‘At our age, it is fantasy,’ number one laughs, and then drops her tone to serious. ‘I just hope there’s a happy ending, with Jews and non-Jews daring to … you know.’
‘Surely, it’s just a story?’ number two says, and their conversation tails off into the background as a woman approaches; I recognise the tic-tac of her eyes in pinpointing her contact while retaining an air of nonchalance that might mean she is simply looking for a free table. Fortunately, there are none and, as we lock pupils for less than a second, she asks casually if the chair beside me is free. I nod. There’s no guarantee she is on the same mission as me, and for now we regard each other with a healthy suspicion. There’s a process to follow and nothing can be assumed, other than that, if we make the wrong move, it might result in a group of fascist soldiers emerging out of the brickwork to haul us off to somewhere much less amenable. We have to assume that even the simplest of drops are a trap until proved otherwise.
‘Is the coffee decent here?’ she says, and takes out a pack of cigarettes from her handbag, leaving it on the table between us.
‘Passable, but nothing like before the war,’ I reply. It’s a lie because the weak brown liquid is quite foul, but it’s the answer she needs. She is my link, and I am hers. She smiles behind a plume of smoke and we begin the fake dance, idle chatter about the war and our boredom of rationing, food and make-up especially. One more coffee is brought over, and I’m forced to sip at it, gesturing towards her pack of cigarettes.
‘May I take one for later?’ I don’t smoke – never have done – but when she nods casually I pull the pack towards my lap and with a sleight of hand that Sergio Lombardi himself taught me, I rapidly pull a small piece of paper from the pack and slip it into my sleeve.
‘Thanks,’ I say, holding up the cigarette, and I bid this stranger a good evening, as if we’ve just had the most pleasant of impromptu chats.
As I do after every exchange, I wind a lengthy route towards home, to identify any possible tail. Once I’m certain of not being tracked, I call in to my nearest grocery store, hoping to pick up whatever I can to replenish my almost bare cupboards: pasta or polenta, or even a precious tin of meat. I’m usually so busy that I’m last in the queue for anything remotely appetising and end up with a mixture of random ingredients that even the paper’s frugal recipes can’t improve. I peer over the counter and note with pride the corner of a copy of Venezia Liberare.
‘I’ll have something extra,’ I say to the patriot shopkeeper in the accepted code and nod towards the counter. I may have typed almost every word, but I still like to roam over the details at home, not having eyed the final edition. Call it vanity, but it’s my own private indulgence.
Once home, I shut and bolt my door to the world, make tea, cut the precious seed bread and thinly slice the tiny block of cheese I’ve managed to secure. It’s my own portion of heaven, and I pull open the pages to peruse the week’s edition. As I leaf through, a loose sheet of paper falls out and floats to the floor. Bending to pick it up, I see immediately it’s not set with Arlo’s skill, double-sided and unfolded. I recognise it instead as my own typeface, not least because running through both sides of the paper is the familiar dropped e of my own machine.
I’d hastily titled my story The Barb of Love and almost laughed at my own syrupy nostalgia in referring to the rows of ugly wire lining the beaches of the Lido, coils of it set up by the Nazis to prevent enemy boats landing. It’s where Gaia and Raffiano first set eyes on each other, in those relatively carefree months before the invasion and the wire, and so it seemed the obvious title. But how on earth did my ramblings make their way into this week’s paper? I can only imagine it’s a mistake on Arlo’s part, as the sheet in my hand is not the one copy I typed. Perhaps it’s been left in the pages by mistake; it has the slightly blurred lines of the mimeograph machine we use to hastily copy whole pages of text, rolling out leaflets for immediate dispersal without having to set them on the larger press. The process is quick but the quality is poorer. It’s clearly been replicated. But why? It’s an error, surely? I’m shot through with embarrassment at the thought of wasting so much precious paper on my flippant endeavours. It will be tomorrow before I can ask Arlo about it, as we make little contact between our time at the newspaper office, for safety.
