The Garden of Angels

by David Hewson

  ‘No food.’ He nodded at the stairs. ‘Get up there and serve them drinks. You’re on till eleven. Don’t hang around one minute after. They’ll think you’re a whore.’

  She took off her coat and her winter cap.

  ‘Jesus, you look like a whore.’

  ‘It’s just a dress,’ she said, then hung her coat on a hook above the cupboard with the gun and went upstairs.

  Beyond the shabby corridors and functional rooms meant for staff the Gioconda was palatial. Tall ceilings, deep carpets, fine furniture, mirrors everywhere and Murano glass. The upstairs ballroom over the canal was vast, with a stage on the near wall, now covered in tables, and a smaller podium in the corner by the window where a grand piano sat, a cloth thrown over it to stop people putting their drinks straight on the polished wood.

  To the side was a long bar where a cocktail waiter, a tall man, distinguished-looking in a white suit, marshalled a small team of six.

  ‘You’re the new one,’ he said, looking her up and down, much the way the Germans, some in uniform, some in dark suits, did as she walked over to the counter.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Giulia.’

  He shrugged, uninterested. This one wasn’t a part of Trevisan’s cell, of that she felt sure.

  ‘If you sleep with them it’s five marks or fifty lire. Don’t even touch anyone from the Black Brigades. They’ll beat the hell out of you and kick you out of bed without paying a cent.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice. Fifty lire for fucking the Crucchi?’

  It was a stupid thing to say. The barman looked amused.

  ‘Yeah. Like I said … it’s money and that’s more than you’ll get from anyone else in here. Me included. The Germans own this place and seem to think they’re worth it. Charge less and one of the other girls will scratch your eyes out.’

  ‘I’m here to serve drinks. That’s all. I go home at eleven.’

  He blinked and said, ‘Oh. We’re recruiting from nunneries now. Times must be desperate. Here …’ The glasses were sitting behind the bar already, half filled with Campari, ice, lemon and an olive. The guy popped open two bottles of Prosecco, then topped them up. ‘They get as much spritz as they want for free. Wine too. If any of them ask for something stronger they got to pay. They know that but they might try it on.’ He smiled, just for a second. ‘They might try lots on with a poppet like you.’

  She’d never served drinks before. It was harder than she expected, keeping the tray straight, wandering by the groups of chattering Germans and their tame Italians, letting them take what they wanted, ignoring the pinches and the caresses that came almost every minute, steeling herself to smile and say, no, she wasn’t available, she had a sick mamma at home and needed to be back by eleven thirty at the latest to look after her.

  Close up the Crucchi looked disappointingly ordinary. In the past she’d seen them almost as devils, not quite human. It was easier to think of them that way. She and her comrades were there to kill these scum before they got the chance to kill them. Yet the faces she smiled at as she wandered the room could have been men she saw on the rickety, rattling, old tram carriages back in Turin, some vile, some bored, some quite unremarkable. All of them, she felt sure, capable of murder and terror and cruelty. They had to be. They were Crucchi. And she was just as sure she could shoot them face to face and would given the chance.

  The ones who were harder to read were the Italians who scrutinized her more carefully, listened to her speak, judged her accent – Piedmont, she couldn’t hide it. Twice some fat, sweating, middle-aged man she took to be from the Black Brigades asked what a woman from across the country was doing in Venice. Working, she said. Looking after a sick mother who’d been married to a Venetian and lost him in the war.

  A sour-faced thug in a black suit, rings on his fingers, a livid scar down his right cheek, asked for her papers and didn’t like it much when she said they were downstairs in her bag. No way to carry them wearing a cocktail dress.

  ‘What are you doing later?’ he asked.

  ‘I have to see my mother, sir. That’s why I’m here. She’s not well at all.’

  He didn’t push it. There were other women in the room, mostly more scantily dressed than she was. An awkward one wasn’t worth the effort.

  Time passed quickly when she taught herself not to think. Just go back and forth to the bar, get more scarlet tumblers of spritz and a few bowls of snacks, wander the room, make sure it didn’t look like she was listening.

