Paolo brings me a welcome plate of stew, and I wonder how I can ever repay his kindness and generosity, but he waves it away as something so slight. Right now, it probably does more to keep my spirit and body afloat than he could ever imagine.
‘So, what are my instructions?’ I ask eventually.
‘Sergio says to sit tight, visit only familiar places. He’ll see about getting you a legitimate job in a bar, something that looks as if you are simply earning pennies, in case the Reich office is keeping a close eye. It’s too dangerous to move you out of Venice with the order on you. You’re safer inside the city for now.’
‘Meanwhile, what do I do? Is there anything I can do for the cause?’ I can’t bear the thought of relinquishing my work as a Staffetta too.
‘Are you mad, Stella? Absolutely not!’ Paolo flashes anger for once. ‘And you are to stay away from any safe houses. The word is out to give you no drops.’
‘For how long?’
‘Until we decide your life isn’t under threat.’ Paolo’s normally friendly, often comical expression, is stern. He’s around Vito’s age, but I sense the need to take heed of him. I feel useless and baseless but also well cared for, cushioned amid the coarse surface of war.
36
Taking Flight
Venice, October 1944
I’ve no choice but to follow orders from the Resistance and do nothing. I visit Mama and Papa the day after my dismissal, this time weaving back and forth towards the Via Garibaldi, taking my time. I have plenty of it, after all. I find them in the kitchen, the sour stench of a week-old fish carcass hanging from a string over the table, Papa rubbing slices of polenta over the surface to at least give a hint of taste to the insipid maize. He places it on Mama’s plate and she merely picks at it. They are so pleased to see me they don’t even ask why I’m visiting at midday, and I’m hit by a swell of guilt at how much I’ve neglected them in recent weeks, so wrapped in my own battles, toing and froing across the island and water when I should have been with them. There’s a war to be fought right here in this house, and I need to be part of it.
I spend the afternoon scouting the markets for anything I can find that is remotely edible and wholesome, persuading the odd vendor to reach under their counters for black market supplies and all but emptying my own savings to pay for it. Mama watches from beside the range as I get to work making soups and stocks with the peelings, and fashioning a bread of sorts. Once or twice I spy a glint in her eyes, under the layers of worry, but still I can’t supply the light she needs, with news of Vito.
We listen to Radio Londra together, and Papa comes back in after a rare trip to the bar. I smell beer and cigarettes on him and the odour of relief, having nursed Mama for so many weeks without respite. We talk of the war’s progress – skirting any mention of Vito – and in the evening glow there’s a tinge of the family life we used to have. I feel we’re scarred certainly, but not broken. There is life in the Jilani family yet.
I’ve never been unemployed or without a purpose, and the time weighs heavily. After just two days prowling my apartment like a caged animal, I present myself at Paolo’s bar and tie on an apron. The irony of such familiar actions in Matteo’s bar are not lost on me, but I choose to focus on the now, as the memories might well destroy me. Paolo can’t pay me, I know, but I need the distraction, and the offer to feed me from his kitchen is enough, since my purse is barren.
It’s here the letter is delivered, by a rangy young lad with large teeth who bowls in and asks where a Signorina Jilani lives, handing over a small envelope in exchange for a coin. I don’t need to study the writing carefully to know who it’s from – ornate and upright, I’ve seen this hand enough times. I can also hazard a guess as to why Cristian is writing: maybe he thinks his prose can cloak a feeble excuse for his behaviour and betrayal, reasons why his actions – which might have seen me imprisoned or killed – were justified. The fact that an act of fate or an unknown fairy godmother saved me does not absolve his intentions. It’s my fault – I should have known he is a fascist first and foremost. What little there was between us could never match his loyalty towards Benito Mussolini. Equally, he cannot use words on me to appease his guilt; we Venetians are all too practised at peering behind and under the mask and I, for one, do not forget easily.
I don’t slip it in my apron pocket to read in private later. I am resolute – unopened, it goes straight into the range of Paolo’s kitchen, where I peer in through the grate and watch the flames paw at it hungrily.
