‘Sir, it is already late. May I suggest that we end this conversation for today. We are too busy and the young man needs to eat and get some sleep now. We’ll deal with everything better tomorrow, God willing.’
The manager was level-headed and quite aware of the delicacy of the moment. Reason told him to warn the boy that this would probably be only a temporary solution. But he did not know exactly how to formulate this advice. He was afraid it would sound as if he was saying ‘if your parents don’t show up soon you’ll have to go to an orphanage’. Instead, he held out his hand to the boy:
‘Welcome to the Palácio! I assume you haven’t had anything to eat yet? My driver Bruno will take care of you. But first, you and I will put your money and jewels in the safe; then we can have dinner.’
WILLKOMMEN, BIENVENUE, WELCOME
When you approach Lisbon from the sea, just before the boat turns into the river, to the left, in the background, you will see a bluish mountain. That is Sintra. It blocks the path of the rain clouds and as a result Estoril offers visitors more hours of sunshine than any other resort in Europe. At least so says the tourist brochure for the ‘Sunshine Coast’, that being what our little Riviera is officially called. But it is still popularly known as the Estoril coast, or even just the Coast.
The gently undulating slope that dips down to the bay looks south, to the ocean. It is dotted with the villas and summer homes of Lisbon’s more prominent families, whose privacy is assured by dense greenery and high walls. It is always windy at the foot of the mountain, where the waves wash over the sand. The beach is studded with phalanxes of sunshades, changing cabins and canvas deck chairs. Just above it, a recently opened railway track follows the sickle-shaped line of the coast, and next to it is the motorway: to the right, not even half an hour by car, is Lisbon; to the left, so close you can see it, is Cascais.
If you come by train, you need to get off at Estoril station, then cross the tracks and the road to the big rectangular French-style park. Perched among its palm trees, cypress trees and its variegated bushes, is the famous resort’s biggest attraction: the Grand Casino Estoril. Right next to it is a white, three-storey building, its windows offering stunning views of the park and the ocean. And on top of its dark roof is a big sign saying: ‘HOTEL PALÁCIO’. Estoril has any number of hotels, but we will leave them aside, not because they are smaller or cheaper but because, while each would deserve to play the leading role, our story already stars the Palácio.
*
One summer morning in 1940, the phone rang in Mr Black’s office. It was Reception.
‘Senhor Cardoso would like to see you.’
Mr Black wished he could say he was busy, but he didn’t dare. If there was one person he could not refuse to see it was Cardoso, superintendent and head of the Estoril Unit of the PVDE, the Surveillance and State Defence Police that dealt with extremists of all kinds: anarchists, communists, liberals. The PVDE also monitored the activities of foreign nationals in the country. Although Mr Black himself was apolitical, being both a foreign national and the manager of a hotel popular among foreigners he was of interest to the police. Whatever Cardoso was actually working on, judging by the amount of time he had been spending at the hotel recently, the Palácio was high on his list of priorities.
*
A small man in a cheap suit and smelling of cologne water walked into Mr Black’s office. His balding grey hair made him look older than he was. In fact, Superintendent Cardoso resembled a lowly clerk more than a high-powered police officer. He accepted the cup of coffee offered him and came to the point unusually quickly.
‘I don’t want to bore you with the technical details, but it’s important for you to know that you may soon receive an unusual request...’
Here the inspector stopped, expecting the foreigner to show some curiosity. As there was none forthcoming, he continued:
‘You might be asked to provide accommodation for the Duke and Duchess of Windsor,’ he said, looking at the manager meaningfully.
Mr Black merely nodded his head.
‘In the event of such an occurrence, I would kindly ask you for, so to speak, a personal favour. If possible.’
Mr Black again nodded.
‘I would ask you not to let them into the hotel for the next forty-eight hours. Is that feasible, do you think?’
The manager sounded as if he had not properly understood the inspector:
‘Not let the Windsors in?’
‘That’s right. Not let them in.’
