White Shanghai - A Novel of the Roaring Twenties in China by Glagoslav Publications

Elvira Baryakina

WHITE SHANGHAI A Novel of the Roaring Twenties in China a historical novel

Glagoslav Publications

White Shanghai By Elvira Baryakina

First published in Russian as “Белый Шанхай” in 2011 Translated from the Russian by Anna Muzychka and Benjamin Kuttner © Elvira Baryakina 2011 © 2013, Glagoslav Publications, United Kingdom Glagoslav Publications Ltd 88-90 Hatton Garden EC1N 8PN London United Kingdom www.glagoslav.com ISBN: 978-1-78267-034-6

Glagoslav Publications neither shares nor assumes responsibility for author’s political and other views and opinions as expressed in or interpreted from this book. This book is in copyright. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Contents Chapter 1. The Civil War . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Chapter 2. An Orphan Girl . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Chapter 3. The House of Hope and Emerging Career . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Chapter 4. Arms Smugglers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 Chapter 5. The Best City to Live in . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 Chapter 6. Taxi-Girls . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Chapter 7. The American Journalist . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 Chapter 8. Russian Refugees . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Chapter 9. The Cadet Corps . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 Chapter 10. The Great Imposters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60 Chapter 11. The Business Plan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71 Chapter 12. Almost a War Correspondent . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77 Chapter 13. The Blue Express Case . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82 Chapter 14. Loneliness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86 Chapter 15. Escape from Bandit Captivity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92 Chapter 16. Nanny Job . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97 Chapter 17. The Marines’ Fighting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106 Chapter 18. The Peculiar Collection of Asian Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112 Chapter 19. Chinese Legends . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 122 Chapter 20. The Old City District . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 130 Chapter 21. The Little Monk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137 Chapter 22. A Magazine for Flapper Girls . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145 Chapter 23. An English Detective . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154 Chapter 24. Don’t Vote for America! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 162 Chapter 25. Tell Me, What Is Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169 Chapter 26. The War against Opium . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 176 Chapter 27. Good Interview Questions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182 Chapter 28. Tango Music . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 190

Chapter 29. Organized Crime . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 197 Chapter 30. Shanghai Race Course . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 204 Chapter 31. The Adventures of a Prison Guard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 210 Chapter 32. The Newborn Baby . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 216 Chapter 33. Hit and Run . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 225 Chapter 34. Death, Grief and Loss . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 231 Chapter 35. Chinese Calendars . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 236 Chapter 36. A Scandal at the Opera House . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 242 Chapter 37. The Jesuit Art School . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 247 Chapter 38. A Chinese Actress and Model . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 251 Chapter 39. The Reasons for War . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 259 Chapter 40. Abduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 275 Chapter 41. Civilians, Refugees and War Criminals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 282 Chapter 42. Blackmailing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 291 Chapter 43. Russian Fascists . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 299 Chapter 44. An Unhappy Marriage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 309 Chapter 45. Kitsune, a Fox from Japanese Fairy Tales . . . . . . . . . . . . . 315 Chapter 46. God Save the Tsar! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 321 Chapter 47. The Cossack General . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 327 Chapter 48. Family Violence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 332 Chapter 49. The Cossacks Go Home . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 338 Chapter 50. Down with Imperialism! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 342 Chapter 51. The General Strike . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 349 Chapter 52. The Guardian Angel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 356 Chapter 53. The Communist Spy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 363 Chapter 54. Jealousy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 368 Chapter 55. Love Letters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 373 Chapter 56. The Most Dangerous Job in Shanghai . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 380 Chapter 57. A Radio Anchorman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 388 Chapter 58. The Warriorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Way . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 395

Chapter 59. Easter Holiday . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 399 Chapter 60. The German Arms Dealer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 410 Chapter 61. The Crime Suspect . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 419 Chapter 62. Nagasaki Port . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 428 Chapter 63. Pilots of the Chinese Revolution . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 433 Chapter 64. The Double Agent . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 441 Chapter 65. The Bolshevik Girls . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 447 Chapter 66. The Northern Expedition . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 453 Chapter 67. Spiritual Healing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 458 Chapter 68. The Communist Uprising . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 461 Chapter 69. The Green Gang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 467 Chapter 70. A Christmas Story . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 476 Chapter 71. The Soviet Steamboat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 483 Chapter 72. A Political Prisoner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 489 Chapter 73. The Prostitute named Messalina . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 493 Chapter 74. The Great Wall . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 499 Chapter 75. The Kuomintang’s Victory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 505 Chapter 76. The Nanking Incident . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 513 Chapter 77. Big Ears Du, Chiang Kai-shek and Foreign Devils . . . . . 522 Chapter 78. A Classic Tragedy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 527 Chapter 79. Stalin’s Money . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 535 Chapter 80. Something to Hope For . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 540

