Night Angels(17)

“They gave me a good beating for sitting on that bench. I fear my old bones cannot take it anymore.”

Fengshan glanced at the file of Brownshirts. The metal handle of his briefcase, cold, was cutting his hand. Grace, and now Mr. Rosenburg. “I was only made aware of the change of the law recently, Mr. Rosenburg.”

“There are so many laws that target Jews. It’s understandable that the foreign diplomats are not privy to this legislation.” His friend sighed; in his grave voice, he recounted the recent happenings in the city. Since the Anschluss, all Jewish attorneys and judges had been removed from the city’s court. All cases against Jews were dismissed without a trial, and the Jews were incriminated simply because of who they were. A few days ago, he was told some of his friends were visited by two SS men who had demanded they “donate” their savings in bank accounts to the government. Today, he’d been paid a visit by these men, who made the same demands. He refused, stating his accounts were protected by the Austrian court. They held him at gunpoint, escorted him to the court, and had the judge, a former friend of his, sign to grant the SS men access to his bank accounts. So in this way, they legally robbed his money.

Fengshan was at a loss as to how to reply. In China, a homogeneous country, racial tension was hardly an issue, but he was familiar with suffering and strife stemming from politics. The rise of one party always meant the bloodshed of the innocent. During one of the conflicts between the Nationalists and the Communists at home, one of his friends had been tried by a mob and murdered at their demand, and Fengshan himself had nearly died at the hands of the gang who demanded his death.

Mr. Rosenburg gazed at the grand building guarded by the Brownshirts. “Yesterday, I was still a wealthy man, and today I’m out of a job, poor. My career in Vienna is over, and even my own survival, my family’s survival, is in question.”

Devastated, Fengshan had an urge to have a cigar. What could he do for his friend? He was a diplomat of another country; he couldn’t give back his friend his job or assets, or protection, or justice. “Do you need a place to stay, Mr. Rosenburg?”

“I’m staying at my in-laws’ apartment with my family, Dr. Ho. But I’m afraid it’s temporary. They have also accused me of actively destroying Austria throughout my career, forced me to sign a confession, and ordered me to disappear.”

“Disappear?”

“To permanently leave Vienna. Under the order of Adolf Eichmann, the Devil’s Deputy.”

The lizard man at the Headquarters. He had mentioned he was assigned to the city to take care of the Jewish problem, Fengshan recalled.

“The man ordered me to emigrate, or he’d send me to the Dachau camp if I continue to stay in Vienna.”

“Dachau camp?”

“A labor camp for prisoners. I’m afraid you won’t read it in the newspaper.”

Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined this would happen to his dear friend: robbed of all his wealth and properties and threatened with forced labor. “You can’t go to a prison camp. Where would you like to immigrate to?”

“Palestine, England, or America. I’m planning on applying for visas in these countries’ consulates tomorrow.”

There had been many embassies in Vienna, but the prominent countries, such as Great Britain and France, had closed them after the Anschluss. Palestine was a natural choice for Jews, and America was a desirable destination. Fengshan had not received any visa applications in his consulate, other than the clandestine request from the first secretary of the Soviet legation. But that was to be expected. China, a country on the far side of the world, a country with poor commerce and ravaged by war, was hardly an ideal home for the wealthy Viennese.

Besides, China didn’t have an immigration policy. Even if the Viennese applied to immigrate to China, Fengshan would need approval from his superior. But Ambassador Chen, in the midst of securing a loan from the League of Nations, would not be distracted to consider such an impractical policy, and as a subordinate, he was bound to obey the ambassador’s order.

“I’d better start working, Dr. Ho. The Devil’s Deputy gave me two months to find visas.” Mr. Rosenburg struggled to hoist himself up but faltered.

Fengshan extended his hand and held his friend firmly—the least he could do.

Two months, or his friend would be sent to the Dachau camp.





CHAPTER 8


GRACE


The next day, I talked to Fengshan briefly—he seemed preoccupied, contemplative, smoking his cigar, but asked whether I’d like to join him in the meeting with Mr. Wiley. I shook my head and slipped out of the consulate, glad he didn’t ask where I was going.

Walking down the quiet Beethovenplatz, I reached the Stadtpark, then turned left, heading toward Café Caché, a coffeehouse sandwiched between a tailor shop flaunting a row of tall mannequins clad in mauve, lilac, and turquoise gowns and a boutique watch store with wall-to-wall clocks: pocket watches with gold chains, wristwatches with duo-dial formats, watches in silver cases and golden boxes. I had never dreamed of these luxuries, growing up happy with a torn piece of warm bread Mother slipped in my hands. A diplomat’s wife now, for the sake of Fengshan’s country’s image, I routinely put on a pearl necklace or a tailored evening gown or a Rolex Oyster steel watch, yet I would have gladly traded all the pastel colors of summer and all the finery of Vienna for the warm smile of a friend.