Seven

Ava

The PVDE did not come for Ava, but nor did her neighbor return after his arrest. The next day stretched into one week and then another and then another still. Unfortunately, no movement ever came from the apartment across the hall.

Light caressed her shutters, squeezing in through the cracks to inform her of the coming of dawn. Before she even so much as dressed, she crept to her front door and glanced out the peephole as she did every morning and strained to listen.

Yet again, no sound came from her neighbor's apartment.

There was an aching need in her to ask after him. However, the fear of having her folly laid bare, especially to the likes of Mr. Sims, made her hold her tongue. Her boss's foul disposition had not brightened in the past weeks of their acquaintance despite her finally realizing what necessary publications were being sought after by their department to aid the war effort.

The stillness of her apartment was maddening and worried at a thread of guilt she could not cut away. For the first time since having read Crime and Punishment, she now had a modicum of understanding how Raskolnikov's fugue state could stem from the burden of his misdeeds, chipping away at the back of his logical mind until he was desperate to tell someone.

Anyone.

Even the likes of James.

Ava straightened away from where she leaned over the peephole. James hadn't been about since that first day, and she longed to inquire as to any suggestions he might offer in unearthing her neighbor's whereabouts. And just how culpable she was in his disappearance. However, now that she actually wanted to see James, he was nowhere to be found.

With a resigned sigh, she backed away from the door and readied herself for the day. In her time in Lisbon, she had fallen into something of a routine with her morning list of tasks and set out into the city with a messenger bag slung over her shoulder for her literary haul. The PVDE's curiosity in her faded several days after her neighbor's disappearance, having finally lost interest in her boring habits, and she did not mourn the absence of her unwanted entourage.

She approached the kiosk near her apartment first and waved at the young man behind the counter. "Bom Dia, Alfonso."

The newsstand owner grinned at her and asked how she was doing in Portuguese. It was with him she practiced her fledgling grasp of this new language. Her answers still came out slowly and with great concentration as happened with a new tongue, but experience taught her that once those new words began to seep into her thoughts, fluency would soon follow.

Not only did Alfonso let her cut her teeth on her rough Portuguese with him, he also saved the best papers for her. Like many in Lisbon, his memory ran far back to the Great War when Portugal had not been neutral, and the Germans were their enemy. A Royal Air Force pin glinted beneath the lapel of his jacket when he leaned forward, a show of support for the Allies that many wore, though not all had to hide it from their patrons as he did.

There was always a multinational crowd waiting for Alfonso to pull up his shutters, not only to grab the newsprints of their enemies, but also to sweep away any reading material they did not want their adversaries to see.

Once there was a lull in his customers, Alfonso pulled a stack of papers from beneath his register. She accepted the pile and hastily pushed them into her messenger bag, but not before catching sight of the newest edition of Das Reich stating "The Most Dangerous Enemy" in a headline across the top with a picture of Jews peacefully holding up a Star of David and what appeared to be the list of commandments. Disgust for the Nazis curdled in her stomach.

"Obrigada, Alfonso." She passed over a wad of escudos, carefully precounted and folded neatly in half.

He put two fingers to his right eyebrow and offered her a mock salute as she strolled toward Rossio Square. As she walked, she jostled her messenger bag in an attempt to wriggle the pile in better. The thing was an inch too small, and nothing ever seemed to fit in correctly.

The owner of a kiosk beside the ever-popular Nicola's café was a curmudgeon who scowled at every nationality and disposition, equal to all in his displeasure for humanity. But he had a knack for somehow procuring Der Angriff, a licentious German publication laden with anti-Semitism that ironically and sadistically claimed to be "for the oppressed against the exploiters." Ava had stopped skimming that paper for possible war details and did not envy those whose jobs it was to scour the mendacious text for clues on Nazi war tactics.

She thanked the owner who grunted in return and strode back through the narrow doorway edged in lovely white and blue tile work that appeared to be from another century. Already café tables and chairs were pulled out into the warm sunshine where men and women lounged beneath a fine, opaque mist of cigarette smoke. Though she had only been in Lisbon for just under a month, it was easy to discern the refugees and guess what stage of their flight they were in.

The newly arrived were initially rigid, vigilant, their gazes darting this way and that. Then, caught in the pull of the waiting cyclone, they relaxed back into their seats, resigned to the interminable drag of time looming ahead of them. And then there were the agitated, lucky few whose fingers drummed with impatience, their visas in order and tickets for passage secured as they watched the calendar for the day creeping ever closer of a ship that may or may not arrive.

