Christopher Priest - The Separation

‘[The third matter naturally follows on from the second. You do of course understand that everything that is going to take place over the next few days will be of the highest sensitivity. It must therefore be treated with the utmost confidentiality. You will be asked to sign an acceptance of this in a little while. A mere formality, of course, because I know we share the fervent wish that the meeting should succeed. I don’t think there is anything else for the moment. . .]’ He glanced enquiringly down at the man who had been sitting beside him throughout the fight, and who shook his head briefly. ‘[Well then, my best thanks, gentlemen. Let us hope the meeting brings positive results!]’

A ripple of applause followed his speech. I followed the others up the shallow incline of the cabin aisle, waiting in line as one after the other we leaned down to exit through the hatch. Just before it was my turn to go through, the dividing curtain was suddenly swept aside and a young RAF officer stepped through. He nodded politely to me, then moved on down the cabin.

I stepped through the hatch, descended the little flight of metal steps, and began to walk across the tarmac in the warm sunshine behind the other men.

After a perfunctory examination of our passports at the airport, we were joined by another group who had flown in by an earlier plane. Several of these people were from Germany or from German-occupied territories, although all were officials of their local Red Cross societies. After brief introductions we were ushered outside to a line of cars.

First stop was a large private house, not far from the airport, where a delicious buffet meal was awaiting us. At first, those of us who had arrived from Britain carefully took small portions, unused to seeing the lavish quantities of food that were laid out before us, but gradually the reality sank in that we had left behind the rigours of wartime rationing, if only temporarily. I shared my table with two officials I did not know, a man and a woman who had arrived from Berlin, representing the German Red Cross. They had no more idea than I what was the purpose of this meeting, but I did begin to speculate in my mind. Presumably others were doing so too. Something big was clearly afoot.

We returned to the cars and in a long cavalcade we drove through part of Lisbon itself, then headed west along the coast that forms part of the bay of the Tagus river. It was already getting late in the afternoon and the sun was moving round so that it was ahead of us. To our left lay the great expanse of the Atlantic; to our right were glimpses of wooded mountains. At every rise and turn we saw breathtaking views of coastline and sea. We drove with the car windows open so that we were assailed by the scents of the flowers and shrubs that grew thickly beside the road.

We eventually reached a small seaside town called Cascais, built with pretty, white-painted houses and adorned with hundreds of palm and deciduous trees. We were taken to a large hotel on the seafront and everyone was assigned a room. Here we were allowed a little time to refresh ourselves after the journey, before we returned to the cars. My room had a huge double bed and a balcony from which I could look out across the sea.

The main road through Cascais ran parallel to the beach, then climbed out of the town across a low headland. Once we were outside the town, the scenery changed: it became a wild coast of igneous deposits, where cliffs of black and brittle rocks jutted out into the sea. The water was so calm it was like the surface of a mirror, the sunlight glinting magically from it, but such was the swell and reach of the ocean that as the waves came into the shore they formed high, rolling breakers. They dashed against the cliffs with spectacular explosions of spray. A white mist hovered over the coastline, in spite of the warm sunshine.

Not long after we left Cascais, our cavalcade of cars turned through wide gates and moved slowly up a tree-shrouded driveway towards an immense, pink-painted villa. This beautiful castellated house, with its acres of cultivated gardens, its terraces, shrubberies, swimming pool, private cinema and many other comfortable facilities, was to be my base for the next few days. It was called Boca di Inferno - the Mouth of Hell.

At one end of the main hall of the villa was a reception area, where visitors once would have been invited to wait. Here a number of easy chairs had been arranged around an ornate marble fireplace which to all appearances was used only rarely for open fires. Closely packed bookshelves stood on each side, as well as a number of oil paintings of important past residents of the house. In an alcove beside the fireplace was a large photographic portrait in a gilt frame, not ostentatiously placed but in view of most of the hall. It was a studio portrait of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, the former King Edward VIII of Great Britain and his American wife, Wallis Simpson. Their signatures were inscribed at the bottom of the picture. Beside the portrait two small national flags stood close together, placed so that their poles crossed: the British Union flag and the Nazi flag of the Third Reich.

A cocktail reception was held in that long hall during the early part of our first evening in the Mouth of Hell. At first, most of those present were the various delegates from Red Cross branches of the different European countries, but as the evening wore on the principals began arriving. They joined our party without fanfare or introduction, but moved quietly through the crowd and joined in conversations. I did not recognize them all, but Nick Smith and Ian Maclean whispered to me the names of the ones they knew. In this way I learned that Dr Carl Burckhardt, president of the Swiss Red Cross, was there, as well as one of the most celebrated Red Cross officials in the world, Count Folke Bernadotte, head of the Swedish section. The British Ambassador to Spain, Sir Samuel Hoare, arrived in mid-evening, closely followed by Sir Ronald Campbell, his colleague at the British Embassy in Lisbon. Both were accompanied by teams of embassy officials, who circulated deftly around the room, speaking excellent German. Later, representatives from the German embassies to various neutral countries began to arrive.

At eight-thirty, George, Duke of Kent, the British King’s younger brother, was announced from the door. He was greeted by Sir Ronald Campbell and was then introduced to the leading figures who were present. His entourage, all of whom were dressed, like the Duke, in civilian suits, dispersed themselves about the room, joining conversations with great affability and courtesy. At one point, as I circulated around the party, I overheard the Duke speaking to Count Bernadotte, a relaxed, amused conversation, conducted in fluent German.

At nine o’clock everyone moved through to a large dining-room in an annexe, where dinner was served. We took our places according to the seating plan. The two senior Red Cross officials took their seats at the head table with the Duke and some senior German officials. I found myself sitting next to a military attaché from the German Embassy in Madrid, SS-ObergruppenFührer Otto Schafer. He was making an effort to be polite to me and I responded as best I could, but in truth I found him boorish. We had little in common, although this did not stop him telling me about his background. Over the years, he said in his harsh Pomeranian accent, he had been involved in many proud acts of the Nazi SS that I had never heard about before, but which I found depressing and frightening, even when humorously cast in a supposedly defensible version by one of their perpetrators.

At the end of the dinner Dr Burckhardt made a short speech, reminding us of the unique and historical importance of our meeting, of how much depended on a successful outcome and that although for the time being we must conduct ourselves in the utmost secrecy, in the years to come people would realize what we began in this unique house in such a beautiful and wild part of Portugal.