‘You must tell it how it is, reflect the spite of those bastards,’ she spits into the brandy she needs to quieten her shaking fingers. ‘Those poor boys. They were so afraid, you could see it in the way they walked out. And yet so brave too – they stood as tall as they could.’ She takes another gulp of the alcohol, wincing at the smart of the burning liquid as she swallows it down.
‘Promise me you’ll make everyone see how brutal and callous it was,’ she says. ‘That’s all I ask.’
What else can I do but promise I will?
My own rage spirals as I move towards Giudecca. Once again, Sergio has sanctioned an extra edition of the paper; the entire Venetian Resistance is mobilised to be on guard, skulking in doorways to warn of flared anger on both sides, quashing any chance of Venice becoming a battleground. The Resistance commanders are still advocating underground action, despite some convincing arguments among the more zealous partisans for outright combat. The Nazis and the fascists combined still have superior firepower and control of the causeway to mainland Italy, from where they can call in extra troops. We have to bide our time. I for one understand their simmering anger, but I also respect Sergio’s calm and sensible response. We are better as underdogs, and are all the more effective when we use stealth.
I think of Popsa as I take the cloth off my typewriter – his belief that I can change things with words, this metal as my weapon. The anger and frustration I feel fizz through my fingertips as I write up the responses which feed in from a variety of messages, passed through Staffettas into our unassuming basement, now a hotbed of rebellion. Arlo and Tommaso look equally grave, and we work almost in silence, save from the urgent clatter coming from my corner. Arlo pulls out his best front page yet and Tommaso a sober illustration of the suffering, reflecting the event as both a merciless crime and also a triumph for Italians as they remain steadfast in their love for our city and country. Nazis and fascists emerge as the losers, in seeing what humanity they had wither to nothing.
As I push over my copy to Arlo, I’m still on fire. I have so much more left in me and there’s only one vessel I can pour it into. Gaia and Raffiano rain from my fingers – death and sadness may not have a place in an everyday love story but this is war. In the here and now, they do. I weave in glimmers of hope too: in those left behind, in the tenacity of normal people who won’t be cowed by bullies, and in the grace of their reactions – dignified Venetians holding their city proudly.
Arlo, I can tell, is exhausted. I discover only later that a second cousin of his is among the sacrificed – perhaps the fuel for his resolve that night – but he carries on. Matteo’s wife, Elena, brings us food, and as the paper is put to bed, we finally sit like featherless pillows around the wide layout table, hardly a word but a myriad of thoughts between us. Arlo picks up my hastily written chapter and his tired eyes scan the words. I watch his mouth crimp and wonder if I should have stopped him reading it.
‘We should put this out too,’ he says quietly. ‘It should be part of our testimony.’
‘But Sergio hasn’t—’
‘Doesn’t matter. Let’s do it,’ he says. ‘It’s too good a message to ignore.’
Tommaso comes out of his silent shell and nods his inclusion in the plan, and we haul out the mimeograph printer from the corner. Matteo is dispatched down the path to warn those tying up the bundles of printed papers that we have something else to add, and we crank the handle of the old machine.
Curfew is missed once more, and I take the bed offered by Elena, with strict instructions for her to wake me at six a.m., when Matteo’s brother will take me across the water. It’s more important than ever to maintain my facade in the Reich office, to be bright-eyed and appearing to view Breugal’s actions as a strength. My demeanour within the office can be mindful of the city’s mood, certainly, but I cannot show that I am distraught. As always, I am a patriot of Mussolini’s warped vision.
Venezia Liberare hits the undercurrent of the streets just as I’m walking towards work. My hair is badly in need of a wash, and my skin reflects back a muted grey in my tiny bathroom mirror, but I paste over the cracks with make-up and sweep my hair into a wave with combs and pins. The smile to the sentries is false but it’s become so automatic I barely notice I’m doing it any more. I think one day it may just get stuck in that position and I’ll be laid in my coffin with a rictus grin.
