Page 11 of The Lost Story of Sofia Castello

10

LISBON, 1939

After the newsboy’s declaration, Bing and I retreated to a tiny café on a cobbled back street to try to digest what had happened over a cup of coffee.

‘Surely the rest of Europe won’t get dragged into what’s happening in Poland,’ I said, and Bing’s attitude towards me instantly changed. His eyes no longer full of rapture – or perhaps lust would be the more accurate term – he stared at me as if I was the most ignorant creature ever to have walked God’s green earth.

‘Of course they will!’ he exclaimed. ‘Do you really think France and Britain will sit back and wait to be invaded by the Germans? Everyone knows that Hitler’s plans don’t stop at Poland.’

I sat back in my chair, feeling embarrassed and stupid. It was not a feeling I was accustomed to, and I didn’t like it one bit. The truth was, I’d been so concerned with keeping my mother alive and then taking care of myself, I hadn’t paid much heed to world affairs.

‘Yes well, you’ll be all right, you’re an American,’ I muttered.

‘I’m a pilot,’ he snapped, his look of disdain growing.

‘But America isn’t going to get dragged into any European war.’

He leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table, resting his square jaw on his hands. ‘Have you not heard of the Great War?’ he said condescendingly. A shaft of sunlight slanted in through a gap in the shutters, falling on his face like a spotlight. He suddenly looked a whole lot older, not to mention meaner, than he had the night before.

‘Of course I have,’ I replied. He had me on the back foot, but I wasn’t out for the count just yet. ‘I guess being a fighter pilot must be a terrifying prospect when you’re only used to flying passenger planes.’ I leaned back and took a bite of my pastel de nata and an imaginary boxing commentator in my head started going crazy. What a comeback from the dumb kid!

‘I’m not afraid,’ he blustered, his face flushing. ‘I’d be happy to serve my country.’

‘Of course you would.’ Now it was my turn for the condescending tone, and he didn’t like it one bit.

‘Perhaps you should stick to singing, sweetheart, and leave the politics to the men.’

‘Yes, because the men have done such a good job of things so far, haven’t they,’ I retorted before taking another sip of my coffee. Now I had some caffeine in my veins, I could feel my mental agility sparking back to life.

‘Oh no, you’re not one of those women, are you?’ He rolled his eyes.

‘What women?’ I asked coolly, although my blood was beginning to boil.

‘Those women who think they’re just the same as men.’ He took a bite of his tart, and to my immense satisfaction a dollop of the custard filling plopped onto the front of his pilot’s blazer.

I downed the rest of my coffee and stood up. ‘Oh, I don’t think I’m the same as men,’ I replied drolly. ‘I’m not in the habit of putting myself down.’ And with that I turned and marched outside.

It was only when I reached the top of the hill that my bravado faded, replaced with a growing feeling of disappointment in myself, made all the worse by the dull ache between my legs. I’d always dreamed of losing my virginity to someone loving and kind, but I’d lost it to an absolute asshole. After that, Pan Am clippers really lost their shine to me, and imagine my horror when, a year after my supposed demise, Bing was interviewed for a memorial TV show about me, claiming to have been my first love. I mean, really!

I slunk back to my lodgings and took a long, hot soak in a lavender bath. I was too embarrassed to try communing with the spirit of my dead mother about what had happened, so I decided to pray to Santo Antonio instead.

‘Please, Santo Antonio, I beg of you, help me make better decisions when it comes to men and romance. And help me to atone for my sins,’ I added, for extra effect. I was so disillusioned in men that I decided to focus on far more meaningful pursuits. ‘From this moment forth, I shall dedicate my life to helping others less fortunate than myself,’ I promised from the bathtub, inspired by how Santo Antonio had dedicated his own life to helping the poor. ‘And I shall read at least two newspapers every day so that no arrogant asshole will be able to patronise me about world affairs ever again,’ I swore, blissfully unaware of how powerful these vows would prove to be.

The very next morning, I marched down to a café on Rossio Square and read the New York Times and the London Daily Mail from cover to cover. It made for grim reading. Britain and France declared war on Germany three days later, and it wasn’t long before refugees began arriving in Lisbon.

