Josie had printed random letters, her attempt to transcribe the stories in her head.
Paul’s jaw felt tight and his nose stuffy. His little girl. So creative. How much harm had he done by dismissing her gifts for so long?
He sniffed and wiped his nose. Dampness marred his vision, and he worked out a handkerchief. Second time he’d cried in the past month, both times over Josie. Over leaving her. Over failing her.
Paul traced his finger over a crooked blueJ. “Please, Lord. Give me another chance.”
LISBON, PORTUGAL
TUESDAY, DECEMBER30, 1941
Lisbon was an explosion of pinks and blues and yellows and greens. The Avenida da Liberdade stretched as broad and beautiful as any boulevard in Paris, only without Nazi soldiers.
“It’s so loud.” Josie clutched Lucie’s hand as they left the train station, her eyes huge.
“It is.” Lucie smiled. Cars careened down the street, honking at each other. Lucie hadn’t seen traffic in a year and a half, beyond the range of Josie’s memory.
They passed a café. The smells tantalized—meats and spices and yeasty bread—and no ration tickets needed. Lucie swallowed the water collecting in her mouth. “After we go to the American Legation, we’ll celebrate with lunch.”
Josie hung back and stared. “Are those people German?”
Lucie’s chest tightened. “No, sweetheart. In Portugal you don’t have to be German to buy food.”
Beyond the café stood a newsstand, and Lucie gaped. The LondonDaily Mail. Paris’sLe Matin. Germany’sDas Reich. Side by side. Lucie scanned the headlines in theNew York Times, the first news she’d read from a free press in ages.
But the news did nothing to raise her spirits. The Japanese were advancing in the Philippines and had taken Hong Kong. So many ships sunk in the Atlantic and Pacific. To reach America required crossing the Atlantic, and Lucie shuddered.
The next store saidconfeitaria. “Confectionary,” Lucie whispered.
Josie pointed. “That store looks like Feenee’s hair. What is it?”
“It—it’s candy.” Poor child couldn’t remember candy stores. Lucie needed to go straight to the legation, but Paul would want his daughter to have candy. “You may have one piece now and one after lunch.”
Josie hopped her way into the store.
One customer stood inside, a pregnant, dark-haired woman in a chic gray coat. The shopgirl called out a greeting to Lucie in Portuguese.
“Bom dia,”Lucie replied, the greeting she’d heard in the train station.
Lucie lifted Josie to her hip and named the candies in the display case. She’d heard Paul call Josie many of the names. Her heart swelled with love for him, then wrenched with pain. He should be the one to watch Josie taste her first candy.
After the shopgirl finished helping the pregnant woman, she approached Lucie.
“Parlez-vous français?” Lucie asked. “Or do you speak English?”
Annoyance flicked on her face.“Nao. Eu falo portugues.”
Surely Lucie could communicate a simple purchase. She pointed to sugar-coated jellies shaped like fruit slices and held up three fingers. “Three?Trois?”
“Sim.”The lady dug a scoop into the bin.
“Non. Trois.” Lucie made a pinching motion. Three pieces, not three scoops or pounds.
“Eu não entendo.”
“Excusez-moi, madame,” the pregnant lady said to Lucie. “I speak a little Portuguese. May I help?”
“Oui. Merci.” Lucie gave her a grateful smile. “I would like three each of the fruit candies, these caramels, and those chocolates.”
