Fengshan was incredibly moved; he had to look away to collect himself.
“Do you honestly believe that saving Jews is a path to China’s salvation?” Ambassador Chen had taunted him over the phone when he explained the consulate needed a new venue after the demolition in order to continue issuing visas to the Viennese.
He had held his tongue. His Nationalist government was still fighting in Chongqing; the sophisticated weapons they had dreamed of were still out of reach; the Japanese were still bombing Chongqing and setting fire to one town after another in China. It was clear to him that the salvation of China, his country that had battled with the Japanese for so many years, his homeland that many brave people had defended for so many years, was now in God’s hands. But the salvation of the Jews, displaced, devalued, dehumanized in a world that was crushing down on them, was up to men.
No matter how fast he approved the visas, he was too slow. The pile of applications was stacked up as he pored over each one. Meticulously, he tracked the visa numbers, jotted down the date and destination in German and Chinese, and verified the applicants’ information. This was not the moment for mistakes; every detail must be verified, confirmed, and copied with absolute accuracy.
The drums of the washing machines rang in his ears, his back ached from sitting for too long, and his hand grew sore from writing, but each time he raised his head, he was greeted by the eager faces of the people in front of him; he lowered his head and continued to write. He had no time to rest—these people’s survival depended on him. Every visa he approved was a life saved.
And each day, devastating news continued to come through the radio.
The Soviet Union invaded Poland.
The Luftwaffe bombed Warsaw; Hitler captured Warsaw.
More than two hundred thousand Poles perished. Poland surrendered, divided by the Soviet Union and Germany, and hundreds of thousands of Polish troops became prisoners of war. And in front of his small apartment were men and women, the young and old who arrived at dawn. All day, they waited.
CHAPTER 55
GRACE
It was the man in the navy jacket who had threatened us in the park; he had appeared out of nowhere. I stopped midstep, holding a box of pastries; Monto was skipping ahead of me, walking backward, so he didn’t know what was going on. We had just left the bakery with treats. Monto had selected his favorite apple strudel, and I had opted for Topfenstrudel and some fritters with cheese fillings. Fengshan was working in his office and said he didn’t want anything—he had refused to eat pastries since the nightmarish evening when the server was thrown off the balcony.
The trip to the bakery had been a celebration, for the day before, I had felt something—a flutter inside my stomach, the drum of a new life, a most thrilling experience I thought I would never have the fortune to feel. I was ecstatic. The life inside me was growing and I would be a mother.
“Monto—” I was just about to warn him when the man in the navy jacket grabbed his shoulders.
“Get your hands off my boy!” I shouted, lunging forward, and struck the man with the box of pastries. Since the encounter in the park, I had been cautious, observing the people outside the window; every German man in a navy jacket gave me pause. And now, my nightmare was unfolding in front of me.
The man let go of Monto, cocked his head, and, in a threatening voice, unleashed a string of German.
“Go away, go away!” I put my arms around Monto, stepped over the crumbled apple strudel, the shattered crust of Topfenstrudel, and hurried off. I was short and small, and with my jacket and a long skirt, I still looked slim, but my stomach was growing round, impeding my speed.
With a violent barrage of German chasing me, I walked as fast as I could, holding Monto’s hand. One more turn and we would reach our apartment. I could see the visa seekers who had gathered outside the apartment and the German sign that Fengshan put out every day—The Temporary Office of the Consulate of the Republic of China.
The force on my back came so suddenly that I lost my footing, pitched forward, and crashed onto the cobblestones. A sharp, paralyzing pain stabbed my abdomen. My vision blurred.
“Grace! Are you all right, Grace? Grace?”
I’m fine, I wanted to say, but the pain. It was hot and vicious, shooting inside my stomach like a gun, and I sweated, soaked in a pool of stickiness. I tried to get up but couldn’t, and Monto’s voice, childish, innocent, flew in my ears like a bird’s cry.
“Grace! Grace! Father! Father! Help, someone help!”
On the ceiling, a white sun burned; sharp rays spread, ferociously. There was a deafening silence, a black seed of venom. Then suddenly, tendrils of flames flared, then congealed and flickered.
There were wheels squeaking, glasses clinking, people smacking their lips; the radio was playing the accordion. Or was it a violin? I wished it would stop. Let it stop, let it stop. But it went on and on. I wanted to cover my ears but couldn’t lift my hands. I dozed off again.
When I awoke, I saw Fengshan, a black shadow with a white face, slipping through the door. He quietly closed the door behind him and put his hands on the wall. For a long moment, he rested his head there, as if he had been shattered into pieces and must gather all of them before he could talk to me again.
“My love?”
“Grace. You’re awake. It’s so dark in here. Do you want me to open the curtain?”
His voice sounded strange, shattered, like glass. But what was he talking about? It wasn’t that dark at all. And what did it matter? There was something important I wanted to know. But I was frightened.
“The baby, my love . . .”
He turned to the window.
All these years of hope, all these months of happiness.
A woman in a white gown appeared beside him. “Herr Consul General, your wife needs rest. She’s agitated. She’s too weak. I’ll increase the dose.”
Fengshan’s voice, faint: “Let me speak to her about one more thing, please. It’s important, Grace. Grace? Can you look at me? Can I tell you something important? I know this is devastating. You always wanted to have a child. But we’ll get through this. We have Monto. He loves you. We’re a family.”
Poor Fengshan. After five years of marriage, he still didn’t understand how much I wanted to have children. Monto was a good child, and I had grown to love him and treasure him. But one more child of ours. That was all I wanted. And now, after so many months of conceiving, hoping, dreaming, my unborn child had perished at the hands of a despicable man.
How long had Eichmann’s man been targeting us, lurking outside the building to pounce on us, in order to threaten Fengshan to stop issuing visas?
Visas.
It was all because of visas. A ticket to freedom to some, a passage to the future for many, but a push on my back to me. It had taken me so long to conceive, to carry the life this far.
“Grace, Grace, what did you say?” Fengshan was asking.
“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know . . . if I get pregnant again . . . Even if I get pregnant again . . .”
He came to sit beside me, the gold cross on his necklace suspended below his chin. He closed his eyes for a moment and then said, “There is something else you need to know, and I want you to hear it from me. You had an infection, Grace. The doctor had no choice. Believe me. I didn’t have a choice either; I can’t lose you.”