CHAPTER 1 THE CIVIL WAR

1. December 1922 Father Seraphim was built like a bear, with cannonballs for fists and a grand bushy beard—white around the lips and dark on the cheeks. His parish was the church of Saint Nicholas the Miracle-Worker in St. Petersburg. In 1917, the Bolsheviks disemboweled Russia. The Father and his wife, Matushka Natalia, fled eastward to join the White Army of Admiral Kolchak and pray for its victory. Normal life as Father Seraphim knew it was over. Private property was confiscated, and even God was declared a lie that rich people used to oppress the working class. One couldn’t argue with the Bolsheviks: freedom of speech and conscience had been abandoned as bourgeois prejudices. The road was hard. Father Seraphim’s first memento was a foolish bullet pierced his hat; second—a Red Cossack’s saber rent across his back. The White Army took many losses and retreated toward the Pacific Ocean. The emperor had been murdered, Kolchak—shot, and the top brass at Vladivostok, the last stronghold of opposition, didn’t know whether to grab their rifles or their suitcases. There was nowhere to retreat except the stormy Sea of Japan. Matushka Natalia wept. It was in her character to weep for everybody. They’d lost Russia not on battlefields, but in endless arguments and ego clashes. The remnants of the White Army, along with refugees, were thrown into old rusting ships. The holds were filled to the brim with people staking out their living spaces. Women built blanket partitions. No one knew how long the journey would take, but life demanded privacy.

Elvira Baryakina Father Seraphim stood on the stern. A faded Russian flag whipped in the wind. The ship dragged tugboats, gunboats and icebreaker in its wake—all that could be amassed from the Vladivostok harbor. “We’re leaving territorial waters,” the captain bellowed through his megaphone. Raw cadets, with lips trembling, eyes desperate, threw their hands to salute the distant Motherland on the horizon. The rest of the military followed. A Cossack officer took off his cap and crossed himself three times. A nurse in a white headscarf wept as if for the dead. “Where do we go now?” Father Seraphim asked. The captain’s voice quivered, “Stark will let us know.” Rear Admiral Stark was the head of it all. Nine thousand souls he led out of Vladivostok into the complete unknown. Where now? Japan? The Philippines? Hawaii? But what sort of people live there and to which God do they pray? They finally pulled into Gensan, a Korean port under Japanese rule, to beg for mercy. At the break of day, the senior officers would go to negotiate with local authorities for the Russian refugees to be freed from their hastily-pitched shore camp. The rest went to digging irrigation ditches. This was paid for with flat breads and Japanese soup made with…Lord have mercy…seaweed! In the barracks of the Red Cross, Father Seraphim met a former reporter, Klim Rogov. “A special person, an inspiration,” Matushka Natalia said about him. Klim looked like this: his shoulders—broad, but bony; height— almost up to Father Seraphim’s ears; face—a noble knight, poor and worn-out, not a real knight, but the type they depicted on posters and in the cinema. Before the revolution, Klim Rogov had been places with names one wouldn’t remember offhand. Every night he’d start an unauthorized fire outside the barracks and tell stories to the big crowd of refugees about America, China and his days back in Russia. Klim and his wife had fled their native town of Nizhny Novgorod. Only God knew the terrible ordeals they endured to escape the accursed Civil War. Once, Klim found a silver bust of a satyr in the tramcar destroyed by an artillery shell. For a while, it was their only source of income as they sawed off little pieces to trade for bread. Was Klim telling the truth? Who knows? His wife, Nina Kupina, was nodding her head in a little astrakhan hat, confirming what he said. She also was a special person. Her lavender-colored coat accentuated her slender, shapely curves. On her feet were pink ballet slippers

