Ivan nodded, impatient to hear what was coming.
‘I have a question for you in that regard... It may be awkward...’
‘Go ahead. Ask. I’ve taken some excellent medicine. A double dose. Nothing is awkward to me anymore. Just tell me what’s happening.’ Ivan was afraid the news was bad.
‘What nationality are you?’
‘Me?’
‘You.’
‘As if you don’t know what I am. I’m a Yugoslav.’
‘You see, that’s no longer an option. Berlin wants to know if you are a Serb or a Croat,’ von Karstoff explained.
Ivan responded in Italian:
‘Scusi, ma che cazzo vuoi?’ he snapped, gesticulating accordingly. ‘What the fuck is your problem?’
Von Karstoff continued speaking in German:
‘Just answer me, please, it’s not funny.’
‘Why does it matter to you when it doesn’t matter to me?’ the Yugoslav continued, speaking in Italian.
‘It doesn’t matter to you?’ said the German now switching to Italian.
‘Not in the least. It’s all the same.’
‘Berlin says it isn’t all the same and is urgently asking for an answer. Why don’t you just say what you are?’
‘I’m telling you, it’s all the same shit. A great Croatian writer once said: “the two nations are one and the same pad of cow dung that the wheel of history accidentally cut in half”.’
‘It’s not the same. One side is with us, the others are against us,’ von Karstoff said, replicating Berlin’s message to the letter.
Ivan thought for a minute. He could not deny that he was a Serb, in other words one of those who were supposedly against the Germans. That could easily be checked. And the Gestapo did not tolerate liars.
‘I don’t know. It’s a complex question. All right, let me explain it to you and maybe you can be of help. So, like you, I was born in Austria-Hungary. When I was seven the empire disappeared and I became a citizen of Yugoslavia just as you became a citizen of Italy. I was christened in the Serbian church, but I’m not a believer. I lived in Dubrovnik, among Croats. I speak both dialects fluently. I have only a Yugoslav passport but there is no Yugoslavia anymore, just as there is no Austria-Hungary. As things currently stand I could try to get one from the Hungarians, based on my property in Baczka, or from the Germans, because Banat, where I was born, has now been annexed directly to the Reich. I could also try in Serbia, I studied in Belgrade; and in Germany, why not? That’s where I got my doctorate, and also I work for you. You tell me, what should I choose?’
‘Ivan, I want to keep players like you in the team, believe me. It’s in my interest to find an answer acceptable to Berlin. So, help me out here and tell me: which is closer to the truth – Serb or Croat? I will write down whatever you say.’
‘Neither. If I’m allowed to choose then write that I’m a Ragusino.’
‘Just explain to me what the hell that is,’ the German said.
‘That means I’m from Dubrovnik. Say that and you won’t be lying. I grew up in Dubrovnik and if I weren’t here right now I’d probably be there. As far as I know my family is there. You can also say that for hundreds of years Dubrovnik was an independent republic, Ragusa. That they call us the sette bandiere because we’re fickle and submissive to power. You can add that I am a Christian. That I am not a Jew. They’re bound to like that.’
Von Karstoff looked up from his notes. When he caught his eye, Ivan said:
‘Do you realize how cruel you’re being?’
Now it was von Karstoff’s turn not to understand. Ivan lit a cigarette and gave himself a few seconds, as if rethinking everything.
‘Since war broke out back home, and it’s now into its eleventh day, I haven’t been able to sleep or eat or think about anything else. When you phoned, I was afraid you had news about my family. Good or bad. The last thing I expected was that you would harass me with stupid questions like this.’
‘I’m sorry...’ von Karstoff muttered.
Ivan fingered his face as if removing an invisible spider’s web.
