The Garden of Letters

by Alyson Richman

  Elodie felt a wave of anxiety rush over her. “Mamma, maybe . . .”

  “Stop. As soon as your father can return to work, things will get better. He just couldn’t do his private lessons like he does every summer. But school will start in a month and he’s insisting he will be well enough to return by then.” She squeezed Elodie’s shoulder. “Enjoy the last days of summer. School will be starting for you, too, before you know it.”

  Elodie walked outside the apartment and headed straight to the little shop on Corso S. Anastasia, where her mother bought most of her groceries, like grains and the other provisions. They hadn’t had any meat in weeks, so there was no use asking her mother if she should get some. At the dairy next door, she would bring the milk tin and have it filled with the one-quarter liter allowed.

  It felt good to devote herself to an hour or so of simple errands for her mother. It helped alleviate her guilt from deceiving her parents over the past few weeks. It was a relief to do this sort of menial, easy work compared to the more complicated coding for Luca. Here, all she had to do was wait in line, rip off a coupon, get a loaf of stale bread and a bit of coffee and sugar, and come home. She let her mind relax for a moment, enjoying the simplicity of standing in line with the other women, most of them matrons, including the mothers of some of her old classmates.

  “Elodie!” Katia Segreti’s mother chimed when she entered the store. “I haven’t seen you in ages!”

  Elodie smiled. “How are you? And how is Katia . . .”

  “Good. Good. Well, as good as anyone can be during all this chaos. She got married in May. A good boy, Carlo Prescutti . . . do you know him?”

  Elodie said she didn’t. But, in reality, she knew him to be a bully and a notorious Blackshirt.

  “Please send her my congratulations,” Elodie said. Her eyes began to scan the shelves to see if there was anything she could bring home to her mother. But the store offered so little to buy. A can of tomato paste. A tin of sardines. A sack of moldy white onions.

  Elodie waited until Signora Segreti had finished with her purchases and left the store before asking the shop owner to extend them additional credit.

  Flavio was a kind man and said he could extend it by another week. “School’s starting soon, eh?” he asks her. “I bet you’re excited.”

  “Yes, yes. It will be good for both my father and me to get back to our music,” she told him.

  “Give him and your mother my best,” he said. “I’m sorry I don’t have more on the shelves these days, but compared to our boys out there fighting . . .”

  “I know, I know,” she answered. “We have to be grateful we have anything at all.”

  They said good-bye, and Elodie went next door to get what she could from the dairy.

  On the way home, she appraised her bounty. In her bag, she had three eggs, four deciliters of milk, one kilogram of flour, and a sack of dried beans.

  When she got home, her father was still in his bathrobe. Her mother was standing behind him, rubbing his temples gently. There was a grave look of worry on Orsina’s face.

  “What’s wrong?” Elodie asked as she placed the groceries on the table.

  “It’s his headaches. Your father says they grow worse with each day.”

  “Can’t we call the doctor for him?”

  “I have! Who do you think visits us when you go out to practice with your friend Lena every afternoon?”

  Elodie walked over to both of them. She touched her father’s cheek softly with the back of her hand.

  “I hate to see you suffer so much, Papa.”

  “Don’t worry, my tesoro,” he answered, his voice barely more than a whisper. He reached for her hand and kissed it softly.

  “I’d ask you to play for me, but I can barely hear anything at the moment.”

  “I understand. How about I just sit here with you? Mother can rub your temples and I can massage your hands.”

  “No, no. Your mother can handle me by herself. Take your cello and go practice with Lena. I know the two of you have been working so hard these past few weeks. I’m proud of you and your dedication . . .” He managed a small, knowing smile through his obvious discomfort.

  Elodie looked at her mother to see if she should in fact leave them alone.

  “Your father is right, Elodie. You’ve already helped me by doing the shopping. Go practice with Lena. Just be home by dinner so I don’t worry.”

  Elodie kissed both her parents on the cheek and left with her cello. But she didn’t go to find Lena. She went straight away to the bookstore, to see Luca.

  When she arrived at Luca’s bookstore, he nearly leaped up from behind the front counter.

  “Elodie! I’ve been hoping all day that you’d stop by!”

  She smiled.

  He scanned the room. There was a lone customer in the back, looking at some books on naval history. Luca motioned with his eyes that they would need to wait to go into the back room until this customer had left the store.

  In the meantime, Elodie put down her cello and took advantage of the opportunity to browse the shelves. She had hardly spent any time in the main storefront, as both the group’s underground meetings and her time alone with Luca were always spent in the back room. But now she could see how charming the store really was. Around the perimeter were tall, wooden shelves bearing handsome leather volumes, and the light was soft and welcoming.

  There was also something about the smell of bookshops that was strangely comforting to her. She wondered if it was the scent of ink and paper, or the perfume of binding, string, and glue. Maybe it was the scent of knowledge. Information. Thoughts and ideas. Poetry and love. All of it bound into one perfect, calm place. The shelves lined with anything from Rome’s ancient history to photographs of archeological digs in South America. Luca had stacked love sonnets by Lord Byron against Francesco Petrarch’s unrequited love poems to his muse, Laura.

