Night Angels(91)

The washing machines started to spin again, and the floor seemed to quiver, the burgundy carpet with those golden diamonds crested, a marbled, slippery tide of shadows.



Later, Vice Consul Zhou came. He looked glum, sniffling, his eyes watery. He picked up the scattered pieces of paper from the floor and glanced at me. He must have thought I was sloppy, but only those who had gone under the surgery blade knew the challenge of bending over, squishing the abdomen muscles. He collected the papers and set them on the desk, seeming bored, yawning. Then he went to the fireplace, which I had just noticed was lit.

I went to my bedroom and closed the door. I wished Monto were here. I missed his childish voice and his face. He was busy at school these days. When he was up early in the morning, I was usually deep in sleep. When he was around, I hardly had the energy or mental power to engage in conversation. A considerate boy, he trod lightly in the room to avoid disturbing me.

The phone rang, a trail of hollow alarms, annoying, persistent.

I wheeled out. Vice Consul Zhou had fallen asleep near the fireplace. The phone, in the corner near the window, was out of my reach. I turned to the other side of the desk, but Fengshan’s chair was in my way. This was my life now, a constant test of frustration, as a disabled woman in a wheelchair, unable to accomplish the simple task of standing up and reaching for the phone.

Vice Consul Zhou grumbled, rubbing his eyes, and as he reached out, the phone stopped ringing.

It could be Fengshan, calling from the hotel. Had he been arrested by the Nazis? Or it could be Lola. Although, with her impaired hearing, that was unlikely. What had led Fengshan to conclude that Lola would assassinate Eichmann?

I wheeled back to my room. On the nightstand sat my Dickinson book, constant as it always was. I picked it up—I had not opened it since Lola returned it to me, and it felt heavy. Lola had said she kept the book with her all these months, but she never said whether she liked it. I turned the pages—they looked different. In the center of the page was the garden of thoughts that my poet had sprouted, but on the margin were streaks of shadows. I leaned over—the shadows were words in a minuscule script.

Dear Grace, my apologies for defacing your book. Can’t write you letters. Hope this will do. I’ve been thinking of you and I want to write to you so you’ll know I’m still alive. It looks like I won’t be able to leave Vienna. One of the guards trampled over the boat ticket you bought for me and now I’m on a train . . .

Dear Grace, this train reeks. People are frightened. We don’t know where we’re going. Some think we’re going to the Mauthausen camp . . .

Dear Grace, there’s no room to stand straight, no room to rest my hands, so I’m writing this on my lap. Someone behind me keeps hitting my head and apologizing. Well, I’d like to apologize to you—I never had a chance to say goodbye. I wish I could go back to Vienna so I could tell you in person . . . Look—the rays of the sun are spinning through the cracks of the windows. A golden clef, radiant, blooming like a fruit tree. It’s beautiful. Do you recall those places I mentioned when we first met? There were so many places I could have shown you, the Schloss Sch?nbrunn, the Danube, the Wienerwald, the Eisriesenwelt cave. Vienna is beautiful, Grace, the world is beautiful.

There were about ten pages’ worth of margins filled with Lola’s handwriting, her journey through the mossy terrain, the emerald fields, the craggy mountains, each letter neat, all addressed to me with care and diligence. It hit me that in the crammed train, even though she was going to a camp, Lola had kept me in her mind and written me letters; she had not forgotten about me.

There was a note about the train hitting a cow on the track, a note about her rescuing people caught in a swamp, a note about her being beaten to senselessness that had impaired her hearing, and the last note from her:

I can never listen to the music again, the music I played, the music I was born to play. It was a shock. For days, I sat on a rock near a cliff, engulfed in a terrifying silence, and I wanted to cry. But what was crying good for? I still had my arms, my legs, my heart, my sight, my taste, my life, and you, Grace. I might never hear your soft voice again, but at least I could still see you. Yes, that’s what I should do. It’s been long enough. I’m coming now. Not for the last time, of course. Between us, there should never be THE last time.

I’m coming, she said, despite the danger in Vienna. Time, terror, and distance had not changed her. And it dawned on me, her rage, her devastation, her anguish when she learned of my grief. Of course she knew the depth of my loss, Lola, of all people, but I had failed to see.

Oh no. She was going to assassinate Eichmann for me.

I dropped the book and called for a taxi to the hotel. It took forever to arrive, and when the apartment door opened, I wheeled out. It was March, I realized; the late afternoon sky looked bleak; the wind growled, the air a sharp claw on my naked face. I wrapped the scarf around me; it felt thin like threads, the chill drilling in my bones. Near the car, enormous and towering, I put my feet on the ground and rose. All the disused muscles in my abdomen stretched tautly and screamed, but I edged, inch by inch, to the back seat.

Lola, Lola, Lola.





CHAPTER 62


FENGSHAN


The car was of no use without Rudolf. So Fengshan walked to the hotel as fast as he could, pulling his coat around him, his nose in his thick scarf.

He was furious at Grace. He had been wrong about her. She had shared his ideals once, shared his goal once, but she had changed. Her heart was no longer with him, and she had forgotten his belief: Fu Chang Fu Sui—the husband sings, and the wife accompanies. The key to a healthy, balanced marriage.