The Truth in Our Lies

by Eliza Graham

  ‘Mama always loved her clothes. I remember her dressing up to go out with my father.’

  ‘You must miss her.’

  ‘Yes.’

  I’d never heard Beattie talk about his mother before, hadn’t known she’d been called Uta. I moved towards the folded satin to avoid intruding on the more personal conversation. The afternoon light falling through the window brought out the fabric’s pearlescent shimmer.

  ‘That peach would be a good shade for you, wouldn’t it, Miss Hall?’ Finckler said.

  I smiled. ‘My sister used to say I was hopelessly weak when it came to beautiful clothes.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ he asked. ‘Beauty has its place in the world.’

  ‘You’re both coming over terribly philosophical,’ Beattie complained. ‘Where’s that writing pad of yours, Hall?’

  I handed it to him. He flicked through the pages and gave it to Finckler. ‘Have you heard of this man of the cloth in Zurich?’

  Finckler took out a pair of reading glasses and peered at the words. ‘I have. They say he’s helped people.’

  Beattie took the pad back and gave it to me without further comment.

  ‘He liked you,’ he said, when we were out on the street again.

  ‘Will Finckler stay here much longer?’

  Beattie didn’t answer for a moment. ‘Finckler needs to get on a boat. He’s made too many clothes for dangerous people, knows too many secrets.’

  ‘Is he still saving for a passage?’

  ‘For his niece in Germany.’ Beattie looked over his shoulder. ‘She’s in hiding. He needs to bribe people. He knows it’s probably too late, though.’

  At least we could help him by paying for his intelligence. ‘And it’s from your time in Berlin that you know him?’

  He said nothing.

  I was about to apologise for asking when he spoke. ‘He was a friend of my mother’s. When I found out he was here it seemed like Providence. Run a tape measure round someone, wrap fabrics round them, and you find out all kinds of things.’

  Beattie made an impatient tutting noise as though he was wasting his own time. ‘Let’s get down these diabolical steps and go to Rossio Square for a coffee.’

  My nerves were jingling. I certainly didn’t need any more caffeine, a substance I’d only been drinking in small quantities at home. But I knew better than to demur.

  The café he chose on Rossio Square was large, probably packed at night and still busy enough now. I ordered a cup of tea. Beattie looked on as I added milk. ‘For God’s sake, Hall, you might as well be in Cheltenham.’

  I added a sugar lump to spite him.

  I spotted a slight figure moving over the wavy-patterned tiles and tensed. ‘It’s her – the girl who took your wallet.’ I was out of my chair, slinging my satchel over my chest, moving through the café door, not even waiting for Beattie’s reply. I had the advantage of surprise and my shoes were rubber soled, almost silent on the square’s tiles as I ran after her. The pleats in my dress made it good for running in, something Grace probably hadn’t thought of when she’d made it. The girl turned, heading back towards the Bairro Alto and I followed her, the breeze shifting my veil as I sped up. An elderly woman stared at my suddenly exposed right cheek and hissed a word like ‘bruxa-anjo’. I didn’t know much Portuguese but could guess it wasn’t a compliment.

  The girl must have heard the old woman’s exclamation and guessed that someone might be coming after her. She accelerated into a sprint towards another set of stone steps. Two workmen carrying planks into a run-down shop blocked her path. Without breaking her pace the girl sprang neatly around them. I was fit but this sprint was turning into a steeplechase. My heart pounded as we continued uphill. To the left and right, lines hung with washing over the alleyways and lanes. Paint was scuffed off walls. The smell of the drains made my nostrils twitch.

  I’d left my map on the café table. As my lungs protested I tried to memorise slogans painted on the walls. The pair of red children’s trousers hanging from a line. The bush flowering carmine behind a crumbling wall. We reached the top of the steps. The girl shot right, along a road curving round the hillside.

  Brakes squealed. A man on a bicycle nearly toppled over. Again the girl sprung nimbly around, but it cost her a second. I caught up with her and grabbed the frayed sleeve of her jacket. ‘Wallet – now,’ I gasped before I doubled-over, lungs empty.

  The girl blinked beneath her thick auburn fringe, perhaps in surprise at the use of German.

