The Garden of Angels

by David Hewson

  And he’d have a wife and a kid in their plain but comfortable apartment in Cannaregio. Not a small room in a hotel full of foreigners and their fancy women, all paid for in Reichsmarks and Italian blood. The marriage had been fine until the world started to turn dark around them. Not perfect. But they got on, and his kid didn’t hate him too much for being a cop.

  How different life was just a few years on. How changed some people would be after this night was over too.

  A figure caught his attention. It was the blonde-haired woman he’d spoken to the night before. The same one who’d caught the attention of the scared-looking kid he’d approached in the cafe earlier.

  She’s pretty. That’s why you’re looking, isn’t it?

  He was good at remembering what people said and how they said it. Good at being a cop back when that was what he did for a living.

  The Uccello kid had been there when they dragged the crazy Jewish woman out of the water in San Pietro on Tuesday. There was something about him that made Alberti wonder if he was the kind to stare at a pretty woman at all. Venice wasn’t troubled by the homos among its people. They were everywhere. A good few gondoliers weren’t above the odd affair with perfumed foreign men swanning it through the city, so long as they had money. Not that those assignations happened any more. Queers were on the Fascists’ lists too. Not as high up as the Jews, but close.

  The woman was a waitress, someone new in the Gioconda. Someone different too, and it wasn’t just her blonde hair and interesting, intelligent face that drew his attention. Was it possible that the Uccello kid had been trying to stop him talking to her before she got into the Gioconda?

  He just didn’t know. All the same there was something odd there. Alberti threw his cigarette over the balcony down the narrow canal below. Something was happening. The blonde was moving through the crowd with her tray of drinks, not zig-zagging casually the way waitresses were supposed to do on these occasions. She had someone in her sights.

  It was the Jew hunter, Bruno, smart as ever in his dark suit, greasy hair combed back, looking as haughty and pompous as usual. She strode straight through the crowd and handed him a cocktail, all the time wearing the kind of broad, inviting smile that said, Just ask and who knows?

  A waitress. Not a whore. A woman who said she couldn’t be bought, or so she’d insisted the night before when he spoke to her, though that was when he was half-drunk. Not a quarter way there like now.

  Alberti thought of the way he was trained, the things he’d learned. Then he pulled out his pocketbook. The descriptions of all those he was chasing were written there. Some brief. Some detailed.

  There was a photo. Of course she wouldn’t look like that now. The height, the build, the accent. Some things never changed. But there was a clear resemblance.

  The last place anyone expected they’d be looking for a fugitive Jewish partisan was in the very heart of the Nazis’ lair. All the same, if Oberg ever got to know how a half-drunk Alberti missed all this he’d be lucky to escape with his job and maybe his life.

  ‘Jesus,’ he murmured, shaking his head when he thought this through. ‘I just got taken for a ride by a stinking teenager.’

  Mika waited until Salvatore Bruno was on his own before she approached him, tray in hand, and said, ‘Want another?’

  ‘I’ve got one.’ He looked her up and down and the briefest smile crossed his face. ‘But thanks for the offer.’

  ‘They pay me to hand out booze. I’m doing what they ask.’

  ‘You’re not from round here. You talk like—’

  ‘I talk like all kind of things. My dad was a bum. Worked the railways. We lived all over the place for years. Milan. Genoa. Verona.’ She frowned. ‘Had nearly a year in Rome which was good but then he came and got a docker’s job in Mestre. Off work now. Got hit by a truck.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to bore you.’

  He was a sly-faced man with a waxy pale complexion. This close she felt she knew that kind of northern Jew. Quiet, usually in business, middle-class, doubtless secular. Much like her own family in many ways. People who thought the coming cataclysm would never touch their lives. When she was a teenager and the Racial Laws came in she’d had a terrible argument with her father. Accused him of all manner of unfair traits. Being treacherous to his own, more motivated by self-interest than a sense of justice, cruel and heartless and unfeeling.

