Читать книгу The Secret Messenger - Mandy Robotham - Страница 12

The early months of the year crawl by, with Venice holed up in its own weather enclave, wet and miserable. Due to the transport, the flow of Resistance reports from outside Venice slows to a trickle and it’s harder to fill the newspaper with positive news. Arlo and I flesh out the gaps with Tommaso’s illustrations, housewife recipes designed to eke out the week’s rations, and tips on the best places to shop. As I type, it hardly feels like fighting talk, and I have to remind myself that the paper is as much about helping ordinary people as waging a military campaign. Occupation is a fight against the enemy every day, and even the foe you might tentatively smile at across the market stall could make the difference between liberty or capture. While we all live alongside our Nazi occupiers and under the shadow of their politics, people still have to eat – small trade crafts come and go across the water, gondoliers who once conveyed tourists now scrape a living as supply carriers, avoiding the wash of ominous German gunboats, their weapons cocked and ready. Venetian life, though, functions in spite of our unwelcome visitors and the drone of aircraft passing like small swarms of bees overhead. Like people throughout Italy and Europe, we carry on.

There’s a welcome gap in the clouds in mid-February. At Nazi command, I take the cover off my works typewriter early one morning and see a tiny folded square of paper under one footing. I scout around the office – only Marta is humming to herself as she lays out some of the day’s work. I’d never had her down as a Staffetta, but equally I’m not supposed to be one either, so her innocent enough looks could be her best ally. Looking around me, I slide out the note and pocket it quickly. Cristian strides into the office, looking strangely upbeat and sporting something like a smile.

‘Good morning, all,’ he says, in Italian this time, since it’s only Marta and myself, and then, ‘Good morning Signorina. Are you well?’

I stammer something positive and quickly make my excuses to go to the toilet. The note has all the hallmarks of Resistance, using language and a code known only to my local battalion. It says to meet a contact in the corner of Campo San Polo and await further instructions. I deposit the piece of paper in my heel and head back to the office, barely suppressing my happiness. The tone of the note doesn’t sound like a routine message drop; perhaps there’s something I’m needed for, a task that will make me feel of even more value to the cause.

Cristian looks up as I return to the office, with a smile to accompany.

‘Ah Signorina Jilani, you’re back—’

‘Sorry. I’m needing to visit the—’

‘Yes, yes, no mind at all,’ he says, moving towards my desk, a large book in his hand. ‘I simply wanted to give you this.’ And he lays the volume down. It’s a thick, dictionary-like tome of technical translations. ‘I thought it might make life easier,’ he says. ‘For all those tricky words you – we – ponder over.’ Despite tiny flecks of grey in his beard, he looks like a boy who’s just given his teacher the shiniest, plumpest apple. There’s a proud half-smile under the bristles of his neatly clipped beard.

For a few seconds, I’m stumped for a reaction – part of me thinks I’ve already been found out, and it’s his warped sense of humour presenting me with a fait accompli. Any minute now a line of fascist police will come thundering through the door to escort me to a dungeon somewhere and an unthinkable future. But the expression on Cristian’s face says he’s genuinely pleased at the giving. And there is no rumble of footsteps up the marble staircase. I really wish in that moment that he didn’t sport a death’s head badge, so I could like him more.

‘Well, thank you,’ I manage. ‘It will undoubtedly be very useful.’ Part of me wants to laugh at the ridiculous nature of it – the fact that a fascist overseer is helping a member of the Resistance better translate valuable documents. And yet, I don’t want to laugh at him. I hate to admit it, but it’s a very human act of consideration.

‘Thank you, Signor De Luca,’ I say again. ‘I do appreciate it.’

He looks about the office, making sure that Marta is out of earshot. ‘Cristian, please.’ He turns and sits back at his desk.

The clock hands crank slowly towards 5.30, and I am packing up as the hand strikes half past, a jangle of emotions inside but careful to appear outwardly relaxed, as if it’s just another end of a normal day. Cristian is still hard at work on his document and looks up only briefly to say goodbye. I have to walk fast to weave my way through the network of streets towards Campo San Polo, taking time to double back, stopping to window-shop as a way of ensuring that no one is following. No matter the hurry, it’s been drummed into us that checking is vital. It saves lives – ours and many others possibly. I feel sure the way is clear as I enter the vast campo, and head towards the church entrance – it’s a good place to loiter at this time of day, as I could easily be one of the worshippers making their way in for evening service, the resounding clanging of the bells calling them to prayer. Ever since I was a small girl, the deep chime of church bells across the city has felt like a security blanket; present each and every day, enduring through war and famine. I feel sure that if they carry on, so can we.