‘Remind Berlin that I am satisfied with our co-operation and would like to keep it that way. Especially now when I need your help...’ The words came out of his mouth in a cloud of smoke. ‘I hear that it’s chaos over there in Yugoslavia. People are dying. I don’t know where my family is. They’re not in Dubrovnik and they’re not in Belgrade. It would be an understatement to say that I’m worried. Please do what you can to make sure that nothing happens to them. Protect them somehow, if you can. Protect their lives. The property’s not a problem. I’m begging you. Tell them to have Johnny do something to protect them, he has all the addresses. Please: be a friend.’
‘As far as that goes you can count on me, and I’m sure on the entire service,’ von Karstoff said.
The report sent to Berlin on the meeting included the following:
Ivan is bitter about the politics in his homeland and refuses to identify with either the Serbs or the Croats, whom he calls dung. He claims he is a citizen of the Republic of Dubrovnik, a statelet that ceased to exist after the Napoleonic wars. (...) Ivan is under enormous stress, he does not know what has happened to his closest relatives in the war zone. He openly asked us for help. In my opinion, everything should be done to locate his immediate family and bring them to Belgrade. And to make their lives as comfortable as possible. Please contact the Viking, he knows all the details and can be of great help. Our supervision of their safety is a huge argument in our favour, if Ivan were ever to think of betraying us.
The report was intercepted by the English service. They never mentioned it to Popov. They couldn’t, because of Enigma.
EVERYBODY COMES TO BLACK’S
Superintendent Cardoso no longer has either the energy or the health to slave away like this from dawn to dusk. And he has been doing it without a break for more than a year. He is sick and tired of everything and not a day goes by that he doesn’t pine for the pre-war days when Estoril was a seaside resort for gamblers and the rich. Even in peak season there was never as much work as there is now. And the inspector is already fifty-three years old.
He consoles himself by thinking of his colleagues who have been assigned to working class suburbs to watch the poor, with people whose minds have been poisoned by unlawful ideas. Cardoso has been lucky that way. He does not have to interrogate or slap anybody around. A very special class of people, not easily troubled, comes to the Estoril Riviera. They just have to be kept as far away as possible from the locals to prevent the spread of any harmful influences alien to the Portuguese mentality. It is not just about indecent swimsuits and women who smoke and go alone to cafés. It is about much bigger issues.
A professional of Cardoso’s calibre knows that the secret to success in this job is to have a good grasp of the situation in the field. And that he has. In principle, he can tell you at any moment who is who in Estoril and what they do. If somebody in particular catches his eye, he is capable of finding out by the next day whatever there is to know about the person: his health, finances, the neighbours’ impressions, down to the smallest details about his family, social, business and sex life. If there is anything to know, Cardoso will find out. How? Only he knows how.
Cardoso knows, but he keeps it mostly to himself. He doesn’t create problems where there are none. For instance, there is no way he would not know that the musicians in the Palácio band are foreign nationals working at the hotel for black money. He knows but will not do anything unless somebody complains about them. He feels that it is never too late to arrest or deport someone, and even when he is forced to intervene, he always tries to be as discreet as possible. Cardoso is also aware that numerous intelligence activities are taking place right here under his nose. Generally speaking, he also knows who the agents are and who they are working for, but again he does not meddle in the affairs of people who know the meaning of moderation and good taste; in other words who do not draw attention to
themselves or interfere in the affairs of Portugal.
Cardoso has the ease of manner and speech of a priest. His polished ways and tact set him apart from his colleagues, who are themselves mostly educated men (it is hard to enter the service if you haven’t finished ninth grade). The inspector comes from good stock. He is the youngest son of an appellate court judge. He started Law School in Coimbra but for reasons unknown dropped out close to graduation. He got married and did not go back to university. Because of his knowledge of foreign languages, he hardly had to pull any strings to get into the PVDE. He found work in the section for foreigners. His daughter was born a few months later. He has been head of the Department for Estoril for more than ten years now. Everybody in the service envies him but nobody questions his ability.