  She was, of course, but even that was disappointing. There were perhaps thirty Germans in the place and a dozen or more Italians. A few were chasing the women who were placed there like decorations, with nothing to do but talk and arrange where in the hotel they’d sleep that night, or so she guessed. Their conversation was dismal, about family and how much they missed home. About how the war was going to be won one day even if it didn’t look so good at the moment. A couple of them even spoke of going to the opera.

  The Crucchi weren’t stupid, anything but. They’d never let slip a secret or a plan in a place like this.

  Over the course of the evening she’d confirmed the layout of the place matched Trevisan’s map. The staff door she was supposed to open was on the right-hand side of the room, barely visible, painted the same cream colour as the walls. Just a keyhole to say it was there, nothing more, not even a handle on the outside. The piano was by the opposite wall. There was no one clicking his fingers for a drink so she wandered over and took a good look at that. A Bechstein it said. Shiny but she wondered how long it was since the thing had been played.

  A man wandered over while she was looking, came so close he made her jump and the one glass of spritz left tumbled to the floor, bounced off the carpet sending drink everywhere.

  ‘Sorry, signora. I didn’t mean to surprise you.’

  He spoke Italian marked by the rough accent of Venice and was down on the floor picking up the empty glass before she could get there, wiping the drink into the carpet with the side of his shoe. With a wink he nodded at the sweep of his feet.

  ‘A man trick for when you’ve spilled something. Do you play?’

  ‘Play what?’

  ‘The piano, of course. What do you think I meant?’

  ‘I didn’t hear you right. No. I wish I did. I’m sorry, I’ll get you another drink.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  When she came back, tray full again, he took two and laughed.

  ‘I shouldn’t say this, sir,’ she told him, ‘but you look like you’ve had enough already.’

  ‘There isn’t enough. There’ll never be enough. Fetch me two more when these are empty.’

  ‘No. You drink those and go home.’

  He nodded at the ceiling.

  ‘This is home. Want my room number?’

  ‘I’m here to serve drinks. That’s all.’

  He placed one of the glasses back on the tray and held out his right hand.

  ‘You look like you’re new to this. Luca Alberti. Pleased to meet you. Room Four One Three.’

  She didn’t take his hand but she did say her name.

  ‘Giulia? So what are you doing here … Giulia?’

  ‘Working. My mamma’s sick. I need the money.’

  The way he said nothing made her wonder what he was thinking. Maybe he wasn’t as drunk as he first looked.

  ‘You sound like a local,’ she added. ‘But you live here?’

  ‘Safest thing to do when you belong to the Crucchi. Bear that in mind. There’s a bridge you cross sometimes and no turning back.’ He touched the side of her head. ‘I like your hair. That’s new, isn’t it? My wife used to dye her hair. Cost a packet.’

  ‘A friend does it for free.’

  ‘What’s the real colour?’

  She looked round. No one was watching them. They all felt safe in this place. It was obvious.

  ‘I got to work.’

  ‘I got to find Jews. Know any?’
<
br />   ‘What?’

  ‘Jews. Couple of partisans. Sorry, terrorists we’re supposed to call them. On the run from Turin. Brother and sister. Like I said. Jews. Not that the Jews here say they know them. You think—’

  Her face flushed and she yelled, ‘What?’

  He answered slowly as if she was stupid.

  ‘I was asking if you’d heard anyone talking about a couple of Jews from out of town. Hiding somewhere probably. Don’t think it’s in the ghetto. Too obvious. I don’t know—’

  ‘What makes you think I hang around with Jews?’

  ‘I didn’t say—’

  ‘I ought to slap you.’

  ‘Just asking.’

  She made sure she sounded furious, got louder so that people started to notice.

  ‘Damn it.’ She placed the tray on the piano, balled a fist. ‘I will hit you.’

  ‘Feel free, lady. Been a while.’

  ‘No.’ She dropped her hand. ‘You’re not worth it. People like you … Dead drunk when you should be working. The sooner we ship that filth out of the country the better. Il Duce should have been doing it years ago. Took Hitler to rescue him and put a spine in his back before we even started looking proper.’