As soon as I saw them emerging from Rossio station bundled up in their woollen overcoats, blinking in the dazzling sunlight like startled rabbits, I also saw an opportunity to atone for my stupidity. I would help these poor people in the best way I knew how – I would feed them. I’d stopped working as a varina about eighteen months previously, but I was still in touch with my friends in the fishing industry. In just a couple of weeks, I’d persuaded a handful of fishermen to donate some of their haul to my charitable cause, and I also managed to convince Joao Paulo to open his taberna to the refugees every lunchtime, where I joined the chef in the kitchen to help cook the fish. Every time I arrived at the taberna, I’d look up at the faded sign of Santo Antonio and say a quick prayer of gratitude for this opportunity to repent.

Of course, someone needed to let the refugees know where they could get their free lunch, so I had some flyers made, and every morning, after my coffee and newspapers, I’d stand outside Rossio station and greet the new arrivals. My experience as a varina meant that I had no qualms about loudly proclaiming things in the street, and I soon had my welcome patter down. The fact that we were able to give these people a relatively safe haven when so many other countries in Europe were closing their borders made me proud to be Portuguese. And the response I got from the refugees was a balm to my soul; every relieved smile and grateful handshake or hug I received helping to heal the hangover of shame and regret I’d been feeling since Bing. It made me realise that I wasn’t a stupid person; I’d simply done a stupid thing, and I was capable of clever and kind things too.

Then, one fateful morning, in early 1940, I learned that I was capable of incredibly brave things too. I’d just welcomed a new train load of German refugees to the city and had headed across the square to have a much-needed coffee.

As I sat down outside the café, I noticed a teenaged girl emerge from the station in a tatty overcoat. Her long dark hair hung down her back in a thick braid, and she was anxiously looking this way and that. Realising that she must have been a straggler from the refugee train, I downed my espresso and got to my feet.

A man in a suit who’d been sitting at the table alongside mine stood at the same time and started heading in the same direction. I thought nothing of it at first. Many people stopped for a coffee on the square before boarding a train. But as we drew closer to the station, I saw that the man was also looking at the girl, who was now moving off towards a side street, walking with quite a pronounced limp, as if she was in pain. To my surprise, the man turned and started heading towards the same side street. Was it a coincidence, or was he following her? Perhaps he was here to welcome refugees too, I thought as I followed them. But, in his smart black suit and fedora hat, he looked more like a businessman, and his blond hair told me that he wasn’t Portuguese.

The girl disappeared down the side street, and, sure enough, the man followed. My pulse began to quicken. Why would a grown man be following a young girl like this? If he knew her, he would have surely called out to her.

The man took something from his pocket, and I saw a glint of silver as the sunlight hit it. My mouth went dry as I realised it was the blade of a knife. What the hell? My fear morphed into anger. I had to protect the girl from this monster. As she limped around the corner at the end of the street and disappeared from view, the man broke into a sprint.

‘Oh no you don’t,’ I muttered, starting to run too.

I rounded the corner to see the man gaining on the girl, who was oblivious to the looming danger.

‘Please, Santo Antonio, help me!’ I silently implored, and as if in direct response to my prayer, a varina appeared from a side street, stepping in between the man and the girl.

‘Stop that man!’ I yelled at the top of my voice in Portuguese. ‘Please stop him!’ I yelled again to the varina .

What happened next seemed to take place in slow motion. The varina stepped out in front of the man, blocking his way, and he crashed into her, sending the basket of fish toppling from her head and all over his suit.

The man started yelling at her in words I didn’t recognise, and as I drew closer, my blood ran cold. I couldn’t tell what he was saying, but I was certain it was in German.

The varina began yelling back at him in Portuguese, and then, to my relief, just as I drew level with them, the man darted across the street – away from us and away from the girl, who was now nowhere to be seen.

I quickly explained to the varina what had happened and ran on, trying to find the girl, but it was as if she’d vanished into thin air. I returned to the varina to help clear up the fish and gave her some money to help cover the loss. But for the rest of the day I couldn’t shake an unsettled feeling. For so long, I’d read about the Nazis and what they’d been doing in Germany and Austria. Had I now experienced it first-hand, on the streets of Lisbon? It was a thought that filled me with dread.