Night Angels(41)

Mother was like a precious bracelet I wanted to have close to my skin but was afraid to wear. But it didn’t have to be this way. She loved me; she loved me. It had to be so, and I wanted to believe that.

“There you are, Grace.”

Fengshan came in and went to the bookcases full of encyclopedias, chronicles, and books about world relationships. He looked like he was searching for something, scrutinizing. He shook his head and studied the other bookcase where leather-bound books were carefully arranged: geography, religion, history, and culture; near them were manila folders and envelopes, all were sorted in alphabetic order. Stacks of newspapers, in which he immersed himself on Saturday afternoons, were set on a cart near the door.

I turned off the radio. Fengshan was different from Mother; he was constant and forgiving and determined. He was a genius with a photographic memory, and his mind was like a book with clear-cut edges and pages of erudition. He had picked me out and given me his hand, even though I was ordinary, my mind a river of random thoughts without border or clarity.

He turned away from the bookcases and rummaged for something in the drawer. “Have you eaten your lunch, Grace?”

How Chinese he was! Always asking if I had eaten, a common greeting in his hometown, where people often went an entire day without food and many were starving because of poverty. So asking about eating was not only a courtesy but also a show of care. I had been embarrassed at first, and he had said I was too American.

“I think so.”

He took out an envelope inscribed in German. “Are you going to get dressed, Grace? We have an hour before the party.”

“Where are we going?”

“Adolf Eichmann’s celebration party. I thought I had told you a few weeks ago. He’s now the chief of the Central Office for Jewish Emigration.”

“Who?”

“The officer who released you at the Headquarters in May.”

“I can’t remember. I have a headache.”

He put the envelope back in the drawer. “That might be for the best. Your presence shouldn’t be required. Eichmann will recognize you.”

He looked rather stressed, apprehensive. I changed my mind and threaded my arms around him. “It looks like you have to go. Then I’ll go with you.”





CHAPTER 24


FENGSHAN


The party was held on the fifth floor in a mansion near the Burggarten. Fengshan, with Grace in the nook of his arm, walked into the building, decorated with many swastika standards. He had not forgotten the sly nature of Eichmann since their first encounter, and now that Captain Heine had revealed Eichmann’s sadistic reputation and influence over Mr. Wiley’s departure, he was even warier. But he was a diplomat; playing by the rules of courtesy was part of his job. In no circumstances would he act out of line to decline the invitation and endanger his country’s image or his career. With Mr. Wiley’s departure, however, he had occasionally entertained the thought that perhaps it would be wise to take a step back and assess the situation before diving into further visa issuance.

Out of the elevator, he went to the table, where many cards, boxes of gifts, roses, irises, and wines were set, and put down his gift, a terra-cotta statue wrapped in red silk. On a stand near the table were articles about Eichmann published in Der Stürmer, duplicated and arranged in a framed collage to show the man’s rising fame.

The ballroom was crowded with old gentlemen holding meerschaum pipes, middle-aged men in uniforms, and young fellows in suits decorated with pins and medals. A full orchestra played in a chamber nearby, and waiters in bow ties and tuxedos flowed around, carrying trays of drinks. This would be another typical Viennese party, marked by decadence, and the expense for the evening’s food and drink could easily reach thousands of reichsmarks, enough to feed an entire village in China for six months. He felt guilty, dining on the fine foods and drinking champagne while his countrymen lived in hunger and hid from bombs. If he were not concerned about protocol, he would leave early. This would be a long evening.

He searched for Eichmann among the mass of people—German officials, Czechoslovakian diplomats, Hungarian men, influential industrialists, traditional Austrian noblemen in Tyrolean hats and feathers, and even a few faces with dark complexions who appeared to be from South America or some far-off islands.

“Don’t leave me alone. I don’t want to be here all by myself,” Grace whispered.

Fengshan took two champagne flutes from a waiter and gave one to her. “Did you see Captain Heine?”

“No. Are you expecting him?” She was wearing a pair of satin gloves and a shimmering evening gown, which showed her slender figure and complemented her feminine curves. Her hair was piled up, a small pillbox teased on the top, and her earrings glittered. She looked elegant, like a portrait by Joseph Wright of Derby. He was fortunate to have her as his wife.

“Well, he said he’d attend.”

“Maybe he’ll show up soon. Well, maybe I should try to socialize on my own. You go ahead and talk to your friends.”

“Are you sure?” When Grace was alone at a social engagement, her favorite destination at any venue was the bathroom.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll let you know when I see Captain Heine.” The champagne flute in her hand, she turned around, still with a shy, uncomfortable look on her face, despite her brave words.