The Garden of Angels

by David Hewson

  Sometimes he regarded himself as a coward. But mostly that Friday morning he thought of himself as a lonely, tired priest, freezing in his solitary office, wondering whether it would be sensible to see how the Uccello lad was faring or if he was best left alone with his fugitive visitors.

  There was a familiar slam. The main church door. He knew that sound as well as he knew his own voice.

  Perhaps a confession. An appointment for a baptism. A funeral. A wedding. Even in war the daily round of life and death, birth and renewal, went on.

  He gathered his heavy priest’s cloak around him and stepped out into the vast whale’s belly of the nave. The place was gloomy, as always in winter, but something bright and vivacious seemed to lighten it. At first he thought it was birdsong. Then he realized: it was the chatter of children, light, high and excited.

  There was a tall, distinguished figure with them wearing a familiar long winter coat.

  Garzone was both pleased and wary. Aldo Diamante never visited without a reason.

  ‘Children, children,’ the man from the ghetto cried.

  There were three of them, two girls who looked like twins, ten or so, and a quiet boy a few years younger. They had the pale complexion and straight dark hair he’d come to associate with some of the young Diamante brought to San Pietro from time to time.

  Garzone strode out to meet them, shook the old doctor’s hand, then greeted the newcomers.

  ‘Your campanile’s bent, sir,’ one of the girls said with a grin.

  It always amused visitors that the bell tower of San Pietro was both separate from the basilica itself, built in the grass campo by the side and leaned at a precipitous angle.

  ‘Ah yes,’ he replied. ‘It used to live on the roof but one day a young lady of Castello passed by, stepped in some dog poop and cursed with such language that the campanile shrieked and jumped straight off, landing where you find it today.’

  All three of them stared at him.

  ‘Is that true, Uncle Aldo?’ the other girl asked.

  Diamante nodded.

  ‘I was always told that when I was your age.’

  ‘An alternative explanation,’ Garzone added, ‘is that the earth here is so soft and muddy an architect thought it best to build a tower on the ground rather than add to all’ – he gestured at the vast dome – ‘all this. After which it leaned somewhat. I prefer the first explanation. It’s more fun.’

  He kept smiling. It was hard. He could see the pain and fear in Diamante’s eyes. In those of the young boy too.

  ‘I take it you’re going on holiday, children.’

  They nodded at the priest.

  ‘A mystery trip,’ one of the girls said.

  ‘I have some caramelle in my office. Please …’ He gestured to the door. ‘Enjoy them while I have a word with your uncle.’

  ‘He’s not really our uncle,’ the boy said finally.

  All the same they went and he showed them where the bag of sweets was.

  Outside, back in the belly of the whale, Diamante looked more miserable than Garzone had ever seen him.

  ‘When will you have someone pick them up, Aldo?’

  ‘Eight or nine. A boat. There’s a fishing family called—’

  He grabbed the man’s arm.

  ‘Don’t tell me. I mustn’t know.’

  Diamante shook his head as if to clear it.

  ‘Of course not. What must I have been thinking? They’re Adele Besso’s children. You know her?’

  ‘No. Sorry.’

  ‘Her husband’s been seized as a troublemaker. They’ll come for the rest of the family soon. The mother insists she stays. She seems to hope she can help her husband. Dear God …’

  Garzone made him sit on a pew.

  ‘There’s something happening,’ the priest said. ‘I can see it in your face.’

  ‘I must produce this list! The names of every one of us in Venice. I’ve stalled and stalled but there’s a … a beast in the city. A Jew hunter they use. One of ours. A traitor. My time’s running out. I can’t delay more than a few days. If I could save them all …’

  ‘Tell me what I can do.’

  ‘You can see these three safely on their way. After that.’ He stood up and wrapped his coat tightly around himself. San Pietro seemed chillier than ever that morning. ‘After that, who knows? The tide comes and I have nothing to sweep it back but a little broom.’

  Diamante marched over to the door, flung it open and stared at the children with his fiercest of faces.

