"Ach, why would she be interested?"

Sunny nodded encouragingly. "Please, Ernst. Show me."

"It's hardly more than a doodle." He exhaled a puff of smoke. "I had to do something of . . . of substance before I went out of my mind with this flea market work."

Sunny stepped over to the corner of the room.

"The one closest to the wall," Simon instructed.

Sunny moved two large canvases aside, picked up a smaller one buried behind them and turned it outward. At first glance, she mistook the subject of the portrait for Jia-Li. On closer inspection, she saw that the model had a fuller figure and a wider face than Jia-Li's, with crow's feet that had yet to visit the corners of her friend's eyes. Still, the woman's expression hinted at the boredom she so often saw in Jia-Li's. Ernst had painted the woman in the same stark style of his pre-war portraits: naked on her back, with legs crossed and arms held above her head, hands folded behind her neck. Sunny could not tell whether the woman was lying on a mattress or the ground, since the background was unpainted. Her skin was nearly as pale the canvas but for her pink nipples and the wisps of dark hair between her legs. But Sunny was most struck by the ragged horizontal lines that ran up the woman's arms like rungs of a ladder.

The scars reminded her of a teenager she used to see at the Country Hospital. The girl had witnessed the rape and murder of her own mother during a j.a.panese raid, from inside the wicker box where the woman had hidden her. In the ensuing months, her father brought the girl to the hospital on several occasions for care of self-inflicted slash wounds to her wrists. One day, the man returned to the hospital alone to tell Sunny that his daughter had cut the artery too deeply for anyone to help.

Sunny angled her head to study the painting. "What does it represent, Ernst?"

"Represent?" Ernst snorted. "Nothing. It's just a painting."

"I see beauty and vulnerability," Simon said. "And pain, of course. Agonizing pain. All those scars on her arms that will never heal."

"Such nonsense," Ernst scoffed. "You sound exactly like Franz, finding meaning where there is none. All this symbolizes is my revulsion over having to paint yet another Brandenburg Gate or Alpine meadow for those n.a.z.i philistines."

At the mention of the Germans, Sunny peeled her eyes from the canvas. "Ernst, that dinner at von Puttkamer's? Did you go?"

"I did, yes."

"What was it like?"

"The food was divine. There was a scrumptious sauerbraten. The meat was done to perfection, and it was served with delicious claret. The company, on the other hand . . ." He exhaled heavily.

"Who was there?" Sunny asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Obersturmfuhrer this, and Sturmhauptfuhrer that. All those self-important fools and their pompous t.i.tles and uniforms. Like a bunch of children playing dress-up."

"What about the ghetto?" Sunny asked. "Did they talk about their plans for the refugees?"

"Only in the vaguest terms," Ernst admitted. "I tried to bring it up with von Puttkamer, but he said he didn't want to discuss anything so unpleasant at such a happy occasion."

"So unpleasant?" Sunny balled her hands into fists. "What did he mean by that?"

"Who knows? The baron probably spouts anti-Semitic rhetoric in his sleep. After dinner, when von Puttkamer was really quite sauced, I asked him again. He just carried on about showing 'those Jews' what's what and suchlike. No specifics at all."

"Perhaps they have given up?"

"You heard what von Puttkamer said-right here in this very room." Ernst shook his head. "No. They have a plan."

Simon hoisted Jakob above his head. The baby squealed again in delight. "Maybe we need a plan of our own."

"A plan for what?" Sunny asked.

"Dealing with the baron."

"Here we go again." Ernst turned to Sunny. "Our American friend here spends half his time scheming. He believes we can cripple the Third Reich with a decisive attack on Germantown. Apparently Shanghai, not the Eastern Front, is. .h.i.tler's Achilles heel."

"Why not?" Simon demanded.

Sunny's nerves felt raw. "Why not what?"

"Deal with von Puttkamer. A pre-emptive strike."

"You are not serious, Simon?" she gasped.

