The Far Side of the Sky (11 page)

“Jia-Li will,” Sunny said, aware her voice lacked conviction.

“I hope so, Sunny,” Kingsley said. “Between her … circumstances … and living in a city where opium is as plentiful and available as rice, she will have a long and difficult battle ahead.”

Sunny looked up at him. “None of this excuses my behaviour, Father. I am so very sorry.”

He shrugged his narrow shoulders, and his lips broke into the wisp of a smile. “Tell me, Sunny. What is a Sister Mary Joseph’s nodule?” he quizzed.

“A hardened lymph node found under the umbilicus.” And then, anticipating his next question, she added, “It indicates an underlying abdominal cancer, commonly of the stomach or large bowel, which has already spread to the point of being inoperable.”

Kingsley continued to grill Sunny. She knew he was trying to distract
her from her nagging guilt, and she loved him even more for the effort, but she could not shake the shame of her deception or her worry for Jia-Li. Though her friend’s stomach had settled and her sweats had broken, Sunny had left Jia-Li still curled up clutching her belly and whimpering for her pipe.

After finishing her father’s evening quiz, Sunny kissed him good night and headed to her bedroom. Three of her favourite poems, penned in ornate Chinese calligraphy, hung like banners on one of the walls. She glanced past them to the room’s only artwork, a charcoal portrait of her mother, Ida Hudson Mah. In the sketch, Ida’s shoulders were turned slightly from the painter and she offered him an enigmatic grin. Sunny remembered the Mona Lisa smile, but in her recollection, her mother’s eyes always brimmed with more warmth than the artist had captured.

As Sunny lay under the blanket, teetering between sleep and wakefulness, childhood memories floated back to her. She had lived her whole life in the same house on the cherry tree–lined street that ran through the heart of the French Concession. The Kos lived two doors down; Sunny and Jia-Li became friends before they could talk. After Ida’s sudden death from a brain hemorrhage, Sunny spent so much time with the Kos that she felt a part of their family too. The girls were inseparable, closer than most sisters. But, at the age of thirteen, everything changed when Jia-Li’s father’s gambling debts caught up to him. In the tradition of other overextended gamblers, he jumped to his death from the top deck of the city’s notorious nightclub and casino, The Great World. Too proud to accept money from Kingsley to pay off her husband’s debts, Lo-Shen sold her house, relocated her family to a poorer area of Hongkew and took on work as a seamstress.

Confused and lonely, Jia-Li fell for an eighteen-year-old boy in the neighbourhood. Sunny distrusted him the instant she glimpsed his reptilian smile, but Jia-Li was too smitten to heed her warning. The boyfriend exerted a hypnotic influence over Jia-Li, introducing her to the opium pipe and then selling her off as one of Shanghai’s most precious commodities—a “first-night virgin”—long after he had deflowered her. Soon, he
abandoned Jia-Li altogether, leaving her broken-hearted, opium addicted and reliant on her income as a prostitute. Humiliated and ashamed, Jia-Li tried to sever all ties with her past life, but Sunny slowly worked her way back into her friend’s heart. In turn, Jia-Li proved to be a dedicated and streetwise companion, introducing Sunny to aspects of Shanghai that she never knew existed, while fiercely protecting her from the same pitfalls to which Jia-Li had fallen victim.

The memories blurred and Sunny drifted to sleep, her dreams a jumble of childhood scenes, military checkpoints, bombing victims and opium dens.

Sunny awoke to the smell of brewing coffee. In the kitchen, the housekeeper, Yang, stood over the stove, boiling eggs to accompany vegetable dumplings. The tiny, tireless woman had been with the Mahs since Sunny was born. Yang had begun as Sunny’s amah and evolved into their housekeeper. She understood English perfectly but never spoke a word of it. At times, Yang could be so quiet that she seemed to blend into the walls, but she could also be as protective as a tigress of her cubs if she sensed the slightest threat to Sunny. “Oh, Soon Yi, what were you doing in Hongkew?” Yang demanded as she placed a full plate and a cup of tea in front of her.

Sunny glanced at her father, who shrugged helplessly. She turned back to Yang. “Jia-Li needed my help,” she said in Shanghainese.

“No one can help Jia-Li,” Yang said with a trace of sadness. “You must stay away from Hongkew,
xiao hè.
The Japanese soldiers …” She shook her head gravely.