Several older women pass by, bundled in their winter coats, rosaries in hand, looking at me quizzically. They are followed by a few men, some with the hint of a leer. I ignore each, stamping my feet against the cold, and they move on. Ten minutes go by and I’m wondering if my contact will arrive at all – the meet will be cancelled if any fascist patrols are nearby. Any longer and I will start to look suspicious, meaning I’ll have to simply walk away, affecting the irritated look of a woman being stood up by her date, swallowing the pitying looks of those around me. That’s the role of a Staffetta.

In the next minute he comes from behind me, swings around in front and makes to kiss me on both cheeks. In the split second before, I see the subtlest of nods and a raise of eyebrows that signal: it’s fine, play along.

‘Gisella! So sorry to be late. Can you forgive me?’ he cries, at just the right pitch to be heard, but short of a bad actor overprojecting on stage. As he moves to kiss my cheek, he whispers: ‘Lino.’ Gisella and Lino, young lovers. He’s used my Resistance code name so I’m happy to slip into the lie.

‘I forgive you, Lino – just this once,’ and I tease out a smile.

‘Shall we go?’ He proffers a hand and I take it, skipping alongside him like a woman excited to be with her lover.

He leads me through several streets towards the Croce district and we work hard at playing the convincing couple as we pass by others in the street. ‘How was your day?’ he questions. ‘What did you have for lunch?’

Eventually, we reach a darkened alleyway, pass under a low, stone sotto archway, opening out into a courtyard of houses. It’s empty aside from a traditional stone well to one side, and ‘Lino’ leads me to a darkened door. He raps three times on the door, pauses and knocks three more times. The door opens and we climb a set of granite stairs, not dirty but dank, as though someone has brought in canal water to wash them. My heart is pumping, although my breathing is under control for now. In these situations, I always question: Does this feel right? In a strange place, where no one knows where I am. It has to be.

Once we go through a door on the second floor I relax. There’s a welcome orange glow of light in several rooms of the apartment, and an older woman emerges from the kitchen, a vegetable knife in hand, but sporting a big smile.

‘Ciao Mama,’ Lino says, ‘this is a friend.’ He leads me to the living room as she retreats to the kitchen.

‘Please sit,’ he says.

It’s now his demeanour changes. Not brusque or unfriendly, just more businesslike. Now we can drop the facade. I don’t ask his real name, since it’s best not to know, and I’m not likely to see him again.

‘The brigade commander has asked if you can be part of one more task,’ he says, his brown eyes wide and intent. My own eyes flick up with surprise and pleasure – there’s not much I won’t do for Sergio Lombardi, a loyal Venetian and a good friend of my grandfather’s since the fascists took control of Italy back in the 1920s.

Months before, when the Allies stormed Southern Italy and it was effectively sliced in two – the Nazis to the north and Allies occupying below Rome – Italians were forced to make a choice between fascism and the fight. Mussolini took up comfortable residence in Salò with his puppet government, its strings pulled by Berlin, and the Italian army was effectively dismissed, but thousands of ordinary Italians raised arms of protest and guns in a different vein. There was a buzzing in the campos and cafés as Resistance fighters emerged from the woodwork, small bands of partisans willing to give their lives for Italy’s freedom. Those who couldn’t actively fight pledged their support in any way they could; patriot shopkeepers stored covert messages, and elderly couples gave up their homes as safe houses for pursued partisans, risking life and liberty. In its underbelly, Venice was fizzing with sedition.

I still remember that intense feeling when Armando Gavagnin activated the partisan cause in Piazza San Marco, raising his fist and standing tall on a table outside Florian’s, the oldest of Venetian cafés and a hot spot for age-old rebellion. My throat was dry as I listened to his calling on Venetians to fight, so fired up that I was ready to give up my job, ditch my skirt suits and don trousers and neckerchief, rifle in my arms. For Venice and Italy. For Popsa to be proud.

It was Sergio, the new leader of the Venetian brigade, who persuaded me otherwise back then, toning down my revolutionary fervour and persuading me I’d be more use on the inside, waging war with information. ‘You can be the mouse to outwit the large, predatory cat,’ he had phrased it, with his bushy eyebrows dancing a lifetime of mischief. ‘Bide your time,’ he advised me. ‘Without the likes of you we are an army fighting blind. We need your eyes and ears in the works department.’

