The Secret Messenger. Mandy Robotham
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the next morning is uneventful, thankfully, and strangely I’m relishing some of the dull routine of Breugal’s office. It’s Cristian’s behaviour, however, which proves out of the ordinary. Breugal is away from Venice on war business, and the office is naturally more relaxed. The tall and sombre Captain Klaus takes the opportunity to strut around, attempting to issue orders, but he barely seems more than a boy in a man’s cloak and doesn’t share the bear-like stature of Breugal. I see some of the girls simply titter behind his back and I feel almost sorry for him. In these times, it’s Cristian whom the typists defer to, and some of the German officers too.
I’m struggling with a particularly complex engineering report when he approaches me nearing lunch.
‘Signorina Jilani,’ he begins – in Italian, which makes my head snap up with curiosity. ‘I wonder if I might have a word with you. In private. Perhaps you can join me for lunch?’
I can almost feel the blood drain from my head. I’m not prone to fainting, but for a brief second, I think I might. I take a deep breath and realign my head. He smiles – it seems quite genuine. But then Nazis and fascists alike are good at smiling as they deliver the death knell.
‘Um, yes, of course,’ I stumble. What else can I say?
At 12.15, he puts down his report and tidies his pens, a signal that he’s ready. He approaches the desk.
‘I’ll follow you out in a second,’ I say, before he has the chance for anything else. Nonetheless, I feel several pairs of female eyes dressing me down as I get up and leave – their smirks especially boring into my back. How much more like a collaborator can I feel?
Cristian is waiting in the lobby, and leads me not to the building’s canteen – which I’d hoped for – but out into the bright spring sunshine; he lifts his head automatically to catch the warmth, a look of satisfaction spreading across his face, as if he’s refuelling. For what, I can only imagine. We walk a few minutes to a café in a side street off San Marco, and I’m both thankful and wary that it’s quiet. The waiter knows him well, so it’s obviously a favourite place. We order coffee and sandwiches with whatever bread and filling they have. It’s when the waiter leaves that there’s a void.
‘So, have you had more grand philosophical thoughts on Venice?’ I begin in a tone that says I’m teasing, but only a little. My training has taught me the art of small talk, rather than risk leaving a hole where doubts can breed.
He laughs as he sips at his coffee. ‘No, no it’s all right, the population of Venice is safe from my musings.’ He looks at me fixedly, as if about to reveal something profound, of himself perhaps. Here it is, I think, the interrogation, under the cloak of an innocent lunch date. He’s cornered me out in the open.
‘I was really wondering if you might do me the honour of coming to an evening function with me?’ he says, suddenly taking a deep interest in his near-empty cup. Then, no doubt sensing the look of shock on my face, he adds, ‘I mean it’s fine if you can’t. I just thought I’d ask. General Breugal is away and it’s one of those pompous, military parties and it would be …’
Now he’s not the assured, calm and controlled Cristian De Luca of the Reich office. He’s flushed under his beard and I wonder how many women he has ever asked out, in this life or before.
‘Um, I would be delighted,’ I say, only just remembering that my loyal fascist self would see it as a real honour – ever the compliant typist happy to fraternise with German officers and saviours of the Italian nation. Inside, the dread is already rising at the prospect of being in such close proximity to the grey and black characters of war. But what a gift to the Resistance, what tittle-tattle I might be able to pick up and pass on to my unit command. Even if it saves one life, one uprooted family, it will be worth the indignity. I smile sweetly, my face doing its best to express radiance.
‘I’m so pleased,’ he says, equally unseated. He leans in, as if in some form of schoolboy collusion. ‘If it’s a real bore, at least we can stand in the corner and talk literature.’
Which is a cue for us to do just that now, swapping favourites and stories. The hour passes – I’m ashamed to admit later – quite pleasantly.
‘Oh,’ he says, as we get up to head back to the office. ‘In all this talk I almost forgot this.’ He pulls out a small package from his jacket, wrapped loosely in brown paper. As I peel off the covering, I see it’s a small, beautifully bound Italian edition of Austen’s Pride and Prejudice – second-hand but in good condition.
‘Thank you,’ I say. And I mean it. It’s a book I love, and will read again and again. And I’m genuinely taken aback at his thoughtfulness.
‘You probably already have it,’ he adds awkwardly. ‘I mean, it’s her best work. Or at least I think so.’
I look at him directly. ‘Are you referring to the writing or all the hidden meanings?’ I aim to diffuse with a little humour, and I’m smiling as I say it, but it comes out in a different vein. As a challenge almost.
But Cristian De Luca is back to his controlled, assured self. ‘Both,’ he says, as we begin walking. ‘Elizabeth Bennet, she’s one of my favourite characters – smart and knowing. I thought you might like her too.’
And much as we did on our previous encounter, we head back to the dark austerity of the office in silence, drinking in the bright white light of Venice.
I’m forced to relay my frustrations to Mimi as we queue for bread in the market just days later.
‘I mean, what am I to think of a fascist who gives me sensitive literature, after inviting me to a party destined to be full of Nazis?’ I whisper, careful to contain my voice, with ears all about us.
Mimi’s chestnut eyes stare back at me, trying to hide her mirth. As my best friend since school, I want her opinion more than anyone’s; for years now, we’ve laid every secret bare, unaware at the time that discretions about schoolboys and wishes were child’s play compared to what’s at stake now. Still, she says nothing, knowing I’m not quite finished yet.
‘I suppose he could simply need a girl on his arm, just to make a good impression at the party,’ I ponder.
‘And he could have asked almost any girl in the office,’ Mimi pitches in at last. ‘There’s a reason he chose you.’
‘No! I’ve never given him any encouragement, Mimi. Not in that way.’
‘Maybe not, and maybe you don’t need to. Just face it, Stella – those dark, mysterious looks of yours are attractive to men, despite you imagining yourself in some grubby old shirt up in the mountains, with your wild hair flying on a partisan raid.’
‘But a fascist? Really?’ I sigh. ‘He’s deep in Breugal’s pocket.’
‘All the better for the cause,’ Mimi says defiantly. As a fellow Staffetta, she knows the benefits of talk loosened by an excess of good cheer and alcohol. And a pretty girl on a man’s arm, I think to myself with dread.
‘Anyway, tell me about the other one – the soldier on Giudecca,’ Mimi urges as we find a quiet corner table in Paolo’s café. ‘He sounds nice.’
‘Jack. He is – I like talking to him.’
‘And is this one into literature and the arts?’
‘Not sure – I don’t get that feeling. We talk mainly about family, or the war. Sometimes about the cinema.’
‘So, you don’t fancy a trip to London after this is all over then?’ Mimi is being deliberately flighty, bent on teasing me.
‘No I don’t,’ I say flatly. ‘Besides, he’ll be long gone soon, as soon as his leg is halfway mended. I won’t see him again.’
Mimi won’t let up. ‘Strange things happen in wartime,’ she grins. ‘It’s a time of change, all right.’
But I’m not concentrating. I’m thinking about