She had not known him to make such an impassioned speech before. He was not addressing her in particular, although he had begun by putting his arm around her and offering his congratulations. A hush had fallen. Adam did not raise his voice, but each word was charged with electricity. He conjured an ideal vision which was common to them all, because they had forged it together; he lifted the curtain on their workaday hardship, revealing the pitiful circumstances in which they were forced to live: the lack of justice in the law courts, the overweening callousness, the snitching that had become the norm, the dearth of all hope and love. Sweeping statements, to be sure, but despite the pathos and the rhetoric, Adam spoke with such conviction that they had to believe him. Shoulder to shoulder, glasses aloft, that fourth day of June, 1941, had felt like a triumph of sorts, a foretaste of what was to come, what would ultimately be theirs.
The evening was perfect, the best Emma had ever had in Germany. Adam was applauded, his eyes shone, he had the air of a soldier called up for service and eager for battle. And with reason: he felt himself a soldier, for all that his battles were fought without guns. The ministries in Berlin were caught up in a guerrilla war between administrators and clerks, divisions and subdivisions, spies and counter-spies. Adam found his arm being twisted by Himmler’s minions on a daily basis.
But on the evening of Emma’s birthday, with the sun’s heat lingering in the gardens of Dahlem and not a single aircraft to be heard, all was clear and transparent. She felt reconciled with the way her life was going, with the empty days without Carl, the anguish of the war, the yearning for a normal existence, for children, for her father and mother. Carl was not aware of her moods of despair. She had never told him, nor had she told him about Watse’s warning. This was her party, her night of radiance, free of all grudge and fear. The radio was switched on and they danced; there was a gramophone, and records of banned singers. Were the windows closed tight, and the curtains? Dancing on a volcano, feet tripping lightly over a floor of flames.
Apart from Lara nobody knew he was going to London. He informed his office that he was spending a few days in the mountains. Swissair B 320 took about three hours to fly to Lisbon. Once there, he had to find some way of boarding a plane to England: quite a challenge, as there was only one flight a day and many prominent individuals seeking passage. Fortunately, the name Desmond Morton worked wonders. At Lisbon Airport he was promptly assigned to an extra flight scheduled for the following evening.
Time was racing by, and Oscar’s desperation grew. It had taken a whole week to get in touch with Morton, precious days in which his information was going to waste. Just as well there had been only one day’s delay in Lisbon. Lisbon, a strange, forgotten city, and at the same time an international laboratory for espionage, and a small paradise for diplomats. Everyone was watching everybody else, in almost unbroken sunshine, in the Cidade da Luz, the City of Light. Should he pay a visit to his friend van Oldenborgh, who organised support for refugees? Another time perhaps, better not attract attention. He avoided the Dutch embassy for the same reason. The last time he called there he had been infuriated by the then envoy, the impossible, pedantic Sillem, the man who failed to lift a finger to help the motley crowd of stranded compatriots, simply abandoning them to their fate. Oscar couldn’t abide him, neither could van Oldenborgh.
