Chapter One Arrival The mid-April afternoon, gray and stormy, came to a close, toward dusk, in the small airport. In the west a gash of bright orange was breaking up the banks of dark lowering clouds, casting an unreal light, heavy with menace, on the short strip of grass where the Ala Littoria plane had just landed with several hard bumps. When the girl stepped off the plane, the air felt humid and the grass wet, as if from recent rain. In the distance, toward the wooden barracks that housed the police and customs, the silhouettes of a few open umbrellas made a curious border; they were interspersed with the Portuguese carabineros ' cocked hats, also black but shiny as oilcloth, more Victorian than the uniforms of the Italian carabinieri with which she had been familiar until then. Everything, in a way, seemed familiar but curiously different, just as she had imagined, yet somehow disappointing. For instance, she had expected to see a person who, according to the telegram, was supposed to appear among the open umbrellas and come out of the small knot of people to welcome her. Instead, that person was nowhere to be seen, and perhaps wasn't even there. The name of that person was totally impersonal--Stone, like the name of a character in a detective novel or film. The telegram announcing his acceptance of this mission was also rather mysterious: "Will Be Waiting Lisbon Airport Wednesday 16 April 1941. Reservation Made Pensione Europa. Joseph Stone Journalist." When the telegram had arrived her mother breathed a sigh of relief: "They have been so wonderful. At least you will have some support. Now it's all set, thank God." The telegram was stashed with all the other documents in the pigskin beauty case that the girl held, not by the handle, but tightly under her arm for fear of losing it. As she walked alone toward the police checkpoint, the girl told herself that actually nobody knew this Mr. Stone -- neither she (who didn't even know what his face looked like) nor her American relatives who, working through the office of the Jewish Community, had taken the trouble of finding someone to help her. He might not have existed at all. He might have already left. Excerpted from The Edge of Europe by Angela Bianchini. Copyright © 2000 by University of Nebraska Press. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
