CHAPTER 58
FENGSHAN
The year 1940 began with a blizzard. In mid-January, on a cold morning, Fengshan went out of the apartment and staked the consulate’s sign in the snow. Pulling his fur hood up with his gloved hand, he paced in front of the building, peering at the street. It had been two months; not a single visa applicant had appeared.
He scoured the news for possible clues. The newspapers printed victories of the German U-boats in Scotland and extolled the successes of the German Wehrmacht and the Luftwaffe. The radio, broadcasting endless debates and fierce criticism of the leadership in France and England, often lapsed into bitterness and recriminations. Daladier’s authority was impugned, and Chamberlain’s war secretary was dismissed.
No one said a word about the Jews in Vienna.
Fengshan called Ambassador Chen, with whom he hadn’t spoken for several months, and reported to him the current situation in Vienna. It was a short report. The American consulate had remained closed. The news from other countries had been nonexistent.
Out of abundant caution, Fengshan inquired about the Jewish policy.
The ambassador said, “I’ve spoken to Mr. Xu Shumo, the vice minister of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He has agreed that given the current situation, with Germany at war with Britain and France, it is in our best interest to stay neutral. Additionally, Shumo has ordered that we close our doors to Viennese refugees. You may discard the telegram from the Ministry.”
There were few visa applicants these days, so the Ministry’s new no-visa policy hardly exerted any pressure. However, the neutrality stance signaled his government’s intention to break away from the aggressive Third Reich, which Fengshan deemed sensible, but he could also see a withdrawal from Greater Germany would inevitably diminish the importance of his consulate.
Fengshan requested funding for the consulate again since he had paid the rent out of his own pocket. His superior was noncommittal. The war in China appeared to be at a stalemate, he said. While the Japanese had a sophisticated air force and had seized the seaports and railroads in the east, the Nationalists’ relocation to Chongqing, near the Yangtze gorges, had proved advantageous in terms of geographical location. The resistance was prolonged, and no one could predict how or when the war would end. It could take months or years.
No funding for the consulate, and the rent he’d paid wouldn’t be reimbursed.
“One more thing,” the ambassador said, his voice full of formality. “As part of the bureaucratic process, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs has requested an evaluation of diplomats in Greater Germany. You may start the process at your earliest convenience.”
The annual evaluation included a comprehensive assessment of a diplomat’s character, disposition, and capability, as well as the superior’s appraisal of the subordinate’s job performance; it was standard procedure, inspired by the American Foreign Service’s practice. Last year, due to the capital’s relocation, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs had been understaffed and decided to skip the evaluation. The annual evaluation was thought to determine a diplomat’s career, but not entirely, since a diplomat’s promotion also relied intricately on alliances within the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the government. After years of service, Fengshan had learned that for a Chinese career diplomat, personal and familial connections were always the prime indicators of his career.
“As you wish, Ambassador Chen.”
Fengshan put the phone back in the receiver; his stomach flip-flopped in anxiety. It was a routine process; he would assess the vice consul’s job performance, providing accounts of merits and demerits. But it also meant his superior, Ambassador Chen, would evaluate him for the Ministry. He had great confidence that he would receive a high mark in many aspects; however, his implementation of the Jewish policy had caused a rift between the ambassador and him.
Fengshan predicted that the ambassador’s evaluation would include a report of Counselor Ding’s investigation and the rumored bribery and perhaps even a hint of his defiance, even though Fengshan had presented the telegram from the Ministry and proved there were no cases of misconduct or bribery. But how Ambassador Chen felt about his conduct was another matter.
To keep the consulate running, it was time to curtail the costs, reducing staffing to preserve the cash flow. That afternoon Fengshan spoke to Frau Maxa about the consulate’s financial difficulty. Frau Maxa took it well. She didn’t lapse into sentimental weeping or fly into a fit of explosive rage. In the reserved manner typical of the Viennese, she expressed her gratitude for working for the consulate and packed up.
He should speak to Rudolf, too, but his movements would be restricted without a chauffeur. He didn’t know how to drive a car. So, in the end, he requested the manservant take an extended leave.
In February, a letter arrived on his desk.
It was from the Shanghai Municipal Council, the governing body of the Shanghai International Settlement. He opened it. The council indicated that the influx of penniless Austrian Jewish refugees who arrived at the city with the visas he issued was placing an enormous financial burden on the established, wealthy Jewish community in Shanghai. They requested that he enact a financial requirement on the applicants to weed out the poor. In a similar effort to stanch the flow of Jewish refugees entering Shanghai, the port had established an admission program requiring a specific fee for the refugees before they entered customs.
Fengshan threw the letter into a trash basket. The council in Shanghai didn’t understand that even the wealthiest Viennese Jews were now beggars on the streets. And with the war, many displaced Jews were homeless and destitute. They were lucky to be alive.
But who cared to listen to him? He was alone, with his pen, fighting every opposition. First Ambassador Chen’s order, then Eichmann’s threat, and now the council. And Grace, but maybe not Grace.
Poor Grace. For the past few months, the hysterectomy surgery had robbed her of her energy, her youthfulness, and the tenuous will she had forged. The pain was so excruciating that she could only get through the day with multiple doses of morphine. After the injections, she’d slide into a pitiful stupor. She became more capricious than she used to be. At times she appeared peaceful, sitting by the window, watching the snow drift, listening to the washing machines pounding on the other side of the wall, her mind somewhere else; at other times she grew mournful, sobbing uncontrollably, and refused to get out of bed. On good days, she longed for company, lingering around the fireplace, commenting on the dreadful weather, and asking to go to the park but then changing her mind at the last minute.
She had not dressed up for months, lounging around in her red nightgown, her hair messy. She drew dark eyeliner on one eye but forgot the other. Her former self, forgetful, diffident, had returned with a vengeance.
Someone was knocking on the door. Monto, who had returned home from his friend’s care, went to open it. “Father! You have a visitor. I’m going to school.”
At the door, almost like an apparition that defied logic, stood a woman wearing a black corduroy coat that was too big on her, half of her face covered with a scarf. Those green eyes were startlingly bright, like a pair of gaslights.
“Miss Schnitzler!”
She was alive! He could hardly believe it. It had been nearly a year since her disappearance, and he had lost all his hope. Grace, though, had believed she was alive.