Page 14 of The Lost Story of Sofia Castello

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LISBON, 1940

Well, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse. Yes, I was relatively happy with the life I’d created for myself in Lisbon, but I was still only twenty, don’t forget, and I burned with the hunger for adventure only the young possess.

Over the years, I’ve often thought back to that night and how different things would have been if I’d just said no to Alexandre and gone to bed. But after those dark times in my teens where my world shrank down to my mother’s room, with the spectre of death hovering in the corner, I craved experiences that made my world feel expansive and me feel alive, which is hugely ironic, given that it would all end in me having to die – to the rest of the world, at least. So, I said yes to his offer, and he gave me more details over a bottle of fruity Alentejo.

Essentially, I was given a week to compose a song that was emblematic of the Portuguese experience, then we would meet in his office by the Marques de Pombal and I’d find out if I’d made the grade. If I did, Alexandre would introduce me to one of his musical producers who would put together a backing band so we would go into a studio to rehearse and make a 45 record. And if that wasn’t intimidating enough, I would be invited to sing the song at the opening ceremony of the exhibition, in front of the Head of the Portuguese State no less. Alexandre made it clear that I wasn’t the only singer in the picture and, without naming names, I’d be up against some stiff competition. That didn’t intimidate me though; it inspired me, firing up the spirit of the underdog that has always strained on the leash inside of me.

For the next few days, I decided to forgo my normal morning newspapers at the café, choosing to stay home where there would be fewer distractions so I could focus on writing my song. But there was something about being told to write on demand that caused my imagination to refuse to play. It was infuriating. I tried everything – drinking coffee, dancing around my apartment, praying to Santo Antonio – begging Santo Antonio – but to no avail. I was only able to come up with the most insipid of ideas, and then my fears would start chiming in like an out-of-tune chorus. Maybe all you’re good for is writing about fish. This is what happens when you get ideas above your station. Perhaps you should give up singing altogether and go back to being a varina .

The day before my meeting with Alexandre, in a fit of despair, I left my apartment to try to drown out my fears with the sounds of the city. I made my way down the cobbled street to the bottom of the hill, relishing the rattle of the trams and the ding of their bells and the clip-clop of horses’ hooves pulling their carts of fruit and vegetables to the market. As always, somewhere in the distance there was the melody of a guitar being played. It really was the most glorious cacophony, and unique to Portugal, I was certain, and the beginnings of a song idea began taking root.

I hurried to Praca dos Restauradores where I bought a copy of the London Daily Mail , but to write on rather than read, and dived into the nearest café and sat down at a table. Now I just had to find something to write with.

I glanced around at the other tables. They were filled with men hunched over their tiny coffee cups, talking and smoking, but in the corner, I spied a girl, face creased in concentration as she scribbled away in a notebook. I could tell instantly that she was a refugee. The thick stockings and the knee-length tweed skirt gave it away. Most Portuguese women still wore dresses and skirts that hung well below the knee. I wondered if she had a spare pencil. From the feverish way in which she was writing, I very much doubted that she’d want to share the one she was holding. But I needed to capture my idea on the page before it fluttered away, so I picked up my purse and paper and made my way over to her table.

‘ Bom dia !’ I greeted her cheerily.

She peered at me over her glasses, clearly confused. Her shoulder-length brown hair was jagged at the edges, as if she might have cut it herself.

‘Do you speak Portuguese?’

She looked at me blankly and shrugged.

‘Do you speak English?’ I asked in English, and she nodded with a relieved smile. ‘Excellent!’ I exclaimed. I pulled the other chair out. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

‘Oh – uh – all right,’ she replied in what sounded like a German accent.

‘I have a confession to make,’ I said as I sat down. ‘I do have an ulterior motive for joining you.’

She instantly looked alarmed.

‘It’s not that you don’t look like a very interesting person – you do. In fact, in normal circumstances I would be intrigued to discover what you’re writing about so furiously in your notebook, but these aren’t normal circumstances – these are very urgent circumstances.’

Her look of alarm grew. ‘Why? What has happened?’

‘Oh, don’t worry, it’s nothing to concern you, it’s just that I’ve been trying all week to get my imagination to work, but to no avail. Then, the second I leave my apartment, and all of my writing implements, my inspiration comes flooding back.’

She continued staring at me blankly.

‘What I’m trying to say is, please could I borrow a pencil or pen?’

‘Oh!’ Her face broke into a relieved grin. ‘Yes, of course.’ She rooted around in her bag and produced a pencil and handed it to me.

