Lying in bed, my face still wet with sorrow but my pulse calmed, I begin to think about it rationally. I try to imagine how I would have reacted if they had discovered Jack’s package. Been stone-faced in guilt, or tried to babble it away as a plant? That would have been stupid and unbelievable, but it might have played for some time. And then I wonder at the commotion which saved me. It was either supremely convenient, or a well-timed diversion. I can’t help pondering if it was anything to do with the footsteps trailing me and who it could have been.
I struggle to piece it all back together in sequence, yet it remains a blur. Whatever the reason, I feel grateful for fate, and I endeavour to be more careful. To be smarter, more alert. Keep safe, Stella. No sudden moves. Isn’t that the one rule of survival?
14
A Voice from the Lagoon
Bristol, October 2017
Soon doesn’t come soon enough for Luisa. Her plans for an impromptu trip to Venice are scuppered by the legalities of being the sole heir to her mother’s small estate – words like ‘probate’ and ‘inheritance tax’ pepper her post and emails. She’s needed to sign documents or witness statements. Annoyingly, a major commission arrives at the same time – one she can’t turn down, but it will at least go some way to financing the Venice trip until the proceeds from sale of her mother’s house finally come through.
Instead, Luisa spends the time preparing by reading as much literature as she can about the wartime Resistance in Venice, of which there is surprisingly little. The books by her bedside soon resemble a major study project; she wouldn’t want any government prying into her cyber search history, with its preoccupation with the keywords of ‘fascism’ and ‘Nazi occupation’.
Her Italian is progressing nicely, though, thanks to a friend of Jamie’s who is in need of some PR work, causing them to broker a convenient exchange of skills once a week. It’s bound to be wishful thinking on her part, but there are some phrases that resonate – the way the tutor pronounces ‘Prego’ like Grandma Stella did when forgetting herself sometimes. It nags at her brain like a type of dimmed déjà vu, and she likes to imagine there are shades of her grandmother being meticulously uncovered. Luisa has no memory of her own mother speaking Italian at all, though she would surely have known how, with two Italian parents? The faint shadow she hears must have been Stella, or even Grandpa Gio. Surely?
In between the commission and the exchange with solicitors, Luisa begins a wider search. She pays for a probe into her family tree – though omits to tell Jamie of the cost – and sends out feelers via email, hopeful of befriending English speakers in Venice with family to help forge any links. And then she waits, eagerly prising open Daisy’s cover each morning and checking her emails. For weeks she goes around in circles, it seems, being sent from virtual pillar to post, those who ‘may’ have had an elderly relative, but whose memories subsequently prove to have shrivelled with time or desire.
And then Luisa hits the jackpot. A reply in English from a certain Giulio Volpe, research fellow at the Institute for the History of Resistance and Contemporary Society, or IVESER for short, situated on Giudecca island. There they have not only the most comprehensive history of the Resistance in Venice, but proof – photographs, letters, newspapers. It’s like Christmas and birthdays all in one for Luisa. Signor Volpe goes on to say that he has checked and cannot find any record of a Stella Hawthorn, though this comes as no real surprise to Luisa, as it’s so obviously not her grandmother’s original name. There’s nothing in her mother’s correspondence that stretches back to her maiden name – only Grandpa Gio’s surname of Benetto – but equally, she feels sure her grandmother was unlikely to have been already married in the war. The photograph from San Marco – with the man clearly marked as ‘C’ – shows she wasn’t yet with Grandpa in 1950.
The promise of a cache of photographs is far more valuable to Luisa. Alongside those in her precious box, it’s a potential key to the puzzle, and in the marriage of the two she might well have her answer.
For the first time since her mother’s death – perhaps even before that – Luisa feels a sense of exhilaration mixed with calm. That there might be some resolve. Something on which to fix herself.
Now she can go and discover Venice, and perhaps herself in unison.