  ‘Amos. Bianca. Anna. This is important. Father Filippo here’s a good man, a patient man. You will not take advantage. No naughtiness. The three of you will stay here and do as he says. Don’t set foot outside this place until the boat comes for you this evening. When that happens you get on it without a word. You hear me?’

  Silence, then the boy asked, ‘When will Mamma come and join us?’

  Diamante coughed and for a moment the priest thought he might break.

  ‘When she can.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘When she can …’

  ‘I’ll see you out, Aldo,’ the priest said.

  Just to be sure he locked the door behind him.

  The day was turning the dull grey of winter when rain was around and mulling whether to turn to snow. Gulls scavenged the grubby shoreline where the body of Isabella Finzi had been hauled from the water. Diamante couldn’t take his eyes off that spot either.

  ‘The pair you’ve placed with the Uccello lad …’

  ‘I cannot save them all,’ Diamante murmured. ‘I cannot.’

  He looked lost and that was so unlike him.

  ‘No, Aldo. We’re only old men trying to do what we can. Let’s go for a coffee soon. You need company.’

  Diamante pushed his felt hat harder on to his grey locks and did his best to smile.

  ‘You’re a remarkable chap, Filippo. I envy your quiet certainties. I almost resent them to be honest. I wish I had your faith.’

  ‘You have a faith of your own. A coffee. Tomorrow. When my guests are safely on their way. You have time, surely.’

  Garzone wondered if he’d even heard. Diamante was staring at the crooked campanile rising out of the thin winter grass, looking as if it might topple over at any moment.

  ‘The beast will soon be loose,’ he murmured. ‘They’re good children. You’ll have no problem there.’

  The priest watched Aldo Diamante amble across the grass. There was another figure crossing over from the bridge by the Giardini degli Angeli. A young woman huddled against the cold in a shabby overcoat too big for her small frame. She had very bright blonde hair tucked beneath a black beret. An unusual sight for this part of Castello where women rarely made a show.

  ‘The beast will soon be loose,’ he whispered and wondered what Aldo Diamante meant by that.

  No matter. Speculation was a luxury for times of peace not war. There were three small Jewish children inside his basilica. All to be kept safe and out of the way until the evening when men would emerge out of the dark, a small boat waiting by the jetty, ready to try take them God knows where.

  He marched back inside, unlocked the door to his office, found them finishing the last of the caramels. Garzone never felt entirely comfortable around children unless they had parents to keep them in check.

  ‘Gone,’ one of the girls said, holding out the empty bag. ‘Got any more?’

  ‘No. Sorry.’

  ‘Going to get some, Father?’ asked the other one.

  All the plans he had for the rest of that day – visiting the sick, the worried, the desperate, trying to spread what comfort he could – were now in ruins. These three mites could not be left on their own.

  He clapped his hands. Teachers often did that and sometimes it even worked.

  ‘I know. A game.’

  ‘Football,’ the first girl suggested. ‘Outside.’

  ‘No, young lady. I have no ball. I am too old to play. And outside is not a place
to be.’

  ‘Where’s Mamma?’ the lad asked and the priest realized he’d been waiting for that.

  ‘She’ll meet you on your holiday. Tonight a boat. Tomorrow …’ He did his best to smile. ‘Tomorrow … in a short while all will be well.’

  They stared back at him and said nothing. He was a poor purveyor of fictions, he felt. Or perhaps these three had already developed a talent for spotting liars.

  In the workshop of the Uccello the day passed at a steady pace, the awkward silence between the three of them broken only by the rattle and slap of busy looms, echoing the song of the goldcrests absent since late summer.

  Si-dah-si-dah-si-dah-sichi-si-piu.

  Vanni struggled with that at times. The vigilant Chiara, always listening, would stop what she was doing, walk over and instruct him with great patience on how to work the Jacquard correctly. He was quick to learn but distracted. The argument with his sister lingered, Paolo thought, along with some of her sly and calculating comments. As an only child he possessed no feel for what it might be like to grow up with a sibling. Particularly an older sister who seemed more forceful, more male in some ways, always the first to act and take decisions. The two cared for each other deeply. That was obvious. But they were so different, Mika hard, determined, unstoppable, Vanni cautious, thoughtful, always observant of others and what they thought.