As Simon rocked Jakob his face turned to stone. "Would it be better to just sit back and wait for those animals to attack the ghetto? To just hope they don't kill too many women and children?"

Sunny left Ernst's flat feeling more disheartened than ever. Even Jakob, nestling in her chest and snoring softly, could not lift her spirits. Sunny could see that Simon was serious. She understood his point, too. Perhaps an attack on von Puttkamer was their best hope for protecting the ghetto.

"It would never work," she murmured to herself. The n.a.z.is reminded her of some kind of multi-headed Hydra. Lopping off one head would only engender angrier replacements.

Her sense of suffocation intensified as she crossed back over the Garden Bridge and re-entered Hongkew. Threats seemed to lurk in every nook and cranny these days: the j.a.panese, the n.a.z.is and even the Underground-her own people. She glanced down at Jakob in her arms. I must be out of my mind to even fantasize about bringing a baby into such a dangerous world.

As she reached the intersection, Sunny saw the ghetto checkpoint a few blocks ahead. She was about to cross the street but paused when she saw an approaching motorcade. Two motorcycles rushed toward her, followed by a military car with a Rising Sun flapping from its antenna.

The vehicles slowed to round the corner, and Sunny spotted two uniformed officers sitting together in the back seat. The one closest to the window was Colonel Kubota. Their eyes met momentarily, and she saw a hint of a smile cross his lips before the car drove away.

Sunny was still thinking about the colonel when, a block further along, the ground beneath her shifted and shook. A thundering boom rattled the nearby shop windows. Her ears rang from the blast. She dropped to her knees and hunched forward to protect Jakob in her arms.

Then it was chaos. Gunfire crackled: single shots, followed by the spitting clatter of machine guns. Men shouted and screamed in j.a.panese. Jakob howled. Sirens blared. Military vehicles raced up and down the street from every direction.

Jumping to her feet, Sunny kept Jakob pinned tightly against her body. He squirmed, but she held him close as she ran toward the ghetto.

Only one thought ran through her head: I must get him home to his mother.

CHAPTER 37.

Franz and Max Feinstein glanced at each other across the patient's bed. Below them, Herr Hirsch picked up on their exchange. His eyes darted from one doctor to the other, while his narrow face paled in fright. "Was ist los?"

"We call it diverticulitis, Herr Hirsch," Max explained. "From little pouches on the wall of your colon. We all develop diverticula after a certain age."

"I'm only forty-two," Hirsch protested.

"Old enough for diverticula," Max said. "And now some have become infected."

Hirsch winced as though the words alone caused him physical pain. "What can be done?"

"We have to operate," Franz said.

"So you cut out these pouches?"

Franz folded his arms across his chest. "No. We have to remove a section of your colon."

"Mein Gott!" Hirsch croaked. "You will cut out my bowels?"

"Only part of it, Mr. Hirsch."

Hirsch brought a hand to his mouth. "Afterward, will I be able to eat? And . . . to still move my bowels?"

Franz nodded. "In a week or so, I believe so. Yes."

Hirsch's face relaxed, but his eyes remained wary. "When will you do this surgery?"

"Today, before your fever gets higher or the infection spreads." Franz considered his next words carefully, concerned about their effect on the nervous patient. He knew Hirsch, an accountant who now did bookkeeping for several local businesses, through the synagogue. He liked him. "Without it, your life may be in danger."

Hirsch sighed. "So go ahead then. Operate."

"We are . . . lacking supplies," Franz said. "We do have a little morphine left, but we have been without ether for most of the month."

"What are you saying, Herr Doktor?"

Max clasped his hands together. "Dr. Adler will have to perform surgery without anaesthetic."

Hirsch's jaw dropped. "Oy," he groaned. "You intend to slice me open when I am still wide awake?"

"There are other options," Franz said.

"Such as?"

"Ethanol."

"Spirits," Max clarified. "Wine, or if you prefer brandy or even gin."

