Night Angels(52)

He opened his eyes, forcing himself to be the witness to the evil of the night, to remember the heinous crimes, to etch in his brain the faces of the mob that belonged to the human race.

People. So many people. Their faces twisted with menace, their legs spread wide, their arms flung high, their mouths dark caverns of depravity. They were shrieking with delight, their laughter roaring above the exploding windows, above the sound of clothes ripping, above the heart-wrenching pleading and screaming, and God help him—he was inside the safety of his car, but he could smell the choking fumes mixed with the acrid odor of burnt fur and leather and the sickening scents of torched hair and flesh.

“They set the shul on fire! The shul!” A woman’s voice, shrill, unbearable.

And he saw it. Amid the darkness, the sickening smoke, the cloud of detritus and dust, a blaze, red, blistering, shot out of a building with a single arch, above which quavered a star, the star his friend Rosenburg had worn around his neck and kissed and prayed to.

When a house of God was set on fire, what else could not be destroyed?

Tears flowed down his cheeks.





CHAPTER 32


GRACE


Near dawn, Fengshan came to fetch me.

Lola was dozing off, frowning, her head on my shoulder. For the entire night, she had fallen into a trance, barely said a word, only stared. Her wine-red dirndl dress was stained with blood, her hair disheveled. Her feet were bare, the toes pale like rain-soaked pebbles.

Whenever a car drove by outside and the sound of its wheels grinding the pavement rolled in the air, she jolted. “Mutter!”

I held her; I held her tight. The mundane sound would torment her for the rest of her life. Each time the grinding wheels rang in her ears, she would relive the horror of losing her mother.

Sometime after midnight, I discovered Eva hidden inside a suitcase behind a curtain. She had hid there when the Gestapo came to search the apartment. While her mother was taken—I understood, from Lola’s murmur, that Sara’s deformed hand, a mark of imperfection, had made her a victim—and Mrs. Schnitzler was killed, Eva had stayed in a suitcase the whole time, and refused to leave the space. “Ich will nicht nach drau?en, Tante Grace,” she said.

When I opened the door for Fengshan, I had to lean on him—I could barely stand, and my legs were numb. Outside, there was the blood-splattered street, the strewn hats and scarves and shoes, the other apartments’ open doors and smashed windows.

As the car slowly drove down the street, I heard the wailing sirens of police cars and fire trucks. Nearby, a building was still ablaze; through thick fumes and smoke, I could see the fire brigade and police cars parked on the street. Batons in hand, they were blocking anyone who held buckets of water, ensuring the fire would consume the entire building.



In my bedroom, I dropped onto my bed. I had never realized my stuffy bedroom where I had wept and slept, which I had thought was a corner of exile, was such a lovely place. How laughable I had been—wallowing in boredom. This bedroom, with its golden tapestry and ornate Baroque bed and couch, its quiet solitude, and its familiar scent of Fengshan’s cigar and cologne, was a sanctuary, a bower of solace. If only Lola had the same luxury.

She must leave Vienna. And she must leave as soon as possible and take Eva with her. Since her train tickets had expired, she would need to purchase new tickets. But I couldn’t remember when her ocean liner would sail from Italy to Shanghai.

I was about to fall asleep when I heard a loud trickling in the bathroom. But, tired as I was, I had trouble getting up from bed. “My love?”

No reply.

I turned around. Through the gap of the bathroom’s open doors, Fengshan was standing by the sink, his back straight, a towel pressed onto his face, his shoulders shaking violently. And then he released a low howl that I had never heard from him before. My stoic diplomat husband; for the entire evening, he had remained unflappable, swift and resolute, and now he was wailing like a child.



When I awoke, it was late afternoon. I changed my clothes, put on my gloves and scarf, and rushed downstairs. The lobby was quiet, empty, with no visa applicants, only Frau Maxa and the vice consul at their desks. The order of house arrest had been rescinded, and Fengshan, who had received word that Mr. Rosenburg was able to take the train, had gone to see him off at the train station, Frau Maxa said. Without the consulate’s car, I would need to take a tram to Lola’s apartment. I walked quickly down the street, holding the scarf to my nose to keep out the heavy smoke. At the tram station, I was disappointed to see a sign saying there were no taxis or trams in service today.

In the consulate, I took a selection of newspapers and the mail and went to the dining room. Monto was eating alone, looking at a stack of papers with signatures.

“Monto, could you read these for me?” I set the newspapers in front of him.

“Read them yourself.”

“You know I can’t.”

He cleared his throat, and in his innocent, childish voice, he read, “‘Justice is served! Six thousand Jewish men were rightly apprehended and sent to Mauthausen. The owners whose shops were damaged must repair them at their own cost. All their insurance compensations will be justly transferred to the Third Reich. Have no fear! Ongoing arrests of the Jewish criminals and’ . . . I don’t know this word . . . ‘are underway to ensure the safety of the German people!’”