Bridge of Nine Turnings

Bridge

of Nine

Turnings

Bernard Katz

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: 1-800-839-8640

©

2013 by Bernard Katz. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/28/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-3244-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-3243-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013905039

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Epilogue

Dedicated to

Linda, Meryl, Jack, Riley and Mason

SHANGHAI, OCTOBER, 1941

David’s Story

CHAPTER 1

T he entire day had given unexpected returns. Max initially offered enough German marks for our family to leave Shanghai, and the evening ended with Captain Ito proposing not only passage but also visas to the United States. And in exchange, only a month or so of my time. How odd, as though life-changing offers on a Sunday in Japanese occupied Shanghai could ever be so easily given. In looking back I should have realized the folly of the evening by believing the Japanese would save us so easily.

Max’s offer came in the afternoon as we stood at the rooftop railing of the Vienna Restaurant watching Shanghai’s bourgeois society at Sunday play. The six-piece Chinese band gave a slightly off-tempo rendition of the popular, In the Mood. The street below filled with sidewalk sellers, mostly émigrés hawking the last of their belongings. His words bothered.

David, listen to me. The Japanese will soon declare war on the United States and the Nazis will be their allies. The Europeans in China will be interned, but the Jews, David. It is possible you and your family would be sent back to Germany.

My good friend is the manager of Shanghai’s newest, tallest and most glamorous of the city’s hotels, The Park. The other day he had given me a tour of some of its rooms. They were all furnished in the current art deco style with pecan veneer bureaus, French cherry wood tables and chinoiserie to hold the Chinese feeling. Esther and I knew him in Berlin as the husband of a woman I was treating for depression, so fashionable at the time. Just after he left her, coming to China in search of women whose emotions he believed more naked, more basic. As a man with influence among the émigrés, he gained the confidence and the ear of the controlling military. As someone to be trusted, he gave good counsel and held close private words. He once said similar good things about me. How could we now not like each other?

I know, Max. I have heard the same. Shanghai is awash in rumor of what the Japanese will do. But you know our situation. We have neither the money nor the visas to leave. I glanced past the rail to the still gathering market below where desperate bargaining took place over a family’s last possessions. Tattered blankets with rainbow colors dotted the sidewalk appearing as a massive quilt of cloth remnants sewed by aging woman in a heated kitchen. Spread out for any passer-by lay inexpensive jewelry, once fashionable shirts, and dresses, simple, formal. Refugees, European, Russian, Chinese, all placed for sale the remains of their holdings, withering possessions of a sometimes opulent past.

David, Max went on, I could lend you the money now and after the war… he let his words trail off as he had caught my pained expression.

Thank you Max, touching his elbow to make us closer, it’s generous. I smiled as best I could, But it’s the visas, Max. Without them, I shrugged my shoulders in a show of resignation, there’s no place to run.

The debonair manager looked at me for a moment then placed his hand on mine. Doctor Samuels, David, the offer is always open. Don’t wait too long. Things happen quickly. He hesitated the moment, turned and walked back to join the well-dressed men and women of his privileged grouping.

I leaned against the rooftop balustrade and gazed on the afternoon diners before me. The restaurant, one of the two extravagances Esther and I allowed ourselves, was decorated as a Bavarian beer garden. It had its faux-grape arbor, Wiener schnitzel smells and high-breasted blonde waitresses. Its authenticity was more truly its staccato chatter of conversation, tinsel laughter, false camaraderie and forced gaiety. The dancers, men in straw hats, women in white lace cotton dresses pirouetted about the dance floor as in a stage set with accompanying marionettes. It was their attempt to be gay, cosmopolitan, to search out forgetfulness. This was Sunday in Shanghai, a thin richness of life hiding a poverty of hope.

Skirting the dance floor I walked to our table. Esther was speaking with Oscar Ladlow, a recently arrived Hungarian. She still wore the dresses brought from Germany. My eyes were drawn to the repaired lace on her once-fashionable white silk chemise. Her freshly washed soft brown hair cleansed the foul breezes from the nearby Whampoo River. Holding a glass of inexpensive Riesling, it was apparent her only jewelry was her simple gold wedding band.