The next afternoon brings a déjà vu moment. The same little urchin appears at the doorway, proffering another envelope bearing identical script. This time, I give him two coins – the last I have – and tell him to return it to its sender; he scampers out, delighted at the double payload. I’m not the best of waitresses, but the afternoon sees more accidents than the previous day, and even Paolo gently suggests that I help out in the kitchen, rather than cost him any more precious crockery. It’s the image of the envelope niggling at me. Unlike the first day, I wonder what message was inside, and yet the thought of reading Cristian’s simpering defence still nips at my stomach. I know I would be hard pressed to contain my anger if my eyes crawled over his words.
My night is disturbed; I dream of Klaus and Breugal at the helm of a patrol boat, me shackled and roped behind them on the water being pulled along at speed, alternately scooping in air and water as I fight against drowning in my beloved lagoon. They are whooping and laughing like men drawing in a stag and enjoying the sport of it. I wake to a sweat, despite the increasing chill in the air.
Come morning, I’m battling with the hot and cold of my own anxiety. This time the envelope is larger, pushed under the door of my apartment as the sun comes up. It appears more officious and my name is typed in capital letters on the front, the distinctive Reich icon just peeking out. The package sits in my hand and then on my kitchen table for an age while I muster the courage to open it. A summons to appear before some kind of court or council? Surely that would be accompanied by the heavy clomp of boots and a hammering on my door? Breugal isn’t known for his subtlety.
I try to deny to myself that I’m shaking as I open it, but the jagged edges of the envelope testify to my fear. The paper inside is thick, and there are several sheets of it, but it’s no directive. The words, which pulse like a beacon, state: ‘PERMISSION TO TRAVEL’. And it’s my name typed on the order, unmistakably. But it’s the signature at the bottom that causes a shudder and confusion: General K. Breugal, scrawled in pen, but also typed below to clarify. It’s stamped with the clawing eagle icon I’ve seen almost every day for the past months, and dated the previous day.
Why? Why would Breugal want to be rid of me? The newspaper is disbanded, perhaps to be resurrected by others if the war continues, but I am finished within that cell. The typewriter, though still hidden somewhere, is also inaccessible to me, although the general isn’t to know that. But his men have smashed the nucleus of communication we created, and he is aware of Nazi success on that score. He knows I am all but finished as a useful tool.
My mind takes a winding path of reason: are the papers false, or is it a trap? If I attempt to use the pass, will I be halted at a checkpoint and arrested for defying the order to stay in Venice? I can almost picture the image, that moment of realisation by the sentry on guard, where there is nowhere to run to without bullets spraying around and possibly into my running torso. It brings on a fresh chill. I can’t reason well enough to decide, aware I should consult others. I’m due at my parents’ to look after Mama, so I hop across to Paolo’s and hand over the papers – he says he will contact someone and have them checked for authenticity.
On the walk to the Via Garibaldi, I purposely skirt the waterfront for comfort and yet I barely notice the rippling surface of the water as I search possibilities for who would have sent it. Cristian is the most obvious choice, perhaps as reparation for his guilt. But I also know the lengths of his betrayal – it would be an easy way
to be rid of me, ‘legitimately’ shot at a border trying to flee Venice, conveniently distancing himself from the act. Didn’t I always think his lists were more dangerous than any holstered gun?
Equally, it could be someone else in the office, perhaps with access to Breugal’s papers, but I can’t think who. I didn’t get too close to any of the other typists, only Marta, and she’s long out of favour and now absent. I resolve it’s almost certainly Cristian, and yet his motivation remains a total mystery.
I’m teasing Mama’s thinning hair out into some sort of style when clarity comes. This time there is a pounding at the door, though with urgency rather than threat.
‘Paolo! Come in.’
He slides in with a backward glance which tells me all is not well.
‘Stella, who is it?’ Mama calls from the kitchen.
‘Oh, just a friend with a message from work,’ I sing, ‘I won’t be long.’
I take Paolo into the tiny parlour and notice he’s breathless, sweat hovering on his upper lip. He’s needed to run.
