Ambassador Chen had made it clear that the visas must not be related to immigration so he must not categorize them as immigration visas. But as consul general, Fengshan had the freedom to overlook the reason for visa application and issue the visa as a special entry visa, which would also give him the opportunity to waive the requirements such as sponsorship, to expedite the process.
But he would need to declare a port of entry in China to issue these visas.
This was a problem.
“My love?” Grace asked, unable to understand their Chinese.
He explained. China, after years of war with Japan, was no longer entirely controlled by his government. Northern China bordering Russia, a land called Manchuria, had been occupied by the Japanese. Beijing had been bombed and captured, and the ports on the northeast coast, which had been German territory before World War I, had been allocated to the Japanese after the betrayal of the Treaty of Versailles. Hong Kong in the south was a British colony, and Hainan Island, the French’s. He had no authority to send people to any of those points of entry; if he risked it, it would be a violation of international law that would cause an uproar. It would also jeopardize the safety of the visa holders, who would be interrogated, turned away, or imprisoned before they got through customs.
“A port,” she said. “Is Shanghai a port? We stopped there on the way to your hometown. I bought this dress there.” It had been nearly four years since they landed at the wharf in Shanghai. Grace had been delighted to see the cluster of European-style buildings near the Huangpu River, a lively area with jazz clubs and luxury hotels.
“Shanghai is now under the occupation of the Japanese.”
“That’s too bad. It looked like part of Europe.”
But it was not Europe; it was the International Settlement in Shanghai, leased to the foreign countries and controlled chiefly by the British and the Americans.
“Grace!” He did his best to suppress his excitement. Even though the Japanese had conquered Shanghai proper, the International Settlement remained unviolated by the Japanese, since it was administered by the British and the Americans, whom the Japanese did not wish to offend. But the Settlement was still on Chinese soil, an essential part of the Chinese territory. Which meant it was in his power to designate the city as a port of entry on a visa.
Fengshan picked up a stack of application forms. “Grace, tell your friend to come to our consulate to apply for visas. They can go to China if they wish.”
“I will, my love. Wait, where are you going?”
He slid the application forms into a large envelope. “To the Jewish hospital.”
Fengshan was perspiring when he arrived at the crowded hospital. Feeling like a spy, he preferred not to be seen, questioned, or identified by the guards in case anyone recognized him. Perhaps he should have asked the vice consul to deliver the forms, but the matter was too important. He wouldn’t trust anyone else to hand them over.
In the hallway, Mrs. Rosenburg, who looked like she might have been spending nights on the floor, caught sight of him. She motioned him to stay, pulled her shawl around her shoulders, and went into Mr. Rosenburg’s room. Soon, she came out with the SS guard, heading toward the stairway—she had created a diversion.
Fengshan slipped into the room. His friend, he was glad to see, had regained consciousness.
“Dr. Ho,” Mr. Rosenburg said. “What a surprise. How are you?”
Aware that the SS man could return any minute, Fengshan exchanged brief pleasantries and presented him with the application forms. He explained that with China’s limited resources, immigration was impossible, but this was the best he could do. “For all intents and purposes, it’s a visa that will allow you to leave this country, not heading to the camp. Once you arrive in China, you can apply to the USA, the Philippines, or Argentina. I understand your family will also leave the country with you, is that correct? To expedite the process, I’ve waived the requirements, such as affidavit and sponsorship. With these application forms, you can apply for visas for yourself and your family.”
Mr. Rosenburg closed his eyes.
Fengshan waited, uncertain how his friend felt. China was not his choice, and he wished he could have done better.
When Mr. Rosenburg opened his eyes, tears ran down his cheeks. “It will be my honor to go to China. You’ve saved my life and my family’s lives, Dr. Ho.”
“Mr. Rosenburg, I must be candid with you. The only port in China that I can send you to is the International Settlement in Shanghai. The Settlement is protected by the British and American governments but still is on Chinese soil, so it falls in my authority. To the best of my knowledge, there is no staff at customs to inspect passports, entry visas, medical records, or police certificates. You’ll be admitted without trouble, but you must be warned that China is at war with Japan, and the country is ravaged. Life in Shanghai will be harsh.”
“But there will be freedom. There won’t be labor camps; there won’t be the Nazis threatening to kill me.” His friend’s voice cracked.
Fengshan gave Mr. Rosenburg a pat on his shoulder. How the world turned. Once a wealthy man, now a pariah. He was not a diplomat bound by the strict code that Mr. Wiley adhered to, nor was he a sentimental man. But looking at his friend’s dry lips and face etched with grief, he felt a surge of emotion run through him. His eyes moistened.
Rosenburg gripped his hand. “Dr. Ho, may I bring to your attention that there are many people whose lives are intertwined with mine? I have friends, wealthy clients, and prominent people who have access to enormous funds. The SS men are interrogating me. They want to know their names and financial status so they can confiscate their fortunes as well.” He fumbled beneath his pillow. “Here. I’m giving you their names in case they need any help. I won’t be able to keep the list anymore. They’re search—”
Mr. Rosenburg froze, his eyes filled with terror, looking behind him.
Fengshan couldn’t see, but he could feel a sudden rush of air behind him. He took a silver cup from the bedside table. “It is a pleasure to see you’re doing well, Mr. Rosenburg. Your visas will be approved today. Please have a sip.”
Mr. Rosenburg’s hands were trembling as he reached out to touch the cup and surreptitiously passed the list to him. Fengshan slipped the paper inside his sleeve.
“Stop! What are you doing here? What’s in your hand?” The SS man lunged toward him.
Fengshan held up the cup. “This? I only intended to remind my friend to have a sip. I came to deliver the wonderful news to my friend that his family’s visas have been approved, and they should come to receive the visas in a few hours. Now that my business is done, please excuse me.”
His back straight, his steps steady, he went into the hallway crowded with men with bleeding heads and dislodged shoulders. Outside the hospital, Fengshan felt dizzy, his hand clutching the paper that Mr. Rosenburg had risked his life to deliver to him. Carefully, he unfurled it. It was a list of names, as his friend had said, who appeared to be leaders of Jewish communities, Zionist organizations, and relief organizations based in Germany and Switzerland. If this list fell into the SS men’s hands, these people would lose their wealth and probably their lives.