“What’s going on, my love?”
“Grace, we need to pack.”
I sat up, a dream still vivid in my mind, a chain of littered images. There was a train, a suitcase, a hand, and a face—Lola. It was a message. She was alive. I felt brave, confident, and full of elation. “Why?”
He gave me the paper. It was written in German.
“What does it say?”
His voice hoarse, Fengshan said that Eichmann, who had tried to stop him from issuing visas to Jews, who had complained to his superior, had used his power to speak to the Nazi city-planning division, which had ordered the consulate building to be demolished.
CHAPTER 52
FENGSHAN
He had six hours to leave the building before the tank would arrive.
He raced downstairs. The consulate wasn’t yet open, but as usual, a long line had formed outside. He opened the door. “My apologies. The consulate is to be closed temporarily due to an emergency. Please come tomorrow and look for a sign outside the building.”
Then he dashed into his office. All the sensitive files must be destroyed. The furniture must be left behind. Their personal belongings would be packed by Grace. The books he’d collected must be carted out and stored at a safe place. What needed his special care was the backlog of visa applications waiting for his signature. He must pack every single one.
He removed all the filled-out application forms, his fountain pens, and the seal from his desk and set them inside the two suitcases he had brought from his bedroom. Then he emptied his drawers, pulled out all the manila folders that contained correspondence between him and the ambassador and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and carried them all to the fireplace.
For the entire morning, Fengshan went back and forth from his office to the fireplace, feeding the fire with the sensitive files. Growing hot, he loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. He instructed Frau Maxa, when she arrived, to purchase all the boxes she could find and pack the books. He ordered the vice consul, who was still half asleep, to save all the blank application forms and bundle them together. Grace, thank God, knew exactly what to pack. Even Monto was helping, tossing manila folders in the fireplace, making sure not a single application form was thrown into the fire by accident, then prying the consulate’s plaque at the entrance.
When noon arrived, Fengshan looked at the empty shelves, bare and battered, and his office, a hollow, cold cave, and the floor, a battlefield with torn sheets of paper and muddy footprints. When he spoke, echoes of his voice bounced in the air, a sad tune—but no, he didn’t have time to be sentimental.
An ominous sound, a low rumble, rolled over the cobblestones outside, and the consulate’s walls trembled. He picked up the two suitcases of application forms and turned to Grace, one hand holding Monto, the other holding her leather suitcase, standing by the door. The shadow draped over her narrow shoulders, and she shivered. Had she packed all their important belongings? Had she packed the clay statues? Her tiaras and dresses, his suits and medals, Monto’s pants and sweaters, and the baby’s socks and hats? He was counting on her.
“Let’s go.” He nodded at them and walked out of the building where he had worked and lived for over two years. Across the street, Frau Maxa, Vice Consul Zhou, and Rudolf were waiting; near them, a crowd had gathered—the visa seekers, whispering among themselves, anxious, already possessed by a looming sense of disaster. This consulate, his consulate, as far as he could tell, was their last bridge to life.
Fengshan tore his gaze away, told Monto and Grace to stay at a safe distance, and walked to the metal monster that came to demolish his consulate.
It was huge, blocking the street, the gun motor an unholy finger that mocked everything he held dear—the moral rectitude that was the bedrock of civilization, the codes that he lived by: honor, compassion, duty, and loyalty. And standing by it was the spiteful man who had sent his friend to the Mauthausen camp, legs apart, flanked by his depraved minions holding rifles.
“Good afternoon, Herr Consul General.” On Eichmann’s face was that sickening, oily smile.
About ten steps away, Fengshan stopped. Despite the swelling rage in his stomach, he managed to stay unruffled. He couldn’t stop them. He, a single man, standing in front of an armed mob that sought to destroy his building, was outnumbered, overpowered, and outmaneuvered.
“You look surprised to see me, Herr Consul General. Don’t be surprised. Hauptsturmführer Heine can’t get me out of the way yet. Of course I must finish my job before leaving for Prague. Prague! It wasn’t my choice. Anyway, we are even now. I do wish him well in Mauthausen!”
“Herr Eichmann, is there still a possibility for a friendly discussion?”
“The time for our discussion has already expired.”
Eichmann had won. His cunning, his ruthlessness, his vileness was as cataclysmic as a bomb, and his voice, Fengshan prayed, would one day be strangled in the roars of righteousness and justice. He turned to give one last look at the building.
“It’s too late to regret, Herr Consul General. I warned you. This is a bad time to be Germany’s enemy.” Eichmann waved his hand, and the tank driver raised the gun motor.
It fired. The first shell, a thunderous howl, struck the front of the building. The ornate pediment engraved with grapes exploded; white marble fragments and glass windows and wooden frames splintered, shooting in all directions. The three-story building, the seat of his career, an image of China, almost a home, detonated before him.
A downpour of thoughts fell on him. Could he have managed the situation with more finesse and reached a compromise with Eichmann? Might he be the only consul general who bore this incident on his résumé?
The second shell struck the windows of their bedroom on the third floor. From behind him, across the street, Grace whimpered. He turned to look. She didn’t seem to complain or blame him, her beautiful eyes two prisms of sadness. He had not had the time to comfort her, explain to her, or talk to her since he’d received the demolition notice. He wished to hear her speak now.
Another shell.
The belly of the sky, stained gray, was split open by a storm of ashes and bricks and clods of plaster. The cobblestones beneath him rattled. How long did it take to pulverize a building? How long did it take to construct a building? How long did it take for a man to build his career?
The street had turned into a white dome; a cloud of dust and ashes descended; in the place where the elegant three-story building had been, a building leased by a generous friend, piled a mound of rubble.
His consulate. His office. The seat of his success. Was gone.
Gone, too, were the moments he’d held the telephone reporting to Ambassador Chen; gone, too, were the hours he’d sat at the desk signing his name on visas with a fountain pen; gone, too, were those desperate people waiting in the lobby hoping for a future.
It was all but certain that from this spot, another stately building would rise, another struggle would spawn, and another story would be created. Hardly anyone in the future would remember the loss of a consulate. No one would remember him, either, a foreign diplomat who had failed to shield his consulate from a Nazi. Was this his future, too, the rubble? He resented this thought.
“Let this serve as the reminder that anything, anyone standing in the way of the Third Reich will be eliminated,” Eichmann said near the tank, his hands cupped around his mouth, forcing his greasy voice through the echoing rumble.