“I will try, Yang.”

“Hongkew is not good any more, not good at all,” Yang muttered, turning her attention back to the boiling eggs.

As Sunny and her father ate, they traded pages of the
Shanghai Morning Post.
Flipping to the back pages, an article near the bottom caught her eye. The headline read, “No End to Flood of Jewish Refugees.”

Sunny had heard the talk, much of it disparaging, among Shanghailanders about the influx of refugees. She thought of the distressed man she
had overheard at the street market. Reading on, she learned that even the Jewish relief organizations were being overwhelmed by the steady flow of impoverished arrivals. Some wealthier Jewish Shanghailanders had donated money to establish homes and schools for the refugees but, according to the article, those same Jews were also supporting a motion before the Shanghai Municipal Council calling for a moratorium on more arrivals.

Sunny held up the page to show her father. “Did you see this?” He nodded. “Father, they’re establishing a refugee hospital to help care for German Jews.”

“So I understand.”

“Perhaps they need help?” Sunny said.

He shook his head. “I have heard of several renowned specialists arriving among the refugees. I doubt they require the assistance of a simple Chinese doctor.”

Sunny sighed, frustrated by her father’s self-deprecation. Kingsley was one of the first physicians in Shanghai to prescribe insulin and had become a leading diabetes specialist. However, he had never shed his sense of professional humility, ingrained after so many years of schooling and practising with the British doctors who, even while seeking his guidance and expertise, still looked down their noses at him.

“I am reasonably fluent in German.” Sunny did not have to remind her father that she had won the languages prize at her school. “Perhaps they need nurses?”

“As I see it, there is only one way to find out.”

Sunny noted the address of the refugee hospital. She wondered if she would have time to drop in after her shift. It would mean travelling to Hongkew after dusk, an unsettling prospect, but the memory of those distraught Jewish men in the market cemented her resolve.

Kingsley lowered the newspaper. “Sunny, you realize that Fai is still visiting his mother in the country? The poor woman is dying, so we will have to make do without a driver for another few days.”

She nodded, almost reconsidering her trip to Hongkew. “I will ride the cable car to work.”

Sunny gathered her bag, kissed her father on the forehead and headed out. It was unseasonably warm for November, so she decided to forgo the cable car and walk the almost two miles to the Country Hospital on Great Western Road.

Her route took her through the heart of the French Concession, the wedge-shaped residential district that ran west from the Whangpoo River along the southern border of the International Settlement. The concession, known by many locals as simply “Frenchtown,” had been under French sovereignty since the mid-nineteenth century, and the Gallic imprint was everywhere, from its street names, architecture and parks to the police officers dressed in the style of Parisian gendarmes. Only the French themselves were missing. They were outnumbered almost a hundred to one by the Chinese. Even the British and Russian populations were larger. So many Russians had poured into the French Concession after fleeing the Bolshevik Revolution that a section of Frenchtown had been nicknamed “Little Russia.” Sunny revelled in the cultural diversity of her neighbourhood, where on one block alone she might pass a patisserie, a Siberian fur store and a traditional tea shop.

Sunny arrived at the Country Hospital half an hour early for her shift. Enjoying the sunshine, she strolled around the hospital’s perimeter, stopping to admire the building where she had worked since the Japanese invaded Hongkew. The neo-classical Renaissance design was striking enough to compete with any of the grand edifices lining the city’s famous riverfront Bund. Rumours continued to swirl that the hospital’s anonymous benefactor was Sir Victor Sassoon, an Iraqi Jew and the city’s most influential tycoon.

Passing under the hospital’s central stone arcade, Sunny entered the marble-floored foyer. The matron, Mrs. Gwendolyn Bathurst, stood at the bottom of the stairs in her starched white uniform with her hands at her hips as she waited for the arrival of her next shift of nurses.

“Good morning, Matron,” Sunny said.

“Hello, Nurse Mah,” the plump British woman said coolly.

Matron was as old-fashioned as they came but, despite her frosty
demeanour and lofty expectations, Sunny was fond of Bathurst. The woman was fair to a fault and never showed a flicker of racism or favouritism toward her staff.

“I believe Dr. Reuben is looking for you this morning,” Bathurst announced.

Sunny nodded, detecting a note of warning in the woman’s tone. “I think you had best attend to your ward now,” Bathurst said. “Yes, of course, Matron.”

