Orsina nodded as she thanked him and said good-bye. Once Giacomo left, she took a deep breath and quickly locked the door.
SIX
Verona, Italy
MAY 1943
Since his return, Pietro remained bedbound. His foot was encased in a plaster cast and propped up on pillows by a diligent Orsina. He spent the majority of the day sleeping.
“He seems to sleep more than ever, Mamma . . . Shouldn’t we be concerned he’s not trying to walk around more? Doctor Tommasi even left crutches for him, but he never attempts to use them!”
Orsina shook her head. “Who wouldn’t be tired after receiving such a beating? If a body is tired, it should rest.”
Elodie was not convinced. “I know if I go two days without playing, my hands feel stiff. I think he needs to get up and move around.”
“Let’s give him a few more days, Elodie. It’s only this week that those terrible bruises on his face have started to fade. Once he gets more strength back, we can get him on his feet.”
Elodie nodded. “Maybe tonight, we can see if he can play his violin a bit. He doesn’t need to stand to play. We can adjust his pillows and then do a small concert for you.” She smiled and went to hug her mother. “It will be good for his spirits to get him playing again.”
Elodie looked sideways to see her father sleeping in his bed. It was true that his bruises had begun to fade, but the brutality of Fascism was now more evident than ever, leaving permanent marks on her family’s once-idyllic household.
Although she tried to remain as calm and helpful as possible to her mother, since her father’s return, Elodie knew that she had been forever changed by this event. The sight of her gentle father being carried home by a neighbor, his body beaten beyond recognition and his leg dangling like a broken marionette—this was not something she could ever erase from her mind.
So when she saw Lena outside Guido’s Café, Elodie seemed to have lost the meekness she exhibited the first time Lena had invited her to a meeting.
“When is your next meeting?” Elodie asked, unblinking.
“You’re ready to join us now?” Lena questioned in turn. She was now staring at Elodie intensely, trying to gauge her sudden change in spirit.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve never been more ready. Just tell me when and where.”
The next morning after she finished her coffee, Elodie did what she thought was impossible: She looked into her parents’ eyes and told them her first lie.
“I will be late today, so don’t wait for me. I don’t want you to worry,” she said, hoping that her parents would not ask for further details.
Orsina was still in her nightgown. A long black braid, with wisps of gray, fell over one shoulder. Even after a full night’s sleep, she still looked tired.
“Of course I will worry, when you see what sort of animals are on the streets these days. What is going to keep you?”
Elodie took a deep breath.
“I need to practice a concerto with Lena. She’s having trouble with her timing, and Professor Olivetti will have our heads if we don’t get everything just right for the spring performance.”
It was a complete fabrication on Elodie’s part, but still something that seemed plausible enough. She looked at her mother to see if she had detected her transgression but Orsina seemed to have found the explanation credible.
Orsina sighed. “Don’t stay out too late. And please, please be careful.”
Elodie nodded and shifted her gaze. It had been easier to lie than she imagined. Perhaps too easy.
“Yes, Mamma. Of course.”
Orsina glanced over at her husband, hoping he would express his own similar thoughts on their daughter’s safety. But his injuries were so severe, he clearly hadn’t even heard her and Elodie speaking. There had been a time, she thought, that he heard every breath, every whisper. But now he hardly seemed to hear anything at all.
That afternoon, Elodie and Lena leave their instruments at the school. They are dressed nearly identically: navy skirts and white blouses. Shoes with T-straps. Hair pinned behind their ears.
Lena tells her the meeting will occur in a small bookshop on Via Mazzini. It’s a store that Elodie never even knew existed. The exterior is nothing but a small window front lined with books. Above the door hangs a black sign with the word Libri in gold letters.
Elodie wishes she had the security of her cello to comfort her. She is so used to her heavy armor that she hardly knows what her body feels like without it, almost as if she is missing a limb. She feels strangely weightless and her other senses are heightened. She hears everything around her: the sound of footsteps on the pavement, the sound of the birds in the air, the rustle of the leaves.
“Come inside,” Lena whispers to her and points to the door. The small shop is lined from floor to ceiling with books. Bricks of color, Elodie thinks, as she looks at the walls. The spines protrude in an array of different shades. The leather volumes in red and brown, a few in forest green. The gilt letters of their titles glimmer like distant stars. A young man of around twenty stands behind a counter. He is tall, almost gangly, with a thick mane of black hair. His irises are deep amber. She has never seen an eye color like that before. Elodie immediately thinks of the gypsies who thread amber into necklaces, the prized pieces like fossils with bits of life trapped within. His face is beautiful and well chiseled, and Elodie reads it quickly like a sheet of music, taking in the angles and curves, memorizing the heights and plateaus.
The bookseller’s hands rest on his desk. His long fingers are smudged with ink.
“Luca, I’ve brought a friend,” Lena announces with confidence. Luca stares at both girls, but longer at Elodie. He says nothing at first, sizing her up with his eyes. Finally he wipes his hands on his smock and gestures for them to follow.