White Shanghai with ribbons—and in the middle of winter! Dark eyebrows framed her pleasant face. Cunning she was: she had negotiated with Japanese authorities to distribute leaflets among the refugees: Fellow Russians! Go home! There’s nothing for you in Korea or Japan. Paper for these leaflets was made of rice straw, soft and durable. One couldn’t think of a better insulation for boots and greatcoats. A lot of people were grateful to Nina: what a help to get through the winter! A dented bucket gurgled with boiling water. Nina made tea, the green kind from China. Klim was busy doing card tricks. He pulled a seven of hearts out of Colonel Terekhov’s sleeve and a queen of spades from under Madame Panova’s hat. Once a week he would organize a dance party. Jiří Labuda, a Czech POW, would play the harmonica, Cavalry Captain Mitrokhin handled the accordion, and a nameless Jew sawed away on his long-suffering violin. Matushka Natalia sang of the free grassland; she had a glorious voice. People listened in silence, afraid to breathe. Klim Rogov jotted down words on the back of a leaflet for a sergeant left deaf after a war injury. The man’s face lit up as he read the lyrics. The next morning a Japanese inspector arrived in a car, spoiling the air with the stench of gasoline. His interpreter made the message clear: “Leave. I don’t care where you go.” This started the women wailing again. Rear Admiral Stark loaded everyone back onto the ships. There were fewer of them now. Many had died. Some had snuck into Harbin, while others were picked up by the Japanese for construction and agricultural work. Sixteen ships left Gensan; only fourteen made it to China. The Lieutenant Dydymov and the Ajax sank during a storm. There were no survivors. “The Yangtze River flows in here,” the captain said, pointing at waves brown with silt. “The Huangpu tributary will be to our left. We’ll take it straight to Shanghai. Maybe they’ll let us stay.” The cadets read from their geography textbook: Shanghai is the main point of foreign trade in the Far East. The population is one and a half million. The city is split into three parts: Chinese, French and International. The latter two boast predominantly European-style architecture. The French Concession reports to the Governor-General of Indochina and through him to the Paris authorities. The International Settlement is governed jointly by Great Britain, the North American United States, Japan and the other powers.

Elvira Baryakina The main language spoken is English. The natives communicate with the foreigners in pidgin—broken English. French is widely known and spoken as well.

Klim Rogov was no stranger to Shanghai. He explained that white people felt right at home in the city, while Chinese and others of color were treated like second-class citizens. All male servants were called boy, no matter their age. And each was given a number: boy one, boy two, boy three. Klim also mentioned that, since Shanghai was a large industrial city, home to a mix of many races, the Russians would have no trouble blending in. As it turned out, Klim Rogov was about as good at predicting the future as Father Seraphim was at warfare. Stark’s fleet was stopped by authorities at the Huangpu River mouth twelve miles short of Shanghai. There they waited: two thousand refugees, mostly soldiers and officers with no useful trade skills. Among them were seven hundred cadets, aged between twelve and eighteen. Moreover, in their holds, the ships were filled with grenades, projectiles and military equipment. “We don’t want any more crime,” said an English officer sent to the flagship by the concerned city leaders. “When hunger hits, you’ll go robbing people. Get the hell out of here.” Stark slammed his fist. “We have two weeks’ supply of drinking water. And barely enough coal to cook with. The steamers are in need of urgent maintenance. We’re not going anywhere!” Two warships were dispatched to keep the crazy Russians in check. Weeks went by. The sky was a decayed gray haze, revolting to the eyes. Frost gripped the railings and puddles of thawed snow pooled on the decks. Stark took a motorboat to the local authorities and declared that hunger was setting in amongst his fleet. The locals took pity, Chinese yams came shortly after. But all landing requests were denied. Did these British and French believe in Christ? Father Seraphim thought. They didn’t seem to care that only twelve miles from Shanghai people were dying. The Chinese were allowed to live in Shanghai, but the Russian warriors were not. We saw your Chinese in Vladivostok: low-life hillbillies—selling stolen junk, eating their noodles with sticks. Why are they better? The ships communicated via signal flags to conserve electricity. An occasional dinghy was lowered so people could meet and swap news. But really, what news was there to swap? In place of coal, the charities sent coal dust. The benefactors themselves were trying to drive the ships away, but backhandedly.

