The Far Side of the Sky (28 page)

“He might have a point,” she said.

“How about you, Miss Shoot-from-the-hip?” he asked. “Have you told the good doctor?”

For a moment, Sunny wondered which doctor Simon meant—Wen-Cheng or Franz? “You are talking rubbish now, Simon.”

He grabbed her hand. “Sunny, I’ve seen the way Franz looks at you. I
know
that look.”

“He has been seeing Dr. Reuben’s niece for months.” She shook free of Simon’s hand and fixed him with a determined stare. “Besides, Dr. Adler looks at me the way a teacher would a favoured student. Nothing more.”

“Suit yourself.” Simon folded his arms over his chest. “Doesn’t happen very often, but every once in a while I do get something right.”

Fai dropped Sunny off out front of the refugee hospital, but Simon remained in the back seat, since he was heading to the CFA office. Many refugees, like the Adlers, were already self-sufficient, but with almost twenty thousand displaced German Jews living in the city, the complexities of feeding, housing, schooling and caring for the others were endless.

As Sunny walked the pathway up to the hospital, her hands went clammy. She was filled with both excitement and apprehension at the prospect of removing a patient’s gallbladder. And, after her conversation with Simon, she blushed at the thought of seeing Franz again.

He greeted her at the door to the operating room with a luminous smile. “So, are you ready to perform surgery?”

She grimaced. “I am not at all sure that I am.”

He eyed her with certainty. “Trust me, Sunny. You will do fine.”

They scrubbed together at the sink. Franz verbally walked her through the steps of the operation as she visualized them in her head. By the time they returned to the room, the patient, a stocky woman named Rosa Kolberg, lay unconscious on the table as Liese steadied an ether mask over the woman’s face. The other nurse, Berta, held out a sterile gown for Sunny. “Here you go, young doctor,” she giggled.

Gowned and gloved, Sunny stepped up to the patient’s right side while Franz took the usual position of the assistant, across the table. She accepted the scalpel from Berta. It felt heavier than usual. She held the blade up in the air and looked over to Franz, wavering.

Franz grinned behind his mask. “I suppose we could wait, but I doubt Mrs. Kolberg’s gallbladder is planning to remove itself.”

Sunny took a deep breath, applied the blade to the skin and sliced
horizontally. As she dissected through the layers of flesh toward the gallbladder, Franz offered only the odd word of instruction, maintaining the role of assistant rather than teacher. Sunny was simultaneously exhilarated and terrified. By the time she freed the slippery stone-laden gallbladder and pulled it out of the patient’s abdomen, she felt fully in control. As she ran the last few loops of catgut to close the skin, she could not keep the smile from her lips.

After they shed their gowns, Franz motioned for Sunny to follow him outside the hospital. On the front steps, he extracted two cigars from his pocket. He clipped the ends off both and passed one to her. “A tradition with all my students,” he said. “Congratulations! Your first surgery. Of many, I believe.
Mazel tov!
”

Sunny tasted the salty tobacco. Franz fired a match and lit both cigars. Predictably, she choked on her first inhalation. Franz also coughed. Soon they were both laughing. “I am a terrible smoker too,” he croaked. “Disgusting things. But a tradition is a tradition.”

They smoked together in silence for a few moments. She enjoyed his proximity but nearly gagged each time the soggy cigar tip touched her lips. After three or four puffs, her head was spinning.

Franz pulled the cigar from her lips. His forehead creased, and he looked at her with troubled eyes. “Sunny, I am going to perform a surgery more involved than any I have ever attempted at this hospital. The patient has a tumour of her bile duct.”

“Are you planning to do a Whipple’s procedure?”

“Yes, exactly,” he said. “We do not have the necessary equipment here. I will need to borrow it from the Country Hospital. Providing, of course, that Dr. Reuben will lend it to me.”

The mention of Reuben’s name dampened her mood. “Oh.” She could think of little that was more distasteful than being beholden to him.

“The patient …” Franz went on. “She is the wife of a man I know.”

“From Vienna?”

“No. They’re German, not Austrian. And they’re not Jewish. In fact, he is a diplomat who works for the German government.” He squeezed the bridge of his nose. “You understand, Sunny? He’s a
Nazi.”

“That must be very difficult for you,” she murmured. He shrugged. “I’m a doctor, and the patient needs my help. It should be very simple.”

