Copacabana Beach

By Clevis O. Laverty

I was sitting at a dinner table early one evening in the Hotel Riviera, Rio de Janeiro, when Brazil decided she was an active participant in the hostilities. Brazil, fond as I was of her, had seemed to me to be in a confused paradoxical state. They had severed relations with the Axis countries in January 1942. Here it was August, and German and Italian nationals were conducting business as usual and buying up American currency as though it were their own country.

My position at this dinner table was strange. Four of my five dinner companions were technically my enemies. Except for the man on my left, it was, I supposed, an accidental seating arrangement.

The man on my left, a minor Brazilian government official, had singled me out for the past few days as a dinner companion. Whether it was because I was American and he wanted to practice his English or whether he had some other purpose, I did not know. I enjoyed his company; perhaps he enjoyed mine. His wit and conversational bouts were anything but boring.

The next two I noticed as the waiter brought the canja; I almost lost interest in them as I anticipated the savoriness of this very palatable chicken soup. The two were an Italian couple, a nine-year-old girl and her mother. I probably would not have noticed the mother at all but for the child, who as full of a zest for living and missing nothing.

This amazing child talked enthusiastically in Portuguese to the Brazilian on her right, politely to me in English, and excitedly to her mother in Italian. Her mother was very quiet, intent on her soup, nodding her head from time to time and giving the impression that she was very busy being inconspicuous.

The two on my right were a German national and his Argentine wife. I suppose I imagined all sorts of conspiracies going on, but they did not receive much nourishment, for no one appeared to be concealing his identity. This German was a perfect replica of the stereotyped Prussian Junker, aristocratic, proud, overbearing, aloof, and correct.

There was a strangeness here. I sensed that something was going on that everyone at the table knew about, except the little girl and me. They were preoccupied, said little, ate less, and rejected my feeble attempts at conversation.

Over the Italian lady’s left ear, I had a clear view into the lobby with its ornate mirrors and polished dark columns. I saw the carved doors open that led out onto Copacabana Beach.

The sound of the surf and the smell of the ocean came in with twenty or more smartly uniformed police in swanky military caps and swagger sticks. They did not hesitate or mill around; they knew where they were going. They came into the dining room and infiltrated among the tables.

Two or these efficient policemen came to our table. One whispered to the German; the other, to the Italian lady. A brief look of frustration and anger came into his eyes, which he quickly veiled. He and his wife silently left the table. The Italian clutched her child to her in uncontrollable fear, and like an automaton, she was led from the room. I turned to speak to my Brazilian acquaintance. . . he was gone.

The waiter came in with the tray. My order of Chateau-Briand was the only order on it. Brazil had declared war on Germany and Italy, and zealous in the midst of what seemed to be chaos, the authorities had moved rapidly, efficiently, and with no nonsense.