White Shanghai Oh sorrow, what sorrow! All through the night Father Seraphim couldn’t sleep a wink. He wandered among the sleeping, praying quietly and thinking of the future. He went outside for a breath of air and sat on a gun carriage. The fog lay heavily around him, with only the dim lights of the Wusong fortress visible from the far coast. Baby linen was hung to dry on a gun barrel: recently Madame Baranova had given birth. A beam of light flashed across the deck. Some voices were heard— not Russian. Father Seraphim hid behind one of Madame Baranova’s quilts. Two figures passed carrying a crate with great caution. Shortly after, another figure followed, then another one, and another—very quietly, like thieves in the night. Father Seraphim was about to shout an alarm, when a lantern threw light on a lilac coat. It was Nina Kupina with Jiří Labuda, the Czech POW. They were both talking to a stranger in a white yachtsman cap. The flashlight died and the figures disappeared. Father Seraphim waited and listened to the distant voices and the splash of the waves. Tiptoeing to the side of the ship, he saw a large Chinese junk heading silently towards Shanghai. Early in the morning, when the refugees gathered on deck for their yam rations, Father Seraphim found Klim Rogov. “What was that all about?” he whispered. “Last night I saw your wife talking to strangers carrying crates. Jiří Labuda was with her.” Klim didn’t look at Father Seraphim. His bloodless face was that of a wounded man. “A Shanghai trader talked our captain into selling several crates of weapons,” he said. “Nina and Jiří Labuda left with him.” Father Seraphim was dumbfounded. “What? Are you saying she left you?” Klim didn’t answer and went to his spot on folded banners under a table in the wardroom. After the sale of the weapons, gossip and arguments occupied the refugees for days. What gave the captain the right to sell their military equipment? Where would the money go? Why on earth had Nina Kupina left her kind and upbeat husband for this pallid Jiří Labuda? And what gave them the right to go ashore before everybody else?

Elvira Baryakina 2. Nina Kupina was smart, shrewd and vain. As a child she wanted to be an enchanting stranger from an Alexander Blok’s poem: a mysterious lady who appears in men’s dreams, captivating and luring with her veil, silk skirt and silver rings on her slender hands. Her parents were working class. They hadn’t given her much, but Nina found everything she lacked in books: how to conduct herself, what to say, to whom to smile. She literally stole her first husband, Count Odintsov, from the high society of Nizhny Novgorod. The poor man was far too bewitched to stand a chance. “Did you love him?” Klim asked her once. Nina nodded. “He saved me. Pulled me out of a hole.” She became Her Excellency and moved into a white mansion on the top of Grebeshok Hill with a breathtaking view. But her Count was killed at the front of the Great War, and enchanting fairies went out of style. Nina was reborn a sly woman of cunning, a wily fox from a Slavic fairytale—one that feasts on someone else’s fish and makes a fool of every big bad wolf that gets in her way. Whenever in Nina’s company, men invariably became hot under the collar. She made the air come alive and swirl with emotions. With her, one always had some thoughts to cherish at the end of the day. Klim had been a nomad all his life. He ran away from home before finishing high school. His mother had died long ago, and his relationship with his father, a state attorney, was rocky at best. While in Persia, Klim had worked as a telegraph operator. Then in Shanghai, he’d slaved away for a tea company. Oh Nina, sweet Nina…you know nothing of that city. If the Lord so insists on letting Shanghai stand, he’d better apologize for Sodom and Gomorrah. In Buenos Aires, Klim got the knack of writing in Spanish and became a journalist. His satirical columns were published weekly in La Prensa, the nation’s most influential newspaper. He became an Argentinean citizen and was sure he would spend his life between the elegant editorial office and artistic cafés. In spring of 1917, Klim received a telegram informing him of his father’s death, so he headed home to claim his inheritance. It took him two months to get from Vladivostok to Nizhny Novgorod, as the trains generally operated on a schedule of whenever the engine driver could be bothered. Over the cities of Russia hung a deep provincial boredom seasoned with revolutionary ardor. Fences were plastered with posters;

