'A fast-paced, beautifully written, and moving story. Refreshing to read a book set in a different theatre of war. Wartime Shanghai jumped off the page'
CLARE FLYNN
A poignant story of the impossible choices we make in the shadow of war, for fans of Daisy Wood and Marius Gabriel.
1941. When Zofia’s beloved husband Haru is conscripted into the Imperial Japanese Army, she is left to navigate Japanese-occupied Shanghai alone.
Far from home and surrounded by a country at war, Zofia finds unexpected comfort in a bond with Hilly, a spirited young refugee escaping Nazi-occupied Austria.
As violence tightens its grip on the city, they seek shelter with Theo, Zofia’s American employer. But with every passing day, the horrors of war and Haru’s absence begin to reshape Zofia’s world – and her heart.
Can she still love someone who has become the enemy?
Readers love The Enemy's Wife:
'A gorgeous novel that will truly pull at your heartstrings'
~ CARLY SCHABOWSKI
'I loved The Enemy’s Wife – a gripping, fast-paced and evocative story about the Japanese occupation of Shanghai during WW2 – and really rooted for the brave and selfless central character, Zofia. Highly recommended'
~ ANN BENNETT
'Such an emotional and moving read, grounded in immaculate research that never overshadows the heart of the story'
~ SUZANNE FORTIN
Excerpt
Shanghai, 1941
Theo
By midnight on the Sunday evening, Theo was too tired to go home and dozed in the chair in his office until a horn somewhere out on the river made him look up. His eyes were gritty and he still hadn’t finished the accounting. The telephone shrilled, making him startle.
Chan Yeung, at reception. ‘A message came, sir. Head office in Washington telephoned. Not good news. The Japanese have bombed Hawaii. America is at war with Japan.’
‘What?’
‘War, sir. They dropped bombs on the American fleet.’
‘When was this? Why didn’t they call me on my direct line?’
‘I don’t know, sir. Head office sounded panicked. They bombed Pearl Harbor. But because of the time difference we’ve only just got the news. New York says there’s nothing you can do except secure your assets as best you can. Get cash and get ready, because if America’s at war, you can expect a visit from the Japanese at any time.’
Theo didn’t take the lift but ran down the stairs two at a time. In the main office on the first floor, some of his Chinese employees had heard the news too via the radio and had arrived early, their faces as worried as his own.
‘Sir, is it true?’ ‘Sir!’ A cacophony of demands.
He brushed them aside, and seeing he wasn’t going to answer, they moved silently away so that he could look out to the street below. Though it was early, not yet dawn, the jetties were crowded with the usual silhouettes of sampans and junks, bobbing on the swell. Beggars clustered on the boardwalks in huddled heaps; dark figures wrapped like mummies against the cold. Theo glanced to the grey bulk of the HMS Peterel, and his belly tightened.
‘What’s that, sir?’ One of his secretaries pointed.
It was still dark, but he made out a launch flying the red sun as it powered over to the British gunboat from the Japanese warship Izumo and disgorged a group of dark-clad Japanese. He fixed his eyes on it, wondering what they were doing, but it appeared they were turned away because no white flag or Japanese flag went up and instead the launch returned to the Izumo.
He was about to walk away from the window when an almighty boom shuddered the whole building.
‘Christ almighty!’ The words were out of his mouth before he could think.
Smoke engulfed the Peterel. On the street, beggars leapt up to scatter like ants.
A few moments later and machine gun fire blitzed through the air with staccato efficiency and a few Japanese fell, but this was instantly rebuffed by huge shells aimed at the British ship. The explosions threw up white flashes and great spouts of water.
Theo blanched. There was actually a battle going on right here.
Another blast. The windows shuddered. ‘Whoa!’ Behind him the rest of his workers crushed up to the glass to see what was going on.
The Peterel was struck and began to list heavily to one side, gushing flames and smoke. Small black figures rushed hither and thither on deck trying to escape the firepower of the Japanese guns and the burning deck. Several men plunged into the sea.
Theo leapt away from the window. ‘Don’t just stand there gawping,’ he shouted. ‘That’s the British ship! We’ve got to help them!’
At the door, he paused, holding it open. But nobody followed him. It was then he saw all too clearly where people’s loyalties lay. They’d all turned away, as if they had seen nothing.
Sickened, he hurtled down the stairs alone, running, dodging all the Chinese beggars running in the other direction, away from the shore. The streets cleared like they did before monsoon rain. The stink of oil and gunpowder filled his nostrils. Theo ran hell for leather along the water’s edge, as wounded men splashed through the murky swell towards dry land. The water was a foul concoction littered with debris and rotting funeral flowers from the beggars who could not afford to bury their dead, and instead cast the bodies into the belly of the river each night.
As he reached the shore, the surface oil slick caught fire and Japanese snipers tried to pick off the men as they flailed and staggered towards land. Theo shouted in rapid Chinese to Lee, the sampan man who often took him across the river. Lee, a balding man with a face like old leather, and trousers tied up with string, grabbed an oar as Theo fumbled aboard.
‘Row!’ shouted Theo.
Together Theo and Lee tried to drag a man out of the river but the pepper of machine-gun fire forced them to crouch and duck. A whine of bullets zipped and splashed past and frothed the surface.
The boat turned slightly. A man’s head, white in the remaining moonlight, bobbed above his thrashing arms.
‘Here!’ Theo shouted. He plunged his arms into the freezing water to help the man climb aboard as the sampan swayed and rocked.
‘Thanks,’ the man gasped, rolling himself into the boat.
Lee rowed them towards the shore, head low as bullets streaked past. Over the wooden edge of the boat Theo fixed his gaze on the concrete jetty. Beneath it, a few exhausted, wounded men had crawled up onto the mud. In the confusion, further down the shore men were being picked up and taken away in Japanese launches.
Just shy of the mudflats Lee stashed his oars and refused to row on.
‘What’s the matter?’ Theo yelled, conscious of the man crumpled in a wet heap at his feet.
‘Give me your watch,’ Lee said.
Theo frowned and held out his arm. ‘This?’
‘Yes. I take. Or no row. Okay?’
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Deborah Swift
Deborah used to be a costume designer for the BBC, before becoming a writer. Now she lives in an old English school house in a village full of 17th Century houses, near the glorious Lake District. Deborah has an award-winning historical fiction blog at her website www.deborahswift.com.
Deborah loves to write about how extraordinary events in history have transformed the lives of ordinary people, and how the events of the past can live on in her books and still resonate today.
Her WW2 novel Past Encounters was a BookViral Award winner, and The Poison Keeper was a winner of the Wishing Shelf Book of the Decade.
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