As it’s way after curfew, I stay the night at my parents’, but I am up and out with the lark to make it back to my own apartment before work. I have time only to wash with cold water and switch clothes – but it’s important I present an unchanged front to the office, to Cristian, Breugal and even Marta. My virtual disguise must be perfectly in place.
There’s a clear increase in the number of patrols and guards around the official army and police buildings, as well as in the amount of chatter within the canteen about the reasons. I learn Breugal has been summoned to some kind of war council on the Lido, so Cristian is occupied at his desk reading reports – face close to the type, rubbing at his forehead. Again, I avoid his glances where I can; I want no opportunity for my own features to betray anything, and I ghost away at the day’s end while he’s briefly away from his desk.
My head and heart are bursting with indecision and I need to offload it. Thank goodness for Mimi – even the mere prospect of her sunny disposition gets me through the day. We gauge several bars around San Polo Campo, avoiding those who have a sea of green or grey uniforms laughing and drinking in the evening sunshine. Despite the strife of war, Venice remains a magnet for thrill-seeking officers in their precious days away from front lines; word of cocaine-soaked parties, abundant with food luxuries and sexual pleasures, is common. While ordinary Venetians scrape for food and water, some quarters drip with debauchery. Another seesaw side of our war.
Finally, we settle on a small bar populated with ordinary folk, choosing a table on the periphery of a cluster outside. Even so, Mimi is schooled into keeping her voice and natural enthusiasm in check, and I instantly note she’s less animated than usual. She allows me space to bleed the past few days into her ear, and immediately I feel lighter. It forces me to realise how much I miss Gaia and Raffiano as a regular feed for my frustrations. Her face, though, adopts a darker veil as I recount the uncertainty surrounding Vito.
‘Mimi?’ I say, as a tear rolls down her beautiful, rounded cheeks. ‘What’s wrong?’
She can’t keep it in any longer. She spills more tears and a confession that the new man in her life is none other than Vito; she’s in love with my exasperating, sometimes immature, but ultimately handsome and charming baby brother.
‘I didn’t mean to, Stella,’ she says, sniffing loudly and trying to whisper in unison. ‘I promise I didn’t set out to fall in love with him. We just bumped into each other one day, and we got talking. All those years we’ve known each other – when we were growing up – and then something just clicked. We couldn’t help it.’
She dissolves into tears again and I have to hold onto my own concern and give her solace at the same time – and my blessing. In truth, if we all survive this thing, Mimi will be a good influence on my wayward brother. I would relish having her as a sister-in-law, cementing our long-term affection.
This is all assuming Vito escapes the current partisan cull and this war. It’s the first Mimi has heard of Vito in hiding, and she’s doubly distressed at facing the prospect of losing him for good, so soon after finding him. As a Resistance member, she understands how precarious his situation is. While we both agree that all we can do is wait for news, I know Mimi’s disposition all too well – waiting has never been her strong point. I promise to relay any information as soon as I hear.
All cried out, Mimi – typically – steers me towards lighter topics and I’m reminded to describe my recent meeting with Jack. Or was it more than that, I think as I’m telling her – an assignation perhaps?
‘Stella! You really are some sort of Mata Hari, running around the lagoon meeting handsome strangers.’ Her broad, brave smile makes me relive the moment and feel a frisson inside. ‘Surely you’ll make it back to Pellestrina soon?’
‘Not likely,’ I say. ‘I think now we, all of us, have to be even more careful, on our guard. Jack will have to be a one-kiss wonder.’
‘But was it nice – the moment?’
‘Oh yes,’ I recall. ‘Very, very nice.’
Mimi nods, and I know that immediately she’s thinking of Vito and what can only have been brief encounters to date. She can’t hide the delight in her eyes at the memory and I know then she is truly smitten. Equally, my own mind shifts for a brief moment; as much as I try not to, I can’t help thinking about that other kiss, and how it made me feel. The man whose lips touched mine. Why won’t that odd feeling simply go away and stop bothering me?
