Night Angels(63)

She wore a black beanie, a long thick black woolen shawl, a long dirndl, and boots. A cloud of cold air puffed around her, her hair unkempt. She had aged, her eyes stagnant, her scar a long, curved claw. She looked like a homeless woman, and then I realized with sadness that indeed she was.

She was glad to see me, but for my safety, she said, I shouldn’t stay here for too long.

I didn’t know what to say. “There are guards outside the slums, Lola.”

She nodded. “They come every four hours.”

The way she said it, it was as though she were talking about neighbors visiting. “Are you a prisoner here?”

“More or less.”

“How could you leave this place?”

“An ocean-liner ticket that proves my intention of departure. Everyone is talking about the boats to Shanghai, but no one knows if the boats are sailing.”

I could look into that. “What happened last year? Why couldn’t you see Eva off?”

“The guards in the slums demanded a concert because it was the holiday season, and they wanted to have some festivity. The orchestra played for the entire evening. I couldn’t slip out. I never got to say goodbye to her, Grace.”

“I took her to the train station. She’s safe now, like you said. She’s in England.” I hoped; I really didn’t know.

Perhaps it was my tone. Lola broke down, crying. “Will I see her again?”

She’d said it herself: Who knew what would happen in the future? “Of course you will.”

“I wish she could stay. But there’s no future for her here in Vienna, Grace. She’s banned from school; her movements are restricted. I had to send her away. I have to fight for her life.” She wiped her tears.

I had wanted her to stay too, and I had doubted Lola’s decision. But I understood now that she was right. She had to let Eva go. “Oh, Lola.”

“Do you believe in God, Grace?”

I had to think about this. I didn’t know anything about God. Mother had vowed not to speak about her religion after she was excommunicated. I didn’t understand it as a kid then, but now I knew that after Father’s death, she had mourned him deeply and saw the world through a haze of sadness and rage. She had laughed at those hypocrites who preached to love your neighbor, mocked people who said God bless you, and warned that I would be better off staying away from the church. I had never stepped inside a church in Boston or Chicago.

But when Mother drank too much alcohol, she would let her feelings out, her self-pity for what could have been an honorable life. She never admitted it, but I thought that the excommunication, being disavowed by her own people and denied her right to worship, together with the loss of Father, was the source of her alcoholism. Had she been loved and accepted, she would not have been the mother of shadow and light, the mother who choked me and then begged for my forgiveness.

Fengshan was a devout Christian, regularly attending his Lutheran City Church and firmly believing in God. He once said, “What would we be without beliefs? Nothing but rag dolls with empty hearts and empty souls.”

“I believe in angels, Lola. Angels of poetry, angels of friendship.”

She gave me a wan smile and drank her beer.

“Did they give you the beer?”

“This? No. An old friend gave it to me. I came across him in the slum. Try it.”

It was cold and bitter. “What’s this?”

“Styrian beer.”

“I’ve never had that before. I didn’t know you were a drinker.”

“Every Austrian drinks beer. Before the Anschluss, anyway.” She turned to the building, where families huddled near bags and suitcases. “You won’t believe it. I’ve heard so many heartbreaking stories from them. That man, can you see? With a long beard like a winter bush? In the corner? He can recite Kafka’s Die Verwandlung from beginning to end. He’s a well-known physician in Vienna and was locked in a dungeon at the Headquarters for six months. During these months, he said, he read Kafka’s book every day to pass the time and ate cockroaches to stay alive, and he hallucinated. He thinks we’ll all turn into cockroaches tomorrow.”

“That’s terrible.”

Lola had a swig of beer and wiped her mouth. “These days, I can’t stop thinking about Nietzsche. Have you heard of his famous quote, Grace? He said, ‘You must be ready to burn yourself in your own flame; how could you rise anew if you have not first become ashes?’”

Nietzsche was not good for Lola. She had lost everything, everyone dear to her heart; living in the slum, a nebulous realm of insanity and isolation, was driving her to the brink of hallucination. I must find a way to get her out of the country.





CHAPTER 42


FENGSHAN


He was signing his name on a visa form when the phone rang. Ambassador Chen’s voice came through the phone. “I’m calling you with grave news, Fengshan. The arms deal with Germany has fallen through.”

He rubbed his face. Unfortunately, his suspicion about the Third Reich’s commitment to the sale was confirmed. He had reported to his superior about Hitler crowning the Japanese the Honorary Aryans a few weeks ago, and Ambassador Chen had dismissed it as trivial. “It’s most regrettable, Ambassador Chen. Perhaps we ought to look into weapons from another country—”