“I can’t remember. I have a headache.”
He put the envelope back in the drawer. “That might be for the best. Your presence shouldn’t be required. Eichmann will recognize you.”
He looked rather stressed, apprehensive. I changed my mind and threaded my arms around him. “It looks like you have to go. Then I’ll go with you.”
CHAPTER 24
FENGSHAN
The party was held on the fifth floor in a mansion near the Burggarten. Fengshan, with Grace in the nook of his arm, walked into the building, decorated with many swastika standards. He had not forgotten the sly nature of Eichmann since their first encounter, and now that Captain Heine had revealed Eichmann’s sadistic reputation and influence over Mr. Wiley’s departure, he was even warier. But he was a diplomat; playing by the rules of courtesy was part of his job. In no circumstances would he act out of line to decline the invitation and endanger his country’s image or his career. With Mr. Wiley’s departure, however, he had occasionally entertained the thought that perhaps it would be wise to take a step back and assess the situation before diving into further visa issuance.
Out of the elevator, he went to the table, where many cards, boxes of gifts, roses, irises, and wines were set, and put down his gift, a terra-cotta statue wrapped in red silk. On a stand near the table were articles about Eichmann published in Der Stürmer, duplicated and arranged in a framed collage to show the man’s rising fame.
The ballroom was crowded with old gentlemen holding meerschaum pipes, middle-aged men in uniforms, and young fellows in suits decorated with pins and medals. A full orchestra played in a chamber nearby, and waiters in bow ties and tuxedos flowed around, carrying trays of drinks. This would be another typical Viennese party, marked by decadence, and the expense for the evening’s food and drink could easily reach thousands of reichsmarks, enough to feed an entire village in China for six months. He felt guilty, dining on the fine foods and drinking champagne while his countrymen lived in hunger and hid from bombs. If he were not concerned about protocol, he would leave early. This would be a long evening.
He searched for Eichmann among the mass of people—German officials, Czechoslovakian diplomats, Hungarian men, influential industrialists, traditional Austrian noblemen in Tyrolean hats and feathers, and even a few faces with dark complexions who appeared to be from South America or some far-off islands.
“Don’t leave me alone. I don’t want to be here all by myself,” Grace whispered.
Fengshan took two champagne flutes from a waiter and gave one to her. “Did you see Captain Heine?”
“No. Are you expecting him?” She was wearing a pair of satin gloves and a shimmering evening gown, which showed her slender figure and complemented her feminine curves. Her hair was piled up, a small pillbox teased on the top, and her earrings glittered. She looked elegant, like a portrait by Joseph Wright of Derby. He was fortunate to have her as his wife.
“Well, he said he’d attend.”
“Maybe he’ll show up soon. Well, maybe I should try to socialize on my own. You go ahead and talk to your friends.”
“Are you sure?” When Grace was alone at a social engagement, her favorite destination at any venue was the bathroom.
“I’ll be fine. I’ll let you know when I see Captain Heine.” The champagne flute in her hand, she turned around, still with a shy, uncomfortable look on her face, despite her brave words.
This was good for her, getting out of her shell. Fengshan was heading to speak with the Czech consul general when Eichmann, conversing with a Wehrmacht official in an ornamented piped uniform fastened with a belt of silver stripes, turned to him. He stuck his long arm straight out like a stick. “Heil Hitler!”
Fengshan took a sip of the champagne. “Herr Eichmann, I’m glad to see you’re doing well. Congratulations on your promotion.”
Eichmann, in his black uniform and cap, was grinning. “Thank you, my dear friend. Is that Frau Consul General? She looks splendid. I’m pleased you’ve come to celebrate the creation of our country’s most important agency. You and all the luminaries of Vienna have accepted my invitation and come to see me! I’m flattered. The publisher of Der Stürmer also dropped by to congratulate me, and Sturmbannführer Hagen expressed his full trust in me. Have you read the article about me in the Reich’s most important newspaper? The reporters expressed their absolute faith in my talent and insisted on addressing me as the Czar of the Jews. I gave them the statistics and the numbers of Jews who should emigrate over the next six months, and I reminded them at this rate, very soon, our country will be judenfrei! They have never heard anything like that!”
It seemed the man could go on and on with his nonsense. His thin face looked puckered with the salt of perspiration under the glare of the light.
Fengshan decided to ask, “Herr Eichmann, in your opinion, how would a man stay safe at his own home, presuming he’s completely innocent?”
“Are you talking about Jews? Jews are not innocent.”
“Well—”
“You see, I have proposed a perfect plan to leaders of Jewish organizations. They must show me their willingness to cooperate and present their proof of departure in order to leave the city. But how many can leave is limited, as they must first surrender their wealth. You understand, Herr Consul General, I’m not called a genius for no reason!”
So it appeared that the Office would force deportation on those who were unwilling to leave and strip off their wealth as they departed the country, and that those who wished to leave must pay to receive their permission. Either way, the Office kept their wealth.
“Pardon me, I’m going to switch to another drink. This champagne doesn’t agree with me.” Fengshan turned around, blinking, feeling sick at heart. Nearby, Grace was speaking with a couple—a man wearing a white shirt and a yellow and green waistcoat and red sash, and a woman with an orange head wrap and a pineapple-colored dress with trim. They appeared to be islanders. Fengshan raised his flute and gave Grace a smile. When he went to switch his drink, he saw Captain Heine appearing in the hallway with a young woman. Fengshan nodded at him, put his champagne flute on a waiter’s tray, and made a beeline for him.
The woman, hooked on the captain’s arm, still bothered Fengshan, but he had warmed up to the captain since their latest meeting at the coffeehouse.
“Dr. Ho!” The Czech consul, Mr. Beran, came up to him before he got closer to the captain. Mr. Beran was an immense, thickset man with a long beard who always reminded Fengshan of one of the revolutionary bandits from the classic Chinese novel The Tale of Life at the Water’s Edge. He had a rough face like shriveled ginger, and he loved snacking on herring.
“Good evening, Mr. Beran,” Fengshan greeted in German.
Captain Heine shook his head, gave a brilliant smile that made women in the ballroom turn their heads, and walked away with his companion. He was not on good terms with the Czech consul. There appeared to be a feud between them.
“Do not trust that man, Dr. Ho,” Mr. Beran mumbled. “He’s devious, malicious. He has many faces.”
“Would you fancy a cigar?” Fengshan walked to a cigar box on a nearby small table. Eichmann’s party, not surprisingly, had the best cigars, the slim, long Habanos.