  None of which, she now understood, was true. He was simply doing what many middle-class Jews like him did during the late 1930s. Going along with the general mood and hoping that would be enough to enable them to prosper until times changed and a more moderate, relaxed kind of politician came to hold the reins in Rome. If there was a fault in her father it was a common one at that time. He was too slow and reluctant to accept the wind was turning cold and harsh and soon would shift from Germany and Austria to the south. Too trusting, too believing in the natural goodness of everyday men and women, to accept that the day would come when the horrors of the Nazis – pogroms and internment camps – would find their way across the Alps to their quiet, comfortable, sensible bourgeois home.

  Bruno finished his martini, placed the empty glass on her tray and took a flute of sparkling Franciacorta in its place. The Black Brigades refused to serve champagne. Mostly they loathed the French. So the best Italy could offer, pricier than the local Veneto Prosecco, was flowing freely that night. Beneath his arm was one of the gilt boxes Chiara Vecchi had found for the banners the three of them had woven on the Jacquard looms.

  ‘You don’t look like a soldier.’

  ‘I’m not. Shouldn’t you be busy?’

  ‘I can stop talking if you like.’

  He got the message. She wasn’t just there to hand out free drinks, not if someone wanted it.

  ‘No. Don’t.’

  ‘So what do you do, mister?’

  ‘Find things.’ He frowned and she wondered, Was this too much? Was she getting too close? It was a quarter to six. She’d soon start to make her way to the balcony. When she saw Trevisan’s boat come down the side canal, she’d stroll casually over to the piano and drop her tray. They’d stare for a while, then look away. She’d get slowly to her feet, raise the sheet on the grand piano, find the timer. Prime it, walk to the door, unlock it.

  And flee.

  She so much wanted more than that. If she had a gun right now she’d think to hell with bombs and partisans outside and put it right up to Salvatore Bruno’s temple, then blow his head off. Stand there, laughing, while the Crucchi gathered round.

  But all she had was a tray of drinks and a few dishes of biscuits. Nothing she could use to kill the man who’d hunted Jews all across northern Italy, given up his own to torture and death.

  ‘What kind of things?’ she asked.

  ‘Things that get me money.’ His eyes glazed over for a moment. ‘I got a wife and kid back in Salò. They need looking after.’

  ‘You love your wife?’

  He looked affronted by the question.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But she’s not here.’

  ‘She wouldn’t like it. We … um …’ It was coming, the excuse. She could feel it. ‘We kind of drifted apart. She doesn’t like what I do.’ He grimaced. ‘Some of the time I don’t either. But a man does what he must.’

  ‘A woman too,’ she said.

  ‘What else do you do?’

  ‘Now that’ – she leaned up and whispered in his ear, close enough that he’d smell her, feel the heat of her breath – ‘is a conversation for another time and place. I don’t perform in hotel bedrooms. Not for anybody. Not for any price.’

  ‘I’m not staying here,’ he whispered back. ‘With all these …’ He was a little worse for wear. ‘All these … Crucchi.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She waited.

  He pulled out a little pad and a pen and she wondered how many names he’d scribbled down there, how many men and women, children, he’d dispatched t
his way.

  ‘Here. They gave me a dump of an apartment down near the opera house. I work for them. I kind of …’ He hesitated and for the briefest moment she wondered if she felt sorry for this man. ‘I don’t really belong here.’ Bruno put the half-finished glass on the tray. ‘I’m going. I’m tired. I’ll be here for a day or two.’ A wan smile, then he put a finger out and moved a strand of her blonde hair away from her cheek. ‘If you’d like to earn some money tomorrow …’

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked, pointing at the golden box. ‘They can’t think bad of you if they give you presents.’

  He snorted.

