As Sunny headed to the bedroom, Franz's thoughts drifted to his American friend. He had last seen Simon two days earlier, at the refugee hospital, as they waited together for Joey to show up with a vehicle to move him.

Dressed in the straw hat and ragged pants of a coolie, Joey arrived rolling a honey wagon ahead of him like a wheelbarrow. Even the normally unflappable Simon was distressed by the stench that seeped out from the oversized barrel.

"I washed it myself, Mr. Simon," Joey explained apologetically. "And look." He reached into the barrel and pulled out a worryingly full bucket of waste.

Franz and Simon peered inside the barrel and saw that the s.p.a.ce beneath the bucket, where Simon was to hide, appeared relatively clean. Simon looked a little green, but he forced a chuckle. "Wonder if my family back home still thinks I'm living in the lap of luxury."

Joey brought a hand to his chest. "Boss, with me driving, it will be a short ride."

Simon motioned to the sloshing bucket. "Slow and steady, Joey, while I'm riding under that thing." He closed his eyes. "Slow and steady."

Franz patted Simon's shoulder. "It will not be too long."

Simon breathed through his mouth. "I can survive an hour or two. I think."

"I meant that we will soon find somewhere more suitable for you to live."

"I'm kind of looking forward to rooming with Ernst," Simon said. "I get a kick out of him. He's so cynical-he would make a good Jew. A good New Yorker, too, for that matter."

"Except he lives in the heart of Germantown."

"So what?" Simon rolled his eyes. "I'm not marching in any parades."

"The last time Sunny visited, Baron von Puttkamer came over unannounced."

"I'll keep a low profile," Simon promised. "As long as I am near Essie and my boy, I don't care if I have to hide under the sofa while Goring and Goebbels have tea."

Joey helped Simon into the barrel. As he crouched down inside, he looked back up at Franz with uncharacteristic hesitation. "This . . . this can't last forever, can it?"

"The tide is turning against the j.a.panese and the Germans," Franz said, hoping he didn't sound as half-hearted as he felt.

"Ready, boss?" Joey asked.

Simon gave him a wry grin. "Remember, Joey: slow and steady."

The young man slid the waste-filled bucket into the slot above his head and carefully wedged it into place.

Franz was still thinking about Simon as the door to the flat opened and Esther entered, holding Jakob over her shoulder. As soon as she lowered the baby to the floor, he stirred, reaching for his favourite wooden rattle, giving it a drowsy shake.

Franz noticed Esther's pallor. "What is the matter, Essie?"

"Oh, that man . . ." Her voice was shaky.

"What man?"

"Mr. Ghoya."

"What has he done now?"

Esther's eyes swept down to Jakob before focusing on Franz. "I went to see him to ask for a pa.s.s to visit Simon."

"And?"

"He asked me all sorts of strange questions. Still, he seemed to be in a good mood. Everyone in line had said so. He even signed my pa.s.s."

"So what went wrong?"

"Well, he asked me where I lived." She squeezed her forehead. "When I told him, Ghoya asked if I knew you."

As Franz rose to his feet, the wounds on his back throbbed. "You didn't tell him that you lived with Hannah and me, did you?"

"I didn't know what to say. That little man, he became so agitated. He started screaming." Her face crumpled. "He jumped onto his desk, Franz! Can you imagine? Such a scene."

"You told him?"

"Only that you used to be my brother-in-law. Not that we lived together."

"What did he say?"

Esther slumped down into the chair that Franz had just vacated. "Ghoya said that no one in our family would ever leave the ghetto again. No, he didn't say it. He shrieked it."

"Oh, Essie."

"What am I to do?" Esther murmured. "I will never be allowed out, and Simon cannot get back inside. He will never see his son again."

"Yes, he will," Sunny said from the doorway. "I will take Jakob to him."

CHAPTER 36.

October 18, 1943 Jakob hadn't made a sound during their journey through the International Settlement, but despite the baby's cooperation, they made slow progress. Sunny stopped to feed him a bottle of milk and then again a block later to change his diaper in the backroom of a teashop that was run by a friendly old Shanghainese woman. Sunny couldn't resist taking other breaks along the way, too, to rub noses with him, tickle his belly or swoosh him through the air-anything to elicit another one of his giggles.

Sunny was happy for the distraction. She'd spent much of the past few days, and sleepless nights, thinking about her last conversation with Wen-Cheng. Two days earlier, he had whispered a request to meet her in private. As soon as they were alone in the staff room, Wen-Cheng asked, "Have you found a way into Kubota's office yet?"

She held out a hand, palm up. "I cannot do it."

"Cannot or will not?"

"You, too, Wen-Cheng?" She hung her head. "Does it really matter which?"

"No." He sighed. "It's better this way. Whatever the Underground intends for you to do will only have terrible consequences."

"What will they do now?"

"The old man and the others, they have grown impatient."

"So they will make other plans?"

"I believe they already have."

She hesitated. "What does that mean for me?"

He broke off eye contact. "I . . . I am not certain."

"These men. They are fighting for China. For us."

"It's true." He paused and then added, "And they will do whatever they deem necessary to protect their cause."

There was no mistaking his tone. Sunny shivered. "I see."

"I never should have let it come to this."

"Stop it, Wen-Cheng. We have been through this too many times."