His weathered, open face made me think of my grandfather in his younger days – so sure that we would triumph. Even then, Sergio made me feel like a soldier, albeit with heels and a handbag. Yet that romantic image of fighting for the cause has never left me. I want – I need – to make a difference. Perhaps now I can.

‘Lino’ speaks again, bringing me back to the moment. ‘Sergio also insists that you can say no if you want – we’re all aware how much you are doing right now.’

‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I can manage. What is it?’

‘You’ll be contacted on your next trip to the newspaper office on Giudecca in two days. There’s a job we need doing there, and, as you’re already back and forward frequently, it will raise less suspicion if it’s you.’

I leave soon after, despite the kitchen mama generously offering to share their evening meal. I’m hungry, but this is business, and ‘Lino’ deserves his privacy.

I walk home thinking how exhausted I am day to day. This new task is one more thing to draw on my senses, forcing me to be on constant alert. Yet I’m also excited as I walk the long stretch towards home at a pace. I know my contribution can never compare to some of the suffering or sacrifice in this war, and I want to do what I can, when I can.

The two days before my next visit to the newspaper cellar drag by. At times, my day job and the German translations appear turgid and unimportant, although I still have to feed the details via my regular contacts so the Resistance are able to further sift through the information. Cristian De Luca is largely absent and General Breugal is in a foul mood, barking orders and stomping about the office in frustration, upending trays of typewritten notes in a childlike temper.

I feel a sense of relief as I hit the cold, fresh air and cross the wide canal towards Giudecca, enjoying the roll of the boat and the slapping of the water against its sides. It’s tempered when a small German patrol boat cuts across us, sailors shouting over the engine’s throaty roar, making my insides swell along with the water. But what words I catch are nothing sinister, general chit-chat only, and I breathe again.

When I arrive, Matteo is at his usual place behind the bar, a few customers in front of him, but as I move to take off my coat he passes me a tied linen package.

‘My wife asks if you can take this to one of the nuns at Santa Eufemia,’ he says. ‘She’s laid up with a bad back.’ His tone is relaxed, as if it’s the most natural of favours to ask.

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘I won’t be long.’ Since Matteo has never before used me as a general messenger, I guess it’s something to do with my new Resistance task.

The wind whips up a spray as I walk along the waterfront towards the church and I pull the frayed wool of my coat closer. Santa Eufemia is an ancient building with a long history but, compared to some of the more notable churches in Venice, it’s rundown and slightly scruffy. The vast, vaulted space is empty of bodies as I enter through the scratched doorway, but warm compared to outside. I make the sign of the cross, take a seat in a front pew, and wait. When there are no other instructions, you simply wait. There’s lots of meandering and staring into space when you’re a Staffetta.

I consider taking this opportunity to pray – it would please Mama certainly. But I have never been especially religious and the war, with its stories of families being torn apart, severe beatings for no apparent reason than thought crime against fascism, has taken what faith I had left. I wonder if it will ever come back to me.

I barely hear the soft footsteps of someone approaching, only sensing the gentle waft of her habit as a nun approaches. She comes and sits next to me.

‘Evening Sister,’ I say. ‘I have something for you.’ I offer up the parcel, and she smiles and rises.

‘Come,’ she says.

We move behind the altar, through the vestry and beyond into a corridor, the air colder as we step into an open walkway behind the church. On the opposite side of the small garden is an old brick building that looks like a storeroom, with just two blacked-out windows above head height. The nun gets out an old key from under her habit, so big it looks almost theatrical. She unlocks the door, glances left and right, and ushers me in. There’s a glow from a candle in one corner, and from the gloom nearby I hear a single cough. A shifting movement seems to disturb the combination of soap and disinfectant, plus the musty, aged smell all such buildings have.

‘Sister Cara – is that you?’ a voice croaks.

‘I’ve brought you a visitor,’ the nun says, and there’s some more shuffling, although no one approaches.

‘You’ll have to go to him,’ she says to me. ‘He can’t get up.’

She brings another candle and sets it down on an upturned wooden box acting as a table. The cast of light outlines a man, his well-worn, dark clothes peeking out from under a rough woollen blanket. His face is grimy, and in his hairline are crusts of dried blood he hasn’t managed to wash away. Out of the bottom of the blanket sticks a limb, braced with wooden struts and heavily bandaged, a loose old sock unceremoniously stuck over his toes.