  ‘It was my present to them.’ He opened the box and displayed the banner. The scarlet silk and the golden lion. It shone with the newness of the fabric. The whole thing, stretched out as he let it roll to the floor, was barely the length of an arm. All that effort for this. ‘To mark the eternal friendship between the Germans and our wonderful republic. Something that will last forever. Two for them. One for me. To remember. It’s important to remember some things …’ His eyes were glassy. He looked drunk, tearful. ‘You’ve got to—’

  ‘I’ve spent too long talking to you.’

  ‘Salvatore. Call me that. And you …?’

  The clock was approaching six. She needed to be on the balcony.

  ‘Giulia. A pair of legs paid to serve you drinks. Maybe I’ll come round and visit you. Then you can see the rest. If you’ve got the money.’

  She didn’t wait for an answer. Bruno was bundling the banner back into the box. She went and served a couple of Germans standing by the pillars next to the long balcony windows and watched him shuffle out of the room. No one looked. No one spoke to him or seemed to notice. Whatever function he’d served had been met. The man wanted out of there, to go back to the place the Germans had organized for him. A lonely traitor waiting on tomorrow.

  Watch for the boat.

  Head for the piano.

  Drop the tray.

  Arm the bomb.

  Then cross the room and unlock the side door so others could do their job.

  She hated the idea she wouldn’t be a part of it. But there was no way. Attacks like this depended on timing, organization and swift execution.

  Just do as you were told. Go back to the Giardino degli Angeli and Paolo Uccello, a man Vanni was toying with she hoped. Keeping quiet the way he knew best.

  She glanced around, left the Germans, moved behind the curtain.

  Thin mist swirled down the canal.

  Six o’clock almost. No sign of a boat.

  She hoped to God they wouldn’t be late. The head waiter kept an eye on all the women working the room. He was a hard bastard and wanted labour for his money.

  A sound startled her. Footsteps and the closing stink of a stale cigarette wafting past the pillar that hid her from the room.

  Then the terrace door opened.

  ‘Mika Artom,’ said a voice she half-recognized. ‘Come outside. We need to talk.’

  Vanni was half-dozing on the bed in his parents’ room when Paolo got back. He was in his underpants and a heavy woollen fisherman’s jumper he must have found in the wardrobe. The wound on his leg was uncovered. It looked raw and bleeding again. At some stage they’d surely have to find a real doctor.

  Paolo took one look, then got some water and a fresh bandage, told him to sit up on the bed and let him try to clean it.

  Vanni tried to shrug it off.

  ‘Don’t be so concerned. My sister knows her stuff. Sometimes things need to get worse before they get better.’

  He wiped down the cut as best he could, placed some gauze over the bloody slash, then wound the bandage round his leg. A gentle hand fell on his hair as he worked. Vanni made the odd quiet moan as he worked to tighten the fabric.

  ‘I’m trying not to hurt you.’

  ‘Same here.’

  When it was done Vanni leaned back on the bed, against the wall and closed his eyes.

  ‘Are you feverish?’ Paolo asked.

  ‘Probably not. Did you get your money?’

  ‘Some of it. The bastard never intended to pay what he’d promised. But …’

  Vanni looked at him and asked for a drink. Wine. Grappa. Something strong.

  ‘Why?’ Paolo wondered. ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘There’s no such thing as wise these days.’

  He went into the kitchen and came back with two small tumblers of amber-coloured grappa, the best they had, a bottle his father kept for special occasions: birthdays, Christmas, holidays. There was no easy way to break the news.

  Vanni gulped half his glass down in one.

  Paolo said, ‘I’m sorry to tell you this. I heard while I was out from the priest.’

  Straight away his eyes flashed with interest and a glimmer of fear.

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘They’re coming for all the Jews. Tomorrow. All of you. Diamante was meant to give them a list last night. He killed himself and burned all the documents he had. It might hold them up for a little while. It won’t stop them.’

  Vanni lay there silent, then asked, ‘Did you know him? The doctor?’

  ‘Not really. He seemed a good man. Did you ever meet him?’

  ‘Of course not. That’s the way these things work. The less anyone knows the better. That way …’

  He didn’t go on.

  ‘That way you have little to tell if the Germans find you.’

