Night Angels(76)

I took off his coat and boots and gave him a pair of black loafers from the closet. Lit by the dim light in the bedroom, he looked tired, with dark rings around his eyes, and his hair was receding, graying at the temples. For the first time, I noticed my thirty-seven-year-old husband, a vigorous man, was aging. His friend’s arrest, the consulate’s future, and the visas had stressed him, and he had not been eating or sleeping well. I should cook him more homemade Hunan food. The meals I made, though strenuous on my part, had delighted him, a traditional Chinese man who believed cooking was one of the essential skills for a wife.

“I need to go check on Monto, Grace.”

“I’ll go. You get some sleep.”

I went to Monto’s room. His lights were on, but he was deep asleep. I tucked the blanket around him and turned off the lights.



The following day I felt on edge. I worried about the consulate—would we lose the consulate? I also worried about myself. Something was wrong with me. At times the waves of anxiety, unbidden, washed over me, and I was that fearful, introverted woman again.

I was very tired all day, and when I napped, I dreamed of rainbows, of pink dolls, of small feet, of an infant’s soft hair. I ran my hands through it, those filaments of wonder. I had waited for so long. Sometimes I dreamed I was sitting on a lawn pinned by a great icy Ferris wheel, and the sky was turning red, the summer air frosty with the winds from New England, whipping a soup of shattered violets, lilacs, tulips, and roses from my poet’s garden in Amherst.

Monto kept me company while I folded the sets of baby clothing I had bought—it was like a soothing sport that I couldn’t get tired of. When I told Monto of my pregnancy, he grinned. I jotted down my name and asked him to predict how many children I’d have.

“Two,” he declared. “You’ll have two children, Grace.”

I smiled. I had no objection to two children. But three would be ideal.

Fengshan spoke less and less, which was another worrying sign. Was he concerned about another visit from Eichmann? Or an order of eviction?

Then one morning, I was sound asleep when I heard Fengshan’s voice next to me. “Grace, Grace. Wake up, you must wake up.”

The dawn light filled the room, luminescent like a glass jar, and Fengshan, holding a sheet of paper in his hand, was standing by my bed.

“What’s going on, my love?”

“Grace, we need to pack.”

I sat up, a dream still vivid in my mind, a chain of littered images. There was a train, a suitcase, a hand, and a face—Lola. It was a message. She was alive. I felt brave, confident, and full of elation. “Why?”

He gave me the paper. It was written in German.

“What does it say?”

His voice hoarse, Fengshan said that Eichmann, who had tried to stop him from issuing visas to Jews, who had complained to his superior, had used his power to speak to the Nazi city-planning division, which had ordered the consulate building to be demolished.





CHAPTER 52


FENGSHAN


He had six hours to leave the building before the tank would arrive.

He raced downstairs. The consulate wasn’t yet open, but as usual, a long line had formed outside. He opened the door. “My apologies. The consulate is to be closed temporarily due to an emergency. Please come tomorrow and look for a sign outside the building.”

Then he dashed into his office. All the sensitive files must be destroyed. The furniture must be left behind. Their personal belongings would be packed by Grace. The books he’d collected must be carted out and stored at a safe place. What needed his special care was the backlog of visa applications waiting for his signature. He must pack every single one.

He removed all the filled-out application forms, his fountain pens, and the seal from his desk and set them inside the two suitcases he had brought from his bedroom. Then he emptied his drawers, pulled out all the manila folders that contained correspondence between him and the ambassador and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and carried them all to the fireplace.

For the entire morning, Fengshan went back and forth from his office to the fireplace, feeding the fire with the sensitive files. Growing hot, he loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. He instructed Frau Maxa, when she arrived, to purchase all the boxes she could find and pack the books. He ordered the vice consul, who was still half asleep, to save all the blank application forms and bundle them together. Grace, thank God, knew exactly what to pack. Even Monto was helping, tossing manila folders in the fireplace, making sure not a single application form was thrown into the fire by accident, then prying the consulate’s plaque at the entrance.

When noon arrived, Fengshan looked at the empty shelves, bare and battered, and his office, a hollow, cold cave, and the floor, a battlefield with torn sheets of paper and muddy footprints. When he spoke, echoes of his voice bounced in the air, a sad tune—but no, he didn’t have time to be sentimental.

An ominous sound, a low rumble, rolled over the cobblestones outside, and the consulate’s walls trembled. He picked up the two suitcases of application forms and turned to Grace, one hand holding Monto, the other holding her leather suitcase, standing by the door. The shadow draped over her narrow shoulders, and she shivered. Had she packed all their important belongings? Had she packed the clay statues? Her tiaras and dresses, his suits and medals, Monto’s pants and sweaters, and the baby’s socks and hats? He was counting on her.