Part 31 (2/2)
Sunny looked over to Franz, her expression businesslike. ”We have to mobilize the ghetto. Post our own watches outside public buildings.”
”Organize the young men. A good idea, yes,” Franz mumbled, snapping out of his shock. ”What about after curfew? How can we watch at nighttime?”
”The Germans will not be allowed on the streets after curfew either,” Sunny pointed out.
”Let's hope not,” Ernst said.
Halfway up the pathway to the hospital, Franz stopped to study the old structure. Five years earlier, before it had been converted into a hospital, the building had barely withstood the j.a.panese aerial bombing. As his gaze ran over its patched roof, taped windows and pockmarked walls, he realized it wouldn't take much for it to collapse now.
As Franz made his way onto the ward, he wondered what the point was in continuing to offer patchwork medical care to the wretched Shanghai Jews. Even if the n.a.z.is didn't target the hospital, how could he be of any help if the saboteurs attacked the ghetto? What did he have left to offer anyone? It all seemed so futile.
Still, Franz suspected that he would go out of his mind if he deviated from his routine. There were post-operative patients to tend to and, other than Sunny and him, no other surgeons were left at the hospital.
Franz had not been sorry to see Wen-Cheng go. His suspicions about Wen-Cheng's involvement in Colonel Kubota's death aside, Franz had never fully curbed his jealousy. Although he trusted Sunny completely, he couldn't jettison his doubts, irrational as they were, that Wen-Cheng might somehow find a way to win her back.
Franz spotted Max down the hallway and caught up with the internist as he stepped into his makes.h.i.+ft laboratory. Max pointed to the slides beside his desktop microscope. ”Two more confirmed cases of cholera,” he sighed. ”Even the parasites are not taking a winter break from tormenting us Jews.”
”We have bigger problems.”
”Than cholera?” Max raised an eyebrow. ”You remember our last outbreak? That daughter of yours turned out be one of the luckier ones. We were burying people for days and days. I doubt we have ever seen-”
”The Germans are planning to bomb us, Max.”
The older man's face fell. ”What? Here in the hospital?”
”Somewhere in the ghetto.”
Max slumped into his chair and listened in silence as Franz shared what he knew. ”We have to convene an emergency meeting of the community leaders,” Franz concluded. ”We must organize a watch.”
”To monitor the ghetto?”
”It's not so large,” Franz said. ”There can only be so many possible targets. Besides, it wouldn't be easy for the n.a.z.is to sneak in unnoticed, if we were watching for them.”
”So let's say one of our young men is fortunate enough to catch the n.a.z.is planting a bomb,” Max said. ”Then what? How would we stop them?”
”We haven't worked out those details. At the very least, they would be able to warn people.”
Max cupped his chin in his hand. ”Why bother, Franz?”
”To save lives.”
”Yes, but for how long?” Max asked. ”Next month-next week, perhaps-it will be something else. Starvation? Another disease? A bigger bomb? Or some other n.a.z.i scheme that is even worse than the last?”
”You can't think that way,” Franz said, though he couldn't help share in his friend's pessimism.
”Don't you see, Franz? The n.a.z.is . . . Hitler . . . they will never let us be. And for whatever reason, G.o.d refuses to intervene. 'The chosen people?'” Max scoffed. ”Couldn't be further from the truth! It would be far more accurate to call us the 'cursed people.'”
Franz thought of Max's daughter and her family. The man had every right to his views, but Franz would still need his help in mobilizing the community. ”Listen, Max, this is a crisis. Now is not the time for-”
The sound of heavy footsteps cut him off. He heard shouting from somewhere down the hallway and hurried out of the lab to investigate, Max on his heels.
Two soldiers stormed toward them. Franz froze at the sight of their white armbands. Not now! Don't take me now, of all times.
A gaunt Kempeitai officer stopped in front of them. He swung a finger from Max to Franz and back. ”Feinstein, Maxwell!” he barked.
Max's face paled and he shot Franz a terrified glance. ”Don't tell my Sarah, Franz,” he whispered. ”Her weak heart. She cannot know that-”
”Feinstein!” the Kempeitai screamed.
Max stepped forward. ”I . . . I am Dr. Feinstein,” he stammered.
”You come!”
”Why?” Max held up his hands. ”I have done nothing wrong.”
”Come now!”
Max turned to Franz. ”Think of an excuse, Franz. Anything! Sarah can never know what-”
The Kempeitai officer slammed his fist into Max's stomach. As Max doubled over in pain, the soldier caught him by the hair. He jerked Max's head forward and swung his knee into it, breaking his nose with a crunch.
Franz moved toward Max, but the other Kempeitai man clamped a hand across his shoulder and spun him backwards.
Gasping for breath, Max struggled to straighten up. Blood poured from his nose and down his face. His lips parted into a grotesque smile. ”The chosen people, ach!” he grunted. ”Protect my Sarah, Franz.”
CHAPTER 42.
Franz's fingers had gone numb despite the gloves' wool lining. He had been standing in the cold outside the Bureau of Stateless Refugee Affairs for hours. Even though he had reached Ghoya's headquarters minutes after the curfew lifted at seven o'clock, at least twenty refugees were already lined up ahead of him. The queue now snaked behind him as far as he could see, and the doors still had not even opened.
As Franz waited in line, his imagination ran wild with possible scenarios involving von Puttkamer and his ”spectacular” bomb plot. He had no interest in conversing with the others in line, but the talkative man one spot ahead of him had insisted on drawing him into conversation, even though Franz had turned away and feigned difficulty hearing.
”You remember me from the hospital, Dr. Adler? Ja, surely. I am Samuel Eisler. My sister, Gisela Silverstein, Frau Silverstein, yes? You removed her gall bladder in the spring of '40.”
”Ah, of course, yes,” Franz said, but he had only a faint memory of the operation and none whatsoever of Eisler. ”How is your sister?”
”She is fine, but she is a real kvetcher, you know? Always troubled by something or other.”
Eisler wanted to talk. He had apparently been a successful tailor in Munich and had married the most beautiful girl at his local synagogue before his Goldgraber of a wife ended up leaving him for a rich lawyer. Franz learned this and much more as they waited for Ghoya's office to open.
”Did you hear that American broadcast last week?” Eisler said next, heedless of the risk of being overheard. Listening to Allied stations was forbidden-people had been shot for less-and there were at least a few j.a.panese soldiers within earshot.
Franz turned away. ”I have no access to a wireless of any kind,” he said, loud enough for the nearest guard to hear.
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