Dinner is coming to a close at the Palácio and the music programme is about to start. As usual at this hour, we find Cardoso sitting in his regular place at the bar of the hotel restaurant, carefully scanning the room as if it were a stage: the actors in their tuxedos, the actresses in their evening gowns. The hustle and bustle drowns out the dialogue. It does not matter, the speeches are just meaningless polite words of flattery. Nothing important is likely to be said here this evening, and if it is, it will reach his ears in time, through the usual channels.
There is Bruno arriving. He has finished work for the day. But he is still in his uniform, just in case. He has taken off his cap. Unless prevented by work, he too comes here around this time almost every day, sometimes a bit before, sometimes a little later than Cardoso. The civilian in uniform and the policeman in civvies sit together at the tail end of the bar, where they have a good view of the room and can make a quick exit. They usually each have a drink, just one because neither employer allows alcohol on the job. They say what they have to say before eleven, when the music starts. Then they listen to a few numbers and quietly slip away, each to their own home.
Bruno is considerably younger than Cardoso. He is Portuguese too, but of a different kind. He was born in a village, in a semi-desert region south of the river. His father was a day labourer, working as a harvester of cork; his mother was a housewife, had children, grew vegetables in the garden and fed the poultry and one pig a year. She gave birth to a large number of children; a few survived. Like most poor people with an intelligent child of fragile health, when Bruno finished the fourth grade his parents sent him to a seminary in Lisbon. The city impressed him more than the school. He did not want to be a priest, but a waiter; he liked the elegant way they dressed. His wish came true when he ran away from the boarding school. He was sixteen years old. Adroit, literate, nice-looking and polite, he found a job on a cruise liner that happened to have sailed into port. He worked as a barman on the ship for quite a while, sailing around the world several times.
Bruno arrived at the Palácio shortly after it opened. Black himself brought him in. That was all Cardoso knew about him. He never learned where the two met, but they seemed to get on very well, as if they had known each other all their lives, so he decided that they must have worked together before somewhere. But after asking questions and comparing their two files he was none the wiser as to when and where that might have been.
When Bruno joined the hotel staff, the Crown Prince of Japan and his wife were holidaying there. Cardoso’s very first contact with Bruno was in connection with the royal couple. Bruno proved to be of great help because he knew about unusual Japanese customs and was even able to say a few words in Japanese. From the very outset the inspector realized that the new manager’s driver could be very useful, and he tried to get closer to him, hoping to recruit him for the service. But Bruno refused even to discuss the subject. Still, the two men continued to see each other at the bar almost every evening. Over the past several years, they seemed to have developed a relationship that might almost be called a friendship.
* * *
‘Bruno,’ Cardoso almost whispered, ‘you wouldn’t happen to know who these officers are, would you?’
Six German officers of different ages and ranks were sitting at a large table in front of the hotel band.
‘They were here last night, too, but you missed them. They came after you left and stayed until closing time. It seems they’re not real military, they’re artists serving in the army. The talk in the hotel is that in private life they are singers, probably opera singers.’
‘Ah yes, I heard that.’ Cardoso pretended to be just checking his facts. ‘They’re off to North Africa to entertain the troops at the front, right? Are they celebrating something?’ the inspector continued in a confidential tone.
‘I think they’re celebrating the birth of a baby...’
‘You’re right!’ said Cardoso as if just remembering. ‘One of them got a telegram today. So many things pass through my hands it’s no wonder that I forget half of them.’
The evening seemed to be going quite well, as it usually did at the Palácio, and around eleven-thirty Cardoso went home for a well-earned rest. He had to go to work early the next day.
Meanwhile, the Germans behaved as if they were at a concert. They listened to the music more than they talked. Except for the modest if sincere applause, they were very unassuming, and yet they caught everybody’s eye. In those uniforms they could hardly do otherwise. But wonders last only so long: yesterday they were an eyesore, today everybody seemed used to them, and by tomorrow nobody would even notice them anymore.
