Chapter 20

20.
“Souvenir d’un Lieu Cher, Op. 42: No. 2. Scherzo: Tchaikovsky”

It didn’t take much legwork on BaiLan’s part to procure a testimonial letter for Maestro Streng. The Conservatory’s dean, a music lover by the name of Chen, was more than willing to help after she relayed her story of woe and offered to use her name to vouch for him. Chen was a good man who enjoyed surrounding himself with music though he himself couldn’t play a note. Tortured by this reality, he dedicated his life to aiding and abetting musicians in their various plights and gained satisfaction as a byproduct. He also liked being owed favors.

BaiLan sat for nearly two hours in Chen’s office while he drafted the testimonial letter as slowly as possible while going over the risks with her numerous times. This was followed by the obligatory music discussion in which, Chen got to discuss obscure composers and conductors that no one had ever heard of to make himself seem knowledgeable. Then, as was the usual protocol, she played for him.

“That was beautiful, BaiLan,” he said when she was through with Fauré, “I’ve been working on a little something myself, on the piano. Now, I don’t claim to be a musician, not at all, but I do love Brahms.”

Then he would blunder painfully through the Intermezzo in A Minor while BaiLan tried to seem impressed. This process never really bothered her before. As a student she always felt honored when a teacher put aside special time with her. But knowing that the letter over which he fussed could reunite her with Joshua lessened her patience with the man.

When he finally handed over the precious document she wasted no time, practically running from the Conservatory back to the house where she boiled water for a pot of tea, set the letter in front of her, and waited.

But waited for what? Max to return? As far as he knew she had gone to Hong Kong. What reason would he have to come back? There was no way that she knew of getting word to anyone inside the ghetto, so as she sipped her tea in the large empty house, she felt her hope fade with the light until there was very little of either left.

In the dark her thoughts ran wild. What if something had happened to him? What if he was harmed? Or what if he had been killed and his last thoughts were, “why didn’t she come for me? Why didn’t she help?”

BaiLan lit a lantern in the drafty kitchen and ran the oven for warmth. She had moved herself into the pantry for the most part since it was no longer necessary to heat the whole house. She had set up a mattress on a pile of boxes and it was here she spent the long winter night, deep in thought, trying to figure out how to get the testimonial letter to Joshua. There was only one foreseeable way. She would take it to him herself.

The next morning, she rose at dawn, bathed and dressed plainly. Instead of her black coat with the fur collar, she wore an old coat the maid had left behind and wrapped her head in a drably colored scarf. To keep her calloused hands warm she wore gardening gloves. She silently thanked Max for the inspiration of disguise, for when she was done she hardly resembled herself.

At first light she snuck out of the garden via a break in the stone wall near the back of the property that had acted as a porthole to different dimensions when she was a child. It was odd to creep through it now under these circumstances, but it made her feel safer to do so, to let everyone who may or may not have been watching, think that she had gone on to Hong Kong with her family and that the old house was empty. She was invisible. Keeping out of their sight lines like a slice of old bread on a string hovering above an unsuspecting anthill--she’d even adopted his metaphors.

On the street she kept to the shadows. Her heart was pounding harder and harder in her chest the closer she got to Gongping Road, the western boarder of HongKew, which seemed a good a place as any to enter.

HongKew was a wall less prison. Its borders loosely patrolled by the Japanese. Strict patrols were not necessary since any westerner caught on the outside would be instantly recognized and asked to produce a pass. Passes were like golden tickets for refugees who had little or no means of making a living within its borders. Food was scarce, money even scarcer. The stateless persons were packed in tightly with the local poor Chinese most of whom took the plight of their new neighbors to heart, providing lodging at the expense of their comfort and food at the expense of their stomachs. It was with these peasants that BaiLan hoped to blend. For the rest, she counted on luck and the gravitational pull of the ever-existing radius to draw her like a magnet to the needle she sought within the ghetto’s vile haystack.

Gongping Road was as near to empty as any street in Shanghai had ever been. A lurking body here, a scuffle there, an elderly couple inching down the street at a snail’s pace, a middle-aged man out for a brisk morning walk, school children, a vendor or two. Empty.

BaiLan walked along the curb heading south, and without looking up, crossed the street in a long diagonal till before she knew it, she was on the side of the street that marked the western edge of HongKew. Elated, she jumped the curb and made her way quickly towards the interior clutching the letter deep inside her pocket.