Lifting her face and smiling to see me back she asked, What did Max want? The lines about her eyes had deepened over the last year, and I loved her the more.

Max was just being polite. We can talk about it later. I pulled out my chair and sat down. A heavily accented voice broke into my space.

Ah, so you are back from talking with the Prussian. David, don’t you know he just chases the blond haired women. No good can come from him. He is German. Like the Chinese, he cannot be trusted.

Esther softly patted Ladlow’s arm. Do not worry for us.

He ignored her soft words. And you think your Japanese captain will help you? He is no better than the Nazis, running with the same pack of anti-Semites. No, no, David, they are all the same, and his pudgy finger was again moving before my face.

I tried to rejoin the conversation at the table, but there was no excitement to it, no intellect. It was all cliché and gossip, about the businesses and families left in Germany and the hardships of living in war time Shanghai. Voices cackled about personalities, affairs, the lack of facilities, and the absence of good cheese. And I was part of it.

What did Ladlow say? My Japanese captain, Captain Ito? I liked the man. Despite his militaristic nationalism he had a vital human inquisitiveness. In our conversation the other day I casually observed that China was one of the few countries of the world where the government is always at war with its people.

He looked to me, paused, and almost smiled. They do not teach you such things in those big Berlin University buildings, Doctor. For a foreigner, you show great wisdom.

My good captain, as usual you show great conceit, as much as the Chinese.

He laughed with me, unusual for a Japanese. Bringing his face to mine his smile hardened. Again you show great wisdom. A hesitation, then, Doctor, make plans to meet me this Sunday night. It is important.

With Ladlow gone, Esther placed her hand at the nape of my neck, an affectionate gesture where I couldn’t help but respond. She raised her head to touch our lips but she could never hold her curiosity. David, what did Max want?

I knew in any world my Esther would be considered lovely. A streak of the Northern Mediterranean ran through her coloring, as though some long forgotten Italian traveler had broken into her unending chain of Cohen’s. I always believed her to be a Madonna, a work of art, and a woman that would introduce me to the heavens. In this I was right.

What did Max want? Nothing, as usual Max wanted to give. And I told her of our conversation.

David, you know we cannot stay. Our daughter, we can’t let her grow up here. It’s not fair, this world is too limited, confining. She paused, waiting for me to reassure her, to tell her I would turn heaven and hell for us to leave.

Making no move I stood silent a moment too long, and realized how my muteness screamed. Her body tightened, eyes frightened, and from a burst of clarity she finally found the words she had wanted to say these past two years. You like it here, don’t you? The honors, the gratitude of your patients, she hesitated, the austerity, another pause, the Chinese. It all pleases you. She paused, not pleasantly, and as if to tell me my own thoughts, You don’t want to leave. I let her words slip over me knowing their subtle truths.

You have your work, David. Sylvia and I, she delayed, fearful to speak her true feelings, we miss a normal life. This is not our world. I don’t want it to be our world. A tear worked its way down her cheek. Can’t you find a way to get visas? To any place. Our daughter, she is growing up more Chinese than European!

Esther was right, I hadn’t vigorously pursued the visas and I do have a fascination for the unadorned and things Chinese. It is a people which seduced all her conquering armies and, in truth, me. For my part there was this need, compulsion, to take part in China’s day-to-day life, to become one of its endless streams of humanity. It ached to be satisfied. What foolishness. All these wishes as though I was still a young boy dreaming of adventure.

Esther’s sadness was too oppressive. I pulled her close and kissed her damp cheek. I will find a way. I stepped back, smiled and with false gaiety asked, What time do we pick up Sylvia? I looked at my watch. There’s my appointment with Captain Ito. Again I had made the mistake. Esther’s expression told me I favored a Japanese over my own child. My words almost pleaded, He said it was important; very important, as though that could overcome the blunder. We hurried downstairs signaling for a rickshaw, our second extravagance.

The first of the waiting coolies came and we set out at a comfortable pace to our home, our hovel in the Jewish ghetto where 25,000 Jewish and White Russian refugees crammed into an area less than one square mile of Shanghai’s space.

