Page 34 of The Lost Story of Sofia Castello

33

LONDON, 1941

We arrived in London several hours later, and the first thing that struck me as we made our way across the concourse was how normal it seemed – or normal in the context of the footage and films I’d seen of London before the war. The place bustled with people on their way home from work. Suited men in bowler hats and the obligatory umbrellas tucked under their arms, and smartly dressed women in tight skirts and heels. Then I saw a soldier and another and another, with kitbags slung over their shoulders. They all looked so young and their expressions so sober. I wondered where they were headed. Or perhaps they were home on leave. Either way, it was a jolt to the system, and the contrast with Portugal was stark. Back home, people often joked that Hitler would be able to conquer Portugal just by making a telephone call, our lack of military was so laughable.

We emerged from the station, and Mary hailed a black taxicab, the kind I’d seen many times in films, but to see one in the flesh so to speak was a real thrill.

‘The Savoy, please,’ Mary instructed the driver as we clambered into the back.

I watched from the window, my heart in my mouth as we made our way along the London streets. Evidence of the Blitz was all around. There were piles of sandbags by doors and windows, and jagged craters pockmarked the road. I knew from reading the London papers that the large signs with the letter S signalled air raid shelters. We turned up a side street, and I couldn’t help gasping as I saw a building with the entire front blown off. It was like looking inside a giant doll’s house as I saw a living room on the second floor, all the furniture still in place, and pictures still hanging on the walls.

‘What happens to the families who live in the bombed buildings?’ I asked Mary.

‘They have to go and stay with relatives or friends,’ she replied. ‘My poor auntie Beryl had to go and live with her mother-in-law in Harrow after her house got bombed, and between you and me, I think she would rather have moved in with Hitler.’

I couldn’t help laughing at this. ‘Oh dear.’

‘Indeed.’

When we arrived at the Savoy, a bellboy in a pristine uniform came running over to carry my case.

‘I’ll see you to your room, then let you get freshened up before your dinner with Bertrand,’ Mary said as we walked up to the grand main entrance.

As we drew closer, I saw that the glass panels in the revolving door had been painted dark blue.

‘The glass has been painted for the blackouts,’ Mary explained, clearly noting my puzzled gaze.

‘Oh, of course.’

One thing refugees always commented on when they arrived in Lisbon was how great it was to see so many lights shining at night, unlike the rest of Europe, blanketed in blackouts night after night.

‘Wow!’ I gasped as we stepped inside the lobby. I was used to glamorous hotels in Lisbon, but this was beyond anything I’d ever seen. Music and chatter drifted over from a bar at the back.

‘That’s the American Bar,’ Mary said. ‘Feel free to go and have a drink before your dinner if you’d like. The new bombproof restaurant is down the stairs over there.’ She pointed to a doorway. ‘They moved it downstairs once the war started, and it’s right by the shelter, which is down in the basement.’

As Mary checked me in, I pictured the swanky guests all huddled together in a darkened basement. It was certainly the most memorable hotel check-in I’d ever experienced.

Once Mary had got my key, she accompanied me up to my room on the third floor. ‘In the event of an air raid, you need to go down to the basement as quickly as possible, but make sure you take the stairs, not the lift.’

‘Why not the lift?’ I asked, thinking that surely it would be quicker.

‘You don’t want to get trapped in it if a bomb were to hit the building.’

‘Oh yes, of course.’ I wanted to kick myself for sounding so stupid.

‘But it hasn’t been hit since November, so hopefully you’ll be fine.’

‘The hotel was bombed in November?’ I tried saying this as calmly as possible, but my voice came out like a squeak.

‘Yes, they got the roof,’ she says as matter-of-factly as if she was talking about the weather.

As she unlocked the door, I clenched my free hand into a tight fist. The war was becoming more and more real with every second.

‘I had some essentials delivered to your room ahead of your arrival,’ she said, pointing to the huge four-poster bed. It was the kind of bed with curtains around it that kings and queens sleep in in fairy tales. On the bed there was a folder, an envelope and a strange-shaped shiny leather case with a long strap just like the one she was wearing.

‘What is this?’ I asked, going over and picking it up.

‘Your gas mask – just in case Jerry decide to drop a poisoned bomb on us.’

‘Would they do that?’ I stared at her, horrified.

‘Well, they had no hesitation in using mustard gas in the trenches in the Great War,’ she replied. Then, clearly sensing my fear, she added, ‘But, having said that, we’ve had the masks since 1939 and they haven’t gassed us yet, which is really annoying because they’re so cumbersome to carry around.’ She rolled her eyes.

I fought the urge to make a jibe about carrying a container being a hell of a lot worse than a dose of poisoned gas. ‘Perhaps we ought to jazz them up a little, add some sequins or something, to make them a fashion accessory,’ I joked instead, wanting to show her that I wasn’t fazed – although, of course, I was.

‘Excellent idea!’ she exclaimed before checking her watch. ‘I’ll leave you to get settled and freshen up. You have an hour and a half before your dinner.’

I fought the urge to beg her to stay. The prospect of being left on my own in a city under almost constant bombardment was unsettling to say the least. How I wished Judith were there. I felt a wistful pang as I realised that if only I’d been able to keep her safe, I could have brought her with me to England. She might be at the mercy of the bombers, but at least the Nazis weren’t snatching innocent people off the London streets.

I forced my mouth into a cheery smile. ‘OK, great, thank you.’

After she left, I browsed around the room, taking in the velvet drapes and the mahogany furniture and the creamy thick stationery on the desk. But I couldn’t fight the jittery feeling, and much to my annoyance, the loneliness I’d been fighting off at home in Portugal, which I’d hoped this trip would alleviate, rushed back with a vengeance. It must have been triggered by thoughts of Judith.

I went through to the bathroom and saw a sight that instantly lifted my spirits – a beautiful kidney-shaped bath on brass legs with clawed feet. I turned on the taps and searched for the complimentary jar of bath salts. It was smaller than I’d imagined a hotel like the Savoy having. A card had been propped against it – the elegant script explaining that they’d had to cut back due to the rations. I felt a guilty pang that while the rest of Europe was suffering so much, Portugal should have more than enough. As if it would make any difference, I refrained from using any bath salts.

I took off my clothes and stepped into the warm water, and as I sank down, the warmth began soothing me and I got my thoughts in order. I didn’t need to feel guilty – I’d come to Britain to help, and not just by boosting morale through my singing. I thought of the sheet music in my case and wondered when the member of the British SOE, Trafalgar, would get in touch.

I smiled at the code name. What would I choose for my spy name? I wondered. Pastel de Nata perhaps, or maybe Sardine. But before I could think up any more ludicrous names, the air filled with a piercing wail and my skin erupted in goosebumps. It was something I’d heard in films and newsreels but never in real life before. The unmistakable sound of an air-raid siren.