There’s nothing left in my gut to even create a sick feeling, but my heart fills my chest, hot against my sternum and flush in my throat, pushing on my tongue and causing me to stumble and scoop for air. The noise in the square is muted by buildings on all sides but, even so, the search appears to be methodical and relatively calm. There’s a cacophony of sound in my ears, screeching and drowning and overwhelming me with my own vanity and stupidity and sentimentality. I can already see the inside of Ca’ Littoria vividly, and the red of my own blood, can taste its metal taint on my lip.
After a minute or so during which I have trouble staying upright, I pull in enough breath to think clearly. I consider turning tail and running to the nearest safe house, perhaps to the back entrance of Paolo’s where I can crouch in his cellar until they have gone, to be delivered to Sergio and hidden under his cloak. And then as swiftly as the idea comes, I rule it out; all becomes clear to me. The Nazis know the address I am registered at – it is my parents’. The picture of Mama as she sacrifices herself in place of me – as I know she will – makes my heart rupture with a jolt that physically propels me forward. What unfolds now is entirely my doing, and no one else’s. It’s clear to me that I have been very, very foolish; I alone must face the consequences.
I take in one last calming breath and walk out from the shelter of the chapel, towards the gathering at my door, forcing my steps to appear measured. Signora Menzio cannot help but give me away with her look of shock and a sudden halt to the venom she is still aiming at the troops.
‘Stella, what are you—’ she utters.
‘It’s all right, Signora Menzio,’ I say. ‘It’s all right.’
I don’t need to identify myself to the unknown guards, because Captain Klaus is able to do it very well as he walks from the darkened entrance of my apartment, his gaunt face bearing a thunderous look as he emerges into the light. His arms, though, are by his side – empty. Perhaps another guard will follow with the incriminating prize they are seeking? It’s only a matter of time.
‘Fräulein Jilani,’ Klaus says coolly. ‘I must admit I’m very surprised to see you here. Though not unpleasantly so.’ He smiles economically, so that only the middle part of his yellow teeth is on show. Then his features return to the brooding expression of the seconds before.
Within seconds, there is the shadow of another figure behind. But this form wears no grey or green livery, only a plain blue suit. This time, it’s me whose surprise is most apparent; my face frozen as Cristian De Luca steps through the threshold of my home. Of course he’s here – he’s the only one to whom I entrusted the whereabouts of my home. A trust snapped in half by his very presence.
Cristian’s face is sheepish, what I can see of it anyway, because he won’t look at me, eyes cast down on the concrete slabs. I bore my own pupils into him, willing him to bring up his gaze and confront me. Not for the first time in the last few hours I am physically and emotionally winded – by his outright betrayal. In recent weeks and months I haven’t imagined us as friends, nor expected any kind of favour, especially from a paid-up fascist. But this! To betray the … what was it we had? Intimacy or informality, perhaps even some kind of mutual respect? Either way, we shared it briefly. But it was there. To wheedle his way to my doorstep, show affection on this very spot, under the pretence of friendship, and then use it against me. For months, I’ve tried to read the man who has now shown himself to be a master of disguise, a true Janus. It stings like the worst duplicity. But then this is war. There are no rules. What on earth did you expect, Stella?
I stare my disappointment long and hard at Cristian’s face. It’s devoid of expression, but I see a telltale flush just above his collar – though I reason that it’s unlikely to represent guilt, only embarrassment perhaps at my own granite stare. His eyes remain fixed on the stone paving, until he turns his body away and approaches one of the fascist guards. I break my own gaze and turn towards Captain Klaus, but since there is still no sign of the typewriter I do not offer up my guilt for free.
‘Is there some reason why you feel the need to turn out my home?’ I ask sharply, gauging there’s a certain amount of outrage I would reasonably be expected to show as an innocent citizen.
Captain Klaus looks back towards the door, as if for a sign. An SS officer moves under the lintel and looks squarely at his army colleague, with thin lips and a subtle shake of his head. The thunderous cloud dawns upon Klaus’s face again, his overly large Adam’s apple rising and plunging above his tight collar.