‘Welcome to my humble abode,’ the man says in Italian, and there’s a grimace as he tries to haul himself into a sitting position on the old metal bed.

‘No, no don’t move!’ I say in alarm. I pull up a wooden box that looks hardy enough and sit on it. He extends a hand from his half-sitting, half-lying position. Less grimy but not clean.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ he says, breathing heavily with the effort. ‘It’s nice to have a visitor. Thank you for coming.’

His Italian is faultless but his accent is strange – foreign perhaps? There’s a small pause during which we simply size each other up. He is handsome under the fresh scratches around his high cheekbones and forehead, dark and with full lips. He looks Italian, but that accent …

A boat horn honks outside and breaks the spell.

‘So, I’ve been told you need some help,’ I say.

He laughs good-naturedly, despite his obvious discomfort. ‘Yes, clearly wasn’t as good a parachutist as I thought.’ And he looks down at his prostrate leg. ‘Well and truly broken.’

He was part of an Allied parachute mission, he explains, designed to drop in radio sets for dispersal across the north of the country, allowing the partisans vital links with the outside world. There are unknown numbers of Allied soldiers still stranded after the Nazi invasion without any contact, as the Germans cleverly suspended all Italian radio communications when they occupied the country in September ’43. Since then, we in Venice have relied heavily on Radio Londra, the BBC’s daily broadcast to Italians, to bring us coded messages about partisan and enemy movements. But Radio Londra is reliant on a good radio signal and we know the fascists have spent millions of lira on jamming equipment to prevent such dispatches reaching us. Even a small network of radios would improve communications between the Allies and the Italian Resistance, but they are of little use lying dormant in this church.

‘Thankfully my radio equipment fared better than me and it’s intact,’ he adds. ‘Would you be willing to transport it across to the main island?’

I think of how big the equipment might be, how I will hide it and look in no way suspicious. A larger bag would almost certainly be searched by a fascist patrol. Even in the gloom, this man sees the working of my mind.

‘Don’t worry, it comes apart in multiple pieces,’ he says. I see the white of his teeth in his smile. It’s nice. He looks friendly, genuine.

‘How small?’ I wonder.

‘I can make each package small enough for your handbag, at worst a small shopping bag. But it will mean several trips.’

‘I’m here on Giudecca twice a week, but I can easily manage another trip,’ I say, not daring to think how I will fit it into my life.

‘Well, I’m not going anywhere, not for a while,’ he quips, and taps the brace on his useless leg. I feel sorry for him, trapped in this dank hole. He’s undoubtedly well looked after by the sisters, but he must be bored stiff.

‘Is there anything I can bring you? Books, or a newspaper?’ I offer.

His face lights up. ‘A book would be wonderful, even a cheap thriller would lift my head out of here for a while.’

I get up to go, and hold out my hand to shake his. ‘I can be back in two days. Is that enough time to get the first parcel ready?’

‘Plenty,’ he replies. ‘I look forward to it …’ and he’s clearly hanging out for my name.

I look at him intently – the expression that says no names are safer.

‘Please,’ he says. ‘Listen, I’m a sitting duck here. I don’t think names between us will make much difference. It’s just nice to have contact with the outside world.’

‘Stella,’ I say after a pause, for no other reason than I think I can trust him.

‘Jack,’ he offers back, still holding onto my fingers.

‘Jack? Surely that’s English?’

‘Which I am – sort of. It’s Giovanni, really. But everyone at home calls me Jack. Except my mother, of course.’

The perfect Italian with a foreign accent suddenly fits into place, and the fact that he’s part of an Allied operation.

‘Seemingly, they thought I would be better equipped to blend in, with having Italian parents,’ he adds. ‘Only they didn’t reckon my coming down on some very hard Italian stone. Just my luck.’

I find it difficult to concentrate as I return to the bar and descend into the cellar. Arlo is already starting to lay some pages – I have to work fast to catch up. At the back of my mind, projecting a very distinct image, is this evening’s earlier meeting – both Jack, and the job ahead of me. Every time I make the journey over to Giudecca I’m breaking fascist law, since even owning a wireless tuned into Radio Londra can earn you jail time. Being caught creating anti-fascist propaganda will undoubtedly result in far worse than that. Each paper message I transport is heavily weighted contraband, and yet it has never felt dangerous, or potentially fatal. It’s just what I do. I wonder if adding one more task is pushing my luck? And whether I will live – or die – regretting it?