“As we all know, the Third Reich has many friends overseas. I bid you a good day, Herr Consul General.” He left some cash on the table—he even paid for both coffees. He was a good tipper.
For a long moment, Fengshan sat, stunned. Then he finally picked up the newspaper the captain had left. The headline lauded the inventive idea of speedily expelling the Viennese Jews, and there was a paragraph on Eichmann.
He was a salesman for an oil company before he joined the Sicherheitsdienst in Berlin, where he demonstrated a cunning ability to conduct incognito interrogations while donning plain clothes. With his exceptional literary acumen, he devoured Jewish literature to impress scholars in the Jewish community and befriend leaders of Zionist organizations. His knowledge of Judaism and his insight into the Jewish organizations are invaluable assets in helping solve the Jewish situation in Germany.
Fengshan could see why Captain Heine would warn him about Eichmann—when a man’s powers grew, the blade of his hostility sharpened. Was he ready to face Eichmann’s sharp edge? Would he end up like Mr. Wiley?
CHAPTER 23
GRACE
I learned later that the visa Fengshan issued to Lola was only the first step needed for her departure. For her family to leave the country, she would need to receive exit permits, and she must collect many related documents in an emigration center to demonstrate her family’s eligibility: proof that her family didn’t possess foreign bank accounts, proof that they no longer owned any assets—their apartment would be handed over to the uncle after all—certificates of tax forms that showed her family didn’t owe the government money, tickets for an ocean liner with a departure date, and others.
For weeks Lola was busy gathering documents and purchasing boat tickets, and I was unable to see her. Then one day, when I stopped by, Lola was finally in her apartment. She invited me for a walk in her neighborhood. She appeared sober, reserved, lacking the vivacity that had captivated me when we met. Her long black dirndl dress looked as if it hadn’t been laundered for days, and the scar twitched on her face like the red needle of a silent radio.
It was late August; the leaves were turning golden; a gust of wind blew toward us, sweeping the fallen leaves on the pavement. A few feet away, a family, carrying suitcases, was moving into the apartment next door.
I asked if she had gathered all the documents, and Lola nodded. It had been hard work, especially purchasing the boat tickets, which required a train ride from Vienna to a port in Italy. But she had secured an appointment for the exit permits at the Office, she said, and the exit permits were the last documents she needed to obtain.
“When is the appointment?” I asked.
“In October. We’ll be able to stay in this apartment until we leave.”
The apartment, I realized, belonged to her uncle now, who had allowed them to stay until their departure.
“Where is the Office?”
“It’s located inside the former Palais Rothschild on Prinz-Eugen-Strasse, a few blocks from your consulate.”
“I’ll pick you up.” I jotted down the date and time, so I wouldn’t forget. I wanted to accompany her to the appointment. October would be here before I knew it, and that might be the last time I saw her.
“Thank you, Grace,” she said, facing me, and smiled.
“I’ll pick you up,” I said again.
We began to walk again, passing the windswept streets, the closed windows, and the empty portico. Nearby, the trees, oaks and lindens, bent in the wind as if to say goodbye.
In the consulate, I went to Fengshan’s office. But he was not inside. I sat in a high-backed chair, feeling depressed. So I turned on the radio; it was playing a French song. The lyrics were a mystery to me, but the mood hit home. Seeing Lola and knowing she was leaving had made me feel melancholy. I already missed her. What would I do after she left? She was my only friend in Vienna.
Just like that, Mother slipped into my mind. I should stop her but couldn’t—her alcohol-scented skin and her rich red hair like a sunset. She was an arresting-looking woman with lovely brown eyes. A few years after Father died, she had finally given up raising me alone and remarried. Then she began to drink heavily, especially on Sunday mornings, to mark her own Eucharist. In her singsong voice, soaked in dreams and alcohol, she would mention Father, who had saved her from harassment, how they fell in love, and how his horrific death—beaten to death by a crowd—spelled the disaster for her life. She would look at me then, scold me because I was so mellow, so weak, and she would clamp her hands around my neck and scream, “Have some grit! Can you learn from your father? Say something, Grace—are you a mute?” while I was rolling my eyes, gasping for breath.
She always apologized later, hugged me, cried, and promised she would never hurt me again, but then she would drink more. She got divorced, relocated us to Chicago, and remarried again. When I told her about marrying Fengshan, she said I was foolish and warned me of a miserable life like hers. Since I left the US, I had dreamed of her, missed her even, but each time I spent too much time thinking about her, I would have nightmares—she would be scolding me for calling her Mother, she would be drinking again, yelling at me to speak louder, the house would smell like a cellar, and she would clasp her hands around my neck. I would swear never to think of her again, and then I would miss her.
Mother was like a precious bracelet I wanted to have close to my skin but was afraid to wear. But it didn’t have to be this way. She loved me; she loved me. It had to be so, and I wanted to believe that.
“There you are, Grace.”
Fengshan came in and went to the bookcases full of encyclopedias, chronicles, and books about world relationships. He looked like he was searching for something, scrutinizing. He shook his head and studied the other bookcase where leather-bound books were carefully arranged: geography, religion, history, and culture; near them were manila folders and envelopes, all were sorted in alphabetic order. Stacks of newspapers, in which he immersed himself on Saturday afternoons, were set on a cart near the door.
I turned off the radio. Fengshan was different from Mother; he was constant and forgiving and determined. He was a genius with a photographic memory, and his mind was like a book with clear-cut edges and pages of erudition. He had picked me out and given me his hand, even though I was ordinary, my mind a river of random thoughts without border or clarity.
He turned away from the bookcases and rummaged for something in the drawer. “Have you eaten your lunch, Grace?”
How Chinese he was! Always asking if I had eaten, a common greeting in his hometown, where people often went an entire day without food and many were starving because of poverty. So asking about eating was not only a courtesy but also a show of care. I had been embarrassed at first, and he had said I was too American.
“I think so.”
He took out an envelope inscribed in German. “Are you going to get dressed, Grace? We have an hour before the party.”
“Where are we going?”
“Adolf Eichmann’s celebration party. I thought I had told you a few weeks ago. He’s now the chief of the Central Office for Jewish Emigration.”
“Who?”
“The officer who released you at the Headquarters in May.”