15
Love and Fury
Venice, April–May 1944
The days roll swiftly into weeks – work at the Nazi headquarters, newspaper production and the flow of Gaia and Raffiano, which pours out of me like a fountain that’s finally been unblocked. The only hole in my life is Jack; his leg has improved enough for him to be moved from the church on Giudecca to the smaller island of Pellestrina, which runs alongside the Lido and is well out of the way of patrols. Once he’s strong enough, he’ll attempt the long journey home over the mountain passes, hopefully before winter sets in. Meanwhile, he’s to be employed in relaying messages on his homemade transmitters and helping to repair holes in the nets of the local fishermen.
‘I’m just glad to repay the debt and be good for something,’ he’d joked at our last meeting on Giudecca. ‘My mother taught me to sew at a very early age. I felt sure it would come in handy one day.’
His humour is to cover up the sadness. I’m certain we both feel it, having formed a firm friendship. Is it something more? It’s hard to tell as we embrace what we suspect will be a final goodbye. I simply know it will leave a gap in me somewhere. His face tells me he will have regrets too.
Over the next week I do miss my visits, but I’m so busy I barely have time to think about anything aside from work or surviving; the shortages mean food is scarce, especially with the city’s population swelled to almost double with refugees. The water supplies are also low as a result of the bombings in nearby Mestre and Marghere and damage to the precious pipes. Waiting in the endless queues for the pumps has a silver lining, though, since it’s the perfect time to gauge the effect of my blossoming story, which is now slipped into the paper in weekly instalments. I can’t help smiling a little when I’m party to the gossip surrounding Gaia and Raffiano, almost as if they are a living, breathing couple and the readers prophesying on their love and fate are their friends.
‘He’s just like my nephew, Alfredo,’ I overhear one woman say. ‘He sounds so handsome, and my nephew is so giving, just like Raffiano. I’m sure the writer knows Alfredo.’
I’m never tempted to break out of my anonymity though – it could cost me my life, for one, but I also find I like that cloak of mystery it creates. I’m having fun with it.
Hearing the reaction first-hand reassures me I have the right tone, and at times I absorb people’s aspirations for the couple into my writing, as if Venice itself is determining the direction of their love.
Sergio, too, relays messages that the story is having a positive effect on morale as the love-struck pair use their guile to dodge and dupe the Nazi machine. It’s timely, since in reality the Allied and partisan fight in Italy is making slow progress, with the Allies focusing elsewhere in Europe for their victories; Radio Londra tells us of the Allied destruction of Gestapo headquarters in Hungary and Yugoslavia, and the British RAF’s attack on Gestapo HQ in The Hague. Less welcome are the stories of German reprisals that we hear of via underground messages, and which I like to imagine are something to do with Jack and his magic with the transmitters: the Nazi murder of eighty-six French civilians as pure revenge for partisan aggression. It’s painful to hear, but we have to know – we in Venice need to use it as fuel for our fight against our own occupiers.
I begin to hear the effects of my story from other quarters too – loud and clear bellows of fury pushing out of General Breugal’s office one morning in late April. The rant is muted by the heavy wooden door, but I catch snippets of his diatribe from my desk.
‘Fucking partisans!’ he’s virtually screaming, and I can picture the purple veins in his fat neck at bursting point. ‘As if I haven’t got enough to deal … without … bloody writer … wasting m
y time …’
Cristian is sitting at his desk, pretending to check through a report, although I sense he’s not focused. It must be Captain Klaus who is bearing the full force of Breugal’s tirade. For a brief moment, I almost feel sorry for the second-in-command, his thin body bending against this windstorm of anger. Almost.
It’s swiftly replaced by a sense of satisfaction at being the engineer of Breugal’s – and the Nazis’ – frustrations. If I’ve caught the words correctly, it’s Gaia and Raffiano they are talking of – their effect on morale in the city and the partisans’ sheer audacity in producing it under their noses. Popsa was right – the gentle needling of words can become a thorn and then a sword in the flesh of our enemies. I’m anxious and pleased at the same time. What happens if they find an enemy in their midst? What lengths would they go to silence someone like me? My cheeks are suddenly hot, despite the cool breeze running through the office.
