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The Far Side of the Sky: A Novel of Love and Survival in War-Torn Shanghai (Shanghai Series) - Softcover
Weaving together intrigue, medical drama, and romance, The Far Side of the Sky by Daniel Kalla,brings to life an extraordinary and little-known chapter of the Second World War. Stirring and fast-paced, the novel is a sweeping account of a world in tumult and a moving saga about courage in the darkest of times.
November 9, 1938―Kristallnacht. The Nazis unleash a night of terror upon German and Austrian Jews. Franz Adler, a widowed Jewish surgeon, experiences firsthand the wave of violence sweeping Vienna when his beloved younger brother is lynched. Desperate to find sanctuary for his young daughter, Franz hears whispers of Jews fleeing to distant Shanghai in the Far East.
After a harrowing escape from Europe, the Adlers land in Shanghai to find it besieged by the rampaging Japanese army. But the cosmopolitan city―the "Paris of the East"―still represents the last haven for thousands of Jews fleeing the Third Reich.
Franz meets Soon Yi "Sunny" Mah at the refugee hospital where they both volunteer. Half-Chinese and half-American, the compassionate and headstrong young nurse is an outcast in her own culture. Recognizing her ability, Franz agrees to mentor Sunny in surgery.
After the attack on Pearl Harbor, tensions soar. With Japanese soldiers lurking on every corner, the threat of starvation, disease, and internment hangs over the Adlers. So does the menace from the Nazis who refuse to let go of the Jewish "escapees." Franz is torn between ensuring his family's security and following his heart.
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About the Author:
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
Daniel Kalla is the international bestselling author of Pandemic, Resistance, Rage Therapy, Blood Lies, Cold Plague, and Of Flesh and Blood. His books have been translated into eleven languages. Two novels have been optioned for film. Kalla practices emergency medicine in Vancouver, British Columbia, where he lives with his family.
Chapter 1
NOVEMBER 9, 1938, VIENNA
The shadow still swayed over the pavement. Franz Adler tried to blink away the memory of his brother’s dangling corpse and the silhouette it cast across the sidewalk, but the image looped over and over in his head.
A pane of glass erupted somewhere at street level, startling Franz. His hand slipped and he pierced Esther’s skin at the wrong angle. “Verdammt!” he swore under his breath as he yanked back the needle’s tip.
Three more windows shattered. The mob was so close. Its drunken cheers and raucous laughter infected the room. Franz could almost smell the stench of stale beer and body odor that must have wafted after it.
Concentrate, Adler! Finish suturing and go collect your daughter!
Eyes open or closed, the mental image persisted. As a surgeon, Franz had witnessed numerous deaths, but none compared with the memory of his own brother’s.
A damp November chill permeated the spacious apartment. Fearing a fire, the caretaker had shut off the boiler. The windows were draped and the lights off, save for the flickering flame of three candles that projected long writhing shadows against the walls. Franz had to squint through the weak light to study Esther’s blood-caked arm before him.
Another pane shattered three stories below. Franz heard a fresh wave of cheers as though it were some kind of feat to deface a city. But the voices grew more distant as the bulk of the mob stomped farther down Liechtenstein Strasse.
Esther Adler huddled for warmth under the blanket that Franz had wrapped around her shoulders. His sister-in-law’s complexion was ashen. Abrasions crisscrossed her face. But amazingly, her gray eyes still possessed a remnant of their usual calm. “Your hands, Franz,” Esther said in a hushed voice.
Franz glanced down at his shaky fingers. “Not enough light,” he muttered.
“We will manage.” A tremulous smile flitted across Esther’s lips. “With God’s help.”
“God?” Franz nodded to the curtains, which glowed red from the fires consuming Vienna. “Essie, how could it be any clearer that there is no God?” he snapped.
She closed her eyes for a moment. “I can’t believe that. I won’t.”
Franz took a slow breath and mentally aligned the edges of Esther’s jagged wound, estimating the number of stitches it would require. Twenty, possibly more. He hoped he had enough catgut to close the laceration, which snaked almost the entire length of Esther’s forearm but, remarkably, spared the largest nerves and blood vessels.
Hannah needs you, he reminded himself as he ran a fourth stitch through Esther’s flesh. She barely flinched, despite the lack of local anesthetic. Franz always carried his suture kit in his medical bag, but he silently cursed himself for not having brought the rest of his supplies upstairs sooner. From the moment he first heard the wireless broadcasts—Goebbels’s shrill shrieks of “Juden” this and “Juden” that—Franz had expected the worst. But he had not foreseen just how bloodthirsty the backlash would become. Who could have predicted this?
