‘Amazing!’ he says. ‘I do love a good Agatha Christie. Listen, can I offer you some tea? I had some in my pack as I dropped in, and the lovely sisters have given me a small stove.’
I look at my watch, wondering how much time I have.
‘We Brits are very good at tea,’ he urges. ‘Put it this way, you wouldn’t want my coffee!’
I’ve rushed from work, barely having had time to eat or drink, so I say yes, but I can’t stay too long. Arlo will be thinking I’ve abandoned him.
Jack hobbles to and fro on a makeshift crutch, clearly in pain, but doing his best not to show it. I’m not normally much of a tea drinker, but this is good, stronger than I usually take it. I ask him about his home, and he adopts a sanguine look for a moment, telling me his parents run a delicatessen in central London. ‘We’re surrounded by Italian families – sometimes I’m not really sure which part of the world I really do belong to. But’ – he holds up his mug – ‘I am a bit of a tea lover, so I must have some English in me!’
‘Were you born there?’ I ask.
‘Turin,’ he says. ‘My parents emigrated when I was a baby. Both families are still in Turin, so obviously that’s a worry. Not much news gets out. Which is partly why I volunteered. I know I’m unlikely to find any trace of them in this chaos, but at least I feel I’m doing my bit for the family, for Italy.’
I understand his need, and I warm to him all the more. He asks about my family, and I tell him about Mama and Papa, and a little of my past life. He has a copy of Venezia Liberare on the side and it’s clear he knows who writes the words, telling me: ‘It’s good. Engaging, fighting talk.’ I feel it’s not flattery, but rather his open manner, causing me to trust him almost from the outset. So much so that when he tells me about his brother still missing in action in France, I feel I can open up my concern over Vito’s role in the Resistance, of which I still know little detail, but even the scant gossip in the battalion makes my heart crease at the danger he could be in. I stop short, however, of telling Jack about my day job in the Nazi headquarters. I know my own motivations, my reasons and the work I do, but even so, it feels hard to defend.
We part with my nestling a small parcel in my handbag, little more than the size of an orange and wrapped in an old rag. Its destination is a house not far from my own apartment, and I’m to deliver it early the following morning, before work. The next section will be ready in three days.
‘I’ll see you then,’ I say as I head towards the door.
‘I look forward to it,’ he says, his broad smile apparent in the gloom. And I can’t help feeling I will too.
What odd surprises this war springs upon us.
The journey back to the mainland, with the small but seditious package in my handbag, causes ripples of uncertainty inside me, even though the tide under the boat is oddly calm. As I step onto the cobbles of the main island, each stride heightens my anxiety and I have to stop myself hugging the stone walls of the alleyways to stay out of sight. I’ve made hundreds of journeys across the city with covert messages, but none so risky as this. I can feel my breathing deepen as I try to sidestep one checkpoint, but walk too late into another barrier, only recently set up.
‘Evening, Signorina,’ the fascist patrolman greets me, and I smile widely, affecting a half wink in his direction, while trying my utmost to make it seem genuine. Am I trying too hard? Be natural, Stella, be calm, I chant inside my head. You have nothing to hide. I go to open my handbag as a matter of routine, but as the top flips up, he waves me on, his eyes dressing me down as I go. He doesn’t see my knees almost fail me when I round the corner. I have to stop and take several conscious breaths on the pretence of blowing my nose, then there comes a swift rush of adrenalin which causes me to smile and puts a spring in my step. Still, I’m exhausted by the time I reach my apartment, as well as elated. I realise part of what drives me is the unknown, that cat and mouse with the Nazi regime that Sergio alluded to. I wonder if it’s a good or bad trait for an underground soldier to have.
The package drop to my target destination the next morning is uneventful, thankfully, and strangely I’m relishing some of the dull routine of Breugal’s office. It’s Cristian’s behaviour, however, which proves out of the ordinary. Breugal is away from Venice on war business, and the office is naturally more relaxed. The tall and sombre Captain Klaus takes the opportunity to strut around, attempting to issue orders, but he barely seems more than a boy in a man’s cloak and doesn’t share the bear-like stature of Breugal. I see some of the girls simply titter behind his back and I feel almost sorry for him. In these times, it’s Cristian whom the typists defer to, and some of the German officers too.
