Under the gun-grey sky I’m finally transported across the lagoon, alongside an old man who insists on sharing his entire day with me. With difficulty, I try to converse like a fellow Venetian just about her business, but the oars can’t go fast enough and each wave that strikes our bow seems bent on delaying me another second.
Matteo is surprised to see me so early in the day but, with the progress of the war of late, he’s used to new material needing to be processed quickly, and us keeping odd times. It’s only once I’ve descended the small flight of stairs and switched on the dim bulb that I take stock. My hand goes towards the typewriter’s cover and I’m shaking – and not from the cold wind over the water. I force myself to draw in some deep breaths, recall what our training as partisans tells us to do in times when … well, when we feel we’re falling apart – scared and baseless. I’m all of those.
Pull yourself together Stella! is all I can think to say, but at least the banality of it makes me laugh inside, and I gather strength from somewhere to move. She’s still there, my constant, metal voice, smeared with age and in need of a new ribbon, but I figure this is her last task for some time, if at all. The ribbon can wait.
‘Hey girl,’ I say. ‘One for the road, shall we?’ and I laugh again that I’m talking to a machine. As I’m rolling the paper in, Matteo brings me coffee and a message from Sergio received via the café’s radio. It’s short and pert but I absorb its meaning.
‘One more to sign off,’ it says, ‘then stay away.’
I know I have just this last instalment to bring everything into focus for Gaia and Raffiano. There’s no conclusion to this war yet, but I can at least send them on their way with hope, the faith we all harbour that our struggle won’t be in vain. I notice the room becoming dimmer as the sun bows to cloud, but for two hours the world outside the tiny basement ceases to exist. I’m there in the page, living the emotion as Raffiano escapes from his confinement, is tearfully reunited with Gaia and they make their way into hiding together – being apart is not an option, and leaving Venice and their families is not either. They will bring up their child – conceived under the cosh, but entirely through love – in Venice. In their city that is home to Venetians and Jews and all manner of mixtures in between. I can only hope that what I write becomes truth for Mimi and Vito.
I feel wrung dry as I pull out the sheets, and leave them for Arlo’s hand to distribute. The wayward little e pulses at me again, like the beacon it is to the Nazis. Of course I’m scared of being caught and the consequences, but I can’t ignore that nugget of pride lodged within me, of being part of something to shift the hatred in this war. Even a little.
Now, though, the shift has to be more substantial – my beloved typewriter needs removal so as not to cast guilt on others. I borrow a shopping basket from Elena for the purpose, and I’m relieved once again that the machine is relatively small, even when in its casing. It fits neatly into the basket and, if I hook it into the crook of my arm, I can bear the weight without looking as if I’m straining over anything more than groceries. I buy whatever bread and rolls I can to cover the typewriter, and under the cloth it makes the hamper appear full. Then I take a deep breath and head out. The owner of a small supply boat takes pity on my shivering form as I stand on the shadowy waterfront, and he deposits me on the main island with a cheery ‘Have a good evening.’ Somehow I doubt I will.
The walk from the Zattere towards home is easier than I envisaged, and I’m subjected to only one cursory search, where the patrolman peers under the covering as far as the seeded bread rolls. Fortunately, the troops are well fed and don’t often feel the need to confiscate food, especially something so basic as bread. I reach my own apartment, and there’s a tweak of the curtains from my neighbour, Signora Menzio, who’s not used to seeing me return this early in the day. She gives a subtle nod through the windowpane to signal all is clear.
I feel safe inside my own space, but remind myself it’s only bricks and mortar, which can easily be breached by a search party and their heavy trespass of boots. I will need another hiding place, but for now – for tonight at least – my beloved typewriter will have to reside with me. I scrabble in a cupboard that doubles as a wardrobe, pulling out shoes and odd boxes, and use a kitchen knife to prise up one of the looser floorboards. I need to manoeuvre the case carefully inside, wary of not chafing the boards still in place, a giveaway for any well-seasoned search party.
‘Sleep well, little lady,’ I say as I place the loose board back and pile on the shoes in the same ramshackle fashion as before.
