The manager immediately received his driver in his office.
‘Welcome home!’ he said warmly. ‘As far as I’m concerned, you can go back to your old job tomorrow, if you want. Anyway, Armando is always saying he wants to retire, to go back to his village. Or maybe you’d like some rest first? Maybe it’s better if you get some sleep, get your strength back. There’s no hurry; your room is waiting for you, you can move in and when you feel the time is right you can start work.’ The manager was leaving all options open to him. He was talking too much. Bruno’s answer was brief:
‘I’ll start work tomorrow. Thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me, Bruno. Please, there’s no need.’
‘Thank you,’ Bruno repeated.
‘You don’t know how hard it is for me to hear you keep saying thank you,’ the manager confessed.
Bruno did not say anything. Perhaps he knew, perhaps he didn’t.
Anyway, they were both glad to see one another, although their conversation was rather stilted; they had become somewhat strangers, they did not know where to begin. If you see a face after nine months and barely recognize it, you wonder if nine months is long enough for someone to go to ruin like this, for his face to go dark and his hair white. There are so many things you want to ask him, but you say nothing.
‘All right, I’m off then,’ said Bruno, about to get up, when Black stopped him.
‘I’ve got something for you.’
He gave him a large envelope, the kind given to a prisoner upon release, containing his watch, belt and shoelaces.
‘I’m sorry. They opened it. The police open everything,’ said Black.
Inside was another envelope, the size of a sheet of paper, and a small box. The envelope was white, impressed with a swastika. It was addressed, in Gothic script, to Bruno. The box was black leather, square, shallow, bearing the same impression of a hooked cross in the centre of a wreath.
Bruno opened the box first. Lying on the white silk lining that bore the gold insignia of the Reich was a medal in the shape of a cross, such as Bruno had seen, he remembered it vividly, on the plane that had crashed. Each of the four fields between the arms of the cross was studded with a small metal eagle carrying wreaths and crooked crosses in its talons. The accompanying letter was in German and consisted of only two long sentences. He did not understand what it said, but he saw at a glance that it was addressed to him, signed with the words DER FÜHRER and had a stamp with the same eagle, wreaths and swastika, but no words. He closed the box, returned the letter to the envelope and put it down on the desk, as if giving it back to his boss.
‘That’s yours,’ Black said. ‘The Order of the German Eagle third class. They give it to foreigners whose noble actions have in some way helped Germany or its people. Third class is a high order, especially if you’re not a politician or a diplomat.’ He did not know what else to say.
‘That’s not what I did it for,’ said Bruno, rising to his feet. He said goodbye and left. The envelope remained on the desk.
At dinner Bruno did not talk much about his absence. And none of his colleagues asked much, either; they did not want to open old wounds. The manager had already told them what had happened and why he had had to leave so suddenly. His mother had fallen ill unexpectedly, and he had had to go and take care of her because there was nobody else to do it. If anybody doubted this story, their suspicions were dispelled when Cardoso confirmed it, saying that it was he who had informed Bruno of his mother’s illness and had helped as much as he could with his transport.
At the hotel, only the manager and the inspector knew the truth, a rare instance of it not leaking out. For the past nine months Bruno had been undergoing re-education. As an agent of the Comintern, he had been thrown into prison without trial. They had tortured him so badly that he went deaf in one ear, and they kept at it until they beat that damned Rodriguez out of him. Then they beat him some more, to make sure that Rodriguez was gone forever.
Had it not been for Cardoso and Black, working closely together this time, each in his respective world, pulling whatever strings they had, Bruno would have probably wound up like many of his comrades – in the notorious island-prison of Tarrafal in the middle of the ocean. It was there that the regime sent its most dangerous enemies for long stretches of time.
At nine-thirty that evening, Bruno and Cardoso ran into each other at the bar. Like Black, the inspector was happy to see him. They sat side by side but did not talk, which had been known to happen before. But as Tonio said: there are different kinds of silence. This time the silence did not imply a deep understanding, like between two friends, it was a silence of tension. They sat it out until they finished their whiskies. Bruno was the first to get up and head for bed.
‘I have to get up early tomorrow morning and drive Gaby to school,’ he said.
‘Go ahead. You need your rest,’ the policeman said.
‘And... I mustn’t forget to thank you for everything you did for me.’
‘You’re welcome. Don’t let me down. Please... I hear that you didn’t take the German decoration they gave you. I would reconsider if I were you. It’s not just that it’s an honour... it could also be useful. Believe me, it was enormously helpful in making your absence so brief...’
‘There’ll be no need for it anymore,’ said Bruno. ‘Let the manager hold onto it. It’s safer with him.’
It seems that it takes nine months for one man to turn into another.
*
Washing the dishes after dinner the next evening, Lourdes said to her assistant:
‘See, Isaura, what happens to an old man who is left motherless? Unrecognizable. Honestly. He doesn’t even read the papers anymore.’
