Night Angels(23)

She had said she was only making a phone call. “This is devastating. But I wish you had told me you were going to meet her.” Mr. Rosenburg, and now Grace’s tutor. Waves of atrocity kept coming.

“Well, I meant to, but I forgot. It’s just . . . I’m a half-breed too. Does it mean they’d refuse my treatment in a hospital?” She paced, biting her nails.

“I doubt that. You’re an American. Not Jewish. Hitler’s policy seems to aim at the Jews only.”

“It doesn’t make sense . . .”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “Austria is like China, Grace. Both countries were ruled by dynasties and transformed into nascent republics with hopes and hustles. Now China struggles under the invasion of a foreign power, and Austria faces a demon of its own. It is an unsettling time for the people. Your friend—I hope she’ll get the treatment she needs.”

Grace nodded, then shook her head, but she didn’t speak.

“Have you seen Monto? Did he come back from school yet?”

She didn’t seem to hear him; on her face was that distracted look, as if she were drawn to something distant. Then she blinked, her eyes gazing at a row of gifts he’d received—a statue of St. Catherine carved in walnut, a limewood figurine of an angel, and a Bible—and then a set of boxes containing clay soldiers he had brought from China.

“Grace?”

She turned to him, and on her face emerged an expression that he had never seen before. “Do you know Lola’s address, my love?”

“Frau Maxa should have it. She has the list of all the tutors Mr. Rosenburg recommended to you. Why do you wish to know?”

“I would like to visit Lola.”

“Are you saying that she invited you?”

“No.”

“Dropping into people’s homes without an invitation is quite improper. You know well the etiquette in this country, Grace. Austrians observe the custom of appointments before visits.”

“Are you talking about—what is that thing called? Part of the etiquette, I remember. Like a note.” She gestured, thinking, trying to unearth the part of memory that she often seemed to have trouble with.

“A visiting card?”

“That’s it. You have some, don’t you? Can I borrow yours?”

He frowned. “My card has my title and the consulate’s address. It’s unsuitable for your social call.”

“All right. I’ll buy a blank note for myself. Could you write the message for me? In German?”

He seldom had the need to plead with Grace and remind her to be sensible. The memory of the Headquarters should still be fresh in her mind. “Grace. The situation in Vienna is delicate, let me reiterate. You must stay safe.”

She bit her nails, looking as though she was going to cry, and he was sure she would give in, slip into her meek prison.

“I’ll write it myself,” she said.





CHAPTER 10


LOLA


It was only a cut, but deeper and wider than I had thought, and the pain and humiliation were unbearable. It could have been worse. It could have struck Grace.

On the tram, ignoring the glares of the Brownshirts by the window, I turned my face away, thinking about where to find help. Finally, I decided to go to the family nurse who had known me since I was born—she was not a Jew. I got off the tram and knocked on her door. She looked startled and told me to go to the back of the house, so her neighbors wouldn’t see me. When she stitched up the gash, I thanked her profusely and left promptly. There was the law now that Jews were not allowed to be in physical contact with the non-Jews; shaking hands and hugs were prohibited.

Onkel Goethe, an avaricious man, the sly cousin of Vater, was in the family room again, a stout, domineering man standing in front of poor Mutter, Sara, and little Eva, her daughter. He stopped amid his diatribe and frowned and puffed as I stumbled through the door. Mutter looked worried to death.

“Lola, you’re covered with blood. Your face! What happened to you?”

Mutter was wiping my face, but it hurt! I swiped her hand away and did my best to explain what had happened. Now Mutter would be convinced that with a scar on my face, I would end up a spinster like her tante.

“You deserve this.” Onkel Goethe pointed at me. “The law is the law. They have the right to decline your treatment.”

I gritted my teeth, for I couldn’t open my mouth widely without tearing the stitches. And my face. It was hot, burning. But since when did being a Mischling mean falling through the cracks? Since when was having Jewish blood a crime? I wore my pendants, but it was not as if we paraded our Jewishness or went to Stadttempel Synagogue every week. In fact, we had never made an effort to observe the High Holidays or other Jewish traditions, and we ate schnitzel and pork; we drank beer on the Sabbath. We were certainly not like our neighbors, the devout Jews who wore kippahs and prayed in separate sections for men and women, but we were all Jews, and we were also Viennese.

“The law is stupid!” I was glad I was not born with a tied tongue. Sara was too modest to utter her opinions, and Josef was too righteous and polite to confront the elders—where was he now? Always at work or with his fiancée. He knew well that Onkel Goethe wielded his seniority like a weapon. Years ago, while Vater was alive, Onkel Goethe had put on an act, but for the past few years, he had bared himself, unleashing all his ugly nature. After the Anschluss, he had seen a perfect opportunity to rob us of what little we had—the fabric shop. This was his fifth trip.