Night Angels(14)

He shrugged.

“Now, what are you doing with the refrigerator, Monto?”

“Packing my lunch.”

“I made you a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich.” The recipe was decades old, originating in Boston, I was told, and I grew up eating that.

“I hate the American sandwich.” He stuffed some strudels into his bag.

“But your father said not to eat apple strudels for lunch.”

“I can pack my own lunch!” He stormed out.

I might call Monto my son, but, sadly, he would never be mine.



In the lobby, the staff were working at their desks: a Chinese man, Vice Consul Zhou, and an Austrian woman, Frau Maxa, who had been working for the Chinese legation. In the sitting area near the elevator idled some passport applicants. Since my arrival in Vienna, I had only seen a few Chinese men in that area. Most of the time, it remained empty.

Vice Consul Zhou looked up from his desk as I passed him. Fengshan often said that the Austrians were uptight and proud, but Chinese men were no different. Rarely smiling, Vice Consul Zhou was a severe and peculiar man with long nails on his pinkies. Each of those nails was at least an inch long, and he used them as a head-scratcher and a line pacer when he read newspapers and documents. His gaze was friendly and respectful, but I had the nagging feeling that he talked about me behind my back. She’s the wife of a Chinese consul general, but she can barely speak Chinese! My inability to speak German had made me an outsider in Fengshan’s circle, and my limited vocabulary of Chinese had made me a stranger to the staff in the consulate.

“Good morning, Mrs. Consul General.” The Austrian woman in her fifties, Frau Maxa, was organizing a stack of manila folders. She was a typist, a woman with a dour face; she spoke English with a German accent, like Lola, but heavier.

I was glad she didn’t ask any questions. I stopped at the main desk and picked up thick envelopes and gilded cards so Fengshan could go through them later and inform me of my obligation. There really wasn’t much for me to do, useless as I was, but as Fengshan’s wife, I was expected to attend luncheons and banquets. Looking at the mail, I wished that the consulate had enough financial support to hire me an assistant who could help translate. Someone like Lola.

Mail in hand, I walked into Fengshan’s office. He was on the phone, speaking English, looking distressed. It seemed that he was trying to get ahold of Mr. Wiley, the American consul general, but was deterred.

When Fengshan finally put down the phone, he collapsed in his seat, rubbing his forehead. “I’m at my wit’s end. I have a few urgent matters in desperate need of consultation with the consul general, but he’s been in a meeting all morning and is not available to answer my calls.”

I put the mail near the cigar humidor on his desk—so enormous, the box, it was large enough to hold ten volumes of Dickinson and heavy, a challenge for me to lift with two hands. Masterfully handcrafted, made of Spanish cedar with fine grain patterns, it was one of many gifts Fengshan had received—he might be a diplomat from a country with little influence, but he was beloved by many professionals in Vienna.

“Does Mr. Wiley know I was arrested by the Nazis?”

He looked at me. “I hope not. Your arrest is an embarrassment. For the sake of the consulate’s image, it needs to stay private.”

“Well . . . You’re right . . . Maybe it’s best he won’t know . . .” I had met the consul general twice and had talked to his wife at a party. I had been eager to make friends with her, but she wasn’t American, as it turned out, but a Polish woman who spoke a few languages, at least ten years older than me and an established sculptor. We had nothing in common, and it was a disaster. I rambled on about the solitary life in the city, and she stared at me like I was a child and told me to get a hobby.

“If only I could find an excuse to reach Mr. Wiley. A good excuse to pique his interest. What’s the matter, Grace?”

“Nothing . . . Never mind.” Fengshan rarely discussed politics or asked for my opinion, and that was fine with me.

“Grace, what is it?”

“Well, I was thinking, my love, I’m an American citizen, so if you tell Mr. Wiley of my arrest, he might be concerned.”

His face lit up. “Grace, that is an excellent excuse indeed. Mr. Wiley needs to know about your arrest. He has a responsibility to protect you.”

Fengshan dialed the American consulate’s phone number again, identified himself, and asked to speak to the secretary of Mr. Wiley. Then he explained that I had been detained at the Headquarters last night and asked to speak personally to the consul general. For a long moment, he held the phone and listened; when he hung up, he smiled broadly. “Grace. I have an appointment with Mr. Wiley. He cares about your safety and would like to meet me.”

“That’s good news.”

“Excellent news indeed.”

“When will you meet him?”

“Tomorrow. You came in the nick of time and gave me an excellent suggestion, Grace. I had been calling the American consulate for hours in vain.” He was in a good mood.

I threaded my arms around his neck. “Well, I have something to ask you. The Viennese girl . . . Lola . . . I promised I wouldn’t hire her as a tutor. It’s just . . . It was late at night, and she was alone. She might have lost her way or gotten arrested again. Anything could happen to her. I want to know if she’s safe. Would you object if I call her?”