In the next weeks I’m inspired again to push forward with Gaia and Raffiano, sadly spurred on by another atrocity; a larger passenger ferry, the Giudecca, is attacked by Allied planes out in the lagoon. It’s later rumoured they may have spied German uniforms on deck and mistaken it for a troop ship, but the result remains the same – the ferry is sunk, with the loss of untold numbers; more than sixty bodies are pulled from the water, but with so many stateless refugees in Venice, the numbers could be much more. The lagoon and the wider sea doubtless claims its share.
The newspaper office feels noticeably emptier, with Arlo and me each working alone at our desks.
‘Tommaso’s father has been arrested again,’ Arlo tells me in a grave voice. ‘And this time he’s been taken to Ca’ Littoria.’ It’s the third time Tommaso’s father has been arrested but previously he’s always been released from jail and avoided the fascist police headquarters. ‘Tommaso sent word that he’s at home supporting his mother.’
In the relative quiet, the banter that we three once enjoyed in the office feels far into the past.
‘Poor boy,’ I mutter, with deep sympathy for his family’s angst. It flashes up an image of Vito’s face and this time I can’t help but envisage him in a cell, with pulped and bloodied flesh. I harness the emotions it stirs in me, adding to my latest chapter of Gaia and Raffiano with renewed pain.
I don’t quite appreciate the fervour of my language until several days after publication. Then, the cold wind whips off the Fondamenta Nuove as I leave my apartment for work. I’m grappling with my scarf when I look up and see that my words are no longer restricted to the paper on café tables. On a concrete wall, daubed awkwardly in black paint, are the words: ‘Gaia and Raffiano: love forever’. Worse still, there is a Nazi patrolman standing directly in front, staring at the sight. I slow up to watch his reaction. He looks perplexed at first, cocking his head as the meaning dawns, then he turns and strides away, in the direction I am bound. Towards Nazi headquarters.
The graffiti artist has been busy; it’s not the only message en route to San Marco, and there are variations on the theme – ‘Free Venice for lovers’ – in red paint too. I sink lower into the collar of my coat, my face burning, imagining I have some type of target pinned to my back. I’m sharply reminded of Jews across Europe, and the way they are forced to wear a stark yellow star on their arms, each and every day. Mine at least is a figment in my head, while theirs is all too real.
News of the graffiti arrives before me. Cristian is nowhere to be seen but it’s clear where he is, given the cacophony coming from behind Breugal’s door. I scan the office, but everyone’s heads are down, perhaps reasoning the fury will pass over them if they lie low and look busy.
We hear variations on Breugal’s opinion: ‘String them up!’, ‘Bring the bastard to me so I can see them burn’, his voice consumed with rage. Heads sink even lower over the machines. I have to draw in deep, silent breaths before I can begin typing, but I note my fingers are trembling, slipping on the keys.
Cristian blows out of the office eventually, sits heavily at his desk, barks away a query from one of the typists and begins scrawling on some paper. In minutes, he brings the sheet to me.
‘Type this please, Fräulein Jilani. As quickly as you can.’ His tone is strained, clipped, and he avoids any eye contact.
It’s what I feared, and again I am relying only on my body’s natural mechanism over my twenty-seven years on this earth to keep my heart beating, despite the knife tearing into its muscle.
‘REWARD FOR THE CAPTURE OF AUTHOR’. I’m forced also to type a substantial sum as the prize – well over a month’s wages for your average Venetian. As an extra carrot to any takers, there’s the promise of ‘protected liberty’ to any giver of information and their family. There’s intense loyalty within Venice, but with Santa Maggiore jail bursting at the seams and those in Ca’ Littoria too, there will be takers.
It’s the first time the Nazis have offered such a substantial incentive for my arrest and I know I’m white and shaking, but I type on. If I were to flee now I feel sure at least Cristian will guess at my complicity – he is clever enough to join the dots, and he knows where I live, Mama and Papa too. I sit firm, sweat pooling in the small of my back, my brain in a whirlpool while my fingers extend onto the keys. I finish the task and take it to Cristian’s desk.
‘There you are, Herr De Luca,’ I say, and it’s all I can do not to slam it down in front of him, as tiny bubbles of rage begin to push through my cloak of fear.
He looks up, features dark and his mouth set in a line. His brow is furrowed behind his glasses.
‘Thank you,’ he says, and goes back to reading his report.
Within the hour, I see the sheet bound up and collected by one of the messengers. The posters will be printed and they’ll be plastered all over the city by tomorrow. I rue my own stupidity in not casting my typewriter to the lagoon bed, and yet – at the same time – I’m not sure I can do it even now. Its very presence is incriminating to more than just me, though: I need to move it, and soon.
I make it to lunchtime before approaching Cristian, taking in a breath to afford a more friendly air.
‘Herr De Luca, please, may …’ He looks at me as if affronted at the way I address him, but I’m merely aligning to his own etiquette.
‘Yes?’
‘You know my mother has been ill, but I’m afraid she’s taken a turn for the worse, and I need to go to her. I promise I’ll make up the time …’
His face softens; there’s no movement towards a smile but I can see it in his eyes. The hardness around his eyes of late smooths into something of a truce between us. In the short time I’ve known him, he’s still hard to read, his mood unpredictable.