‘My apologies, Fräulein Jilani,’ he offers finally. ‘We had information that led us to your apartment.’ The fleshy bulb in his collar rebounds as if he is swallowing hot coals. ‘Clearly, it was false.’
‘And am I to know the nature of this information?’ I push at him, continuing my own play at being the affronted victim, wounded at their lack of trust in me. After all, I’m a loyal employee of the fascist state.
‘I’m afraid not, Fräulein,’ he says. ‘It’s confidential at this stage.’ And he turns to go.
‘And my belongings?’ I push again. I want them to go – immediately – and leave me to the quaking that is only just contained in the soles of my shoes, to the disarray of my apartment, and my solitude. But if I retreat now, slink upstairs with my tail between my legs, I am as good as admitting some kind of collusion, that they have good reason to be suspicious of me.
Klaus appears shocked at my audacity, and from the corner of my eye I see Cristian’s chin rise in surprise.
‘Who will help me with this mess?’ I insist.
Klaus swivels to one of his platoon. ‘Sergeant – help the Fräulein to carry her belongings,’ he says. ‘Everyone else, with me.’
He clips his heels in a faux effort at courtesy and swivels on the soles of his boots. They move away, Cristian falling in behind, shoulders noticeably stooped. My anger burns inside for his cowardice.
‘Go on, follow the pack,’ I mutter to myself as they move away. His style of good dress, his manners and his love of literature dissipate with each step he takes, and I see him for the shell he is – no lover of Venice or Italians after all. No heart to be beguiled by literature or the play of words. It was all an elaborate act. And I was fooled.
I scoop up my belongings, waving away the sergeant’s help after having made my point. Signora Menzio helps the best she can, and Paolo rushes across when he realises what’s happening.
‘Stella, are you OK? Are you hurt?’
‘No, no, I’m fine, Paolo. Really. Just shaken. It’s been quite a morning.’
I stumble up the stairs alone, still not quite sure how a thorough search of my small home could have missed my hiding place.
When I step my way through the chaos heaped on the floor – drawers turned out, my small kitchen larder empty of its meagre contents – I head towards the cupboard, eyes agog. They hadn’t missed it. The stray floorboard is out of its snug hole, discarded nearby. And as I drop onto my belly, I peer under the boards, then push an arm inside and scout in the cool, dusty space with my fingers. Nothing. No hard casing. No typewriter. I begin to wonder if there’s a cavity through which it could have fallen, but when I take a match flame to the space I see there’s nothing.
Where could it have gone? And who could have taken it?
‘Paolo, Paolo, have you got my typewriter?’ I ask breathlessly in the café, but even as I say it I know it’s a silly question. He’s no mind reader, and I’ve told no one since having stowed it at home. He looks at me in confusion, and offers me a brandy to assuage my temporary madness. I can only assume that Sergio sent one of his band, well-rehearsed in hiding contraband, to clear my apartment. But then, how would he have known that I hadn’t disposed of the machine as I’d promised? Although Sergio has eyes and ears everywhere, I’ve learned. My brandy downed, Paolo tells me to sit tight in my apartment and wait for a message from the brigade as to what to do next.
It takes me until after midnight to put right all the chaos inside,
and even longer tossing and turning in my bed to make sense of my thoughts. How can I go back to the Reich office in the morning and face Breugal, or Cristian? I know I don’t want to. And yet, if I slink away, it sends up a red flare as to my guilt, of both my mind and my actions. I need to keep up my front as an innocent and wronged loyalist. It’s another layer to the mask. Will I even notice the effort of not playing myself any more?
There are deep-seated creases around my eyes by the time I leave for the office the next morning. There’s no message from Sergio – or more importantly news about Arlo and the others – but I know I physically can’t stay at home doing nothing, or keep my calm at Mama’s. Paolo has already sent someone to check that my parents are untouched, and I’m reassured there have been no undue callers to their house.
