Fengshan came out of his office to the hallway. He stood there, a cigar in his mouth; obscuring his face was a phoenix of smoke, a tail of luminescence, of light, climbing in the air. When it dissipated, I saw his face glowing with perspiration, and he raised his hand to wipe his brow.
“Thank you.” I went to him.
He took a drag of his cigar and then expelled the air. “This is the right thing to do.”
CHAPTER 22
FENGSHAN
In his office, he opened the drawer and took out the carefully folded paper Mr. Rosenburg had given him. He studied them: Gunther, Schultzman, Bussbang. He picked out a name, Dr. Joseph L?wenherz, the director of the Kultusgemeinde, the Jewish Community Center in Vienna, and dialed the phone number. The phone wasn’t answered.
The next day, Fengshan dialed again. The phone was answered by a gruff man’s voice. Fengshan sat upright and introduced himself.
“Herr Consul General!” The man’s voice was full of joy. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you since I talked to Mr. Rosenburg yesterday. I have many desperate people who seek their way out of Vienna. What are your requirements for visas?”
“Dr. L?wenherz, the consulate of the Republic of China is open to accepting applications. We waive the police records and other certificates, and we only accept a small fee for the application.”
“I’ll be there right away.”
Dr. L?wenherz arrived at the consulate about ten minutes later. He was a heavily built man with a thick mustache. He stood in a stance akin to a boxer’s—his back arched, his arms held by his chest, ready to accept blows. He didn’t come alone, accompanied by eight men in three-piece business suits who all requested visas for their families.
Fengshan led them to Vice Consul Zhou, who had just arrived at his desk. Eleven o’clock! Two hours late. For the sake of the Viennese, Fengshan held his tongue. “I’d like to see the application forms on my desk as soon as possible, Vice Consul Zhou,” he said politely, though his subordinate deserved a good admonishment.
One hour later, he went to check on the vice consul to make sure he had not spent his time scratching his scalp with his long nails. In the lobby, Dr. L?wenherz and his friends were waiting patiently; near them were the peddlers from Qingtian County in China who had received their passports a month ago.
Fengshan asked the traders if there was anything he could help them with. They appeared grateful, saying that they had been caught by the police for unlawfully selling their wares on the street, who had confiscated their passports and expelled them to Hungary. But they had successfully climbed over the mountains to Austria so now they’d need new passports. Fengshan promised to issue them passports as soon as possible.
“Herr Consul General, Mr. Wiley’s office just called. The American consul general would like to have a word with you. He’s waiting outside the consulate.” Frau Maxa stomped close to him. A tall, strongly built woman, she often announced herself with her heavy footfalls.
“Mr. Wiley?” Mr. Wiley had rarely visited him in his consulate, and he almost never came unannounced.
“His office said it was urgent.”
Outside the consulate, a black sedan was parked at the curb. The window rolled down to reveal Mr. Wiley’s face.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Ho.”
“Well, Mr. Wiley. What a surprise to see you. Would you like to come in for some tea?”
“I’d be delighted, Dr. Ho. But I’m afraid I have to pass. I’ve been appointed the minister to Estonia and Latvia. I’m scheduled to depart tomorrow, so I thought to stop by to say goodbye.”
Fengshan was shocked. The two countries, Estonia and Latvia, were nations of little diplomatic significance to the US. And the position of minister sounded vague, hinting at a possible demotion of the American diplomat.
“Congratulations, Mr. Wiley. This is a profound change in your diplomatic career. I wish you all the best. If you don’t mind my asking, why were you reassigned?”
“The Department of State makes its decision. It is not up to me to make a judgment.”
“You’ll be missed, Mr. Wiley. You have remained an inspiration to many of us. Your consulate has provided life-saving visas for many people in Vienna. Did you mention that Dr. Freud was waiting to depart Vienna?”
“He has left for London, thank God. Since you asked, you might as well know: I’m now known as the Diplomat Who Sticks His Neck Out for Dr. Freud. Take care, Dr. Ho.”
That was it. Had Mr. Wiley decided to leave Dr. Freud to the Nazis, he might still be the consul general of the American consulate in Vienna. Those were perhaps the unsaid words from his peer, from one diplomat to another, that for them, the consequences of taking sides were immediate.
Fengshan returned to his office and sat at his desk. He had grown fond of the American diplomat, his mild manner and adherence to principle. It was to be expected that another American official would soon be appointed to replace Mr. Wiley, someone who would be less likely to stand up for the Viennese Jews and more likely to follow the orders. This was politics, after all.
An envelope on his desk caught his attention. It had an elegant German script, addressed to both him and Grace—Herr Consul General of the Republic of China and Frau Consul General of the Republic of China. He opened the envelope. It was an invitation to the occasion commemorating the grand establishment of the Central Office for Jewish Emigration in Vienna, an event to be held in late August.
But the party’s host sent a chill down Fengshan’s spine—Adolf Eichmann, now the chief officer of the center. What was Eichmann’s intention with this invitation? To celebrate his promotion? To test Fengshan’s country’s commitment to Germany?
Fengshan went to his phone, picked up the receiver, hesitated, and then dialed Captain Heine’s phone number. “Captain Heine! Pardon me. Perhaps you’ll have time for coffee at Café Central?”
An hour later, Fengshan wove through round tables covered with white cloths in the coffeehouse. There were a few familiar faces in the corner, people who went to his church Lutherische Stadtkirche, Lutheran City Church, in the Innere Stadt. He greeted them; they politely nodded back.
Captain Heine, clad in his uniform, was seated in the center of the café, right beneath a golden chandelier. His handsome face was like a magnet to the women smoking cigarettes around him, and the captain looked as though he relished the attention, grinning, raising his glass in a toast.
Fengshan’s steps slowed. Meeting the captain was a bold move by any measure, for he had yet to fathom what kind of man he was. He had started to have interactions with him last year when Heine, a graduate of the Police Academy in Vienna, had invited him to speak there. Fengshan had elaborated on religion, Confucianism, Taoism, and Buddhism, the key aspects of Chinese culture in his lecture, and Heine seemed to enjoy it. If he could ever convince a policeman to be on his side, it would be the captain.
But Heine’s flirtatious manner with women was an irritant. As a man raised with Confucius’s beliefs, Fengshan held dear the five virtues, Ren, Yi, Li, Zhi, and Xin—benevolence, righteousness, decorum, wisdom, and trustworthiness—just as he believed in the importance of the auxiliary role of the wife in a marriage and a man’s devotion to his family. To form a friendship with the captain expressing an unmasked interest in adulterous affairs was easier said than done.