The Secret Messenger. Mandy Robotham
Читать онлайн книгу.
Melodie the cat who, by the way, is very real and does indeed love a warm photocopier!
I knew also that I wanted to highlight the role of women in the eventual victory over the Nazis; not only the bravery of undercover agents, but the army of female messengers across Italy – Staffettas – who helped the Allies to victory. It’s hard for us in this day of social media and instant messaging to understand the value of transporting a simple slip of information on foot or by boat, but in those times it was crucial. Life-saving, in fact. Without the thousands of mothers and grandmothers across Europe who risked their own lives by carrying contraband in prams and shopping bags, we might never have seen peace at all. I hope Stella is an embodiment of those women – selfless for those around them.
Once Stella and her city became my backdrop, the next element was easy. Where else is better suited for romance to blossom than a place that hovers amid the constant ripple of water and sits under the most stunning of sunsets? And, of course, my Venice is in there too: the Accademia is my favourite bridge, Campo Santo Stefano among my preferred piazzas to people watch, and there is a small café in the corner opposite the church doorway where I have sat many a time with a good coffee and my notebook, imagining myself as a writer. Oh, and to the side is a very good gelato parlour. You can’t escape it – Venice gets under your skin.
I hope I have paid homage to those who braved the conflict in Venice; there is no such thing as a ‘soft’ war when one person loses a life, one mother a son. Venice lost too. But as with the previous centuries of invasion and plague, it recovered. It remains a jewel. Glittering. And I’ll be back there soon.
Venice, June 1934
A sudden eruption of noise guided us – one burst after another, pushing up into the air like fireworks on a dark night. We zigzagged through the crowds, my grandfather slicing through the swarm with his broad muscular shoulders – still with a boat-builder’s strength despite his sixty-five years. Reaching the edge of the vast piazza he pulled me by the hand, threading his way to the front of the audience, which was fenced off with a line of black-shirted militia, their backs to the expanse of the square and their stern, fixed faces towards the crowd. Inside the square, lines of Italian troops paraded up and down like ants to a continual brass band pomp of military music.
At seventeen, I was of average height and had to crane my neck to see the object of our attention, along with the rest of the crowd. The imposing, rounded girth of Benito Mussolini was easily spotted – a common figure on the front pages of the fascist-run newspapers. Even from behind, he had the appearance of being smug and overbearing, strutting next to the slightly smaller man walking beside him, distinctive only because of his dark suit rather than a gilded uniform dripping with medals. There was nothing physically remarkable about Mussolini’s revered guest from the distance we were at. I knew who he was, what he represented, but to my young eyes his presence didn’t warrant the thousands of fascist militia flooding Venice over recent days, let alone the crowds mustered to welcome him – some of whom we suspected had been strong-armed into their flag-waving support.
‘Popsa, why have we come here?’
I was perplexed. My grandfather was a confirmed anti-fascist and, though he kept his hatred of Mussolini largely within the family, he had nonetheless been a fierce opponent in the twelve years since ‘Il Duce’ had ruled Italy with his brigade of militarised bully boys. Quietly, at home or in the cafés with his most trusted friends, he raged over the way good Italians were being trodden on, their freedom curtailed, both morally and physically.
He bent to whisper into my ear. ‘Because, my darling Stella, I want you to see with your own eyes the enemy we will face.’
‘An enemy? But isn’t Hitler proposing to be a friend to Italy? An ally?’
‘Not to Italians, my love,’ he whispered again. ‘To good, ordinary people – Venetians like us – he is no friend. Look at him, watch his stealth – know your enemy when the time comes.’ His heavy, lined face set into a frown, and then he painted on a false smile as the militia neared, hoisting their guns to elicit a timely cheer from the crowd.
I peered at the object of their fraudulent praise, dwarfed by Mussolini’s pompous stature. I couldn’t see the distinctive face or the sharp lines of his frankly mocked hairstyle, which had dominated the newspapers in recent days. Yet the way Adolf Hitler moved among the Italian troops in the Piazza San Marco seemed almost reticent, guarded. Was this what we were supposed to be afraid of? Next to Mussolini and his army of bullies, he looked smaller in every way. Why did my big, burly and strong grandfather seem almost fearful?
Looking back on that day, Popsa’s whole demeanour was my first experience of the mask we Venetians – Italians, in fact – needed to adopt over the coming years. Behind the beautiful and glittering facade of Italy’s jewelled city, the veneer of Venice would take on Popsa’s frown, hiding its determination to maintain the real fabric of its people against Hitler and fascism.
But, back then, in my late teens, I wasn’t politicised – I was a young woman enjoying my last days at high school, relishing a summer on the beautiful beaches of the Lido, the late, low sun of endless Venetian days and perhaps the prospect of a fleeting summer romance. It was several years before I appreciated the significance of Hitler’s visit on that warm June day more than five years before war broke out, or the impact of Mussolini’s public fawning to a man who would become the devil to a good part of the world. At the dawn of war, when Italy pledged its military might alongside Hitler, I recall telling my grandfather what I later learned about that day in 1934.
‘You know what Mussolini said about Hitler on that visit?’ I asked him, pulling up the blanket over his whispery chest hair, watching his beleaguered lungs fighting the pneumonia which only days later would defeat him. ‘He called him “a mad little clown”.’
Popsa only smiled, suppressing a laugh he knew would force his lungs into a lengthy coughing fit.
He scooped in a breath. ‘Ah, but Mussolini is simply a big clown. And you know what clowns do, Stella?’
‘No, Popsa.’
‘They create havoc, my darling. And they get away with it.’
London, June 2017
The tears come in a torrent – great fat orbs that well up from inside her, catching momentarily on her eyelids. For a second, she feels as if she is looking through a piece of the thick, warped Murano glass dotted around her mother’s living room, until she blinks and they roll down her dried-out cheeks. Ten days into her grief, Luisa has learned not to fight it, allowing the deluge to cascade in rivers towards her now sodden chin. Jamie has helpfully placed boxes of tissues around her mother’s house; much like city dwellers are supposed to be never more than six feet from some kind of vermin, now she is never without a man-size hankie to hand.
Emotional fallout over, Luisa faces a more frustrating issue. The keyboard of her laptop has fared badly from the human cloudburst, and a glass tipped over in her temporary blindness – several of the keys are swimming in salt tears and tap water. It’s too late to mop up the flood – even a consistent jabbing of various keys tells her the screen is frozen and the machine displaying its dissatisfaction. Electronics and fluids do not mix.
‘Oh Jesus, not now,’ Luisa moans into the air. ‘Not now! Come on, Dais – work, come on girl!’ She jabs at the keyboard again, following it up with a few choice expletives, and more tears – this time of frustration.
It’s the first time she’s been able to face opening Daisy, her beloved laptop, since the day before her mum … died. Luisa wants to say the word ‘died’, needs to keep on saying it, because