It struck Fengshan, the brazen core of a man’s soul, the depth of a man’s evil. If a malignant man like Eichmann would dare to declare his intention to annihilate many lives and demolish a consulate that provided a passage to safety, then men, men of able means, men of faith, men of righteousness, must rise to stop him. This was how it had to be, then. As long as he held the fountain pen, the seal, the power to save people, as long as he was the consul general of the Republic of China, he would sit at a desk and sign, one visa at a time, fighting for other people’s lives.
“Father?” Monto grabbed his hand.
His son had turned into a white creature, white-haired, white-faced, white-eyelashed, and the same with Grace, her purple dress now a dusty gray. The crowd seeking visas, also bathed in dust, sobbed, tears trickling down their faces.
He picked up the two suitcases that contained the application forms. “Let’s go, Monto, Grace. We’ll find an apartment for the office.”
CHAPTER 53
GRACE
We were followed by an anxious crowd, and Fengshan spoke to them, assuring them in his confident lecturer’s voice. I understood what this meant then—these Viennese, these sheer strangers, who were not his friends, nor his kinsmen, nor his fellow countrymen, were people my husband had given his heart to protect.
Walking down Beethovenplatz, though, with the luggage in our hands, Fengshan realized we needed to find a hotel for the night. He booked a room on the ground floor at a hotel near Schillerpark. Meticulous as always, he returned to place a sign on the street near the demolished consulate indicating the changed location so the visa seekers would find their way to the hotel.
Then he reported to Ambassador Chen, using the telephone from the hotel. I sat on a sofa near the wall to keep my husband company, remembering the look on his face as the shells struck. He was a reserved man, but at that moment I had seen how vulnerable he was; it was only a fleeting moment, for he managed to keep his emotions bottled otherwise—no remorse, no anger, only resolution.
The ambassador was devastated, and he lambasted Fengshan for his failure to mollify Eichmann for a good ten minutes. Fengshan held the phone, staring at the ceiling with the ubiquitous crown molding while the ambassador lashed out, his voice thrumming in the receiver.
Eventually, Fengshan indicated that the urgent matter for the moment was to find an apartment for the office to resume the consulate routine. “With all due respect, Ambassador, the consulate needs additional funds to rent a new office space, purchase new office equipment and furniture, and pay for the staff—”
The ambassador hung up.
I stood, worried. “What did he say?”
“The ambassador said the country was in the throes of the worst battle with the Japanese. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs is short on funds.”
There would be no budget for the consulate, and Fengshan would need to pay for the new apartment from his own pocket. He had savings, but they were limited; if he rented a decent apartment in Vienna, they wouldn’t last long.
In our hotel room, I took out our toiletries, my dresses and nightgowns, Fengshan’s suits and shoes, and Monto’s pajamas and slippers. I had not had time to pack everything I treasured, only my book, the radio—Fengshan’s favorite—the gramophone, some discs, jewelry, shoes, and underwear. I had also brought baby clothing—so small and light, it could fit in the suitcase’s side pockets.
It was a small hotel room. Fengshan and I slept on the bed, and Monto took the sofa without complaint.
For a few days, Fengshan went out looking for apartments to rent. But finding an apartment on short notice was a challenge. Many buildings owned by wealthy Jews had been appropriated by the Gestapo. The buildings near the Ringstrasse were outrageously expensive. There were apartments behind hotels, coffeehouses, and shops around the Stadtpark, where Fengshan intended to rent, since it was within the close vicinity of the demolished consulate and thus easier for the applicants to find, but few rooms were large enough for an office and living quarters. The buildings south of the park had some vacant rooms, but the landlords shook their heads when they saw Fengshan. They had all heard of the demolition of the consulate, which seemed to give them the impression that they would face a potential risk if their buildings were rented to Fengshan.
Every day, people congregated outside the hotel, inquiring when the consulate would open and where the new location would be. It was May, the weather was pleasant, but they looked anxious, perspiring. The tension in Vienna was escalating and many of their relatives had been threatened and imprisoned, they said, and they’d be doomed if they stayed.
Two weeks had passed when Fengshan said a Viennese lady was willing to lease her apartment to him at a low price. The apartment, a block from the Stadtpark and the demolished consulate, was squeezed between a butcher’s shop and a Laundromat where immense washing machines operated day and night. It had two rooms. Fengshan was delighted and paid the deposit immediately. He said that one room would be used as the office, the other as our living quarters.
Once again, I packed up our belongings and moved in. The building had a modest art deco front—not a grand mansion fit for a consulate—and it smelled of mildew.
Fengshan placed the cardboard sign that said The Temporary Office of the Consulate of the Republic of China outside the apartment and turned to me, glancing at my stomach, looking apologetic. I didn’t mind.
The consulate still existed, and he would continue to issue visas to those in need; that was all that mattered.
It was pleasant in the Schillerpark; the August air had the silky transparency of a veil; the rays of sunlight were mild, delicate like a silver needle. There was no lively music of an accordion, a pity, and many people and families, in their particular manner that reminded me that they were Germans, kept a distance from us—the foreigners. But Monto and I played; he ran around the fountain, and I chased him. Oh, that pleasure, to hear a child giggling, to imagine that one day I could have two children and many days of mothering them.
It had been three peaceful, fulfilling months since we moved to the new apartment. Monto and I spent each day together. He read his German books, and I read my magazines and poetry. When we were bored, we went to the park; when we were hungry, we treated ourselves with curd-cheese pancakes and Bundt cakes. In July, the canoe summer camp Fengshan had registered Monto for was canceled, so Monto whiled away his time kicking a weighted shuttlecock, a sport called ti jianzi, he said. I failed after one kick, but he maintained a good balance keeping the shuttlecock in the air.
Fengshan had been busy working and issuing visas, for the entire summer. For hours, he was glued to his desk, signing and stamping the visa forms, with little sleep. When he listened to the radio, he appeared anxious. Hitler had mocked the independence of European nations and vowed to attack Poland at the earliest opportunity.
In the park, I sat on the bench designated for people like Lola and thought of her. I missed her. It had been about six months since her disappearance, and I had not received any word from her. I wondered if I had been delusional. In reality, she had likely been sent to a labor camp like Mauthausen, where she would toil until her last breath, or she was perhaps already dead, murdered.
“Grace, Grace.” Monto was shaking me.