Despite Mimi’s sorrow, I can tell she doesn’t want to go home to her lone apartment, her own thoughts and isolation. She suggests we walk and talk. Her make-up reapplied – her form of the mask we all wear – we head out, winding down small calles and over bridges as the light closes in on the day. We talk about mutual friends, couples in the infancy of their relationships and the effect of war in loosening the stays of strict Catholic life.
‘So, what about the other man in your life – the mysterious Signor De Luca?’ she asks eventually, and that irritating sensation wells up again.
I’m startled Mimi even thinks of Cristian alongside our talk of handsome men. She’s never laid eyes in him. Is that really the way I’ve portrayed him, perhaps in my more benevolent moments? I need to be more careful, clearly.
‘Oh, he’s totally wrapped up in all the political comings and goings of the past few days,’ I say casually. ‘Thankfully, he’s not giving me much mind. But I’m still being careful. He’s one to notice the slightest hair out of place.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘About what?’ I question. ‘That he’s slippery as an eel? Definitely.’
‘No, silly, that he’s not watching you in an entirely different way?’ Mimi has a naturally mischievous look when she’s talking about men.
‘Absolutely,’ I reply, lips a thin line of defiance. ‘Especially after the disaster on my doorstep. I’m certain Cristian De Luca is thinking about his one true love – a fascist Italy. And our beloved Benito, of course!’
The thought of our stout, strutting leader as any kind of Lothario sends us into fits of giggles, and we choose laughter over sorrow for the rest of the evening, the sun dipping low and the night sky taking hold. With the twitter of conversation and the alcohol, it’s a pleasant antidote to the passing week of anguish. The pitch and roll inside me is put on hold for a few hours at least. And I’m pleased to bring a smile to Mimi’s face.
In that moment, we can’t know how the so-called ‘soft’ war of Venice – not so supple in recent weeks – is about to toughen like concrete, moulding into a hard, inhuman and unyielding episode, the echoes of which will change our paths forever.
22
The Seeker
Venice, December 2017
Luisa is up and out to see the sun rise over the water, its early brilliance forcing her to pull out her sunglasses against the water’s glare. The time difference with England is only an hour, but her early night and in-built urgency proved better than any alarm. She shivers in the shade of the water’s edge, watching her breath rise towards the pink, flossy sky, and walks on. Even the glimpse of a brightly painted ambulance boat and its bleating siren – a sign there truly is modern life here – can’t shift the floating dream that is Venice.
‘Coffee,’ she mutters to herself, and goes in search of the elixir that promises to carry her through the day. Her meeting with Signor Volpe isn’t until one p.m. Until then, she plans to visit the Jewish Museum and some of the other sites of Resistance, before moving over to Giudecca and the meeting.
Luisa notes the relative lack of tourists as she navigates from bridge to bridge. The city is a year-round magnet for sightseers, but in early December there’s a pleasant, languid pace in the walkways and over the central attraction of the Rialto Bridge – not the heave that she recalls of her previous visit, with everyone trying to get their fill and their photos in just one day. The stalls selling an endless array of honest Murano glass and cheaper copies are all open for business, but there’s a sense this is Venice’s downtime and she meander
s towards the museum, absorbing the odour of roasting chestnuts and strong Italian sausage, stopping to ask in faltering Italian for a sweet pastry filled with smooth apricot jam and puffs of buttery air. It’s heaven.
The fish market is still open and, although the very early morning trade has disappeared, there are tourists bobbing around the stalls, taking pictures and getting in the way of slightly irritated Venetians who are haggling for their dinner’s staple – fish that Luisa has never set eyes on before: round, flat, pocked and spotted; octopi of grey and pink with suckers the size of small teacups; shrimp still twitching with a half-life. The people of Venice know and love their fish, clearly, as the water nymphs they are.
As she walks towards the train station, Luisa notes the tourist charms spread out – overpriced haunts give way to corner cafés with the same garish welcome signs as in Bristol, populated with Italians who talk and gesture over the day’s politics, television, or share snapshots on social media. Her Italian isn’t good enough to grab hold of any one phrase, but as she passes by it has the innocent hum and laughter of cafés the world over – people just conversing and communicating. It makes her smile for humanity.