‘All right. The hotel has no vacancies anyway,’ the American said.
‘That’s resolved, then!’ the policeman said, pleased, crossing out the relevant entry he had made in his notebook. He then went on:
‘There are a few other little matters. You have another two reservations for today that we need to discuss. One is for seven beds in the name of Baron von Amschel, and the other is a table for lunch for eight in the name of Gaetan.’ It was not clear from the policeman’s tone whether he was asking or informing the manager. ‘They are false names. You know who they really are?’
The manager once again nodded.
‘Excellent. Just a few more minutes and we’re done,’ said the balding little man, taking a bunch of photographs from his inside pocket. He carefully laid them out on the table and asked: ‘Do you recognize any of these people?’
The manager glanced at the headshots and shook his head. The inspector was forced to try another method: he pointed to each photo.
‘Maurice Maeterlinck? The name doesn’t mean anything to you? Alma Mahler? No? Franz Werfel? Golo Mann? Heinrich Mann? No? Nothing? None of them?’
Mr Black shook his head.
‘I’m terribly sorry that I can’t help you. I see too many new faces every day to remember them.’
‘They are all well-known foreign nationals staying with you on full room and board or frequenting the restaurant. They are mostly writers. Mr Maeterlinck is a Belgian Nobel Prize winner. And this young German here, Golo Mann, is the son of a famous writer. He likes men.’
‘So?’
‘So nothing. I’m just saying, it’s an eccentric crowd. That’s why I’m warning you to keep an eye on them.’
‘All guests are equally important to us here at the Palácio,’ the manager said.
‘These particular gentlemen are designated as politically sensitive cases,’ the inspector said in a low voice, as if in confidence. ‘There may even be leftists among them.’
‘You think so?’
‘I don’t think so, I know so, just as I know where the danger to our society lies. That is my job. Yours is to do your job to the best of your ability, to ensure that your guests have as nice a time as possible here and leave as friends of Portugal. We are here to keep an eye on things and, if necessary, to thwart anybody who even thinks of abusing our hospitality. You just need to notify us if you notice anything unusual. Right?’
It was not really a question; nor could the manager’s smile be taken as an answer. The meeting was unusually brief, lasting barely a quarter of an hour.
*
That same morning, a call from the household of the Duke of Windsor was transferred to the hotel manager. Mr Black listened to the request, thanked the caller for his interest and said that, to his immense regret, he was unable to be of any help. Thinking that the manager did not realize whom he was talking to, the gentleman from the Duke’s staff explained that he was speaking on behalf of the former king of the United Kingdom, Edward VIII, who required accommodation that very day. The information changed nothing. Mr Black declared himself deeply honoured by the Duke and Duchess’s interest in his hotel, repeating that unfortunately there were no vacancies for the couple. If they could wait a day or two he might be able to secure them appropriate accommodation, Mr Black said politely. His offer was just as politely refused.
At around one in the afternoon, the hotel manager stepped into the courtyard to await the Gaetan family. He knew that the name was a fr
ont for the Habsburgs. With a ‘Herzlich willkommen!’ he bowed to the Empress Zita and kissed her hand. He had met them before, in Madeira in 1922 where they had found refuge after the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. At the time, Mr Black was the manager of a hotel they often stayed at, but that was a long time ago and he did not think that she would recognize him. The last time he saw her was at the funeral of her husband, the last emperor of Austria, Charles I. She was heavily pregnant, her face hidden behind a thick black veil, surrounded by her young, weeping children. He did not want to remind the unhappy empress of those tragic times, so he shook hands with the heir to the throne and other crown princes and personally led them to a carefully chosen table in the corner of the restaurant, aware how worried they were that Hitler’s powerful hand could reach them even here and carry out the death sentence pronounced on them as enemies of his regime.
