After pausing to lift the lid and cast a glance at the pot, she returned to practical matters.
‘But the two of us have nothing to worry about because I always make enough for him as well, just in case. If he doesn’t want it, somebody else will eat it, nothing is thrown away here...’ said the cook cheerfully, pricking the chicken with her fork again.
‘It’s done. Look, as soft as butter,’ she showed Isaura. ‘See that tray over there? It’s the manager’s. Pass me a plate... Now, you choose a nice piece of chicken like this, not too big, and add a potato or two, not too many, he eats like a bird. There. Then you pour the sauce over it, put the plate on the tray and cover it. That’s it. Now go and ring that bell.’
Not a minute after the bell sounded, there was Bruno at the door. He looked good in his chauffeur’s uniform. The man shaved and changed his shirt twice a day. Waiting for him was a tray bearing a silver dome that looked so impressive you would have thought it was covering a lobster, not a stew.
‘My, that smells good,’ said Bruno, taking the tray and rushing off to give it to the manager, because he wanted to return as quickly as possible and join his colleagues for dinner.
*
Lourdes’ kitchen was known as the ‘little kitchen’ even though it was not that small. It had a stove and china cupboards, and in the middle, a big marble-topped table that, at a push, could seat some twenty people. There was no need for her to announce dinner, because everybody on shift was already converging on the table. Lourdes grasped the handles of the piping hot pot with a teatowel, brought it over to the table and placed it in front of them. She took off the lid and her job was done, at least for the time being. She could relax while they ate. She never ate with the others; having spent all day in the kitchen cooking she had had her fill of smells and tastes. She stood to the side, her hands on her hips, watching them eat.
‘Serve yourself some more, child, that’s not enough,’ she said to Isaura, but the girl was too embarrassed to do anything so Lourdes turned to Rodolfo: ‘Rudi, my love, give the poor girl some more potatoes, look how thin she is, she’s so skinny it’s a wonder the wind hasn’t blown her away... And she works like a horse. Give her some more, and a bit more of that sauce.’
All these people lived in the hotel. Ever since the rooms in the attic had been converted to accommodate more guests, the staff had been squeezed into the basement. The day and night shift receptionists and doormen, for instance, took turns sleeping in the bunk beds. That’s how crowded it was. And although they kept bumping into each other they had so much work that they seldom had time to talk. Except at mealtime.
Bruno would spend much of his working day sitting at the reception desk, or, if it was very busy there, then at the bar, waiting for the hotel manager or whoever else he was supposed to drive. There were various local and foreign newspapers in the hotel and by evening he would have read all the news. As a result, his colleagues were always asking him what was going on in the world.
‘Abroad, the war is heating up. At home, nothing new...’ he would say.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like to talk. Quite the contrary, he discussed events at home and abroad with the hotel manager every day, but he did not like to express any opinions in front of his colleagues, especially not about politics. It never did anybody any good. If it had been the football season, he would have told them the latest scores, because at least that was something one could always talk about. But for now, all he could add was:
‘And the papers say that the Nea Helas will set sail for America in seven days. Which means we’ll have a big new rotation of hotel guests.’
* * *
Gaby arrived for dinner early, ahead of everybody else. Instead of going to his place, by the pillar, he walked through the empty restaurant to the main kitchen and down the side corridor to the rear exit. He stopped in front of the door to the little kitchen, hesitated for a moment, and then quietly opening it, he peered in.
Nobody noticed him slip inside. ‘Bonjour!’ He surprised everybody and they all immediately jumped to their feet, following what they thought was proper etiquette when a hotel guest entered their quarters. Manuel was the first to find his tongue.
‘How can I help you, young man?’ said the doorman politely in French, putting himself at the service of the new arrival.
The young man may have looked shy but, as we have already had occasion to observe, he always spoke his mind.
‘May I eat with you here this evening?’
‘What did he say?’ asked the others who didn’t speak French.
‘He says that he wants to eat with us,’ Manuel translated.