I’m struggling with a particularly complex engineering report when he approaches me nearing lunch.
‘Signorina Jilani,’ he begins – in Italian, which makes my head snap up with curiosity. ‘I wonder if I might have a word with you. In private. Perhaps you can join me for lunch?’
I can almost feel the blood drain from my head. I’m not prone to fainting, but for a brief second, I think I might. I take a deep breath and realign my head. He smiles – it seems quite genuine. But then Nazis and fascists alike are good at smiling as they deliver the death knell.
‘Um, yes, of course,’ I stumble. What else can I say?
At 12.15, he puts down his report and tidies his pens, a signal that he’s ready. He approaches the desk.
‘I’ll follow you out in a second,’ I say, before he has the chance for anything else. Nonetheless, I feel several pairs of female eyes dressing me down as I get up and leave – their smirks especially boring into my back. How much more like a collaborator can I feel?
Cristian is waiting in the lobby, and leads me not to the building’s canteen – which I’d hoped for – but out into the bright spring sunshine; he lifts his head automatically to catch the warmth, a look of satisfaction spreading across his face, as if he’s refuelling. For what, I can only imagine. We walk a few minutes to a café in a side street off San Marco, and I’m both thankful and wary that it’s quiet. The waiter knows him well, so it’s obviously a favourite place. We order coffee and sandwiches with whatever bread and filling they have. It’s when the waiter leaves that there’s a void.
‘So, have you had more grand philosophical thoughts on Venice?’ I begin in a tone that says I’m teasing, but only a little. My training has taught me the art of small talk, rather than risk leaving a hole where doubts can breed.
He laughs as he sips at his coffee. ‘No, no it’s all right, the population of Venice is safe from my musings.’ He looks at me fixedly, as if about to reveal something profound, of himself perhaps. Here it is, I think, the interrogation, under the cloak of an innocent lunch date. He’s cornered me out in the open.
‘I was really wondering if you might do me the honour of coming to an evening function with me?’ he says, suddenly taking a deep interest in his near-empty cup. Then, no doubt sensing the look of shock on my face, he adds, ‘I mean it’s fine if you can’t. I just thought I’d ask. General Breugal is away and it’s one of those pompous, military parties and it would be …’
Now he’s not the assured, calm and controlled Cristian De Luca of the Reich office. He’s flushed under his beard and I wonder how many women he has ever asked out, in this life or before.
‘Um, I would be delighted,’ I say, only just remembering that my loyal fascist self would see it as a real honour – ever the compliant typist happy to fraternise with German officers and saviours of the Italian nation. Inside, the dread is already rising at the prospect of being in such close proximity to the grey and black characters of war. But what a gift to the Resistance, what tittle-tattle I might be able to pick up and pass on to my unit command. Even if it saves one life, one uprooted family, it will be worth the indignity. I smile sweetly, my face doing its best to express radiance.
‘I’m so pleased,’ he says, equally unseated. He leans in, as if in some form of schoolboy collusion. ‘If it�
��s a real bore, at least we can stand in the corner and talk literature.’
Which is a cue for us to do just that now, swapping favourites and stories. The hour passes – I’m ashamed to admit later – quite pleasantly.
‘Oh,’ he says, as we get up to head back to the office. ‘In all this talk I almost forgot this.’ He pulls out a small package from his jacket, wrapped loosely in brown paper. As I peel off the covering, I see it’s a small, beautifully bound Italian edition of Austen’s Pride and Prejudice – second-hand but in good condition.
‘Thank you,’ I say. And I mean it. It’s a book I love, and will read again and again. And I’m genuinely taken aback at his thoughtfulness.
‘You probably already have it,’ he adds awkwardly. ‘I mean, it’s her best work. Or at least I think so.’
I look at him directly. ‘Are you referring to the writing or all the hidden meanings?’ I aim to diffuse with a little humour, and I’m smiling as I say it, but it comes out in a different vein. As a challenge almost.