That evening the band’s playing was more spirited than usual. They sensed that fellow musicians were in the audience or people who loved and knew about music. They were buoyed by the attention and the accolades. Yet, a certain nervousness could be detected among the musicians. A fair number were Jewish and the Germans’ odious military dress understandably struck fear in their hearts. Meanwhile, the German officers at the table were already on to their third or fourth bottle of champagne.
‘Für meine Tochter, Maria! To my daughter Maria!’ they said and raised their glasses in a toast, confirming that Bruno’s information was correct.
After more toasts, urged on by his colleagues, the child’s father, the shyest in the group, went over to the bandleader and whispered something in his ear. The bandleader sent for the manager. After a brief conversation with the young soldier, Mr Black gestured for him to step onto the stage. As he did so, the German whispered something to the bandleader, stood in front of the microphone, squared his shoulders and clasped his hands halfway across his chest, as if fingering worry beads. The room fell silent.
‘Pour ma fille Marie!’ he repeated, in French this time, just to make sure that everybody understood him.
After the first notes on the piano, played lento assai, the fair-haired, boyish-looking man, already father to a child he had yet to meet, stood in front of the restaurant audience. Looking up as if he was turning to heaven, he sang exactly the way Schubert had written on the score: sempre marcato, dolce, molto espressivo.
‘Ave Maria, Maria gratia plena, Maria gratia plena, ave, ave Dominus, Dominus tecum...’
Then one by one his colleagues rose from the table and walked over to join him in singing the prayer, very softly, as Schubert had instructed – gli accompagnamenti sempre dolcis.
‘Benedicta tu in mulieribus et benedictus, benedictus fructus ventris tui, ventris tui, Jesus...’ he sang, sempre redolcendo.
‘Ave Maria, Mater Dei,’ came the words in Latin, the language of all and none.
There was no end to the applause. The soloist bowed humbly, his hand on his chest. His colleagues joined in the applause. It was not the repeated calls for an encore that made them want to sing another song; it was that musicians, even in uniform, understand what the audience is saying when it applauds like that. On the other hand, they did not forget that they had invited themselves onto the stage. They looked at each other as if unsure whether it was appropriate for them to sing some more and if so what they should choose. Just then somebody cried out in English-accented French:
‘“Lili Marle
en”, s’il vous plait!’
The officers exchanged looks. They did not seem inclined to sing this very beautiful, but very German song. Without warning, the bandleader acted on the idea. The trumpet sounded a few notes, like the brass call to reveille. Then the band came in, followed a second later by the warm baritone of a man bearing a lieutenant’s insignia on his shoulders, singing the nostalgic song about a girl waiting under the streetlamp.
‘Vor der Kaserne, Vor dem grossen Tor...’
The song, in a melancholy alto version, was broadcast every evening on Soldatensender Belgrad, the German military radio station in occupied Belgrade. Soldiers on both sides listened to it. The song could even be heard at balls in Estoril, but just in its instrumental arrangement, because that was the only way the bandleader might agree to play it. Then he did not have to think about uniforms.
They had barely begun the song when they were interrupted by some commotion at one of the tables. Carried away by a drunken sense of patriotism, the correspondent of an English newspaper rose to his shaky feet and pushed his way to the stage, knocking over a chair on the way.
‘Stop! Stop that rubbish!’ he shouted.
The bandleader froze. The music stopped. The musicians looked disheartened; these refugees did not want any trouble. But the reporter kept shouting:
‘Play “Hitler Has Only Got One Ball”! What are you waiting for?! Play it!’
Since the bandleader did not react, the Englishman took matters into his own hands and started shouting at the top of his lungs:
‘Hitler has only got one ball.’
It turned out that there were several Englishmen in the room, probably officers in civvies.
‘Himmler has something sim’lar.’
And suddenly the whole room burst into song. That is what happens when people not particularly keen on going to the front pick up on an idea and are given an opportunity to show, without repercussions, whose side they are on. They sing as one, at the top of their lungs, carried away by a spirit of patriotism and anti-fascism; they feel they have to support the just efforts of those waging battle in their name and for their sake, in whatever way they can.
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