The walk towards the Platzkommandantur feels strangely like that first day, wondering if I am about to enter the vipers’ nest – and whether I will even emerge. And yet I don’t feel afraid; I reason that if Breugal or Klaus were bent on my capture it would have been easy enough to clamp me in irons the previous day. Equally, I’m well aware they may be toying with me in a game of chance, in which they hold the majority of the cards. As I stride forward, I feel strongly some things need to be left to fortune or destiny. I’d rather the gamble did not involve my life, but if this war has taught me anything, it’s that control is overrated: a large part of survival depends on pure luck.
In San Marco, nothing looks changed – the bare, wooden hoardings protecting the basilica try hard to reflect the white autumn light of the morning, and the pigeons are noisily optimistic for crumbs; their numbers have fallen in wartime, and their tameness suggests they have yet to realise it’s because humans are in need of crumbs too, in the form of good bird meat. It’s only when I approach the sentry post that I sense a palpable change. One of the younger guards shuffles uncomfortably.
‘Morning Franz,’ I say without a waver.
‘Fräulein,’ he nods. But there’s no boyish grin, no attempt at banter. He eyes the floor, shifting his feet.
‘Everything all right?’ I ask. He’s too young and innocent for me to play with him. ‘Am I to go up to the office?’
He looks up, relieved to have only to repeat an order. ‘Captain Klaus asks that he sees you downstairs, Fräulein. Please, follow me.’
I cast my eyes up the stairs as I’m led into a room beside the staircase, wondering whether the chatter is about me now; first Marta and now Stella. I ponder, too, if Cristian is up there, or will deign to show his face today.
He doesn’t. The room is empty as I enter – some type of ornate meeting place, with a large table in the centre, the rich essence of Venice in the fabric of the room, its beauty blighted only by a small swastika pennant draped over a vase. I don’t know whether to sit or stand, but there’s little time to decide before Klaus strides in. His expression is all business and his gaunt stare is all the more sinister in contrast with Breugal’s farcical image. He’s joined by a regular soldier, who stands barring the doorway.
‘Fräulein Jilani,’ he begins, without offering me a seat. ‘I trust all your belongings are back in place.’
‘They are,’ I say.
‘Good. We wouldn’t want you to be inconvenienced.’ He breathes the last through his teeth with such animosity it feels like a foul fog has puffed into the room. I decide, even this early into our exchange, that I can brook no sarcasm. We may as well get to the point.
‘Am I to assume that I will not be returning to the office?’
‘You assume correctly.’
‘On what grounds?’ I ask. ‘Was your search successful? I would think your empty hands yesterday were enough to prove my innocence. And my loyalty.’
Captain Klaus releases the remainder of his foul cloud, slapping one leather glove into the palm of his hand.
‘Fräulein Jilani,’ he says, as if beginning some type of address to a lesser mortal. ‘You and I both know that you harbour far more intelligence than you have ever allowed us to believe.’
‘Am I supposed to take that as a compliment?’
‘You may. I really don’t care. But we can no longer employ someone who is under suspicion in this office. You must understand that.’
I do. Of course I do. But now my life and liberty depend on me toeing a fine line in order to leave this office under my own steam.
‘Do you have any proof?’ I prod again.
‘In this case, suspicion is enough. The Reich thrives – depends – on absolute loyalty.’ This time his sneer puts a line under the argument.
‘So what am I supposed to do? Where am I to work, help support my family?’ I say, maintaining my act of incredulity.
Klaus looks devoid of any emotion, other than the sliver of pleasure in his tone. ‘That’s not my concern. Only that you return your identity card. Immediately please.’
Then he parts his lips in a sneer, revealing yellowed teeth. I pull out my card and hold it towards him, forcing him to tug it from my fingers.
‘Thank you,’ he manages as I turn to go, struggling now to hold onto a double-headed beast of tears and anger. ‘Oh, and Fräulein Jilani – we would rather you did not leave the city for the foreseeable future.’
‘Is that an order?’ I spin to face him again.
‘It is. Punishable, I believe, by death. Orders to shoot anyone under such restrictions on sight.’