Like every station she’s ever been to on her travels, Venezia rail terminal is a hub of activity – the buzz of people coming and going, suitcases packed with toothbrushes and expectation. It’s a striking building, shaped in the flat, clean lines of Mussolini’s ordered architecture. Stark but undeniably sleek. Although Luisa now knows of the politics behind it, the dark fascism that spawned these polished, concrete lines, she can’t help admiring it too. And with every step she is led to wonder: was her grandmother here often, walking on these slabs? Did she leave Venice for good from this very portal, or was there a more secretive departure point?
The bridge over into the heart of the Cannaregio district brings her into a different Venice again. It’s the first stop-off point for budget travellers and backpackers, and it shows in the general but engaging scruffiness of the shops and streets. There are Jewish cafés and bakeries, and a strong sense that this is home to Venetians, with a layer of tourism that’s tolerated for the economic benefits it brings.
Diving into the tiny alleyways to seek out the museum, it’s much quieter, with Venice’s population of cats emerging from the brickwork to beg some attention. There are a few bespoke craft shops and galleries, which might signal the area is up and coming, but the earlier bright sunshine is muted, and it brings a mood of dull disquiet.
The Campo di Ghetto Nuovo, the wartime hub of the Jewish community, houses the museum itself, a modern entrance tucked in one corner. In the other, Luisa sees a wooden booth containing two armed guards, and she wonders why – after all these years – such a presence is needed. But then her mind flicks back to the present day and she realises it’s more recent prejudices which prompt the protection – the threatened terrorism that is rife across the world. Have we really moved on at all?
She appreciates for the first time the date on her watch: 6th December. According to her research, it’s seventy-four years to the day since the ghetto raids she’s read about, the first significant cull after the Nazi occupation in 1943. It’s not a major milestone but enough to make Luisa stop and sit on a bench in the square and swivel slowly to capture a panorama in her mind. She looks up to a grand but crumbling old balcony, to a turret at the crest of one house with a tiny window nestled in the tiles, and she wonders if, on that night, there were terrified Jews cornered in their own houses, shrinking away from that very window and frightened for their lives. She thinks about the relative silence of the campo, only a small tour group to her side being lectured in Spanish, compared to the inevitable shouting, screaming and cracks of gunfire on that night in 1943, the terror those poor people were forced to endure.
It’s almost unthinkable, beyond even her colourful imagination, until she wanders across to a cast metal tableau in the side of the square. Moulded into the sprawling bronze plaque are the names of Venetian Jews lost in the war, perhaps on that night: Todesco, Kuhn, Levi, Polacco, Gremboni – a fusion of religion and culture, Jewish names of old blending with Italian. And she feels the sorrow that each name spells an entire life lost. Did her grandmother know any of these people? She wasn’t Jewish, that much is clear, but she and they – the people who bore these names – were Venetian, and their paths may have crossed. The idea makes Luisa shiver under the layers of her thick coat and causes a ripple in her spine to think she might be so close to her own heritage.
The museum is at least warm, but to her mind, which craves knowledge about the war, it’s filled with a good deal of ancient Jewish history, and only a little of the period she’s interested in. There are, however, some telling photographs of pre-war Italian life under the fascists; Mussolini looking suitably macho on his horse, whole stadiums of young girls in perfect lines demonstrating their prowess with a hula-hoop – in hindsight, so many parallels with Hitler’s Reich.
It’s on her way to the exit that she sees the best picture. In grainy black and white, a horde of partisans – there’s no mistaking their dress or their intent – charging up the steps of the Rialto Bridge, dated April 1945. There are men and women toting guns and ammunition thrown across their bodies, their faces displaying the total focus of attack – they could be dressed as Romans, Celts or Vikings; their features easily skip the centuries. The expression – mouths open, eyes ablaze – is a selfless bequest to the greater good.
