I squeezed out a smile. “Thirty-two countries! The world won’t watch people suffer and do nothing, Lola.”
“I just want Josef back.”
“He’ll come home, Lola.”
She rolled up the newspaper; for the first time in a month, she smiled, and Mrs. Schnitzler prayed, “God is not silent.” The light of relief radiated from their eyes to their lips to their toes.
CHAPTER 15
FENGSHAN
In his office, Fengshan spread his hands on the desk and dropped his head. He could hardly believe what he had read in the newspaper. Each word appeared dark, smoked, like burnt skin.
The meeting of thirty-two countries had finally concluded.
The representatives from the US, the leader that had organized the conference and voiced its concerns about Germany’s treatment of the Jews, argued that its quota, set in 1924, was already full this year. They declined to amend the quota on the grounds of the US Johnson-Reed Act; they expounded that the US had just suffered the Great Depression, and the American citizens didn’t want competition from the immigrants who would take away their jobs.
The British assumed the same stance and added that their country was too crowded to accept immigrants. With these two leading countries refusing to take action, other countries echoed similar concerns. Australia closed its doors to immigrants; Canada expressed their regrets, and other nations maintained that accepting refugees would create a burden for their citizens and hardships for their economies.
There was no motion to sanction the German government that viciously attacked their own citizens and illegally terminated thousands of people’s jobs and robbed their wealth.
There was no proposal to protect the Jews who were left homeless, destitute, and with a bleak future. No protection, no justice, no shelter for his friend and people who were like him.
Thirty-two countries, including the USA, Britain, and France, had failed in their humanitarian mission.
Fengshan lit a cigar and smoked furiously. Mr. Wiley had appeared so righteous and confident regarding the conference, but his promise proved empty. And if the countries in the League reneged on their pledges and showed little concern for Jews, the famous and the wealthy, the intrinsic part of Europe, why would they care for the fate of China, a distant, poor, disadvantaged country in Asia? The Nazis couldn’t be trusted, and neither could leaders such as Chamberlain, Daladier, or even Roosevelt. It was a dangerous dream for China to rely on those countries to end the war in his homeland.
Fengshan thought of Mr. Rosenburg, who must have heard the news by now. It was likely he had received his visa and prepared to depart, but still, he would like to check on his friend.
As his car drove down Beethovenplatz, Fengshan looked out the window. Summer was blooming. Vibrant flowers in florists’ carts adorned the cobblestone streets, shafts of light shone on the ivory buildings, and pedestrians in pink straw hats and gray summer suits strolled by the statues of Beethoven and Mozart. The classic buildings, the artful decorations, the lush foliage, and colorful flowers exuded a sense of privilege and sophistication, a saturated feeling of a city brimming with luxury, yet it was also evident that the beguiling beauty belied the control and discipline that was typical of Vienna.
There was an accident on the Ringstrasse, blocking traffic; Rudolf decided to take a detour.
Near the intersection, his car stopped again. Fengshan rolled down the window. Ahead of his vehicle, a long line had formed, extending from the street’s corner to the avenue that led to the American consulate a few blocks away. Many people in line were holding bags; beneath their hats, their faces were sweaty, anxious. It was obvious why these people came to the American consulate, but he had not imagined there would be so many Viennese applying for visas.
“Dr. Ho, Dr. Ho!” a voice called out.
“Mr. Rosenburg! How are you doing? What are you doing here? I thought you already received your visa.” He got out of his car and went to his friend in the line.
His friend was still wearing his blue Savile Row suit, now rumpled and stained. He tucked his bag under his arm and drooped his head. “I’m afraid this has been a long quest, Dr. Ho. I’ve been applying for visas since we talked in May. I went to the Palestinian consulate, but I was told the British mandate restricts immigration to Palestine, and to apply for that visa, I must receive written approval from the British embassy. But the embassy in Vienna had been closed, so I traveled to the British embassy in Berlin, only to discover that the embassy processed visas every Tuesday for a few hours. I was there for three weeks. Then I had to leave empty-handed. There were many people ahead of me. I would never get my turn.”
“I didn’t realize it would be so challenging to apply for a visa to Palestine.”
“Neither did I. And it’s been a long wait here too. Look at all these people! That man over there, Mr. Bahndorf. He’s a world-renowned surgeon, and now we are paupers who desperately need to leave Vienna. With some luck, the Americans might accept our applications.”
Fengshan took a deep breath. “How long have you been here?”
“Since dawn. I’ve waited here for four days, but I can’t even get my foot in the door. Now I’m running out of time. I have seven days to get a visa, or I’ll be sent to the Dachau camp.”
Seven days! “Let me see what I can do for you, Mr. Rosenburg. I’ll have a word with the American consul general. Maybe he can help. Why don’t you go home? You look exhausted.”
His friend rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and sighed.
“I’ll let you know what happens, Mr. Rosenburg. You go home and rest.”
Finally, his exhausted friend shambled away. Fengshan told Rudolf to park the car and passed the long line to get inside the consulate. Even though it was most inappropriate and he didn’t have an appointment, he was resolved to speak to the consul general. They had had an amicable meeting about the conference, so he felt emboldened.
To his surprise, Mr. Wiley was in the lobby.
“Dr. Ho! Good to see you. I was on my way out.” Mr. Wiley beckoned him to a quiet area in the hallway, away from the visa applicants.
“This is rather impetuous of me, but I assume you’ve heard the news about the conference, Mr. Wiley. It’s a sad day for the Viennese, a sad day for the world. I am astounded.”
The American took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I confess I’m equally disappointed. This outcome is beyond my imagination.”
“Mr. Wiley, I hate to bother you; however, would you mind my asking some questions regarding visas to the United States? It’s for a friend.”
“Dr. Ho, my country has a strict law regarding visas. I regret to inform you that as a Foreign Service Officer, I can’t give favors. However, perhaps granting visas is something your consulate would consider?”
He sighed. “I have orders from my superior to stay clear of Germany’s domestic affairs.”
“As do many consulates.”
He persisted. “Mr. Wiley, on behalf of my consulate, may I express my deepest admiration; your heroic protection of Dr. Freud shall remain an inspiration to all of us.”
“I must be frank, Dr. Ho—Dr. Freud and his family requested to travel to the US, but unfortunately, they were unable to receive visas. I certainly hope some of our British friends will help him settle in England. As a Foreign Service Officer, I have my obligations to my country. I hope you’ll understand.”