Lisbon was the perfect place to wait. I settled easily into days of pastries on the Avenida da Liberdade. There was a festive summery feel on the square. Each day I met people who had managed to cross at the French border and I toasted and drank to our health and safety. I asked everyone about Rivesaltes, but no one had information. The Vichy border was unpredictable--but certainly men and women were still coming into Spain.
One afternoon I watched as a man touched a woman on the shoulder. She turned and fell into his arms in a swoon. Then she stood back, disentangled from his arms, and just looked at him. She stood not speaking for perhaps two minutes. "Thomaz, Thomaz," she whispered and held her palm to his face. It was a moment out of the cinema. Every day there were dramatic moments. Between sisters, between childhood friends. It was not as if I hadn't seen people reunited in Toulouse or Perpignan. But Lisbon was different, like a relief, like a summer resort where we had all finally arrived to pass the long hot days together.
(p. 240)
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