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Friday, May 1, 2026

Read about The Jewish Ghetto in Shanghai by Deborah Swift, author of The Enemy's Wife #TheEnemysWife #HistoricalFiction #WW2 #Shanghai @swiftstory @cathiedunn


The Enemy’s Wife 
By Deborah Swift

'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

Page Length: 380
Genre: Historical Fiction 

Grab a copy HERE!

The Jewish Ghetto in Shanghai

By Deborah Swift 

“Shanghai was a strange refuge—alien, chaotic, yet a place of survival.”

Ernest G Heppner

In the early 1940s, as Jews like my main character Zofia, tried to escape Nazi-controlled Europe, most countries closed their borders. However, Shanghai remained an open port city, and between about 1938 and 1941, nearly 20,000 Jewish refugees, mainly from Germany and Austria, arrived there. Many settled in the area called Hongkew, a poor, already crowded district that had been heavily affected by earlier bombing and fighting.

At the time of my novel, Japan had occupied Shanghai except for some foreign-controlled areas like the International Settlement. Following Japan’s alliance with Nazi Germany, pressure increased to restrict Jewish refugees. The Japanese authorities established what they officially called the Restricted Sector for Stateless Refugees. This is what we now refer to as the Shanghai Jewish Ghetto. Within the ghetto they needed permits to leave, but unlike Nazi ghettos in Europe, this was not an extermination camp, and there was no systematic mass murder policy.

Life in the Ghetto

Most refugees arrived with little or nothing and were housed in overcrowded houses and or subdivided rooms, often with multiple families sharing a single space. These buildings were badly maintained having been damaged from earlier fighting in the Second Sino-Japanese War, and had few facilities. There was little heating in winter, intense heat in summer, limited clean water, and privacy was almost non-existent. Some Jewish writers used a Yiddish expression to describe Shanghai: shond khay, "a shame of a life." 

Despite these harsh conditions, the Jewish community were intent on survival and built for themselves a functioning society – Schools, newspapers, and theatres were established and many refugees recreated a semblance of European cultural life. Despite restrictions, a small internal economy developed and refugees opened cafés, bakeries, tailoring shops, and repair services. Money was scarce, so bartering was very common. Newspapers and newsletters circulated within the community, and lectures, concerts, and literary events were held. This wasn’t just entertainment – it was psychological survival. Maintaining culture helped people cope with exile and uncertainty.

The uncertainty of being in a war zone cannot be underestimated. The ghetto suffered from bombing raids, after the Attack on Pearl Harbor. In 1945 U.S. bombing raids hit Hongkew, causing casualties among civilians, including Jewish refugees.

Integration with the Chinese Community

Hongkew was already home to many poor Chinese families before the refugees arrived, so the two communities were forced to live lived side by side, often sharing the same hardships. These two underclasses developed cooperation and mutual understanding, since both groups suffered under the brutal Japanese occupation. 

The Chinese were considered to be lower than animals in the estimation of the Japanese army and were treated like slave labour. After 1943, when the Japanese created the restricted zone, all movement was monitored, passes were needed to go anywhere, and curfews and regulations controlled all routines. Punishment for disobeying the Japanese was violent and uncompromising and could lead to imprisonment or death.

The ghetto effectively ended with Japan’s defeat in 1945 and the conclusion of World War II. The entry of US troops into Shanghai was a double-edged sword – both jubilation that the Japanese were defeated, but also the news of the fate of their relatives in the Holocaust. Most refugees had heard nothing since the spring of 1941 from the families they had left behind in occupied Europe. And the long business of tracing them would take far more time.

Those lucky enough to live in the ghetto remember it as a place where, however harsh it was, at least they could survive.

The Enemy’s Wife tells the story of Zofia and her friend Hilly who live in the ghetto at the beginning of the novel, before fate takes them into the larger landscape of occupied China.



