He folded the paper and carefully tucked it into his pocket.
An hour later, Mrs. Rosenburg came to the consulate with the application forms she had filled out. Vice Consul Zhou examined them and had a brief interview with her. Then he brought the documents to Fengshan in his office. Fengshan took out visa forms from his drawer. And with the black fountain pen, he wrote down the visa number on each form, signed his name, and stamped it with the consulate’s seal. After he finished, he put all the signed documents in Mrs. Rosenburg’s hands.
With these visas, his friend would be spared from the Dachau camp, and he and his family would be able to leave Vienna.
CHAPTER 21
GRACE
Immediately after Fengshan left to see his friend in the hospital, I took a taxi to Lola’s apartment and told her the good news.
Lola shook her head, bursting into tears. She explained that she had heard visa applications required police certificates, but she had broken the bench law and had been arrested. Her criminal record would prevent her from receiving the police certificate needed by consulates.
I went back to the consulate, but to my frustration, Fengshan had not returned from visiting his friend. When he finally stepped into the office, I sprang to my feet and told him the problem.
“Please tell them the consulate of the Republic of China will waive the police-record requirement.”
I went to Lola’s apartment again and brought her to the consulate. In Fengshan’s office, I sat with her and introduced her to my husband. With a serious look on his face, Fengshan explained the nature of the visa, expressed his willingness to help, and asked if she had any questions.
Lola didn’t have questions. She looked elated, but tired, wearing a threadbare black dirndl dress and a straw hat tied with a white ribbon; the loss of her brother had taken a toll on her. The freshness and easy charm I had once admired were gone, and she looked like an embittered widow, alone, on the verge of an emotional breakdown.
“Mr. Consul General, we’ve met before. I went to a lecture of yours at the University of Vienna. You demonstrated calligraphy with a brush and ink. It was awe-inspiring,” Lola said in English.
“You were there?” Fengshan’s gaze, full of sympathy, was fixed on her scar.
“I was playing the violin next door. My classmates were talking about your art, so I went out to see it. It was last year, I believe. I’m sorry, I thought you were the Japanese ambassador.”
“You were not the only one.”
“I would love to learn the art of calligraphy someday.”
Fengshan smiled. He appreciated it when people mentioned their interest in Chinese art. Often he would volunteer to teach them. Had he not been a diplomat, he would have been a scholar. “Do you speak Chinese?”
Lola shook her head. “I’ve always wanted to learn Chinese.”
“I should have the visas for you and your family in a few hours, Miss Schnitzler. Grace, would you mind giving her the application forms? I believe you can find them in the lobby.”
He liked her, I could tell.
In the lobby, Lola filled out the forms, her hands shaking. She wrote down her mother’s name in the blank space, then that of her sister and Eva, and herself. She must have been thinking of her brother, too, because she broke down, sobbing, and dropped the fountain pen.
I picked it up for her.
When she finished, I counted the forms to ensure I hadn’t forgotten any necessary pieces. Then I pored over the lines: der Name, die Adresse, das Alter. I just needed to make sure. There could be no errors.
All the stringent documents that barred many Jewish people from obtaining a visa were waived by Fengshan. No requirement for tax returns, financial statements, sponsors, notarized affidavits of support, or police records.
I went to Vice Consul Zhou’s desk with the documents while Lola waited. The vice consul looked surprised to see me, and appeared annoyed when I continued to stand next to him. “I’ll give these forms to the consul general, Mrs. Consul General.”
“I’ll take the papers to Fengshan when you’re ready,” I said.
He shrugged, and with a pen in his mouth, he began to examine the documents with his nail as a pacer. It took him a long time, the visa forms, the passports, the birth certificates, his long fingernails sliding from one page to another, and then, as if testing my patience, he chatted with Frau Maxa. Then he put down the forms and went to use the restroom on the other side of the building. Then, holding the documents, he yawned, refocused, and yawned again while I waited, while Lola sat and watched expectantly, her family’s lives in her hands. I would have paid him if it would make him stop yawning and expedite his inspection.
Finally, he handed over the documents, and I went to Fengshan’s office. He was listening to the radio in German, clad in his black suit and a red tie, his eyes intense. Nodding at me, he turned off the radio and took the forms.
“Lola is waiting outside. Would you issue her the visas now?” I stressed now.
“It won’t take long. I’m glad you got the passports.”
I stood beside him as he opened the drawer of his mahogany desk and took out a yellow sheet the size of a greeting card. On the sheet were printed some Chinese characters, the visa of the consulate of the Republic of China in Austria, I figured. I gave him his favorite fountain pen and watched as he wrote down the visa number, the destination—Shanghai—the date, and finally, in Chinese, in his fine calligraphy script, his Chinese name, Ho Fengshan.
He wrote carefully, each stroke a sweep of elegance, each line firm like conviction. Once, he had told me every Chinese character had a meaning, and his meant Phoenix Mountain. It came from a legend, he had explained. It was said that phoenixes, the mythical creatures that brought fortune and good luck, only resided on a mountain near Penglai Island. The sacred mountain was a healing home for the phoenixes to restore their energy and a resting place where they came to die and be reborn.
It was fitting that a man with such a name would give life and opportunity to the people who were hunted and persecuted.
I watched him, his faint eyebrows, his black eyes, and his pursed lips. In silence, with the summer wind tapping against the windows, I thought I could hear his worry, and I could feel our thoughts flow and converge, a bridge to walk on. When we made love, I believed I controlled the deepest part of him, his desire, weakness, and strength, but this quiet unity was different. It was as if, after four years of marriage, we were finally spiritually united.
He was still the same man, the man made of clay, the man who turned himself into gold, the man with intelligence, astuteness, and a deep sense of loyalty, and he was mine.
“Are you finished?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
His pen moved to the German section below the Chinese, where he repeated the same information with the visa number, the destination, and the date in German.
“May I have the visas?”
“Patience, Grace.” He took out the consulate’s seal from his drawer and stamped the visa. When his hand lifted, a round black circle was printed on the sheet. It had Chinese characters, which I had grown to recognize, valid for six months, and it was wet, shining, a coin of freedom.
In the lobby, near the usual small group of passport applicants, Lola held the four sheets of visas, her fingers hovering above Fengshan’s signature and the consulate’s seal. She made an odd noise, like a groan or sob, and her eyes brightened with tears.