And then there were Shanghai’s eight thousand Allied citizens, British, American, and Dutch. As enemy aliens, they would have to wear numbered armbands in public and be barred from all places of entertainment such as restaurants, theaters, and clubs. Their bank accounts would be frozen, their assets seized. They would be restricted and pushed down until they were lower than the Chinese, and then, by January or February, he would have them all moved out of Shanghai and into prison camps. Their villas and apartments would be of use to him and his men.
It still troubled him to think of all this landing on the American musicians he so admired. But he was a man who held loyalty above all things, and breaching the extreme secrecy of this attack was out of the question.
He also believed deeply that Japan’s enterprise in taking China was a noble one. It would end British domination of Shanghai after 101 years. China had never been able to liberate herself from Anglo-Saxon tyranny; only Japan could do it. China would be free at last-and cared for, that being Japan’s duty as the natural leader of East Asia. The strong should care for the weak. It was correct.
But today’s cable from Berlin had sent him to his chauffeured car, to the back seat where he could not be seen, to tell his driver to take him past French Park. What to do? The bare treetops sketched questions against the gray sky, and he studied them as the motorcar rumbled past the park walls.
The Germans were furious that so many Jews were being allowed to live in Shanghai, allowed to work, provide for their families, and form a community. They wanted something done. It was a complaint to which he had always replied simply that Shanghai was under Japan’s control, not Germany’s. Now things had shifted; the pressure was no longer local. It was coming from Berlin.
He felt the weight of a thousand boulders on him. With their sneak attack about to draw the world into war, it was no time for him to put the alliance with Germany at risk. But Shanghai belonged to Japan, and the tribe of Israelites had flourished here. What was he expected to do, deny them the right to work? And what about the rich Sephardic Jews, like Sassoon and Kadoorie, pillars of the city who had been here since the nineteenth century and lived in vast mansions, off Bubbling Well Road? Surely they were to be excluded from the ugly intimations in today’s cable. His hand went to the leather document case inside his coat. The whole thing was impossible.
“Turn right,” he said when he saw the Cercle Sportif Français up ahead. Every Friday afternoon, Thomas played in the lobby below the grand curving staircases; to hear music would give him clarity. “Wait for me,” he said.
In the lobby, he ignored the barely audible intake of breath, still distracted by the conflict within him. Yet as soon as he heard the music floating across the polished floor, he was righted again. He walked closer, the violin and piano calming him, and took a seat.
The piece contained the world. Morioka found it so moving that he summoned one of the pinch-chested middle-aged men they called boys, who now quavered before him in fear.
“What name this music?” Morioka said, and the boy evaporated to find out. Usually when Thomas and David played, people danced, but today they filled the chairs and settees and all the space in between, listening as silently as he was. He closed his eyes to the music’s purity, and everything seemed clear. The maze in front of him was not so difficult; he would find his way through it. He would make the right decision.
When the movement ended, there was a pause, and he opened his eyes to see the Jew, David Epstein, nodding to the boy and writing something on a piece of paper. Then Thomas Greene caught his eye, and sent him a discreet nod, which he returned with a short bow, for they were masters to him, and war or no war, he venerated them.
A second later the boy was at his side, unable to stop the paper from shaking as he proffered it. The Admiral handed him a coin to get rid of him, and unfolded it.
Mozart, Sonata for Piano and Violin in B-flat, No. 454.
A rare smile touched his mouth. Mozart’s music was the pinnacle of European culture, and he had just heard a sublime interpretation by this David Epstein, a Jew. Nothing could have made it clearer to Tadashi Morioka that the Nazis were overreaching with their pressures.
He felt even more certain of it as he listened to the third movement, an allegretto full of light-filled, dancing runs, and when it ended, and a storm of applause erupted, he rose and walked out the lobby door. The winter sun was warm, and he felt at peace as he opened his greatcoat and touched the stiff leather document case inside. It was neutral now, the burn of anxiety gone from it.
He would not let the Germans push him, not when it came to his Jews.
Up in Yan’an, reports of the Japanese buildup around Shanghai poured in. The only part of the city not already under Japanese control was the Gudao, or International Settlement, for the Chinese had already been beaten, and France was a Nazi vassal state. In Yan’an, everyone thought the signs meant there was about to be an attack on the Settlement. There was no other explanation.
That did not mean there was much sympathy for the unfortunate Westerners who would be caught up in the attack, for they were dismissed as imperialists. The news sparked terror in Song that others did not share.
Alone, she worried about Thomas, for she had not been back to Shanghai since all three of them met there in ’thirty-nine-and that was two years ago. He might be gone, or he might be with someone else and not want to see her. But inside, she felt sure he was still there. And she had to warn him.
So she went before her superior to ask for family leave.
“You have family in Shanghai?” said Wu Guoyong, looking through her file. “I do not see that.”
“Friends.”
“Foreigners,” he said, and she did not deny it.
He turned a few pages. “You have never asked for leave before, and when family is in danger, we grant it. But-”
She just held her eyes on him and let her request stand.
He tapped the file with a sigh. “You know that travel to Shanghai has never been more dangerous than it is right now. Is it worth it?”
“Yes,” she said, putting everything she had on the word.
He glanced at a report. “You have done well. I see the children of Baoding Village are very fond of you.”
“It is my honor to serve the people,” she said automatically, thinking with a pang of Plum Blossom, who was expecting her this weekend, and would wait for her all day.
“All right,” he said, and signed the form. “Two weeks.”
The next day she was in Xi’an, and this time she went straight to the temple near the Eighth Route Army Liaison Office.
From the outside, it looked the same as when she had first seen it four years before, but anything could have happened. Maybe someone had found the diamonds. If so, it was fate. She entered the main chamber and meditated for a time to calm herself. If the diamonds are there or if they are not, I accept it. Plum Blossom, I’m sorry to abandon you. The monk came by, nodded to her, neutral, his face empty of recognition. He had forgotten her. She waited until he left, then walked into the empty courtyard and moved close to the wall, heart jumping, until she found the spot and felt the moss intact, grown over the stone she had prised out and replaced so long ago.
Using a small knife, her fingers freezing, she worked the rock loose. There: the pouch, still waiting. The Goddess of Mercy had smiled on her, a fellow woman. She took it and fixed the wall.
Back inside the shadows of the temple, she sat again, heart racing. She was committed now. She had the diamonds and she was going.