I have no idea from where I muster it, some crevice of my soul or the inner reaches of me, but I pull out a smile. Not a smug leer or a dirty smirk, but the type that says I’m not beaten; I’m not one of you and you will not fell me.
‘Thank you for your candour, Captain Klaus,’ I say, walking out into the large and commanding hallway. I don’t know what makes me do it, but I glance up the sweeping stairwell. I shouldn’t – it just invites the hurt inside to deepen – but I’m compelled by something. I catch the form of a body hovering at the top, and then his face. Steely, emotionless, and I read into it that Cristian De Luca is delighted that I have got my just penance – a loyal Italian versus a loyalist fascist. And he has won this battle. Within a second, he’s gone, back behind the heavy door and the Reich’s cloak of protection. I walk away from the Platzkommandantur with a mixture of relief and fury. It takes all I have not to cast back at the window to where I know Cristian De Luca sits, possibly watching my back as I leave his precious domain for good.
I spend the rest of the day at home, alternately lying on the bed and staring at the pages of random books I don’t want to read. In times like these, I usually turn to the world of Elizabeth Bennet and her Darcy, to the fluffy politics of one’s countenance and which ballgown to wear. I need it now more than ever. But that particular volume stays on my shelf, the cover now coated in a fur of jagged, poisonous thistles, knowing who gave it to me. My fingers can’t even fold around the spine without a sick swell inside. My fury urges me to rip it up or throw it in the canal, and it’s only my love of books that stops me from doing so. Instead, I scratch in my cupboards for something to eat, deciding that even the best cook would struggle to make soup from a solitary potato.
I’m wary of making it across the small campo to Paolo’s or having contact with anyone, lest I infect them with my guilt. The walk back from the Platzkommandantur was agonising, my paranoia hoicked high on my shoulders and my neck hairs bristling, convinced Klaus had set a tail on me. I was too jaded even to lay a false trail, weaving back and forth as we often did before and after a message drop, but by the time I reached home, I’d shaken off the mistrust and the imaginary shadow. They know where I live anyway.
I miss the newspaper office too, even knowing Arlo and the others cannot be there, and there are glaring flashbacks of Matteo and Elena, the image of her face distorted in utter, utter despair, both now facing their own nightmares. And Vito, of course, who still languishes in Ca’ Littoria, in Lord knows what state. Lying here within my own four walls, I count myself lucky. Very lucky.
The need for cof
fee and information gets the better of me eventually, and I step over to Paolo’s, who immediately spies the dark circles I’ve sprouted under my eyes and steers me to a seat in the back. His coffee grains may be made of acorns, but it’s like manna from heaven to rekindle my brain.
‘Any news?’ I ask, almost afraid to hear it.
‘Arlo is safe,’ Paolo reports. ‘We managed to get a message to him in time, and he’s way beyond the Veneto by now.’
‘And Matteo? Elena?’
‘Elena wasn’t arrested,’ he says, but I know from the gravity of his face that Matteo isn’t so lucky. ‘Matteo has been moved to Santa Maggiore. So he survived Ca’ Littoria at least.’
I want to ask after Tommaso, although I’m not sure the brigade is fully aware of his deception. Do I condemn such a young man for loyalty to his father? Paolo saves me the dilemma.
‘And Tommaso has gone to ground,’ he says. His expression is difficult to read, certainly not black with disgust. Perhaps we can all appreciate the ties that bind, and how other bonds can be frayed.
‘Do we know anything of his father? Has he been released?’ I’m eager to know, even hope that there is something positive to come out of Tommaso’s dilemma and angst, despite the chaos it’s caused.
‘Not according to our information,’ Paolo sighs. ‘Because the typewriter wasn’t recovered, the order hasn’t been given for the release.’
We both stare into our coffee, each knowing that Tommaso’s father is also now tainted with his son’s betrayal, born out of love and loyalty but a stain nonetheless. As a family they have no future in Venice. Another unit whose fabric has been torn apart by this filthy game of cat and mouse.
The Secret Messenger Page 25
