Night Angels(9)

CHAPTER 4


FENGSHAN


At the sixth sound of the church bell, Fengshan rose from the bed. Grace was still sleeping, a frown on her face. Those beautiful eyes that had captivated him years ago were shut. She had agreed not to stay in touch with the Viennese tutor, conceding as he had suggested, willingly, in her docile manner. He had mixed feelings about this. He had hoped that Grace would enunciate at least some of her thoughts and then they would engage in an open discussion, but this kind of frank communication had remained elusive. When he first met her, he had taken her meekness as the tenderness of youth and believed she would grow stronger in the test of life. But he was wrong. Grace’s meekness had been an intractable retreat, a helpless grief, an infinite prison in which she volunteered to sit.

Recently she seemed to be drifting away. She appeared to care little about Monto and complained of a headache whenever he asked her to attend the clubs, and he had resigned himself to it. But Grace had other qualities as well, her ethereal beauty, her loyalty, and her innocence, and she was making an effort—hiring a tutor to learn German. He should take her to dinner, or the opera house, to spend time together to cheer her up. Since their arrival in Vienna, he had been busy lecturing, going to clubs, and building connections, and predictably, Grace was lonely.

He got out of bed and put on a white shirt, a double-breasted three-piece suit, a black silk tie with silver stripes, and a black felt bowler hat. Proper attire that exuded modernity and sophistication was essential to represent his country. He had his friend Mr. Rosenburg to thank, for he had recommended the famed bespoke tailor in Vienna who served the local nobility.

Fengshan went down to the dining room on the second floor and ate a typical Viennese breakfast: a slice of semmel with apricot jam, a boiled egg, and ham. With a meal like this, he missed China with all his heart—how he wished for a bowl of hot rice porridge with shredded pork and some pickle. His mind could switch effortlessly between four languages, but his stomach remained Chinese.

At seven o’clock, he went to the lobby. The consulate was empty; the few staff would appear two hours later. He was always the first one at work.

The Chinese consulate in Austria, or Ostmark, as it was known by the Third Reich after the Anschluss, was small, with Vice Consul Zhou and two hired local help: Frau Maxa, a typist, and the manservant, Rudolf. The legation before the Anschluss had been more prominent, sufficiently staffed, and better funded, even though its influence was limited compared to that of the other members of the League of Nations. That was partially due to the fact that the Republic of China, led by its democratic government, the Nationalists, was a newcomer to the world’s political stage. Only as recently as ten years ago was the legitimacy of the Nationalist regime recognized by the United States, the first nation that had granted his government full tariff autonomy.

Fengshan checked his watch. One hour before Ambassador Chen’s phone call. He unlocked the consulate’s door, picked up the stack of German newspapers on the ground, and walked to his office at the end of the hallway. Before the dissolution of the legation, he had been involved with many responsibilities, and now his duties had been reduced to reporting to his superior, protecting Chinese citizens, and simple consular actions such as visa issuance.

Each day he read the news, assessed current events’ importance and implications, and relayed a summary to his superior, Ambassador Chen, in Berlin. The ambassador relied on his knowledge; his predecessor in the legation, who could only speak French and read French newspapers, had fallen behind with the updates and frustrated the vice minister of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs at home.

Fengshan skimmed the headlines for any mention of Grace’s arrest or the consulate. It still angered him that she had been mistreated by the German policemen, but if the incident made it to the news, it would cause gossip and potential damage. To his relief, there was no mention of Grace, only news of suicides of the Communists who’d attempted to escape arrests and more stringent laws about the Viennese Jews.

The phone rang.

It was his friend Mr. Rosenburg, a prominent lawyer in Vienna. A supportive friend with a genuine interest in Chinese culture, he was likely calling to confirm his attendance at Fengshan’s upcoming speaking event at the German Club. But Mr. Rosenburg’s grave tone made Fengshan sit upright. “Is everything all right, Mr. Rosenburg?”

“Dr. Ho, Vienna is descending into hell, and it has an elevator—”

The phone lost the connection.

He dialed Mr. Rosenburg’s office number; the busy signal rang in his ears.

He frowned. The Viennese considered etiquette and manners an important part of character. His friend would never hang up the phone in the middle of a conversation. Fengshan planned to seek Mr. Rosenburg out at today’s event to learn more. His friend’s comment, though, reminded him of Grace’s arrest and his unpleasant encounter with Eichmann.

The phone rang again.

“Fengshan?” It was Ambassador Chen.

“Zao shang hao, Chen da shi,” Fengshan greeted in Chinese.

Ambassador Chen was from Beijing, the capital of several dynasties in China, which meant he considered himself a highly refined man and Fengshan a lesser man, since he came from Hunan, an economically disadvantaged province. Fengshan’s German was as good as the ambassador’s, but that didn’t elevate his status in his superior’s eyes. Ambassador Chen, a son of a renowned general, had been groomed to be a powerful politician since birth, well connected, with a direct line to Mr. Sun Ke, the president of the Legislative Yuan, the son of the Nationalists’ founding father, Sun Zhongshan. Thus Ambassador Chen was guaranteed to have a secure, stable political career, which was something Fengshan could aspire to but might be well out of reach.