Stay well, Mama!

Your Rosalie

3 May 1938

Dearest Mama,

I haven’t written for some time, I know, but as I’ve been told there will now be no mail service until we reach Singapore, I feel foolish putting pen to paper to produce a letter that will sit on my bureau for days. Paul applauds this lack of enterprise on my part, seeming to feel it justifies his own, though I have a number of previous letters to point to, which makes me feel quite superior but has little effect on him.

But this morning I awoke feeling melancholy, Mama, and missing you greatly. Perhaps the fog which enshrouds us affects my mood. People speak softly; even the children are subdued. We’re less than a week from Shanghai. I believe the enormity of this undertaking has at last forced itself on our understanding. I have had glimpses of it over the past weeks, but have resolutely refused to acknowledge it, preferring the luxury of the ship, the exhilaration of new acquaintances, and the adventure of sailing into the unknown. But the fog brings about an odd sensation. There is little wind, and in no direction can anything be seen beyond the rail. At home a chill fog precedes a change of weather, but this warm, featureless mist seems as though it might continue forever. Ah, and there you have it, Mama: I’ve said “home,” and the word fills me with sadness.

When I look toward the future, excitement and curiousity lighten my trepidation. My new friend, Chen Kai-rong, has taught me much about his country. It’s clear he loves his homeland deeply and longed for it when he was away, equally clear he knows China ’s shortcomings and is eager to see them corrected. His devotion in spite of all he thinks wrong is reassuring, and I hope his feelings will color my own. In this way, I find myself already connected to Shanghai; but when I turn toward the past, my feelings are exactly opposite. I’m no longer connected, but uncoupled and adrift. My every happy memory is shaded by a forlorn longing for the home we’ve lost.

Mama, have you written to us? I understand the fast liners are few and I do not expect a letter from you on each tender that meets us; and yet, as Paul asks, if that’s true, why do I continually put myself in the path of the steward who distributes the passengers’ mail? I should dearly love a letter, Mama. But much much more, I should love to find you and Uncle Horst on the ship that follows immediately behind this one.

I’ll seal this letter now, and lay it on my bureau until tomorrow, when the tender sails out from Singapore. Perhaps by morning the fog will burn off, and I’ll be

Your strong and sunny Rosalie, again.

9 May 1938

Dearest Mama,

Yesterday we arrived in Shanghai.

What a place this is!

How to tell you? How to begin? It’s all so strange, Mama, and we’re so unprepared! On shipboard Chen Kai-rong painted such vivid word-pictures that I felt quite ready to step into life as a practiced “Shanghailander.” But oh, how wrong I was!

Though I’m finding great difficulty, Mama, in putting words to this experience, nevertheless I’ll try, so things won’t be as strange for you when you arrive; and also so you’ll have an idea what Paul and I, in this dizzying world, are feeling.

The night before last, in a thick mist, we bore down on the mouth of the harbor. Everyone ran to the rails, though for some time nothing could be seen. The air became electric when ships loomed from the fog: two liners at anchor, gunships of many nations, and our first sight of the square-sailed junks and flat sampans of the Orient.

We dropped anchor to await the turn of the tide. The kitchens put forth a sumptuous banquet of fish, goose, and dumplings. Not knowing what our situation would be from that moment forward, I ate my fill and encouraged Paul to do the same. (Though he needed no encouragement; as costly as this passage was, I don’t believe that in the end the Lloyd Triestino Line has made any profit on Paul.) Stewards stacked luggage on deck, and many emotional farewells and promises of continued friendship were made. Neither Paul nor I slept that night; had we, I believe we would have been the only passengers to do so.

As the sun rose the engines rumbled, and the ship was on the move. We made our way up the Whangpu, as the river is called where it flows through Shanghai. Though the fog was thick, we refugees once again jammed the rails, straining for a glimpse of our new home.

That “glimpse” came first not as sight, but as scent. Though “scent” is too gentle a word: This was a full-on reek, a riot of tangled odors that, had it been noise, would have deafened us all. Imagine, Mama, the sea at low tide; add diesel oil, rotting vegetables, and the smoke from a thousand factories, and stir into a haze of damp heat! Such was our first impression of our new home.

As the fog burned off we saw the shore. In contrast to the report of our noses, our eyes suggested a dreamlike scene. We floated past fields and rice paddies dotted with low huts and with farmers trudging behind what Kai-rong informs me are not oxen but water buffaloes. Soon, though, we approached the outskirts of Shanghai, and oh! what a disheartening sight! The area we passed, called Hongkew, suffered much in the Japanese invasion. The devastation, drifting smoke, and rubble, and the poor souls wandering through them, were not encouraging omens.

Next came the wharves. Junks, sampans, and rafts crowded the water, riding our wake or fearlessly crossing before us; how we failed to swamp them, I cannot say. On the docks all was chaos. Trucks loaded and unloaded and automobiles inched along. The rickshaw, that odd vehicle of the Orient, could be seen, with men pulling like horses at its rails. But the chief element of the boiling, eddying commotion was people, oh so many people! A few wore European dress, but most, both men and women, rushed or trudged or sat about in short trousers and conical hats. I felt dismay at the sight of such a dense and endless crowd; but also, a strange exhilaration that made me impatient to join them.

Next came into view grand buildings in the European style. The streets, though still bustling, became less frantic. Kai-rong gazed upon his home city for the first time in years. The light in his face strengthened my resolve to try to love this place.

Kai-rong informed us we had reached the Bund, a riverfront promenade lined with banks, office blocks, and grand hotels. This is the heart of the International Settlement, an area that by treaty is governed not by China but by the foreign powers whose subjects reside there. And this word is not our German Bund, as one might expect, but Hindustani, and meaning “dock.” (Do you see how much I’ve learned, in these few weeks? Though I haven’t yet learned to love Chinese sweets.)

Our engines quieted; we were met by pilot boats. Paul ran to join a group of friends his own age at the bow, to be the first to see our dock. Spying a garden along the Bund, I asked Kai-rong if it was as lovely as it appeared. He said he thought it must be, but he’s never been inside, as Chinese aren’t allowed.

Mama, my heart froze. I saw before me the “Jews Forbidden” sign at the gate of the Mirabell Garden the last time you and I tried to go for our accustomed Sunday stroll.

“But how can that be?” I was vehement, Mama; I think I wanted him to say he’d been making some odd joke, or I’d misunderstood. “How can that be? This is China! This area may be governed by foreigners, but surely they cannot-”

“They can. By treaty they can and for a hundred years they have. A mile behind that”-indicating the Bund-“and thousands of miles beyond, is China. The International Settlement and the French Concession might as well be Europe. Though I can tell you, Rosalie, I was never treated with as much disdain in Europe as I have been here in the city where I was born.”