The situation was so strange that nobody knew what to say or do. They just looked at each other.
‘It’s my birthday,’ the boy explained.
‘Well, why didn’t you say so?!’ Manuel said with a broad smile, and then translating for the others: ‘It’s his birthday.’
‘How old?’
‘Ten,’ the boy said proudly, holding up all ten fingers.
Suddenly everybody relaxed. Papagaio, with whom the boy had already made friends, was the first to rush over and hug him. Then the boy shook hands, one by one, with the other men around the dining table, some of whom patted him on the back. ‘May you live a hundred years!’ they said. Lourdes kissed him on the brow. Nodding her head, Isaura congratulated him from the back of the room. And everybody squeezed together to make room for him on the bench.
‘It smells good,’ said the boy politely.
Lourdes had already brought him a plate.
‘If I’d known it was his birthday I would have baked him a cake,’ she muttered to herself.
TRANSCRIPT OF DOCUMENT
STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL
The Honourable Mr Cardoso
Superintendent
Monte Estoril
Lisbon
5 October 1940
LETTER
(added by hand)
POSSIBLY POLITICALLY SENSITIVE!
In the late hours of 4 October 1940, a group of 6 (six) Polish citizens came to stay at the ‘Palácio Estoril’ Hotel, within the territorial jurisdiction of your Unit. The group consists of His Excellency former Prime Minister Mr Ignacy Jan Paderewski (79), his sister Antonina Wilkonska (82), his personal secretary, his driver, as well as His Excellency Dr Selwyn Strakacz (42), the Polish ambassador to the League of Nations, with his wife and young daughter. His Excellency Paderewski is the former Foreign Minister and Prime Minister of the Republic of Poland, and a world-famous musician. Since the occupation of Poland last September, he has become politically active again as head of the parliament in exile.
At 13:00 hours local Portuguese time of that same day, the Prime Minister showed his diplomatic passport at the Badajoz-Elvas border crossing, along with a letter of guarantee from the US ambassador in Madrid stating that the group was in transit en route to the United States. They entered Portugal legally and were given rooms that same evening at the ‘Palácio’: (rooms 37–41).
ORDER
Ensure the privacy and safety of the group. Prevent, at all costs, any politicizing of their presence in the country.
WARNING: The Prime Minister has a bad heart and may also show signs of dementia. His sister has for years suffered from diabetes. Should the need arise, ensure that all members of the group receive medical treatment and care.
For the Good of the Nation!
Chief
(signature illegible)
POSSIBLY POLITICALLY SENSITIVE
On the second day of his stay in Estoril, the former Prime Minister of Poland already had two important meetings in the hotel. In the morning, he met with a reporter from the Lisbon daily Diário de Notícias and explained the humanitarian and political aspects of his trip to the United States. In the afternoon, the J. Carneiro & Brother concert agency offered to arrange a piano recital during his stay in Portugal.
‘My answer is yes, as long as the proceeds go to saving Poland, and
, of course, as long as you do not expect me to play for too long,’ he replied.
His entourage tried to persuade him that the concert would put too much of a strain on his health and they begged him to change his mind, but it was no use. He wouldn’t hear of it. He saw the concert as a chance to embark immediately on his patriotic mission.
‘I dreamed of this, but I never dared hope, at least not before America. I’ve already decided on the programme. I shall open with “The Funeral March”, the symbol of enslaved Poland. Then a few mazurkas. I’ll play two polonaises: the “Military” and the “Heroic”. If there’s an encore and if I’ve got the energy, I’ll play the “Revolutionary Etude”. It’s short and emotive. What do you think?’
The Poles were disapprovingly silent, everybody except for his sister who was thrilled by the idea.
The hotel management had a baby grand piano brought to the former Prime Minister’s room. Paderewski practised with long-forgotten ardour and announced that he did not want to be disturbed. For the next ten days, the strains of romantic piano compositions echoed down the Palácio Hotel’s first-floor hallway until late into the night. His sister was his only audience. She sat barely visible in the green velvet armchair in the corner, mostly dozing, tipsy, purring rather than snoring. Her face was white, her nose red; she resembled a sleeping clown.