When she had grudgingly flown on the plane to Lisbon, she had not appreciated what a luxury it was. The prices to depart from Lisbon were so exorbitant that even some of the wealthy refugees could not afford them.

Regardless of which circle of hell they found themselves twisting through, the story of their struggles was written on every person. It was in the gauntness of their cheeks and the slender, frail appearance of their limbs. It was in how the children were too quiet, made solemn by the witness of images none should be subjected to regardless of age. It was in the clothes they wore, some too fine for the setting, others threadbare but clean, washed and worn daily without any other alternatives. And it was in the jewelry that adorned the women with ropes of necklaces dripping from their slender necks, bracelets layering their bony wrists and heavy jeweled ear bobs tugging at their lobes.

A few of those children perked up as Ava arrived, remembering her from her previous interactions with them. She pulled four books from her bag, purchased with her own money from Livraria. There was a Polish children's story with brightly colored drawings of animals in a forest, a similar one in French and two larger texts in French and German for slightly older readers.

The gifts were received with a joy that was echoed in their mothers' watery thankful smiles that superseded all language. Though small, Ava knew the importance of those stories. They were a friend in a foreign, lonely place, a liberation of one's mind from the prison of circumstance, an escape from life's most brutal blows. Losing herself in stories had gotten Ava through leaving her world behind to live with Daniel after her parents' deaths, following Jo March's lead with the example in Little Women of finding solace in the written word.

Her final stop was the Livraria Bertrand where she basked in the musty scent of old books that tickled the edges of her memories of the Rare Book Room. There were always treasures to unearth within the homey Portuguese shop—German manuals, a Hungarian map, a pamphlet of some kind in Japanese, all items she quickly purchased.

Once her publications were properly acquired, she leaped aboard a tram that traveled the carved grooves in the street toward the American Embassy. The lines of refugees were always there, just as Mr. Sims had mentioned, and each time, those pleading faces struck Ava anew. The only difference between her and those queued was that she had been born an American. The visa in her desk had been a right of her birth and to the refugees in Europe, it was such a glowing privilege.

The unfairness of it dug into her every time she saw them. The worst part was, there was nothing she could do to help.

Once inside, Peggy always met her with a smile, Mr. Sims remained little more than a closed door, and Mike was always there to add a quip or two. That day, however, Peggy practically ran to her, flapping something resembling a card in the air like a strange one-winged bird. "You got mail." She thrust the envelope with a red V stamped on it toward Ava.

"Looks like it's from your brother." Peggy leaned closer. "I didn't want to infringe on your privacy, but Mike insisted I make sure it wasn't from a beau."

Ava only partially believed Peggy's protest but accepted the letter with thanks regardless. Peggy was the well-meaning sort who knew everything about everyone. It was expected and, in some cases, could be helpful.

"Don't you tell Mike I told you he asked." Peggy's mouth made an "O" of surprise as if she'd just realized the risk.

"I won't," Ava promised.

Peggy glanced around, then said conspiratorially, "But do you have one?"

Ava simply chuckled by way of an answer. There was absolutely no man she was writing to aside from her brother. Romance was hardly on her mind, and the last thing she wanted was Mike thinking she was available.

Messenger bag laden with fresh news at her side, Ava left Peggy and carried the envelope to the back room. Microfilm certainly played its role in the war, not only in the capture of documents to send back to DC, but also in communication between troops. Correspondence to and from soldiers were captured on microfilm for easier transport, then reprinted at the message's desired location. The paper was less than half the size of a normal page and didn't leave much room to be verbose, but the messages were printed clearly and were precious no matter their appearance.

It was the second letter she'd received from Daniel, and it filled her chest with a warm ache that was both painful and pleasant all at once. The love and gratitude she held for him, for all he'd sacrificed for her, the hurt of missing him, the fear for his safety. Such emotions were always there with her, tucked in a special place in her heart, and they rushed to the forefront with each letter, heightened and renewed.

The message within was similar to his last. Her eyes read the words, but it was Daniel's rich timbre in her ears.

To give it all in a single, censor-friendly statement: I'm well with enough food to eat. I hope you are as well. You know I don't like you putting your neck on the line too, but I still have to say it: I'm damn proud of you. Stay safe and keep your nose clean. I love you.