‘Thank you!’ I put my newspaper on the table and began scribbling ideas in the margins.

‘Would you like a piece of paper too?’ the girl asked, gesturing at her notebook.

‘Oh, yes please, if it’s not too much trouble?’

‘Of course.’ She tore me out a couple of sheets, and we both resumed writing.

I jotted down a list of the sounds of Lisbon, then a list of the sights, and the tastes, then I tried conjuring up the story of someone pining for their senses to be stimulated in such a uniquely Portuguese way again. But once more my imagination refused to play, and I couldn’t think of a compelling enough idea. I stopped writing and took a sip of my coffee. The girl also stopped writing and took off her glasses, which changed her appearance entirely, making her look a lot less schoolmarmish. With her heart-shaped face and freckle-speckled nose, she reminded me of an illustration from a children’s book.

‘My name’s Judith,’ she said, extending her hand.

‘Sofia,’ I replied, shaking her hand vigorously. ‘I’m so sorry, I should have introduced myself before; I was just so desperate to capture my ideas before they disappeared.’

She laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I know that feeling.’

‘Are you a writer?’ I nodded at her notebook.

‘No, I am a botanist. Or, at least, that’s what I dream of being. Plants are my passion.’ She looked down at the table glumly.

‘Are you from Germany?’

She nodded.

‘Jewish?’

She nodded again.

I glanced around for any sign of someone who might be with her. ‘Are you here alone?’

‘Yes. Why do you want to know?’ She stared at me suspiciously.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry; it’s just that you look so young.’

‘I’m seventeen,’ she said defensively. ‘Well, I will be in two weeks. And I’m perfectly able to take care of myself.’

I liked her spirit. I recognised her spirit. ‘Of course you are. I also came to Lisbon on my own at sixteen.’

Her expression softened. ‘Where from?’

‘A town called Ovar, on the north coast.’

She nodded. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude; it’s just that—’ She broke off, casting furtive glances around the café as if she were some kind of fugitive, which of course, thanks to the Nazis, she was. I thought of the girl I’d seen being followed by the German man and my heart ached that this should be happening.

‘No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so inquisitive.’ I wracked my brains, trying to think of something plant related that might cheer her up. The jacaranda trees that line the streets of Lisbon immediately sprang to mind. Their bright lilac blossom with its intoxicating perfume always added a magical air to the city during the months of May and June. I quickly scribbled jacaranda on my piece of paper as another idea for my song. The jacaranda was perhaps the most beautiful of all the symbols of Portugal – surely it would make a fitting subject for my song. ‘Have you heard of Lisbon’s jacaranda trees?’ I asked.

Her face lit up. ‘Oh yes. I only wish I was here to see them in bloom.’

‘They really are something.’ I smiled. ‘Well, in that case, I have a proposition, and a way of thanking you for the pencil and paper.’

‘Oh, there’s no need for you to do anything. I was happy to help.’

‘Yes, there is,’ I said firmly. ‘Because you haven’t just lent me a pencil and paper; you have given me a brilliant idea – or the beginnings of one, at least.’

She gave a smile of surprise. ‘Oh! Well, I’m very happy to hear that, although I really don’t understand how I did!’

‘I’ll explain later, but first I would like to take you to the Ajuda Botanical Garden, here in Lisbon, where you will be able to see the very first jacaranda trees that were planted in the city.’

‘The ones that were brought here by Félix de Avelar Brotero?’ she asked, her brown eyes wide as saucers.

‘If he’s the guy who brought the seeds here from Brazil, then yes,’ I said.

‘How wonderful!’ Her eyes shone with such joy, it stopped me in my tracks. It felt so heart-warming to have such a positive effect on her, especially given the circumstances. ‘When would you like to go?’ she asked hopefully.

Part of me felt that I ought to stay there writing and strike while the pencil was hot, so to speak, but another part, realising how much this meant to her, decided that my songwriting would just have to wait.

‘How about now?’ I asked, and for a moment I thought she might burst into tears, she looked so overcome with emotion.

‘This is so kind of you,’ she said, and again, it caused a bloom of warmth in my heart.

‘Enough talk,’ I said briskly, putting my notes into my bag and handing her back her pen. ‘Let’s go.’

We gathered our things and got up to leave, and as I followed her through the café towards the door, I noticed something that stopped me in my tracks. Just like the girl I’d seen being followed by the sinister German man, Judith was walking with a limp.