Bridge of Nine Turnings

Bridge of Nine Turnings Shanghai, October, 1941 David’s Story Chapter 1 The 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.