He takes them to the back room, and Elodie is first struck by the smell of fresh ink and damp paper. There are hundreds of pamphlets in tall piles. Someone is filling small satchels with them. The room is crowded, with at least thirty young men who all seem to know one another. They eye Elodie with suspicion as soon as she enters.
“She’s my friend,” Lena indicates right away. “She’s a cellist, with a memory like you’ve never seen.” She looks everyone straight in the eyes. There is a low grumbling in the room. Elodie hears it and begins to shiver. “You can trust her,” Lena says without flinching. “You have my word.”
Three women are in the room; one is unmistakably Brigitte Lowenthal. The sharp features, the expensive blouse. She scans Elodie quickly when she walks into the room and then turns her head to focus on something more interesting that concerns her. Elodie notices how she places an elegant hand on Berto’s thigh. He has an artist’s face, a sculptor’s hands. In a flash, she can imagine with ease Brigitte naked on a daybed, Berto re-creating her flesh in smooth contours of clay.
Another woman is in the corner. Elodie hears the name Jurika mentioned. She is dressed in trousers and a button-down shirt. She looks at the two girls with even more suspicion than do the men. It is clear from Lena’s body language that she has never seen this woman before, either.
“You should go over to the Catholic coalition, if you’re interested in helping,” she tells them. “I don’t think this group is for you.”
Lena stares back at her. “I have already begun fulfilling my duty here. Most of these men are happy I can deliver anything they give me.”
“Lena’s a good staffetta, Jurika,” a tall student in dark colors says in Lena’s defense.
“And I’ve never seen you at a single meeting before,” Lena challenges.
“I’ve been in the mountains in France scouting, you little mouse.” She stands up and seems to draw the breath from the room. “I don’t suppose they teach you how to hold a gun in music school?”
Elodie can feel herself shaking, but Lena remains undeterre
d. On the other side of the room, Brigitte turns a long, white neck in their direction. She pulls out a cigarette, which Berto quickly lights. Elodie sees how her eyes turn from boredom to amusement within seconds.
“No,” Lena says as a smile spreads over her face. “But since you seem to be the expert, why don’t you come teach it there?”
The tension in the room instantly dissolves and everyone, including Jurika, begins to laugh.
“I like you,” Jurika says, as she stands up. When she rises, she is like a torch; her powerful energy fills the room. The girls bask for a moment, pleased they’ve amused this female leader.
The girls are given satchels filled with the Communist papers for distribution. Luca walks them to the door.
“We’ll see you two next Thursday at the same time. Now, get home to your parents.”
“We’re not little schoolgirls,” Lena snaps. “We’re old enough to be married!”
“And how old is that?”
“Nineteen,” Elodie replies for her friend.
“Nearly twenty,” Lena shoots back.
“Well,” he says, smiling at both of them. “You now have two jobs then: Give out those papers and then go find a husband.”
He walks over to a huge stack of flyers and lifts them, his arms stiffening from the weight. There is a flicker, like a branch of blue lightning, that runs through the veins of his neck.
Elodie and Lena open their arms and receive their parcels.
“Tell me,” he says, “which would be a heavier responsibility? This or a husband?”
Lena is the first to respond.
“A husband, of course!” She let out an enormous laugh. “At least we can give these flyers away and then be done with them!”
The three of them continued to laugh until Elodie looks up and sees Jurika walking toward them. She says nothing to Luca, nor to Elodie or Lena.
With a quick, deft movement, she reaches into her pocket and withdraws a cap, which she immediately pulls over her eyes. Without a trace of femininity in her look or in her gait, she turns from them and walks out the door.
The next week, after having successfully distributed their pamphlets, the girls return to Luca’s store.
When they enter, a little chime sounds from above the door. Luca is on his knees, uncrating a box of books. He looks up; his eyes pass over Lena then focus on Elodie.
“The two musicians,” he says.
“The bookseller,” Elodie answers.
Lena shoots her a glance, showing her surprise at Elodie’s answer.
Luca stands up from his crate. He is taller than she remembered. He wears the same brown apron he was wearing the first time they met. There is a small notebook in the center pocket, a pencil behind his ear.
“I’m sorry. We weren’t properly introduced the last time.” He extends his hand to her. “Luca Bianchi.”
“Elodie Bertolotti,” she answers. She feels a tingle in her fingers as he grips her hand in his.
“Elodie?” A quizzical expression washes over him. “I have never heard that name before.”
“Yes, it’s French. My mother chose it.”
“Is your mother French?” He smiles again. “We could use a French speaker. We’re trying to learn as much as we can from the French Resistance.”
Elodie laughs. “No, my mother’s Venetian, and if you met her, you wouldn’t think her a prime candidate for the Resistance.”
“You might be surprised,” he tells her. He raises an eyebrow and his voice betrays a hint of flirtation. “We even have some gondoliers . . .”
Elodie nods, impressed. “I had no idea.”
“Well, regardless, your name is beautiful. It suits you.”
“Thank you,” she says, blushing from his attention.
Out of the corner of her eye, Elodie could see Lena’s eyes rolling.
