When Kaspar's family was taken away, the residents of the entire alley watched them from afar. Chen Amao was tightly held back by his mother, while the bayonets of Japanese soldiers glinted with a cold, pale light in the sun. Kaspar clutched a small bundle, closely following behind his father...
1
In 1935, the moist sea breeze at Shanghai's docks brushed against their faces. The whistle of the steamship made 7-year-old Kaspar feel a sudden fear. He gripped his father's old overcoat, burying his face deep into it—the fabric still carried the sweet, distinctive scent of their small Austrian town. His father straightened Kaspar's hat, lifted him up, and kissed him, telling his son this was where their family would live: "You'll like Shanghai." Holding his son's hand and carrying an old leather suitcase, he stepped onto this unfamiliar land, blending into the crowd of people speaking various dialects.
For several weeks, Kaspar remained dispirited. His father, once a history professor, now worked as an English tutor for a wealthy Chinese merchant. His mother opened a small bakery. Kaspar was left to play alone. He dared not leave the rented attic room because a group of dirty Chinese children would always surround him, singing a mocking rhyme: "Little foreigner, can't talk, hired a monk to chant sutras, mumbling and incomprehensible." Each time, the older children knocked Kaspar to the ground, but he never cried. He would struggle to his feet, carefully brush the dirt off his clothes, and slowly walk home. But one rainy day, when they blocked him at the alley entrance again while he was mailing a letter for his mother, Kaspar decided he could endure no more.
They coveted the red raincoat Kaspar was wearing, which looked especially bright and beautiful under the rain. Kaspar silently clutched one corner of the raincoat, engaged in a tug-of-war with another boy. His deep blue eyes filled with tears, but immense pride prevented him from crying. As his strength waned and the raincoat was about to slip away, a 10-year-old Chinese boy suddenly yanked it from behind, returning it safely to Kaspar's hands. Kaspar quickly hugged it to his chest, gazing gratefully at the boy. One of the children shouted, "It's Amao! Chen's Amao—run!" The group scattered instantly. The boy named Amao pretended to chase them out of the alley, then returned to tell Kaspar: "If they bully you again, just shout for me in the lane. These little rascals are getting more and more unruly."
Kaspar finally began to think Shanghai wasn't so unpleasant after all. He had made a new friend named Chen Amao.
2
Residents of Tangshan Road Lane 690 noticed that the most mischievous boy in the Chen family now had a new companion—a foreign little boy. One spoke Shanghainese, the other a foreign language. They often chattered together, then burst into laughter. Half a year later, Kaspar could roughly understand simple Shanghainese and would smile and say to neighbors who regularly patronized his family's bakery: "Auntie, nong hao."
Chen Amao found everything about this little foreigner fascinating. He asked why Kaspar didn't fight back when other children bullied him. Kaspar replied that his father had taught him that a person must always maintain good manners. Amao didn't quite understand. He waved his fists: "If anyone dares to provoke me, I'll beat them up hard." Kaspar shook his head: "No, if you have no cultivation, people will look down on you." Amao didn't believe it. He said, "This is Shanghai—only the poor are looked down upon." Kaspar still shook his head: "Back in Austria, we had a big garden, but the Germans drove us Jews from our homes and confiscated my mother's diamond necklace. They gained a lot of money, but they..." Kaspar struggled to find the right Chinese words, blinked his lake-like eyes, and said: "They don't have noble hearts."
Something touched Amao's heart—he couldn't name it—but for the first time, he felt ashamed of his past behavior: stealing candy from the grocery store, teasing the blind fortune-teller. These were the tricks of alleyway ruffians he had planned to teach Kaspar so they could cause mischief together, but somehow, he felt his face flush with embarrassment at the thought.
After returning from the missionary school, Kaspar often brought books to find Amao—sometimes the Bible, sometimes Hebrew history. After selling newspapers, Amao would also go to play with Kaspar. Under dim evening lights, Kaspar's father would hum a cheerful melody, dancing gracefully with Kaspar's mother. Amao envied this couple, who, though exiled from their homeland, remained loving and devoted. His own father was rarely sober and, when drunk, would take his anger out on his wife and children. Amao genuinely liked this family—optimistic and warm.
3
Kaspar hadn't seen Amao for several days. He wanted to visit, but school exams kept him busy, so he never found the time.
Kaspar's father also mentioned he hadn't seen his son's new friend selling newspapers on the street lately. Kaspar couldn't sit still—he had to go see him. His mother wrapped up a large piece of fresh bread for him to bring to his friend.
Amao's younger sister opened the door for Kaspar, saying her brother was ill, and their mother was constantly crying, fearing he would die. Climbing the narrow, steep stairs, Kaspar saw Amao lying in bed under a tattered thin blanket, curled up and struggling to open his eyes to smile at him. Kaspar went over and took his hand—Amao's hand was scorching hot. Kaspar opened the bread for him to eat, but the usually ravenous Amao weakly shook his head, asking his sister to thank Kaspar and take it to share with his siblings.
Amao's face was ashen gray. Suddenly, Kaspar remembered his sister's face when their entire family was imprisoned in the concentration camp—she had looked just like this, shadowed by death. She didn't survive; before dying, she gave her beloved red raincoat to Kaspar, then was dragged away by German soldiers who said she was going for treatment—never to return. Nine-year-old Kaspar cried. He didn't want to lose his best friend. He still wanted to visit the City God Temple with Amao; he had promised to set off firecrackers with him during the Lunar New Year. But now it seemed all these hopes would vanish. Kaspar walked home in despair, weeping.
