“I may,” Otto said cryptically. “If you are free to talk.”
“I’m here all day,” Ava replied.
He inclined his head, then led her to a wooden table in the sunshine where he gestured to a chair for her as he sat in one himself. “You are an American librarian, yes?”
“I am. My name is Ava Harper.”
His teeth clicked onto his pipe as he inhaled slightly, nodding in greeting. The scent of the tobacco was sweet, reminiscent of her father as he pored over various texts late at night with a snifter at his side and a pipe pinched in his mouth. The image flashed in her mind with a pang of heartfelt fondness.
Otto blew out a stream of smoke and cradled the polished bowl of the pipe in his hand. “You are here to gather publications, as I am to understand it.”
“That is correct.” She sat forward. “I find value in clandestine presses. I’ve been reading several, especially Combat, and have found them to be most informative.”
He nodded. “I am partial to Combat myself. It is for soldiers and intellectuals. I was a soldier in the Great War. And an intellectual…” His head tilted. “I’d like to think I am.” He smiled at his humble statement and lifted his forefinger. “But what if I have something far greater than a newspaper?”
“What do you have?” She tried to keep her tone casual. There was always a game of patience when it came to obtaining important documents and texts, a sense that being overeager might push it from her grasp.
Dry leaves rustled overhead, and the breeze rippled Ava’s skirt against her calves.
“It is something very special to me.” Otto considered his pipe.
“I can ensure it is returned to you in the exact condition in which it was received,” Ava said. “I need only to photograph it at the embassy.”
He nodded and tucked his pipe in his mouth, puffing threads of smoke from between his lips as he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew an envelope. The cream-colored paper was dented and crumpled, dirt smeared in gritty streaks throughout. It was addressed to Otto Müller at a location somewhere in Marseille.
His gaze met hers, and he pulled the pipe free from his thin lips. “You know of the persecution of Jews, yes?”
“I do,” Ava said in firm agreement. “One need only see the refugees emerging from the Nazi occupied countries to understand the truth of their oppression.”
“Your country does not want to believe we are being singled out, that our people are being arrested.” Color touched his cheeks. “That all around Europe, Jews are disappearing, being killed in large numbers.” His fingertips tapped the battered envelope, and he regarded it with solemn reverence. “People like Petra.”
A stab of patriotism demanded that Ava defend her own country, to protest that they did indeed believe. But, sadly, many did not. Newspaper accounts of the Jewish persecution were buried within the pages, the atrocities chalked up to “war rumors” that few believed.
A hoop rolled by, and a boy chased after it with a girl in a striped dress close on his heels; both wore wide grins as their hair blew back.
“We are safe here in Lisbon.” Otto followed the children with his gaze and lifted a hand in a gesture like a shrug. “Well, relatively safe.”
Ava knew what he meant. The PVDE kept its distance, placated by the monthly check-ins by the refugees. However, once visas expired, the secret police grew agitated, their demeanors less cordial and more contentious. As if the refugees wished to stay on Portuguese soil where Germans strode by with their ramrod straight backs and close-cropped hair, eyes hard with vile glares.
Then there was the danger of Germany making good on its threat to take Portugal…
“We all sacrificed much to be here,” Otto went on. “Not only our belongings, but also ourselves.” He puffed on his pipe, his teeth clicking against the stem. “To you, I am an old man.” Smoke billowed from his lips as he spoke. “One who can produce these papers you seek for your country.” He gave a light shrug. “I do not blame you—you are doing your job.” He shifted in his seat to indicate the white building with his pipe. “To the JDC, I am another mouth to feed, a body who requires a bed for rest. To the other refugees, I am a lone person with no family.” He settled back into his chair and stared at the fragrant smoke curling up from his pipe. “Here, I am no one.”