“Well, this is all very interesting . . .” Lena interrupts, “but we have a lot to report. Are the others here yet?”
“A few are in the back, but we’re still waiting for most of them.”
He smiles at Elodie and she finds herself hesitating as Lena begins to walk into the back room.
“Will you tell me what instrument you play?”
She smiles, touched at his curiosity about her. “The cello.”
“Again, you surprise me.” He lets out a small laugh. “Such a big and serious instrument.”
She feels the touch of his hand, a feather-light sensation at the small of her back, gently ushering her into the back room.
The men seem satisfied by Lena’s reporting of their pamphlet distribution.
“We need to be saturating the university,” someone suggests. “At least there, some are not afraid to fight the Fascists.”
A few people agree, but others argue among themselves about where they can find more support.
Finally Luca stands up and says he has an announcement.
“Our head leadership has told us repeatedly it’s essential we find new and innovative ways to deliver our messages. We have been clever in finding techniques to do that in the past. But the distances we now need to travel are getting longer. A simple bicycle run, with a piece of paper inside a handlebar, is fine for a short distance. But there needs to be something we can use that that can be transported longer distances, between cities . . .”
There is grumbling in the room.
“No need to discuss this between yourselves. You see, I have come up with an idea.”
There are three books stacked in front of him. He takes the first one from the pile and lifts it in his hands.
“We all know what this is.” Luca places his hand reverently on the cover. “For centuries, writers have used books as a way to transport their ideas and thoughts.” He opens the book to its midsection. “But, actually . . . and I know this will surprise many of you, I think there are many other ways to use them for our cause, beyond just the stirring words that have been printed.”
“In this book, I’ve taken a knife and cut out twenty pages from the middle. I then cut new pages, exactly the same size, that contain mock messages, and glued them inside so they merge seamlessly with the original pages.”
He closes the book. “I’m now going to pass it around, and I want you to give me an honest answer if you would have noticed, upon first inspection, the new pages.”
Silence sweeps through the room. Each person who touches the book and leafs through its pages is hard-pressed to identify the new ones that Luca has inserted.
“It’s also possible to use a book as a way to carry a secret code.
In this book, you’ll notice I have added some letters at the base of every tenth page. One could use letters, numbers . . . or even a combination of both, using this seemingly innocent object as a vessel of sending additional information.”
Luca opens up the book and shows everyone how he had threaded the words Il Gufo through the book by placing one letter every ten pages. “This is a one-to-ten ratio, but it can be adjusted to one letter on every fiftieth page, or even every seventy-fifth.”
Elodie can feel her entire body shoot with electricity as he speaks. When the first book Luca sends around the room reaches her, she places her hand on the cover just as he had, as if that gesture could somehow connect them.
The others react just as enthusiastically. “That’s brilliant, Luca,” someone shouts. Another person applauds his creativity in finding a solution. Elodie strains her ears to see if anyone isn’t impressed. But everyone seems bolstered by Luca’s ingenuity.
“I’ve saved the best for last,” he finally says to calm the room. A single book now rests on the table before him, as the first two continue to circulate through the crowd.
He picks up a larger book, this one clearly heavier and more substantial. “I took this one from of a series of volumes I have sta
cked on those shelves back there . . .” He points to a tall wooden bookcase replete with several rows of large books.
He pauses for a moment before parting the center pages with his thumbs. The book opens like a large butterfly. On one side of the book, within the thickness of at least two hundred pages, is an expertly carved niche. And inside is a pistol.
“Clearly, this wouldn’t be used for travel. The controls are too tight, but I think it’s a good way for us to think about storing what guns we have. I can place several of these books side by side on a shelf in this very storeroom.”
The room is now buzzing with excitement. Beppe comes over and pulls the gun from the cut-out pages.
Elodie cannot believe her eyes. She looks at Lena, who sits in her chair, too completely transfixed at what Luca has just shown her.
She turns to Elodie and whispers in her ear, “Well, he’s certainly more than your average bookseller.”
Elodie is speechless. But inside she is thinking the exact same thing.
SEVEN
Verona, Italy
MAY 1943
After the meeting in Luca’s store, Elodie looked at books in a completely different way. Sometimes she would go to her father’s bookshelves and pull out a book on nautical history or one on ancient Rome, and wonder if this couldn’t be a perfect vessel for a message or a gun.
Luca’s weapon had terrified her. She had never seen a pistol up close before. The most dangerous things in her parents’ house were the kitchen knives. Even those she shied away from, preferring to set the table or stir the polenta.
Her life had been extremely sheltered. She knew it was typical for Italian families to protect their young, especially their daughters. But she had grown up even more isolated because of her musical gifts. Her parents didn’t want her to have any distraction.
But now a strange energy flowed through her. Was it a motivation for revenge for her father, combined with the passion for this new group of people who were so dedicated to winning the country back from the Fascists? Or was it simpler and far less noble on her part? Had it begun the first time Luca had looked at her? When he told her that her name was beautiful? When he had studied her face and told her that she was full of surprises?
The Garden of Letters Page 5