Immediately, I feel bereft, although perhaps less exposed, too. It feels odd that I may not be writing anything for some time, with the exception of those damning reports for Breugal; if Sergio’s message is to be believed, I am to stay well away from the newspaper office. They will find a replacement – I’m not so naïve as to believe I’m indispensable – but I feel it is the end of a small era, for me at least.
I’m restless, roaming the small apartment and trying to scratch together a decent meal from my meagre larder. I pull out a book, and then realise it’s the copy of Pride and Prejudice given to me by Cristian. Even that life seems so far away, his goodwill as a colleague morphed into bitterness.
I feel trapped, but only by my own languor and depression. So far in this war I have had moments – days even – of anger and sadness, but never time enough for my whole being to feel deflated. As if the person inside is under bombardment, like the docks and ships in the lagoon. Jack is gone, there’s not even Mimi here to boost my mood and, selfishly, I can’t face the walk to my parents. I know Papa will guess at my melancholy, and what can I say to lift Mama, to make her feel better? For the first time in months, I have only myself to help boost my own inner spirits. And I find myself as barren as my own larder.
34
The Search for Coffee
Venice, December 2017
The next morning, they meet early and begin scouting at the north end of the lengthy Fondamenta Nuove waterfront. Even Giulio is surprised at how many café-bars are concentrated in such a small area, as they weave four or five streets deep so as not to miss any potential targets. Giulio is armed with his printed identification of Stella and Mimi, although the age of the clientele means no one is likely to recognise them. Sadly, the name of Paolo draws scores of blanks; the café ownership has either changed hands many times since the war, or they simply don’t have any Paolos in their midst. Luisa can only stand by, reading the negative response of each café worker as they shake their heads.
The search looks fruitless, and with aching feet both are on the point of calling it a day when they decide to stop to drink a coffee in a bar near to Venice’s main hospital.
As he’s ordering at the bar, Giulio goes through the motions of his request.
‘Not here,’ the woman behind the counter says, and Giulio’s shoulders sag in defeat. ‘But I think there’s a family bar nearby – I’m sure the owner’s father is called Paolo. You might try there.’
Boosted by caffeine and a sliver of hope, they head to the Campo De Giustina De Barbaria, a square smaller than its lengthy name. The Rizzini café is nestled in one corner of the square, its outside tables empty, but the lights inside signal it’s still open. Giulio casts a look at Luisa which seems to say: here we go, one last try. There’s a woman behind the bar, and on hearing the name Paolo, she immediately calls to a room behind.
‘Hey, Pietro, I think there’s someone here for you.’
A young man appears in the doorway from behind a curtain. He’s Luisa’s age, perhaps younger, and both she and Giulio are resigned once again to chasing a rainbow with no pot of gold at the end. Even so, Giulio begins with his questions. This time, there’s a lot of nodding – the man utters the name Paolo, and Luisa picks out the word ‘Papa’.
Giulio’s face lightens as they talk on, his shoulders pick up, but the conversation is too fast for her to follow. Finally, the man goes behind the curtain again and Giulio
turns to Luisa.
‘It might be something,’ he says. ‘His family have owned the bar from before the war – his father is called Paolo, but he’s only your mother’s age, or thereabouts. Still, he says we can talk to him.’
Pietro emerges, pulling a jumper over his head, and leads them from the bar, into the square and several doors down to the entrance of an apartment. He pulls out a key and lets himself in, saying ‘Come, come’, in English. Up two flights he opens the door to an apartment, singing ‘Ciao Papa’ as he enters, and they follow him into a small living room, where Paolo Rizzini sits in an armchair facing a television. Pietro explains quickly what they are looking for, and the older man’s brows come together, clearly searching his memory.
Giulio translates the exchange. ‘Signor Rizzini was born in 1951, so clearly can’t tell us much about the war, but he does remember his father talking about it, and that there was an album of photographs he once had. He remembers seeing pictures of the partisans in San Marco after the liberation.’
‘So do they know where the photographs are?’ Luisa can hardly contain her excitement. Giulio homes in on the conversation again. Pietro turns and gestures at Giulio, who then swivels towards Luisa. His smile is as wide and bright as she’s seen so far.