The ranting stops eventually and Captain Klaus emerges, his brow creased like he’s faced the bloodiest of battles and half wishing he had succumbed. Breugal’s voice follows him out of the door. ‘De Luca!’
Cristian gets up from his chair, though not as swiftly as I would expect, given the previous exchange. Calmly, he picks up his pad and pencil and enters the emperor’s lair. There are voices, but annoyingly low and I can’t make out any of the conversation, even though the rest of the office has slackened the pace of work noticeably, typewriters almost holding their breath. It’s a full ten minutes until Cristian emerges, stopping to cast an eye around the office, noting the pace. One stern look and the clatter begins again.
He works at his desk for half an hour, scratching on sheets of paper. My curiosity burns and finally overwhelms me; I sidle up to him with the excuse of needing assistance over a technical phrase but with my eyes scanning his papers. Spread across his desk are several instalments of The Barb of Love, and my heart skips to see them here in this office, his hands upon them. Cristian is clearly sketching out what looks to be a handbill, effectively a ‘wanted’ poster – there’s a reward, a substantial one, for the whereabouts of the typewriter and, more importantly, for the scribe responsible. Whatever I’d expected from their reaction, I hadn’t been prepared for this. I can barely get my words out as a hot sweat overtakes me at the reality of myself as a wanted criminal, and I mumble an excuse to leave his side.
In the bathroom, I have to control the noise of my breathing, silently gulping back the air which threatens to overwhelm me. Stupidly, I had thought it a bit of fun at first, was overly flattered by Sergio’s enthusiasm. I should have known that a regime that values propaganda and the sheen of power above real substance would be angered at the influence of such challenge, even one rendered as fiction. Of course they would never tolerate such brazen defiance. And now I am a target, plain and simple. My only hope is that the bedrock of the Venetian Resistance – Resistance everywhere in fact – will save me. We need solidarity – to close ranks and stand firm, like the wood and mud on which we all exist in this suspended paradise. Any breaches, any gaps amid the piles, and we will all sink. Plain and simple.
I desperately want to prod at Cristian for more information, as he’s clearly party to Breugal’s overall plan, but I stop myself. I remember that, despite the friendship he’s shown me, his unobtrusive nature likely makes him more dangerous than even the generals. Cristian is clever, and very possibly powerful in his own way, but doesn’t take pains to advertise it. He is, first and foremost, a loyal fascist.
He’s unusually quiet through the afternoon, moving in and out of Breugal’s sanctum, and I see what is clearly the finished poster return from the printers posthaste. There, larger than on any of the sheets typed so far, is the distinctive droop of my letter e. It challenges in hard, bold script:
DO YOU KNOW THE WRITER OF THIS STORY?
GENEROUS REWARD PAID.
Cristian sits back and peruses his creation with what appears to be satisfaction.
I leave the building that night feeling as though I have a target on my back, that when the handbills are dotted around Venice, tied to lamp posts and tacked onto doors, it will be my face up there; Stella Jilani – it’s her, she did it. Betray her, catch her. Kill her.
I can only take some comfort in the realisation that my beloved machine is across the water on Giudecca, buried in a basement, and that it will stay there, hidden from danger.
I wander for a time around the streets. I’m due at my parents’ house for dinner, and my stomach growls with the anticipation of Mama’s cooking, but I need to order my thoughts beforehand, especially with the added turmoil of today. I can’t let my face betray any worry, enough for Papa to suspect and pull me aside. Equally, I don’t want to sit in a bar, hearing the clink of glasses and everyday chatter; no one in this city is devoid of worry, but I feel there’s a load on my shoulders that I need to disperse by myself, quietly.
I head towards the normally tranquil set of streets around the Zattere, which have little passing traffic aside from the odd chug of a small boat. I’m deep in thought, doubtless looking at my own feet, when I’m yanked into the present. Again.