Major Hideo Ito lived at the Blackstone apartments on Rue Lafayette. It was a large building with a good address. Victorian, it had that British stateliness often associated with London’s Belgravia. He said he enjoyed living in the French concession, Frenchtown. Primarily residential, it was the vortex of Shanghai’s scandalous activity. Last week we walked in the early evening with the captain observing the evening’s activity.

David, how can you explain these white women competing with the Chinese prostitutes? His arm swept toward the gaudily dressed western ladies. He always called me by my first name whenever he brought the European down while appearing as a prim 19th century French gentleman strolling the Champs Elyse in a starched white shirtfront. Ito stood tall, as large as the Northern Chinese. He had a small, but well manicured moustache, and wore a large gray fedora when in mufti. His uniforms were impeccable, tempting me to ask how he was able to maintain razor creases in his trousers in this humid climate. A perfect military man, he walked ramrod straight and so at ease with himself that in all the time I’d known him he never showed the slightest hesitancy in giving his opinion on either side of an issue. He also displayed a delightful arrogance. While he believed the Japanese superior over the Chinese, as well as the Europeans, he never hid his envy when the Japanese were bested. He would always render unto Caesar. Now looking to where Ito pointed I recognized the once sophisticated women, now destitute prostitutes.

You know as well as I who they are. Leftovers from the Bolshevik revolution, Russians whose only talent is the courtesan role for the women, or doorman for the Cossack. Perhaps even a Jewish woman who had run from the Nazis and arrived penniless. Still, I couldn’t leave the subject without tweaking his vanity. I do believe Captain, the Japanese have rather taken to these blonde ladies of the evening.

Ito joined me in a smile. Wistfully he agreed, Your European decadence will sap our strength, knowing the Japanese taste for the erotic had no rival in the west.

Tonight I had suggested meeting at the Willow Pattern Teahouse in the old Chinese city. Approached by its zigzag bridges to confuse the devil gods, it was constructed over a pond appearing to float just above the water. This gave it a tranquility and civilization that newer teahouses never achieved. It appeared as a Chinese painting on the earliest of the Emperor’s cloisonné. I also knew Ito would savor the excursion as he was a connoisseur of tea. In truth, my choice of location was selfish. The old walled city within a city simply entranced me. It was the moon gates, the green painted wood shutters of the two story buildings, the men with tattered undershirts, and opium filled pipes. There were too few excuses to visit as the dark, narrow, urine scented twisting alleys terrorized Esther. What she feared, I relished. It was in those streets where the Chinese washed their hair, boiled their rice, and changed the diaper. And I thought it fascinating, but I believed so even before I arrived.

In Berlin there was an uncle, Benny, my mother’s brother, a jewelry salesman. My father called him the Jewish Hemingway as he spoke about China as that writer wrote about Spain, with much romanticism and an occasional truth.

Returning from the Orient during my high school senior year, he spoke to the family about mountains caught in clouds as though they had no tops, only wisps of smoke. He described his journey down the Yangtze River with its walls of granite that rose to the sun, of the centuries of coolie tracks that wore into the stone pulling barges upstream against the rush of the river. In the after dinner huddles of men, away from the wives, he would tell tales of the beauty and talents of the women, the sparseness of their pubic hair, and the rosiness of their nipples. I watched as my father glanced to see my reaction, embarrassed for me. The men smiled knowingly, but would deride the hedonist Benny in private, but not me. No, Benny was the lyricist of worlds unknown. I was smitten by the Orient long before ever arriving.

This evening was lit by what my mother would have called a China moon, full, but with dark shadows across its face, a contradiction to my expectation of the evening. Approaching the teahouse over its low bridges I caught sight of Ito by an open window. Seeing me, a smile lightened his face. I felt pleased as I also enjoyed his friendship.

Over here, David, Ito called, waving his hand unobtrusively to get my attention. As I sat down he motioned to the tea man who held an exceptionally large black kettle with cast iron pimples forming a lotus pattern about the pot’s middle. Ito leaned over to me and in a conspiratorial tone whispered, Unfortunately tonight the tea is a house brew. Not bad, mind you. A touch of Jasmine, but only Black Soochow. He said his words like a wine expert describing the dryness and fruity bouquet of a recent vintage. He surveyed the room for a moment and looked to the tea. It’s an interesting blend, actually. He brought his cup to his lips and sipped. The brew master went a bit heavy on the hyssop. Ito enjoyed playing the role of connoisseur, as it was one of the few things, other than the military, where he had true expertise.

