I can’t deny that my ego is stroked by the reactions, by the fact that people are absorbed in my words, the unique combination to have come out of me. It’s what I dreamed of way back when Popsa presented me with my lovely machine. Shame that such stories are fuelled by tragedy and turmoil. Even sadder that we have come to think of it as normal in this worldwide maelstrom.
The satisfaction I feel is short-lived. If Venetians have taken the lovers into their hearts, the Nazis’ reaction is the polar opposite. They, too, sense the mood is more fiery among Venetians – principally driven by news of Allied victories beyond the Veneto – but the lovers’ instalments are doubtless helping to fan the flames of hostility towards our German ‘guests’.
‘Find the bastard! Find whoever it is and bring them here so I can string them up myself!’ Breugal’s screams are unequivocal through his heavy office door as news of further Resistance sabotage becomes common knowledge in the next days. In the outer office, we’re all too aware that such tantrums often follow a trip beyond Venice to Nazi High Command, where his vast bulk bows under pressure from generals with more power and influence than him. Even Breugal has to do what he’s told on occasion. And now he’s out for the author of the sedition creeping across ‘his’ city. He’s out for me.
Throughout his tirade, I continue typing as an automaton, my eyes reading the pages and fingers translating to the keys, but almost without my brain’s contribution in between. I’m focused on how seriously I should take Breugal’s blustering threats. Before, the search for the story’s author was swiftly overtaken by more pressing matters, my crimes easily forgotten and allowed to slip back into obscurity. Now, though, I sense it’s more urgent, since the order has come from above.
It’s a feeling reinforced by Cristian as he emerges from the office, his normally crisp, clean appearance ruffled by something in him, a change in his posture perhaps. Bowed to some extent by war, like the rest of us. But it’s his face which worries me most – granite-like, set with determination. He grabs up the phone handset and I stop typing, pretending to scan my written pages, while screening out the rattle of machines behind me.
‘Yes, a squad,’ he’s saying. ‘General Breugal wants whatever manpower you have for a full search. Start in the Cannaregio and work your way south.’
I can’t hear the exact words at the other end of the receiver, but the tone appears challenging.
‘How long? However long it takes!’ Cristian is forceful, as forceful as I’ve ever seen him. ‘He wants this person found. And alive. Find that typewriter and we find the culprit.’
His last words send a shiver through me. Alive but entrapped. In Ca’ Littoria with Vito, perhaps? Would Breugal come face to face with my bloodied, swollen features, taking a smug satisfaction in capturing his prize so close to home? And then watch as I face a firing squad, or worse?
I know I shouldn’t scare myself with images, but with no news of Vito since his arrest I have only rumours of the brutality of the fascist police behind closed doors to think of. Try as I might, I can’t help push them to the back of my mind – the methods, the insidious crack of bones breaking, the cries for mercy …
‘Fräulein Jilani?’
‘Yes?’ I’m physically startled, and Cristian looks at me quizzically. The atmosphere between us is cool, certainly, but it’s months since we were on such formal terms, in German especially.
‘I’ve an urgent translation for you to type. Are you free?’ His eyes barely meet mine, black and cold rather than the soft brown I’ve known in the past.
‘Er, yes. Yes, of course,’ I say. I hope beyond anything it’s not the official warrant for my arrest. The vision of it might break me, or at least have me feigning illness, crumbling as I see it there in black and white. Fortunately, the work is a list of troop movements in and out of the city, and it’s something I can at least salvage from the day; I focus my memory for the good of the Resistance.
‘As quick as you can please,’ he says, his accent especially clipped, and moves away.
I’ve already settled on arranging a meeting with Sergio as I’m leaving the Platzkommandantur at the day’s end, my stomach still roiling with a thousand filthy bluebottles taking flight. Heading towards the Accademia Bridge, a woman strides towards me, working hard at catching my eye.
‘Gisella!’ she cries, moving in for a cheek-to-cheek greeting. I’ve never met her before but I know it’s safe to reciprocate as she uses my partisan code name. ‘Haven’t seen you in so long. How are you?’ she babbles.