‘Pietro says we can ask grandfather Paolo ourselves – he’s alive and well. Ninety-six years old but apparently his memory is quite good.’ He stops, takes a breath. ‘Luisa, we might just have found our link.’
They emerge from the apartment into the bright winter sun splitting the campo in two. It’s fitting, Luisa thinks, that they step into the white light and squint against its glare.
‘So …’ Giulio begins, but then can’t help his own excitement breaking through with a broad grin. Luisa feels all of six years old, pushing down the butterflies as she waits for the hours until Christmas morning to peel away.
It’s then that she truly cannot help herself – she throws her arms around a slightly stunned Giulio, who nonetheless returns her firm embrace. Inside, there’s a deep-seated feeling – a real belief – that maybe this time she will truly find Stella Jilani.
35
Red-Handed
Venice, October 1944
Despite the weight of guilt under my floorboards, I fall asleep early and unexpectedly deeply, waking to a bright autumnal morning. My dreams – filled with scenes of my own arrest, and another where Breugal scoffs his way through a farcical, mock trial before handing down my sentence – were not exactly restful, but physically I do feel energised.
I step out early, towards Paolo’s, only to find the café is not yet open. There’s enough time for me to walk the length of the waterfront – the sparkle of the water is almost blinding, but its rays lift my spirits. I skirt around San Marco and into the streets heading for the Accademia Bridge, to another café I favour for breakfast, where I know they will hold back eggs for their regular customers. There’s a weight on my shoulders still, but now that the typewriter is stowed where it can incriminate only me directly, I feel I’m bearing a lighter load.
The eggs sustain me even more, a rare treat these days, with fake coffee to rival Paolo’s, and I’m even scrolling through the first few pages of Il Gazzettino – it’s never bad to keep tabs on enemy propaganda. Sitting there, I’m feeling positive that we – me, the paper and Resistance, even my family – can ride through the various storms in our midst.
Until I see them. I only glance up from my paper, but the recognition is immediate. One, emerging from a small alleyway, is in a drab, brown double-breasted suit, and out of uniform he looks remarkably different. But he’s not so changed that I don’t recognise the sharp lines and thin neck of Captain Klaus. His companion is equally tall and lean, but much younger. Whereas Klaus emerges and strides forward, Tommaso’s lanky form reminds me of a nervous mouse peeking from his hole. It’s in his eyes and his posture, almost bending to hide his face. But there’s no doubting it’s him. The shock stops me mid-breath and winds me physically, and although they seem distracted from everything around them, I pull up the broad newspaper sheets higher to cover my face. Peering over the top, I see them exchange a few words, although Tommaso’s demeanour suggests that inside he’s clearly screaming to get away. He’s dispensed with, Klaus giving him a paternal pat on the back in parting, and he walks with his shoulders stooped towards the Rialto. I can’t see Tommaso’s face, but I imagine there is no joy in his features.
The pieces slot together in my mind, and I’m horrified. Tommaso understands all too well the predicament his father is in. Being in Ca’ Littoria, there’s little prospect of release if they find out his position of rank in the Resistance. I recall Cristian’s poster and the promise of liberty in exchange for information. But Tommaso? Who I’ve worked alongside for months now – laughed and joked with? And then I think of Vito, or my parents, and wonder what I might do for their freedom, if it came to it. With Vito, I know he would rather die than my exchange information for his release. He’s young and fit. But what if it was my own papa? How would I feel then? I hope I wouldn’t sink so low as betrayal, but I don’t know for certain. Do any of us? In this case, blood may be a good deal thicker than water. I know in my heart Tommaso is a loyal partisan – I’ve heard it in his voice many times. He wouldn’t do it willingly, but he must be dying inside for his father’s safety.
