Fengshan had known the captain for about a year. He was a powerful man, well acquainted with the nobles, the magistrates, the department-store owners, the Rothschilds, as well as the international diplomats. He was also a regular patron of popular haunts in the city, German clubs, jazz bars, and cabarets. Rumor said the captain was a fastidious man, had his barber come every morning for a fine trim of his hair on the sides and back and a warm toweling around his neck. Although he was a married man, he made no effort to hide his attentions to young, attractive women, often claiming that it was fashionable for officers to have lovers.
Fengshan collected his materials and tucked them in his folder, willing the captain to leave him alone. It was not his intention to become entangled with a Gestapo officer, but for the sake of his country, in desperate need of a hefty loan and international assistance, he must remain friendly to marshal any potential allies. “I am pleased to see you, Captain Heine.”
“How’s Frau Consul General faring?” The captain didn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave.
Fengshan felt his throat tighten. It was not entirely out of the question that Captain Heine and Eichmann were well acquainted. “She’s well. I’m indebted to you, Captain Heine.”
“Do not mention it, Herr Consul General. It was my pleasure. Are you ready to leave? Well, I must say I expected a bigger crowd. A pity. The Viennese are missing an important opportunity. Where are your admirers?” The captain gave a smirk that must have been practiced on many attractive women, or maybe on the poor dissidents or even Jews these days.
Fengshan smiled warily at the captain.
“I’m serious. Where are your admirers, Herr Consul General? Everyone in Vienna loves your lectures.”
“Mr. Rosenburg said he’d attend.”
Heine knew well of his friend, an influential attorney. Vienna was a small city, after all; all the rich and the powerful knew each other.
“Of course, Mr. Rosenburg. I was thinking about him. Is he ill? What would make him miss your lecture?” The captain swirled the liquid in his glass in his irritatingly smooth manner as though he were flirting with a woman. Another reason Fengshan would rather stay away from him.
“I’m sure he’s fine.”
The captain had a gulp of his cognac. “Do you have plans after the event, Herr Consul General? Would you like to have some coffee at Café Central?”
“I would be delighted, but regretfully, I have another meeting to attend.” He put on his bowler and stepped out of the room, into the hallway.
“Perhaps tomorrow, Herr Consul General?” The captain followed him.
“I’m afraid I have a full schedule tomorrow.”
Two policemen in uniforms strutted toward them, shouting, “Heil Hitler,” and Captain Heine saluted back. Fengshan’s steps slowed. Suddenly, the space felt crowded.
“Next week, Herr Consul General?”
“That would be splendid. But allow me to look at my calendar and get back to you. My apologies. I must take my leave.”
Outside the club, Fengshan passed a couple holding tennis rackets on the circular stairs and took out his handkerchief to dab at his face. In his haste, he had forgotten to shake hands with the attendees, a regretful oversight that must have shed a negative light on his country’s image.
He tucked his handkerchief in his pocket, went down a cobblestone path lined with lindens, and turned onto a street with white stone buildings, the traffic and shouts from the Ringstrasse growing louder with each step. He thought to stop at the Staatsoper to purchase opera tickets for Grace as he had planned. She was lonely; she needed attention. And he was quite pleased with her in helping to make making the appointment with Mr. Wiley.
Fengshan, a loyal man, valued every friendship. Three years after he had been posted outside China, he still remembered the birthdays of his friends at home and regularly sent them postcards printed with beautiful images of Vienna, the Ferris wheel of the Prater, the lilacs of Votive Park, Sch?nbrunn Palace, and St. Stephen’s Cathedral.
Mr. Rosenburg never missed his events, and he had not called back this morning. This was an unusual lapse of etiquette on his friend’s part. Fengshan wondered what happened. Mr. Rosenburg was a wealthy Jew who had made a fortune by overseeing one of the Austrian royal family’s properties; he owned a mansion near Votive Church, an apartment complex in Vienna, and two chalets in Salzburg. Fengshan had met him at a lecture about Chinese culture he’d given. It had struck a chord with the Viennese man, who appeared to be immensely interested in Chinese calligraphy. He was a good friend, a generous man, and he had invited him to many dinners and parties. With his help, Fengshan befriended renowned Viennese professors and Czechoslovakian men with diplomatic status and wealthy German businessmen. Mr. Rosenburg was also the go-to source whenever Fengshan needed help—he had recommended the bespoke tailor and several Viennese tutors for Grace, including the new tutor, Fr?ulein Schnitzler.
Fengshan thought to pay his friend a visit. His office suite, a complex with twelve rooms, was located on the Ringstrasse. It was within walking distance.
At an intersection across from the stately Hofburg palace, Fengshan stopped abruptly, gripping his leather briefcase. Near a fountain in the plaza, a uniformed Sturmabteilung was striking a hatless man with a baton, shouting offensive racial slurs.
Since when had the streets of Vienna, part of the mighty Austro-Hungarian Empire, the center of culture and civilization, become a site of fear and violence? Fengshan switched his bag to his left hand and crossed the street. As soon as he arrived in front of the grand building complex that contained Mr. Rosenburg’s business suite, he came upon two columns of Brownshirts carrying rifles, their polished black handles glaring in the afternoon sun. Hesitating, Fengshan was heading toward the portico with colossal columns when a man called him from behind. Fengshan turned around. The man, clad in a blue Savile Row suit, was sitting on the pavement near a bench designated for Aryans, a pile of papers scattered around, and his right eye was bruised, but Fengshan recognized him instantly.
“Good God, Mr. Rosenburg, what happened to you? Why are you sitting on the ground?”
His friend gave a terrible laugh, but his bearing was still aristocratic after spending his entire life addressing the nobles in the country. “My apologies, Dr. Ho, I’m afraid I can’t offer you a seat. They’ve taken my firm, the money in my bank accounts, my license, my desk, my collectibles, and my chalets in Salzburg. There’s nothing I could salvage. I simply needed a rest after all those visits to the banks.”
“But you’re a lawyer—would you like to sit on the bench for a moment?”
“They gave me a good beating for sitting on that bench. I fear my old bones cannot take it anymore.”
Fengshan glanced at the file of Brownshirts. The metal handle of his briefcase, cold, was cutting his hand. Grace, and now Mr. Rosenburg. “I was only made aware of the change of the law recently, Mr. Rosenburg.”
“There are so many laws that target Jews. It’s understandable that the foreign diplomats are not privy to this legislation.” His friend sighed; in his grave voice, he recounted the recent happenings in the city. Since the Anschluss, all Jewish attorneys and judges had been removed from the city’s court. All cases against Jews were dismissed without a trial, and the Jews were incriminated simply because of who they were. A few days ago, he was told some of his friends were visited by two SS men who had demanded they “donate” their savings in bank accounts to the government. Today, he’d been paid a visit by these men, who made the same demands. He refused, stating his accounts were protected by the Austrian court. They held him at gunpoint, escorted him to the court, and had the judge, a former friend of his, sign to grant the SS men access to his bank accounts. So in this way, they legally robbed his money.