Hirsch looked horrified. "To make me shikker? I don't ever touch a drop-"

Franz heard rapid footsteps behind him. He turned to see Joey rushing toward them. "The j.a.panese!" Joey cried. "They are here!"

Franz spun away from the bed. "Where, Joey?"

"Outside. On the street." He motioned wildly toward the door. "Three or four trucks. More coming."

"Is it a raid?" Max demanded.

Joey shook his head. "They are unloading stretchers. Wounded men. One is covered in blood."

The three nurses on the ward gathered around to listen. The patients who had enough strength sat up in their beds. No one spoke. Everyone's eyes were trained on Franz, waiting to see what he would do.

"Berta, Miriam, go prepare supplies and dressings," Franz instructed. "And, Liese, get the operating room ready."

Franz, Max and Joey shoved four empty beds to the front of the ward. They were lining them up, side by side, when two j.a.panese soldiers burst into the room bearing a stretcher that held an older man in a naval uniform.

Franz recognized him immediately: it was Vice-Admiral Iwanaka, the senior naval commander in Shanghai. His white jacket was splashed with red. Blood seeped from a bullet hole that had ripped through the fabric covering his abdomen. The blood was pooling sluggishly at the wound, and Franz knew that if Iwanaka wasn't already dead, he would be at any moment.

Four more soldiers flew into the room carrying two loaded stretchers between them. They hoisted a second wounded man onto the nearest bed. The man's shrill voice, which Franz could hear barking orders in j.a.panese, sent a shiver down Franz's spine. He turned to find himself staring into the eyes of the man who had nearly killed him at Bridge House the year before. Clutching the right side of his chest, Colonel Tanaka struggled to sit up. Bright blood oozed out between his fingers. Tanaka shook a finger at Franz. "You! You fix me now!"

Shocked and fearful, Franz stepped closer to the Kempeitai colonel. "May I examine your injury?"

Tanaka tentatively pulled his fingers away from his chest. Franz could see a gash that tore through the uniform just beneath the armpit. The blood began to flow more briskly, obscuring the wound. As Tanaka thrust his hand back to his chest, Franz heard a faint hissing sound: air leaking out from his lung. "A hemopneumothorax," Franz muttered to himself.

"What is this?" Tanaka demanded.

"Your right lung has collapsed, and the s.p.a.ce around it is filling with blood and air," Franz said. "Was it a knife?"

Tanaka nodded. "The saboteurs! You fix me now!"

"Colonel, I still must examine the others-"

"Me first," Tanaka hissed. "Or the hospital is finished. All you Jews, finished!"

A younger man in a Kempeitai officer's uniform bustled over to the bedside, his face contorting into a sneer. "You heard Taisa Tanaka," he said in accentless English. "You will fix his wound immediately."

"We don't have any ether in the hospital." Franz held out his palms. "No anaesthetic. No gas. You understand?"

"We will get you the gas." The young officer turned to a soldier and barked at him in j.a.panese. The second soldier then spun and raced for the door.

"No gas!" Tanaka cried. "You fix me."

"To fix you, Colonel, I will have to cut your chest wide open. Perhaps remove part of your lung."

"No gas. You do it!"

"While you are still awake?"

"Now!"

Franz turned to the nearest nurse. "Miriam, take Colonel Tanaka to the operating room." He glanced from side to side. "Where is Mrs. Adler? And Dr. Huang, is he here? We could use the help."

As Franz scanned the room, his gaze fell on the third wounded man who had been carried in. He lay quietly on the furthest bed. From his vantage point, Franz could only see the man from the chest down, but he noticed that his green uniform was blood-stained in patches over his lower abdomen and left thigh.

As Franz took a step toward the man, Berta called out, "Dr. Adler. Herr Doktor!"

Berta was holding the admiral's wrist, two fingers locked over the spot where the radial pulse was supposed to be. She shook her head very slightly, then released the man's arm and reached for the sheet at his feet.

"The admiral," Franz heard someone ask weakly. "Is he dead?"