His voice was placid, his hands warm like gloves lined with fur, but my heart was chilled like a stone at the bottom of a lake.
In order to save my life, they had removed my reproductive organs, including my uterus.
Snow appeared out of nowhere, a thick curtain of white flakes, a thousand feathers from heaven, pouring down and vanishing at the edge of the windowsill outside, into the bottomless world of the unknown.
Then there was no snow, no wind, no sound. The silhouettes of the trees crept up to the pale sky like dark veins, with a wilderness of bristles and bones sprawling in the distance. So distant, desolate, and cold the void looked. One could wander in that blank space and walk forever without encountering anyone; if one screamed, the voice would perhaps fade and vanish, heard by no one.
Days came and went; darkness came and went. My eyes stung from staring at the blade of light thrust through the curtains’ gap, piercing my head, an endless wheel spinning with spokes of darkness.
Sometimes I fell asleep, only to be awakened by a violent string of German from the man wearing a navy jacket, the boom of shells shot from a tank, and my own scream. Lola, poor Lola. Now I knew what she had to live through. Where was she now? Why couldn’t she be here for me?
I wanted to see her, her scarred face, her steadfast green eyes. Perhaps she would hold my hand and say something, or nothing. Her presence would be enough. But maybe I was delusional. She was gone. She would never be here for me. Friendship was only a cold pall, a silver-ringed tale.
Monto, sweet Monto, came to see me every day after school.
“School has started, Grace. Did you know? Father sent me to a private school,” he said, and he did his homework near my bed, munching on Apfelstrudel. He brought some for me, too, but I told him he could have them all. A precocious boy, he didn’t say a word about the baby to avoid upsetting me.
“I’ve studied my own signature, Grace. Do you want to know what I’ll do when I grow up? I’ll be a doctor, a renowned doctor who will save many people’s lives, as you said. Will you like that?”
I nodded but couldn’t speak. Oh, my boy. He loved me. Children, when they were nurtured with the love of the world, would nurture the world in return. If I had to protect him again, I would. But why was this happening to me? Children were supposed to be my salvation, my redemption.
Sometimes I woke to see Fengshan sleeping in the chair near the window. His breathing was heavy, as though he were sighing in his sleep, his mouth in a sad droop. When he spoke, his voice hoarse, he talked about the visa seekers and the devastating stories of war, how the German Luftwaffe was unbeatable, and how many people had become homeless and stateless.
He might as well have been talking about the weather in Boston. Boston. How strange I’d thought of that, as if it were a bag of candies hidden in a backyard that waited for my return. But what was there left for me? What would Mother say? Told you so?
“Do you still have headaches? Do you still have Tiger Balm?” he asked.
It took me a few tries to finally squeeze out these words. “Monto said I would have two children.”
He sighed. “You’ve been through a most excruciating ordeal, Grace. Are you cold? Do you need clothes?”
“I believed him,” I said.
He lowered his head. “Could I bring you anything from our apartment? Would you like to have your own nightgown?”
I turned my head to the window.
“I’ll bring you the red nightgown; it’s your favorite.” He patted my hand.
“My love?”
“Yes?”
I wanted to take his hand and put it on my heart, but instead, my tears slid. “What have we done?”
There was a long silence. Then he said, “Get some rest, Grace.”
CHAPTER 56
FENGSHAN
He walked out of Grace’s room and headed straight into the untidy hallway with straggling trays and wheelchairs. The nurses and doctors in white gowns, who had rarely visited Grace since the surgery, were congregating around a radio in an office—the Soviet Union had invaded Helsinki, the capital of Finland; the Red Air Force was bombing the capital, and thousands of Red Army soldiers had stormed across the border. He hardly paused, still thinking about what Grace had said. What have we done? It sounded like an accusation, or a misgiving from the stalwart wife he had counted on, or, worse, a plea to turn away from the cause he had held dear to his heart.
Didn’t she remember how the Nazis had destroyed Poland? Didn’t she hear how many Poles were driven out of their homes? Some had fled across the border, climbed over the mountains, and managed to find him, begging for visas. He had told her all these things, and he had never imagined hearing this bitterness from Grace. Issuing life-saving visas had been their shared mission; questioning herself and what he was doing was inexcusable.
But he couldn’t bring himself to chastise her. A hysterectomy would be devastating to any twenty-six-year-old expectant mother. Had he known the danger, had he known Eichmann’s man was lurking behind her, he would have taken preventive measures before she left the apartment. Even with all his heart on visas, he had not thought of sacrificing her or their child. No. This was never supposed to be a sacrifice.
He had tried all he could to discover the culprit. He reported the incident to the police, but as he expected, no investigation took place. The vicious attack was brushed aside as a regrettable incident. Even though Monto had given a clear description of the attacker, he had no proof that Eichmann had sent the man.
And Eichmann, he had heard, had been promoted to be an SS Hauptsturmführer, the same rank held by Captain Heine before his arrest, yet another indication of the success of the self-titled genius’s expulsion model for Jews, now hailed, sickeningly, as the Reich paradigm. It was said that he reported directly to Himmler. The vengeful man’s retaliation and the devastating loss he had inflicted on Grace and their family were overlooked and would probably be conveniently erased.
Fengshan stepped out of the hospital. It was snowing now, the flakes of snow fighting in the gusts of wind, lashing at the windows of the closed shops, flaying the pedestrians and the swastika flags on a black Mercedes. A chill swooped on him, taking his breath away. The great velocity and the merciless violence felt like a proper punishment. The life of his unborn child had been aborted; Grace had suffered a life-changing wound.
Captain Heine, the consulate, and now their impossible losses.
What had he done?
Oh, God. Grace had the right to ask.
He arrived at his apartment building and walked into the quiet emptiness of his office. It was late; the visa seekers had left the building. He sat in his chair, stewing in a rare moment of solitude, looking at the pile of visa forms in front of him.
He reached out but withdrew his hand. For the first time in two years, he felt weak. Had he gone too far? The visas had cost his unborn child’s life, his superior had not contacted him for months, and consul general though he was, he was a lone soldier, a solitary man with a pen. How long could he keep holding his pen and signing the visas?
The tolling from St. Stephen’s Cathedral’s bell echoed outside. He listened. The bell, he had heard, was Vienna’s pride. It had been forged in 1711, weighing approximately forty-nine thousand pounds; its extraordinary material was melted from cannons left by the retreating Turkish soldiers during the second siege of Vienna in 1683. Such exceptional material had produced a notable bell that continued to toll after two hundred years, the token of Vienna’s unyielding spirit.