Sunny headed to the nurses’ room, changed into her uniform and pinned her hair under her cap before climbing the two flights of stairs to the surgical ward. On the spacious floor, twenty steel-framed beds lined the walls, separated from one another by translucent free-standing dividers. Sunlight poured through the large windows.

Meredith Blythe and Stacy Chan stood at the central desk. Blythe had a square face, broad shoulders and narrow hips that always made her uniform appear ill-fitting, whereas Chan was as diminutive as an adolescent girl. The two friends lived together and, as much as possible, worked the same schedule. Earlier in the year, a rumour had circulated that the pair had been seen kissing in the park across from the hospital. Sunny never paid heed to the gossip.

Transcultural friendships were common at the Country Hospital. The racial demographics of the staff and patients reflected the city it serviced and consisted of a mix of Western Shanghailanders and native Shanghainese. However, Sunny was the only Eurasian employee, and the outsider stigma still clung to her even within the hospital’s relatively tolerant milieu.

Sunny had a quick glance around the ward. With a sinking feeling, she noticed that the third bed along the near wall was empty. “Mr. Chum?” she asked the other two nurses.

Blythe shook her head. “He passed on yesterday aft.”

“Probably for the best.” A pit formed in her stomach as Sunny spoke. She had grown attached to the old man who, even as he withered away from colon cancer, fed her a steady diet of homespun wisdom on life and
marriage while encouraging dalliances with almost every unattached male who passed through the ward.

Sunny was relieved to see that Stanley Wheelman still occupied the bed in the far corner. As soon as she looked his way, the young American beckoned her with a weak flicker of his fingers. She hurried to the bedside. “Good morning, Mr. Wheelman,” she said with a bright smile. “How are you feeling today?”

“No worse, Nurse Mah,” the emaciated man croaked. “That’s for sure.”

“May I examine your wound?” Sunny asked.

His head bobbed slightly. Sunny pulled the sheet down from his chest and peeled back the loose cotton bandages covering his abdomen. The stink of decay assaulted her nose and nearly made her eyes water. She spotted a few loops of bowel poking through the gaping vertical wound. But the angry red skin around the edges had faded to a calmer salmon pink—the first sign of improvement she had seen in him.

“I wouldn’t let them cut me open a third time,” Wheelman said hoarsely. “Just like we discussed.”

Sunny nodded. “Did the doctor start you on the sulphonamides?”

He frowned. “If you mean those new horse pills, then yes.”

“Good.” Sunny was pleased to hear that his surgeon had finally acquiesced and begun treating him with antibiotics, Western medicine’s latest wonder weapon against infections.

“Nurse Mah, I wanted to thank you for helping to convince—” Wheelman began.

“Nurse, may I have a moment of your time?” The frigid words, spoken in a clipped English accent, came from behind her.

Sunny turned to see Dr. Samuel Reuben glaring at her from the ward’s entrance. “I will return shortly, Mr. Wheelman.” She headed toward Reuben, who pivoted and glided out of the ward without waiting.

Sunny followed Reuben out into the corridor, where he stood with arms folded over his chest. His navy bow tie sat perfectly horizontal and his lab coat was as crisp and spotless as ever, but his long thin face, usually pale in complexion, had reddened to the point of crimson. His dark eyes
burned behind his tortoiseshell glasses. “Is it true that you persuaded Mr. Wheelman to decline surgery?” Reuben demanded.

She met his eyes. “I suggested that Mr. Wheelman consider all options before deciding, sir.”

“What other options?” Reuben snapped. “The man has an infected intestinal wound that requires resection and drainage!”

“I thought he was too weak and frail to survive another operation, Dr. Reuben.”

“You
thought, did you?” he scoffed. “Based on all your experience as a surgeon?”

Sunny considered her words carefully. She knew how resistant surgeons, and Reuben in particular, were to unsolicited opinions. “Despite the first-class care you have provided, Mr. Wheelman has not shown significant improvement after two surgeries.”

“The man suffered from a perforated appendix and an abscess. I assumed he would have a difficult course after surgery.”

“Of course, sir.” Sunny nodded contritely. “But his wounds have been so slow to heal, Dr. Reuben. I thought his condition might be complicated by terminal ileitis. I heard that the sulphonamides had been proven somewhat effective in reversing the course of ileitis.”