“Schnitzler. Schnitzel is a type of food.”
“Oh.”
“No relation to the well-known author.”
My face heated up. Now that I was growing embarrassed, I couldn’t stop. “Of course . . . Miss Schnitzel—Schnitzler . . . I’m terribly sorry. It’s hard to remember German names . . . And you know it’s difficult to get around if you don’t understand the language. The names of the shops are unpronounceable, and so are the streets. I can’t read anything. This. This here. Look. What does it mean?” I pointed at the Germanic scribble etched on the back of the bench.
She fixed her gaze on the words. A light flashed in her green eyes, and then she jutted her chin up. “It means it’s for Aryans.”
“Pardon?”
“We’re not allowed to sit on this bench.”
“It’s a public bench. Everyone can sit here.”
Her head turned to the benches across the street. They were also inscribed in German, not the word for Aryan but one starting with J. “As it should be.”
“Yes, of course. I agree . . . But pardon me. Did you say we are not allowed to sit on this bench?” I had sat here before she arrived, and I had not paid attention to the inscription, unable to comprehend it.
“It’s the new law in Vienna, Miss Lee.” She was quiet, staring at a giant tram squeaking past us, its windows flanked by flags with a swastika, making a clack-clack noise. I couldn’t recall if I’d seen these flags when I arrived in Vienna last year, but lately, they were everywhere. It was politics, Fengshan had said about the flags, barely lifting his gaze from the German newspaper he was reading.
Of course, these days, Vienna was only about politics. At the last party in an empress’s apartment, the diplomats with thick mustaches, their wives in sequined gowns and feathered Tyrolean hats, and even those footmen in white wigs and jabots with layers of white lace whispered about the Führer. A welter of apprehensive faces, a noisy tableau of glee and gloom. And I sat at the end of the table, smiled and nodded, unable to understand their words, couldn’t care less. This city had nothing to do with me; it had no need of me, a stranger, an outsider.
Not so for Fengshan, the diplomat with an impossible mission to save his country. Oh well.
“I don’t quite understand, Miss . . . Schnitzler.”
“It’s hard to believe, I know.” Her gaze traced a green squad car—a police car; it had to be, with the logo Polizei, and inside were two men wearing beige trench coats and swastika armbands. The car was driving along, following the tram, passing us, when one of them turned to me and cast me a long, piercing look. That was just the way they were, policemen, stiff and humorless; they often stood guard in ballrooms with dead eyes, but they held Fengshan in high regard, like many Viennese professionals.
Suddenly, from the ocean of dust, there came a squeal of brakes, loud and startling, and in a blur of sensation, among the rush of horse carriages and pedestrians, the car with the unremarkable policemen screeched to a stop right in front of me.
The two men jumped out, all menacing poses and harsh, angry voices, and I stared, frantic, speechless, wringing my handbag’s strap, which seemed to enrage them even more. The awkward moment must have lasted for an eternity, and I had nearly torn the strap off my handbag in nervousness when Lola, the girl with a fresh face, the girl who wouldn’t stop asking me questions, stood up and delivered a long speech in German.
Nothing she said made sense to me, but I was relieved, and I could tell German was a perfect language for her. And it was quite admirable to see her speak in that clear voice, with dignity, without wringing her hands. She appeared to be fully capable of sorting things out on her own. She could have been one of those confident diplomats’ wives I met in the ballrooms.
But I must have been daydreaming again, for there was a splutter of German and Lola’s pained cry, and next, I saw a convulsion of arms and beige coats, the ruffling of Lola’s skirt, and then her twisted frame huddled inside the police car, her head against the seat.
Startled, I stood up. The streaks of sunlight blurred my vision, and the gust that had whipped the lindens was picking up once more. Somehow a sharp pain stabbed my back, and I pitched forward, nearly tripping. What was happening, I wondered, and turned around—the dark barrel of a pistol was aimed at me.
I gasped, tumbling into the car, my feet tangled in my long dress, my head crashing against my unfortunate tutor’s shoulder.
“Are you all right, Miss Lee?” She held me steady. She had lost her hat, and so had I.
My mind was blank. Hard as I tried, not a single word came out of my mouth. But really. Nothing would make me talk again, not the overpowering smell of cigarettes and sweat, not the growling policemen in front of me, not even my verbose tutor.
And my ears hurt—there was another ear-shattering screech, followed by the angry revving of the car, sputtering, and then, without warning, all the stately Baroque buildings, the prancing equestrian statues, and the pointed spires of Gothic churches rapidly receded. The bench where Lola and I had sat was diminishing, then out of sight.
It was then I realized the unthinkable. “Where are we going?”
The girl who promised to teach me German lowered her head and held two pendants, a six-pointed gold star pendant and a cross, which I had not noticed before, to her chest. Then she turned to me, her green eyes flooded with guilt. “I don’t know, Miss Lee.”
My entire body trembled. I had gotten myself arrested. Now, this would undoubtedly get Fengshan’s attention. How could I explain myself?
CHAPTER 2
FENGSHAN
Dr. Ho Fengshan put down the phone, his heart pounding. For once, he was not pondering the conversation with his superior, or his country’s devastating defeats by the Japanese, or his speaking event at a German club. With steady steps that revealed not a trace of his anxiety, he walked out of his office, passed through the hallway graced with paintings of Austrian royalty, nodded at the few staff at the gilded desks in the lobby, and headed toward the elevator, which led to the bedroom he shared with his wife on the third floor.
He was thirty-six years old, with a broad forehead, wide, intelligent eyes, faint eyebrows, and a posture straight like a pen. Clad in a three-piece suit, a tie, and a pair of black wing-tip shoes, he looked modern, Western from head to toe. Fluent in three foreign languages, German, English, and Spanish, well versed in Western civilization, and thoroughly educated in Chinese culture, Dr. Ho Fengshan was a distinctive fixture among the gruff Russians, the bulky Germans, the aloof American officials, and the fastidious English diplomats who were more inclined to conversing with him on topics of philosophy than to listening to the dire need of his country.
He approached the waiting area near the elevator, raised his hand at several Chinese men seated on a row of golden upholstered Baroque-style chairs, and greeted them in Chinese. He knew them well: the peddlers who had been caught selling food on the street without a license, the leather-purse makers who had illegally arrived in Austria by climbing over the mountains in Hungary, and the two students in gray robes who studied at a university in Vienna. They had all come here to apply for new passports that were required by the Austrian authorities. A motley crew, they appeared, incongruous on the large, ornate armchairs, but they were his people, whose needs were his job, and the consulate under his leadership was their protector.