*
The hall of the Grand Casino Estoril is an intimate space, exactly the kind of room in which Chopin liked to play. At the appointed hour on Thursday, 7 October 1940, there was not an empty seat in the hall. People who had not bought their tickets in time were allowed to attend the cultural highlight of the season in return for hefty donations to the Polish cause, but it was standing room only. They stood in their evening attire against the wall, trying not to block the view. The evening was not cool enough to justify so many fur stoles, and yet not warm enough to justify the presence of so many bared shoulders. No one could remember ever having seen such a fabulous display of jewellery, not even at the ball given the previous year in honour of the Duke of Windsor.
The lights dimmed. The audience settled down. They spent the first few seconds looking at the piano gleaming under the stage lights. A cry from the audience broke the silence:
‘Wielki Polak! Wielki pianist! Wielki czlowiek!’
And then, as if he was slowly pushed out from the dark recesses of the stage, the artist appeared and stood in front of the audience. The applause was deafening. That he had not expected.
Ignacy Paderewski, once famous for his thrilling performances and charisma, stood in the middle of the stage slightly stooped, blinking under the glare of the lights. Who knows how long it had been since he had had so many eyes fixed on him. Visibly thinner than when his tuxedo had been made for him, his bird-like neck peered out of the starched collar that was now too big for him. His face was drawn, his moustache snow-white. His brow, in a frame of long, almost translucent hair, shone when he bowed. The applause thundered fortissimo.
They knew why they were giving him such a rapturous welcome. The man was a legend. Almost twenty years earlier he had played in front of twenty thousand people at New York’s Madison Square Garden. He had not performed publicly since the death of his wife more than ten years ago. And so the audience felt privileged, especially as everybody was seized with that sad if momentary feeling that this might be his last concert, and if so it would make history.
In the expectant silence, the quality of the acoustics could be judged by the sound of the pianist adjusting his stool. He announced:
‘Frédéric Chopin, Piano Sonata No. 2, opus 35, dedicated to my Fatherland.’
‘The Funeral March’ sounded more funereal than ever. From one bar to the next, it became increasingly clear that the pianist had seen better days. His playing was like the late Romantics – old-fashioned, a bit imprecise, somewhat disjointed. But how else could an old man play? The piano only enhanced this overall impression; it was a good English piano but in places it was out of tune by a fraction of a tone, as if it too had aged. There were shouts from the audience of ‘Bravo! Bravo maestro!’ ‘Vive la Pologne!’ ‘Long Live Poland!’ The pianist had no choice but to stand up.
The ovations were unusually protracted, especially considering that this was already the second bow he had taken and the concert had barely begun. The old man did not mind; he bowed, and the audience kept applauding until he turned around and, waving, walked off the stage. He reappeared a few seconds later, walked over to the piano, sat down and said:
‘In conclusion, I’d like to play for you something truly special: the “Revolutionary Etude”.’
Encouraged by his rapturous reception, the old man’s playing became more confident, more heartfelt, and the audience could feel it. Nobody was bothered by the unintended variations in tempo, or the barely noticeable fact that his right hand and left were not always quite in sync. Born out of indignation and revolt, in support of the Polish rebels against the Russian occupation, the piece conveyed its message without a single word being said. It was not a matter of if, but when Poland would again rise from the ashes as it had done so many times before.
He concluded the piece as abruptly and forcefully as he had begun it. When the old man lifted his hands from the keyboard and the last strains faded from the room, there was a moment of complete silence. Then, like a summer storm, the audience burst into renewed applause. They were on their feet, clapping and clapping and he was bowing and bowing. It looked as if it would never end but at last the clearly exhausted musician made his way off the stage. You could read his lips saying:
‘Merci. Merci. Thank you! Obrigado! Au revoir. Vive la Pologne libre!’
