Night Angels(28)

“Yes?” Fengshan put down the newspaper. They had just finished lunch, and Monto was doing his homework at the table. Grace, dressed in a pink gown with lace, looked very attractive. Her cheeks, which used to be pale, seemed to have filled out, and her expressive black eyes sparkled with light. It occurred to him she had been busy in and out of the consulate, and he hadn’t seen her in his office lately. “What have you been up to, Grace?”

She glanced at Monto and sat across from him. “What do you mean?”

He touched her face. Grace looked different. The sleepiness, the distraction that had veiled her, had slipped off. “Are you all right? What pills are you taking, Grace?”

“I’m not taking any pills.”

“You look good, Grace.”

“Well, my love, I’d like to talk to you about Lola’s brother.”

Lola. Not Miss Schnitzler. “You said she was attacked. How’s she doing?”

“That was more than a month ago. She received twelve stitches on her face, and I visited her a few times.”

That explained why he hadn’t seen her lately. He had mixed feelings about the visits. But his wife was a grown woman.

“My love, this is about her brother, a pharmacist and an honest Viennese. He was arrested and imprisoned at the Headquarters. Lola has been working hard for his freedom, and she was told that for them to release her brother, he needed a visa to prove he intended to leave the country.”

More harassment. The ?vian Conference was the only hope for the Viennese Jews. The world’s leading nations must hold the Third Reich accountable by pressuring or imposing sanctions; alternatively, the thirty-two nations must provide humanitarian support by allowing Jews’ mass migration out of Vienna.

“Who’s arrested?” Monto asked, pencil in his mouth.

“Do your homework, Monto. I’m not sure what I can do, Grace.”

“Could you issue him a visa?”

“Grace, you asked that before, and I reiterate, China doesn’t have an immigration policy.”

“Could you talk to the policemen at the Headquarters and ask for his release?”

He sighed. “I wish I could. The ambassador instructs me to stay away from Vienna’s domestic controversies. It is not my intention to conflict with his order.”

“Please. You released Lola and me.”

“Were you arrested, Grace? When?” Monto asked.

“Do your homework, Monto,” Grace said.

“That’s different. Besides, have you read this? The ?vian Conference is in session. Thirty-two countries of the world will discuss the possibility of sanctions against Germany and extending a refugee program to the Viennese Jews. They’ll receive support and assistance from thirty-two countries, Grace.”

She picked up the newspaper, even though she couldn’t read it. “When will the conference conclude?”

“In a week.”

“And what will they propose to the Viennese like Lola?”

“Visas to other countries, property protections, humanitarian support—anything is possible. Have you checked Monto’s homework?”

“I can do it myself, Father.” Monto glanced at him and then Grace.

“He can do it himself, my love.” She dashed out with the newspaper in her hand, and before he could ask where she was going, she was gone.





CHAPTER 14


GRACE


A piece of good news. I couldn’t wait to share it with Lola. The German newspaper in my handbag, I went to Lola’s apartment. I trusted Fengshan. If he said thirty-two countries were discussing strategies to protect Jews, then there was no reason for doubt.

Monto had appeared curious enough, polite even. I wished I had remembered to ask him about his friends at school or the signatures he collected. Monto and I had not started off well. His mother, Fengshan’s first wife, had died when he was a toddler, years before I met Fengshan. When I arrived in Fengshan’s hometown from Chicago, Monto was shocked to see that his father had left China as a widower and returned as a newlywed. At our celebration dinner, he, a seven-year-old, had cried during the entire meal.

I thought he was grieving—I must be a poor replacement for his mother, so I tried to do my best, but Monto only spoke the Hunan dialect, and I only English. At twenty-one years old, as someone who still had nightmares of being choked by an alcoholic mother, I didn’t know how to play the role of a parent, and resources were limited in the inland town—no strollers, no swing sets, no playgrounds. I let Monto feed himself with chopsticks, I walked with him, and when he had a nightmare and crawled into our bed, I told him to sleep in his room.

Fengshan’s relatives clucked their tongues at me for doing it all wrong. A good parent, I was told, would hold a boy in their arms at all times and feed him with a spoon, and under no circumstance should I kick a boy having nightmares out of my bed.

In Istanbul, without the relatives’ pointing fingers and prying eyes, I found it easier to talk to Monto, and Monto, who shunned his old Turkish nanny, found me to be a rather acceptable alternative. His English also improved with a tutor, so our conversation was no longer riddled with guesses. But in Vienna, where Monto started German, he was perfectly capable of doing things on his own.



In Lola’s apartment, stifling with summer heat, I spread the newspaper in front of them. Lola leaned over, frowning, beads of sweat on her forehead, her lips tightly pursed. She looked exhausted. The month of begging for favors, facing the SS men, and worrying about her brother had drained her energy.