Fengshan was proud of the terra-cotta figurines, their craft, their symbolism of unyielding loyalty to the emperor, and their eternal purpose, in humble clay.
When I heard him tell the story, I had a feeling that he was explaining himself, a man of clay, born in an unremarkable family in a rural region, transforming himself into a man of gold, a warrior for his country. Would such a man be owned by me? That was too good to be true. I tried to love him with all my heart; I tried to keep him all to me, but he was a man molded by his own will and led his own battle. Still, I followed him, rooted beside him, danced with him. I wouldn’t say I was entirely happy, but I wasn’t entirely unhappy either. My love was like a shadow, waxing and waning, and I didn’t know what was wrong with me.
“Grace, you’re staying up late.” Fengshan’s voice came to me.
I turned around. “Where have you been?”
His arms threaded around my neck, his breath warming my ear. He smelled of cigars, wine, and the warm summer air. I slid my hand under his shirt. He was athletic, with muscles and great strength.
“Some church friends were troubled by the news in the newspaper and invited me for some coffee. Then we went to a bar.”
I kissed him. Of all his facial features, I loved his lips the most—supple, sumptuous, with a clearly defined curve. “What news? The news released by the ?vian Conference?”
“Yes. There are reports that many in Greater Germany cheered the result and urged more forceful actions to remove the Jews. It’s really unfortunate.”
I untied my gown. He lowered his head to kiss me; it was so pleasurable I groaned.
“My dear, do you love me?”
“What’s going on now, Grace?”
“Lola is having a difficult time finding visas. She’s still unable to free her brother. Could you issue her family visas?”
He stopped kissing me.
“I know you must follow the ambassador’s orders, but it’s only a few visas. It won’t damage the country’s relations with Germany.”
“Grace, it’s complicated.”
“Will you bend the rule for your wife?”
He sighed.
My husband. He would decline my request at an intimate moment. I pulled away and tied up my nightgown. “I’m going to the bathroom.”
CHAPTER 18
FENGSHAN
All night, he tossed and turned, thinking about Grace’s request and Mr. Rosenburg’s visa quest. In his heart, he would have gladly issued visas to Grace’s friend’s family, but as consul general, he was bound to his superior’s order.
Before dawn, he rose, ate breakfast, and went to the quiet lobby. Outside the consulate, he picked up the newspapers and went to his office. On the desk were his letters to his friends in China, which still needed to be posted, and in a few hours, he would report to Ambassador Chen again. He picked up the newspaper and began to read.
A new office, the Central Office for Jewish Emigration in Vienna, would open in August, led by none other than the reptilian SS man he had met at the Headquarters, Adolf Eichmann. The sole purpose of its establishment was to expedite the departure of the Jews, because in the newly created Office, the Jews would be able to gather all the necessary certificates, passports, and other documents in order to receive their exit permits. The Office would also ensure that prior to the application for exit permits, the Jews would surrender all their properties, assets, jewelry, furs, and valuables and relinquish their citizenship.
It was evident that once the Viennese Jews were allowed to leave the country, they would be penniless, homeless, and stateless.
A wave of rage rose in Fengshan’s stomach. Clearly, the emigration center was a response to the ?vian Conference, which had evaded its responsibility and given the Nazis a free pass. Knowing the thirty-two countries in the world would turn a blind eye, the Third Reich was emboldened.
The phone rang.
Captain Heine’s smooth voice came through. “Good morning, Herr Consul General.”
“Good morning.” Fengshan’s stomach clenched tight. Captain Heine always seemed to follow in Eichmann’s shadow.
“I was in a friend’s Adler parked on the street the other day, and I saw Mr. Rosenburg climbing on a ladder with a pail of water to clean his former office’s window with a toothbrush. The water spilled, and he slipped. It was a miracle he didn’t fall to his death. Do you know how he’s doing in the hospital?”
“Hospital?”
“After his near-death fall, he went home. I believe several SS men paid him a visit and ordered him to pack for the Dachau camp in two days since he had no visas. He collapsed, had a heart attack.”
Fengshan’s heart chilled. His friend was unable to receive a visa, and now he was on his deathbed. “Which hospital?”
Thirty minutes later, Fengshan arrived at a four-story art deco building, a Jewish hospital across from the Danube. The neighborhood, shrouded in early-morning haze mixed with heat, caught him off guard—despicable slogans written in black paint had defaced the pristine limestone of shops and even the hospital. When he entered the hospital building, the lobby was filled with pallets occupied by men, families huddling, and people crying for morphine. Fengshan found out Mr. Rosenburg’s room number from a nurse hurrying by and went upstairs. In the hallway, he passed one room where an older man seemed to be having a nervous breakdown, another where two men were screaming about their fractured ribs, and yet another where a family consoled a man with a bleeding face.
He saw the familiar figure of Mrs. Rosenburg, a lace shawl around her shoulders, conversing in a corner with a man wearing a kippah. “Mrs. Rosenburg! Pardon me. How’s your husband doing?”
She looked pleased to see him. Her face, however, bore signs of crying. “Herr Consul General, it’s good to see you. My husband was hoping to speak to you about visas to China. Perhaps there is a chance that your consulate would issue visas? He needs them by the end of the day tomorrow. He’s running out of time.”
Fengshan felt a lump in his throat. “May I visit him?”
In her quiet voice, she said the SS men were watching her husband and wouldn’t allow visitors. When Fengshan asked why, she said the SS men were trying to extract the contact information of Mr. Rosenburg’s wealthy clients from him, but Mr. Rosenburg, determined to protect his clients, had declined.
Standing in the hallway, halfway to a man carrying a rifle, Fengshan caught a glimpse of his friend. Once an eloquent man who defended the properties of the nobles—who made heartwarming toasts at dinner as his guests shouted “Prost!”—Mr. Rosenburg lay on a narrow bed, sedated, as the minutes of his life slipped by.
In his office, Fengshan stood by the window, smoking his cigar. In this corner of Vienna, outside his window, there were no bleeding faces, no brutal batons ramming into people’s eyes, no tormented men lying in beds. The bay windows were clear, the stones pristine, the fanlights and brass signs gleaming. Near the street, the hedges were pruned, the excess leaves trimmed, and the twigs chopped. All the undesirable branches had been discreetly removed.
There must be something he could do. All his friend needed were visas to avoid the fate of the Dachau camp, visas for him and his family to leave Vienna. He was the consul general of a consulate, familiar with the process and types of visas. If he ordered Vice Consul Zhou to start the visa process for his friend, it was unlikely the vice consul would object.