Night Angels(65)

“Parachutist?” someone asked.

“One of the kapos grew angry and hurtled him down the cliff. The poor man flew over like a parachutist and fell to his death in a pond filled with huge rocks.”

Herr Eisner’s lips trembled, his eyes haunted by the memory. He had believed he was in a death trap until his wife found him a visa from the Chinese consulate—the ticket that granted him his release. And now, he came to the consulate to save his brother-in-law, who toiled in the camp.

Fengshan walked into his office, his back straight. He couldn’t believe he had wasted time agonizing over his superior’s order. His decision was already made and he intended to carry it out. There were thousands of Jews in Vienna; if he needed to issue thousands of visas to keep them out of labor camps, then so be it.





CHAPTER 43


GRACE


Two weeks later, after much waiting, I obtained a boat ticket to Shanghai with the help of Frau Maxa. The boat was to depart in September, in six months. I was disappointed. Lola couldn’t wait for six months in the slum. At my insistence, Frau Maxa inquired at a law office and purchased, at a steep price, a boat ticket to Shanghai, set to sail in two weeks. Thrilled, I bought a train ticket at the station and folded both tickets in my handbag. Lola would be able to leave the slum and sail to Shanghai!

When I went to the district of Leopoldstadt, there were routine inspections and interrogations, but again, the Chinese flag saved me.

In the slum, Lola was talking to a young man outside the building. She introduced him as Theo. He had blue eyes, a face with prominent cheekbones and thick eyebrows, brown hair parted in the middle. He was attractive, and his eyes flowed with a certain intensity as if he had a hidden dagger in his sleeve and he was ready to use it. He was the old friend she had mentioned, and he had brought another bottle of Styrian beer.

He looked familiar, and then I remembered he was the man we’d met while waiting in line for exit permits at the Central Office for Jewish Emigration. There had been something peculiar about him that I couldn’t remember. Lola was not romantically involved with him, I could tell.

Theo had been in Linz, then shown up here, Lola said after he left. “He said we’d be transported to Mauthausen camp next month.”

“Mauthausen.” It sounded familiar.

“Let’s go for a walk. I’ll tell you more,” Lola said, glancing at the people near the window.

I followed her, trudging in the knee-deep snow; the chilly air made my eyes water even though I had on the thick astrakhan coat, my gloves lined with fur, and high leather boots. Lola only wore a black jacket, a scarf around her head, and old boots. She shook her head when I offered her my gloves. She was not cold, she said.

When we passed a one-story tavern, I heard the pulsating beats of music coming from inside. Through the window, I could see a group of musicians playing fiddles and cowbells, swinging their arms. Lola stopped to watch, too, then sniffed, pulled the scarf to cover her face, and looked away. Since last summer, she had stopped talking about Strauss, Mozart, and her favorite song, “The Lark Ascending.”

Then, suddenly, someone shouted inside the tavern. The door smashed open. A man without a hat stumbled out. He glanced at us, dashed toward the fence’s gate, and disappeared. One moment later, two uniformed policemen burst inside the tavern, blasting German. A gunshot was fired.

Lola gripped my arm, swerving us into an alley. “Theo said the Gestapo arrested all the men in the block yesterday and sent them to Mauthausen.”

“How did he know?”

The icy wind blew over me. I shivered. It was so cold that I felt my lips were frozen and my nose was hard like ice. In front of me was the canal, a vast strip of ice with white rocky mounds and frosty bushes. In the distance, the roller coasters were frozen; beneath them hung long, sharp icicles, and the great Ferris wheel was laden with snow, a white wreath like a diaphanous portal.

“Theo works for an organization that smuggles people out to Switzerland. They use false papers to help them escape—writers, composers, artists, and university professors who are branded subversive for their ‘degenerate works’ or for spreading subversive messages that endanger society, all dissidents wanted by the government.”

That sounded dangerous. If they were caught smuggling, they would be shot. “I bought you tickets, Lola! A boat ticket and a train ticket. You’re all set. Now you can leave.”

She spun around so fast that she almost tripped over the thick ice. “You have a boat ticket? How did you get it?”

“Fengshan’s secretary helped me.” I dug into my handbag and handed her the tickets.

Lola stared at them, her breath swelling in the chilly air, an island in a mirage. She looked like she was going to cry, but, as she always did, she pushed her tears back. “Thank you, Grace.”

“Leave Vienna and go to Shanghai, Lola. Here’s my Dickinson.” I gave her my poetry book that I had brought. “It’s a long and tedious journey to Shanghai. You’ll have something to read.”

“Your favorite poet.” She remembered.

“I never thought to part with it. Perhaps one day you’ll give it back to me.” This book was a light in my childhood, a token of Mother’s love after her repeated slaps. Mother had received it from her friend Mrs. Maher, a maid of the Dickinson family.

Lola held it with two hands—she knew what the book meant to me; what she meant to me.