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