I’m afraid I don’t know that herb, I offered

Just a little woody plant, with small flowers and aromatic leaves, his thumb and first two fingers rubbed, slightly bitter, to balance the flavors.

The Chinese tea man placed a blue porcelain cup on the table before me. Rather than come closer and pour, he took a step back and leaned the kettle over. An arc of steaming tea streamed out of the long spout and just as the cup filled the waiter adroitly lifted the kettle. The procedure never ceased to impress and it must have showed for Ito laughed.

I agree Doctor, they are indeed a talented people.

The man poured for Ito and we watched him walk away. Ito continued, You know, we Japanese have a saying. If you give a task to a Japanese and a Chinese, the Chinese will do it better and faster. If you give a task to three Japanese they will do it rapidly and cooperatively. If you give the same work to three Chinese, it will simply never get done. He paused, proud of his comparison. You see, Doctor, they cannot accept another Chinese telling them what to do. It is their national character. He paused waiting for my reaction. I gave him none.

Enough of this. To my reason for this meeting. Ito picked up his cup once again and sipped the amber tea. His lips smacked unexpectedly and for a second he created furrows in his brow, as he was disappointed. He grimaced, That hyssop, a bit too much. Pity. He set his cup down and placed his palms on the aging wood table. It is important David, and there is great benefit to you and your family. He said his words leaning forward as if to force his urgency on me. I could not help be a little cautious for this was the military conqueror.

You of course know the story of Greek’s bearing gifts? I asked with curiosity and humor.

No, no, my good friend, do not make light of this. It is an honest offer, a simple request for a relative moment of your life. His face was earnest. I, the Japanese, need your services, your medical experience. In the north. For only a short time.

For how long? I asked, thinking about Esther and Sylvia staying alone in Shanghai.

He never answered, instead he offered the prize, Go, and in return I will give you and your family visas, passages to Japan, and then to the United States, to California, he paused, looking up into my eyes, or any country you wish.

You are serious? Ito, this is nothing to play with. He was tendering the world and I needed to make sure I could pay its price.

David, my friend, your wife and daughter, can leave within two weeks. You following later.

And for this, what do I do? I tried to withhold the urgency from my voice, but failed.

Your time. A month, perhaps less, perhaps a bit more, but what you shall be doing, well, it is important for Japan.

His words were clear, and I trusted them, him. He wanted to give me something valuable, a trophy for our friendship. There was no reason to jeopardize this incredible gift with suspicious questions. A way out of China. Up north? I asked.

Yes, in Changchun, Manchuria.

Manchuria? That’s a thousand miles from here, near Russia. How could I possibly help you up there?

We need you to treat the wife of the Emperor of Manchuria for drug addiction.

The wife of Pu-Yi ? I asked incredulously.

Ah, good, you know of him. Ito was pleased.

Of course. But Changchun. I had heard stories of the fierce cold and unending tundra. Is Pu-Yi there? I asked.

Yes. And the Japanese Imperial Army controls the land and the emperor.

The politics didn’t interest me, only the offer. Why was I asking foolish questions given the prize of freedom? How can we seal our agreement?

The captain almost smiled. Do not be premature. There is still your wife’s answer. For the moment a simple sip of the tea will do, a toast, to the offer, to our contract. Ito sat there, satisfied but hesitant in sipping in the fragrance of the Black Soochow with an excess of hyssop.

I leaned back into my chair asking myself how Esther would react to the news. Would the idea of separating, even for some short period of time be acceptable? When I went to Vienna for the months of psychiatric instruction she had come with me. Could I be without her?

Well doctor, have you determined what your wife would say?

So now you can read my thoughts?

He reached over and touched my sleeve. You are not a difficult man to predict. You will always do what is right.

And you? I asked.

His pupils widened. I had hit a nerve. He once mentioned he had a son in Japan, but never spoke about the boy’s mother.

It is time to go. You will tell me of your decision the day after tomorrow, David. Then, Be practical in your answer.