The office is half empty – unusually Marta is absent and another typist occupies her seat. My eyebrows go up to one of the other girls, and she shrugs her own curiosity. I can hear Breugal’s gruff tones from behind his door and the mutterings of Captain Klaus. Given the events of the previous days, the atmosphere is strangely normal. But, far from reassuring me, this only pokes at the snake pit of worry lodged in my stomach.
Cristian emerges from Breugal’s den twenty minutes later, and I barely recognise him. He’s in his shirt sleeves, and his face looks almost as pale as the white cotton. He plants his notebook down on his desk without a word and picks up the telephone, with a low, urgent patter into the mouthpiece. I glance over once or twice during the morning, but he’s totally focused on his tasks. Only once does he wander over and ask me to type up a list of names – a long list. I realise it’s probably those who are being held as hostages after the public executions, but it’s simply a register and nothing else, no indication of their whereabouts or their fate.
As he’s standing beside me, I take a leap.
‘Cristian, are you well?’ I say it with my best stab at concern, and wonder how much of it is fakery. He’s startled, and his brow crimps, eyes narrowed. For a minute, I think I’ve stepped over the line of our pseudo-friendship.
‘No, I’m simply tired,’ he says. ‘It’s been a busy few days.’
Busy? Is that how he would describe it? I’m stunned at his lack of emotion, even for a paid-up fascist. Is there not an ounce of sympathy, even for his countrymen? But then I remember he’s been primed not to show it.
‘I simply thought there might be some illness going around,’ I pitch. ‘It’s not like Marta to be off work.’
This time he does look at me fully, those damn glasses hiding too much of his true self.
‘Marta won’t be back,’ he says crisply. ‘We’ve another replacement arriving soon.’ Both eyebrows rise perhaps a millimetre, and then he turns tail and walks back to his desk.
My mind is racing. Where has Marta gone? Was she – as I suspected in my earliest weeks – part of the Resistance, in the same role as I occupy? More worryingly, has she been caught, taken to the bowels of Ca’ Littoria – the fascist headquarters – and into Lord knows what torture?
My stomach is in knots for the rest of the morning, and I can’t face any lunch. Having memorised ten or twenty names at a time, I make frequent trips to the toilets and scribble them onto scraps of paper, to be stowed in my shoe. I’m relieved that none of the names are familiar to me – and especially glad not to see Vito’s – but I’m acutely aware they will be to someone, and more likely well known to the Resistance.
Cristian leaves at his usual time around midday and returns thirty-five minutes later, flopping a folded newspaper on his desk – a fresh copy of Venezia Liberare, Arlo’s stand-out headline uppermost. I note Cristian doesn’t take it with him as he’s called into Breugal’s office. I wonder also how much he will translate verbatim to the general, given the rage and fallout from our previous efforts in print.
The paper sits on Cristian’s desk throughout the afternoon, and it’s only towards the end of the day that he opens the pages – it’s a small edition of only two foolscap sheets, but I see the lone mimeographed sheet fall from between the folds. I swear I feel my cheeks and ears burn as he takes off his glasses and bends his head towards the print, one hand on his forehead, fingers massaging away at the day’s stress. I’m putting the cover on my typewriter as he finishes reading, folds the printed pages and places them under a pile of other papers, sitting to one side. For a minute or so, he simply sits a
nd stares out of the window at the pigeons on San Marco – there are few people about – and his face betrays almost no thought whatsoever. I feel at that moment I would give a lot to be inside Cristian De Luca’s head, not least because his thoughts could have severe repercussions for my own on a chopping block.
Despite the sun’s apricot glow and the seemingly endless beauty of the evening, I head home, wanting only to be within my four walls, lie on my bed with the window open and listen to the normal life of the little square outside, and perhaps drift into a deep sleep. I shop on the way and buy whatever vegetables and pasta I can find, and then stop by Paolo’s and let it be known that I have information from the day – Paolo knows what to do with it.
‘Sergio wants to see you,’ he says, looking at me as if chiding a small child and gesturing towards the copy of Venezia Liberare beneath the counter.