-D

She slid the paper back into the envelope with a smile. Setting it tenderly aside, she removed the bounty from that day's collection and set to work photographing each one. In the beginning, she'd tried to read what she captured on microfilm, but eventually learned their role was one of speed. Their task was not to absorb all the information themselves, but to get as much to DC as was possible where it would be analyzed by the government for potential use against the Axis.

Truth be told, it could be terribly boring. Open a newspaper, adjust the image. Click. Wind the machine to ready the next exposure. Repeat. On and on through the course of the afternoon.

She still skimmed through the documents for anything she thought might be pertinent to bring to attention for those poring through their compilations in DC. It wasn't only newspapers and periodicals, but texts and manuals and other foreign reading materials they could find, but had thus far not uncovered anything. Through it all, her thoughts continued to wander back to the refugees—not only those in line wrapping around the embassy, but those in Rossio Square—languishing in wait of escape.

Surely there was more that could be done for them.

It was that thought that finally propelled Ava toward Mr. Sims's closed door. She rapped upon the glossy surface and waited to be called in, which eventually came in a gruff, irritated tone.

All the carefully practiced, articulately prepared words fled her mind, chased away by his uninterested glower. "I'd like to do something to aid the refugees," she announced.

He didn't look up from a folder in front of him. "You are helping already. By sending information to DC. Acquiring these international publications opens the door to intel we might not receive otherwise."

"There has to be more we can do."

"The Allied forces, specifically America, are putting a lot of funding behind Lisbon for the refugees. As are local Jewish communities." His tone was flat, bored by his own speech. "The World Council of Churches, the Portuguese Red Cross, the International Red Cross, the Quakers, plus a bunch of acronyms like JDC, USC and COMASSIS and more that I don't remember." He flicked the file closed and gave a weary sigh as he dragged his gaze toward her. "Miss Harper, you're here to gather newspapers and books. Everyone doing their job makes the war end faster." He lifted his palms up to indicate that his lackluster presentation was finished.

She nodded and closed the door, chastised but undeterred, for surely there truly was more she could do.

Several days later while perusing the crowded counter space of a stationery store, she caught sight of a familiar face—one she had been anxious to see.

"James," she said as she approached.

He turned and smiled. "Miss Harper, seeing you is a delightful surprise."

"I've been hoping to run into you," she said quickly, perhaps too eager in her delivery, for his smile widened further still. Either way, she needed his assistance with figuring out what happened to the man from her building. And possibly even with helping the refugees.

"Then I'm quite glad to be found." He inclined his head with a slight bow, his manner cordial. "What can I do for you, Miss Harper?"

She glanced at the store whose shelves were crammed with merchandise, but whose aisles were empty of patrons, save one elderly man who appeared to be comparing various sheets of paper. Though she had only been in Lisbon for three weeks, she already knew every building had ears and eyes and every seemingly innocent person could very well be a spy.

"Would you mind if we spoke outside?" she asked.

"By all means." He indicated she should walk first and so she did, leading him from the small shop.

Outside, the May sky was cloudless, the sun fully ablaze. Being in the middle of the walkway with the heat glaring off the limestone gave one the sensation of being in an oven.

James squinted up before turning his attention back to her, a sheen of sweat already beginning to glisten at his brow. "Have you tried capilè? It's wondrously refreshing, and I happen to know a lovely place not far from here."

He offered her his arm, but she gave a slight shake of her head. His shoulder lifted in a shrug that indicated he was not offended, and together they strode down the blazing limestone-and-basalt-checked patterned walkway in search of a cool drink. Away from those who would listen in on their conversation.

"Is something wrong?" he asked when they were fully alone.

"Yes." A torrent of dreadful emotions whirled in her stomach at having to say it aloud. "I...that is...my neighbor... I..." She paused, frustrated with herself. For not being able to say what she needed to, for having to be in this situation at all, and for her own egregious folly from the start.

He drew her toward the side of the street bathed in shadows. The sun's rays immediately lost their vigor and a cool breeze swept over them. "Take your time, Ava."

She inhaled deeply. "Do you remember that Nazi from the kiosk?"

"I do."

