Fengshan was at a loss as to how to reply. In China, a homogeneous country, racial tension was hardly an issue, but he was familiar with suffering and strife stemming from politics. The rise of one party always meant the bloodshed of the innocent. During one of the conflicts between the Nationalists and the Communists at home, one of his friends had been tried by a mob and murdered at their demand, and Fengshan himself had nearly died at the hands of the gang who demanded his death.
Mr. Rosenburg gazed at the grand building guarded by the Brownshirts. “Yesterday, I was still a wealthy man, and today I’m out of a job, poor. My career in Vienna is over, and even my own survival, my family’s survival, is in question.”
Devastated, Fengshan had an urge to have a cigar. What could he do for his friend? He was a diplomat of another country; he couldn’t give back his friend his job or assets, or protection, or justice. “Do you need a place to stay, Mr. Rosenburg?”
“I’m staying at my in-laws’ apartment with my family, Dr. Ho. But I’m afraid it’s temporary. They have also accused me of actively destroying Austria throughout my career, forced me to sign a confession, and ordered me to disappear.”
“Disappear?”
“To permanently leave Vienna. Under the order of Adolf Eichmann, the Devil’s Deputy.”
The lizard man at the Headquarters. He had mentioned he was assigned to the city to take care of the Jewish problem, Fengshan recalled.
“The man ordered me to emigrate, or he’d send me to the Dachau camp if I continue to stay in Vienna.”
“Dachau camp?”
“A labor camp for prisoners. I’m afraid you won’t read it in the newspaper.”
Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined this would happen to his dear friend: robbed of all his wealth and properties and threatened with forced labor. “You can’t go to a prison camp. Where would you like to immigrate to?”
“Palestine, England, or America. I’m planning on applying for visas in these countries’ consulates tomorrow.”
There had been many embassies in Vienna, but the prominent countries, such as Great Britain and France, had closed them after the Anschluss. Palestine was a natural choice for Jews, and America was a desirable destination. Fengshan had not received any visa applications in his consulate, other than the clandestine request from the first secretary of the Soviet legation. But that was to be expected. China, a country on the far side of the world, a country with poor commerce and ravaged by war, was hardly an ideal home for the wealthy Viennese.
Besides, China didn’t have an immigration policy. Even if the Viennese applied to immigrate to China, Fengshan would need approval from his superior. But Ambassador Chen, in the midst of securing a loan from the League of Nations, would not be distracted to consider such an impractical policy, and as a subordinate, he was bound to obey the ambassador’s order.
“I’d better start working, Dr. Ho. The Devil’s Deputy gave me two months to find visas.” Mr. Rosenburg struggled to hoist himself up but faltered.
Fengshan extended his hand and held his friend firmly—the least he could do.
Two months, or his friend would be sent to the Dachau camp.
CHAPTER 8
GRACE
The next day, I talked to Fengshan briefly—he seemed preoccupied, contemplative, smoking his cigar, but asked whether I’d like to join him in the meeting with Mr. Wiley. I shook my head and slipped out of the consulate, glad he didn’t ask where I was going.
Walking down the quiet Beethovenplatz, I reached the Stadtpark, then turned left, heading toward Café Caché, a coffeehouse sandwiched between a tailor shop flaunting a row of tall mannequins clad in mauve, lilac, and turquoise gowns and a boutique watch store with wall-to-wall clocks: pocket watches with gold chains, wristwatches with duo-dial formats, watches in silver cases and golden boxes. I had never dreamed of these luxuries, growing up happy with a torn piece of warm bread Mother slipped in my hands. A diplomat’s wife now, for the sake of Fengshan’s country’s image, I routinely put on a pearl necklace or a tailored evening gown or a Rolex Oyster steel watch, yet I would have gladly traded all the pastel colors of summer and all the finery of Vienna for the warm smile of a friend.
In the coffeehouse, Lola was already waiting, wearing the same full-length green dirndl dress and a pair of leather pumps with low heels, sitting by the window. Her eyes had the glow that she had in the dungeon, warm and compassionate, and her face, lightly powdered to cover the bruising, was friendly, a face to talk to, to ask directions on the street, and to sip coffee with.
I wove through the round tables covered with white cloth and two red velvet couches—a cluster of men in brown shirts and armbands with swastikas were sitting there, their gazes penetrating. I averted my eyes.
“Grü? Gott, Miss Lee.” Lola stood as I approached.
“Ah . . . grü? . . . I thought it was guten . . . Tag?” I stammered, sitting across from her. When I came to the coffeehouse last time, I had stood at the counter, panicking, trying to decipher a long list of drinks written on a board. Who would know the great city that prided itself on its coffee had a menu as long as my stocking but did not contain a single word that looked like coffee? In the end, I pointed at the shortest German word on the board and received a black drink that tasted like whiskey.
“That’s a German tradition. We Austrians say grü? Gott.”
“Ah. I didn’t know that.”
“You’ll know, given time.”
I smiled but was unsure what to say next. Should I bring up tutoring and let her know that I couldn’t hire her? Should I say good morning? But I’d already said that.
“I’m so glad to see you again, Miss Lee. I wish to tell you how thankful I am that you helped release me from the Headquarters.”
She leaned toward me, her green eyes the shade of spring in the Stadtpark, and her dark hair a lush braid. Her manner was smooth, like cream pouring into the coffee. How did she cultivate such a manner, I wondered. But perhaps finesse had nothing to do with the practice. Some people were born with it.
“It wasn’t me; it was my husband, Fr?ulein Schnitzel.”
“Please convey my deepest gratitude to your husband. And it’s Schnitzler.”
“Oh, right. You said you were related to an author.”
She laughed. “You’re funny, Miss Lee. But please, call me Lola. I’ll be honored if you consider me your friend.”
A friend, after all these years. “Will you call me Grace, then?”
“It’ll be my pleasure, Grace. Thank you for coming to meet me. Did you have trouble finding this place?”
A man’s harsh voice screeched beside me just as I was about to answer. I glanced around, surprised. I rarely saw Austrian men behave poorly in public, but these Brownshirts could use some etiquette lessons from a footman. They were young, or maybe they weren’t—I could never tell the age of the Austrian men, camouflaged with beards and mustaches.
I focused back on our conversation. “I’ve been here before. I was almost lost on the street.”
“If you get lost again, take a taxi to your consulate.”
“I don’t know how to speak German.”