The Secret Messenger. Mandy Robotham
Читать онлайн книгу.
reporter only, but it was my dream job after high school: slightly frowned on by Mama, secretly tolerated by Papa, and overwhelmingly encouraged by Popsa.
‘This could be your future,’ he’d beamed as I’d opened the carefully wrapped birthday present. ‘You can win battles and change minds with this, Stella – better than any weapon.’ He had insisted on buying an Olivetti machine, the good Italian family firm having solid anti-fascist affiliations, later proven in their wartime actions of creative sabotage which saved many lives.
Of course, being Popsa, he was right. I typed until I drove the entire household to distraction; I created stories, I tapped out memories and wrote fairly terrible poetry. And all those words, channelled from inside me onto the page, via the conduit of my beautiful, clattery Olivetti, helped me towards securing my dream post on Il Gazzettino, the influential daily covering the entire mainland Veneto region surrounding Venice. I was blissfully happy for a time, until its increasingly fascist politics became as dark as the storm clouds of war over Europe.
However, I haven’t got time to dwell on that as I sit in the much less salubrious – but no less important – underground office of our clandestine newspaper. In my hand is a sheaf of hand-scrawled notes on crumpled scraps of paper, some typewritten reports and shorthand transcripts of radio transmissions. Each has made its way from Resistance members in Venice or captains in charge of the mountain fighting groups, via several messengers, to our unassuming basement office. Mothers and grandmothers have sat for hours in their dimly lit kitchens listening to transmissions via Radio Londra – the aptly named BBC service which brings us news of the outside world – scratching down details of the fight beyond Venice. Somehow, in the next three hours, I have to understand and shape these snapshots of defiance into news stories, in time for Arlo and his one regular helper, Tommaso, to typeset and print our weekly edition of Venezia Liberare. It’s our own, tangible way of telling ordinary Italians that they are not alone in the fight against fascism.
Matteo brings me another welcome cup of coffee and I set to work. Not for the first time, I thank providence that my first year on Il Gazzettino was spent converting press statements into readable stories. Back then, I thought it a form of punishment for the new girl, intensely frustrated at not being allowed beyond the office doors to carry out any real reporting. Now I know it was a valuable skill to perfect. As each story is finished, I tear it from the machine, lean backwards in the chair and hand it to Arlo and Tommaso, a young boy not yet out of school whose father is a partisan lieutenant, as they set to work mapping out the pages.
Tommaso is fairly new to our little workroom and, we’ve recently discovered, is something of an artist with a gift for adult cartoons; his dry, sarcastic take on fascist leaders – our pompous beloved Benito Mussolini especially – has worked its way into the pages. In among the serious reports of partisan victories in the mountains, ground captured and trains derailed, we’re able to provide a lighter tone to our readers. After all, it’s our sense of humour as Italians that’s enabled us to survive through twenty years of fascist oppression, and a war to top it off. In the cafés and canteens and campos, you can still hear Venice laugh.
When he first joined us, I could sense Tommaso’s wonder at the barmaid in her apron typing out the stories – the whispered question to his fellow setter – until Arlo explained that my name is on the bar’s list of employees and as such I have to be ready to play my part at a second’s notice, albeit quite badly. Fascist soldiers occasionally make it over to Giudecca in the late hours, looking for trouble, alcohol, or both. Only a month ago. two officers – already half-drunk – demanded drinks along with the employee rota; I just managed to make it up from the basement in time to grab a discarded apron, steering them away from the ‘beer cellar’ with a winning smile and several more drinks. Since then, I’ve donned an apron as a habit.
As the evening wears on I feel myself flagging, and several times Arlo prods me playfully.
‘Come on, girl, anyone would think you’ve done a day’s work!’ he teases.
I see him peering at my copy intently, rubbing his ink-marked fingers on his forehead, and I wonder how many typing mistakes I’ve made out of sheer tiredness. Ones that he will have to correct in the final print.
‘Everything all right, Arlo?’ I say.
‘I’m just wondering when you’re going to replace that old crock of a machine, Stella? This wayward e is driving me crazy.’
Automatically, I put a hand to my beloved machine in defence, taking comfort from its familiar, rough surface. It’s true that being a little too portable has caused one of the metals shafts to shift slightly, making my typed sentences easily recognised with a sagging e. It’s only Arlo’s expertise in re-setting the print that makes sure my machine’s quirk doesn’t transfer to the finished newspaper.
‘At least you can tell it’s written by a master,’ I come back swiftly. And that’s how we combat our fatigue: with innocent banter, to shield against the bad news that occasionally filters through the ranks – having to write of fellow partisans captured or tortured, at times executed. In those moments we force ourselves to think of the bigger picture, of what we can realistically achieve in a tiny basement with almost no resources; we do what we can to inform, to spread the word and help fuel solidarity among fellow Venetians.
I stretch and yawn as I finish the last piece for Arlo to edit and set.
‘Have you enough to fill the pages?’ I say, hoping he does. My eyes can’t seem to focus beyond my nose at this point. Usually, I stay until the setting is complete, but I need to catch the last vaporetto from Giudecca back to the main island and I’ll have to walk home quickly to beat the curfew. More than once I’ve been stopped by a fascist or Nazi patrol, and I’ve all but used up my smiles and excuses of a sickly relative needing medicine.
‘More than enough,’ Arlo says. ‘Your copy gets more lyrical by the day.’
‘Too much? Too flowery?’ I counter anxiously. ‘Should I tone it down?’
‘No, no. I happen to think our readers are inspired by the way you describe even the harshest of events. My mother says she looks forward to your storytelling!’
‘My grandma reads it cover to cover,’ Tommaso cuts in, shyly. ‘She pesters me until I deliver one personally.’
‘I only hope it comes across as fact and not fiction – these things are real,’ I reply. ‘Horribly real.’
‘Don’t worry, you’re not soft-soaping it,’ Arlo reassures. ‘If anything, your descriptions make us feel we’re all living it. Which we are.’
He’s right – everyone knows someone with a family member taken or killed. Even so, I make a note to keep an eye on my language, perhaps to stick to the facts and not embroider the copy too much. It was always the criticism of my news editor on Il Gazzettino – ‘Stella, your idea of a “short” is five hundred words!’ he would bellow from his desk, striking through my words with his red pen. It was clear from the beginning I was much more suited to the lengthier feature stories, where I could happily tinker with words, rather than strip back to the bald facts. And I would have made it as a feature writer, I’m sure, had that career path not been abruptly cut short.
Finally, I untie my apron and head on up the stairs. Soon, several other members of the brigade will join Arlo and Tommaso in the tiny cellar, moving to crank up the small press shrouded in a nearby outbuilding, working through the night to produce and assemble the paper. Before she turns in, Matteo’s wife will haul down a large pot of soup she has managed to conjure up, from whatever ingredients she can find, to help them push through into the small hours. It’s a team effort, always. We know our only hope of surviving this war is with a combination of loyalty and friendship.
For now, though, my work is done. I pull the cover over my typewriter until its services are needed in a few days’ time. I climb the stairs wearily, hang up my apron and pull on my coat, saying goodbye to Matteo, who is washing glasses in a bar where a lone figure lingers over his beer.
The icy wind whipping through