  Still, these were uncomfortable notions. What mattered was the work, the three lion banners in soprarizzo for the mysterious Ugo Leone who was expecting them the following afternoon.

  By five they could continue no more. Chiara got up, stretched, yawned, reached for her coat and bag and asked where Mika was.

  Neither of them answered.

  She was a cheery woman usually, even in times like these. Not an optimist. That was impossible in the present state of affairs. But someone who did not let the privations of the city and the times interrupt her daily business: work and an endless round of parochial visits on behalf of her local priest. Before she left she gave Paolo a present: a bag of S-shaped bussolai biscuits, golden and crisp, that she’d baked herself. Since she came from Burano, where bussolai originated, she was, she always said, better at making them than any housewife unfortunate enough to hail from the city.

  Vanni took one, bit into it and told her it was wonderful.

  ‘Better dipped in a cup of coffee. Or wine. Or something stronger,’ she said. ‘Perhaps your sister would like one.’

  ‘She’s sleeping,’ he said. ‘Tired.’

  Paolo didn’t look at Chiara at that moment. He knew full well what she was thinking.

  ‘You’ve a talent for the loom, Vanni,’ she told him. ‘Do you enjoy weaving?’

  ‘Funnily enough … yes.’ He looked at his fingers. There were blisters and red marks from the strain of the constant work. ‘I never realized I could do anything with my hands.’

  ‘You sound surprised.’

  He smiled and said, ‘I suppose I am. The Artoms were never supposed to be made for manual labour. That was for others.’

  ‘You mean the workers?’ Chiara said, shaking her head. ‘I thought you were communists.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  She shrugged her shoulders and said, ‘There can’t be anyone in Venice who hasn’t heard the Germans are hunting high and low for two fugitive partisans. Jewish. Political. Someone could pick up a lot of money if they handed you in.’

  Paolo felt bad seeing the sadness on her face. Chiara had worked so hard to look after him since his parents died. Now outsiders had arrived and threatened to tear down the walls of the sanctuary she’d tried to build.

  ‘After we deliver the banners Vanni and his sister will move on,’ he said, hoping this might cheer her.

  ‘When?’

  ‘That’ – Vanni took another biscuit out of the bag and bit into it – ‘would be telling. We’ll go. We’ll be thankful such generous, brave people helped us. Please …’ He came forward and embraced her, kissed her on both cheeks. ‘I’ll do anything I can to protect your young friend here. Anything.’

  Chiara retreated from his arms and brushed her elbow across her damp cheeks.

  ‘Without you we never would have finished. Not in time. We can put this work to bed in the morning. Then I’ll go over everything carefully, checking every thread. There are gilt boxes in the cellar and tissue paper so we can present them the way your father always did. No one else makes velvet like this in Venice. Perhaps they never shall after we’ve gone. It’s important your customer feels he’s getting his money’s worth.’

  He hadn’t revealed much about the commission and, of course, she’d noticed.

  ‘Thank you. As ever.’

  ‘If you like I can deliver them,’ she added. ‘I know you don’t like walking round the city. Especially places the Crucchi linger. A woman will be less conspicuous.’

  The offer was tempting but all the same he said no: she’d done enough.

  They watched her leave, a hunched figure passing through the garden and the ruins of the old palace. Chiara Vecchi was now the nearest to family he had.

  ‘You’ve a good friend there,’ Vanni said with a pat on his shoulder. ‘A guardian angel.’

  ‘I wish I could be the same for her.’

  Vanni was staring at the complexities of the Jacquard, the myriad threads, the punch cards rigged to make the pattern. A job he’d only half-learned himself, one that perhaps Chiara Vecchi alone possessed with any skill in the city at that moment.

  ‘What will you weave next?’ he asked. ‘After we’ve gone.’

  ‘I don’t know. So much to choose from. We need to find a customer first.’