We exchange fake niceties and part with promises to meet up for a drink, but not before she’s slipped me the tiniest sliver of paper, palm to palm. And then she’s gone, absorbed into the post-work crowds.
I wait until I’m sitting at a café, drink served, before I pull out a book and nestle the note in its leaves. The message gives me a date and a time for a meeting in only an hour, and its tone suggests it could be Sergio. I’m relieved and wary in unison: it’s one thing for me to request a meeting for my own reassurance, but could this mean that Sergio has real concerns too?
In that hour, I wonder what I will say to him. Should I admit that I am frightened, and that I want to give up? For all my bravado, my intense loyalty to my city and country, I have to admit I am scared of the repercussions, of having information persistently beaten out of me. Having never been tested, I’m not sure how my resolve would hold up. Does everyone give in, when perhaps your sight, your life, or your family are threatened? I like to imagine that in the moment I would think of Popsa and his strength, that it would carry me through. But I’m not certain.
The safe house is in the San Polo district, behind the Campo Santa Margherita, and, as I suspected, it is Sergio who’s waiting. He tries to smile as I walk in, but I feel he’s harbouring concerns, if not something more.
‘How are you?’ he says, pulling me by the hand to sit beside him, in some fatherly fashion. I feel he’s not just asking out of duty – he really wants to know.
‘I – I’m … fine,’ I lie, pasting on my calmest expression. Just a glimpse of Sergio and the responsibility he carries upon his shoulders always makes me acutely aware of how little is on my own. His constant ear to the ground, his involvement in so much of the Resistance planning and the threat he works under fill me with admiration, instilling some peace within me, and I find I’m less afraid in his presence. I wonder, too, if he ever sleeps.
Those distinct eyebrows, though, they are knitting together as we sit face to face. He tells me he’s heard my mother is in the hospital, but that he can’t allay my parents’ fears, other than scant information from inside tells us Vito is alive. In what condition, though, he doesn’t know. He watches relief streak across my face and then anxiety set in again.
‘What I do know for certain is that your story caused quite a stir,’ he adds. ‘In all quarters, I hear.’
I tell him about Breugal’s outburst today, the threats he’s issued and the renewed search for me and my machine.
‘How do you feel about that?’ he says, searching my features again. He’s clearly offering me an escape, allowing me to bow out without losing face.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, this time with honesty. ‘I feel with the distance to Giudecca, any random searches will take some time. But yes, it makes me feel … uncomfortable to say the least.’ I don’t use the words ‘frightened’ or ‘terrified’ for fear they’ll become even more entrenched in me. And sitting here with Sergio does make me feel less vulnerable. But out there?
Silently, he watches the emotions roll around inside me. ‘There is, of course, the option of destroying the typewriter and carrying on with another,’ he says at last. ‘A machine that can’t be distinguished.’ The eyebrows ripple like a wave.
Sergio knew my grandfather, and knows of his reputation, but he can’t possibly realise what my own typewriter means to me – the love and history that’s etched into its paint gloss. And no, a simple possession would never be worth a life, bu
t the thought agitates my resident bluebottles.
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘it is one option. Or I could stop the stories again, like last time. Stop the threat, the searches.’
Now his features rise in surprise, perhaps at my willingness to capitulate. ‘I’m not sure it would halt the search,’ he says. ‘I think it’s got beyond that. The Nazis are furious now and their anger will mean the search goes on.’
Perhaps he sees the anxiety I’m trying my best to hide. ‘But it is making a difference,’ he adds. ‘Our membership has risen in recent weeks, certainly after your last emotive chapter.’
‘Really?’ Despite what I’ve always believed about the power of words, I’m surprised it’s mobilised people to act in numbers. Then I think: every good book I’ve ever read has moved me in some way. Perhaps Popsa was right. Perhaps it can change things?
Still, I need convincing. ‘Are you sure it’s down to what I write?’