They had not yet finished their starters when seven people arrived with rooms booked in the name of Baron von Amschel – the pseudonym used by the Rothschild family. They were the wealthiest banking dynasty in the world but the Nazis could not forgive them for being Jewish. They too lived in fear and insisted on absolute discretion. They were taken quietly to their suites, where they said they did not intend to stay long because they would be continuing their journey as soon as it became possible. Mr Black thought, at first glance at least, that they looked more like royalty than the actual royals.
Mr Black knew from experience that billionaires and royals were not the most difficult guests. When so many people who have lived such pampered lives swoop down on one place there are bound to be all sorts of strange characters. Often, the same people who were begging for accommodation only a minute ago would start making demands as soon as they got their rooms. They wanted an astrologist for the wife, a piano teacher for the child, and, to make them feel more at home, someone to hang the paintings they had brought with them into exile. Several days earlier, for instance, the majordomo of a Dutch merchant, who was staying at the hotel with his family en route to the Far East, asked the hotel manager where his employer could find some entertainment. It had to be a discreet place, and the girls had to be black. That’s how far things could sometimes go.
For all that, come early evening, when the hectic pace had eased a little, Mr Black retreated to his office, as was his wont at this time of day. He switched on the radio. The red arrow pointed to London. The evening news was just starting.
‘British troops have withdrawn from the continent. General de Gaulle has established the Legion of French Volunteers in England...’
The hotel manager did not have the energy to listen to any more. He turned the dial. On station after station, sombre voices were broadcasting the latest world news. He kept turning the dial until he finally found a station playing some melancholic piano music. It was the Adagio sostenuto of Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2.
Sitting in the dark, his eyes open, he thought about the laments of the men and women he had been listening to all day. In all his many years of experience he had never had such a packed hotel or such unusual guests. He knew that, in spite of everything, he was lucky. A very select group of exiles, a couple of thousand out of the two million estimated to be roaming through Europe, had come to Estoril. A few hundred of the most resourceful among them had found accommodation at the Palácio: those with the best connections, the most money and the greatest luck. And now these most privileged of the privileged were complaining and despairing. His position was such that he had to listen to their complaints and only occasionally remind them that those of us who found ourselves not in Paris, Vienna or London but in Estoril on this 26th of June 1940 were the lucky ones. We had more than enough to eat and drink, we had electricity and water. We sunbathed on beaches that were not encircled by barbed wire, and when we strolled under the palm trees there we encountered no armed patrols. We slept well at night; there were no air attacks or policemen banging at the door to wake us up. If only we could remember how many people were living under occupation, how many were lying in roadside ditches with their mouths full of ants, we would stop complaining. But if it was a person’s lot to spend their time aimlessly waiting, then where better a place to do it than here? All one needed was enough money to pay for one’s stay and this damned war would be over as quickly as a summer holiday. There would be nothing to bother us. Only the mosquitos.
SUCH A PITY
The boy was lying on the grass, his eyes closed, his mind blank. Basking in the warmth of the sun, he suddenly forgot where the warmth was coming from.
He thought he heard somebody calling him, ‘Gaby’, and opened his eyes, but the sunlight blocked all feelings and thoughts from his mind. That was why he did not notice how blue the sky was, how green the treetops above. The only thing he saw was a single ladybird. It alighted right next to his head, scuttled on its little black legs across the mossy grass and made for the pupil of his eye, as if it wanted to get inside. The boy was startled by a nearby voice:
‘Gaby? Gaby, where’ve you been?’ Papagaio was leaning over him, his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
‘Get yourself to Reception right away! Hurry! You’ve got a phone call. Hurry! What are you waiting for?’
Gaby jumped to his feet and ran as fast as he could, but it was too late.
‘Tate! Vater!’ he cried into the phone but the connection was dead.
Gaby had been waiting for this phone call since the day he arrived. His eyes welled up with tears.
Renato at Reception had first tried to transfer the call to Gaby’s room, but there was no answer. Then the staff ran out to find him.