But Cristian De Luca is back to his controlled, assured self. ‘Both,’ he says, as we begin walking. ‘Elizabeth Bennet, she’s one of my favourite characters – smart and knowing. I thought you might like her too.’
And much as we did on our previous encounter, we head back to the dark austerity of the office in silence, drinking in the bright white light of Venice.
I’m forced to relay my frustrations to Mimi as we queue for bread in the market just days later.
‘I mean, what am I to think of a fascist who gives me sensitive literature, after inviting me to a party destined to be full of Nazis?’ I whisper, careful to contain my voice, with ears all about us.
Mimi’s chestnut eyes stare back at me, trying to hide her mirth. As my best friend since school, I want her opinion more than anyone’s; for years now, we’ve laid every secret bare, unaware at the time that discretions about schoolboys and wishes were child’s play compared to what’s at stake now. Still, she says nothing, knowing I’m not quite finished yet.
‘I suppose he could simply need a girl on his arm, just to make a good impression at the party,’ I ponder.
‘And he could have asked almost any girl in the office,’ Mimi pitches in at last. ‘There’s a reason he chose you.’
‘No! I’ve never given him any encouragement, Mimi. Not in that way.’
‘Maybe not, and maybe you don’t need to. Just face it, Stella – those dark, mysterious looks of yours are attractive to men, despite you imagining yourself in some grubby old shirt up in the mountains, with your wild hair flying on a partisan raid.’
‘But a fascist? Really?’ I sigh. ‘He’s deep in Breugal’s pocket.’
‘All the better for the cause,’ Mimi says defiantly. As a fellow Staffetta, she knows the benefits of talk loosened by an excess of good cheer and alcohol. And a pretty girl on a man’s arm, I think to myself with dread.
‘Anyway, tell me about the other one – the soldier on Giudecca,’ Mimi urges as we find a quiet corner table in Paolo’s café. ‘He sounds nice.’
‘Jack. He is – I like talking to him.’
‘And is this one into literature and the arts?’
‘Not sure – I don’t get that feeling. We talk mainly about family, or the war. Sometimes about the cinema.’
‘So, you don’t fancy a trip to London after this is all over then?’ Mimi is being deliberately flighty, bent on teasing me.
‘No I don’t,’ I say flatly. ‘Besides, he’ll be long gone soon, as soon as his leg is halfway mended. I won’t see him again.’
Mimi won’t let up. ‘Strange things happen in wartime,’ she grins. ‘It’s a time of change, all right.’
But I’m not concentrating. I’m thinking about how I will survive the next few days, in being a clandestine carrier for the Resistance, and then donning my best dress and mingling among the Nazi High Command. That’s as much of a seesaw as I can manage for now.
The first step, however, is to transport Jack’s second parcel across the canal from Giudecca. This time, I finish the newspaper work a good half hour early, largely due to an absence of real reports from the Veneto’s partisan groups – it seems there can be pockets of quiet, even in a war. Luckily, Tommaso is on hand with his pen – sharp in more ways than one – to whip up an apt cartoon. I hear both him and Arlo giggling behind me at Tommaso’s latest caricature of ‘Il Duce’, painting him as the clown that my own Popsa predicted he would be.
‘You should make him even fatter than that!’ Arlo teases.
‘He’s already busting out of his uniform,’ Tommaso argues. ‘Besides, there’s not enough space to fit in all of his girth!’ The two pitch back and forth, a background noise that makes me smile, and I half wish it was Vito sharing the work with Arlo and Tommaso, instead of being out there risking himself.
The other pages of the paper we fill with news of the war in Europe, gleaned from Radio Londra. Once again, I’m grateful to the army of grandmothers listening slavishly to the broadcasts next to their stoves, scratching their reports in the dim kitchen light.
I leave the team about to print, as I change roles once again and head to the vast, empty space of Santa Eufemia. I duck behind the altar and catch myself pulling at several stray strands of hair and tucking them away.
‘Silly woman,’ I mutter to myself.
Jack is at his desk, peering into the spotlight and fiddling with a screwdriver.
‘Ah,’ he says. ‘I was just about to put on some water for tea. I’m assuming you’ve come early for the best seat at Café Giovanni?’
