Vice Consul Zhou grumbled, rubbing his eyes, and as he reached out, the phone stopped ringing.
It could be Fengshan, calling from the hotel. Had he been arrested by the Nazis? Or it could be Lola. Although, with her impaired hearing, that was unlikely. What had led Fengshan to conclude that Lola would assassinate Eichmann?
I wheeled back to my room. On the nightstand sat my Dickinson book, constant as it always was. I picked it up—I had not opened it since Lola returned it to me, and it felt heavy. Lola had said she kept the book with her all these months, but she never said whether she liked it. I turned the pages—they looked different. In the center of the page was the garden of thoughts that my poet had sprouted, but on the margin were streaks of shadows. I leaned over—the shadows were words in a minuscule script.
Dear Grace, my apologies for defacing your book. Can’t write you letters. Hope this will do. I’ve been thinking of you and I want to write to you so you’ll know I’m still alive. It looks like I won’t be able to leave Vienna. One of the guards trampled over the boat ticket you bought for me and now I’m on a train . . .
Dear Grace, this train reeks. People are frightened. We don’t know where we’re going. Some think we’re going to the Mauthausen camp . . .
Dear Grace, there’s no room to stand straight, no room to rest my hands, so I’m writing this on my lap. Someone behind me keeps hitting my head and apologizing. Well, I’d like to apologize to you—I never had a chance to say goodbye. I wish I could go back to Vienna so I could tell you in person . . . Look—the rays of the sun are spinning through the cracks of the windows. A golden clef, radiant, blooming like a fruit tree. It’s beautiful. Do you recall those places I mentioned when we first met? There were so many places I could have shown you, the Schloss Sch?nbrunn, the Danube, the Wienerwald, the Eisriesenwelt cave. Vienna is beautiful, Grace, the world is beautiful.
There were about ten pages’ worth of margins filled with Lola’s handwriting, her journey through the mossy terrain, the emerald fields, the craggy mountains, each letter neat, all addressed to me with care and diligence. It hit me that in the crammed train, even though she was going to a camp, Lola had kept me in her mind and written me letters; she had not forgotten about me.
There was a note about the train hitting a cow on the track, a note about her rescuing people caught in a swamp, a note about her being beaten to senselessness that had impaired her hearing, and the last note from her:
I can never listen to the music again, the music I played, the music I was born to play. It was a shock. For days, I sat on a rock near a cliff, engulfed in a terrifying silence, and I wanted to cry. But what was crying good for? I still had my arms, my legs, my heart, my sight, my taste, my life, and you, Grace. I might never hear your soft voice again, but at least I could still see you. Yes, that’s what I should do. It’s been long enough. I’m coming now. Not for the last time, of course. Between us, there should never be THE last time.
I’m coming, she said, despite the danger in Vienna. Time, terror, and distance had not changed her. And it dawned on me, her rage, her devastation, her anguish when she learned of my grief. Of course she knew the depth of my loss, Lola, of all people, but I had failed to see.
Oh no. She was going to assassinate Eichmann for me.
I dropped the book and called for a taxi to the hotel. It took forever to arrive, and when the apartment door opened, I wheeled out. It was March, I realized; the late afternoon sky looked bleak; the wind growled, the air a sharp claw on my naked face. I wrapped the scarf around me; it felt thin like threads, the chill drilling in my bones. Near the car, enormous and towering, I put my feet on the ground and rose. All the disused muscles in my abdomen stretched tautly and screamed, but I edged, inch by inch, to the back seat.
Lola, Lola, Lola.
CHAPTER 62
FENGSHAN
The car was of no use without Rudolf. So Fengshan walked to the hotel as fast as he could, pulling his coat around him, his nose in his thick scarf.
He was furious at Grace. He had been wrong about her. She had shared his ideals once, shared his goal once, but she had changed. Her heart was no longer with him, and she had forgotten his belief: Fu Chang Fu Sui—the husband sings, and the wife accompanies. The key to a healthy, balanced marriage.
What about your career? she had asked. If the ambassador heard of his potential confrontation with Eichmann, he could well expect an entry of demerit on his profile. He hoped it wouldn’t get to that, but if that was what it took to save a life, then it was inevitable.
He passed jewelry stores with glittery glass windows, a fashion boutique, and a small shop selling furs and stockings, all with new shop names and fluttering swastika flags. Near the snowy slopes of a park, people were sledding, children playing on their toboggans. A child, his face red, crashed near his feet. He was about to help when the boy sprang up and spat at him. “Foreigner!” he shouted, and ran away.
Fengshan would never have dreamed of hostility from a child in Vienna three years ago. Vienna, a city of culture, decorum, and tradition, had changed.
He arrived at the Hotel Sacher, the majestic building that he had visited several times with Captain Heine and other diplomats. Snow was plowed and piled on the sidewalk, where many Mercedes and Adlers were parked, and there were no signs of turmoil inside the hotel. He showed the guard at the hotel his identification card and entered the lobby.
Miss Schnitzler was not in the lobby.
He had arrived on time.
He thought to go to the room that she had written. 1004. But the hallway was crowded with cleaning maids. He went to the lounge near the lobby to sort out his thoughts. How would Miss Schnitzler, a Jewess, banned from the hotel, approach Eichmann in this place? The moment she appeared, she would be identified, and he would like to intercept her before she got caught.
The lounge was crowded with SS officials and their female companions dressed in tasseled golden dresses, their wrists flashing gold and silver. A soft Italian overture was playing, the same type of elegant tune he had heard each time he came here. But he couldn’t help thinking the hotel, with the same rich red drapery, wood paneling, and golden chandelier, looked severe and joyless, like a military club for Nazi officials.
He went to a table on the right and sat; a few officers nearby turned in his direction and smoked furiously.
Fengshan took the newspaper from the rack behind him and tried to read. Before the Anschluss, the Hotel Sacher had been a haunt for aristocrats and diplomats, but now he felt outnumbered.
“Herr Consul General.”
He looked up.
That sly smile. Here he was, the murderer of a Jewish waiter, the self-proclaimed genius who designed the plan to rob the wealth of many Jews and expel them from their homes, the enemy of his dear friend Captain Heine, the ruthless plotter of the Nisko camp, the relentless lout who had demolished his consulate and sought to destroy his career, the Nazi who had caused Grace’s miscarriage and their incalculable loss.
And he was alive, standing, a blonde woman on his arm. “Herr Eichmann.”
The Nazi looked decorated, with golden pins and medals of Hauptsturmführer on his uniform, his eyes probing, calculating; it seemed to Fengshan that he was always seeking innovative ideas to torment people.
“Such a pleasure to see you in the hotel, Herr Consul General. Are you here to meet someone?”