The smell hit her first. It was an eerie prelude to the beggar’s opera that saturated her senses. All along the streets were familiar tableaus of suffering, but it was the frequency and intensity in which they were presented that caused her stomach to churn. It reminded her of the human traffic in the train station, only multiplied infinitely. Even the early morning hinted of chaos as scores of bodies huddled together here and there for warmth. One heart wrenching sight caught her eye, a young mother wailing over the blue face of her infant who hadn’t made it through the night. Not knowing what to do, BaiLan moved on, trying not to look back.

She wandered the streets for hours as the unforgiving day whipped up a wind that cut through the ghetto like jian swords. With every step she took she could feel her hope fading. She had even begun to ask people if they knew of Joshua or the white boy who went by the name XinSi. No one did. At last, when she could no longer feel her fingers inside the coarse and dirty gardening gloves, she took refuge in a small café, its signpost written in Russian.

The cafe was no warmer inside than outside, but at least there was no wind. The place seemed deserted. Glass cases that once held pastries now stood empty and naked. Tables were pushed to the perimeter with their chairs turned up, hanging off the floor like sleeping bats. In the back corner a section lined with cozy red leather booths turned from a pleasant place to enjoy lunch to prime real estate for the creative refugee, as it seemed several people had made camp there, the tables overturned for privacy, creating bunker-like barriers to keep out rodents and draft.

It was then she realized that she hadn’t wandered into a café at all, but into someone’s home and turned on her heel to leave, apologizing to the air. But before she could escape, a voice called to her in German.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry,” BaiLan’s heart was in her throat, and though her instinct was to flee, she felt she might as well ask after Joshua. Her hand was on the doorframe when she stopped and turned to face an angel with a scar along the right side of his face.
The Russian was crawling out from behind one of the café table barricades. He seemed confused by her smile so she lowered the scarf encasing her head.

“It’s been a while, Anton.”

“Do I know you?”

“I’m a former apprentice of Joshua Streng. We met a Jin’s.”

“BaiLan?”

It turned out the Russian did know her. Not as much from his own clouded, alcohol-addled memory, as from his friend Streng’s daily poetic dissertations on the movements of her shoulders. He smiled. The girl had come after all.

“They’re in the Kremlin; a real room, with beds. Not like here. Coffee?” he asked her.
“You have coffee?”

“It’s the one thing we do have. The former owner of this place liked to be prepared for anything. He’s got enough beans back there to caffeinate the Soochow.”

BaiLan nodded. She hated coffee but the concept of a warm beverage won out. Anton set up a small table and two chairs in the middle of the room and went into the kitchen to boil the water while he spoke with her from beyond a tattered curtain.

“The word was you went to Hong Kong. Max made me promise not to tell Streng.”

“Where are they?”

“Not far.”

BaiLan was suddenly sorry she had agreed to the coffee. Knowing that Joshua wasn’t far made her feet itch. Or maybe it was just them thawing. She tried to appear patient.

“How are things on the outside?” Anton sat at the table with her and slid a cup of hot black coffee into her waiting hands.

“Freezing. The wind…” But he didn’t mean the weather. She corrected herself with a blush. “Not good. But better than, you know…” Her face was the only part of her that felt hot.

Anton stared. “Miss Bai, you know there are ways to procure passes out of here. Work permits. For example you may need a caretaker, or a gardener…”

BaiLan looked at her gloves wilting on the table between them. “A gardener? The ground is frozen.”

“Or a caretaker?”

She knew what he was getting at. “Is that to be the price?”

“There is no price.” He could have been offended by her remark, but he wasn’t. “I saw Joshua Streng play a concert in Moscow, years ago. He played Tchaikovsky. The Souvenir d'un Lieu Cher.” Anton paused as if hearing the piece in his memory. “All I can ask is if the mood takes you, or if you ever need a caretaker…”

She reached out and put her hand on his. “I’ll see what I can do.” She wondered as she sipped her coffee if she meant it, and she was surprised to find that she did.