‘Nothing less than your best table, Signor,’ I say, sitting on the wooden box.
He’s still packaging the latest parcel, but I’m not late. I’ll easily make the curfew, I tell myself. I’m happy to stay. Eager even.
We talk about our different lives again – him quizzing me about growing up on the fantasy island of Venice, hopping on a boat to go anywhere, the isolation of living out on a limb in the lagoon.
‘I’m sure Venetians never think of it as isolation,’ I say. ‘It’s more like our cocoon of water makes us special. That it’s the rest of the world which has it wrong, in living on swathes of solid land.’
‘Some people might call that elitist – grandiose,’ Jack says, offering me a cup of his special brew.
‘They might,’ I concede. ‘But you know, we’ve been taken over – borne plagues and invasions – that many times, I don’t think we care any more. We only worry about the survival of Venice.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ he agrees, his expression becoming pensive. ‘When I see the holes made by Hitler’s bombs in London, I fear for its future. But then I remember she’s a great old dame and she’ll survive, even if it means losing a bit of her sheen. The heart will keep beating.’
In the candlelight, I can see his eyes glaze over with memories – of his family and the street where he lives – and I love the fact that he loves his hometown. Even if it’s not in Italy.
The parcel tucked deep in my handbag, I catch the last vaporetto over to the main island. It’s full, passengers grumbling that the previous one has been cancelled.
‘You’re lucky this one’s running,’ the boatman says to the muttering crowd. ‘We’ve nearly run out of coal.’
I make a mental note to talk to Sergio’s deputy in my battalion – if the vaporettos stop travelling to Giudecca, we’ll have to arrange an alternative boatman to reach the newspaper office in the evenings. Even so, I don’t relish the journey in a rowing vessel across the sometimes-choppy expanse, caught in the rough wash of German patrol boats.
Venice is quiet and eerie in its blue sulphur light as I walk quickly home, wishing my shoes didn’t clop and echo on the pebble walkways. I’m cutting it fine on the curfew and quicken my pace, hoping it doesn’t sound like I’m walking too fast for some sinister purpose. Which, of course, I am. After the first transport of radio parts I feel confident of being able to smile my way through any check
points.
I realise too late that complacency is a dangerous thing – I emerge from a walkway just two streets away from home and run straight into a German patrol. I feel my face constrict, but pull on my muscles to produce the right smile. Hoping my eyes don’t betray me.
‘Good evening,’ I say in German. There are just two of them but, as we are well aware in the Resistance, it takes only one weapon to make a fatal difference. They each have a small machine gun hanging casually across one shoulder, plus a holstered handgun.
Fortunately, one returns the smile at my decent German. ‘Evening Fräulein,’ the taller one says. ‘You’re out late.’
‘I know, I know,’ I say, affecting the fluffy tone of just one glass too many, ‘too much talking and not enough clock-watching, I’m afraid. But I’m almost home now.’
I can sense the shorter one isn’t so beguiled, looking at my handbag with real interest. ‘Can we?’ he gestures. When given a sharp look by his colleague, he adds, ‘It’s just policy, you understand.’
‘Of course, of course,’ I trill, and go to open the bag. My heart is a piston on full pelt; alongside my eternal notebook, which thankfully contains only my personal ramblings, Jack’s package is nestled in the bottom, wrapped in a piece of cloth which – fortunately – has only recently been cloaking a block of some particularly strong parmesan. The odour rising from my bag almost makes the short one recoil as he peers in.
‘What’s this?’ he points, his finger hovering just half an inch from the package. If he touches the sharp metal edge he’ll know instantly that no parmesan is ever that hard.
‘Cheese for my grandmother,’ I say innocently. ‘The family have come together to buy a little for her birthday. Silly, isn’t it? But she adores it. I can’t wait to get rid of it, stinking out my handbag.’ I giggle, my anxiety an unwitting help in sending my voice higher and more ridiculous.
The short one continues peering, but still doesn’t touch. The seconds crawl by as time ceases, only cut by his friend shifting beside him. ‘Come on Hans, nothing here,’ he says. ‘We’re off duty soon.’
The Secret Messenger Page 7