IN BETWEEN TWO HISTORIC PHOTOGRAPHS
The previous June, the Allies had landed on the beaches of Normandy, surprising the Germans. The landing had been a success. Despite steely resistance, the Allies had taken back one town after another. They were welcomed in Paris by the ringing of all the city’s church bells and by an ecstatic people. They danced, they sang, they shaved the heads of women who had taken up with enemy soldiers during the occupation. Towards the end of the year the Allies advanced to the Ruhr River, where a consolidated German defence blocked their way forward. They set up camp for the winter and replenished their ranks.
When the snow melted and the roads reopened, the Soviets pushed forward from the east. The tactical maps hanging on the walls of both sides’ military headquarters showed red flags moving towards Berlin from both the south and the east.
At the beginning of April, the Allies finally launched a new offensive. They broke through the front in Italy and made it to Bavaria in one fell swoop, encountering almost no resistance. In Milan there was a ridiculous sight to behold: il Duce hanging from his feet in front of a petrol station.
On 25 April 1945, American and Russian troops came face to face on the Elbe River. For the ‘formal handshake’, each side chose a striking-looking officer to go to Torgau, on the west bank of the river, to cordially greet each other in combat uniform in front of the photographers, with the American and Soviet flags showing in the background. This historic moment was immortalized in an unintentionally amusing photograph that was published the world over under the caption ‘Handshake of Torgau’.
Both Stalin and Churchill were pleased by this symbolic meeting and said they were sorry that President Roosevelt, who had worked with them towards this end, had not lived to see victory. He had died two weeks earlier of natural causes. Hitler outlived him by eighteen days, during which time, crazed more than ever by the cocaine eye drops he was taking, he issued increasingly mad orders and made increasingly insane decisions. He committed suicide in his bunker on the last day of April 1945, when the Soviets were within firing range of the Reich’s offices. His body was reportedly set ablaze.
But in Portugal everything rolled along as usual. The national press continued to write about the war as impartially as possible, though it made scant menti
on of the term neutrality, as if the word had in the meantime lost meaning. Editorials discreetly rejoiced at the Allied victory, issuing strong warnings about the bogeyman of communism, the biggest threat to Western civilization.
For some time now, the atmosphere at the Palácio hotel had been nowhere near as hectic as it had been. Foreigners still accounted for most of the guests, but there was no longer the tension that had existed at the start of the war. A good sign that things were slowly settling down was the increasingly noticeable absence of the police at the hotel. Cardoso did not drop by as often as before and did not stay long when he came. He had not had an official meeting with the manager for weeks. So, they were rather surprised at the Palácio when the superintendent of the PVDE appeared early on the morning of 3 May 1945 and asked to see the manager.
Cardoso walked into Black’s office with a broad smile on his face. He looked pleased. He accepted the offer of coffee and lit up a cigarette along with his host, who could not for the life of him imagine what the man wanted.
‘I see that you haven’t yet managed to carry out the orders of the Council of Ministers,’ said Cardoso.
Black did not know what he was talking about.
‘What orders?’
‘This morning’s,’ said the policeman. ‘You don’t know? Here, take a look!’ Cardoso took a newspaper out of his pocket, searched the pages, found what he was looking for and read aloud:
In connection with the death of German Chancellor Adolf Hitler, the government has declared three days of mourning and ordered that flags on public institutions and our naval ships fly at half-mast from this morning until noon tomorrow.
Black thought that the policeman was trying to provoke him again. He just did not know in connection with what.
‘That strikes me at this moment as a rather unusual decision,’ he observed.
‘I, Sir, do not question orders, I carry them out. That is my job. In this particular case I don’t see what is unusual about it. It is the law and custom here to declare mourning when a statesman of a friendly country dies in office. We are a neutral country. As long as Germany exists and we have diplomatic relations with it, we will act according to the law. And we are not alone. Look, it says right here in the newspaper,’ he said, slapping the paper with his hand, ‘all neutral countries have done it. See, it says here: Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, Ireland. Even the Vatican, so we have to do it too.’
Black stared at the desk in front of him. It did not pay to defy the unreasonable representative of an even more unreasonable regime. He took the newspaper and read it to himself. He found a legitimate argument.
‘The order applies only to public institutions. This is a private hotel.’
‘That’s where I’ve got you!’ the policeman laughed, perhaps a little too loudly. ‘That’s what I first thought this morning, but then I remembered that when I came by here a few weeks ago, after President Roosevelt died, I was surprised to see the flag at the front door flying half-mast.’
‘So? What about it?’
The policeman did not want to argue over it anymore.
‘I don’t think it’s appropriate for us to waste time discussing matters that are not for discussion, so let’s just carry out that order − it doesn’t cost us anything − and then nobody will be able to say that we took sides,’ he laughed, ushering Black outside.
‘Rodolfo, please bring a ladder to the front door,’ he said. The manager said nothing.
When the young man came with the ladder, Cardoso told him where to place it.
‘See our flag up there? Lower it down a little. A bit more... That’s it. Thanks very much, young man.’
The manager said nothing.
‘There you are. That’s fine. Now everything is as it should be,’ Cardoso said. He was pleased and decided to explain his actions to the manager.
‘You know, Mr Black, this is not a whim on my part; it is government policy. And this is an old and serious state. We preserved peace and dignity and maintained our neutrality all through the war. It wouldn’t be nice if at the last moment we ran over to the winning side. You must admit, it wouldn’t speak well of us, would it?’