“And yet it’s not simple at all, is it?”

“Her husband works for the people who murdered my brother, tormented my child and stole our home. He is the last person in the world who I would choose to help.”

Sunny empathized. She tried to imagine how she would respond to a Japanese soldier in need of her care. She wanted to think she would put personal feelings aside, but she wasn’t convinced that she could. Especially if it were the sailor with the scarred lip. She would sooner die than help her father’s killer.

Staring into Franz’s compassionate eyes, she knew exactly how he would proceed. Her father would have done the same. “But you will help them, Dr. Adler,” she said. “It’s what you do, who you are. It is why you are so much better than them.”

“Cut here, please, Dr. Adler,” Reuben instructed, tugging on the two ends of the stitch that held the thyroid gland together.

As Franz snipped the catgut, he considered how much he preferred assisting Sunny over Reuben. But he had little choice; his family relied on his income from the Country Hospital. Still, relative to most of the other refugees, fortune had smiled on Franz. If not for the intervention of a kind old travel agent, his family might have faced the same miserable fate as Max Feinstein’s daughter and her children. At least in Shanghai, Jews were free of persecution. Franz had never seen any evidence of anti-Semitism among the Chinese, nor the Japanese.

A few months earlier, at one of the Reubens’ dinner parties, he had raised the subject with Colonel Tsutomo Kubota, who was a fixture at the tiresome soirees. “While we might be strategically allied with the Germans,” Kubota said, “it does not mean we share their philosophies or bigotries.”

“Does anti-Semitism not exist in Japan?” Franz asked. Kubota considered the question. “For a nation without an indigenous Jewish population, we possess an unusual fascination for your people.

Much of it dates back forty years to the Russo-Japanese War. We could not have won without a sizable loan from the Jewish American banker, Jacob Schiff. Our nation is still grateful.” He held out a hand. “However, our interest goes deeper still. You are familiar with
The Protocols of the Elders of Zion?
”

“A hateful hoax,” Franz muttered. Fabricated in turn-of-the-nineteenth-century Russia, the widely circulated document propagated the myth of a worldwide Jewish conspiracy to control governments through economic and political influence.

“All nonsense, I realize.” Kubota nodded. “At Cambridge, I roomed with a brilliant fellow named Lionel Reif. I spent school holidays with his family and developed a deep appreciation for the Jewish way of life. However, most Japanese have never met a Jew. They believe the stereotypes of
The Protocols
exist but interpret them in a very different light than the authors intended. To my people, if the Jews control all the banks and governments, it can only mean that they are important and influential people to be respected, not shunned.”

Franz frowned. “A kind of reverse anti-Semitism?”

“I suppose so, yes.” Kubota smiled. “Most Japanese believe that Jews create wealth and success wherever they go. As you know, we are one of the few nations to encourage immigration of the German Jews. My government even once considered populating the province of Manchuria with Jewish refugees to encourage growth and industry.”

Samuel Reuben pulled Franz out of the memory. “We are still waiting, Adler,” he said tersely as he swung the end of the stitch from side to side.

“I am sorry, Dr. Reuben.” Franz snipped the suture near the base of the thyroid.

After assisting Samuel Reuben for almost eighteen months, Franz had developed grudging respect for his colleague’s skill and judgment. He had also learned that it was wisest to keep his opinions to himself. Reuben craved deference. As long as Franz responded accordingly, he was treated more like a junior doctor than an orderly. But the moment Franz made the mistake of disagreeing or suggesting an alternate approach, Reuben inevitably
did the opposite and punished him with some kind of degrading task.

Only weeks after Franz had started at the Country Hospital, after a complicated resection of a colonic tumour, Reuben viewed him with a smug smile and said, “Surely even Vienna’s youngest-ever surgical professor must be impressed by such an operation?”

Franz never considered the professorship much of a feat. He had effectively fallen into the role after his mentor, Dr. Ignaz Malkin, was debilitated by a heart attack and insisted that his protege inherit the role rather than a loathed rival. But Reuben referenced Franz’s former title often, calling him “Herr Professor.”

As they walked the corridor toward the surgical ward, Franz turned to Reuben and said, “You know that I perform a few operations at the refugee hospital.”

Reuben glanced sidelong at him. “Yes. If some poor refugee has a bothersome hernia or gallstone, I hear you are the man to see.”