"I mentioned my neighbor..." The burden of her guilt stacked upon her like boulders, crushing the breath from her lungs. "How he asked me for a copy of Time magazine that I happened to have and how enthusiastically he'd received it. The next day, the PVDE came to his apartment where they beat him and abducted him in the middle of the night." She looked away, too ashamed to see James's reaction to her harmful mistake. "It was so stupid, I know, but I... I am so awkward sometimes and there was this gap of silence in the conversation... It just popped out."

"Taking a copy of Time magazine from you is not illegal in Portugal," James replied in so gentle a tone, she glanced up at him.

His face was earnest, his eyes lacking the censure she so justly deserved. "In fact, there are several people who help the Allies obtain certain periodicals as trade for Life and Time. The PVDE was there for some other reason."

"Yes, I know that," Ava said. "About the people who receive those magazines in exchange for helping us, I mean. But what if my mentioning him put the focus on my neighbor and that revealed whatever it was that caused his arrest?"

"Then you are not at fault. His actions were his own."

If only it were so easy to brush aside an inflamed sense of guilt.

"Don't you think the timing is strange?" she pressed. "I mention it to the Nazi and the next night, my neighbor gets arrested?"

Two men strode toward them, heads lowered beneath their fedoras, their identities obscured. James gently put his hand to Ava's lower back and guided her forward, away from the strangers. "Come, we shouldn't linger in the street."

Ava allowed herself to be nudged onward, but she would not drop the topic so easily. "I want to find out what happened to him."

James's brows shot up. "From the PVDE?"

"Yes."

"Ah, here we are." He stopped in front of a blue-and-gold kiosk and ordered two capilé. The watery red drinks were served on ice with a neat lemon curl resting atop the liquid.

Ava accepted her cup with a nod of thanks and took a sip. The drink was light and refreshing with a delicate grassy note, a hint of orange blossom, and the slightest whisper of citrus.

"Interesting, isn't it?" James asked. "It's made from maidenhair leaves."

"The fern?" Ava thoughtfully regarded her capilé. The glass had begun to sweat, leaving a frosting of condensation over the smooth surface.

He nodded and drank some of his, the ice cubes lightly clicking against one another as he did so. "Isn't that fascinating?"

"It is." Ava narrowed her eyes slightly. "Are you trying to distract me from what I was saying about my neighbor?"

"Absolutely." He lowered his glass. "Anything involving the PVDE is terribly dangerous. They would not take kindly to you inquiring after their business."

She gathered as much based on their brutal treatment of her neighbor when they arrested him. A shiver rippled down her spine.

"I feel responsible," she said miserably.

"You are not."

"And I wouldn't be asking about the police, only the man who disappeared."

"I can ask after the man for you, but even I won't goad the PVDE beast." He drained the last of the drink as though the matter were resolved.

"What?" She shook her head with a frown. "No, I refuse to let you take the risk for me. I merely wanted to know where to start."

"And I refuse to allow you to take such an unnecessary risk yourself." He tilted his head. "It appears we are at an impasse, Miss Harper." He studied her for a moment, his eyes neither green nor blue, but an interesting amalgamation somewhere in between. "Give me some time?"

Before she could protest, he lifted his hand to stop her and continued, "Two weeks to gently poke around and then we can reevaluate."

She drank from the glass and contemplated his offer. "Will it put you at risk?"

He shook his head.

"All right," she agreed reluctantly. "But if I was involved with his arrest and he's being held somewhere, we have to help."

"Let me see what I can find first."

In the distance, church bells tolled the hour. She would need to return to the embassy soon to begin the arduous task of taking picture after picture of various newspapers, magazines, and books.

"But nothing dangerous." She shifted the messenger bag at her side where the corners of periodicals jutted out.

He watched her struggle with a slight curve of his lips. "I swear it." He held out his hand for her empty glass. "And I think you need a larger sack."

Yet another attempt to distract her. She gave him her cup. "One more thing..."

"Only one more?" he teased with a grin.

Heat flushed over her cheeks. She was asking for quite a lot. "I want to do something to help the refugees. I thought you might suggest...?"

A somberness touched his eyes and his smile melted away. "Allow me a few days."

She nodded and tried to suppress the nettle of her forced dependence. In the past, she had always done the digging herself, flexing the acumen of her own ability to research. But this was a new world filled with new rules and going against any of them could tip the precarious scale of neutrality in a country that was allowing Americans to be there.

With that thought in mind, she had no choice but to bide her time and wait.