Moments later they crossed the square. The wind had died down a bit and the day seemed to have gotten a hold of itself, at least somewhat. Things that had appeared chaotic earlier didn’t feel as terrible now. Maybe this was because she was on her way to see him. She couldn’t be sure. Then, as they took a turn off the square and down a narrow street stacked with buildings all askew, she heard his music and knew--she was bewitched. In the distance he played Mendelssohn to greet this most lovely of mornings. On the breeze she could swear she smelled wild flowers.

BaiLan picked up her pace, racing ahead of Anton, letting her scarf fall away.

Anton stopped to retrieve it. “Miss Bai, you don’t know the way,” he called.
But such details were not important. She followed the music into the dark, narrow hallway of a dilapidated tenement. Clinging ever so barely to one wall was a staircase up which she flew without hesitation. First floor, second floor, here. She came to the door. She tried the handle. It was locked. She knocked. The door opened. A woman.

“Ja?”

The whole room looked her way. Joshua stopped playing. He stood dumbstruck by the window. He looked thinner. Beside him on the floor sat a flaxen-haired little girl. Madame Butterfly was still in bed covered up to her double chins in silk blankets. Max and Horowitz were by the stove. Max was lighting a cigarette in its blue flame. The woman by the door must have been Frau Horowitz. Her hair was the same color as the child’s.

BaiLan stepped past her, her lungs on fire from running in the bitter cold. Her heavy breath was the only sound in the room. It was Joshua who spoke first.

“What are you doing here?”

BaiLan’s face fell. Her whole being fell, so much so that it made it hard to stand.
Anton could be heard on the stairs. In seconds he was behind her. “Look what I found!”
Joshua’s brow furrowed. “Get inside, both of you.”

It took a while for the household to excuse themselves considering that the house in question was only one room. There was a sort of dressing room where the Horowitz’s slept that led to the bathroom so it was decided that they would wait in there while Joshua had a word with BaiLan and Anton. Max showed no intention of leaving, and Frau Schmetterling was in no state to get out of bed, so they made it a family affair with BaiLan at the center, her stomach full of butterflies due to the manner in which she was received.

Joshua seemed somber as he sat to face her, his eyes on the floor. “Why did you leave Hong Kong?”

Max shot Anton a look, which Anton did his best to ignore.

“I never went.”

“BaiLan…”

But she stopped him. “I got you this. It’s a testimonial letter from Dean Chen. It says the Conservatory needs you. You can use it to get a pass out of here.”

Joshua took the letter and looked it over slowly.

“You should go,” Max got into bed next to Frau Schmetterling.

“Go where?” Asked the old woman who had just that second become aware the conversation.

“To the conservatory, Ling.” Max had given Frau Schmetterling the most obvious of Chinese nicknames, which she seemed to thoroughly enjoy.

“Now?”

“Not you. Joshua.” Max took a drag off his cigarette and blew smoke rings up into the air above Frau Schmetterling.

She raised her pudgy hand and pierced them with a pointed finger. “It’s dangerous to smoke in bed, Maxala.”

“Ling, you remember LanLan, right? She played you the Beethoven.”

“I do love Beethoven,” and she began to hum the Ninth Symphony in three different keys.
Joshua went to the window. “This isn’t a guarantee you know. I’d have to get it past Kuboto,” Joshua sat on the sill, meeting her eyes, “he hates tall people.”

“I’ll go with you.” BaiLan said.

“No, Lan--”

“I’ll go for you,” Max chimed in. He had become Joshua’s knight lately, a shining manifestation of his guilt.

“Max, no. You are all very kind, but it…” He trailed off and looked at BaiLan with such grief she was sure he had stopped loving her and couldn’t bring himself to say the words. “LanLan, may I speak to you outside please?”

Her heart burned as she followed him into the hallway and closed the door leaving them in virtual darkness. Once they were alone he embraced her, all of her, and she felt like a child in his arms. He kissed her chin, the slope of her neck, her shoulders down to her fingertips. Her relief was so profound she couldn’t help but sob against his chest.

“I though you changed your mind about me.”

“And I thought you went to Hong Kong.”

“I tried. I couldn’t leave you.”

“Meine Blume, you must go. I won’t be responsible for putting you in harm’s way by staying here.” He didn’t look at her as he said this. “You must join your family in Hong Kong, where it’s safe.”

“Safe?” She pulled back from him and nearly lost her footing on the slanted landing. “It’s not safe in Hong Kong, Joshua. It’s safer, but it won’t be for long. I don’t want to run. Shanghai is my home.”