‘Stella, we need to move you,’ he pants.
‘When?’
‘Now,’ he says. ‘Right now.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘There’s an order out for your arrest.’ My mind goes immediately to the typewriter. Have they found it? If so, how will they connect it to me? They only have Tommaso’s word and so far that hasn’t been enough to condemn me. What’s changed?
‘But the travel pass, why would they …?’ My mind is flooded with questions. ‘It’s signed by Breugal. And Klaus was resolved to let me go just days ago.’
‘I don’t know,’ Paolo says. ‘Perhaps they finally have proof to link you to the typewriter. But I wouldn’t risk hanging around to ask them – troops are on their way to your apartment right now and, when they don’t find you, they will head straight here. The word is they want to make an example of you, Stella – young, female or not, they want to tell everyone the punishment will be delivered. That’s all I know.’
Suddenly, I’m stiff with fear. They can’t discover me in the house – it will be worse for my parents, Mama’s heart especially. A search is bad enough, but to see me dragged away – I think of Elena’s recent distress and I can’t bear the consequences.
‘I’ve sent to the docks for your father,’ Paolo says. ‘He’ll be here any minute. But we have to go.’
‘Can’t we just wait a little while for Papa? Make sure Mama’s all right?’
‘No, Stella. Now.’ And he has that look about him again. I stare into his eyes and he nods. Now, he means. Immediately.
I can barely think what to say. I mumble some excuse to Mama about forgetting an appointment and pull my jacket from the peg. I kiss her cheek, trying not to push my lips hard into her flesh and draw in the smell that makes her my mother, my constant. I try to act as if it’s not the last time I might see her, and I barely make it out of the house before there are tears streaming down my cheeks. Paolo takes me by the hand and virtually pulls me to the Ana Ponte, pushing a package into my hand and hugging me tightly.
‘Be careful and be brave, Stella,’ he whispers into my ear. Then he kisses my tear-stained face and is gone.
There’s a boat waiting, whose reliable pilot winds his way through narrow channels, skulking in waterways as the wintery sun climbs towards midday. We hide for a few hours in a boathouse, sitting among the ghostly skeletons of half-finished gondolas, until it’s dusky enough to move. Paolo, my saviour again, has swiftly stuffed some random clothes into a small bag, and there’s some bread and cheese, plus the travel documents and a tight roll of lira notes. He’d had just enough time to ensure the travel pass is authentic and might prove useful beyond the gates of Venice. But only out in the wider country where I’m not known, and before my identity as a wanted woman is circulated. With Breugal on my tail, there’s no immediate future for me in Venice. To survive, I have to leave.
It seems so surreal to me as the boatman putters out again, hugging close to the edges of the Grand Canal and then on to the Zattere. I look over to the edge of Giudecca and work hard at containing my longing.
The boatman rounds the city and out into the wide expanse of sea, so that we chance our lives not across the causeway, but on the waves under and alongside it, buffeting the tiny boat until I think my insides really will fall out.
Over past months, I’ve thought about how and when I might leave my city, but never allowed myself to complete the picture in my mind, in perpetual self-denial that it would ever come to this. Goodbyes are tortuous enough, but not being allowed to say them is worse. Papa, Mama, Mimi or Vito – their spaces sit like lead within me.
My last view of Venice – my beautiful, enduring jewel – is as I peek out from under a fish-tainted tarpaulin, slinking away as a felon in my own home. I’m too empty to even cry, so brittle that my heart is spewing dust as it cracks in two.
37
Age and Enlightenment
Venice, December 2017
A private cruise across the lagoon seems a treat enough on her last day, when the glory of the Venetian winter weather has come out to bid goodbye, but Luisa has to concentrate hard on appreciating the stunning panorama. With only hours to go until she leaves for the airport, she is intent on completing her mission, finding her grandmother and, with it, her own history. With a day’s delay before they could see Paolo senior, she’s already extended her trip by twenty-four hours, rebooked a flight and checked into the cheapest hostel she can find, playing down the cost to Jamie and hoping it will be worth it. There’s a lot riding on Paolo senior.
