“They set the shul on fire! The shul!” A woman’s voice, shrill, unbearable.
And he saw it. Amid the darkness, the sickening smoke, the cloud of detritus and dust, a blaze, red, blistering, shot out of a building with a single arch, above which quavered a star, the star his friend Rosenburg had worn around his neck and kissed and prayed to.
When a house of God was set on fire, what else could not be destroyed?
Tears flowed down his cheeks.
CHAPTER 32
GRACE
Near dawn, Fengshan came to fetch me.
Lola was dozing off, frowning, her head on my shoulder. For the entire night, she had fallen into a trance, barely said a word, only stared. Her wine-red dirndl dress was stained with blood, her hair disheveled. Her feet were bare, the toes pale like rain-soaked pebbles.
Whenever a car drove by outside and the sound of its wheels grinding the pavement rolled in the air, she jolted. “Mutter!”
I held her; I held her tight. The mundane sound would torment her for the rest of her life. Each time the grinding wheels rang in her ears, she would relive the horror of losing her mother.
Sometime after midnight, I discovered Eva hidden inside a suitcase behind a curtain. She had hid there when the Gestapo came to search the apartment. While her mother was taken—I understood, from Lola’s murmur, that Sara’s deformed hand, a mark of imperfection, had made her a victim—and Mrs. Schnitzler was killed, Eva had stayed in a suitcase the whole time, and refused to leave the space. “Ich will nicht nach drau?en, Tante Grace,” she said.
When I opened the door for Fengshan, I had to lean on him—I could barely stand, and my legs were numb. Outside, there was the blood-splattered street, the strewn hats and scarves and shoes, the other apartments’ open doors and smashed windows.
As the car slowly drove down the street, I heard the wailing sirens of police cars and fire trucks. Nearby, a building was still ablaze; through thick fumes and smoke, I could see the fire brigade and police cars parked on the street. Batons in hand, they were blocking anyone who held buckets of water, ensuring the fire would consume the entire building.
In my bedroom, I dropped onto my bed. I had never realized my stuffy bedroom where I had wept and slept, which I had thought was a corner of exile, was such a lovely place. How laughable I had been—wallowing in boredom. This bedroom, with its golden tapestry and ornate Baroque bed and couch, its quiet solitude, and its familiar scent of Fengshan’s cigar and cologne, was a sanctuary, a bower of solace. If only Lola had the same luxury.
She must leave Vienna. And she must leave as soon as possible and take Eva with her. Since her train tickets had expired, she would need to purchase new tickets. But I couldn’t remember when her ocean liner would sail from Italy to Shanghai.
I was about to fall asleep when I heard a loud trickling in the bathroom. But, tired as I was, I had trouble getting up from bed. “My love?”
No reply.
I turned around. Through the gap of the bathroom’s open doors, Fengshan was standing by the sink, his back straight, a towel pressed onto his face, his shoulders shaking violently. And then he released a low howl that I had never heard from him before. My stoic diplomat husband; for the entire evening, he had remained unflappable, swift and resolute, and now he was wailing like a child.
When I awoke, it was late afternoon. I changed my clothes, put on my gloves and scarf, and rushed downstairs. The lobby was quiet, empty, with no visa applicants, only Frau Maxa and the vice consul at their desks. The order of house arrest had been rescinded, and Fengshan, who had received word that Mr. Rosenburg was able to take the train, had gone to see him off at the train station, Frau Maxa said. Without the consulate’s car, I would need to take a tram to Lola’s apartment. I walked quickly down the street, holding the scarf to my nose to keep out the heavy smoke. At the tram station, I was disappointed to see a sign saying there were no taxis or trams in service today.
In the consulate, I took a selection of newspapers and the mail and went to the dining room. Monto was eating alone, looking at a stack of papers with signatures.
“Monto, could you read these for me?” I set the newspapers in front of him.
“Read them yourself.”
“You know I can’t.”
He cleared his throat, and in his innocent, childish voice, he read, “‘Justice is served! Six thousand Jewish men were rightly apprehended and sent to Mauthausen. The owners whose shops were damaged must repair them at their own cost. All their insurance compensations will be justly transferred to the Third Reich. Have no fear! Ongoing arrests of the Jewish criminals and’ . . . I don’t know this word . . . ‘are underway to ensure the safety of the German people!’”
I leaned forward; on the newspaper were images of shops with broken windows. There was no mention of Mrs. Schnitzler or Sara or the brutal beatings and murders by the SS I had witnessed on the street. I covered the newspaper with my hand. “You can stop reading now.”
“Why did the newspaper say the Germans must protect themselves from the Jews? Are they dangerous?”
“They’re not dangerous.” I gathered up the newspapers. Perhaps it was a bad idea to have Monto translate the horrible reality.
“At school, the teachers ordered me not to talk to them.”
“Are they your friends?”
“No, but Willi is.”
“If he’s your friend, you should talk to him.”
He studied me. The flicker of petulance he aimed at me seemed to have vanished, replaced by something like worry. “Something bad is going to happen to Willi.”
“How do you know?”
“I read his signature.”
Near dusk, I went to Fengshan’s office. He had returned, and he was speaking to someone on the phone in his office. When he put down his phone, he said Mr. Rosenburg and his family had safely left Vienna. They would reach Italy by dawn, wait for their luggage and then board the ocean liner that would sail to Shanghai.
“Who were you talking to on the phone?” I asked.
“I was warning the Chinese citizens in Vienna. With the violence on the streets, they need to stay at home to be safe.”
“That’s a good idea.” I went to his desk and set down a pile of mail that I had collected. Looking pensive, he didn’t pick it up right away. Then he sat at his desk, took out a sheet of paper, and began to write in Chinese.
“What are you writing?”
“A letter to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs at home. The rescue plan must go through as soon as possible. The Viennese Jews must leave or they’ll perish. And I would do anything in my power to help them escape Vienna.”
“Will your proposal get approved?”
“I hope so. How’s your friend?”
“I couldn’t see her. You took the car, and the tram stopped running.”
He put down his pen and turned to me. “May I urge you to wait for a few days before you visit your friend? I fear you’ll get caught in the crossfire.”
Slowly, I nodded.
“Thank you. What happened to your friend’s family is a great tragedy.”
I could feel tears threatening to roll out of my eyes, thinking of Mrs. Schnitzler, Sara, and Lola. “So many are suffering in Vienna.”
“You’re a good wife, Grace.”