“This city is doomed, Dr. Ho! Doomed! Everyone has left, even our American friend,” Beran said in his heavily Bohemian-accented German.
Beran was well acquainted with Mr. Wiley, Fengshan understood, and the Czech, whose country bordered Germany, had expressed deep unease since the Anschluss. Fengshan understood his trepidation. When the British closed their embassy and withdrew diplomats from Austria, the English-speaking voices in the ballrooms had receded considerably, and now, with Mr. Wiley’s departure, the ballroom rumbled in German, French, Bohemian, Slavic, Spanish, and Italian. “He’s going to be missed.”
Mr. Beran sighed. “The British are asking us to hold a meeting again. Are you aware that Hitler is now demanding that we give him the Sudetenland, the frontier where our thirty divisions and the ?koda arms works are stationed? Czechoslovakia is the keystone of inner Europe; if we give it away, then all hell breaks loose!”
“The British?”
“Chamberlain and Daladier!”
Unfortunately, a weak country had no right to claim its own land—just like China’s loss of the Shandong peninsula, the hometown of Confucius, when Britain and France gave it to the Japanese at the Paris Peace Conference. Would history repeat itself, with Chamberlain presenting Hitler a gift at the expense of Czechoslovakia? It had seemed unthinkable months ago.
“My love.” Grace tugged him, her face pale.
“Grace. What happened?”
“I don’t really know. This waiter was talking to me in German . . . I couldn’t understand what he said . . . I think he was asking whether I’d like to have another drink. Eichmann grew angry and yanked him away. Look.”
He turned around. In a corner on the other side of the ballroom, Eichmann had seized the front of the waiter in a tuxedo from whom he had taken a champagne flute. A groan reverberated in the ballroom just as the orchestra paused, and Eichmann’s violent voice exploded in the ballroom. “How dare you harass an honorable guest! She’s a diplomat’s wife! Where’s your armband? Where’s your pin?”
The guests stopped chatting; there was a wave of murmurs of disgust. Fengshan quietly translated what Eichmann said to Grace. Grace looked mortified; she shook her head, her voice a whisper. Fengshan gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. He had no doubt that Grace was speaking the truth, but why did Eichmann fabricate something as vile as harassment to defame his wife and humiliate an innocent waiter? This was a serious accusation—harassment of a foreign diplomat’s wife in a ballroom. Fengshan studied the accused offender. He was a young man with blue eyes, and he staggered back to the wall, blood trickling out of his nose.
Fengshan crossed the ballroom to Eichmann. “Sir, please forgive me. Allow me to clarify. There was no harassment of any sort; my wife was merely speaking to him about a drink. This has to be some misunderstanding. I give you my deepest apology.”
Eichmann glanced at him, Grace, and the waiter. For good measure, Fengshan took Grace’s hand and kissed her. And as he observed, the expression on Eichmann’s face began to change: there were signs of anger, hesitation, threat, and menace. Then the man smiled.
“Herr Consul General, I’m ever grateful for your clarification. There is no need for an apology at all. This indeed is an unfortunate misunderstanding.” He loosed his grip on the waiter, who hurried to pick up his tray and left the ballroom.
Around him, the guests still looked indignant. Some glared at the departing waiter with suspicion; some gave Eichmann a nod, praising his action. Fengshan walked away in utter bewilderment. It was beyond his comprehension that Eichmann would concoct a case of harassment and make such a scene with the waiter, but to his relief, the music restarted: a waltz. People took each other’s hands, flooding the parqueted floor. Ump-pa-pa, ump-pa-pa. The Viennese, having entertained themselves with Schumann and Mozart for ages, always knew how to enjoy a party.
At last he took Grace to the floor. He was a superb dancer, and so was Grace. His feet slid, his shoulders swayed, turning left and then right, but he bumped into an older couple. Murmuring an apology, he led Grace to the other side of the ballroom and searched: the waiter had not returned.
“I don’t like this. Can we leave now?” Grace whispered to him.
“That would reflect poorly on our manners.”
Eichmann, his face intense, was speaking to a man in a uniform by a bouquet of flowers, who nodded and left. Repulsed, Fengshan whirled away and caught Captain Heine’s handsome face a few steps away, his eyebrows raised in question. Fengshan gave the captain a nod of assurance, his mind slowly at ease. The music was helpful, too, rising to a joyous crescendo, flooding the ballroom.
Suddenly a shriek pierced the waltz, followed by a loud thud outside. The music stopped; Eichmann’s figure flitted across the ballroom, disappeared, and swiftly returned. “Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that there has been an unfortunate incident that involved the waiter. The man, ashamed of his depravity, just jumped off the balcony. I have dispatched people to look into the matter. Meanwhile, let’s dance!”
Some people sighed; some looked shocked. But a string of violin notes poured in the air—a torrid Hungarian dance, and instantly, people, young and old, in uniforms and in dresses, turned around, and their feet began to shuffle.
Fengshan’s body, which had been throbbing with warmth from dancing, grew cold. He went to Eichmann. “But Herr Eichmann, the man was innocent. Why did he take his own life? Have you called the hospital?”
“There is no need, I assure you. This is the fifth floor.”
The callousness in his voice would have made people turn their heads had they heard him. Fengshan felt sick to his stomach. He took Grace’s arm. “I must beg your forgiveness, Herr Eichmann; I feel unwell. If you don’t mind, I’d like to take my leave with my wife.”
On the man’s face was that sly smile. “Herr Consul General, this is regrettable. We’re only halfway into the party. I have enjoyed chatting with you. You’re a man of admirable character. But I suppose you haven’t been in Vienna for long. May I give you a word of advice—where are the journalists who have been begging me for a word of advice? Well, this should be in the newspaper, don’t you agree: we all need friends in Vienna.”
A chill ran down his spine. “Have a good evening, Herr Eichmann.”
Fengshan rushed to the elevator, Grace on his arm. This was the fifth floor, but perhaps there was a chance the waiter had survived. He could use the building’s phone on the ground floor to call the ambulance.
“Herr Consul General. Are you leaving?” A Polish consul was sitting in a chair near the elevator, attacking a piece of Sacher torte. The layers were perfectly moistened, the whipped cream inviting, the rich chocolate fragrant. It was his favorite dessert, an indulgence.
“Did you hear what Eichmann said? A man just jumped from the balcony. Someone needs to call the hospital!”
“The waiter?”
“So you heard what he said. The waiter was innocent. He didn’t harass my wife.”
“I saw him.”
“Pardon?”
“Eichmann’s man pushed him off the balcony.”
“Pardon?”