Grace was sitting in her wheelchair, looking out the window. “She didn’t tell me.”
“I think she intends to mortally wound Eichmann in the hotel, Grace. She knows too much about him. And she has a revolver.”
Grace leaned back in her wheelchair, the look in her eyes—devoid of interest, fear, or despair—shocking him. He remembered that she’d once had the dreamy look of a girl who had yet to grow up, as if she were lost in another world. She had outgrown it, but with the miscarriage and the surgery, she had lapsed into something more frightening, a state of carelessness, utter indifference to the people around her or even herself.
“Grace?”
“I heard you, but she won’t do that. Where’s Monto? I haven’t seen him for a few days.”
“He’s at a private school, I told you. Could you write a note to her? I’ll bring it to her. She must abort this insane mission. Now. Here. You write it, tell her to abort before it’s too late.” He handed her the notebook and a pen.
Grace took the pen, and her tiny hand, bony and pale, trembled. She had been debilitated, frail, lacking energy and clear thought, and now simply gripping a pen seemed like lifting something heavy. It fell through her grip and hit the floor.
Fengshan picked it up and put it in her hands. His wife, who had been with him for almost six years, gazed at the pen, the fountain pen that he had used to sign the visas, and those small hands disappeared under the blanket. “Where is she? Is she still here?”
“She’s gone. But I’ll run after her. I’ll find her. She’s going to the hotel.”
“What’s the point? She won’t listen to me.”
“You’re friends!”
“It’s freezing here. Can you try to light the fire again?”
“She’s doing this for you!”
He had never lost his temper before, not in front of her, but for the first time in their marriage, he felt anger shooting in his stomach. For months he had thought he understood her pain, her loss, her trauma, and he had remained hopeful, refrained from commenting on her insouciance, her indulgence—she was young. The wound was hard for her to bear, and she would get through it, and she would heal. But how could she express such apathy about a friend? Who had he married?
“Write a note to Miss Schnitzler, Grace, I implore you. She trusts you; she’ll listen to you. The hotel is full of SS officers. She’ll get killed!”
CHAPTER 61
GRACE
All I could think of was the crumpled note in my hand, the note Lola had written for me, the note with those black lines, quick strokes, twisty curves, careless, ungainly, daring me to face them—Stay strong, start anew. You can still create your legacy beyond progeny, Grace. What was that supposed to mean? Had she ever known what I wanted? For all these months, I had thought of her, worried about her safety; had she ever thought of me?
Did she really dare to assassinate Eichmann? Eichmann deserved to die, for the man’s depravity had no bottom; he would continue to plot the destruction of humans, and he wouldn’t stop. But Lola had changed; she wouldn’t risk her own life to avenge me. Fengshan was wrong about that.
“Don’t you care about her, Grace?”
I looked at my hands. I had cared about Lola, and I still did, but maybe not as much as before. And even if I could summon all my strength to write a lengthy letter, it would not get into Lola’s heart. I wished Fengshan could understand.
He looked angry, his eyes piercing. The frown, the disapproval, the disappointment, the intensity. It astounded me. We shouldn’t have come to Vienna. This city was doomed; people here were doomed. I had thought that this city was just another Istanbul, but I was wrong. It was worse than Istanbul or China.
He turned on his heels and rushed to the coatrack for his coat and hat.
“Where are you going?” I wheeled out of the bedroom to his office.
“I must find Miss Schnitzler and talk her out of this before it’s too late.”
“You said the hotel has many SS men. They could arrest you. You’re risking your own life.”
“I’m a diplomat. The Nazis won’t dare do me harm.”
Suddenly, my head burned with fury. “You’ve done so much. For two years, you’ve been issuing visas to people in this country. You’ve put your life, your family, your country in danger, you have lost the consulate building, you’ve rented the apartment with your own money. You’ve lost your unborn child! Don’t you think that’s enough?”
“There are simply no other options.”
I trembled. “What about me?”
He froze, holding his bowler hat, but didn’t turn to me.
“What about your job evaluation? The ambassador had many questions about your involvement with Lola.”
“She’ll get killed.” He put on his hat, opened the door, and walked out of the room.
The room was quiet. On his desk were stacks of blank visa forms, his pen, his seal, and several torn pages with scribbles in German. Fengshan’s writing was recognizable, neat, grand, with sweeping curves; the other handwriting was hurried, with round corners, Lola’s, I supposed. I wheeled to his desk, and with one single swipe, I swept them all to the floor.
I wept.
For months while I had been mourning, mired in a hazy agony, I had seen mild sorrow in his eyes—some care, some sympathy, but not grief over our unborn child, no mourning of our childless future. I had longed for a moment of tenderness, longed for company, wishing he could sit down and have some coffee with me, or perhaps spend a few hours in the park, where he would give me his assistance as I ventured to take a slow walk. But those moments never happened.
From the very beginning of our marriage, I was aware of what was in the forefront of his mind—his country, his job, not me. I had been fine with that, but I understood now—I was not in his mind at all. We had been living in the same apartment, breathing the same air, but rarely sharing the same thoughts. We had looked at each other, but we only saw a reflection of our minds.
The washing machines started to spin again, and the floor seemed to quiver, the burgundy carpet with those golden diamonds crested, a marbled, slippery tide of shadows.
Later, Vice Consul Zhou came. He looked glum, sniffling, his eyes watery. He picked up the scattered pieces of paper from the floor and glanced at me. He must have thought I was sloppy, but only those who had gone under the surgery blade knew the challenge of bending over, squishing the abdomen muscles. He collected the papers and set them on the desk, seeming bored, yawning. Then he went to the fireplace, which I had just noticed was lit.
I went to my bedroom and closed the door. I wished Monto were here. I missed his childish voice and his face. He was busy at school these days. When he was up early in the morning, I was usually deep in sleep. When he was around, I hardly had the energy or mental power to engage in conversation. A considerate boy, he trod lightly in the room to avoid disturbing me.
The phone rang, a trail of hollow alarms, annoying, persistent.
I wheeled out. Vice Consul Zhou had fallen asleep near the fireplace. The phone, in the corner near the window, was out of my reach. I turned to the other side of the desk, but Fengshan’s chair was in my way. This was my life now, a constant test of frustration, as a disabled woman in a wheelchair, unable to accomplish the simple task of standing up and reaching for the phone.