Earlier, Franz had tried to rush downstairs to get local anesthetic and bandages, but Esther grabbed his arm and, dripping blood onto his sleeve, begged him to proceed without freezing. She claimed to be more afraid of the injection than the stitches, but they both knew what she really feared: if the Brownshirts or other thugs caught Franz rummaging through his ground-floor surgery, he would never return. And his daughter, Hannah, was waiting.
“It’s fine, Franz,” Esther whispered. “Just continue. Please.”
Franz looked into her kind eyes. Narrow-faced with sharp features, Esther had deep-set gray eyes that made her look older than her thirty-two years. Though not conventionally pretty, she radiated intelligence, humor, and, especially, compassion. Her empathy was boundless. Even now, with her arm splayed open in the wake of her husband’s lynching, little more than an hour earlier, she seemed as concerned for her niece’s welfare as her own. But her trembling shoulders belied her composed expression.
“All right, Essie,” he said as he looped another stitch through her arm, bringing the ragged edges a little closer together.
“We must get Hannah away from here, Franz.” Esther motioned toward the silhouettes of flames dancing against the curtains. “Our time has run out, ja?”
Franz nodded, ashamed of having resisted for so long. Until the Nazis set Vienna ablaze, he had clung to his naive belief that their reign of terror was a dark but passing phase in history. That his countrymen would come to their collective senses. But his brother, Karl, had been right from the outset. Nothing, not even blood, would appease these crazed animals.
Franz gazed into Esther’s glistening eyes. Even though Karl was his only sibling and the best friend he had ever known, his loss paled compared with hers. Esther had no brothers or sisters, her parents were long dead, and Karl and she had been unable to conceive a child. Esther and Karl had only each other, but that had always been enough. Franz had never known a couple more deeply in love. He racked his brain for some consoling words, but none came to mind. His brother, the lawyer, had been the verbally gifted one. So Franz finished stitching in torturous silence. He was reaching for strips of a torn shirt to use as a bandage when he heard a plaintive scream. He froze, then rushed to the window.
“Vorsicht!” Esther cautioned. “Be careful! Don’t let them see you!”
Franz gently peeled back the edge of the drape, exposing only enough of a gap to peek out to the street below.
A group of stragglers—some were dressed in civilian clothing, others wore the brown shirts, matching caps, and bloodred swastika armbands of the storm troopers—milled about on the road like wolves circling their kill. In the center of them, an older woman lay sprawled on her back, flailing wildly. A blond woman in a long leather coat stood over her, pinning the fallen woman down with a foot to the chest.
Franz spotted a balding old man lying ten or so feet away. His torso was twisted unnaturally, with his knees facing in almost the opposite direction to his scrawny chest. A fat storm trooper hovered over him, holding a thick wooden club in his pudgy fingers. The trooper raised the club high over his head and let it hang suspended in the air for a long moment.
“No, no, no...,” Franz muttered.
The storm trooper swung the bat down like an ax into the victim’s midsection. Unconscious, possibly dead, the man didn’t respond. The woman shrieked again and was rewarded with a heavy kick.
The hair on Franz’s neck stood as he recognized the victims. “It’s the Yacobsens!”
Hannah loved visiting the Yacobsens’ bakery, at the end of their block. The kind old couple—“Tante Frieda” and “Onkel Moshe,” as his daughter called them—would shower the girl with delicious treats of strudel, pfitzauf, and linzer cake.
“Gott in Himmel!” Esther breathed from across the room. “What have they done?”
The fat storm trooper motioned to the blond woman. She grabbed Frieda by the wrist. The older woman resisted as best she could, but a second storm trooper sauntered over and jerked Frieda’s other arm back. She howled as though her shoulder had been dislocated. The two Nazis dragged the thrashing woman toward the fat storm trooper, who stood over her motionless husband, tapping his club against his open palm.
“How can they?” Franz croaked. “To an old woman? It’s madness!”
He watched the fat storm trooper cock his arm again. He pictured Karl’s swollen face and helpless eyes imploring him to act. Franz had never felt as impotent. Unable to stomach another moment, he spun from the window.
I must get Hannah!
Earlier, Franz had left his daughter at the neighboring apartment with the widowed Frau Lieberman before rushing out to retrieve Esther. After ushering his sister-in-law home through minefield-like streets, Franz had no choice but to suture her arm before she bled out. Now that he had closed the wound, he could not bear another minute apart from his daughter, who, though less than a hundred feet from him, felt worlds away.
Franz bolted for the door.
“No, Franz!” Esther cried after him. “Don’t go out now!”
“I can’t leave Hannah next door while the city burns.”
“Hannah is safe with Frau Lieberman!” Esther whispered. “We must not move right now. What if they are already inside the building? What if they hear you?”