White Shanghai rallies formed on every corner. Klim felt like a foreigner: either he’d forgotten Russia or it had changed beyond recognition. He wanted to sell the family house and immediately return to Argentina—a mere dream! He took a fancy to a certain young widow instead. The provincial cream of society had tolerated Nina for as long as Count Odintsov was alive, but after his death, they literally kicked her out: “Madame, go and be with your own kind!” It was a blow from which she barely recovered. The profits from the Count’s lands kept shrinking; all the workers were at war. The thought of being left without means again made Nina sick. She forced herself into a relationship with a head of the Ration Committee. He helped her arrange shipments of tarpaulins for the army. Klim teased blushing Nina that she wanted to be a countess, not a lover of some profiteer and embezzler. “If you despise me so much, why do you keep coming to me?” she protested. Klim answered honestly, “I could look endlessly at water flowing, flames burning and others working. You are the perfect combination of all these.” When the revolution broke out, the head of the Ration Committee vanished along with all the public funds. But Klim remained to see Nina’s fate. Nina finally got what she wished for: she was recognized as a noble. The house on Grebeshok Hill was confiscated and all her possessions were claimed as the people’s property. Klim smuggled Nina out of the city. Drunken passengers in their train car spoke of the end of Russia. Nina and Klim were also intoxicated; she read Blok’s poetry, and he serenaded her with silly ditties from Buenos Aires, translating them into Russian to make her laugh. Remember when we trekked across Siberia to the Far East, all the way to Vladivostok? Outside—revolution and cannonade roaring, but inside was our spirit lamp and dry bread. We were happy just because we were together and alive, weren’t we? Remember how we slept with a single overcoat for the two of us, afraid to move unless we wake one another? Klim knew Nina loved him with all her heart, but then it all went horribly wrong. When was the last time she allowed him to kiss her? It was in Harbin, a Russian city on Chinese territory. They went out onto a platform, thrilled to finally be rid of the Bolsheviks. But then the military came and drove everybody back into the train: a plague was terrorizing the city; quarantine was in full effect.

Elvira Baryakina Nina was close to crying tears of rage. She had already devised a plan to start a business and get on her own feet again in Harbin. Klim held her close and lied about their bright future. She played her part and pretended to believe him. They had to go to Vladivostok. Their life there was like sitting on a barrel of gunpowder. The Japanese occupiers owned the city, but Red partisans ruled the outskirts. Klim felt that his wife distanced herself from him. She wanted a kind of man who, if baring his teeth, showed fangs, and not a smile. A man with a calculator in his head and hard cash in the soles of his shoes. This was the kind of man she respected now. Klim, however, was a journalist and wasn’t considering a career change. To him a job was much like food: if you were hungry, better to tough it out rather than stuff your belly full of refuse, getting food poisoning. “There was a Gypsy who trained his horse not to eat,” Nina said to Klim, hardly suppressing her fury. “He almost succeeded, except the horse croaked. I’m sorry, but I can’t live this way anymore.” It was just too hard on Nina: the war bereaved her of all her relatives, home and social status. She saw people shot in front of her eyes. She was once beaten by Red Army soldiers almost to her death. After years of wandering and misery, she became embittered so much that she couldn’t trust anymore, neither Klim nor anyone else. And Klim was unable to save her from self-destruction. In Gensan, he roamed the Korean street markets, checking out hair combs and earrings. He was imagining buying Nina this or that, guessing with a kind of sixth sense what would look best on her. An enjoyable but empty way to pass the time. Should I have done what she wanted? Signed up for counter-intelligence or whatever else she had in mind? Sorry, darling, but certain things are not for you to decide. Nina’s boots tore, so Klim spent his last dollar on a pair of ballet slippers, the only footwear available. She accepted the gift and thanked him. He helped her tie the ribbons around her thin ankles. Nina wore the ballet slippers for a whole month and was still wearing them when they boarded the ship. On the journey across the Sea of Japan, the fleet got caught in a violent storm. The bulkheads shook, people and things hurtled together. Klim struggled across the heaving decks to report to the captain that the lifeboat had been washed away. That was when he saw Nina standing by a porthole, frantically gripping the rail. She looked desperate, like an abandoned child.

White Shanghai “Darling, how are you?” He tried to hug her, but she wouldn’t let him, staring daggers as if he were her worst enemy. What was it that made her hate him? Maybe it was Klim’s lack of plans for the future: he was always betting on chance. “Immigration? So what! I’ve been overseas, and see—not a scratch!” But Nina thought that Klim was placing the burden on her: she had to think of how to earn money and what to do next. Now Klim lay on banners beneath the table—a vanquished king. He was thirty-three years old and looked ahead to another forty or so years of musings, laughter and hope, all of it without Nina. Oh well, let her remain in Shanghai. Klim would move on to the Philippines or Argentina, or someplace else. It will be alright. Life will go on.