“Exactly.” Franz ignored his condescending tone. “Most of the time, we do basic procedures. However, I have a more complex case that I hope to tackle there.”

His interest piqued, Reuben stopped and turned to him. “Oh? What procedure is that?” “A Whipple’s.”

“A Whipple’s,” Reuben echoed reverentially. “I have yet to perform one. Just my luck, I hardly ever get cancers of the pancreas. At least, none that are operable. What is the diagnosis?”

“Cholangiocarcinoma.”

Reuben’s dark eyes widened behind his tortoiseshell glasses. “One of your refugees has a cholangiocarcinoma?” Franz knew better than to correct Reuben’s misconception that the patient was a refugee. “How did you possibly make the diagnosis at that little hospital of yours?”

“She came to me diagnosed. She had contrast X-ray studies performed elsewhere.”

“Did she?” Reuben’s forehead wrinkled. “So I presume the patient can also afford treatment elsewhere?”

“I suppose so. Yes.”

Reuben raised an eyebrow. “Then why would she choose to have the surgery at a hospital with such basic capabilities?”

“Someone recommended me.” Franz shrugged, eager to move the conversation forward. “However, we do not have the necessary equipment. If I am to perform surgery, I will need to borrow precision tools from a more equipped facility. I was hoping you might lend me—”

“Yes!” Reuben surprised Franz with his sudden willingness. “Yes, of course.”

“Thank you. That will be of great help to—”

“I can’t lend you the equipment, of course,” Reuben cut him off. “But I have a much better idea. A Whipple’s is far more involved than simply having the right forceps and clamps. Think of all the post-operative attention required. It should really be undertaken by two experienced surgeons.” He nodded to himself. “We will perform the surgery here. At the Country Hospital. Together.”

Together? I will end up holding retractors while you hack out the tumour.
Franz silently chided himself for not having predicted Reuben’s response.

“Well, what do you think, man?”

Staring into Reuben’s stubborn eyes, Franz reached a decision. He had agreed to treat Edda Schwartzmann but could not proceed without the right equipment. The Schwartzmanns and Franz were going to have to live with the compromise. “Thank you, yes. We will do it here.”

“It’s agreed then,” Reuben said. “The sooner the better, too. Why don’t you have the patient come by my clinic tomorrow for an initial consultation? We can schedule the operation for the end of the week.”

“I will inform the patient and her husband.”

“I will let my secretary know. What is the patient’s name?”

Franz was grateful that Edda’s ambiguous surname could pass for Jewish, but he thought it best not to mention her first name. “Mrs. Schwartzmann.”

“Schwartzmann. I will tell Mrs. MacMillan.” Reuben frowned. “Schwartzmann, is it? I used to play bridge with a Schwartzmann at the
French Club. Must be six or seven years ago, at least. A diplomat. Full of funny anecdotes. I used to think of him as quite a likeable chap. I later found out the rotter had become a Nazi!” He snorted in disgust. “What was his first name? Herbert … Horst … No. Hermann! Hermann Schwartzmann.”

Franz tried to look away but it was too late. Reuben made the connection. “Hang on!” Reuben’s eyes narrowed. “Is this woman related to
that
Schwartzmann?”

Cornered, Franz could only nod. “His wife.”

“You must be joking!” Reuben cried. “You would have me operate on a Nazi?”

“I never asked you to.”

“Worse!” His pale face went splotchy with indignation. “You wanted to make me complicit—to borrow my equipment!—without revealing what kind of treason I would be a party to.” He shook his finger at Franz. “Never mind that my nation is at war with his. Schwartzmann and his lot would wipe us Jews off the face of the earth if they could. And you honestly expect me to help his Nazi wife?”

Franz looked beyond Reuben to see Sunny standing motionless at the end of the hallway. “I don’t know whether she is a Nazi or not,” he said calmly. “All I know is that she is suffering and will die without surgery.”

“So let her then,” Reuben grunted.

“I am no more eager than you are to help Schwartzmann.” Franz met Reuben’s outraged eyes. “I did not choose his wife as a patient. They came to me.”

“What difference does that make? You are
choosing
to operate on her.”

“I don’t see it as my position to judge them. And I cannot neglect her suffering because I loathe everything her husband stands for.”