The Far Side of the Sky (12 page)

“And where had you heard that?”

Sunny cleared her throat. “I read it in an article in
The Lancet.”
“Really? Are they distributing
The Lancet
to nurses now?” “My father sometimes lends me his copy.”

“Borrowing your father’s medical journals does not qualify you as a doctor, Miss Mah!”

“Of course not, sir, I realize that.”

“Do you really?” he huffed. “Sometimes I wonder.”

Sunny bowed her head again. “I am sorry I overstepped my bounds, Dr. Reuben. I had no right. But the patient thinks he has improved on the medication.”

“Yes, well, never underestimate the effect of a placebo or a sympathetic face,” he grumbled. “Regardless, I have little choice now but to continue
the medication and dressing changes. To effectively leave his care in the hands of providence.”

“Thank you, Dr. Reuben.”

“Oh, there is no reason to thank me.” Reuben uncrossed his arms and pointed at Sunny. “Miss Mah, I do not care whether or not your father is a physician. If you ever again sabotage my treatment plans, as the chief of surgery, I will ensure that you no longer work at the Country Hospital or any reputable facility in this city. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Without another word, Reuben swivelled and stormed off down the hallway. As soon as he had left, Stacy Chan poked her head through the doorway, concern etched in her small features. “Soon Yi, are you all right?” she asked in Shanghainese.

Sunny adjusted her cap. “I am fine, Stacy. Thank you.”

“I have never seen Dr. Reuben so upset.”

“I suppose not.” In fact, Sunny had seen him in a similar state the last time they had disagreed over a diagnosis, but he had never threatened her job before.

“Can I get you a cup of tea?” Chan offered.

“No.” Sunny mustered a reassuring smile for the meek girl. “It’s time for you to go home and for me to get to work.”

Sunny inhaled slowly. The clash with Reuben had shaken her more than she let on. His self-serving words had struck a chord. In spite of all her father’s teaching, she was not a doctor and never would be.
What business do I have interfering in vital medical decisions?

Another voice called to her. “Miss Mah, may I speak to you? Please.”

No. Not now, of all times.

Sunny turned to see Dr. Wen-Cheng Huang striding toward her. She watched impassively, but her chest thumped harder as he approached. Clean-shaven and hair slicked fashionably to the side, Wen-Cheng wore a navy double-breasted suit and patterned tie, looking every bit the dashing young doctor who could turn a woman’s head or earn a patient’s confidence in a handshake. Only his unusually pale brown eyes contradicted
the facade. They held the same wounded puppy expression as the last time she had seen him.

“Dr. Huang, I must return to my ward now,” she said.

Wen-Cheng reached out as if to grab her wrist but stopped short of touching her. “Why have you not replied to my letters?”

Finding it painful to look into his plaintive eyes, she focused on the panel of black-and-white photographs of the hospital’s directors behind him. “There is nothing more to say.”

“Nothing?” Wen-Cheng frowned. “I poured my heart out to you.”

“They are only words,” she murmured.

Three months earlier, Sunny had been willing to sacrifice everything for Wen-Cheng. She believed the married physician when he told her that she was the love of his life and that only family and circumstance had trapped him in a loveless arranged marriage. Sunny was even prepared to shoulder her father’s crushing disappointment and to lose face—a grievous fate in Chinese society. However, when the time had come to commit, Wen-Cheng was unwilling to stare down his own father. He begged Sunny for more time, promising her that in another year or two he would find a way to leave his wife. Heartsick as she had been, Sunny realized that Wen-Cheng would never leave. And she decided it would be better to live with the heartbreak than the incompleteness of being his mistress.

But now, gazing into his adoring eyes, the desire flooded back. Desperate to throw her arms around him and to feel his skin against hers, she sensed her resolve weakening.

Wen-Cheng gently caressed her hand. The contact was electric. “I have made so many mistakes with you.” He switched from English to Mandarin. “Without you in my life, there is no light. I love you, Sunny. I always will.”

But Sunny knew that nothing had changed between them. She slipped her hand free of his. “Please do not write me any more letters, Dr. Huang.” She turned for the door. “I will not answer them.”

Sunny crossed the Garden Bridge lost in a haze of emotions. She was so preoccupied with Jia-Li’s relapse, Dr. Reuben’s threat and, especially, her conflicted feelings for Wen-Cheng that it took her a moment to register the Japanese guard’s expectant stare.