Wen-Cheng's expression was suddenly melancholic. "If only I had had the courage five years ago to leave my wife. It could have been so different for us."

Sunny reached a hand out but stopped short of touching him. "Everything has happened for a reason. You cannot blame yourself."

"I feel no blame, Sunny. Only regret."

She didn't know what to say, so she bit her lip and nodded.

His expression hardened. "You will be all right, Sunny. That I promise you."

She smiled. "Wen-Cheng, what can you possibly do?"

"Whatever I have to," he murmured and then repeated in a firmer tone, "Whatever I have to."

Sunny shook off the unsettling memory of the determined look in Wen-Cheng's pale eyes. She pulled Jakob against her chest. It felt so natural to cradle him that way. She wondered again when she and Franz might have a baby of their own, though she recognized the absurdity of the thought, particularly in light of what Wen-Cheng had implied about the Underground's intentions.

As Sunny reached the edge of Germantown, she saw swastikas fluttering overhead like laundry on a clothesline. Before she had met Franz-before war had decimated Shanghai-she used to giggle through the newsreels that played before the matinees, the goose-stepping n.a.z.is with their ubiquitous flags. She thought of the nightclub comedian she had once seen: his. .h.i.tler impersonation had evoked convulsions of laughter from the audience.

No one was laughing anymore.

Sunny made eye contact with a tall European man in a homburg who stood on the other side of the street. He returned her gaze, but his expression was hostile. She turned and hurried up the steps to Ernst's apartment. Without thinking, she rapped on the door using the secret knock she shared with Jia-Li.

"Ja?" Ernst asked through the door. "Who's there?"

"Sunny."

The door flew open and Ernst stepped out in a tattered, paint-speckled shirt. A cigarette burned between his fingers. "Well, if it isn't my mixed-blooded courtesan herself," he joked, kissing her on both cheeks and pulling her by the elbow inside the flat. He nodded at Jakob. "And look. You've come bearing gifts."

Even more canvases now cluttered the small room. Some lay on the floor while others were stacked against the walls. Most of them appeared unfinished, with whole sections that were sketched and uncoloured, or completely blank. She even spotted a portrait of herself-presumably sketched to cover Ernst's lies about their relationship-propped against the wall.

Simon's head popped out from the corridor. As soon as he spotted Jakob, he dashed across the room with arms outstretched. "My boy!"

Simon eased Jakob out of Sunny's arms and covered his head in kisses. He brought his face up to his son's and cooed. Jakob responded with a happy squeal. Simon laughed. "Name one thing in this world that smells as good as my boy-just one thing!"

"Have you ever cracked open a fresh bottle of Hennessy?" Ernst asked. "Its bouquet is not of this world. Beyond compare."

"Do you hear that, Jake?" Simon said. "Uncle Ernst thinks you don't smell as good as hooch."

"Please, never 'hooch,'" Ernst protested. "Only the world's most delicious cognac."

Simon glanced at Sunny. "Where's Essie?"

"She couldn't come, Simon."

His back stiffened slightly. "She's okay, though?"

"She couldn't secure a pa.s.s."

"Next time," Simon a.s.sured his son. "Mommy will visit Daddy next time, isn't that right, fella?"

Sunny laid a hand lightly on his shoulder. "Esther can't leave the ghetto, Simon."

His face fell. "Ever?"

Sunny told him about Esther's run-in with Ghoya. Simon gritted his teeth. "That miniature tyrant. He can't stop us."

"Of course he can, Simon. Dwarf or not. In this new world, all that matters is the size of the gun," Ernst muttered. "Those with the biggest, they make the rules now."

Simon bounced Jakob in his arms. "I'm sick of their stupid rules," he exclaimed.

"What choice is there?" Sunny asked.

Simon looked up at her with a sad, almost apologetic, smile. "Look, Sunny, I know what a burden I've become for you all. I hate it. But I have no choice. It's my family. I got out of the internment camp to be close to them. Same for the Comfort Home. And I will leave here, too-in a heartbeat-to see Essie again."

"Simon, what happened with Ghoya . . . it's all still very raw," Sunny said sympathetically. "See what the next few weeks bring before you do anything rash." She stopped herself from offering any hollow rea.s.surances about Ghoya reconsidering.

"She's right." Ernst extracted a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offered one to Simon, who, to Sunny's surprise, accepted.

With the baby in his arms, Simon waved off Ernst's lighter. Instead, he tucked the cigarette behind his ear. "I can wait a week, maybe two. But no longer, I swear. I will go right out of my head."

"A week or two," Ernst echoed through a cloud of smoke. "In that time, I will transform you into a painter." He gestured toward one of the smaller canvases propped up against the wall. "Look, Sunny. The work of our American hero. What do you think?"

Sunny overcame her surprise and stepped closer to examine the painting: a greenish-blue vase bursting with yellow daffodils. Although it looked amateurish beside Ernst's work, it wasn't bad. "I had no idea you could paint, Simon."

"You gotta be kidding, Sunny," he grunted. "Poor old Van Gogh must be spinning in his grave."

"I doubt that tortured soul ever stops spinning," Ernst said. "Still, Sunny is correct. You have ability. That one is rubbish, of course." He waved his hand at the paintings scattered around the room. "But really not so different from the tripe I paint these days."

Simon pointed at a stack of canvases in the far corner. "Show her the real one, Ernst."