The Secret Messenger. Mandy Robotham
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rightly so – that I wouldn’t want to be seen walking with a badge-toting collaborator. And yet I don’t feel any hatred towards him, only slight pity. There is a heart inside him, clearly – one capable of deep feeling. It’s only a shame about the shell he covers it with.
He catches up with me, the clip of his smart shoes resounding through the alleyways. We pass wordlessly under a covered walkway leading to an open street. There’s an old man under the oncoming archway lighting a cigarette and he looks up as we approach.
‘Good day,’ he says and smiles at us both. ‘Come to express your devotion?’ He’s clearly amused at his own humour.
I know exactly what he’s referring to – the small, reddish heart-shaped stone standing proud above the arch brickwork, a natural relic apparently, and a popular pilgrimage for tourists and lovers alike. I try to satisfy him with a weak smile, but the old man is having none of it.
‘You need to touch it,’ he insists, ‘the both of you.’
Cristian is looking perplexed, and I go to explain swiftly so that we can move on, but the old man is in full flow.
‘It’s an old tale from centuries ago,’ he rambles. ‘If you both touch the stone your love will be sealed forever,’ and he coughs from too many cigarettes, chuckling to himself as he shuffles off.
Cristian looks at me for clarity. ‘It’s true,’ I say. ‘Or at least it’s true that’s what the myth says.’ I duck under the stone sotto before he can ask any more.
He catches up again. ‘What is it, Signorina Jilani – don’t you believe in fairy stories?’
He’s smiling once more and I see he’s looking directly at the volume of Jane Austen clutched in my hand.
‘Oh, this? This isn’t a fairy story,’ I come back, striding ahead to avoid any awkward conversation. ‘It’s literature.’
‘I agree,’ he says. ‘It’s very good literature. But equally, it’s not real life, is it?’
‘All the better in this day and age,’ I snipe, though not meaning to do so quite so sharply. ‘Everyone deserves a place of fantasy and safety.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ he says. But he’s no longer smiling or making light, and we walk the rest of the way in silence.
It gets me thinking, though. Cristian De Luca, as much as I hate to admit it, has touched a nerve. I indulge in past centuries and places away from this war by devouring what books I can, on the occasions I’m able to stay awake after the day’s activities. But I miss the creation; as a journalist, I indulged my free time in writing short stories, one or two of which were published in sister publications of Il Gazzettino. It was a total release to open up my beloved machine and simply lay down sentences and words, fabricate people and conversations, without once glancing at notes or quotes. I felt free.
I realise war has stifled me since then. Unsurprising, given the simple desire and effort to stay alive. All the same, I find myself resenting it. Typing up the news stories for the partisan paper comes easily, almost automatically. But it’s not me – yes, there’s a passion in the aim for freedom, but nothing of my heart in the words, despite Arlo’s teasing about my lyrical language. I resolve to try and write. As me, for me. Just for pleasure. Is that so wrong in the times we live in?
If only I could stay awake at the day’s end and find the time.
Venice, March 1944
Jack is a little more mobile on my next visit. He’s out of bed when I arrive, although limping with obvious difficulty. The sisters have rigged up a table with an oil lamp for him to work at, and there’s an array of metal pieces strewn across it. His welcome is warm; he’s clearly glad to have anyone visit, and is even more delighted with the books I’ve brought.
‘Amazing!’ he says. ‘I do love a good Agatha Christie. Listen, can I offer you some tea? I had some in my pack as I dropped in, and the lovely sisters have given me a small stove.’
I look at my watch, wondering how much time I have.
‘We Brits are very good at tea,’ he urges. ‘Put it this way, you wouldn’t want my coffee!’
I’ve rushed from work, barely having had time to eat or drink, so I say yes, but I can’t stay too long. Arlo will be thinking I’ve abandoned him.
Jack hobbles to and fro on a makeshift crutch, clearly in pain, but doing his best not to show it. I’m not normally much of a tea drinker, but this is good, stronger than I usually take it. I ask him about his home, and he adopts a sanguine look for a moment, telling me his parents run a delicatessen in central London. ‘We’re surrounded by Italian families – sometimes I’m not really sure which part of the world I really do belong to. But’ – he holds up his mug – ‘I am a bit of a tea lover, so I must have some English in me!’
‘Were you born there?’ I ask.
‘Turin,’ he says. ‘My parents emigrated when I was a baby. Both families are still in Turin, so obviously that’s a worry. Not much news gets out. Which is partly why I volunteered. I know I’m unlikely to find any trace of them in this chaos, but at least I feel I’m doing my bit for the family, for Italy.’
I understand his need, and I warm to him all the more. He asks about my family, and I tell him about Mama and Papa, and a little of my past life. He has a copy of Venezia Liberare on the side and it’s clear he knows who writes the words, telling me: ‘It’s good. Engaging, fighting talk.’ I feel it’s not flattery, but rather his open manner, causing me to trust him almost from the outset. So much so that when he tells me about his brother still missing in action in France, I feel I can open up my concern over Vito’s role in the Resistance, of which I still know little detail, but even the scant gossip in the battalion makes my heart crease at the danger he could be in. I stop short, however, of telling Jack about my day job in the Nazi headquarters. I know my own motivations, my reasons and the work I do, but even so, it feels hard to defend.
We part with my nestling a small parcel in my handbag, little more than the size of an orange and wrapped in an old rag. Its destination is a house not far from my own apartment, and I’m to deliver it early the following morning, before work. The next section will be ready in three days.
‘I’ll see you then,’ I say as I head towards the door.
‘I look forward to it,’ he says, his broad smile apparent in the gloom. And I can’t help feeling I will too.
What odd surprises this war springs upon us.
The journey back to the mainland, with the small but seditious package in my handbag, causes ripples of uncertainty inside me, even though the tide under the boat is oddly calm. As I step onto the cobbles of the main island, each stride heightens my anxiety and I have to stop myself hugging the stone walls of the alleyways to stay out of sight. I’ve made hundreds of journeys across the city with covert messages, but none so risky as this. I can feel my breathing deepen as I try to sidestep one checkpoint, but walk too late into another barrier, only recently set up.
‘Evening, Signorina,’ the fascist patrolman greets me, and I smile widely, affecting a half wink in his direction, while trying my utmost to make it seem genuine. Am I trying too hard? Be natural, Stella, be calm, I chant inside my head. You have nothing to hide. I go to open my handbag as a matter of routine, but as the top flips up, he waves me on, his eyes dressing me down as I go. He doesn’t see my knees almost fail me when I round the corner. I have to stop and take several conscious breaths on the pretence of blowing my nose, then there comes a swift rush of adrenalin which causes me to smile and puts a spring in my step. Still, I’m exhausted by the time I reach