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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Read an excerpt from Infidel: The Daughters of Aragon (Six Tudor Queens) by Nicola Harris #CatherineOfAragon #HistoricalFiction #TudorHistory #YardeBookPromotions @maryanneyarde @harris_nic59544


Infidel: The Daughters of Aragon 
(Six Tudor Queens)
By Nicola Harris

Born in the glittering courts of Castile and Aragon and forged in the shadow of war, Catalina de Aragón grows up surrounded by queens, rebels, and explorers. She is her mother’s last daughter, the final jewel of a dynasty built on conquest and faith, and the one child Isabella of Castile cannot bear to lose.

But destiny has already claimed Catalina.

Promised to Prince Arthur of England since childhood, she is raised to bind kingdoms, soothe old wounds, and carry the hopes of an empire across the sea. Yet, Spain fractures under rebellion, grief, and the ruthless zeal of its own rulers.

From the burning streets of Granada to the stormlashed Bay of Biscay, Catalina and her sisters must navigate a treacherous path shaped by ambition, betrayal, and the dangerous love of men who fear the power of queens. She learns to read cyphers, to read hearts, and to stand unbroken even as her childhood is stripped from her piece by piece.

And when she finally sails for England armed with her mother’s lessons, her father’s steel, and the ghosts of the Alhambra at her back, Catalina steps into her fate not as a girl, but as a force.

A princess.

A survivor.

A daughter of Aragon.

Infidel is the story of a young woman raised for greatness and destined to reshape the fate of nations. This is Catalina, as she has never been seen before. She is fierce, vulnerable, and unforgettable.

A sweeping, intimate portrait of sisterhood, survival, and the making of a dynasty, Infidel reveals the hidden lives of a woman whose courage shaped the Tudor world.

Genre: Biographical Historical Fiction | Tudor Fiction | Historical Fiction
Pages: 268

Grab a copy HERE!
This novel is free to read with #KindleUnlimited subscription.

EXCERPT

Juana: 

Catalina had been waiting for weeks for Isabel’s return. She was certain that the moment our widowed sister stepped through the gates, our sister would be happy again. Over and over, she told me how Isabel would open her arms wide, how she would run into them and sit on her lap as she always had. Catalina spoke of nothing but Isabel’s laughter, her stories, her dancing, her love of sweetmeats and flowers, and how much she had missed her.

When Isabel finally arrived, she came riding sidesaddle on a humble donkey that clacked its hooves across the courtyard stones. The animal halted, but Isabel did not dismount at once. When she did, the breath caught in my throat.

She was veiled, her body swathed in black, moving slowly as though the very air weighed her down. Her hair was hidden. Her face was hidden. The joy was gone from her step.

The servants guided Isabel forward, their arms firm around her as if she might collapse. She did not look up. She did not greet us. She seemed smaller, thinner, her steps dragging. In her hands, she clutched a crucifix so tightly that Our Lord’s face must have imprinted itself into her skin.

Catalina cried out and tried to run to her, but I held her back. The picture she had carried in her head of Isabel laughing and of Isabel radiant, shattered in an instant. Isabel did not see us. She did not speak. She showed no joy at being home.

She passed beneath the archway, the veil trembling with her breath, and I saw only the shadow of my sister, hollowed by grief.

She wore the habit of a Poor Clare nun. And as I watched her move through the courtyard like a ghost, I thought, this is how sorrow must be lived.


oOo


Catalina:

We were herded into our parents’ bedchamber to greet Isabel. I clutched Juana’s hand, still halfbelieving the picture in my mind of the Isabel I had always known, sensible and smiling and glad to be home.

But the figure before us was draped in black. Cloth hung from her shoulders, her veil heavy, she was dressed like a nun.

Isabel did not look at us. As she lay on our parents’ bed, her face turned to the wall, I saw that her lovely hair was gone. Her cheeks were hollow, and her bones were sharp beneath her skin.

I edged closer, desperate to speak. ‘Isabel,’ I whispered, my voice small.

She stirred only slightly, a hand twitching against the sheet. No words came.

The candle beside her flickered, throwing long shadows across her wasted body. 

