Night Angels(18)

In the coffeehouse, Lola was already waiting, wearing the same full-length green dirndl dress and a pair of leather pumps with low heels, sitting by the window. Her eyes had the glow that she had in the dungeon, warm and compassionate, and her face, lightly powdered to cover the bruising, was friendly, a face to talk to, to ask directions on the street, and to sip coffee with.

I wove through the round tables covered with white cloth and two red velvet couches—a cluster of men in brown shirts and armbands with swastikas were sitting there, their gazes penetrating. I averted my eyes.

“Grü? Gott, Miss Lee.” Lola stood as I approached.

“Ah . . . grü? . . . I thought it was guten . . . Tag?” I stammered, sitting across from her. When I came to the coffeehouse last time, I had stood at the counter, panicking, trying to decipher a long list of drinks written on a board. Who would know the great city that prided itself on its coffee had a menu as long as my stocking but did not contain a single word that looked like coffee? In the end, I pointed at the shortest German word on the board and received a black drink that tasted like whiskey.

“That’s a German tradition. We Austrians say grü? Gott.”

“Ah. I didn’t know that.”

“You’ll know, given time.”

I smiled but was unsure what to say next. Should I bring up tutoring and let her know that I couldn’t hire her? Should I say good morning? But I’d already said that.

“I’m so glad to see you again, Miss Lee. I wish to tell you how thankful I am that you helped release me from the Headquarters.”

She leaned toward me, her green eyes the shade of spring in the Stadtpark, and her dark hair a lush braid. Her manner was smooth, like cream pouring into the coffee. How did she cultivate such a manner, I wondered. But perhaps finesse had nothing to do with the practice. Some people were born with it.

“It wasn’t me; it was my husband, Fr?ulein Schnitzel.”

“Please convey my deepest gratitude to your husband. And it’s Schnitzler.”

“Oh, right. You said you were related to an author.”

She laughed. “You’re funny, Miss Lee. But please, call me Lola. I’ll be honored if you consider me your friend.”

A friend, after all these years. “Will you call me Grace, then?”

“It’ll be my pleasure, Grace. Thank you for coming to meet me. Did you have trouble finding this place?”

A man’s harsh voice screeched beside me just as I was about to answer. I glanced around, surprised. I rarely saw Austrian men behave poorly in public, but these Brownshirts could use some etiquette lessons from a footman. They were young, or maybe they weren’t—I could never tell the age of the Austrian men, camouflaged with beards and mustaches.

I focused back on our conversation. “I’ve been here before. I was almost lost on the street.”

“If you get lost again, take a taxi to your consulate.”

“I don’t know how to speak German.”

She turned to the newspaper rack behind her, tore a piece, and jotted down something. “Here. The consulate’s address in German. When you take a taxi, you give this to the driver.”

Lola was helpful. I thanked her and tucked the slip into my handbag. But the men around me were growing rowdy; some had their gazes fixated on Lola—those were not friendly gazes.

“Ignore them. The times are strange, but as we Austrians often say, the situation is helpless but not entirely serious.” Lola held a menu, ready to order coffee.

“Well . . .”

“Our country has gone through some violent times, Grace. When Chancellor Dollfuss was assassinated four years ago, many of us feared the National Socialists would take over the government, but the party’s leaders were executed, and Schuschnigg was elected. Now he’s been arrested, and the National Socialists have seized power. But they won’t be in charge forever. Vienna will always be Vienna.”

The ease, the confidence in her tone. There was no reason not to trust her. “They have thick beards.” So thick they could hide an entire brood of birds from Dickinson’s household.

“Don’t be intimidated by those beards. It’s a Viennese thing. The Austrian men have a love affair with music and facial hair.”

I laughed. I hadn’t laughed like that since I left Chicago. And it felt good. I was thinking about what to say when suddenly the window near me exploded. A loud crash burst in my ears; instinctively, I slipped below the round table. A shower of cold shards rained on my head and neck. I shrieked.

“Grace, Grace? Are you hurt?” Lola’s voice came a moment later.

I pulled myself up, my knees weak. “I’m fine . . . What’s going on? What happened, Lola? Oh my God. What happened to you?”

Blood gushed on Lola’s face; a shard had cut deep in her cheek, just below her left eye. Half an inch higher, it would have pierced her eye. “Someone hit me with a coffee cup. It struck the window.”

I turned around. The Brownshirts were pointing at me, blustering in German. My brain froze.

“Let’s get out of here, Grace.”

I tried to walk but bumped into a table. A cup fell, splashing my wrist with black coffee. Lola turned around, grabbed my arm, and prodded me along. When we finally made it out of the door, all I could see were the cars driving by and the pedestrians with curious looks. I should have listened to Fengshan. First, the arrest in a park and now an assault in the coffeehouse. Was it me? Or Lola? Or Vienna?