*
A day or two after this incident took place in Estoril, another historic photograph was taken. It showed a Soviet soldier flying a red flag on top of the Reichstag, looking out at the destroyed, smouldering city.
THE WAR IS OVER
In the evening, the radio announced that the Third Reich had capitulated. In the morning, it reported that the German army had unconditionally surrendered to the Allies, and by the afternoon that people were celebrating in the streets of London, New York, Paris and Moscow.
Portugal may not have taken part in the war, but fireworks went off in Lisbon and the people celebrated spontaneously. They had an honest love of peace. The loudest celebrations were in front of the embassies of the victorious powers.
Looking out from his fourth-floor office window, Jarvis, now a major, gazed at the steep Rua da Emenda, crowded with people from wall to wall, from top to bottom. Men, squeezed together like at a football game, were shouting slogans, calling out, waving American, British and Portuguese flags. There were no women; such frenzied demonstrations were no place for them, but by the afternoon they had filled the Corpo Santo church a few blocks down the hill. They were celebrating a Te Deum. At eight in the evening, when people left the streets to go home for dinner, Jarvis drove to the British embassy where there was a party. He did not write a report that day. It was over, there was no need for one anymore.
Although the demonstrations were essentially peaceful, the authorities were nervous. Reports were coming in to the PVDE’s central office, warning of possible provocations. Words like anarchism, liberalism, extremists, mercenaries were being bandied around in police circles like swearwords. It was being said that ‘unless the popular mood of celebration was carefully channelled things could turn ugly’. Plainclothes agents milling in the crowds did their job more zealously than ever. They took down the names of anyone inciting unrest and disobedience. The arrest lists included intellectuals, workers, artisans, some already known to the police, others not, such as a certain pub-owner in the small town of Régua, whose offence was that he had given some young men a free demijohn of wine who had then got drunk and started cursing Dr Oliveira Salazar. Unfortunately, the men were not arrested because nobody was able to identify them; they were not from Régua.
Shouts of ‘Democracy!’ and ‘Freedom!’, even ‘Long Live the USSR!’ were heard in a number of places in the country, especially in the industrial outskirts of Lisbon, but it was impossible to recognize the voices in the crowd and the culprits remained anonymous. A red flag with a hammer and sickle was hoisted onto an elementary school in a village in Alentejo, in the semi-feudal agricultural south of the country. The incident was taken care of without any fuss and bother: the caretaker took down the flag but the police were duly informed. A travelling locksmith, a well-known agent provocateur, was one of the people arrested and beaten up.
They celebrated for two days, and who knows how much longer they would have gone on had somebody wiser not said ‘Enough’ and forbidden any more celebrations. Luckily, everything went smoothly and did not cause much of a commotion, for which we can thank the organs of law and order.
* * *
The situation in Estoril on Victory Day was calm. Cardoso was on full alert but there was only one isolated incident and that was when a young man, a shoemaker’s apprentice, got drunk and started shouting slogans in support of Soviet Russia and Comrade Stalin. He was immediately arrested and spent the night in jail, where he was slapped around, told that the Bolsheviks eat children for breakfast, and eventually sent back to his parents to be re-educated. He was just fifteen and a half years old.
At the Palácio, the Victory Day celebrations were livelier than on any other holiday. The hotel’s clientele was such that they celebrated more discreetly; they showed their feelings by opening more bottles of
champagne than on New Year’s Eve.
In the small kitchen, Lourdes had prepared roast lamb and potatoes for dinner, and made a cake with jam; she had not waited to be told by Mr Black. And so the staff celebrated the end of the war with a real feast and a glass or two of wine. Nobody was going to hold it against them on a day like that.
Gaby dined with the staff that evening. He was almost fifteen years old and felt important. For the first time in his life he felt he was witnessing a historic event. He listened to the radio, read the newspapers, remembered what the adults were saying. He hoped that now his parents would be able to come looking for him, or he for them. But he said nothing to anyone.
* * *
In the morning, the phone rang at Quinta dos Grilos. The maid answered:
‘Hello! Hello!... Monsieur Gradimir!’
Gordana jumped up from the breakfast table to take the call.
‘Grada, is that you?’
‘We’ve won the war!’ came the words out of the receiver.
‘Grada, where are you calling from?’ asked Gordana.
‘Grada! Is it Grada, my son, my boy?’ Radmila wept, grabbing the phone from her daughter.
Grada could not tell them where he was. He had simply called to say that he was alive and well and that Lila was also fine. And that the war was over.
‘My babies are alive and well!’ Radmila cried out, weeping with joy.
* * *
It was not until several days later, when things had calmed down and everyday life had resumed, that Superintendent Cardoso, dressed more formally than usual, appeared again at the hotel. He brought a good bottle of wine with him.
‘Well, Black, the war is over. I’ve come to congratulate you on victory, both as an American but also personally,’ he said and kept shaking his hand. ‘For me, you, Sir, are personally one of the winners in this war.’
‘What are you saying?’ said Black, managing to retrieve his hand from Cardoso’s steely grip.
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