taste the gelato of Milan, imagine the gossamer pink drench of a Naples sunset, the lilt of an Italian lover against the hard vowels of an English accent. Strangely, though, there was nothing of Venice in that volume, and she’s been hard at work since her mother’s death in trying to trace the other three texts, trawling websites specialising in old books or second-hand texts. The publisher, sadly, has long since closed up shop and, aside from visiting every antique shop she can find, Luisa has been reduced to sending feelers out into cyberspace and eagerly checking her email every day. So far, nothing.
With the codes, warped messages and strange initials, threads begin to weave in Luisa’s mind. Had her soft, demure grandmother been part of the Venetian Resistance, donned the rough uniform of a partisan soldier, or even sported a gun? Or acted as some glamorous spy working in plain sight of the Nazis, a Mata Hari character? She laughs then; her imagination is running riot. Still, it’s possible in the shape-shifting of a world war. But where did her Grandpa Gio fit into all this, if at all? It makes for a puzzle of layers, and one that both frustrates and fuels her curiosity.
‘Lu? Luisa! It’s getting cold,’ Jamie shouts, clearly irritated now, and Luisa is forced to leave her past behind and move into the present. But not for long.
Venice, mid-February 1944
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.