We were back on the street near the Shanghai Club along the Bund. I heard the lapping of the Whampoo River against the quay and caught the mixture of marine oil, tar, and dead fish in the air. It was late and there were few on the street except for a strolling couple and a lingering prostitute. As we walked, a commotion between large stone buildings caught me. In the glare of a weak lamppost light I witnessed a woman taking blows from a darkened figure. She was European.

Hey, you! I yelled.

The man looked up and I caught a moving profile in dim light. Ito had the clear angle. I yelled again at the man and as if I was inconsequential he turned and hit the woman again. I could see the jackhammer strength of the blows as his upper arm was at almost right angles to his wrist. I started into the alley. Ito grabbed my arm.

Don’t go there.

I must. I attempted to pull away, but the military man proved stronger.

Don’t go!

What’s wrong with you, Ito. He will kill her.

He is a Japanese officer. I know him. He looked at me with stone eyes. He can do whatever he pleases.

I looked back into the now empty alley.

Who was he? I didn’t see his face.

It is better you didn’t. He took a step off the curb. looked up the avenue and raised his arm. He looked back to me. David, for your own good, forget what you witnessed.

A rickshaw drew up as Ito summoned the driver. I watched him go, still shaking from the events witnessed and damning myself for inaction. A moment more, and calmer, forcing out my shame and concentrating on Ito’s offer and Esther’s probable reaction, I took a deep breath, then a jaunty step, astonished at how unpredictable events tossed us about. It was late October. I speculated with a little luck we could celebrate the New Year of 1942, in America.

Years later, in thinking back over our conversation, I remembered Ito not telling me how long I would be gone. I should have pressed the point, harder. He also forgot to tell me my name in Manchuria would become an anathema to the Chinese.

CHAPTER 2

T he image of the woman in the alley still flared, and Ito’s offer had my blood surging. Between the two, I had no chance sitting calmly in a rickshaw. My best option was to walk the two kilometers back to our apartment near the Ohel Moshe Synagogue in the middle of Shanghai’s Jewish ghetto.

From ghetto to ghetto had become the Jew’s recent history. And here in Shanghai twenty thousand refugees, almost all professionals, crowded into small apartments and tight alleys. We were rich in intellectual talent, sufficient to staff a major city. We had our own newspapers, schools, theaters, hospital clinic, and orchestra, lacking only a tenor flutist. For such practical things as plumbing and electric we relied on the Chinese.

We were refugees with little money and low paying menial jobs, and all lived under similar conditions, single bedrooms, shared kitchens and multifamily toilets, as if living in a communal rooming house. Esther told me she now preferred the odor of boiling cabbage to that of our hallway. My frustration was I could not provide more. Seeing my wife with tears in her eyes when the water failed or the plumbing backed up I knew she dearly missed our comfortable Berlin town house near Linden Street. I remembered those last days. She said of her newest art purchase, David, look how this new artist, Klee, has those delicate, dreamlike color harmonies. You wait, he will be a new master. I’d told her I would never dispute a discriminating art student as she had been when I married her.

Still, in our ghetto, and her fashion, Esther would not surrender to inconvenience, even to the rudimentary Chinese kitchen. In her attempts to convince me that she had become accustomed to cooking with hot coals in the Chinese way, I would hear her swear gently as sparks caught her cheek and burned her fingers. Mrs. Golden and Mrs. Metzger who shared the kitchen had arranged a complicated domestic schedule. Difficulties arose when any of the families had an unexpected guest or a complicated menu requiring more cooking time. Losing control of her kitchen always put Esther into a sullen mood. She was still up reading when I returned and was without cosmetics wearing an old faded robe, her hair in braids. I thought her young as when I plucked her from the university where she had only finished her first year. While fresh and untouched she had understood both the grace and fashion of a sophisticated woman. In her playful manner she often told me how handsome, intelligent and courageous I appeared as compared to others, making me question her sweet praise. No, I lie. She always spoke the truth; it was my known weaknesses, my carnal sins that kept me from embracing her words.

Still out of breath and perspiring from my hurried walk, I bent over and kissed Esther’s hair. I let my hand slip inside her robe. She leaned back and smiled. I told her I had good news, what she had dreamed of would soon be a reality. I explained Ito’s