“I will be quiet.”
“Franz, it’s too dangerous. Hannah is safer where she is.”
“I have to get her, Essie.”
“Just a little longer, Franz.” Her voice cracked. “For God’s sake, not now, of all times!”
Ignoring her protests, he opened the door. The dark hallway beyond was empty and silent. Holding his breath, Franz took a tentative step out the door. He glanced to either side and then took another.
“Papa?” a little voice mewed.
His heart almost stopped as he spied Hannah tiptoeing down the hall toward him. “Hannah!”
Behind his daughter, Franz saw a faint light emanating from a crack beneath the doorway to the neighboring apartment, and he sensed Frau Lieberman’s terrified presence. Franz padded toward Hannah, swept her up in his arms, and darted back into his flat. He pushed the door shut and gently clicked the dead bolt behind him.
Franz leaned over and smothered Hannah...
NOVEMBER 9, 1938, VIENNA
The shadow still swayed over the pavement. Franz Adler tried to blink away the memory of his brother’s dangling corpse and the silhouette it cast across the sidewalk, but the image looped over and over in his head.
A pane of glass erupted somewhere at street level, startling Franz. His hand slipped and he pierced Esther’s skin at the wrong angle. “Verdammt!” he swore under his breath as he yanked back the needle’s tip.
Three more windows shattered. The mob was so close. Its drunken cheers and raucous laughter infected the room. Franz could almost smell the stench of stale beer and body odor that must have wafted after it.
Concentrate, Adler! Finish suturing and go collect your daughter!
Eyes open or closed, the mental image persisted. As a surgeon, Franz had witnessed numerous deaths, but none compared with the memory of his own brother’s.
A damp November chill permeated the spacious apartment. Fearing a fire, the caretaker had shut off the boiler. The windows were draped and the lights off, save for the flickering flame of three candles that projected long writhing shadows against the walls. Franz had to squint through the weak light to study Esther’s blood-caked arm before him.
Another pane shattered three stories below. Franz heard a fresh wave of cheers as though it were some kind of feat to deface a city. But the voices grew more distant as the bulk of the mob stomped farther down Liechtenstein Strasse.
Esther Adler huddled for warmth under the blanket that Franz had wrapped around her shoulders. His sister-in-law’s complexion was ashen. Abrasions crisscrossed her face. But amazingly, her gray eyes still possessed a remnant of their usual calm. “Your hands, Franz,” Esther said in a hushed voice.
Franz glanced down at his shaky fingers. “Not enough light,” he muttered.
“We will manage.” A tremulous smile flitted across Esther’s lips. “With God’s help.”
“God?” Franz nodded to the curtains, which glowed red from the fires consuming Vienna. “Essie, how could it be any clearer that there is no God?” he snapped.
She closed her eyes for a moment. “I can’t believe that. I won’t.”
Franz took a slow breath and mentally aligned the edges of Esther’s jagged wound, estimating the number of stitches it would require. Twenty, possibly more. He hoped he had enough catgut to close the laceration, which snaked almost the entire length of Esther’s forearm but, remarkably, spared the largest nerves and blood vessels.
Hannah needs you, he reminded himself as he ran a fourth stitch through Esther’s flesh. She barely flinched, despite the lack of local anesthetic. Franz always carried his suture kit in his medical bag, but he silently cursed himself for not having brought the rest of his supplies upstairs sooner. From the moment he first heard the wireless broadcasts—Goebbels’s shrill shrieks of “Juden” this and “Juden” that—Franz had expected the worst. But he had not foreseen just how bloodthirsty the backlash would become. Who could have predicted this?
Earlier, Franz had tried to rush downstairs to get local anesthetic and bandages, but Esther grabbed his arm and, dripping blood onto his sleeve, begged him to proceed without freezing. She claimed to be more afraid of the injection than the stitches, but they both knew what she really feared: if the Brownshirts or other thugs caught Franz rummaging through his ground-floor surgery, he would never return. And his daughter, Hannah, was waiting.
“It’s fine, Franz,” Esther whispered. “Just continue. Please.”
Franz looked into her kind eyes. Narrow-faced with sharp features, Esther had deep-set gray eyes that made her look older than her thirty-two years. Though not conventionally pretty, she radiated intelligence, humor, and, especially, compassion. Her empathy was boundless. Even now, with her arm splayed open in the wake of her husband’s lynching, little more than an hour earlier, she seemed as concerned for her niece’s welfare as her own. But her trembling shoulders belied her composed expression.
“All right, Essie,” he said as he looped another stitch through her arm, bringing the ragged edges a little closer together.
“We must get Hannah away from here, Franz.” Esther motioned toward the silhouettes of flames dancing against the curtains. “Our time has run out, ja?”
