Night Angels(77)
“Let’s go.” He nodded at them and walked out of the building where he had worked and lived for over two years. Across the street, Frau Maxa, Vice Consul Zhou, and Rudolf were waiting; near them, a crowd had gathered—the visa seekers, whispering among themselves, anxious, already possessed by a looming sense of disaster. This consulate, his consulate, as far as he could tell, was their last bridge to life.
Fengshan tore his gaze away, told Monto and Grace to stay at a safe distance, and walked to the metal monster that came to demolish his consulate.
It was huge, blocking the street, the gun motor an unholy finger that mocked everything he held dear—the moral rectitude that was the bedrock of civilization, the codes that he lived by: honor, compassion, duty, and loyalty. And standing by it was the spiteful man who had sent his friend to the Mauthausen camp, legs apart, flanked by his depraved minions holding rifles.
“Good afternoon, Herr Consul General.” On Eichmann’s face was that sickening, oily smile.
About ten steps away, Fengshan stopped. Despite the swelling rage in his stomach, he managed to stay unruffled. He couldn’t stop them. He, a single man, standing in front of an armed mob that sought to destroy his building, was outnumbered, overpowered, and outmaneuvered.
“You look surprised to see me, Herr Consul General. Don’t be surprised. Hauptsturmführer Heine can’t get me out of the way yet. Of course I must finish my job before leaving for Prague. Prague! It wasn’t my choice. Anyway, we are even now. I do wish him well in Mauthausen!”
“Herr Eichmann, is there still a possibility for a friendly discussion?”
“The time for our discussion has already expired.”
Eichmann had won. His cunning, his ruthlessness, his vileness was as cataclysmic as a bomb, and his voice, Fengshan prayed, would one day be strangled in the roars of righteousness and justice. He turned to give one last look at the building.
“It’s too late to regret, Herr Consul General. I warned you. This is a bad time to be Germany’s enemy.” Eichmann waved his hand, and the tank driver raised the gun motor.
It fired. The first shell, a thunderous howl, struck the front of the building. The ornate pediment engraved with grapes exploded; white marble fragments and glass windows and wooden frames splintered, shooting in all directions. The three-story building, the seat of his career, an image of China, almost a home, detonated before him.
A downpour of thoughts fell on him. Could he have managed the situation with more finesse and reached a compromise with Eichmann? Might he be the only consul general who bore this incident on his résumé?
The second shell struck the windows of their bedroom on the third floor. From behind him, across the street, Grace whimpered. He turned to look. She didn’t seem to complain or blame him, her beautiful eyes two prisms of sadness. He had not had the time to comfort her, explain to her, or talk to her since he’d received the demolition notice. He wished to hear her speak now.
Another shell.
The belly of the sky, stained gray, was split open by a storm of ashes and bricks and clods of plaster. The cobblestones beneath him rattled. How long did it take to pulverize a building? How long did it take to construct a building? How long did it take for a man to build his career?
The street had turned into a white dome; a cloud of dust and ashes descended; in the place where the elegant three-story building had been, a building leased by a generous friend, piled a mound of rubble.
His consulate. His office. The seat of his success. Was gone.
Gone, too, were the moments he’d held the telephone reporting to Ambassador Chen; gone, too, were the hours he’d sat at the desk signing his name on visas with a fountain pen; gone, too, were those desperate people waiting in the lobby hoping for a future.
It was all but certain that from this spot, another stately building would rise, another struggle would spawn, and another story would be created. Hardly anyone in the future would remember the loss of a consulate. No one would remember him, either, a foreign diplomat who had failed to shield his consulate from a Nazi. Was this his future, too, the rubble? He resented this thought.
“Let this serve as the reminder that anything, anyone standing in the way of the Third Reich will be eliminated,” Eichmann said near the tank, his hands cupped around his mouth, forcing his greasy voice through the echoing rumble.
It struck Fengshan, the brazen core of a man’s soul, the depth of a man’s evil. If a malignant man like Eichmann would dare to declare his intention to annihilate many lives and demolish a consulate that provided a passage to safety, then men, men of able means, men of faith, men of righteousness, must rise to stop him. This was how it had to be, then. As long as he held the fountain pen, the seal, the power to save people, as long as he was the consul general of the Republic of China, he would sit at a desk and sign, one visa at a time, fighting for other people’s lives.
“Father?” Monto grabbed his hand.
His son had turned into a white creature, white-haired, white-faced, white-eyelashed, and the same with Grace, her purple dress now a dusty gray. The crowd seeking visas, also bathed in dust, sobbed, tears trickling down their faces.
He picked up the two suitcases that contained the application forms. “Let’s go, Monto, Grace. We’ll find an apartment for the office.”
CHAPTER 53
GRACE