gelbe Post, Shanghai Echo, Ta Mei Wan Pao and North China Daily News—organised into neat piles. Romy scanned the headlines for the past weeks:

NAZIS BOMB PARIS AIRFIELDS

ITALY DECLARES WAR ON FRANCE AND BRITAIN

NORWAY SURRENDERS

JAPANESE RAID CHINESE NEWSPAPER OFFICES AND ARREST DEPUTY EDITOR

Beside the papers was a metal bucket containing plump red peaches.

Papa handed over a copper coin and the vendor filled a paper bag with fruit. Papa gave it to Nina. ‘This bag should last a day, if Romy is anything to go by.’

They pushed open the door of the café and walked over to a glass cabinet bursting with cakes and pastries. Romy caught her breath as she gazed at the rich chocolate Sachertorte. She remembered leaning over the glass counter in the café in Wipplingerstrasse, agonising over what to choose after her Saturday piano lesson with Herr Bloch.

Nina had her finger pressed to her bottom lip as she deliberated over the pastries. ‘At night they have cabaret here,’ she told them. ‘Miette, who sleeps in the bed beside mine, sings here. Songs from The Merry Widow.’

Papa’s smile froze and the muscle in his left cheek quivered as she named an opera Benjamin had sung in.

Romy said hastily, ‘My friend Li wants to be a cabaret singer or in the movies, like Ginger Rogers.’

The distraction worked. Papa chuckled and said, ‘I’m sure Dr Ho would have plenty to say about that.’

‘You don’t you think he’d approve?’ Romy thought of the beautiful women draped in body-clinging silks and furs.

‘Hanging around nightclubs with all those taipans and gangsters?’ Nina shook her head.

Papa said carefully, ‘Shanghai has a bit of everything, girls. It’s beautiful, to be sure, but I see plenty of people in my rooms…A town like this…can do a lot of damage.’

‘I don’t think being a singer means you are definitely going to become addicted to opium, Papa,’ Romy argued.

Papa shook his head with his lips pulled tight. ‘This war. You girls already know about such things at fourteen?’ He sighed and directed their attention back to the pastry display. ‘I say we get a few slices of the peach torte and some warm rolls.’ Papa winked at Romy behind Nina’s back. ‘Nina, how about one of these famous hot chocolates?’

Nina’s eyes shone. ‘Yes, please, Dr Bernfeld.’

‘And a black coffee for me, please,’ he added to the tall, slim woman behind the counter.

‘Good choice,’ she said. ‘We make the best peach torte in Shanghai.’

‘So I hear,’ said Papa. ‘Are you Delma? If so, our mutual friend Eva Schwartz sends her regards.’

‘Miss Schwartz?’ The waitress blushed. ‘She works very hard. The Heime…we’d be lost without her.’ Delma glanced at Nina before she walked away to fix the orders and greet the stream of people coming in for their afternoon coffee.

‘I recognise her,’ said Nina as they found seats at a table. ‘She comes to the Heime every evening, selling cheap coffee made from the used grounds. Sometimes she just gives it away.’

‘That’s kind.’

‘My uncle doesn’t get out much,’ said Nina with dismay. ‘She brings him coffee. Not just Uncle David. All the men who don’t—’ She bit her lip.

Her uncle was in the men’s dormitory next door, Romy knew.

‘Sometimes a tailor gives him a few silk ties to turn over and repair in exchange for cigarettes and a few cents.’

As Nina gestured, Romy caught sight of her friend’s hands. They were red, raw and calloused at the fingertips.

‘Nina, what happened to your hands?’

‘Last night we had to drag the mattresses outside and scrub them with Lysol to get rid of the lice…’ She paused awkwardly before rushing on, clearly made self-conscious by the horrified looks on Romy and Papa’s faces. ‘It’s probably the needlepoint lessons. They have sewing machines too. I hate sewing. I don’t mind the cooking—we get to eat the fish and rice, and the occasional cake.’ She blushed. ‘The boys can choose from a barber school, carpentry, woodwork, leatherwork…’

‘At least you have school,’ Romy said, trying to think of a way to console her friend.

Divine Delma delivered two hot chocolates, the cones of whipped cream on top piled so high they nearly toppled sideways when she put them down. ‘Best in town, girls.’

‘I believe you,’ said Nina as she spooned the cream into her mouth. Papa reached over and wiped the sprinkle of cinnamon from the tip of her nose.

‘I’m sorry, I’m being greedy. It’ll be soup tonight. If we’re lucky, there’s some floating gristle for flavour.’ Nina grimaced.

Romy pushed her unfinished hot chocolate away. There was that word again. Lucky. It always came laced with guilt. She thought of the feasts she’d described to Daniel and her regular trips with Amah to the market, where they bought all the food they needed as well as some they didn’t.

They finished their afternoon treats and stepped out into the sunshine.

‘Now we must do some shopping,’ Papa declared to an astonished Romy, who had never in her life seen her father shop. ‘Your mother gave me a list.’

They walked to the Tongshan Elite Provision Store and purchased two loaves of bread, tins of white beans and sardines, a salami and a small bag of white rice.

Laden with groceries, Papa and Romy walked Nina home along Chaoufong Road. Her Heime was as grand a building as any in Frenchtown, Romy was surprised to see, with arched windows and wide balconies. But washing hung from a rope fastened across the front of the building: everyone’s faded and misshapen smalls were, along with sheets and dresses, on display. Romy peeked in one of the windows and counted twenty metal bunk beds lined up against the wall. Two girls lay sprawled on a rumpled bed, playing cards.

Outside on the footpath, men in singlets were sitting behind tables on which were arranged winter boots, heavy woollen coats, scarves and felt hats, all for sale for only a few cents. What would they do when the bitter winds and rain came next year? Beside the clothes were an assortment of wire-rimmed spectacles, a pocket watch on a gold chain and a harmonica. How were people getting by without their reading glasses?

They heard the rumble of a trolley bus and Romy leaned in to kiss Nina goodbye. As the trolley pulled to a stop, Papa pulled the dress from his bag and handed it to Nina along with the bags of groceries. ‘Tuck them in your suitcase. Ask Miss Schwartz for a tin opener.’

Waving away Nina’s stammered thanks, he took Romy’s arm and climbed into the trolley.

Romy looked back at Nina, standing on the footpath, the gutter filled with refuse. She waved and blew a kiss. ‘Bye, take care. I’ll come again soon!’ she shouted as the trolley bus moved away.