While waiting on the phone, Gaby’s father told Renato that he and his wife were still in France, doing their best to obtain the necessary papers and continue their journey. He said that he had been trying to phone every day, but had been unable to get a connection. He promised to come by train as soon as possible.
‘Tell Gavriel to wait for us there, at the hotel. Tell him not to budge. We will come for him,’ Gavriel’s father kept repeating. At least that is what Renato said.
Mr Black stroked the boy’s head.
‘Don’t worry. Everything will be all right... We’re here until they come for you... Papagaio, please take the young gentleman off somewhere... Go on...’
Mr Black had neither an affinity nor the patience for children. He left that to Papagaio, who could tell when his friend was sad, how sad he was, why he was sad, what he should say and do to cheer him up. And he also knew how to console you, more with gestures than with words, by hugging you, ruffling your hair, giving you a rap on the head. He was good at that.
‘Let’s go to the kitchen... My mum is the cook. We’ll say that it’s the manager’s orders, and they’ll give us anything we want – ice cream, anything! Let’s go...’ said Papagaio, giving Gaby a nudge. But the boy didn’t feel like it. Instead of going with his friend, he went upstairs to his room. If he was good, listened to his father and waited here, then nothing bad would happen to him.
Later, over dinner, while the staff were talking about what had happened, Lourdes sighed.
‘Poor thing, it’s not his fault. The boy just went out to play for a bit... I suppose they’ll come if they promised they would,’ she said, wiping away her tears with her apron. ‘The boy can’t be left all alone like this, without his family. And he’s so well behaved. There’s nobody to kiss him good night when he goes to bed. Poor thing.’
DROP BY FOR A CHAT SOME TIME
Gaby’s house in Antwerp was by no means small, but it was much, much smaller than this hotel. In fact, all the houses Gaby had ever been in before – his uncles’, aunts’, grandparents’, even the school and synagogue – were smaller than this building.
Three flights down, Gaby ran into the head of Reception in the hallway. He liked the man very much. He looked like an opera singer, the rotund kind that plays kings:
‘Good afternoon, Senhor Renato.’
‘Goo
d afternoon, young man. How can I help you?’ the head of Reception said with his nicest smile.
‘I’m a little bored all by myself in my room,’ Gaby confessed.
‘Why don’t you go out and take a walk? Fresh air always does one good. Go out, play and don’t worry. If somebody phones I’ll call you, just stay in the courtyard so I can see you,’ the professionally reliable Renato said with a smile.
In the courtyard, some boys were playing hide-and-seek. All but one of them ran off and hid. The one left, covering his eyes with his hands and sticking his head in a bush, counted aloud:
‘Eyns, tsvey, dray... nayntsn, tsvantsik...’ At the count of twenty he turned around and started looking for them. He searched high and low, as if looking for a lost cat, and then suddenly, as if on command, the children came running and shrieking out of their hiding places. The slowest was next to cover his eyes and count.
‘Eins, zwei, drei... achtzehn, neunzehn, zwanzig.’
Another round and then the third boy would start counting:
‘Jeden, dwa, trzy... osiemnaście, dziewiętnaście, dwadzieścia...’
Gaby watched them from nearby. They didn’t notice him. There were enough of them and they didn’t need reinforcements. Anyway, Gaby was not particularly good with children. He knew he wasn’t like them. Even when they spoke the same language, he didn’t get along with them. He liked to ask questions and children didn’t like being questioned because they didn’t know how to give clever answers.
Gaby went back inside, and on his way to the reception desk he noticed an elderly lady dressed in black sitting in an armchair in the corner. Wearing a pearl necklace around her shrivelled neck, she was gazing out of the window, knitting slowly. Tears were trickling down her face even more slowly. The boy pitied the woman and stopped. She noticed him. He smiled. She smiled back.
Senhor Renato was busy at Reception registering new guests. He spotted Gaby out of the corner of his eye and winked. He didn’t say anything, meaning there was no news, so Gaby didn’t ask, he just slipped past.
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