Part 8 (1/2)
CHAPTER 12.
Sunny and Wen-Cheng sat at opposite ends of the bench, leaving enough s.p.a.ce for two people between them. They did not exchange a glance, let alone a word, for five long minutes.
An old Chinese man in a tattered grey Zhongshan suit stood a few yards away, staring at the wrecked gazebo. Slightly round-backed, he kept his arms glued to his sides and his head hung low. Sunny sensed great sadness in him. For some reason, she imagined him to be one of Shanghai's many bird fanciers who used to bring their caged pets to parks and other public places for ”airings.” Sunny had heard that, since the invasion, many of those enthusiasts had been forced to eat their beloved pets.
Finally, with a slight nod to Sunny and Wen-Cheng, the old man turned and shuffled off toward the street. As soon as he was out of sight, Wen-Cheng looked up from his newspaper and glanced around. Satisfied that they were alone, he smiled, and his distinctive pale eyes lit up. Not so long ago, before Franz entered her life, that expression had melted Sunny's heart. It had almost led her into an affair with Wen-Cheng, who had been married at the time.
Neither the war nor the death of his wife in a car accident had diminished Wen-Cheng's attractiveness. Unlike those of most in Shanghai, his face was as full and smooth as ever, and his teeth still ivory white. He was handsome enough to be a double for one Shanghai's local film stars. He had lost most of his wealth when the j.a.panese appropriated his family's ceramics factory and converted it to an armaments plant, but Sunny knew that Wen-Cheng had invested much of what he had left in buying supplies for the refugee hospital. She was flattered, and a little frightened, to think that he might be doing it primarily for her sake.
Wen-Cheng arched his back and stretched. He exuded a kind of tranquility that belied the troubled times. ”Thank you for coming, Soon Yi,” he said in Shanghainese.
She broke off eye contact, letting her gaze fall on the gazebo's decrepit, but still brightly coloured, roof. ”I am still not certain, Wen-Cheng.”
”You do not have to decide this very moment.”
Another wave of guilt washed over her.
”It's so beautiful today.” He motioned to the bright blue sky, ignoring the blistering heat. ”Shall we walk?”
They rose and headed deeper into the park, toward the river. Weeds had made the once gla.s.s-smooth pathway uneven. At one point, Sunny stumbled over a bamboo root. Wen-Cheng caught her by the upper arm, holding her for an extra moment after she had steadied herself. Stomach flip-flopping, she nodded her thanks while still avoiding his eyes.
They came to a halt as the path curved along the western bank of the Whangpoo River. The yellow-brown water churned, and the day's heat intensified the smell of the sewage that continuously drained into the river. Suddenly, a long skinny rat, its tail no more than a stump, appeared from under the rocks at their feet. It scurried along the path for a few feet before diving under another set of stones. Sunny had never been superst.i.tious, but she still found a sliver of comfort in the traditional Chinese belief that suggested the appearance of a rat, even one so mangled and scrawny, was a good omen.
”Did you see his tail? Even our vermin suffer under the Rbn guzi.” Wen-Cheng gestured out toward the harbour, which teemed with s.h.i.+ps flying the Rising Sun. Most were freighters or troop transports. One battles.h.i.+p, the Idzumo, dwarfed the other vessels. Its ma.s.sive gun turrets pointed inland as though warning Sunny to reconsider what she was doing.
Sunny turned to Wen-Cheng. ”Will someone else meet us?”
He shook his head.
”Then why have we come?”
His lips parted in another easygoing smile. ”I enjoy your company, no matter what the circ.u.mstances.”
”Wen-Cheng, you promised me a meeting.”
He only shrugged. ”They are exceedingly cautious, Soon Yi. Out of necessity. I am sure they are watching.”
”When will I meet them?”
”Later. Perhaps never.” He lowered his voice. ”I have only met with them a handful of times. We usually communicate through signals or notes that are left in secret locations. We rarely meet in person, and we never use the telephone or even the radio.”
”You have a radio?” She had heard that anyone caught possessing a transmitter would face interrogation, torture, even a firing squad.
”I have access to one, yes.” Wen-Cheng dug a hand into his pocket and extended a pack of cigarettes to her. Sunny waved him away, so he lit one for himself and looked out at the j.a.panese armada.