  And behind all of this bounty of knowledge and passion was a room that only a rare few knew contained even more information. Like a clock whose dials and intricate mechanisms remain hidden from view, Luca’s bookstore was more than met the eye.

  Elodie looked at Luca with great admiration as he gave the customer his change and tucked his book inside a crisp brown bag.

  “Ciao . . . Mille grazie,” he said politely, as the man tipped his hat and waved good-bye.

  Luca walked to the door and switched over the sign to signal he’d be back in a few minutes.

  “Let’s go,” he said to her. “I’m so glad you came.”

  She took her cello with her and sat down at the table where, only two days ago, they had crafted the code and she played for him for the first time.

  “Well, little Dragonfly,” he said. “You accomplished your mission with great success! Our contact said you delivered our message, and also played superbly for the Wolf.”

  She smiled. “I felt like I didn’t breathe the entire day yesterday.” Blood was rushing through her, as the exhilaration of being so close to Luca and also hearing him say she had done a masterful job made her feel more alive than ever.

  “Well, now you have some time to relax,” he continued. “But in two days, we’ll need to send him another message using the same code. I know school will be starting for you soon, but this second message is just as important.”

  “Whatever you need, I’ll do my best to make the mission a success.”

  “Now, we must pray all goes well for the men in the mountains,” he said. “I feel guilty that I’m safe down here in my little store while my brother and his men prepare to fight in the wilderness . . . And who knows what will happen once the weather turns . . .”

  Elodie shook her head. She tried her best to sound like a good soldier. Solemn and serious, though inside her mind was spinning with other thoughts. She felt that her mission had made her more animalisti
c in a way. As if she now moved to pulses and rhythms that did not have an acoustical sound, but were sensed instead through instinct.

  “Yes, we must consider ourselves lucky and pray that the autumn will not bring too much rain nor the winter too much snow.” Her words sounded wooden and came out flat. Quickly, Elodie tried to light a bit of fire to her words.

  “I suppose a bookseller’s job is not affected by the weather.”

  Luca let out a small laugh. “Indeed, not.”

  “Was the store your father’s?”

  “Oh no!” Luca threw his head back and laughed again. “My father? He couldn’t even read. Neither of my parents could. Nor could I until the age of ten. I actually taught myself to read.”

  Elodie looked surprised. “Really?” Suddenly the room felt bright as an energy was ignited between them.

  “Yes.” Luca nodded. “No one in my family, not even I, ever went to school. The fact is, I’m the son of a blacksmith. There were no books in my house. My father knew how to work only with his hands. My three brothers and I all helped him. We swept the floor and chopped wood, and my older brothers helped stoke the fire.”

  Luca cleared his voice.

  “One day, when I was ten years old, a customer came into my father’s shop with a book tucked under his arm. My father told him the iron set he had ordered for his fireplace would be ready shortly; he just needed another twenty minutes for it to cool.

  “The man’s answer startled me. Typically, customers got angry when their orders were not immediately ready. But this man seemed almost happy with the news.

  “‘Twenty minutes, eh?’ he said. ‘Great. I’ll just sit outside and read a bit.’ The man tapped on his book and walked to the bench outside my father’s workshop and I followed him.

  “I watched as he sat down, looked up at the sun for a moment, and then opened his book on his lap.

  “‘What’s the matter, little fellow?’ he asked me. I was covered in soot, as my brothers and I always were.

  “‘Nothing,’ I said shyly. He seemed to study me for a second, perhaps sensing the curiosity in my eyes, peeking out of the mask of filth, before returning to his book.

  “I crouched by the doorpost for twenty minutes, watching as his face changed with every page.

  “I tell you, Elodie, it was like watching an actor in a movie. The words he was reading made him smile, even laugh out loud on occasion. Then a few pages later, his face became serious and grave. His brow wrinkled, and his eyes were fixated on every sentence. Then, when my father called out that his order was ready, the man couldn’t even respond until he had finished reading his chapter. That’s how taken he was by the book’s content.

  “I remember that day as if it were yesterday because it was then and there I vowed to myself that I, too, would learn to read. I guess you could say I realized from an early age that there was a code locked inside each book, and I wanted to be the one to learn it.”

  “But then how did you come to own this store? You’re so young!” Elodie gushed.

  “Well, you have to understand, I wasn’t busy like the rest of the children with any obligations of school. Once I started teaching myself to read, through mostly discarded newspapers, I saved all my money from odd chores to buy my first book. And eventually after several months, my collection grew. I then began to trade books with dealers. By the time I was fifteen, I had enough to sell books on the street from a cart. Five years later, having combed all the flea markets for secondhand books, I found a handful of rare editions that I got for a song and resold them for a bounty. I had a friend, Pelizzato, who used to trade books with me; we positioned our carts side by side in Milan. Eventually both of us had enough to open our first shops. He went to Venice and named his La Toletta . . . and I started Il Gufo here in Verona.”