Kaspar told his father everything that had happened at Amao's home. His father fell silent. They had no relatives in Shanghai, and their lives were barely enough to avoid hunger. How could they help someone even worse off than themselves? Kaspar's mother removed the ring from her finger—this was the last proof of her once-prominent family. She smiled and placed it in her husband's hand, saying, "If this ring can save a life, then it has fulfilled its greatest value." Kaspar's father kissed his wife's forehead, wiped away his son's tears, and disappeared into the dark night.
Amao's mother was startled awake by a knock at midnight. At the door stood the kind foreign man from the alley, with a doctor holding a medical kit behind him. Amao's mother quickly invited them in. The doctor examined Amao's condition—blueish spots had already appeared on his body. The doctor said if they waited until morning, the child would have no hope. Amao's mother looked gratefully at Kaspar's father, unsure how to thank him, and worried about being unable to pay the medical and consultation fees. Kaspar's father kindly winked and told the anxious mother, "Everything will be fine."
4
Kaspar never told Amao what had happened. Even when Amao's mother brought Amao to bow and thank Kaspar's father, Kaspar kept this secret in his heart. Amao insisted on becoming sworn brothers with Kaspar, but Kaspar was too young—no matter how Amao explained, Kaspar couldn't understand. Amao had to give up, but in his heart, he had already regarded Kaspar as a younger brother.
By 1943, Shanghai's situation grew increasingly tense. Kaspar's father was fired, and his mother's bakery suffered from poor business due to the economic downturn. Even more terrifying was the rumor that the Japanese were planning to establish a segregated zone in Shanghai, forcing Jews to live there and restricting their freedom outside. Kaspar's father grew thinner day by day. Years earlier, a close friend of Kaspar's grandfather had risked his life to bribe a high-ranking German officer, allowing their family of three to escape the concentration camp in disguise and eventually reach Shanghai. If they were imprisoned this time, there might truly be no hope of escape. The house was always silent. Only in the evenings, when Amao brought the day's newspaper to Kaspar's father, could Kaspar exchange a few words with Amao.
When Kaspar's family was taken away, the residents of the entire alley watched them from afar. Chen Amao was tightly held back by his mother, while the bayonets of Japanese soldiers glinted with a cold, pale light in the sun. Kaspar clutched a small bundle, closely following behind his father, whose face bore a scar, his usually neat hair disheveled, his steps unsteady. Kaspar's mother supported her husband, elegantly smiling and waving goodbye to their former neighbors.
More terrible than the segregated zone was famine. Shanghai was no longer the "Paris of the East." The entire city's stomach growled with hollow hunger. Amao missed Kaspar. He didn't know if his little brother had enough to eat or if he was being bullied.
Amao worked as a conductor on the tram. When he handed his first month's salary to his mother, he hesitantly said he wanted to set aside some money to visit Kaspar's family. Amao's mother hesitated, then pushed half the money back into his hand, saying: "Take more. Their life 'there' isn't easier than ours."
5
Amao ran all over Zhao Feng Road before finally finding a pan-fried bun stall in a corner. He emptied his pockets, warmly hugging a large bundle of steaming buns as he ran back. Kaspar was still standing on tiptoe, looking out. Japanese soldiers were nearby, so Amao quickly took off his shirt, wrapped the buns in it, and handed them to Kaspar. Kaspar smelled the aroma of flour and meat—this foreign food brought him immense joy. He said he had to take them home quickly for his parents to eat. Amao saw Kaspar's golden hair shining in the sunlight. He waved goodbye to his foreign brother. When he went to look for him again, Kaspar's family had vanished without a trace. Amao braced himself for the worst, but he couldn't bear to think about it. He always believed that such a good family should survive safely.
In the winter of 1945, Amao recognized on the tram the doctor who had once treated him. The doctor asked if his foreign friend's family was still in Shanghai, adding that he had always wanted to return the ring they had pawned with him. For the first time, Amao heard this long-hidden story. The softest corner of his heart was soaked with a mix of gratitude and longing, welling up as sudden mist in his eyes. How Amao wished he could personally thank Kaspar's family.
In 2005, the 60th anniversary of the victory of the anti-fascist war, Shanghai newspapers extensively reported on Jewish refugees who had taken shelter in the city returning to revisit the places where they once lived. Eighty-year-old Mr. Chen Amao saw a Jewish woman, born and raised in Shanghai, say in the newspaper: "Shanghai saved us. This is our hometown." In the glow of the setting sun, Amao sifted through fragments of memory, recalling again the Jewish boy named Kaspar and his shining golden hair in the sunlight. That winter, accompanied by his family, Mr. Chen Amao finally fulfilled his dream of traveling to Austria. He visited Schönbrunn Palace, which Kaspar had mentioned, and saw the blue Moon Lake. On Vienna's Kärntner Street, a girl played the violin as a street performer. The melody flowing from her strings brought back to the white-haired Amao memories of the records repeatedly played in Kaspar's home. Amao stood for a long time. His grandson told him the name of the piece was "The Beautiful Miller's Daughter." Tears filled Amao's eyes. The golden-haired, blue-eyed Jewish boy seemed to stand before him once again.