The explanation alongside is in Italian and Luisa picks out the meaning slowly, although the words are barely needed: it is the final charge towards Venetian liberation, the ending of Nazi and fascist dominance. Triumph.
Luisa wonders then if she is looking into the features of her grandmother, perhaps not in the front line, but those in the fuzzier distance maybe, as one of those enjoying the freedom of the charge, the push to reclaiming the city. Their home. Once again, though, it’s just not clear enough, and the familiar frustration descends. The clock ticks slowly towards her meeting with Signor Volpe. What if he cannot bring the picture into focus either?
23
A Fiery Reaction
Venice, July 1944
The ceaseless beat of the sun makes July itself seem unending. There’s a tension within Venice, not like the summers of my girlhood, which I remember as carefree – but this seems infinite in a different way. The heat and the pace of the war outside our little enclave create an edge among the forces inside Venice, both Nazi and fascist; the sight of jittery men with guns makes it feel as though we are stepping on eggshells on our own city, the same fragile lattice of wood our ancestors trod carefully upon in centuries past. It makes everyone feel wobbly.
At the newspaper office, we are busy once again – the weather makes it easy for Resistance messages to travel across the mountain passes, and our pages have increased as a result, which means more work for all of us. On the whole, it’s good news, and so easier to write about; the last German stronghold of Minsk has fallen to the Russians, and scores of German U-boats have been sunk. More importantly for Italians, the Allies are marching northwards on the western side of the country, taking Cecina and Livorno, and advancing towards Florence. We can only hope they will head east towards us soon.
There’s another benefit. My workload, both in and out of the Reich office, means I have less time to think about Vito, whom Sergio will only relay is ‘fine’. Mimi, I know, has had some limited contact, but even she is guarded with what she says, in order to protect me. I have to be satisfied with that.
The lighter, longer days create an energy in me – I feed off the light, the way the sun catches the rooftops in the morning and sits late and low in the campos of an evening, unwilling to give in to the night. Conversely, the blazing colours also lend weight to the mood that sits like sediment across Venice – that just one spark is needed to ignite the tinderbox that is my city.
Only we get far more than a spark.
The explosion rocks the deep and ancient foundation
s, ricocheting over the city. It’s just gone nine a.m. and I’m a few minutes into the day’s translation. All of us run to the window, see people emerging from the shops and cafés lining San Marco and immediately look skyward, imagining that – despite pledges to preserve the precious art of our city – Venice is being bombed from above by the Allies. But there’s nothing aside from a reconnaissance aircraft buzzing in the sky. The earth shock we feel stems from ground level.
Word is soon out that the target for the bomb is the Ca’ Giustinian building, a palazzo not far from the Accademia Bridge, facing onto the Grand Canal, and the command post of the National Republican Guard. Troops from the Platzkommandantur are scurrying to and fro, with shouts and general disarray splitting the near normality of San Marco. The band outside one of the cafés has even stopped playing its stock menu of Bach and Liszt.
I can’t help wondering if Vito might be involved, despite his already precarious situation. Surely not? I’m certain his battalion leader wouldn’t allow it. Sergio too, as overall commander. But there’s Vito’s intrinsic recklessness to think of.
I’m trapped in the office finishing the translation that I know will be of value to the Resistance, but I’m itching to get out, simply to gauge the word on the street. There’s a level of threat, clearly, but how much, and to whom?
As with every fresh crisis, Cristian is in and out of Breugal’s office frequently. The heat of late means the general can barely raise himself from his chair, and when he does, it’s never a pretty sight. For once, I want to catch Cristian on some pretence of a query, and casually enquire about the commotion outside. Talk at tea break tells us it was an explosion, likely deliberate, but there are no more details. Marta slips outside to flirt and draw information from one of the guards, but comes back with little other than there are some casualties. Fascist, Nazi or Venetian? Fatal or not? We don’t know. If it’s one of the former, we only know there will be retribution. Violent retribution.
The Secret Messenger Page 17