  ‘What kind of things?’

  All the Artoms had seen was the commission for Ugo Leone’s banners. It was a fraction of what the Uccello could make if they wished.

  ‘Lots. I’ll show you.’

  Paolo turned off the weak electric lights and the two of them went back into the house. He grabbed an oil lamp and held it out until Vanni got the message and put a flame from his cigarette lighter to the wick. Then he went to the window by the lagoon, found the cellar door beneath the rug and pulled it open.

  ‘Down here,’ he said and they descended into the damp and gloom.

  Luca Alberti was tired of rousting his informants. They knew nothing. If they did his combined threats and promises and money would surely have loosened some lips. All day he’d spent walking round the city, every one of the six sestieri that formed Venice, from Cannaregio to Castello, Dorsoduro to the back streets of Santa Croce and San Polo, even the few mean streets of San Marco where the partisans had some support. In return he had nothing to show but sore feet and an aching head from too much bad coffee.

  Out of luck, out of ideas, he’d no great appetite to return to Ca’ Loretti and the doleful stare Oberg reserved for those who’d failed him. Though mostly he didn’t want to spend more time in the company of the man’s dumb and unpleasant underlings. Sachs and Sander were the worst of the Nazis. At least their boss had the look of a man given a shit job and determined to do it out of duty. Those two enjoyed every minute, especially if it entailed dragging some local into one of the rooms downstairs, getting out their knuckledusters, their knives, their spikes and electric prods. Sander was responsible for putting a bath in one of the interrogation cells and liked to strip women naked, hold them underneath the water till they were nearly dead. Then do whatever he liked.

  Alberti watched just the once and was determined he’d never witness that again. He was willing to yell and threaten and punch a confession out of someone if that’s what it took to keep the Germans happy. More than that and it wasn’t just distasteful but also pointless, a case of diminishing returns. He’d seen men and women he felt sure were innocent confess to all number of imaginary crimes out of fear and pain, then pick a name from the list of suspects they were offered, ignorant of whose fate they’d sealed, just desperate for the agony to stop.

  The idiot Sachs had
a saying: In the end everyone talks. Which they did. But the fool never realized that it never meant they spoke the truth.

  Alberti found himself by the long stretch of the Cannaregio canal near the Tre Archi bridge, glum after failing to extract anything useful from a shoe repairman in the area who, from time to time, had passed on useful gossip. The ghetto was a few minutes’ walk away. He had no informers there. The small Jewish community always looked at him and the Crucchi with fearful, hate-filled eyes. There were a few who’d take the opportunity to do him harm too, he didn’t doubt. But for the most part they simply wished to be invisible as they had been before the war. Back in the Thirties a few had even joined the Fascist party believing that its support of middle-class businessmen against the threat of Communism meant Il Duce was on their side. Which was never true – the Racial Laws that came in at the end of the decade proved it. But Mussolini didn’t have quite the hatred of everything Hebrew to match the despot in Berlin. It was only when he became Hitler’s puppet that the round-ups and the murders had become routine and organized in earnest.

  He checked his pistol, quite openly as he stood in the street, in case anyone was watching. Then he took one of the winding alleys that led to the tiny island called the Ghetto Nuovo where, around the small square of the campo, in cramped tenements rising five or six storeys high, the city’s Jews had first been segregated four hundred years before.

  Diamante lived on the third floor of a block overlooking a home for the elderly and frail, a place that had no call on a list for the likes of Salvatore Bruno. When the Nazis needed Jews to drag to cattle trucks that were, he suspected, already positioned at the station of Santa Lucia, they’d find thirty or forty easily here. It was the rest that was going to be difficult.

  The old doctor answered the front door himself and stood there, seemingly amazed that Alberti had braved the ghetto at all.

  ‘I was hoping we could talk.’

  Alberti looked around. There were a few people walking the campo in heavy overcoats. None near. No one, he felt, so stupid they would try to gun down a servant of the Nazis in the midst of the ghetto. The reprisals in a place like this would be horrific.