23

BEECHUM HAD ORGANIZED a party for British expats and embassy couples in the lobby of the Imperial Hotel, the men in black tie and the women in gowns that looked like window drapes. As Harry walked in, Beechum was saying, “We all know what Sundays are like on the ramparts of the British Empire. I am happy to report to you that our fighting men in Singapore are undismayed by certain wild rumors. And not just the men.” He watched Alice as she saw Harry arrive, and his baldness took on a purple hue. Harry had shaved and changed clothes to look like a proper friend of Imperial Hotel guests, not someone who juggled heads. “Not only the men,” Beechum continued. “Although the Foreign Office has advised them to evacuate and head for home, every British and Commonwealth wife has loyally decided to stick it out. I propose a toast to their calm and fortitude, if you would all raise a glass.”

Of gin, with gin courage to follow, Harry thought. After a stop at the reception desk, he rang Willie Staub on the house phone.

“Sorry, Willie, it’s no go. I couldn’t reach the right people.”

“Harry, the Orinoco leaves tonight. I must be on it, the embassy says I cannot stay. What will become of Iris? Did you forget about us?”

“I tried, Willie. Things just didn’t work out.”

“Did Mr. DeGeorge find you?”

“No. Hey, come on down and we’ll have a drink before you go.”

“I can’t leave Iris.”

“I feel I let you down. I’d just like to say good luck.”

A muffled, emotional conversation on the other end, and then “Just for a second.”

Harry took a seat on the opposite end of the lobby, but there was no escaping Beechum’s voice as it boomed around the atrium. Alice had described it as the sort of voice that unwittingly set off avalanches in the Alps. The hotel staff had taken a half-step back into invisibility, making Harry the sole audience for the Brits even at a distance. Harry asked for a Scotch, and when he raised it, the ice chattered from the shaking of his hand. Every time he thought of Haruko, he wiped his palm on his pant leg. When he thought of Michiko, he half stood to go. Alice misinterpreted and gave him a warning glance that said to stay clear.

Beechum said, “For those concerned about the safety of our troops in Singapore, I would like to relay the message I received just today from the British commander in chief. He is nearly done perfecting the defenses of the colony, and despite privations, his men confidently soldier on.” What privations? Harry wondered. Singapore was paradise. Cheap gin, beautiful women, decent cigarettes. The tent pole of the British Empire was that a corporal from a Manchester brickyard could live like a king in Singapore, Hong Kong, Delhi. “It’s important that we stand shoulder-to-shoulder with our officers and men everywhere and most of all in Singapore. Today is Sunday, and as many of you know, there are Sunday traditions in British Singapore. One is Sunday curry and the other is Sunday sing-along. We may not have the curry, but it would send a message in many ways if we sang along with those wonderful men and women.”

A woman with a parrot hat sat at the piano and played an enthusiastic “Ta-Da.” Alice was sipping a martini so slowly that Harry could feel her lips. What he saw on other faces was a special emotion, an empire in fear of eviction.

“Harry?”

Willie had come down to the lobby with Iris, who was damp around the eyes and apologetic for even asking Harry to help them. She was in a rumpled cheongsam embroidered with flowers and looked like a crushed bouquet. Willie, too, no longer resembled the confident managing director of China Deutsche-Fon, or even the tourist who had arrived in Tokyo days before. He was desperate, wrung out.

“It’s tough,” said Harry. “Didn’t you have some other people working on this?”

“A clerk at the embassy. You were the only person I knew here.”

“It was a pass of some sort?”

“A letter to the German embassy about Iris’s political background. You don’t remember?”

“I remember now. Willie, that other Scotch is for you.”

“You drank yours already?”

“I’ll have another. Iris, I want you to know that whatever I can do to make Tokyo more endurable, just ask. Someplace to stay, a bank, a maid? Would you like a drink?”

“No, thank you.”

Willie sat back in wonder. “Now I know what DeGeorge meant. I don’t even recognize you, Harry.”

“Speaking of DeGeorge, have you seen him around?” Harry signaled for more Scotch. Beechum’s party launched into “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.” It sounded long to Harry.

The waiter’s tray carried not only the Scotch but also a manila envelope with Willie’s name on it. Willie drew out an envelope with a string closure, and from that a letter.

“It’s all in Japanese. What does it say?” Willie seemed to trust the waiter more.

The waiter held the letter by the corners. “If I may, this letter is not to you.”

“Oh.”

“No, it is to your embassy. It reads, ‘This office is pleased to state that Mrs. Iris Staub, a Chinese national, has been found to be a person of good character. She is free to travel with her husband, Wilhelm Staub, a German national.’ It’s signed by a general of the military police.”

“Is it official?”

“It bears the letterhead of the Ministry of War and has the general’s stamp.”

Willie took the letter back and showed Iris. “It came.”

Harry said, “Congratulations. Now you have something to drink to.”

“The embassy said it was hopeless. You did nothing?”

“Nothing at all. Kampai!”

As they drank, Harry felt a visual sweep. He didn’t recall Beechum’s eyes being quite so red, and he had to wonder how much the man knew about the next day’s flight. Had Alice mentioned that she wasn’t coming back? Harry assumed that, as a rule, women didn’t tell husbands much.

Willie studied the letter again. “It’s so short.”

“The shorter, the better.”

“What is ‘shorter, the better’? That would be rare.” Colonel Meisinger had come out of one of the gloomy hallways the Imperial had so many of. He was strapped into Gestapo black, and when he bowed to Iris, it was like watching a toad pirouette. “Don’t you agree?”

Willie said, “Colonel, I have good news, permission for Iris to leave with me. It’s wonderful.”

Meisinger snatched the letter from Willie. He opened his mouth with amusement. “I will say this in English so your wife understands. This paper, whatever it says, is hardly enough. It has to be in German. We’re Germans. Also police and educational records and an examination of her family, all in German.”

“Not enough?” Willie asked.

“I just said. I’m sure your wife will find suitable arrangements here.” Meisinger cocked his head toward the sing-along. “Wonderful spirit. I’ll contact whoever sent this letter and explain things to him.”

“Harry?” Iris asked.

Meisinger said, “Yes, Mr. Niles, are you acquainted with the immigration policies of the Third Reich?”

“No, sorry.”

“He can’t help you,” Meisinger explained to Iris.

“Join us, Colonel?” Harry said, ignoring Willie’s discouragement.

“One drink,” Meisinger settled into the chair next to Iris. “I regret the situation, but it will be resolved, I’m sure. I will take a personal interest.”

“You’re enjoying Japan?” Harry asked.

“I would enjoy it more if the Japanese would do more than chase Chinese bandits. And do more about the Jews.”

“You want the Jews to leave?” Willie asked.

“No, I want them sent back where we can get our hands on them. Harry, you seem to understand the Japanese, why are they so blind to the Jewish problem?”

“They’ve hardly ever seen Jews. Even the anti-Semites haven’t seen any Jews.”

“It’s a matter of education?”

“And talking to the right people.”