3. A dilapidated sampan, a small Asian boat, rose and fell with the waves. Klim bent over the side of the ship. “Let’s trade,” he shouted to a decrepit Chinese fisherman. “I need to get to the city.” Klim could hardly remember the local dialect, Shanghainese. Without practice, the language began slipping out of his grasp. “What?” the old man cried back. “I need to go to Shanghai! I’ll trade you this Russian samovar. It makes tea!” Klim showed him a brass boiler with a tap he’d inherited from a deceased merchant. “Huh?” “Silly! Here, catch the rope ladder!” The Russian refugees had finally struck an agreement with the authorities and could come ashore, but their ships had to leave Chinese territorial waters. The hell with the Philippines, Klim decided. I’m better off here; maybe I’ll run into people I know. He tied the samovar to his backpack and began to descend the rope ladder. “Wait!” Above him appeared the face of a teenage girl with dark hair and tear-stained eyes. “Take me with you.”

Elvira Baryakina Klim jumped into the boat. “Can we take her with us?” he asked the fisherman. “Does she have a samovar, too?” Klim looked up. “How will you pay your way?” “I have American money.” “How much?” “Twenty dollars.” “Actually, I’ll keep the samovar,” Klim said to the old man. “We’ll pay with real money.” The girl wore a coat far too small for her age. Over her shoulder hung a folded red blanket. In one hand she held a ladies’ knapsack, in the other—a bundle of books. “What’s your name?” Klim asked. “Ada.” “And what are those books about?” The girl averted her eyes. “About pirates.” The boatman showed them a spot under a reed overhang. Ada threw a doubtful glance at the soiled mat on the floor of the sampan. She reached into her knapsack, pulled out a large handkerchief and, only after laying it out, did she take a seat. Klim finally remembered who the girl was. Her mother had died of pneumonia not too long ago. “Do you have any relatives?” “No. Well, yes…I have an aunt in America. Mother said I need to find her.” Another lost soul, thought Klim.

CHAPTER 2 AN ORPHAN GIRL

1. Ada used to have many names. In special moments, Mother called her Adelaida Raisa Marshall. Her home nickname was Raya, which sounded very similar to rai, paradise in Russian. Her father tenderly called her Pumpkin, a nickname he had at his childhood Texas ranch. Her grandma named her little bunny, the governess—my dear, and the cook and janitor—Little Miss. During the five years of war, Ada lost all her names and all her family. Her father arrived from America, contracted to an Izhevsk factory, got married and learned Russian. They murdered him on November 9, 1917, when the Soviets seized power in the city. He was a member of the bourgeoisie—the only reason Mother was given. Terrified with the revolution, the governess went back to England; the cook and janitor disappeared shortly after. A train carried Ada to the east. Hungry and scared, she and her grandma snuggled close to each other. But Mother didn’t fear anything: “Don’t be afraid, silly. I tell you, we’ll get through this!” Mother could be trusted: she knew everything and could do anything. She had told Ada about hundred-year-old cedars, about malachite and about the generations of revolutionaries who were sent to Siberia for their struggle with the tsars. She dragged into the train compartment a door with a plaque reading Station Master and carved wood shavings out of it with her little manicure scissors. She would make a fire in a bucket, and everyone would get warm. Ada still had those bent scissors in her knapsack. Grandma disappeared in Gensan: she went to the market and never came back. The people in the refugee camp whispered: “What can you expect of the old crone! She’s forgotten her way back.” Mother and Ada spent weeks searching for her.

Elvira Baryakina Mother was strong. She did not give up, even when the doctor said, “The lady won’t last long.” Mother was in agony and could not pronounce her daughter’s name: “Ade...Ade…Ade...” Then for a minute, she got better. “Don’t be afraid...I won’t die...” This was the first time Mother hadn’t kept her word. Women wrapped her in a sack. Father Seraphim arrived. “Who is the girl?” he asked. “Her name is Ada,” a distant voice said. The priest sighed, “Sorry about your mother, Ada.” Ada sounded very similar to ad, hell in Russian. Mother was thrown overboard. A damn scoundrel seaman said that they could not keep a dead body on the ship. The whole night, Ada sat on a life-jacket box staring blankly at the wall. She scratched paint with her nails, watching happy people run past. What a blessing—they had permission to go ashore. “Come with us, poor child,” called Father Seraphim. She didn’t respond. The next day Ada woke from the pain in her numb legs. She limped to the deck and suddenly realized she had to leave. Right now. Otherwise, she’d do something to herself.