  Alberti grinned.

  ‘For one so young and pretty you do have strong feelings.’

  She jabbed a finger at her chest. The dress was low. All the men were looking.

  ‘I’m a patriot. What are you?’

  A German voice spoke up, bad Italian, struggling with the words.

  ‘Alberti’s just a servant.’ The Nazi was in a grey uniform, young, narrow face, long nose, sardonic expression. Stank of booze too. ‘Ignore him. He works for me.’

  ‘I work for your boss, Sander. Both of us do. Let’s not forget it.’

  The German wasn’t even listening.

  ‘You’re new?’

  Sander was eyeing her with a look she knew too well.

  ‘Just started.’

  ‘You’ve got a good heart.’ He reached out and stroked a finger down her breast. She didn’t flinch. ‘What are you doing later? I got a nice room. A comfortable bedmate.’ He tapped his jacket. ‘A little money too. But let’s face it … here a little money goes a long way.’

  ‘Later I’m going home.’

  His face fell.

  ‘You disappoint me. I hate that.’

  ‘Sick mamma,’ Alberti cut in. ‘Loving daughter. Never get between the two, chum. You’ll have to pick a new bedmate tonight.’ He smiled right at her. ‘This one looks too special. Aren’t you … Giulia?’

  She went back to the bar, sure she wasn’t shaking. Sure.

  The rest of the night went past so slowly she wondered if she’d really make it till eleven.

  But make it she did and after that she went down the staff staircase, got her coat and the bag with the handgun, stumbled out into the cold and frosty night where the grey mist was so thick it was hard to see a few steps ahead.

  Alberti had watched her leave, smiling, raised his glass as she vanished through the door.

  He was just a man, maybe a lothario like the Nazi Sander. One who happened to be hunting her and Vanni.

  That was all.

  The boat was late. Aldo Diamante wondered if it had been caught by the Germans. San Pietro was so close to their patrols out of the Arsenale. Then there was the weather. The freezing fog had got thicker as he walked the children from the ghetto through the back streets of Castello out to Filippo Garzone’s solitary basilica. It chilled him to the marrow and he had to keep feeding the kids caramels to stop them squawking. On a night like this most sane sailors would stay at home, even the vaporetti which were the principal form of transport around the city. All the same the men of Venice who worked the lagoon often seemed more happy on water than land. In peacetime he’d watched them work like slaves all week, then spend their spare time racing all their many different kind of sandoli rowing boats along the broad waterfront from Fondamente Nove across to the Lido. If anyone could find a way through this it was them.

  And so they waited hour after hour in Filippo Garzone’s office, beneath a simple painting of Jesus with little children, trying to pass the time. The priest knew songs and games and had a few jigsaw puzzles from the Sunday study group the basilica ran. Religious themes, of course, unfamiliar to the children of the ghetto, or so Diamante expected. But in truth these five kids were old enough to remember school days before they were segregated from their Christian peers. So there was a brief delight as they rediscovered tunes and pictures and stories they’d forgotten.

  Garzone was heartened by their response and grinned at Diamante as they turned the pages of his books, marvelling at the pictures and the poems.

  ‘See,’ he said, leaving the children to it for a moment, ‘nothing vanishes. It merely hides and waits.’

  ‘True,’ Diamante agreed and tried his best to match the forced joviality of his mood. It was so cold in the church he never took off his heavy winter coat. There was a satchel slung over his shoulder, one that had the logo of his old hospital on it and the winding serpents of Asclepius, the perennial symbol of medicine. It had once accompanied him on his rounds.

  A distant church bell tolled eleven. San Pietro’s own campanile had been silent for years for lack of money and support. The children were quiet by then, one of the girls fast asleep.

  ‘If they’re not here by midnight it’s off,’ Diamante said. ‘Either they abandoned the attempt or the Germans caught them.’

  Garzone nodded.

