He walked out of his office. In the lobby, the vice consul was collecting the fees and writing the receipts in his sluggish motion. As part of his duty, the vice consul also collected the remittances and submitted them to the embassy at the end of each month. If he followed the ambassador’s order now, the remittances to the embassy would stop, but if he didn’t relay the order to his subordinate, the remittances would continue to be submitted to the embassy, and the ambassador would know Fengshan had disobeyed his order.
Fengshan passed Vice Consul Zhou, said nothing, and went into the elevator.
Grace was in the dining room, setting the table.
“Look what I made for you.” She placed a bowl of sliced pork in brown sauce and garlic before him, which she had never attempted since their arrival in Vienna.
“Hunan garlic pork.” Holding a pair of chopsticks, Fengshan took a bite. The result was surprisingly palatable. He had not had decent Chinese food, sautéed with savory soy sauce and garlic in the style of his hometown cooking, for ages. But sadly, he could hardly stomach anything.
“Is something wrong, my love?”
“I had a conversation with Ambassador Chen.” He spread the rice to soak up the sauce and ate. Food would keep him focused, and he should not waste any. His countrymen were starving.
“Any good news from China?”
“No.” His friends from China had sent telegrams about the war a few days ago. Despite the fact that Chongqing, the new capital of his government, had been bombed into a pile of rubble, to his greatest relief, his government had not surrendered.
“Something is bothering you, my love.”
He wouldn’t have continued with an explanation in the past, but Grace had changed. “The ambassador ordered me to halt the visa issuance.”
She sat across from him. “Halt the visas? Why? I heard people in the slum were trying to apply to our consulate. If you stop, where will they get a visa? Do you remember Lola is in a slum? I wish you could see it. It’s horrifying.”
Grace had just confirmed what he needed to know.
“I asked Frau Maxa to find a boat ticket to Shanghai for Lola, my love. I’m afraid Lola’s mental condition has declined. She might be hallucinating. She must leave Vienna.”
“What did Frau Maxa say?”
“She said many people were looking for ocean-liner tickets. The prices are ridiculously high and there are few tickets available.”
“I’ll tell her to keep looking.”
“There are many people confined in the slum, my love, sleeping on the floor. It’s freezing out there! If you stop issuing visas . . .” Her beautiful eyes stared at him, anticipating.
“This is delicious.”
She kissed his forehead. “I’ll leave you alone. You think about it.”
He nodded, grateful for Grace’s understanding. Holding chopsticks, he slowly chewed his food, thinking about the ambassador’s order.
When he went down to the crowded lobby, he heard a man in a black coat recounting his nightmarish experience in the Mauthausen camp to the applicants around him. Fengshan stopped to listen. The man, apparently named Herr Eisner, seemed to have been released from the camp a few days ago. He said he was tasked with transporting blocks of stones from the top of the quarry to the foot of the hill. Each day he carried on his shoulder a large block of stone that weighed about one hundred pounds and trudged down the 186 crumbling steps made of clay, ice, and rocks, the Stairs of Death, with his fellow prisoners following close behind and the whip from the kapos nearby. He had to take absolute care not to stumble on the frozen stairs or fall off the cliff or knock into people ahead of him. Once a man behind him dropped his block, and the huge rock rolled over his foot and crushed five men ahead of him. Herr Eisner lost two toes—he took off his boot to show them—but he said he was more fortunate than the man who dropped the rock, who became a “parachutist.”
“Parachutist?” someone asked.
“One of the kapos grew angry and hurtled him down the cliff. The poor man flew over like a parachutist and fell to his death in a pond filled with huge rocks.”
Herr Eisner’s lips trembled, his eyes haunted by the memory. He had believed he was in a death trap until his wife found him a visa from the Chinese consulate—the ticket that granted him his release. And now, he came to the consulate to save his brother-in-law, who toiled in the camp.
Fengshan walked into his office, his back straight. He couldn’t believe he had wasted time agonizing over his superior’s order. His decision was already made and he intended to carry it out. There were thousands of Jews in Vienna; if he needed to issue thousands of visas to keep them out of labor camps, then so be it.
CHAPTER 43
GRACE
Two weeks later, after much waiting, I obtained a boat ticket to Shanghai with the help of Frau Maxa. The boat was to depart in September, in six months. I was disappointed. Lola couldn’t wait for six months in the slum. At my insistence, Frau Maxa inquired at a law office and purchased, at a steep price, a boat ticket to Shanghai, set to sail in two weeks. Thrilled, I bought a train ticket at the station and folded both tickets in my handbag. Lola would be able to leave the slum and sail to Shanghai!
When I went to the district of Leopoldstadt, there were routine inspections and interrogations, but again, the Chinese flag saved me.
In the slum, Lola was talking to a young man outside the building. She introduced him as Theo. He had blue eyes, a face with prominent cheekbones and thick eyebrows, brown hair parted in the middle. He was attractive, and his eyes flowed with a certain intensity as if he had a hidden dagger in his sleeve and he was ready to use it. He was the old friend she had mentioned, and he had brought another bottle of Styrian beer.
He looked familiar, and then I remembered he was the man we’d met while waiting in line for exit permits at the Central Office for Jewish Emigration. There had been something peculiar about him that I couldn’t remember. Lola was not romantically involved with him, I could tell.
Theo had been in Linz, then shown up here, Lola said after he left. “He said we’d be transported to Mauthausen camp next month.”
“Mauthausen.” It sounded familiar.
“Let’s go for a walk. I’ll tell you more,” Lola said, glancing at the people near the window.
I followed her, trudging in the knee-deep snow; the chilly air made my eyes water even though I had on the thick astrakhan coat, my gloves lined with fur, and high leather boots. Lola only wore a black jacket, a scarf around her head, and old boots. She shook her head when I offered her my gloves. She was not cold, she said.
When we passed a one-story tavern, I heard the pulsating beats of music coming from inside. Through the window, I could see a group of musicians playing fiddles and cowbells, swinging their arms. Lola stopped to watch, too, then sniffed, pulled the scarf to cover her face, and looked away. Since last summer, she had stopped talking about Strauss, Mozart, and her favorite song, “The Lark Ascending.”
Then, suddenly, someone shouted inside the tavern. The door smashed open. A man without a hat stumbled out. He glanced at us, dashed toward the fence’s gate, and disappeared. One moment later, two uniformed policemen burst inside the tavern, blasting German. A gunshot was fired.