‘Who knows?’ Sergio shrugs. ‘We’re simply aware there’s a shift. Maybe it’s news of the Allies, a sense that the tide is turning, a combination of all those things. But it’s certainly helping, Stella. I’m sure of that. We just need to keep you safe.’
How can I voice my fears after that? And do I need to? I’m filled again with a sense of duty towards the Resistance, come what may. I resolve to banish the images of Ca’ Littoria from my mind. I can’t stop myself thinking of Vito, but I can choose to think of him as strong and smiling – and always, always firm in his loyalty. Which means I must be too.
‘So, are we agreed – you get rid of the typewriter and I will arrange delivery of a replacement?’ Sergio presses.
My bluebottles take ugly flight again. ‘Yes. Yes, Sergio.’ I say the words, but I postpone any real thought of the act itself. For now, at least.
‘Ah, I have one more job for you,’ he says, getting up. ‘We need a passport and some papers picking up and taking over to Pellestrina.’
The location makes my ears prick up. I wonder how much he’s been informed, but he smiles knowingly. ‘My sources tell me it might be the job for you. Goodbye Stella. Be safe.’
He clasps both strong hands around my own, squeezes tightly, nods and smiles. And then he’s gone again.
The papers I am to pick up that very evening; the drop is to take place the next evening, on my way back from Giudecca. I’m in two minds as I make my way towards the Campo Santa Margherita, aware that the passport and papers I’m to collect may be for Jack. In fact, more than likely. He’ll be leaving Venice, my world and my war, and we may never see each other again. I’d already imagined my last trip to be our final meeting, but, in the mire of everything else, the thought that he’s still there, across the lagoon, has quelled the uncertainty in me at times. Over recent weeks, I’ve told myself I could hop on a boat and he would be there, to offer solace and his own brand of humour. Lord knows there have been times when I’ve needed it, but the demands on me have made it impossible. Now, I’m torn between the opportunity of seeing him and saying a very final farewell. And I’m still not sure how I feel about it.
The sun is lingering in one corner of the large, rectangular square, unwilling to cast itself into a permanent gloom without a last lick of orange on the jagged flow of rooftops. The doorway I’m heading for is in shadow though, and I’m glad, as there are more than a few fascist guards hanging about, preoccupied in their flirting with young Venetian women. I give them a wide berth and walk with jaunty step, trying not to affect a guilty scurry.
It’s a small, two-storey building with an ornate frontage like a palazzo. I recognise it from my childhood as the bookmaker’s house; whenever we visited this campo there was always a man in the window, bending over his desk, his profile lit by a small light, like something out of a Grimms’ fairy tale. Now there’s no light on show, and I have to rap on the door in the safe rhythm the occupants will recognise. After exchanging the safe words, a young woman leads me to the back room, where the same man – I recognise his posture – is bent over a desk, scratching into a host of documents, from passports to work identity cards. He looks up from the bright lights surrounding his desk into the gloom and squints; if he weren’t nearing sixty, he would look exactly like Arlo. He says little, only asking me for a further passcode I’ve memorised, and hands me an envelope. I’m itching to look at its contents, but clearly it’s not for my eyes, and his nose goes back to his ornate script.
‘Don’t mind my father,’ the woman says as she shows me out. ‘He’s under a lot of pressure lately – there’s a big demand for his work. He’s known for emulating any script or signature, even Mussolini’s once, it’s said, although he denies it.’
The sun has completely disappeared by the time I’m back out into the square, causing the mood to become edgier, with the patrols loitering under the blue lamplight. I head out and towards home, with a heart sunken in my chest but the automatic light step of an innocent woman about town, wondering what type of pass I hold in my bag, and where it may lead my future.
31
Playing Detective
Venice, December 2017
Luisa meets Giulio off the vaporetto at the far end of San Marco just after four p.m. He doesn’t need any great powers to sense her eagerness, and they walk past the Arsenale and towards the Via Garibaldi, the strong winter sun tracking them up the wide avenue. Giulio has an address, and Luisa her detailed map, but his hasty walking pace makes her appear less like a sightseer. The street is populated by tourist cafés, with photographs of drinks and generic spaghetti bolognese outside, as if anyone these days might not recognise such worldwide language. The further they walk, though, the tourist attractions thin out and it becomes a place where Venetian women and children talk and congregate around the entrance to the park, perhaps after school finishes. The vegetable barge stationed on the canal near the Ana Ponte is packing up for the day, brushing up oddments of the purple, octopus-stem Treviso lettuce scattered on the ground.