  Elodie was amazed. “That’s incredible,” she said. “You’re a self-made man at the age of what, twenty-two?”

  “Twenty-four,” he said, smiling. He straightened his spine and pushed back his shoulders. “And I’ve cleaned up, too . . .” He patted his cheeks with both hands. “No soot! Just some occasional ink.”

  “And now instead of unlocking codes, you’re creating them,” Elodie said.

  “Yes. Exactly. And we need to write another.”

  “I only have until dinnertime,” she said. “Then I need to get home.”

  “Well then,” he said looking at the clock, “let’s get to work.”

  Just like before, the two of them worked side by side. Elodie now knew the key by heart, so it was easy to write the coded cadenza once she knew the number of sixteenth notes needed to relay the amount of guns being stockpiled, and the particular placement of the triple-stopped whole note so that she could inform the intelligence scouts of the location.

  She worked deftly and efficiently. Once the code was written, she stood up and pulled out her cello.

  “Let’s hear how it sounds. I don’t want to completely offend the Wolf’s sensibilities again . . .”

  It was strange how things had changed between the two of them. The first time Elodie played for Luca, she remembered the pangs of embarrassment and nervousness flooding through her body, before she was able to surrender to the music. Now, it just seemed natural to play for him.

  She wasn’t sure if it was the fact that he had just revealed something about his past to her that made her feel more connected, or perhaps it was their shared connection to creating the important codes. But regardless of the reason, this time felt different to her.

  She picked up her cello and settled into her chair. In two seconds, her bow was at the strings, her body was like a dancer electrified. The music. The code. Her playing. She radiated like a starburst from her cello.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Verona, Italy

  JULY 1943

  Elodie’s second mission to the Wolf did not evoke the same fear in her. She knew the route, she knew approximately how long it would take her, and she knew that the man was far less intimidating than his code name.

  The day after she finished the code with Luca, Elodie woke up, tucked her white blouse into her navy skirt, and told her parents she would be out rehearsing with Lena, taking her cello with her.

  She moved quickly and efficiently through the streets. She looked at no one. She made her face expressionless. The only thing she focused on was getting to the station to catch the early morning train to Mantua.

  When she arrived at the Wolf’s apartment building, she found the main door ajar. She walked inside and took the stairs to his apartment. Elodie placed down her cello case and knocked at the door. One minute passed; she remained outside. She pressed her ear to the door to see if he was lost in his piano playing, but again there was nothing but silence. Elodie knocked again.

  She didn’t know if she should remain on the landing to the apartment or return home. She decided to knock one more time. Shortly after, she heard movement. A shuffling of footsteps. Then a crash, like the sound of a vase falling to the ground.

  “Hello? Who’s there?” It was the sound of the Wolf’s voice.

  “I’ve come for my lesson,” she said. She thought it unwise to announce herself as Dragonfly and call attention to herself, should any of the neighbors be listening.

  Suddenly the door unlocked and the Wolf stood there, looking far shabbier than at their first meeting.

  “Please excuse my appearance,” he said, smoothing his shirt down with his hands. The top button of his chemise had been left undone, allowing a small tuft of white hair to peek through.

  “I only got back last night and need to leave tonight again, so I’m sorry that I’m not better prepared for you.”

  She smiled. “Don’t even mention it. I usually close my eyes anyway when I play.”

  “Yes. Indeed.” He clasped his hands. “Let’s hear you play then. I’m anxious to hear what you have in
store today,” he said. “Come with me.”

  They walked down the long corridor, where a shattered ceramic vase lay on the floor. “I’ll get to that later,” he said as he shuffled by. “I hate to lose any time while you’re here.”

  “Thank you,” she said as she stepped again into the peacock-blue music room.

  “Same position as last time, then?” He went to get a chair for her. She scanned the room, glancing again at the painting in the golden frame above his piano.

  The Wolf turned his head and saw the line of her gaze.

  “You like that painting, don’t you? I noticed you staring at it when you were last here.”

  “Yes,” she said blushing.

  “I bought that painting many years ago, for my wife’s birthday.” He slid the chair underneath her, and she sat down.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said. She reached down to unfasten her case.

  “Not so beautiful, thankfully, that Goering wanted it. Mussolini’s henchmen came here in ’38 and took inventory of everything I had. I have friends who had Titians and Tintorettos, and all that was taken for Goering’s personal art collection. I’m lucky I had given my wife something too bourgeois for his taste.”

  He smiled again as he turned his back to her and looked for a chair for himself. “Not that it doesn’t have value. You could probably sell that today for a tidy sum—as you could, your cello . . .”

  She pulled out her cello and brought it to her chest.

  “Enrico Levi’s Gofriller’s cello. Unbelievable.”

  His eyes were firmly focused on her, and Elodie tried not to show her unease.

  The Wolf let out a little laugh. “Don’t worry, Dragonfly, I’m not going to steal your cello away from you . . . It makes me happy that it’s in the hands of such a gifted musician.”

  She knew enough not to smile. Even in her young age, she knew not to soften under the easy words of a man’s flattery.