13
Story Time
Venice, late March 1944
I’m itching for time to pass quickly the next day in the Reich office, although Breugal has returned to Venice with either new fervour or pressure from his High Command and the pace is necessarily faster – everyone’s machines are jumping at speed to satisfy his rantings. Breugal’s burden conveys itself to Cristian, who is like a lion on the prowl in making sure everything runs smoothly. The girls tut at his increased zeal as a taskmaster, and I find myself irritated by their own lack of loyalty, then wonder at my own feelings getting in the way. And indeed, what they mean. I keep my head down and type like the wind, and he neither addresses nor rebukes me.
I’m kept back half an hour to finish a report and I miss the vaporetto for Giudecca, leaving me an hour to wait until the next. Once again, I find myself hovering in a café on the Zattere waterfront, this time with a beer and a book for company. It feels odd to have a little free time, and not be on the lookout for a stranger cum friend, feeling the weight of forbidden messages in my bag.
A young woman next to me is scanning the Veneto edition of Il Gazzettino with interest – I look at her and wonder how she can believe the pages of propaganda and headlines that are clearly inflammatory. An Italian guard saunters by and smiles at her choice of reading, and she obliges with a friendly nod. As she shifts, though, I see the woman is not actually engrossed in the newspaper at all; nestled inside is the story of a lovestruck couple, their passion equally illicit and forbidden, told in type with a dropped e. Is it my imagination, or do I see the corners of her mouth lift in a smile as she reads intently? And is that my heart skipping a beat too?
When I finally reach the newspaper office, Arlo is apologetic, though somewhat mystified.
‘I thought it something you wanted to include,’ he protests. ‘It was in the folds of the typed copy that you left.’
‘But why would you think a story is in any way related to what we do?’ I’m slightly frustrated and trying not to show it.
‘Stella, I barely take in the content of what’s actually in the copy until I read it the next day,’ he says defensively. ‘I trust you to sift and choose the meaning – which you always do. I only have time to ensure that it’s set right, and the sentences are in order. If it’s there, I produce it. That’s my job.’
I apologise, appreciating the sacrifice Arlo makes each week; he’s the only one of three sons left to care for his widowed mother, while two of his brothers fight in the mountains. By day, he works long hours in the flour factory and gives his precious time by night.
‘I’m just wondering what Sergio will say,’ I ponder. ‘It’s a bit of an embarrassment.’ As our brigade commander, Sergio is responsible not only for the direct action of our two battalions and the flow of information, but the paper’s production too. Although the page content is generally decided by whatever we have available week to week, Arlo meets with Sergio to discuss any shift in its political stance, and he relays it to me. The final product also depends on how much we can afford to produce and distribute and what paper supplies are being donated and ghosted in.
As expected, Sergio Lombardi makes contact the next day requesting a meeting, and once again, my time in Breugal’s fiefdom crawls by. I am distracted, almost certain my indulgence will be dimly viewed by Resistance leaders. We meet in our usual small bar in San Polo, and I’m surprised when he greets me with a smile and not a grimace.
‘I’m so sorry, Signor Lombardi,’ I babble. ‘I don’t quite know what happened – it was simply a mistake and I don’t know what to—’
He puts up a hand to stop me. ‘Maybe so, Stella, but sometimes good things are born out of a misunderstanding.�
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And to my utter amazement, he tells me that the Venetian partisan groups are delighted to have a story of love over oppression – albeit a fictional one – in their dispatches. The response from across Venice has been positive, visibly engaging partisans and patriots.
‘The winter has been long and hard, with little good news – you know that better than anyone,’ he says. ‘So it’s good to be able to lift everyone’s spirits. I take it there will be a happy ending?’
In all honesty, I haven’t thought of a middle, let alone an end, but yes, I’ve always seen in my mind that Gaia and Raffiano’s love will survive the turmoil. If I didn’t think that, then how could I write it? Or even live my own life and push on, day by day, and have hope we will all come through it?
Readers want more, Sergio tells me – a chapter with each week’s paper. Is that possible, on top of everything else? The truth is, the first episode felt so little like work and so much like an opening of my heart that I can only agree to it. I’ll simply take four trips to Giudecca each week instead of the three of recent months, especially as Sergio says they will hold back on my work as a messenger a little. And in one corner of my mind, I can’t help thinking it’s one more opportunity to see Jack.
The man himself is pleased to see me and delighted with the news when I shyly tell him on my next trip to Santa Eufemia.