‘Signorina Jilani?’ It’s his voice again – unmistakable. I’m disorientated by shock. Is the voice behind me, or in front?
Eventually I spot him: Cristian is to my right-hand side, at the water’s edge, opposite an old building yard for gondolas, and he’s turned to face me. How many times can you come across one person by accident? My Staffetta’s paranoia rises; I suspect that it’s anything but. Has he been following me, and I’ve dropped my guard entirely? The events of the afternoon churn within me.
‘Oh! Evening, Signor,’ I stammer.
‘It’s a beautiful one, isn’t it?’ he says, and casts his eyes across the water again. His voice is calm and in no way sinister. He appears to have left the turmoil of work back in the office.
‘Are you looking at something in particular?’ I’m genuinely curious, but I also want to try and flush out his reason for being here. If he’s not tailing me, then what?
‘The gondolas,’ he says, almost wistfully. ‘I always said to my mother that if I came to Venice, I would take a ride for her, take lots of photographs. But those seem only to transport supplies nowadays.’
‘I daresay you could find a willing gondolier in some bar or other, for the right kind of money,’ I reply still mystified. The age-old impression of Venice’s canals teeming with lyrical gondoliers has been largely interrupted by war, the only ‘tourists’ now being Nazi soldiers on leave. The skilled pilots are employed elsewhere or off to war, but they still exist in the fabric of the city if you know where to look.
‘Hmm, it wouldn’t feel quite the same,’ he says, and affects a weak smile. ‘And besides, I’d like to take that ride with someone special. It seems only right, being such a seminal event.’
Is he hinting, or teasing? Or just playing with me? It’s said with good grace, and even some humour. Is this the same man who drafted a warrant for my arrest only this afternoon, who can and will enforce my capture if necessary? My mind is an eddy of thoughts.
He whips his head out of a fantasy and towards me. ‘Are you heading anywhere in particular, Signorina?’ he says, seeing that I’m rooted to the spot in my confusion.
‘What? N … well yes, actually. I’m going to see my parents,’ I say. ‘My mother’s cooking.’ I speak the truth so as not to tie myself in more knots.
‘Can I escort you anywhere?’ he offers.
‘No need to trouble yourself, thank you. I need to stop off somewhere on the way, buy some bread if I can.’
‘Well, have a good evening.’ And he turns back to musing over the dry dock gondolas, barren of their precious water and needing more than a lick of paint to restore them to glory. I step towards the Accademia Bridge, peering over my shoulder every few steps, sure that he will have disappeared from the waterside and be following only a few steps behind, hidden in the walls. But he remains on the same spot, stock-st
ill, hands in his pockets.
I wonder how, after this exchange, I will ever get my own thoughts in order?
16
A Lull
Venice, May 1944
As with most imaginings, the reality is not always as bad as the grey forecasts your mind is capable of. I spy the first poster the very next morning only a few streets from my square, fluttering in the morning breeze, nailed to a post. I would have turned and walked the other way rather than look at it, had it not been for the group crowding around and peering at its message. I eavesdrop on the edges of the gathering.
‘Well, who’d have thought a little story could get the Nazis all fired up,’ mocks one woman.
‘Scared of their own shadow, are they?’ says another, and they join in with a group cackle, although mindful of any lingering patrols.
‘Good on whoever is writing it, I say,’ an old man pipes up. ‘I read it to my wife every week. She can’t see too well now, and it always cheers her up. She’ll be upset if it stops now, without knowing how it ends.’
At their words, I feel the strength of my own two halves fighting against each other: proud and scared, wary and overwhelmed, terrified and defiant. Having always been a fairly decisive person, I now feel completely in sync with the ebb and flow of our beloved Venetian laguna – labile and uncertain, a continual shift. I know where my heart lies, but on which side of the equation does common sense sit?
The Secret Messenger Page 12