  ‘In that case your little flock can stay with me. Here. If need be I’ll try to find other places for them to stay. No one wants to see the young suffer.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Diamante replied. ‘If I can’t get them out tonight perhaps they would be best back home …’

  The two of them fell silent. Diamante felt guilty toying with his old friend like this. They both knew he was trying to make the best of a desperate situation. For the life of him he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  Then there was a rap on the door, so loud it made the two men jump and the sleeping child wake and start to cry.

  Three men, bearded, wrapped in dark jackets, wool caps low over their skulls, stood outside, shivering, stamping their seafarer’s boots on the hard stone.

  ‘We came for cargo,’ grunted the first one.

  ‘And our money,’ added the second, holding out his hand.

  ‘Of course,’ Diamante replied. ‘We have both.’

  Garzone watched with distaste as he retrieved an envelope from his coat and handed it over. A thick wad of notes, Reichsmarks, lire and even some American dollars. The second sailor counted them with his finger, licking it as he went. Then he nodded.

  ‘Will you get them to Switzerland?’ Diamante asked.

  ‘That’s the plan,’ the lead one replied. ‘Are any sick? Or awkward?’

  ‘They’re good obedient children,’ Garzone cut in. ‘They think they’re going on holiday and their family will join them later. Please don’t disabuse them of that idea.’

  The priest had heard stories about Jew smugglers, a few in confession. Some were honest partisans seeking to do good. Others were simply black marketeers looking for a bigger profit than they might get from tobacco, drugs or drink. A few, the rumours said, were thugs and murderers who took their money and either handed over their charges to the Black Brigades or killed them and dumped their bodies in the northern marshes where they’d never be found. There was, of course, no way of telling. The men who worked the lagoon, fishing, carrying cargo, legal or illicit, running errands between the islands, were a tough breed who never said much, good or bad. Diamante’s contacts must have made this arrangement. He could only hope they’d done their job.

  ‘Bring them,’ the first man said. ‘Make sure they’re wrapped up well. It’s cold out there.’

  ‘There are five now,’ Diamante said.

  The boatmen just stared at him. Diamante’s glance tol
d Garzone there was another conversation to be had here and he would not be party to it. So the priest went back inside, found scarves and gloves, too big but all he had, did his best to smile and tell them all was well.

  ‘Time for your holiday, little ones. Your boat’s here. Now … Be good. Do as the sailors say. You’ve a long journey ahead. An interesting one. Across the water. Into the mountains. In a few days you’ll be in Switzerland, a marvellous country. There are cow bells and cheese and trains and skiing.’

  ‘Have you been?’ the young boy asked.

  ‘No. But I’ve heard much.’

  He took the hand of the smallest girl. She’d started to cry and he didn’t want to know why.

  Outside the fog seemed as thick as he’d ever seen it. He couldn’t begin to imagine what kind of vessel might make its way safely through such an impenetrable night. Before he could introduce the children, the first boatman smiled at the crying girl, pulled a small doll out of his pocket, bent down in front of her and said, ‘Will you look after her?’

  The thing looked ancient. She took it anyway.

  ‘It was my daughter’s,’ the man went on.

  The girl asked, ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘The doll? She’s called Carina. Little darling.’

  ‘I meant your daughter.’

  The smile on his face hardened.

  ‘Her name doesn’t matter anymore. Come.’ He took her hand. ‘Time to go.’

  The two men watched them vanish into the fog. After a while an engine sounded, then faded away to nothing.

  ‘I think they must be good, honest fellows,’ Garzone said. ‘The way he dealt with that child.’

  ‘They thought they were picking up three. Not five.’

  ‘You paid them though, didn’t you?’

  ‘That I did.’

  Diamante kept staring at the opaque night as if there were answers out there, hiding, waiting to be found.

  ‘Will you have more … cargo for me to deal with tomorrow?’

  ‘No.’ He took out his woollen cap and pulled it over his ears. ‘There’s no one left to fetch them. No time.’

  ‘Aldo.’ He took his old friend’s arm. ‘We’re here. We live. We breathe. There’s always time until we abandon it or God offers us another choice.’