The b.u.t.terflies in her stomach fluttered harder. Although Sunny knew that Wen-Cheng was somehow involved with the Resistance, the idea of connecting directly with the shadowy movement felt surreal. Two months before, on Nanking Road, she had walked past the twisted hull of a transport truck that had been sabotaged with an explosive. Aside from a few such tangible examples, it was impossible to know how far and wide the Underground's reach extended. The city was abuzz with rumours of brazen acts of sabotage. Some, such as the truck bombing, were easy to attribute to the Resistance, while others, like the sinking of a j.a.panese cruiser in the harbour in broad daylight, taxed belief. The rumour mill whirled in a self-perpetuating frenzy, building the Underground into a mythical secret force that had the mighty j.a.panese army running scared. The more she heard of the Underground, the more indistinct and legendary its status grew in her mind. Sunny had no idea how effective the Resistance was in undermining the enemy but, like most Shanghai natives, she desperately wanted to believe in it.
Wen-Cheng's eyes narrowed in disgust as he continued to stare at the harbour filled with j.a.panese vessels. ”They have no right to be here,” he grumbled.
”They have the s.h.i.+ps, the planes and the guns.” Sunny looked at the Idzumo's huge turrets. ”Might makes right, does it not?”
Wen-Cheng puffed on his cigarette silently. ”Once in a while, right must fight back.” He inclined his head. ”Isn't that why you have come today, Soon Yi?”
”I suppose.” In truth, her motives were far more complex, but Sunny felt too unsettled and uncertain to delve into them with Wen-Cheng. Besides, she was the one who had demanded the meeting.
Originally, Wen-Cheng had hidden his subversive activity. Sunny's suspicion had been piqued two months earlier when Berta at the hospital told her that she'd run into Wen-Cheng in the Yuyuan Garden on a day when he had announced he would be visiting an ill aunt in Wuxi. According to Berta, Wen-Cheng had barely acknowledged her, offering only a curt nod as he hurried away. Days later, Sunny confronted him. He claimed to have been running late for a date and then uncharacteristically lashed out at the dependable Berta for being a wild gossip. But Sunny had not believed him. A few weeks later, she pulled Wen-Cheng aside again and said, ”Wo yao bngzhu.”
He shook his head. ”You want to help whom?”
”The Underground,” she whispered.
”Why would you tell me? I have no access to them.”
”I think you do.”
”You are mistaken.”
”I think not,” she said. ”But if am wrong, I will keep making enquiries until I find someone who can put me in touch with them.”
Hesitating, he glanced over at Franz, the pen in the doctor's hand held still against the patient's chart as he watched them carefully. ”This is not the place, Soon Yi,” Wen-Cheng whispered.
Two more secret conversations at the hospital eventually led to this rendezvous in the Public Garden. Sunny glanced around her again, but the park still appeared deserted. ”Can any one of us really make a difference?”
”Probably not, no.” Wen-Cheng shrugged. ”But if none of us tries, what hope is there?”
”The j.a.panese will never defeat America.”
”They do not have to.” He gestured with his palms up. ”The Americans are already fighting in Europe and Africa. Eventually, they will lose their appet.i.te for another war in Asia. Any peace between the j.a.panese and the Allies would mean the end of China. Shanghai would be lost forever.”
Sunny saw his point, and it saddened her. Before the j.a.panese invasion, she would never have considered herself a patriot. Her country had been consumed by civil unrest and regional strife since before she was born. China was more of a loose affiliation of regional cultures, languages and ethnicities than a single nation. And nowhere was that more evident than in Shanghai. Politically and culturally, the city had always seemed to her as British or French as it ever did Chinese-more its own ent.i.ty, a city state, than part of China. But Sunny loved her hometown with all her heart, and she embodied the paradox of East meeting West that was Shanghai. The idea of living the rest of her life under the j.a.panese was too horrible to consider. She thought of Simon forced into permanent hiding while his wife raised their baby alone. And what about her own family's legacy? Although she would not be perpetuating the family name, she owed it to her father to continue his lineage. But how could she introduce a child of her own into this mess?
Wen-Cheng studied her intently. ”Does Franz know?”
”That I was coming here to meet you? No.”
He nodded knowingly but said nothing.
Sunny remembered the last time she had raised the subject of the Resistance with her husband. Franz had responded angrily, one of the few times he had ever raised his voice with her. ”Anyone from the ghetto who a.s.sists the Underground is no more than a selfish fool!” he cried. When she wondered how someone could be considered selfish for risking their own life, he snapped back, ”To aid the Resistance is to risk the lives of everyone in the ghetto.”
Guilt bubbled inside her. ”Franz is dead set against refugees partic.i.p.ating in subversion of any sort.”
Wen-Cheng snorted. ”It's not their fight, is it?”
”It's not that at all. Franz hates how the j.a.panese treat the locals. To him, it's no different from how the n.a.z.is bully the Jews.” She exhaled slowly. ”He worries that if any refugee were to be caught aiding the Underground, it would have devastating repercussions for the whole community.”
”And for his hospital.”