Night Angels(29)

“Would you read it, Lola? What does it say? Fengshan said the international community would unite and provide protection to the Viennese. A discussion about immigration policy is on the agenda. Can you read it?”

Lola held the newspaper with two hands as if it were sacred scripture. “I haven’t read a newspaper for weeks. I never thought there would be good news. Yes, it does mention a proposal about the refugee program.”

“This is good news! Great news! You can immigrate to another country!”

“If that’s the only option.”

“You would leave Vienna, then, Lola?”

She put down the newspaper. For a moment, she didn’t speak, but the scar under her eye twitched, and then she looked at me. “If Josef leaves, we’ll all leave, Grace. And he’s right. We’ll never get the old Vienna back. If I can, I’ll apply for visas for all of us.”

“When will the conference announce their decision, Lola?” Mrs. Schnitzler asked.

“In one week, Mutter.”

I put my hand on Lola’s arm. “One week, Lola. Tell your brother. How is he?”

“They won’t allow me to see him. They’re torturing him!”

Mrs. Schnitzler, in tears, turned her head away; near the sewing machine, Eva was watching us with her mother.

I squeezed out a smile. “Thirty-two countries! The world won’t watch people suffer and do nothing, Lola.”

“I just want Josef back.”

“He’ll come home, Lola.”

She rolled up the newspaper; for the first time in a month, she smiled, and Mrs. Schnitzler prayed, “God is not silent.” The light of relief radiated from their eyes to their lips to their toes.





CHAPTER 15


FENGSHAN


In his office, Fengshan spread his hands on the desk and dropped his head. He could hardly believe what he had read in the newspaper. Each word appeared dark, smoked, like burnt skin.

The meeting of thirty-two countries had finally concluded.

The representatives from the US, the leader that had organized the conference and voiced its concerns about Germany’s treatment of the Jews, argued that its quota, set in 1924, was already full this year. They declined to amend the quota on the grounds of the US Johnson-Reed Act; they expounded that the US had just suffered the Great Depression, and the American citizens didn’t want competition from the immigrants who would take away their jobs.

The British assumed the same stance and added that their country was too crowded to accept immigrants. With these two leading countries refusing to take action, other countries echoed similar concerns. Australia closed its doors to immigrants; Canada expressed their regrets, and other nations maintained that accepting refugees would create a burden for their citizens and hardships for their economies.

There was no motion to sanction the German government that viciously attacked their own citizens and illegally terminated thousands of people’s jobs and robbed their wealth.

There was no proposal to protect the Jews who were left homeless, destitute, and with a bleak future. No protection, no justice, no shelter for his friend and people who were like him.

Thirty-two countries, including the USA, Britain, and France, had failed in their humanitarian mission.

Fengshan lit a cigar and smoked furiously. Mr. Wiley had appeared so righteous and confident regarding the conference, but his promise proved empty. And if the countries in the League reneged on their pledges and showed little concern for Jews, the famous and the wealthy, the intrinsic part of Europe, why would they care for the fate of China, a distant, poor, disadvantaged country in Asia? The Nazis couldn’t be trusted, and neither could leaders such as Chamberlain, Daladier, or even Roosevelt. It was a dangerous dream for China to rely on those countries to end the war in his homeland.

Fengshan thought of Mr. Rosenburg, who must have heard the news by now. It was likely he had received his visa and prepared to depart, but still, he would like to check on his friend.



As his car drove down Beethovenplatz, Fengshan looked out the window. Summer was blooming. Vibrant flowers in florists’ carts adorned the cobblestone streets, shafts of light shone on the ivory buildings, and pedestrians in pink straw hats and gray summer suits strolled by the statues of Beethoven and Mozart. The classic buildings, the artful decorations, the lush foliage, and colorful flowers exuded a sense of privilege and sophistication, a saturated feeling of a city brimming with luxury, yet it was also evident that the beguiling beauty belied the control and discipline that was typical of Vienna.

There was an accident on the Ringstrasse, blocking traffic; Rudolf decided to take a detour.

Near the intersection, his car stopped again. Fengshan rolled down the window. Ahead of his vehicle, a long line had formed, extending from the street’s corner to the avenue that led to the American consulate a few blocks away. Many people in line were holding bags; beneath their hats, their faces were sweaty, anxious. It was obvious why these people came to the American consulate, but he had not imagined there would be so many Viennese applying for visas.

“Dr. Ho, Dr. Ho!” a voice called out.

“Mr. Rosenburg! How are you doing? What are you doing here? I thought you already received your visa.” He got out of his car and went to his friend in the line.

His friend was still wearing his blue Savile Row suit, now rumpled and stained. He tucked his bag under his arm and drooped his head. “I’m afraid this has been a long quest, Dr. Ho. I’ve been applying for visas since we talked in May. I went to the Palestinian consulate, but I was told the British mandate restricts immigration to Palestine, and to apply for that visa, I must receive written approval from the British embassy. But the embassy in Vienna had been closed, so I traveled to the British embassy in Berlin, only to discover that the embassy processed visas every Tuesday for a few hours. I was there for three weeks. Then I had to leave empty-handed. There were many people ahead of me. I would never get my turn.”