“Please, LanLan, have mercy on a crippled old heart.” He pleaded with her to go, but his eyes begged her to stay.

She reached up and held his face in her hands. “Take the letter, get a pass, we need you at the Conservatory.”

And with that, he took her hands in his and kissed her for what felt like an eternity of stillness.

“Thank you,” was all he could think to say, as it was clear her mind was made up.
A bit later after much deliberation, it was decided that Joshua should go to see General Kuboto alone and that BaiLan was to wait for him so that once he got the pass, he could see her personally home. Anton would accompany him to the offices and wait for him outside. He wanted to be on hand if something went wrong, since it was rare that things went smooth when dealing with Kuboto.

The Japanese General in charge of virtually all refugee related business in the ghetto was vertically challenged. Not a day when by that he didn’t make someone suffer for being taller than he was. In Joshua’s case this was definitely an issue, as he stood taller than most Europeans. Seeing Kuboto in the flesh was guaranteed to provoke a negative response.

When the men left, Frau Horowitz prepared a modest breakfast of rice porridge but BaiLan was too nervous to eat. The minutes ticked by and turned into hours. It started to snow.

By late afternoon, the sky was beginning to darken. Max was pacing the floor. He would have gone to investigate the situation himself, but due to a previous run in with Kuboto’s men he couldn’t see how his being there would help Joshua’s situation. Horowitz was the increasingly likely choice though Frau Horowitz forbade it. They argued, and just as BaiLan was about to pull on her gloves and go herself, the door opened and Anton entered looking winded and perplexed.

“Where is he?” BaiLan was on her feet, but she sank to her knees when Anton closed the door behind him and took a seat near the stove, which had been running all day for warmth.

“We waited for hours,” he said once BaiLan got a hold of herself and perched on the foot of Frau Schmetterling’s bed. “Then they called Joshua’s name. I waited as close to the door as I could, but there was a guard there, one who knew me by reputation, and I was escorted out face first into the snow. Still, I was able to watch the whole meeting through a window.”

“What happened?”

“It’s hard to say. I couldn’t hear. It happened so fast. Kuboto, he was in a rage, yelling and pointing. I can only guess he wanted Joshua to kneel. Then…”

“Anton,” BaiLan was in a panic.

Frau Schmetterling put her hand on the trembling girl’s shoulder. “Quiet now, let the man speak,” she said, having a rare moment of lucidity.

Anton took a breath and began again, running his fingers mindlessly along the length of his scar. “He dragged a chair over from the other side of the room and sat to face him at eye level. That’s when they took him down.”

“What does that mean, Anton? Took him down? What does that mean?”

“They roughed him up. I can only assume he was arrested. I waited. I waited for forty minutes for him to come out, but…”

BaiLan couldn’t listen to any more of it. “I’ll go. I’ll talk to them.” She was half way to the door when the men stopped her. Max took her by the shoulders, sat her down and spoke to her in Mandarin.

“LanLan, don’t. Listen to me? Please? Remember the story about the bread? I know he told you. I was there. Maestro wouldn’t want you putting yourself in danger for him. Right now you don’t exist to the Japanese, but if you go down there you are making them aware of your existence and that will never work in your favor. Stay invisible. They arrested me too. That day I came to see you. They caught me sneaking back in. Sure, I got a beating and spent the night in a hole of a room, but in the morning they let me go and that is exactly what is going to happen here. Stay with us tonight and in the morning I promise you he will come walking in through that door. I promise you. If he doesn’t then I will take you to Kuboto myself. That’s how things work here. Understand?”

BaiLan nodded. She would give Max his night, but she refused to either eat or sleep. This was not a struggle since they had little food and Max, whose bed she shared, was plagued by nightmares and tossed and turned the night away. One tremor was so violent it shook him from sleep and he shot up in a cold sweat.

“Max?” She whispered, “you were dreaming. Are you all right?”

The light of dawn had him puzzled by her presence. Perhaps seeing her made him think he was still dreaming. Perhaps that was why he said what he said.

“Miss Bai, I’ve killed three people in my life; my parents, and Hanna. No, I’m not all right.”

But just as she was about to question him, to shake him from such a wicked dream, the doorknob turned. It was Joshua, with a bloodied lip clutching a bright blue pass.