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?
Venice, late February 1944
It seems like a lengthy wait until my next visit to Giudecca – to Jack and the task ahead of me in transporting his handmade receivers. Luckily, Mimi is there to distract me.
‘So, come on, tell me all,’ my oldest and best friend says as we nestle into the corner space of a crowded bar in the Santa Croce district. It’s tucked down a side street and not widely known by Nazi or fascist soldiers. Still, we’re careful to keep our voices low, hunkering under a fog of cigarette smoke for cover. Mimi’s big eyes are even wider than normal, her painted red lips pursed in anticipation. With her near-black curls, she often reminds me of the American cartoon character, Betty Boop, though Mimi
