stomp of jackboots on our ancient flagstones, and the Nazis quickly made themselves very comfortable in our requisitioned palaces on the Grand Canal, easing themselves into the bars and outdoor eating places like it was some sort of vacation.
Venice appears on the surface to be compliant, relenting. But I know different. For all its outward splendour, Venice hides itself well; in deep, dark alleyways, behind the painted green shutters, I know for certain there are hives of activity, thousands working to skew the intricate planning of our unwelcome squatters and claim back our city. For now, we do it quietly. But we aim to be ready.
It was a heart-stopping moment when I received a message to attend the offices of the German High Command, on one end of the Piazza San Marco. Since the full occupation in September, when the city swarmed with the grey-green troops of the Wehrmacht and the ashen colours of the SS, it’s a place I’ve taken pains to sidestep, going out of my way to avoid walking across the piazza in full view of the young German sentries, bored and eyeing up pretty young Venetian women. On being summoned, I imagined my membership of the anti-fascist Action Party had been discovered or revealed, but, if it had, there would have been no request to attend – more likely a sudden raid by Italian fascist Blackshirts, and a stay in their none too salubrious headquarters at Ca’ Littoria, becoming painfully familiar with their torture methods. We have learned quickly that the Germans are not here to get their hands dirty if at all possible. Only to oversee the annihilation of freedom.
I have been careful in recent years to publicly align myself with no one in particular, keeping a low profile as a typist in the Venetian works department, the government division responsible for making our fairy-tale city function day to day, even through war. I’d been ‘recommended’ for the job by Sergio Lombardi, a seemingly fine upstanding citizen who, in his other life, is Captain Lombardi, the commander of Venice’s Resistance brigade. The information I gleaned while in the works department proved useful to the partisan groups fighting the Nazis and fascists across the entire Veneto region, though I never imagined it saved lives. When I doubted it, when I itched to do something more useful – more visible – Sergio took pains to reassure me that the detailed knowledge of the city’s workings was vital in helping their troops move undiscovered in and out of Venice. The comprehensive plans I had access to were perfect tools for ghosting Allied soldiers away to safety now the Nazi occupation of Northern Italy made it impossible to move freely.
And now, thanks to maintaining that low profile, I am here, about to enter the lion’s den; my transfer to Nazi High Command – the Reich headquarters – has been requested because of my fluent German, although the move couldn’t be more timely or fortuitous. Or intimidating.
Beyond the grand exterior near the Correr Museum in San Marco, I present my pass from the works department and a young German soldier runs down a list for my name. He seems pleased to find it.
‘Up the stairs, first door on your right,’ he says in faltering Italian.
‘Thank you, I’ll find it,’ I say in German and he smiles his embarrassment. Poor boy, he’s no more than a child, perhaps the same age as my brother, Vito. Too young for this, both of them.
The office at the top of the sweeping marble stairway is behind a large, ornately carved door. It’s filled with desks in a strict formation, the opulent walls of the vast room deadened by the austere dark wooden furniture and the Nazi icons dotted around. A fierce clattering of typewriters hits me like a wave and I’m briefly startled. I must have shown it because a man approaches – I can tell from his face and his civilian clothes that he’s Italian, and I’m surprised again, though pleased too. Even now, a stark Nazi uniform makes me pull in a short breath and I feel a guilt rising in me, although I’ve become adept at hiding it.
‘Morning, can I help you?’ the man, in his well-cut grey suit, says in Italian. He’s not Venetian; his accent says he’s from the south. Tall and with a short, dark beard – in his early thirties I guess – he looks immediately out of place amid the military surroundings, reminding me of an academic or librarian. His whole demeanour is Italian; it’s only the tiny metal pin on his jacket lapel – the jawless death’s head insignia – that tells me he is a fascist too. A paid-up member of Mussolini’s gang. In any other scenario, I might have thought him attractive, but here, he is marred by his allegiance.
‘I’ve been sent here by the works department – as a typist and translator,’ I venture, holding out my references. ‘Am I in the right office?’
He scans the papers, holding them closer to his face, and I notice his large brown eyes scanning the script.
‘Welcome Signorina Jilani,’ he says. ‘Yes, you’ve found the right place. I’ll show you to your desk.’
He turns and leads me towards the back of the room, passing a vacant desk with a silent typewriter upon it. Backing onto a wall entirely shelved with books and files, he gestures to an empty desk with a large machine to the side.
‘There, that’s for you,’ he says.
‘Oh, I thought I would be over there with the other typists,’ I say, casting a backwards glance. The desire to blend in is well grounded in me.
‘Well, as you’ll be translating for General Breugal, I thought it would be better if you were nearer his office’ – he nods his head slightly towards a closed door, even larger and more ornately carved than the last – ‘since he has a tendency to be a little brief when it comes to instructions. I can’t see him striding across the office ten times a day – he would get a bit annoyed about that. It will hopefully spare you some of his …’ he falters over the next word carefully … ‘irritation.’
He smiles as he says it, an embarrassed offering, perhaps because he’s betrayed a little of his opinion of the general, in painting him as some blustering despot. Except the general’s reputation is anything but – a despot, yes, but his cruelty is already well known within the Resistance.
‘Well, thank you for that in advance,’ I say. I’m genuinely grateful, since the last thing I want to do is attract any unwanted attention. I’m here to type, to translate and to absorb what will help the partisan Resistance wage war with effective sabotage against our German trespassers. But I’m also here to be utterly compliant, in office hours at least.
‘Marta will show you the bathroom and the canteen, and I will arrange a meeting with General Breugal when he arrives shortly.’
I nod, and he turns to go. ‘Oh, and by the way, my name is Cristian – Cristian De Luca – under-secretary to the general, admin mostly. Civilian.’ He adds the last part most definitely, as if he doesn’t want me to guess he’s a card-carrying fascist. As if by not wearing a black shirt and donning a dark ski cap, he’s not part of the bully brigade. But I know plenty of innocents who have been condemned by a typewriter, by being on a list. I have to remind myself that what I’m doing is not collaborating – my Resistance commander assures me the information I can absorb will save many more lives than I could ever condemn.
‘Please come to me if you need anything, or you have a problem.’ Cristian De Luca smiles weakly, but even his friendly eyes don’t convince me. I nod again and return his expression, because that’s what I’m supposed to do.
I have time enough to meet some of the other typists over tea before I’m called in through the foreboding door. I grab the pen and notebook on my desk, not knowing whether it’s simply an interview or if I’m expected to begin work immediately. Beyond the door, the walk towards the desk is a long one as the office is vast, with high ceilings and walls crawling with carved plaster figures. My eye is drawn to the overly large picture of the Führer placed over the grand fireplace. His expression in such portraits never ceases to