The fact is, it’s done. He wasn’t meeting Klaus for coffee and chit-chat. And I have to assume the worst in order to safeguard myself and those around me. In the next second, I’m on my feet and heading not for San Marco and the Reich office, but to the Zattere at as fast a pace as I dare. There’s no time for me to locate a safe house with a receiver and message Matteo on Giudecca – I need to warn him directly. The vaporetto is, mercifully, in operation, but it’s still a good thirty-minute wait before I’m on the water and chugging towards Lord knows what. How soon can Klaus mobilise troops to search the café and then inevitably discover the basement office? I’m still calculating as I launch myself off the boat, onto the pontoon and towards Matteo’s.
I’m too late. I pull back on my own reins as I round the corner into the campo, hearing Elena before I see her, sobbing uncontrollably into her hands as Matteo is held back forcibly by two fascist guards.
‘He’s innocent!’ she screams into the echoing campo.
There are papers strewn across the slabs, the wind sending some into the air, and another guard is ordering the others to contain them.
‘We need them as evidence!’ he shouts. ‘Catch them.’
From behind the wall, I watch as two guards haul the mimeograph machine out of the doorway and onto the pavement, its metal scraping and crashing onto the concrete. To my surprise, there are only fascist guards, with no Nazi counterparts overseeing the raid. And no Captain Klaus.
‘So what’s this, eh?’ the senior guard roars at Matteo, his face barely inches from the café owner. ‘Bit of storytelling for your customers, is it?’ And he laughs heartily at his own sarcasm, while the soldiers follow his lead.
Matteo is tight-lipped. There is nothing he can say. He knows what the immediate future holds for him, and Elena – in her distress – knows too. His normally ruddy face is white with fear, hers streaming with sorrow. His best prayer is that he will emerge alive.
I feel sick. Breakfast and bile retches into my throat and I need to turn into a doorway before I can push back my own fears. Sucking in the chill morning air isn’t enough to keep my stomach contents in place, and once I’ve recovered a little I try to think what I should do next. We’ve been careful in the office not to leave any trail leading to our identity. But if Tommaso has revealed the office’s whereabouts, who knows what – who – else he has given up? Klaus wouldn’t settle for anything less than names. I know I should head back to my own apartment and dig out the typewriter from its hole. This time it must truly be cast into the deep waters of the Fondamenta Nuove – there is no place for sentimentality now. But equally, I reason I may have a little time to
give warning to the others.
I run back to the waterfront and use my last lira to pay for the only water taxi back to the Zattere. I’m breathless and sweating as I hurry towards the nearest safe house I know of, in the hopes of getting a message to Arlo and some of the others who help us from time to time.
My message dispatched as urgent, I almost run the most direct route through Campo Santo Stefano and San Salvador. I’m thankful there are so many churches in Venice, that I might duck into if a patrol gets too near for comfort, but equally I need to reach home as soon as I can. I’m banking on Cristian believing that my absence from the office is down to my mother’s sickness, but it won’t last long, I know. My calves are aching as I weave my way around the smaller streets, steering clear of the larger avenues where troops congregate.
Finally, I’m two streets away from my own little campo. I stop and try to tune into any changes, but the morning bustle of Venice overrides anything I can sense, the throttle of boats out beyond the Fondamenta invading the sound space I need to isolate. Everything seems normal.
Even so, I walk the streets tentatively, the last two steps towards the opposite end of the campo almost on tiptoe. I peer out into the space, beyond the small chapel, and I’m grateful for its presence in hiding me.
It’s Signora Menzio I see first, not as I usually do through her window, but out in the campo, putting up a good show of an old lady dragged from her home, berating the SS trooper with little fear and a wagging finger. He seems almost pushed back by her vitriol as she lets rip with Italian obscenities, little of which he’s likely to understand, although the supporting fascist guards wince at her colourful slurs.
But I soon see that that’s only one half of the story. Moving around the other side of the chapel confirms Signora Menzio is not their target. I recognise some of my belongings on the paving slabs, tossed from the open second-floor window – clothes, some of my precious books, and, more alarmingly, a collection of my shoes. The thought strikes like a hammer blow to an anvil – they have found the cupboard and are doubtless pulling up the boards as I watch. I will be caught. Any minute, an SS officer will emerge – perhaps Klaus – with my beloved typewriter in his arms, and a look of sinister triumph.
The Secret Messenger Page 24