‘I expected as much,’ I say, but in all honesty I’m too tired to give a dressing-down much thought. I’m proud of the piece about Gaia and Raffiano, even if it is to be their last. My sleep is troubled with images of loved ones and prisons, me chasing endlessly across the city streets in turmoil, but I’m just grateful I do sleep.
The next morning, Sergio calls for a meeting in a safe house in the Santa Croce district not far from the station, and I brace myself for a real and noisy rebuke. It’s a Saturday morning – I simply have to face whatever my commander rains down on me and get on with my weekend. Mama and Papa badly need some attention from their only currently present child; Vito appears to be in hiding still, much to my relief. Safe, at least.
‘Stella,’ Sergio says as I walk in. ‘Sit down.’ The residents of the house retreat to another room and we’re left alone, aside from a small blue bird in a cage, which chirps at intervals.
Sergio’s ample eyebrows, much greyer than when I first knew him, are knitted. I think about offering an excuse, babbling about my frustration and anger. But much like facing a gruff teacher in my schooldays, I think it’s best not to try to wriggle free – choosing instead to simply swallow the punishment.
‘Stella, what you did was rash, and went against orders,’ he begins.
‘I know,’ I admit. ‘I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’
The twitch of eyebrows signals some relief to me. ‘Well, that’s the thing,’ he continues. ‘I’m not excusing your disregard for command orders, but we feel your actions were justified in the circumstances.’
All the muscles bracing myself for the verbal onslaught sink into my body and I’m almost limp with relief. ‘Really?’
The bird adds its timely approval with a tweet.
‘Yes.’ He sighs and sits back, and for the first time I see real sorrow carved into Sergio’s face. Doubtless, there are people among the dead or the witnesses that he knows. He lets it show for only a second, pulls himself up and leans towards me.
‘After what’s happened this week …’ it’s clear he can barely bring himself to say the words, ‘we needed some outlet. Your story has been well received again. People in Venice need some distraction after the hard facts.’
‘But what about the Reich?’ I question. ‘Do we want to invite a reaction from them? An angry one?’
‘Perhaps it’s time we do,’ he says. ‘The way this war is going, we may be in a stronger position at some point.’ I note he doesn’t say ‘soon’, but Radio Londra tells us of the creeping Allied advancement through Italy and the Germans being chased out of Florence. We’re all praying they will reach our little enclave eventually. Soon.
The bird tweets again and brings us back to the moment. ‘So, if you’re willing, we want you to reintroduce your story each week,’ Sergio says. ‘Is that possible?’
I tell him it is, because the lovers still live within me – I feel they have hurdles to face, as we all do, but they have a future too.
‘However,’ Sergio adds, the eyebrows grave again, ‘you need to be careful and gauge the mood in the Reich office. If you suspect any danger to yourself, you use the code words and get out. From what I know of Breugal, he may look like a pompous fool, but he is vicious. To men, women and children. He won’t hesitate.’
He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to. I’ve seen enough of the rage first-hand – and those poor witnesses too much of Breugal’s resolve – to question Sergio’s concern.
27
The Bloody Summer
Venice, late August 1944
There’s a muted reaction from the Reich to our special edition – or at least no explosion from the inner sanctum of Breugal’s office. On the streets and corners of cafés, I hear talk of little else among native Venetians; mutterings about the atrocity mostly, but some about the re-emergence of my story. The Nazis are perhaps toning down their reactions and keeping an unusually low profile, since the so-called ‘murdered’ sentry was fished out of the water only a day or so after the executions, minus any bullet holes or signs of foul play. It’s obvious to all he was drunk and drowned accidentally. In an unprecedented U-turn, the Nazis release all of the hostages within days of the shootings – I know since I type up the release lists – and none are destined for the labour camps to the east. It seems the closest Breugal comes to appearing sheepish, but his granite scowl doesn’t soften.