I stayed where I was, bewildered by all the tears for a prince none of us had ever met. The sister I remembered, the golden sister laughing and alive, was gone. In her place lay a new Isabel, silent, veiled, her sorrow filling the room as surely as smoke had filled our tent at Santa Fe.

I held out a single flower from the courtyard. It was bright, alive and fragile in my hand. Surely it would cheer her. She had always loved the smell of gardens, the soft brush of petals against her cheek.

I lifted the flower toward her. ‘Here,’ I whispered. ‘It is pretty. It will make you happy.’

She did not move. She turned her head further toward the wall, deeper into the dark.

The flower trembled in my hand. I thought of my grandmother, who everyone called mad, sitting alone in her shuttered chamber, refusing the sunlight. Isabel was the same now. She, too, was choosing darkness, choosing candlelight and choosing sorrow.

I placed the flower on the coverlet, close to her hand. ‘It is yours,’ I said, my voice breaking.

Isabel’s fingers did not even twitch. It was as if she, too, had died.

I stayed there, staring at the flower lying useless on the bed, knowing she would never reach out for me, never reach for happiness, and want only the dark.

I stood straighter, my fists tight at my sides. 

I thought of my grandmother, choosing the dark. Isabel had chosen it too.

But I would not.

I would keep the colour, keep the sweetness of my life, even if no one else wanted it and even if no one wanted my love.


oOo


Juana:

I sat at the foot of the bed, our mother’s letter open in my hands. Isabel lay pale against the pillows, her eyes fixed on nothing. The book of Job rested beside her on Mother’s finest coverlet, open but unread. She had no strength for anything but weeping and lamenting her miserable fate.

‘Mother is returning from Santa Fe to comfort you,’ I whispered.

Isabel’s response was razor sharp. ‘Only because she wants me to marry again. She will be furious that the Portuguese alliance has failed. She will send me elsewhere the moment she can find a treaty that suits her.’

‘She loves you and wants the best for you, Isabel,’ Catalina said, and there was an edge in her voice that startled me.

‘What would you know, Catalina? You are but a child.’

‘At least I am not unkind like you are,’ Catalina shot back.

Silence fell, heavy and brittle. Then Isabel whispered, ‘What would you know about love? I will not marry again. No one can make me. I will enter a convent.’

Catalina perched on her stool, her feet swinging, restless. ‘Read it to me,’ she demanded, chin lifted. ‘I am the Princess of Wales. I must know what happens in England.’

I smoothed the parchment, lowering my voice so as not to disturb Isabel. ‘Mother writes of a youth in Ireland. Do you know where that is?’

Catalina nodded solemnly, so I continued. ‘He is calling himself Richard, Duke of York. They say he looks like King Edward, and Margaret of Burgundy has taken him in, claiming she recognises him. His name is Perkin Warbeck.’

Catalina’s eyes widened. ‘So, there is another person claiming to be one of the boys who died in the Bloody Tower and a new claimant to the Tudor throne?’ she whispered, hungry for intrigue and quick for her age.

I folded the letter carefully, my movements slow, as if gentleness might shield Isabel from the weight of her pain. ‘Yes. And that is why he is dangerous. Every enemy of England will swear he has a genuine claim.’

‘Does he?’

‘I think the Queen of England would know her own brother as easily as we would recognise Juan.’

‘Has she seen him?’

‘No. But if she did, she would know.’

Catalina nodded with all the gravity of a lady of our mother’s age, though her feet still swung absently above the floor.



I’ve always been a writer, but it was only when illness forced me to stop everything that I finally had the time to write a novel. After decades of misdiagnosis, I learned I was born with a serious genetic condition, not rare, but profoundly misunderstood. The clues were there from birth, and suddenly, a lifetime of struggle made sense.

Writing became my lifeline: a way to step beyond my pain, to shape my experience into a story, and to find meaning where there had once been only endurance.

I have a lifelong love of children, Counselling, and Psychotherapy Theory and history.

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