Night Angels(84)

Fengshan, his fountain pen in hand, was sitting at his desk. He explained that he had been ready to pick me up at the hospital, but then a man, desperate, had knocked on his car’s window and thrown the application forms into the car. So he had decided to take care of them.

Nothing could stop him. Not Eichmann’s intimidation, not the demolition of his consulate, not the loss of his unborn child or the mutilation of his wife.

“There you are. How are you feeling, Grace?”

“I’m still alive, for better or for worse.” And he was still signing visas. The world hadn’t changed, but it would never be the same.

“Look.” He paced the room. “I believe people still need visas, but for some reason, they were prevented from getting close to the building. I wondered if they were intimidated, so I’ve been watching the street. I haven’t seen anyone suspicious.”

By that, I assumed that he meant the man who had attacked me. “They’ve ruined my life. What else do they want?”

His look was sympathetic, and his eyes grew brighter. He felt my pain, of course he did—it was our child that we had lost, but that was not enough. Why couldn’t he come to help me get discharged? Did his visa application forms matter more than I did?

I wheeled to my bedroom.



Such a small room. Empty. And cold. Nothing belonged to me, the comforter, the curtains, the bed. Just as in all the places I had stayed in before. In a slow and agonizing motion that I wished never to repeat, I got out of the wheelchair and sat on the edge of the bed. To the right was the solitary bay window to the street, and to the left, a small courtyard embedded with dead nettles and ice. Outside, the snow fell, piling on the cobblestones and crumbly earth, reaching the windowsill, a sea of shadows.

It was December, the month I liked the least, the end of the year, a time of family, of friendship, of warmth.



A few days later, Fengshan sent Monto to stay with a friend of his for Christmas, so I wouldn’t be burdened with caring for him during my recovery. But I would have liked to take care of him; Fengshan should have known that. But what was the point of arguing?

I was such an invalid, unable to get up for a cup of water, or go to the bathroom, or even fetch a handkerchief. A single cough racked my body; a slight push tore the severed muscles in my lower abdomen. To alleviate the pain, I was hooked on morphine.

All day, I floated in the painless void, sleepless and dreamless. When I awoke, I stared at the baby clothes I had salvaged before the building was demolished. Rose pink. Warm yellow. Powder blue. All colorful, crumpled, discarded, meaningless. Like all my efforts. Saving Lola’s family, saving Lola, getting pregnant.

Yet it didn’t have to be this way. In another world, I could have been a mother, I could have been the strong woman I had hoped to be, and I could have been a beloved wife and a good friend.





CHAPTER 58


FENGSHAN


The year 1940 began with a blizzard. In mid-January, on a cold morning, Fengshan went out of the apartment and staked the consulate’s sign in the snow. Pulling his fur hood up with his gloved hand, he paced in front of the building, peering at the street. It had been two months; not a single visa applicant had appeared.

He scoured the news for possible clues. The newspapers printed victories of the German U-boats in Scotland and extolled the successes of the German Wehrmacht and the Luftwaffe. The radio, broadcasting endless debates and fierce criticism of the leadership in France and England, often lapsed into bitterness and recriminations. Daladier’s authority was impugned, and Chamberlain’s war secretary was dismissed.

No one said a word about the Jews in Vienna.



Fengshan called Ambassador Chen, with whom he hadn’t spoken for several months, and reported to him the current situation in Vienna. It was a short report. The American consulate had remained closed. The news from other countries had been nonexistent.

Out of abundant caution, Fengshan inquired about the Jewish policy.

The ambassador said, “I’ve spoken to Mr. Xu Shumo, the vice minister of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He has agreed that given the current situation, with Germany at war with Britain and France, it is in our best interest to stay neutral. Additionally, Shumo has ordered that we close our doors to Viennese refugees. You may discard the telegram from the Ministry.”

There were few visa applicants these days, so the Ministry’s new no-visa policy hardly exerted any pressure. However, the neutrality stance signaled his government’s intention to break away from the aggressive Third Reich, which Fengshan deemed sensible, but he could also see a withdrawal from Greater Germany would inevitably diminish the importance of his consulate.

Fengshan requested funding for the consulate again since he had paid the rent out of his own pocket. His superior was noncommittal. The war in China appeared to be at a stalemate, he said. While the Japanese had a sophisticated air force and had seized the seaports and railroads in the east, the Nationalists’ relocation to Chongqing, near the Yangtze gorges, had proved advantageous in terms of geographical location. The resistance was prolonged, and no one could predict how or when the war would end. It could take months or years.

No funding for the consulate, and the rent he’d paid wouldn’t be reimbursed.

“One more thing,” the ambassador said, his voice full of formality. “As part of the bureaucratic process, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs has requested an evaluation of diplomats in Greater Germany. You may start the process at your earliest convenience.”