Night Angels(44)

“I saw him.”

“Pardon?”

“Eichmann’s man pushed him off the balcony.”

“Pardon?”

“He was a Jew. Obviously, we all know that. Eichmann wouldn’t tolerate a Jew working at his celebration party.”

“How . . .” Fengshan swallowed. “If he was a Jew, why would he be allowed to work here?”

“They have their ways of blending in, but Eichmann must have found out.” The Polish consul put a chunk of cake in his mouth. “You have to agree that the Austrians make the best chocolate cake! Have you tried it?”

The elevator door opened; Fengshan entered it without answering the consul’s question. Then the elevator descended, squeaking and groaning, slow as a horse carriage, and Grace’s whispers rang in his ears like something from another world. His head pounded, a strange pain thundering in his brain. When he reached the ground floor, he stumbled outside.

In the dimness lit by the streetlamps, he couldn’t see anything on the ground. Then he heard voices speaking roughly in German and curses—“Such a mess.” He reached out for Grace’s arm but missed. His stomach wrenched, and a sourness surged in his mouth. He retched, trying to empty the few drops of champagne he had drunk.



In the car, he told Grace he would like to go to his church. It was closed, but he didn’t mind. He just wanted to see it, to remember the solidness of the cross that he had clutched in his hands when he was a hungry child, the strength that it had instilled in him, and the vision that it had revealed to him. When they arrived, he sat on a bench outside the church, his hat on his knees, gazing at the building, steady like a mountain, the streetlights casting a pale glow on the fanlights and the giant wooden doors. Across the street, the neon light on a cabaret flashed, and several youths wearing red robes and skirts were playing a game with daggers; near him, his Grace was soaked in silence.

He had arrived at the party with careful steps and sensible pragmatism, hoping to preserve the diplomatic relationship with Germany, yet that had only been wishful thinking. Eichmann had deliberately fabricated a scandal to defame his wife, to warn him, and to threaten him for helping the Viennese. And mercilessly, he had ordered the man to be thrown off a balcony, a man he was too glad to murder, disguising it as a suicide. Yet, some of his guests danced while the others ate their cake.

And this waiter, this nameless victim, was only one of the thousands of men in the city, hounded, unprotected, turned away by thirty-two countries. And there were still more on the streets, in their own homes, in the ballrooms, facing the danger of being beaten, slandered, arrested, or murdered.

Staring at the cross in front of him, he swore then that just as he would fight for his country’s survival, he would now fight for the survival of the defenseless, the unprotected. He resolved to stop the inhumanity from happening in front of his eyes, and he would do everything he could to save lives.





CHAPTER 25


GRACE


My husband worked in his office late that evening, making phone calls to his church friends, Jewish organizations, and even Frau Maxa. Let the word spread that the Chinese consulate was open to accepting visa applications, he said.

The next day, the lobby was full of people. Sitting in the large Baroque armchairs that had been occupied by the Chinese peddlers and students were people speaking German. They wore tall hats, long beards, and black caftans. Their manners were sophisticated, and their voices were soft. Vice Consul Zhou was busy, his face pink, stuttering in German, interviewing a man applying for visas for his twenty family members. Frau Maxa was handing out forms to a group of people who had just entered; then, speaking rapid German, she rushed to her desk to collect cash and write receipts.

Once people received their visas, they could apply for exit permits at the emigration center, like Lola, I realized. I wished I could help, but, unable to understand German, I stood in a corner. Soon I grew uncomfortable, with the applicants glancing at me curiously, so I decided to go upstairs.

As I passed through the lobby, I heard Monto asking Frau Maxa something. They were speaking German, and Frau Maxa responded with a swipe at his head—Austrian women seemed to know how to handle children.

“Excuse me?” I asked. Frau Maxa explained that Monto had been pestering her for a signature to predict her future. She was too busy, she said, with all these applicants waiting.

“Do you want my signature?” I asked Monto. A button was missing on his shirt, and there was a tear on his sleeve. He must have ripped his shirt playing on the playground. Or he had gotten in a fight at school. I could ask, but Monto’s mind was like a radio with a broken switch that I had no idea how to turn on.

He shrugged. “No one wants your signature, Grace.”

“Why are you not playing with your friend?” What is his friend’s name? He had mentioned him in the summer. Wallace? Wilson? Bobby? Willi!

“Not your business, Grace!”

I could feel the entire lobby looking at me—the insensitive, crude stepmother who didn’t know how to talk to her stepson. This felt worse than the humiliation last night when people had gawked at me after Eichmann claimed I was harassed. I lowered my head. I should go to the bathroom.

“What’s going on here?” Fengshan showed up.

“Nothing,” I said. Monto had skipped to the applicants near the elevator now. A strong-willed boy. I would never have had the courage to speak to Mother like that.