‘I think it’s in here.’ Giulio signals to a small side street and they both stop to consult the map. The street feeds into Corte del Bianco, a tiny square of houses with nothing but a small well in its centre, one lone cat sitting sentry-like on its concrete cap. Giulio almost holds his breath as he knocks at the door of a small, two-storey house, and Luisa thinks his sense of anticipation might equal hers.
‘Just, please, don’t be too disappointed if we don’t—’ he says.
‘I know,’ she cuts in, as the door opens.
Signora Pessari is the same generation as Luisa’s mother would be, perhaps a few years older, in her mid-sixties. She’s thick-set with dark, almost ebony, eyes and jet black hair lightly peppered with grey. Underneath the weight of middle age, however, Luisa can still see the beauty that she must once have been, one of those fashionable women in pixie-style dresses and voluminous hair photographed smoking in cafés in the late sixties, a swinging life epitomising the style of both Italy and yesteryear.
The woman ushers them into a small parlour and evicts a cat from one of the seats.
‘Coffee?’ she says in Italian, after the introductions. Giulio nods yes, without even thinking about it.
Signora Pessari – Rina – apologises for her lack of English and it’s evident Luisa will need to play ping-pong with the language. She picks up a few words here and there, thankful of how much the Italians give away in their effusive body language, but is largely forced to rely on Giulio’s translations, which he makes with patience.
He pulls out his archive photographs, and Luisa follows suit with her own clutch. Rina dons her glasses, but she does not leave them in suspense. Her smile is enough to say the trip is not wasted.
‘Do you recognise this one?’ Giulio points to Mimi Brusato.
‘Yes! Yes, that’s Aunt Mimi,’ she says. ‘My mother’s younger sister. I’m sure of it.’ This, however, confirms what they already know. It’s the next question which has Luisa’s heart pulled tight.
‘And this woman?’ Giulio says, p
ointing at Stella. Rina peers closer, and her forehead ripples with thought and, finally, some recognition.
‘Yes, I think, let me see, her name was …’
Luisa is almost on the edge of her seat, her grandmother’s name ready to spill from her lips, but she can also feel Giulio holding her back with his will. The identity will be all the more valuable if there’s no prompting behind it.
‘I’m sure that’s Aunt Mimi’s best friend … What was her name? Oh, her family lived just a few streets away.’
Luisa feels as if she’s a child about to burst.
‘Stella! That’s it. Stella Jilani,’ Rina says at last. She sits back, pleased to have teased it from her memory.
Luisa’s breath is released, with a whinny of relief she hears deep inside herself. ‘That’s my grandmother!’ she can’t help letting go, and Rina needs only a little translation to appreciate Luisa’s joy.
‘I didn’t know she had any children,’ Rina adds. ‘I wasn’t sure if she even survived the war. My own mama said Stella and Mimi were inseparable when they were younger – we have some pictures of them together as children. They went to the Liceo together, always getting up to something. I heard Stella became a reporter after school, but we were living outside of Venice by then.’
Rina’s mother and her husband, it transpires, moved to Turin as war broke out, also under Nazi occupation after 1943. Travel between the cities was almost impossible, and letters scarce. They had their own war to fight – like her sister Mimi, Rina’s mother became a Staffetta, in the same circle as the celebrated partisan Ada Gobetti.
‘Mama told me after that we would hear a few snippets about the fight in Venice,’ she says. ‘Sometimes copies of the partisan newspaper would make it out as far as us. She always wondered if Stella was behind the words. After the war, we found out it was her – she worked for the Resistance. But then nothing. She disappeared, but so many did after the war. It was chaos for a while.’
The Secret Messenger Page 22