  ‘The wallet.’ I said it loudly.

  She put a hand into her jacket pocket. I caught the glint of metal before she pulled the knife out.

  4

  My right knee caught the girl’s wrist. She gave a gasp of surprise and the knife fell to the ground. The man on the bicycle muttered an oath and cycled away.

  ‘The wallet. Now,’ I said, stooping for the knife, but still holding on to her sleeve. ‘Before I start shouting for the police and complaining that an illegal alien has turned a knife on me.’

  At the mention of the police the girl’s eyes widened. She pulled Beattie’s wallet out from an inside pocket and handed it over, her face blank. Perhaps she was bracing herself for the arrival of the feared Portuguese secret police. I placed the wallet and knife in my satchel. The girl eyed the street; she would dash away any second.

  ‘Jewish?’ I asked, in a low voice.

  A slight nod of the head.

  ‘The police will lock you up or worse if you steal from tourists.’

  ‘You’re not a tourist,’ the girl said. ‘Nobody’s here for a holiday at this time of year. Everyone wants to go somewhere else.’

  ‘I’m a law-abiding visitor. With a visa.’

  The girl looked amused.

  ‘Whereabouts in Germany are you from?’ I asked.

  She said nothing.

  ‘That’s a northern German accent.’

  ‘Berlin originally,’ she muttered. ‘I moved around.’

  ‘I expect you did.’ I tightened my hold on her. ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘Enough of your questions.’ She tilted her chin upwards. ‘What happened to your face?’

  ‘Incendiary.’ I could almost recite the word now without feeling the emotion that went with it.

  The expression in the girl’s face was unreadable. ‘Where?’

  ‘London. In the Blitz.’

  ‘Does it still hurt?’

  I was surprised that the question didn’t bother me particularly. ‘Sometimes, yes.’

  The girl nodded. ‘That woman called you bruxa-anjo, didn’t she? Know what that means?’

  ‘Something-angel?’

  ‘Witch-angel. Was she right?’

  ‘I’m certainly no witch,’ I said. ‘I mean you no harm. We’re on the same side.’

  The chin jutted up again at that.

  ‘I saw your acrobatic show on the beach. You’re very good.’

  ‘I was a circus performer at the beginning of the war,’ the girl said. ‘The family who owned the circus managed to keep me on for a few years. When they were forced to sack me I went from port to port as a dancer and performer. Not doing . . . that . . .’ she added, flushing. ‘You know, going with men.’ I was leading her downhill now, her sleeve still in my hand.

  ‘So you performed splits and cartwheels for naval types. Sailors, submariners?’ I could see the grimy bars, smell the smoke and spilled beer, hear the raucous shouts and whistles. And in the midst a small, supple figure contorting herself into all kinds of shapes, then whipping round a glass for them to fill with coins, ducking male hands as they groped at her body, or tolerating them if she had to.

  ‘Seamen are generous tippers,’ the girl said, appearing to relax a degree. ‘Even here. You can let go of me now. I won’t run away.’

  I dropped her arm. My skin was pricking as scenes played in my imagination. I could almost overhear snatches of the seamen’s gossip, the juicy bits they couldn’t resist letting o
ut, even while they kept an eye open for the informer who might betray a joker or rumour-monger. This was what it felt like when things came together – ideas, people, histories, messages; when the magic began to work. I watched her closely as we descended the steps in case she made a dash for one of the side streets, but she walked just in front of me, keeping a steady pace. I wasn’t entirely sure I knew where I was going.

  ‘Calçada do Carmo,’ she said, pointing at a steep zigzagging cobbled street below us. ‘It takes us to Rossio Square.’ A flash of amusement passed over her face. ‘In case you’re lost?’

  ‘Tell me the names of ports you worked in,’ I said, to stop her from enjoying herself too much.

  ‘Kiel. Bremen. Hamburg. Saint-Nazaire in France, too, for a bit, when I managed to leave Germany.’ The girl was talking quickly now, seeming almost relieved to tell her story. ‘Some sailors are more . . . open. They’re at sea, they visit foreign ports, hear people talk in a way they don’t at home. Some of the poison misses them.’