Au revoir? Is that it? It’s over? It really did look like the end, but except for the pianist, nobody moved. They were not yet ready for it to be over. They had had only about ten minutes of live performance and, counting the three interruptions of bowing and applause, it had been less than twenty minutes since the concert began. The tickets were extremely expensive and the programme had promised nine pieces. They had heard only two. The audience whispered and muttered in disbelief but stayed seated. Nobody knew what was happening.
Superintendent Cardoso had been hiding in the crowd from the very beginning. It was his job to pre-empt any undesirable situations or, if that proved impossible, to resolve them as painlessly as he could. An experienced professional, he was able to sense trouble before it occurred. The first time the pianist stepped off the stage, he noticed that he was waving, as if saying farewell to the audience. His suspicions were reinforced when he heard the musician announce the second part by saying ‘and in conclusion’. Although he wasn’t sure he had understood it properly, as soon as the ‘Revolutionary Etude’ finished he took the precautionary measure of slipping out of his hiding place and, using channels inaccessible to ordinary mortals, making his way backstage.
‘Superintendent Cardoso from the Police for Foreigners,’ he said, introducing himself to the Prime Minister’s Polish helpers.
They shared his concern. They too thought that the old man believed he had performed his entire programme. Joining them, the Prime Minister soon confirmed their fears.
‘I don’t remember ever having been so happy and so tired. It was a unique experience but, thank God, that too is now behind us,’ he said, looking drained.
Before the concert Cardoso had had all sorts of ideas about what might happen. He was afraid that somebody in the audience might shout out anti-Hitler and anti-Reich slogans, which would have been unfortunate and hard to control. He combed through the list of invitees to see if he could identify potential provocateurs. Through various channels he passed the word to foreign guests that the police would not tolerate any political demonstrations. He threatened deportation. But it was Paderewski himself he feared the most. The man could use the opportunity to make a political speech or, say, play the Polish national anthem and provoke an incident. Once little things like that leaked into the press they could become extremely
unpleasant, especially for him because the entire circus was taking place within his territorial jurisdiction. His fears had included all sorts of scenarios, but the last thing he had expected was that the old fart would cause him this sort of trouble. Now what?
The policeman took immediate action. First he tried persuading the pianist that it would be good if he could play just a little more. The exhausted Prime Minister paid him no heed; instead, with his sister on his arm, he retired to the cloakroom. That did not surprise Cardoso. His late mother-in-law had suffered from progressive dementia for years and he knew from experience that any attempt to explain to the elderly and forgetful what was happening was almost certainly useless. He knew that he could not count on the evening’s star attraction.
The next burning issue was the audience. He issued orders asking for patience, without giving any explanation or making any promises. Then he turned to the Poles.
‘Sirs, is there perhaps a pianist among you? Somebody who could continue the concert...? No...?’
As there was no answer, the policeman quickly issued another order:
‘Find me the Bulgarian, that violinist from the hotel band. I saw him in the concert hall just now. He was standing by the wall on the left.’
The musician was located and brought to the agent of law and order. Cardoso briefly explained what was expected of him and finished by saying:
‘I would be most grateful if you could accommodate us.’
The terrified Bulgarian merely said:
‘I don’t have my violin with me...’
If he had hoped that this would save him he was wrong. A fleet-footed young man was sent to the Palácio to fetch the instrument. While his collar, shirt cuffs and tie were hurriedly being adjusted, the musician stood there as rigid as a matador being readied to enter the bullring.
The young man appeared on the stage next to the piano, holding his violin. He was wearing a borrowed tuxedo whose sleeves were slightly too short. He bowed quickly, introduced himself with a long Slavic name, said he was a pupil of Mr Paderewski’s, raised his violin to his shoulder and proceeded to play. The young man had done exactly what Cardoso had told him to do. As he was neither a Pole nor a pianist he could hardly have been a pupil of the demented maestro.
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