2. All these half-conscious days Ada thought: what to do? Where to go? Who with? She was angry for not going with Father Seraphim. Now she clung to Klim, a stranger. But he seemed to be kind enough to people in need. What should I call him? she wondered. Uncle, Mister or something else? I have to make sure he likes me, or he’ll chase me away. Klim wore a black jacket with frayed sleeves, and his cap resembled those worn by foreign reporters in Vladivostok. He was a strange type: dark-haired, disheveled, with wind-burned lips. A blue, moth-eaten scarf hung around his neck. I need a pretext to talk to him, she fretted. Oh Lord, please make him take me with him. As the sampan neared Shanghai, there were more and more boats around them. Ada took out her mother’s pince-nez, for books had made her eyesight poor. She leaned out of the sampan and discreetly put the spectacles on, hoping Klim would not notice the torn ribbon or the crack in the glass.

White Shanghai A huge barge surged past, scattering smaller boats, which immediately closed ranks again in its wake. A toothless Chinese rower shoved a bloodstained fish into Ada’s face. Horrified, she pulled back, her pince-nez falling to the mat on the floor. Klim smiled at her discomfort. “What do you expect? It’s a port.” Mismatched houses lined low shores; billboards rose above the tiled roofs, with text in English: Smoke Great Wall Cigarettes! Tiger Balm Works Where It Hurts! Ada watched in awe all the smokestacks, factory buildings and warships. “Here is the Bund, the world famous waterfront,” Klim told her. Ada put on her pince-nez again. To hell with the cracked glass! Huge buildings emerged from the fog, competing in splendor. Ada had never seen anything like it before. The sampan docked. Ada’s heart thumped: would Klim take her with him or not? “Give me a dollar,” he said. She readily passed him the money. Klim waved the note in front of the old man’s nose, and they started haggling. The Chinese shook his head, but Klim did not relent until the old man grudgingly handed him the change. “Let’s go,” Klim said to Ada as he pocketed her coins. She ran after him. Thank God! He didn’t chase me away! “How much did he charge us?” she asked. “Twenty cents.” “So little?” “Everything here is cheap. But it’s hard to make money.” Ada barely managed to keep up with Klim’s quick strides as they passed tall European-style houses with shops on the first floor and apartments above. On the walls were flags with Chinese squiggles. Cars traveled on the left side of the road—not as in Russia. Rickshaw boys zigzagged between them, pulling carts like horses. What mayhem! Ada thought, bewildered. People were shouting, eating or dragging loads on wheelbarrows and shoulder-yokes. Men wore skirts and short jackets; only a few dressed sensibly in coats and hats. Beggars everywhere, each one uglier than the next, half-naked, blind or armless. The Chinese women walked with a strange gait. Ada looked through her pince-nez: God, have mercy on us! Almost all of the women had hooves instead of feet. “What’s wrong with them?” she asked Klim.

Elvira Baryakina “Here, all girls have their feet bound. Their toes are tied to their heels to prevent the feet from growing.” “Why?” “So, they can’t run away from their husbands.” Trams, horses, noise, stench, stampede. “Where are we going?” Ada moaned. “To a brothel.” She gasped. “What for?” “We need to find out what’s going on.” Should I run away? Ada looked around. A white woman was begging on the curb. She was from the same ship as Ada and Klim.

3. Klim hammered on a flaky door for a few minutes. They waited outside a plain two-story, red brick house with a small yard. Eventually, someone peeked out of a high window, before quickly disappearing behind the curtain. “Martha, open the door,” shouted Klim in English. A rusted bicycle without wheels lay in the pile of litter; somebody’s drawers drooped on a line. Ada was about to enter a brothel. A blue eye appeared in a peephole, and a voice muttered, “Who is it?” “Martha, don’t you recognize me?” “Oh my God!” The door flew open and a petite, lusty woman with paper curlers in her hair threw her arms around Klim’s neck. What a dressing gown she wore! Never in her life had Ada seen such a dressing gown, with a dragon on the back and a fur-trimmed hem and sleeves. Even Martha’s slippers were incredible: high-heeled and covered in glass beads. Klim and Martha kissed each other. He held her hands. “What a beauty! Let me look at you.” The exclamations and embraces followed all over again. Martha was no beauty: a chubby forty-year-old face, a pear-shaped nose and bun-like lips. “Come on in! It’s cold out here,” she said. Ada followed Klim. Goodness gracious! she thought. The stairs were covered with carpets, and paintings in golden frames hung on wallpapered walls. A chandelier with crystal pendants glistened brightly.