  I motioned her across the road.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘To meet my colleague. He’s in a café in the square.’ Her body tensed, but I tugged gently at her arm and we crossed over.

  Beattie was still sitting at the table where I’d left him. I felt a sense of pride that he’d trusted me to catch her alone. Or perhaps it was simply that he’d decided to let me do the sprinting. Around him waiters wiped down tables, darting curious looks at us. I had the distinct impression they recognised our new friend. ‘Three coffees,’ he told them. ‘And a plate of pastries with the custard in them.’ He got up and pulled out a chair for the girl. ‘You look hungry,’ he said in German.

  ‘I’ve been starving since we left France,’ she said, appearing younger and less feral.

  I handed Beattie his wallet, knowing he had noted the ‘we’ she’d used, too.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked the girl.

  ‘They call me Micki.’

  ‘You steal because you’re hungry, Micki?’

  Micki started to say something but stopped, looking down at her shoes: dancer’s pumps with rubber soles. A silver sports car I recognised as a German BMW Roadster slowed as it passed us. A man with short fair hair leered at us before accelerating off.

  Beattie turned his head to watch it drive away.

  ‘I hate them,’ Micki said.

  ‘You’re stealing for someone?’ he said softly, looking back at her. ‘Who is it, Micki? A man?’ He shook his head. ‘No. Someone more vulnerable.’ He put a hand on the girl’s chin and tilted her head, looking into her brown eyes. ‘Your baby?’

  She tried to look away, but Beattie wouldn’t let her. ‘My little brother,’ she said at last. ‘He’s sick. We can’t get a visa for him the ordinary way. I thought a bribe might help.’

  Probably not. Visa numbers were limited, strictly controlled. ‘You might be better off spending your money on a doctor for him,’ I said. ‘Was he with you when you worked in the bars of Bremen, Kiel and all the other places?’

  I said the names of the ports quietly but deliberately for Beattie and felt a buzz of interest from him even though his expression remained neutral.

  Micki nodded. ‘Maxi wasn’t too sick at first. I had money and there was still a doctor who’d see him.’

  ‘How long ago did you leave Germany?’ Beattie asked.

  ‘Nine months ago. Feels like much longer.’

  ‘You’ve done well to survive so long.’

  ‘It’s been hard,’ she said shortly.

  The pastries arrived. ‘Eat up,’ Beattie told her. ‘Then take us to your brother.’

  She stuffed two of the pastries into her mouth, and placed the remaining one in a pocket.

  A taxi took us to a tenement in a south-east quarter of Lisbon called, Beattie told me, the Alfama. The driver let us out before we reached the front door as the house was positioned up yet another set of steps. We ascended, Beattie managing to keep up with us. Micki pointed at a faded and chipped sign on the door advertising a pension. ‘Maxi and I have a room to ourselves. And use of a basin on the same floor. Most of the refugees have been shoved into tourist centres on the coast, but we’re in the centre of town.’ She made it sound as though this hovel were the Tivoli hotel.

  I felt a pang for the girl. Despite her tough appearance, she put me in mind of Grace. It was something about the expression her dark eyes took on when they didn’t blaze with defiance: humorous, self-mocking.

  I resisted the urge to place a handkerchief to my nose as we climbed the stairs. The girl took a key from her pocket and unlocked a door to a windowless room that was probably really a cupboard. There were two beds, or, more accurately, a mattress and a small pallet on the floor. On the ceiling above the mattress someone had screwed in a series of hooks to attach a curtain for privacy. A small, thin boy lay on the pallet, covered in a faded quilt, eyes closed, his skin the colour of paper, his lips slightly parted.

  ‘What’s the illness?’ I asked.

  ‘Tuberculosis.’

  Beattie and I exchanged glances. Short of sending Maxi to a sanatorium in the Swiss Alps, little could probably be done for him now. Even at home people who looked as far gone with the disease seldom survived.

  Beattie took bank notes from his wallet and placed them on the bed. ‘Buy Maxi the best food you can find.’ He turned away from the boy and lowered his voice. ‘Your little brother can’t travel overseas. We’ll pay for him to be transferred to a hospital.’ His words became softer. ‘He’ll be well cared for. We’ll find a room for you close by.’