  He smiled.

  ‘You do learn fast. We live in the shadows. It’s safer there.’

  ‘When you go … will you take me with you?’

  Vanni looked as if he was trying to stifle a laugh, then asked, ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want to be with you … I want to fight the Crucchi. I hate them.’

  ‘Hating them’s no use.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What I said. If you hate them you treat them as people. Fear them by all means. But never give them identities. Never think of them as men. Or women. See them the way they see us. Me. A Jew. As a man who sometimes loves other men. A creature less than human. Unworthy of life.’

  ‘I don’t know—’

  ‘To them I’m no better than an animal. Vermin. A pest to be eradicated. As they must be to me. Not hate. Hate’s an emotion and emotions get you killed.’

  ‘Then,’ Paolo said, raising a glass, ‘that’s how I’ll feel.’

  ‘Get me the bag from the wardrobe.’

  He fetched it and Vanni zipped open the canvas holdall and took out a pistol. The barrel was black, the stock dark-brown wood.

  ‘The partisans gave Mika all this for safekeeping. Know what I have in my hands?’

  ‘A gun.’

  ‘Very good. A gun,’ Vanni said and withdrew a shiny magazine from the depths of the bag. ‘A Luger Zero Eight. Old. They have better weapons than this now but we use what we can steal. Show me how to use it.’

  Paolo laughed, embarrassed.

  ‘I don’t know. You have to teach me. Didn’t someone teach you?’

  ‘Yes. And they cut off his balls and hanged him from a tree not long after.’

  From a side pocket in the bag he pulled out a pale green card with an image of Mussolini in a military helmet and the words beneath, ‘Fascio di combattimento’.

  ‘What’s this, Paolo?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘A membership card for the Fascists. With a bit of luck it can get you past one of the bastards asking for papers on a train. What’s this?’

  Another piece of paper. It seemed to be an identity card from France with a fuzzy picture of Vanni on it and the name ‘Pierre Goulet’.

  ‘French papers. Fake.’

  ‘Correct. And this?’

  Another document. Italian this time. Another photo of Vanni.

  ‘Your real papers. Your real ID.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Why keep them? They’d give you away.’

  Vanni laughed.

  ‘Yes, i
f the Crucchi saw them. What happens when I get out of here? When I try to find the cell I’m meant to join? They need proof, don’t they? Without it they might shoot me for a spy.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘Obviously. Also …’ He tapped his chest, the woolly jumper of Paolo’s father. ‘You always have to remember who you are. I am me. Giovanni Artom. If you let them steal that there’s nothing left to fight for.’

  ‘I can do all this. I can learn. You can teach me.’

  ‘You mean on the road? When we’re running? Tomorrow, perhaps? The day after?’ He hesitated, then added, ‘With Mika too?’

  That hadn’t occurred to him. She seemed the boss. The one he’d have to convince.

  ‘If you give me a chance …’

  ‘The chance to die alongside a couple of wanted Jews.’

  Vanni reached out and touched his hair for a moment. Paolo shivered but he didn’t retreat. He thought perhaps he’d touch him again but instead Vanni grabbed the Luger and said, ‘Watch.’

  It happened so quickly he couldn’t follow. Vanni flicked open a box of shells with his thumb, packed shells into the magazine, jammed it into the stock, flicked a lever somewhere, held the pistol high in his right arm and fired.

  Plaster rained down on them from the ceiling, like a sudden shower of artificial hail.

  ‘Sorry for the damage,’ he said, sweeping the pieces off the bed. ‘When the war’s over, send me the bill.’

  He took out the magazine and with quick fingers expelled every shell on to the bed sheets, then handed over the pistol.

  ‘Now you.’

  But he hadn’t followed what had happened. It was all too fast, too far away from everything he understood. The workings of the Jacquard loom, the fabric, the scissors, the complex processes of weaving … these he knew by heart. Not as well as Chiara who could do the job with her eyes closed almost. But a weapon …