Her stomach plummeted as she realized that she had forgotten to bow. Hastily, she thrust herself forward at the waist and bowed deeply, hoping it was not already too late. Her heart beat in her throat, but she did not dare look up at the guard.

“Qù!”
The soldier uttered the Chinese word for “go” in a surprisingly even tone.

Sunny hurried on, grateful that the sentry was not the same malicious guard as the day before, who might have beaten her—or worse—for her oversight.

Electric street lights and neon signs lit Broadway. The street bustled with even more commotion at eight in the evening than it had the previous noon. Young Chinese men wandered about in search of nightlife but, cognizant of the danger, kept in tight packs. Loose clusters of Japanese soldiers and sailors littered the sidewalks, several of them drunk to the
point of staggering. Young, heavily rouged prostitutes in tight dresses—the true “wild pheasants”—stood under almost every street light. They beckoned to nearby men, regardless of uniform or race.

Sunny neared two Japanese sailors who wore their white jackets unbuttoned and shirts untucked. They loitered near a street lamp while warbling an unrecognizable tune. The shorter one tapped his mate on the shoulder. The other sailor’s head whipped in her direction so quickly that the tail of his bandana flapped. His dark eyes widened and his lips twisted into an ugly grin. Pointing unsteadily at her midsection, he slurred some Japanese words to her.

Sunny lowered her gaze and stepped off the sidewalk, trying to give the sailors as wide a berth as possible. But moments after she passed them, she heard heavy footsteps behind her. The bandana-clad sailor uttered another catcall at her back. Heartbeat drumming in her ears, Sunny stole a quick peek over her shoulder and saw that the two men were gaining. She considered ducking into a store or hurrying down one of the nearby alleys but realized it might only leave her more isolated and vulnerable.

Steeling her nerves, she spun to face the drunken sailors. Expression blank, she shook her head and pointed to the girls standing beneath nearby street lights. The sailor in the bandana grunted and continued to lurch toward her, close enough for Sunny to pick up the stink of stale sake on his breath. His mouth twisted into a lascivious smile that accentuated the jagged scar running between his nose and lip.

He pawed at her chest. Sunny backed away, almost stumbling off the sidewalk. Steadying herself, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Do not touch me!” she snarled in English.

The sailor’s cheeks reddened and his nostrils flared. He spat a stream of Japanese words.

Sunny’s legs tensed, bracing for an attack. An image flashed to mind of an older woman who had been raped so viciously that she arrived at the hospital hemorrhaging. “It is better not to resist,” the woman had murmured to Sunny as she was rushed to the operating room.

Dismissing the woman’s advice, Sunny dropped her arms to her side,
trying to decide whether to poke her fingers in his eyes or launch a knee into his groin.

Eyes locked on his, she waited. The feverish moment of stillness seemed to last forever.

The shorter sailor threw an arm over his mate’s shoulder and muttered a few words. The man jerked free of his friend’s grip. Then, just as suddenly, he broke into uproarious laughter.

Sunny’s breathing eased as she watched the shorter sailor guide his drunken friend away. Even as he wobbled off, the man repeatedly glanced over his shoulder and leered at her menacingly.

She wheeled back toward the sanctuary of the International Settlement but slowed after a block and tried to calm her nerves. She thought of the others—soldiers, resistance fighters and civilians caught in the middle—who had faced worse without shirking their duty. She would not allow one drunken sailor to break her will. Reluctantly, she turned back toward her original destination.

Anxious to escape the thoroughfare that teemed with intoxicated soldiers, pickpockets and prostitutes, Sunny veered off Broadway at the first intersection. Reaching Tong Shan Road, she spotted one of the city’s distinctive green trolleys. It rolled to a stop ahead of her and she jumped aboard. The bus was crowded with Chinese, their outfits ranging from traditional country robes to short Western dresses and three-piece suits. Some spoke Shanghainese, the local dialect, while others conversed in Mandarin, Wu or Gan.

Three stops later, Sunny stepped off the bus and walked over to Ward Road. As she neared the address of the refugee hospital, she wondered if she had confused the numbers. The decrepit building, an abandoned schoolhouse, had lost a chunk of its side wall and a portion of its roof from bomb damage. She could not imagine it functioning as a shelter, let alone a hospital.

