Night Angels(80)

The first day of September began with a great storm. Rain pummeled the rows of neoclassical buildings and blew through the apartment building’s front entrance, sending the sign that said The Temporary Office of the Consulate of the Republic of China flying in the air and blank envelopes and sheets of forms to the floor. For the entire day, the sky turned dark like midnight, the wintry chill that used to arrive in October blasting through the hallway to his office.

In the evening, he had just put down his pen when he heard Grace switching the radio channels, from a French station to a German station and then a Czech station, searching for music. She didn’t have success—all the stations were deep in discussions about something related to the military.

The Führer had decided to free the innocent Germans from the ruthless hands of the Polish, he heard, and the invincible German Wehrmacht had crossed the border.

“Stop, Grace. Turn it up.”

He had heard correctly. Hitler had invaded Poland.

He rushed out of the bedroom and phoned Ambassador Chen from the office. The line was busy.



Fengshan had a difficult time concentrating on the visas for the next few days. The radio was turned on; everything he heard irritated him—the exhilarated declaration of a broadcaster speaking German, the orotund voice of a man shouting over the heavy footfalls of the marching army, the bombastic military songs—yet he couldn’t keep himself from listening to it. He rubbed his eyes and switched to another channel; instantly, his ears were attacked by the threatening rumble of the tanks, the drone of the Luftwaffe, the chaotic shouts, the ridiculous chants, and the salvo of gunfire.

Britain and France had declared war on Germany, a man’s voice heavy with force announced. And what would Chamberlain and Daladier do, after having fooled themselves for months? They had been overly confident in their power and ultimately outmaneuvered.

Ambassador Chen should have heard the news by now, and Fengshan prayed this would motivate the ambassador to reevaluate the situation and distance them from the Third Reich.

But perhaps the most urgent question he had was regarding the Jews in Poland, who now fell within the range of the Nazis’ tanks. Where would they go?

He put down his pen and looked up. About ten people wearing bowler hats were crammed into his office; all were listening to the radio; none made a noise. Their fear, the sense of doom, was palpable.



A young, joyous voice erupted in front of him.

“I got it, I got it! Visas! Visas! I’m going to Shanghai! My family is going to Shanghai! Thank you, thank you!” It was a young man shouting, one button missing from his coat, his expression one of pure euphoria.

Fengshan was incredibly moved; he had to look away to collect himself.

“Do you honestly believe that saving Jews is a path to China’s salvation?” Ambassador Chen had taunted him over the phone when he explained the consulate needed a new venue after the demolition in order to continue issuing visas to the Viennese.

He had held his tongue. His Nationalist government was still fighting in Chongqing; the sophisticated weapons they had dreamed of were still out of reach; the Japanese were still bombing Chongqing and setting fire to one town after another in China. It was clear to him that the salvation of China, his country that had battled with the Japanese for so many years, his homeland that many brave people had defended for so many years, was now in God’s hands. But the salvation of the Jews, displaced, devalued, dehumanized in a world that was crushing down on them, was up to men.



No matter how fast he approved the visas, he was too slow. The pile of applications was stacked up as he pored over each one. Meticulously, he tracked the visa numbers, jotted down the date and destination in German and Chinese, and verified the applicants’ information. This was not the moment for mistakes; every detail must be verified, confirmed, and copied with absolute accuracy.

The drums of the washing machines rang in his ears, his back ached from sitting for too long, and his hand grew sore from writing, but each time he raised his head, he was greeted by the eager faces of the people in front of him; he lowered his head and continued to write. He had no time to rest—these people’s survival depended on him. Every visa he approved was a life saved.

And each day, devastating news continued to come through the radio.

The Soviet Union invaded Poland.

The Luftwaffe bombed Warsaw; Hitler captured Warsaw.

More than two hundred thousand Poles perished. Poland surrendered, divided by the Soviet Union and Germany, and hundreds of thousands of Polish troops became prisoners of war. And in front of his small apartment were men and women, the young and old who arrived at dawn. All day, they waited.





CHAPTER 55


GRACE


It was the man in the navy jacket who had threatened us in the park; he had appeared out of nowhere. I stopped midstep, holding a box of pastries; Monto was skipping ahead of me, walking backward, so he didn’t know what was going on. We had just left the bakery with treats. Monto had selected his favorite apple strudel, and I had opted for Topfenstrudel and some fritters with cheese fillings. Fengshan was working in his office and said he didn’t want anything—he had refused to eat pastries since the nightmarish evening when the server was thrown off the balcony.

The trip to the bakery had been a celebration, for the day before, I had felt something—a flutter inside my stomach, the drum of a new life, a most thrilling experience I thought I would never have the fortune to feel. I was ecstatic. The life inside me was growing and I would be a mother.