‘Something else for a poor convalescent to read,’ he says. He’s ploughed through the books I’ve bought already and is eager for more. ‘I read the first instalment, and it’s very …’ Jack’s hesitation is agony as he holds up the single sheet of paper.
Oh Lord, I knew it – it’s a total embarrassment, I tell myself.
‘Good,’ he says at last. ‘I’m honoured to have an authoress in my midst. Can I have your autograph?’
‘Stop it!’ I cry. ‘Now you’re just teasing.’
‘I’m not actually,’ he says, this time without amusement. ‘Even in that short chapter, I can already sense the love and need of this couple, almost taste it.’ His dark eyes are directly on me, bright and vibrant now he’s well. They hold mine for a few, brief seconds, only Sister Cara’s noisy arrival breaking what feels fleetingly like a spell. Then he’s back to being jokey Jack.
‘So, what delicious offerings have we today?’ he says as she brings in some soup and bread – a meagre amount for a recovering man of his stature, but it’s all they can spare. Being Jack, he is gushing with gratitude: ‘What a feast!’
I leave with my shopping bag stuffed with the largest part of the transmitter in the bottom, well-padded with cloth, books and topped off with an ageing smoked herring, donated by the sisters. We can only hope any prying eyes will be put off by the pungent smell and not want to poke too far.
At the newspaper office, I race through the week’s news, and use the spare time to start on the second chapter of The Barb of Love, which seems to flow out of me with ease. There are elements of so many people in Gaia and Raffiano and their family and friends – Mama, Papa and Vito and Mimi included. I tell myself I am not embodying too much of Jack, and I know I will have to be careful later not to paint a parody of Breugal that could be easily recognised.
Sure of their growing love, the couple seek to hide it from both their families and, more crucially, the outside world, finding ways to meet in secret. They have to be satisfied with snatched moments in abandoned buildings or casting out onto the water, out of sight, where they can be themselves. They live for the here and now, trying not to predict the world which might play out before them. If Hitler wins this war, both know they will have an even tougher battle ahead.
Tapping away at my typewriter, the keys feel well-oiled and the words transfer themselves easily onto the page, almost as if I am merely the conduit and not a creator of any sort. Such a sense of freedom makes me think of family days out on the lagoon before the war, the wind ripping through our hair as the boat gained speed, skin taut with the spray. Totally free. Even Arlo smiles at my industry, he and Tommaso humming as they work.
‘Hey, listen to our very own Shakespeare over there,’ Arlo nudges at Tommaso. ‘She’ll be an award-winning writer soon and she’ll leave us poor sops to our rough-print paper.’
‘Well, since I’m pretty sure Shakespeare didn’t have a typewriter, it’s not likely,’ I quip back at him.
‘If he did, I’m damn sure he’d have had one without a broken e,’ Arlo laughs, and I shoot him a playful scowl.
I’m forced to stop only by the curfew and the increasingly unreliable vaporetto from Giudecca.
My head is so wrapped in the story, it’s only as the boat nears the mainland that I become more conscious of the shopping bag I’m carrying and the contraband tucked inside. Suddenly, I’m acutely aware of my pace and my manner as I walk off the boat, holding my head high, but allowing no hint of a swagger. I’m making good headway towards home, spying the odd patrol and diverting under sottos and into alleyways, when I note there are footsteps behind me. They are constant and not urgent, but something doesn’t feel right. They are too measured. As casually as I can, I pause in a shop doorway and pretend to search in my pockets for a handkerchief, hoping the steps will overtake me. Instead, they slow and stop. I peek tentatively out of the doorway. Nothing. Only city noises in the distance, breaking into the silence of the street. The bag is heavy with metal and guilt and I wonder if I’m simply losing my nerve slightly, my imagination running riot. I start off again, willing my ears to screen out the deafening throb in my head. Only it’s my heart. Beating in double time.
I’m so intent on what’s going on behind me that I take my eye off the scene in front. Literally. I see jackboots standing in front of me too late to mask my obvious shock – and possible guilt – and I snap my head up to meet their granite expressions.
‘Evening Signorina,’ one says in poor Italian. My heart sinks as I recognise him as one of the soldiers who’s stopped me before, the one who viewed me with deep suspicion and was intent on poking into my bag. But does he recognise me now?