  Over Micki’s face emotions flickered one after the other: disbelief, grief, resignation and then burning curiosity.

  ‘You want to know why I’m offering this to an impoverished refugee – a pickpocket I’ve never met before?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Here’s the answer. When your brother no longer needs you, you’ll have a visa to fly to Bristol in England. You’ll work for us.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  He put a finger on his lips. ‘This work will, however, commence while you’re still here in Lisbon.’

  ‘I never said I’d work for you.’ She gave him a sideways look.

  He ignored her. ‘Actually, you’ll start this afternoon, while we wait for your brother to wake up. Sergeant Hall will take notes.’

  ‘Sergeant Hall?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Is that what he calls you?’ she asked me.

  ‘My name is Anna,’ I told her, ignoring Beattie’s frown.

  ‘What is this work, Anna?’

  Beattie coughed. ‘German sailors and submariners.’ He pointed to the single chair by the bed. ‘Sit down, Micki, and start recollecting.’

  ‘What do you want to know about the sailors?’

  He smiled at her. ‘Everything. Beer or schnapps? Their children’s nicknames, whether they tell rude jokes about important men and their whores.’

  She scowled at him. ‘Are you some kind of pervert? What do you want to know that stuff for?’

  Beattie and I looked at one another. We couldn’t tell her who we worked for, what we did. But there had to be some way of reassuring her that it mattered. That we could use the names to make our broadcasts more personal. If we knew which men served on which crews we could ask Ciphers to keep an ear open for information about promotions. Congratulations could be sent across the airwaves, further reassuring submariners that we were an official source. Sometimes birthday wishes went down well, too.

  Beattie leant forward. ‘We want to trip them up,’ he said.

  ‘Who’s them?’

  ‘German combatants. And civilians. We want to make them believe things that aren’t true.’

  ‘Germans have been doing that for years.’

  He laughed. ‘But our lies will help us beat them.’

  Some of the tension went from her shoulders.

  ‘So we need all the gossip you picked up as you juggled, cartwheeled and sat on their la
ps.’

  Beattie and I ate dinner that night in a restaurant that almost made me want to weep with its perfect white tablecloths, its aromas of cooking meat and fish, and replete menu cards. ‘We’ve earned a slap-up meal.’ Beattie filled my wine glass. ‘You’ll like this; it’s a red we rarely see in Britain, even in peacetime. This trip has been all I hoped for. And more.’ He sounded warm. When he’d taken an appreciative sip of his wine he nodded at me. ‘You did well catching the girl.’

  ‘Micki.’

  He gave me an amused glance. Of course he remembered Micki’s name. The waiter came over to light the candles on our table. As his lighter flicked in front of me I tried not to flinch. Beattie looked at me. He must have noticed my phobia before, every time he lit up in front of me. These days I didn’t smoke as much as I had done and when I flicked my own lighter, I held the flame as far away from me as possible.

  ‘That little brother of hers looks so ill.’ I swallowed.

  ‘I wouldn’t give poor old Maxi more than a few days. No reason for her to hang on here after that.’ Beattie helped himself to another piece of bread from the silver basket. ‘I’ll push things along so we have Micki on British soil within a few weeks.’

  Micki spoke barely any English and would be mourning her brother as she arrived in a strange country at the end of winter. My concern must have shown.

  Beattie sniffed. ‘Don’t worry about that one. She’s a spitting little alley cat.’ He blinked at my face. ‘I’ll find an expat to give her English lessons while she’s still in Lisbon,’ he said. ‘She looks like a survivor. She’ll pick the language up fast.’

  ‘She’ll have to.’ The broadcasts we produced went out in German, of course, and the teams working on them were all either native German speakers or fluent, as I was. But when it came to ordering couriers or cars to take scripts or personnel to the studio or interrogation centres, English was essential. Apart from anything else, we were forbidden to speak German in the village itself. Too alarming for the locals, who might think we were all a bunch of spies.

  A waiter ushered in a musician carrying a guitar like no other I had seen before – one with a very round body and more strings than usual.