Franz nodded, ashamed of having resisted for so long. Until the Nazis set Vienna ablaze, he had clung to his naive belief that their reign of terror was a dark but passing phase in history. That his countrymen would come to their collective senses. But his brother, Karl, had been right from the outset. Nothing, not even blood, would appease these crazed animals.
Franz gazed into Esther’s glistening eyes. Even though Karl was his only sibling and the best friend he had ever known, his loss paled compared with hers. Esther had no brothers or sisters, her parents were long dead, and Karl and she had been unable to conceive a child. Esther and Karl had only each other, but that had always been enough. Franz had never known a couple more deeply in love. He racked his brain for some consoling words, but none came to mind. His brother, the lawyer, had been the verbally gifted one. So Franz finished stitching in torturous silence. He was reaching for strips of a torn shirt to use as a bandage when he heard a plaintive scream. He froze, then rushed to the window.
“Vorsicht!” Esther cautioned. “Be careful! Don’t let them see you!”
Franz gently peeled back the edge of the drape, exposing only enough of a gap to peek out to the street below.
A group of stragglers—some were dressed in civilian clothing, others wore the brown shirts, matching caps, and bloodred swastika armbands of the storm troopers—milled about on the road like wolves circling their kill. In the center of them, an older woman lay sprawled on her back, flailing wildly. A blond woman in a long leather coat stood over her, pinning the fallen woman down with a foot to the chest.
Franz spotted a balding old man lying ten or so feet away. His torso was twisted unnaturally, with his knees facing in almost the opposite direction to his scrawny chest. A fat storm trooper hovered over him, holding a thick wooden club in his pudgy fingers. The trooper raised the club high over his head and let it hang suspended in the air for a long moment.
“No, no, no...,” Franz muttered.
The storm trooper swung the bat down like an ax into the victim’s midsection. Unconscious, possibly dead, the man didn’t respond. The woman shrieked again and was rewarded with a heavy kick.
The hair on Franz’s neck stood as he recognized the victims. “It’s the Yacobsens!”
Hannah loved visiting the Yacobsens’ bakery, at the end of their block. The kind old couple—“Tante Frieda” and “Onkel Moshe,” as his daughter called them—would shower the girl with delicious treats of strudel, pfitzauf, and linzer cake.
“Gott in Himmel!” Esther breathed from across the room. “What have they done?”
The fat storm trooper motioned to the blond woman. She grabbed Frieda by the wrist. The older woman resisted as best she could, but a second storm trooper sauntered over and jerked Frieda’s other arm back. She howled as though her shoulder had been dislocated. The two Nazis dragged the thrashing woman toward the fat storm trooper, who stood over her motionless husband, tapping his club against his open palm.
“How can they?” Franz croaked. “To an old woman? It’s madness!”
He watched the fat storm trooper cock his arm again. He pictured Karl’s swollen face and helpless eyes imploring him to act. Franz had never felt as impotent. Unable to stomach another moment, he spun from the window.
I must get Hannah!
Earlier, Franz had left his daughter at the neighboring apartment with the widowed Frau Lieberman before rushing out to retrieve Esther. After ushering his sister-in-law home through minefield-like streets, Franz had no choice but to suture her arm before she bled out. Now that he had closed the wound, he could not bear another minute apart from his daughter, who, though less than a hundred feet from him, felt worlds away.
Franz bolted for the door.
“No, Franz!” Esther cried after him. “Don’t go out now!”
“I can’t leave Hannah next door while the city burns.”
“Hannah is safe with Frau Lieberman!” Esther whispered. “We must not move right now. What if they are already inside the building? What if they hear you?”
“I will be quiet.”
“Franz, it’s too dangerous. Hannah is safer where she is.”
“I have to get her, Essie.”
“Just a little longer, Franz.” Her voice cracked. “For God’s sake, not now, of all times!”
Ignoring her protests, he opened the door. The dark hallway beyond was empty and silent. Holding his breath, Franz took a tentative step out the door. He glanced to either side and then took another.
“Papa?” a little voice mewed.
His heart almost stopped as he spied Hannah tiptoeing down the hall toward him. “Hannah!”
Behind his daughter, Franz saw a faint light emanating from a crack beneath the doorway to the neighboring apartment, and he sensed Frau Lieberman’s terrified presence. Franz padded toward Hannah, swept her up in his arms, and darted back into his flat. He pushed the door shut and gently clicked the dead bolt behind him.
Franz leaned over and smothered Hannah...
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- PublisherForge Books
- Publication date2013
- ISBN 10 0765368900
- ISBN 13 9780765368904
- BindingPaperback
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- Number of pages499
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