Giulio meets her at the waterfront before they board and, although his face is open and optimistic, he clearly has some news he’s anxious to give.
‘I found another Jilani in the archives,’ Giulio says, though his brow creases as Luisa’s own raises with curiosity. ‘As far as I can tell, it’s Stella’s brother.’ His tone belies what comes next.
‘He died before the war ended,’ he says. ‘He’d been imprisoned by the fascists, and although he died in a hospital, it’s difficult to tell what the cause was. From the records we have, it seems he was beaten badly but refused to give out any names or information. I think he must have succumbed to his injuries.’ Giulio’s look is a mixture of sadness and pride in a fellow Venetian.
Luisa hardly knows how to feel, under a white winter sun drenching the entire city with energy and expectation. She’d had a great-uncle she’d never known, who had never been spoken of, and yet she feels something of his loss. Succumbed to his injuries. To torture, in other words. She’s horrified and sad, though more for her grandmother, who would have known him well and presumably felt his loss acutely.
‘It’s all the more reason we need to find Stella,’ she says at last, and Giulio nods his agreement.
The small motorboat Pietro has borrowed from a friend can hardly go fast enough for her, its little outboard engine whining with the effort of weaving around the larger ferries as they follow the trail of foam wash towards the Lido.
Pietro reports his grandfather is better in the mornings, as he sleeps most of the afternoon, but Luisa gets the feeling it’s also about the old man’s lucidity and there being only a certain stock of it each day. Sitting beside her, Giulio has again counselled her against very high hopes; in his research he’s clearly had to deal with a good deal of cobwebbed memories and their unreliability. Even so, Luisa senses he can’t help but share the excitement at the prospect of something – a new nugget of information or recall – to add to his rich bank of knowledge.
They pull up at one of the larger pontoons, and the nursing home is a five-minute walk from the water’s edge.
‘Grandpapa wasn’t very happy about leaving the main island,’ Pietro says to Giulio. ‘Until we convinced him that as long as he can see the water and San Marco, he’s not really left. I think these days he doesn’t actually see that far at all, but it keeps him happy enough.’
To Luisa, the h
ome is a world away from anything similar back in England. The corridors are ornate and lofty, and the smell of advancing years – common to the few homes she has visited before – is replaced with an intoxicating smell of simmering garlic.
Paolo senior sits in the lounge, facing the bright sparkle of water and basking in the light from the large windows. He doesn’t attempt to pull up his small, frail body in greeting, but his lined face lights up at the sight of Pietro, and the two kiss, Italian-style, with real affection. His bony fingers grasp at Pietro’s hand as if afraid to let go.
Pietro explains why he’s brought guests, and the old man seems immediately to understand what’s being asked of him. His rheumy eyes dart back and forth, the cogs of his memory grinding into action. Finally, they light up, signalling his ‘eureka’ moment.
‘Of course! Of course I remember Stella!’ he exclaims with hand gestures that even Luisa can comprehend. In turn, Pietro gestures at Luisa, and she just catches the word ‘grand-daughter’ in Italian. The old man’s eyes glow bright and his larger-than-life dentures are fully on show – he holds out his hands for contact, and she trades places with Giulio to sit next to him.
‘So, you are one of Stella’s,’ he says. ‘I always did wonder if she had any children. And now I know. I’m so pleased. So relieved.’ He clenches at Luisa’s hands again tightly. It’s Giulio who assumes the lead then, carefully and succinctly forming the questions that they need answers to.
Yes, Stella left before the liberation, Paolo senior confirms, and she didn’t return until – when was it? – perhaps 1946, to see her mother and father for the last time.
‘After that I didn’t see her until 1950 – I know because I was married the same year. She had her husband with her.’
Luisa turns to Giulio and she can’t help her lips spreading wide with anticipation.
‘Do you know where they met then?’ Giulio probes. ‘Was her husband part of the Resistance too? Is there anything you can tell us?’ Can Paolo senior possibly hold the answer to the mysterious ‘C’ – the forerunner to Grandpa Gio?
The Secret Messenger Page 26