It gives me renewed courage to plough forward with Gaia and Raffiano. Following the tragedy – a cruel reminder that life can be snuffed out with little warning – their love is cemented in ways all Italians know about, but in these times my language is necessarily opaque. Raffiano is among those imprisoned in the rounding up of men and Gaia’s distress is immeasurable; his absence convinces her that, if and when they are reunited, they should never be parted again by ignorance or prejudice. When Raffiano is then released when the Nazis’ mistake is discovered, it takes all my powers of subtle description to create a story between the lines where love wins out, without offending the strictly Catholic readership or passing the Nazis any tips about a couple’s existence under the radar. I feel I’ve pitched it well when I see Arlo’s face take on a look of knowing as he proofs and prints out the sheets.
The heat is unending through August, but so too are the fresh brutalities of what’s being labelled in the cafés and marketplaces as the ‘bloody summer’ of Venice. The horror at our enemies’ depravity reignites when they raid a convalescent home for elderly Jews. Despite having mental and physical disabilities, in spite of their pleas and tears, the inhabitants too are dragged from their homes and taken east, almost certainly to die.
Daily, we hear the dulled pummelling of Marghere and Mestre with bombs, just across the causeway, knowing it will have an effect on our water supplies, and the dwindling amounts of food coming into the city. Those on the water fare little better – fishermen are used to taking their chances on the lagoon, easily spotted by Allied planes and often strafed with bullets, perhaps taking them for German patrol boats. We in the Resistance feel closely aligned to Britain and the US in our goals, but it makes us remember that Mussolini’s Italy as a whole remains an Allied enemy; a German hospital ship under the Red Cross flag, the Freiburg, is attacked by Allied planes near San Marco, with big civilian losses. The water around us remains a solid jade green but, walking along the canals, I swear that sometimes I see it rippled red with the blood of citizens.
We’re left to gain strength from the tidings of the Allies pushing forward elsewhere in Italy and Europe, sitting with our ears pressed to the wireless in the newspaper office, straining to hear news from Radio Londra pushing out of our tiny speaker. We’re saddened at the severe battering of London’s centre by Nazi V-1 bombers, and it makes me think of Jack and how he will be feeling if he’s listening too, with the anxiety over his family, and the fondness for his own city. I feel a pang for him, for his limbs that were wrapped around mine that special night, yet I know it’s too dangerous to repeat my previous trip. I can only hope the war is either won, or that there’s enough of a break in the clouds to chance another visit.
‘Did you he
ar of the Warsaw Uprising?’ Tommaso comes into the basement breathlessly one day in August, his excitement evident. ‘Finally, the Poles are able to act on their courage.’
I can’t help but be lifted at his delight that there will be a future for us all to contemplate. Born into a rebel family, he’s beaming at the thought of the oppressed Polish nation coming into their own.
Elsewhere in Europe, Bordeaux, Bucharest, Grenoble and then Paris fall to the Allies, ‘like dominoes’, Arlo jokes, then adds with a serious tone: ‘I heard some people on the main island muttering that the push into France is taking away focus from Italy, pulling Allied troops elsewhere that would otherwise be driving at the German lines towards us.’ His prematurely aged brow knits. ‘But I try to hope that Venice is not forgotten. They will come over that causeway one day. Won’t they, Stella?’ And all I can do is nod and hope too.
I sink my own efforts into what’s needed of me as a Staffetta, and the polar demands as I sit at my different typewriters – the solid, efficient machine in the Reich office, and my own, slightly skew keyboard hidden in our tiny café basement. I know which one I prefer, which one brings out the best in me, but I also know my daytime role entails little sacrifice other than stomaching Breugal’s childlike anger in his office and his occasional, repellent leer as I pass him my reports. I take small comfort in that I’m not the only typist to have to endure it, but it makes me shudder all the same. And smile, of course, as I slink out of his reach. Cristian appears non-committal and rarely speaks, other than on work matters. Most worryingly, Captain Klaus is spending more time in the office, roaming the rows of typists and leaning over our shoulders as we work, his sour cigarette breath trespassing on our space. None of us are quite sure what he’s looking for, but I’m vigilant in no longer typing up notes at my desk, making my memory do the hard work, and taking even more frequent trips to the toilets.
The Secret Messenger Page 20
