The American consulate staff had decided to take a vacation. The new consul general, Mr. Morris, had left for Hawaii, and Mr. Lord planned to go home to visit his relatives. It was to be expected, Fengshan knew. His friend had subtly warned him of the withdrawal of the American presence in Vienna since the US had stopped issuing visas, reminding him of the isolationist stance of the country.
“We must meet before you leave,” Fengshan said. “Would you care to have some coffee at Café Central? I’m going to meet Captain Heine there.” Mr. Lord was acquainted with the captain as well.
“Well, you two drink more of the fine Vienna coffee for me. I’m afraid there are other matters I need to tend to before my departure. I heard about the incident in front of your consulate the other day. It’s fortunate that the captain arrived in time to avoid bloodshed.”
“Perhaps you might also wish to know that the Third Reich’s policy regarding the Jews has changed?” Fengshan gave a brief description of Eichmann’s threat.
“If this is true, then woe to the Jews in Vienna! Many of them are professionals who have expertise with a scalpel rather than a shovel. Training them to be farmers? That’s inhumane. You must be careful, Dr. Ho. Please do bring my regards to the captain when you see him.”
“He’s my guardian angel.”
“I’m sure he is. Let’s hope he’ll stay sober when you see him!”
When Fengshan arrived at the coffeehouse, the captain was already there, sitting at a round table with a marble top, under the golden chandelier, his favorite spot. The entire coffeehouse was silent. The men, in tan jackets and peaked caps, hid their heads behind newspapers, and the red-lipped women sat on sofas stone-faced, forgetting their cigarettes.
The captain was not alone. Two Gestapo men were standing next to him; one held a pistol against his temple.
“Captain Heine!” Fengshan felt a chill run down his spine. This was unthinkable—he was a high-ranking officer. “What is the matter here?”
His friend looked drunk, his face red and his eyes glazed, but he put his hand out. “I respectfully ask you to keep your distance, Herr Consul General. This is a private matter.”
“Hauptsturmführer Heine!” The man holding the pistol was growling in German. “As I’ve stated earlier, you’ve broken the law. This is your warrant. You’re ordered to come with us.”
“Allow me to finish reading the warrant.” The captain held the sheet in front of him; then, looking bored, he placed it on the table’s marble top. “I could use another drink.”
“Hauptsturmführer Heine! You’re arrested for aiding the foreigners and the Quakers to smuggle children out of Germany.”
“Is this some kind of joke?” His voice was smooth, with the same flirtatious tone with which he had courted women in a ballroom or a bar. Fengshan wanted to shout at him to be more serious. He was being arrested! But the Quakers . . . Only one man could have overheard that.
“You may explain at the Headquarters.”
“Allow me to finish my cognac.”
“Hauptsturmführer Heine!”
“Very well.” His friend stood and straightened his collar. “It’s a beautiful day with sunshine. I shall be glad to take a walk.”
Fengshan watched helplessly as his friend gave him a nod and passed by. Outside the coffeehouse, Captain Heine came to a jeep, the sunlight casting a long shadow behind him. He looked around, saying something, but the Gestapo men grasped his arms and shoved him into the jeep.
Fengshan desperately attempted to free the captain, making phone calls to the Headquarters, to Mr. Lord, who was about to embark on his train, and to his other Austrian friends from church. He delivered a care package to Heine, but it was denied; he went to visit him at the Headquarters and was denied again. Two weeks later, he was told that Captain Heine was held by the Geheime Staatspolizei under protective custody, a Nazi term that meant he was being held without the benefit of a trial. Charged with breaching the state’s security to the foreigners and conspiring to subvert the Nazi regime, he was stripped of his rank and transported to the Mauthausen camp.
CHAPTER 51
GRACE
Fengshan went to the window. Outside, Vienna was a graveyard of darkness with streetlights flickering here and there and the spire of St. Stephen’s Cathedral a lonely glowing star. He was grieving for his friend, even though he had not said a word. I knew this about my husband: his grief came and went like a wintry gust, invisible, but it was always felt in the bones.
I held his arm.
“He’s a good man,” he said.
“You’re tired.”
“I dragged him into this.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Eichmann did this. He’s a calculating man.”
And now that Captain Heine was gone, Eichmann could do whatever he pleased with the consulate. “Come to bed, my love.”
I took off his coat and boots and gave him a pair of black loafers from the closet. Lit by the dim light in the bedroom, he looked tired, with dark rings around his eyes, and his hair was receding, graying at the temples. For the first time, I noticed my thirty-seven-year-old husband, a vigorous man, was aging. His friend’s arrest, the consulate’s future, and the visas had stressed him, and he had not been eating or sleeping well. I should cook him more homemade Hunan food. The meals I made, though strenuous on my part, had delighted him, a traditional Chinese man who believed cooking was one of the essential skills for a wife.
“I need to go check on Monto, Grace.”
“I’ll go. You get some sleep.”
I went to Monto’s room. His lights were on, but he was deep asleep. I tucked the blanket around him and turned off the lights.
The following day I felt on edge. I worried about the consulate—would we lose the consulate? I also worried about myself. Something was wrong with me. At times the waves of anxiety, unbidden, washed over me, and I was that fearful, introverted woman again.
I was very tired all day, and when I napped, I dreamed of rainbows, of pink dolls, of small feet, of an infant’s soft hair. I ran my hands through it, those filaments of wonder. I had waited for so long. Sometimes I dreamed I was sitting on a lawn pinned by a great icy Ferris wheel, and the sky was turning red, the summer air frosty with the winds from New England, whipping a soup of shattered violets, lilacs, tulips, and roses from my poet’s garden in Amherst.
Monto kept me company while I folded the sets of baby clothing I had bought—it was like a soothing sport that I couldn’t get tired of. When I told Monto of my pregnancy, he grinned. I jotted down my name and asked him to predict how many children I’d have.
“Two,” he declared. “You’ll have two children, Grace.”
I smiled. I had no objection to two children. But three would be ideal.
Fengshan spoke less and less, which was another worrying sign. Was he concerned about another visit from Eichmann? Or an order of eviction?
Then one morning, I was sound asleep when I heard Fengshan’s voice next to me. “Grace, Grace. Wake up, you must wake up.”
The dawn light filled the room, luminescent like a glass jar, and Fengshan, holding a sheet of paper in his hand, was standing by my bed.