Sunny noticed lights burning through the few windows that weren’t boarded. She rounded the corner and saw a flatbed truck parked at the side entrance. Two Chinese labourers unloaded mattresses from the back
with the aid of a lean man in a trench coat and fedora. The man in the hat glanced over to her. “Can I help you, lady?” he asked in English.

“No … well, yes …” Sunny said. “I have come to see the refugee hospital.”

The man stepped closer. Sunny saw that his lips had broken into an amused grin. “You don’t look particularly Jewish to me.” “I am a nurse.”

“A nurse?” The man pulled off his hat, held it over his chest and tipped his head in a slight bow. “Welcome to our world-famous, as yet unnamed, refugee hospital. Simon Lehrer at your service.”

The young man possessed intelligent brown eyes, curly black hair and thick eyebrows that converged above his prominent nose. Sunny found his looks intriguing if not quite handsome. “You are American,” she said.

He nodded. “From the Bronx. Just like the Yankees.”

“Which Yankees?” she asked.

Simon laughed. “The baseball team, of course. And you? You sound British.”

“Not exactly. I was born here in Shanghai. My name is Soon Yi. Mah Soon Yi.”

Simon tipped his head again. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Mah. What brings a not-exactly-British nurse from Shanghai to our little hospital?” Sunny fought back a smile. “Employment.”

He sighed. “I would love to offer you work, Miss Mah. God knows we could use all the nurses we could dig up and then some, but we’re on a bare-bones budget.”

Embarrassed, Sunny looked to the ground. “I intended to volunteer.”

“Ah, that’s a whole different ball game.” Simon whistled. “You do understand that most of the patients and the doctor are German? Only a few speak English.”

“Ich spreche ein bissien Deutsche,”
she said.

“Well, aren’t you just full of surprises?” he said with unconcealed admiration. “How would you like the grand tour of our facility, Miss Mah?” “I would, Mr. Lehrer. Or is it ‘Dr. Lehrer’?”

“I wish! My mother could die happy.” He chuckled. “No, I’m nowhere near brainy enough to be a doctor. It’s just plain Simon.”

Sunny felt an immediate rapport with the New Yorker. “Pardon me for prying, but what brings you to Shanghai?” she asked.

Simon shrugged. “Nepotism.”

Sunny tilted her head, waiting for more of an explanation.

“My family owns a furniture factory in New York. After I graduated from college, I was supposed to go back and help run the outfit, but I wasn’t ready to devote my life to coffee tables and recliners.” He laughed again. “My granddad had done business with Sir Victor Sassoon’s family. They pulled a few strings and got me the job—well, more like internship—with Sir Victor. They sent me over here to learn all about high-stakes real estate and financing.” He winked. “But I came to see a little of the world beyond Coney Island. Besides, it wasn’t until the refugees started to pile into the city that Sir Victor found any real use for me.”

“You speak German, I assume.”

“As a tyke, I learned German and Yiddish from my nana. She’s lived in the Bronx forever but wouldn’t speak English if you held a gun to her head.”

Sunny studied Simon’s face, deciding that he was no older than thirty. “Pardon me for saying so, but you seem very young to run a hospital.”

“Run it? Hardly.” Simon waved the suggestion away. “That would be the CFA—the local charity struck up by established Jewish families like the Sassoons, Herdoons and Kadoories to help out the refugees.” He gestured to the two Chinese men lifting a mattress from the truck, one of whom held a cigarette between his lips. “The boys and I just do some of the CFA’s legwork. Truth be told, it’s my first job that I haven’t wanted to quit in a week. I’ve already stayed in Shanghai half a year longer than I planned to. Come on. I’ll show you around.”

Simon turned to his two helpers. “Missy and my wantchee walkee.” He spoke to them in the local dialect of pidgin English—a curious hybrid of English, Chinese and Portuguese words used for basic but effective communication between the Chinese and Shanghailanders.

The man with the smoke squealed with laughter. “All right, we’ll wait here, boss,” he replied in English.

Sunny laughed too, realizing that Simon was joking with the men. She found it impossible not to warm to him.

Approaching the front entrance, Simon pointed up to the missing section of wall. “With a little brick work and a coat of paint, you won’t even recognize it. Try to imagine it. Why, it will be a …” He winked again. “A dump with a makeshift wall and a fresh coat of paint.”