‘Evening,’ I reply in German. It’s flattered other patrols before, so why not try?
There’s the inevitable barrage of questions: Where are you going? Where have you been? Where do you live? Where are your papers?
Strangely, my updated documents which list my employer do nothing to soften the hard, cold stares. They are either bored or under pressure to produce results from their stop and search routines.
One crawls over the script of my papers, while the other’s eyes bore into my face, flicking suddenly to the bag in my hand. My fingers are burning from the weight, the handle cutting into my skin, but I’m trying not to move my hand an inch.
I see little point in trying to flirt my way out of this – they are clearly in no mood for it – so I focus on maintaining a veneer of indifference, as though it’s a mild irritation to be delayed.
The papers are finally folded and handed back. For a half second I think I will be waved on, but it’s wishful thinking.
‘What’s in the bag?’ the one I recognise says. A single dewdrop of sweat snakes its way down my back.
‘Oh, just some groceries I’m taking to my mother,’ I say. ‘Turnips, potatoes.’ Don’t overdo it, Stella. Not too much detail.
Two pairs of eyes narrow in suspicion. ‘Open it.’
I’m praying the kipper has aged towards putrid through the evening, so that we’ll be greeted with an unholy stink as I pull the handles apart. It’s certainly strong, enough to make one of them jerk backwards.
‘Holy cow!’ he cries. ‘What the hell is that?’
I affect a laugh. ‘Oh that – it’s a kipper. For my mother. Sometimes it’s the only fish we can get. Strangely good if you rub some polenta against it.’
‘Disgusting,’ one mutters, making it difficult to tell if he means the fish, me, or Italians in general. But he’s not satisfied. His eyes constrict further and he reaches towards his belt for a thin, wooden cosh. This he pokes into the bag, reach
ing towards the bottom, inches from the hard shell of the wireless casing.
The sweat is now a continual trickle from the nape of my neck, which could be easily seen from behind as my hair is scooped up in a beret. I’m beginning to feel it prickle at my hairline. One more second and it will break free onto my forehead, signalling my guilt.
‘Empty it out,’ the one bearing the stick says.
I’ve no choice but to obey, moving slowly to put down my handbag, playing for a few extra seconds as my brain spins. Is there anything I can do? Anything?
‘FUCKING NAZIS!’ There’s a roar to the side of us and, seconds later, a crack of what could be fireworks or gunfire, followed by another, and another. The corner of my eye catches the remnants of orange flashes lighting up the street ahead.
‘LONG LIVE ITALIA, DOWN WITH FASCISM!’ the voice echoes again in retreat. Both Aryan heads snap up, eyes hungry. Their bodies swivel and they give chase, leaving me in the street with my haul about to be revealed. In the next second, I’ve ducked under a sotto and, keeping to the dark shadows of the covered alleyway, I move as nimbly as I can. In any direction, just away.
Coming out into a small campo, I see that I’m a small bridge away from a Resistance safe house I’ve visited previously. Keeping my breath under control, I creep towards it, knocking quietly until I get an answer. The muttered password is recognised and I’m admitted. I quickly explain and ask to lodge the bag until it can be picked up. They are elderly patriots and agree. They kindly invite me to stay the night, but I don’t want to jeopardise their safety or generosity any more than I have to. I have twenty minutes before curfew and I can make it if I hurry, with no load, and nothing but my near-empty handbag to search.
My heart doesn’t slip from inside my throat until I’m behind my own door, and I lie on my bed, scooping in air and placing my hand above my breastbone, plugging the hole where my heart is trying to leap from my chest. One of my nine lives well and truly gone. I think of Mama and Papa, opening the door to Sergio Lombardi, or one of his brigade, and Mama breaking down in utter despair at the news of her daughter’s execution for treason against the fascist state. And then I’m sick with remorse – not for what I did, but for nearly being caught. The consequences for me … well, I wouldn’t feel them, after the torture or the bullet. But this war pushes its ugly tendrils into every family, every heart, squeezing the life out of kindness and humanity. I weep into my pillow for those I would have left behind and the misery I might have caused; for the partisans we have lost, and those we stand to lose yet.
The Secret Messenger Page 11
