In their makeshift clinic, a little gang of four girls, headed by the bossy Plum Blossom, turned up every day to help. When they closed the door in the evening, the girls cleaned everything and asked questions, wanting the use of all Dr. Wei’s tools explained to them.
Like most village children, they were illiterate, and the second night Song said, “Would you like to have lessons?” They responded in an eager chorus, and every night, when the clinic closed, they worked on characters. Song wrote them out in stages for each girl so they could practice without forgetting the stroke order. To her surprise they loved it, wanting to stay late and learn more, and every morning they came in with their characters memorized. They were ravenous to read. It was not something that had been planned or scheduled, yet it turned out to be the most useful and joyful thing she had experienced since she came north.
On their last night in Baoding, Song carried a tray of food in to Dr. Wei. “You give so much of yourself,” she said admiringly.
Dr. Wei looked up, surprised. “No. It is what your people are doing that will change things. Do you realize-these villagers have never seen a doctor! Just like most peasants in China. No one ever brought medical care to them before-no emperor, no leader-not until you people came. Those girls had never been taught their characters either! That’s why I’m here, you know. That’s why I believe in what you are doing.”
And in the truck the next day, watching the doctor cradle her patient on the ride back to Yan’an, and thinking of Plum Blossom and her friends, Song knew that she believed too. Their movement was the future. Maybe it was meant to be greater than love.
Thomas and David were soon playing six days a week. They developed a following, folks who showed up to listen as they moved from one shabby, war-worn lobby to another, the Metropole, the Astor House, the Palace, and Le Cercle Sportif Français, which was not a hotel but a country club. At each place, they asked for the same deal, a full meal in the restaurant for each of them, and then, when the establishment was happy with the stream of patrons and the busy lobby service, they asked that the meal be transferred to David’s wife and son. Thomas saw how David lit up when they came in, his wife in white gloves and her grandmother’s necklace, the boy in short pants and socks and a little blazer, clumping in his childish oxfords as if nothing had changed, as if they had not lost their world forever, along with everyone in it.
Yet in playing with David, Thomas saw that the Epstein family and the other refugees in their community had brought some of their world here with them. He felt it every time the aging couples got up from their velvet-trimmed chairs and took a turn around the floor. The two musicians traded a look the first time they saw it, and the next time they met, without words having been necessary, David brought with him Chopin’s Grande Valse Brillante and one of Strauss’s New Vienna Waltzes. It worked. More and more men started taking their wives’ hands, and once two or three pairs were out there, more tended to follow. The lobby became a dance floor, smiles jumping from one to another, from old to young. As they turned on the floor, he noticed their faded sleeves still bore the outline of the Star of David patches they had worn back home, yet here, dancing, all of them looked happy again.
The crowds grew, and in July, Morioka also began to appear where they were playing-never directly, but by engaging in meetings nearby. It happened too often, and at too many hotels, for it to be an accident. The Admiral did not speak to them, since to do so might put the musicians in danger from the resistance, and Thomas appreciated his restraint. He did not mind that the man came to listen, even though Song would be furious if she knew; to him, music was a separate country, within which war was set aside. And actually, the one time Morioka did speak to them, it was only to ask about David. “Where come from your friend?”
“Admiral Morioka, David Epstein. Mr. Epstein is from Vienna.”
“Ah,” said Morioka, his eyes widening in understanding. “You are Jew. Many your people live Hongkou.”
This hung somewhat frighteningly in the air, until he bowed and walked away. “Ready?” Thomas whispered urgently, with a glance to the music stand. David nodded, raised his violin, and followed him when he counted down.
Lin Ming arrived in Shanghai with five thousand in his money belt, riding high on having reached his threshold at last. But he did not go to the Osmanthus Pavilion right away, where Pearl would be waiting; first he had an important meeting with the Jewish leaders in Hongkou, about the Resettlement Plan.
He hastened out of the train station, still an empty shell. Only the tracks had been repaired, along with the necessary walkways, and trains and passengers came and went as before. Much had been cleaned up and even rebuilt in the two years since the battle, but the city was still missing its spark; it looked to Lin like a prison of sad, huddled brown buildings. Nobody referred to it by Ye Shanghai anymore, Night in Shanghai. Now Hei’an Shijie was the term people used. The Dark World. Walking to the trolley, he felt the darkness all around.
But even the gloom could not dampen his excitement about the meeting. The Resettlement Plan was no longer a secret, having been passed in open legislative session, and retaliation from the Japanese could come at any time, so he was careful. He changed routes twice, and several times entered shops only to exit through a back door onto some other street. By the time he met David Epstein at the alley door to his building, as planned, he knew no one had seen him.
“Thank you for bringing these men together,” he said, when they were inside.
David guided him through long interior corridors past dozens of doors, each marked with a tiny scroll case, each little room housing a family. Most rooms lacked windows, so their doors sat open, and he nodded in polite acknowledgment to the families inside, as they passed. He knew that the Japanese authorities had labeled the Jews “stateless persons” and otherwise left them alone, but this was the first time he had actually seen how they were living. “Thank you for bringing me,” he said, but David brushed it off. “You are the friend of Thomas,” he said, in a tone which said that settled everything.
Inside, he found three men waiting beside David’s wife and son, an older European man with a tonsure-shaped fringe of white hair, a dark-haired European in his prime, and an Asian man, also young and strong-looking.
David introduced Lin Ming, and the older man spoke. “I am Herr Ackerman. This is Amleto Vespa and An Gong Geun. Mr. An is the younger brother of An Jung Geun, the Korean revolutionary martyr. As for Mr. Vespa, he is from Rome, and I from Vienna, and we represent the Sword of David Society. We fought for you here in Hongkou in ’thirty-seven, did you know that? We sabotaged Japanese positions and equipment constantly, and planted bombs in their trucks.”
Lin inclined his head. “It is known. No other foreign groups fought with us, and we thank you and respect you for that.”
Now that it was recognized, Ackerman waved it away. “We are in your debt for what your government has proposed.”
“I am only the messenger,” Lin said. “And do not thank me yet, for we need your help. We need money, U.S. dollars and gold bars, at least fifty thousand worth, as fast as possible. Plans are already drawn up for barracks and kitchens and food delivery along the Burma Road.”
Lin watched as they looked at one another, nodding, and saw that this huge sum was no problem for them. “There are dangers,” he cautioned. “We need this money delivered in Chongqing-and the Japanese will do anything to stop us bringing one hundred thousand Jews to China. They know it will earn us sympathy from the West. They will put a high price on your heads. They are very smart.”