‘Of course, Fräulein Jilani,’ he says. ‘Take what time you need.’
I hate lying about Mama, but I’m safe in the knowledge she is at home with Papa, having finally been discharged from the hospital with a weary but intact heart, and seems to be recovering for now. Still, we haven’t had the courage to explain properly about Vito and where he is; to her, he is still in hiding. Papa is the one bearing the anxiety of his son’s true whereabouts.
I walk with purpose, finding it hard not to adopt a skip or a half-run that is likely to attract attention from the patrols. But I’m not heading home. The safe house I know Sergio most often frequents is occupied, but he’s not there, and I can only leave a message about the posters to be plastered across the city. From there, I make my way to the Zattere to pick up a boat – the vaporetto is suspended again and just after lunch there are few boats about. The one owner I can find is reluctant to move until he has at least one other customer for Giudecca and although I’m tempted to offer him double price, that in itself might arouse suspicion. So I sit on the waterfront prickling with unease, the sun lingering behind a curtain of grey cloud, waiting its turn, much like me.
Forced to linger, I try to rationalise the fresh urgency in me; the typewriter has been in Matteo’s basement for months – almost a year in fact – and until now I’ve never felt its presence as a threat to me or those in my sphere. But then I’ve never had a substantial reward for capture posted on my head either. Perhaps there is a reason to feel jittery, after all.
Under the gun-grey sky I’m finally transported across the lagoon, alongside an old man who insists on sharing his entire day with me. With difficulty, I try to converse like a fellow Venetian just about her business, but the oars can’t go fast enough and each wave that strikes our bow seems bent on delaying me another second.
Matteo is surprised to see me so early in the day but, with the progress of the war of late, he’s used to new material needing to be processed quickly, and us keeping odd times. It’s only once I’ve descended the small flight of stairs and switched on the dim bulb that I take stock. My hand goes towards the typewriter’s cover and I’m shaking – and not from the cold wind over the water. I force myself to draw in some deep breaths, recall what our training as partisans tells us to do in times when … well, when we feel we’re falling apart – scared and baseless. I’m all of those.
Pull yourself together Stella! is all I can think to say, but at least the banality of it makes me laugh inside, and I gather strength from somewhere to move. She’s still there, my constant, metal voice, smeared with age and in need of a new ribbon, but I figure this is her last task for some time, if at all. The ribbon can wait.
‘Hey girl,’ I say. ‘One for the road, shall we?’ and I laugh again that I’m talking to a machine. As I’m rolling the paper in, Matteo brings me coffee and a message from Sergio received via the café’s radio. It’s short and pert but I absorb its meaning.
‘One more to sign off,’ it says, ‘then stay away.’
I know I have just this last instalment to bring everything into focus for Gaia and Raffiano. There’s no conclusion to this war yet, but I can at least send them on their way with hope, the faith we all harbour that our struggle won’t be in vain. I notice the room becoming dimmer as the sun bows to cloud, but for two hours the world outside the tiny basement ceases to exist. I’m there in the page, living the emotion as Raffiano escapes from his confinement, is tearfully reunited with Gaia and they make their way into hiding together – being apart is not an option, and leaving Venice and their families is not either. They will bring up their child – conceived under the cosh, but entirely through love – in Venice. In their city that is home to Venetians and Jews and all manner of mixtures in between. I can only hope that what I write becomes truth for Mimi and Vito.
I feel wrung dry as I pull out the sheets, and leave them for Arlo’s hand to distribute. The wayward little e pulses at me again, like the beacon it is to the Nazis. Of course I’m scared of being caught and the consequences, but I can’t ignore that nugget of pride lodged within me, of being part of something to shift the hatred in this war. Even a little.
Now, though, the shift has to be more substantial – my beloved typewriter needs removal so as not to cast guilt on others. I borrow a shopping basket from Elena for the purpose, and I’m relieved once again that the machine is relatively small, even when in its casing. It fits neatly into the basket and, if I hook it into the crook of my arm, I can bear the weight without looking as if I’m straining over anything more than groceries. I buy whatever bread and rolls I can to cover the typewriter, and under the cloth it makes the hamper appear full. Then I take a deep breath and head out. The owner of a small supply boat takes pity on my shivering form as I stand on the shadowy waterfront, and he deposits me on the main island with a cheery ‘Have a good evening.’ Somehow I doubt I will.
The walk from the Zattere towards home is easier than I envisaged, and I’m subjected to only one cursory search, where the patrolman peers under the covering as far as the seeded bread rolls. Fortunately, the troops are well fed and don’t often feel the need to confiscate food, especially something so basic as bread. I reach my own apartment, and there’s a tweak of the curtains from my neighbour, Signora Menzio, who’s not used to seeing me return this early in the day. She gives a subtle nod through the windowpane to signal all is clear.
I feel safe inside my own space, but remind myself it’s only bricks and mortar, which can easily be breached by a search party and their heavy trespass of boots. I will need another hiding place, but for now – for tonight at least – my beloved typewriter will have to reside with me. I scrabble in a cupboard that doubles as a wardrobe, pulling out shoes and odd boxes, and use a kitchen knife to prise up one of the looser floorboards. I need to manoeuvre the case carefully inside, wary of not chafing the boards still in place, a giveaway for any well-seasoned search party.
‘Sleep well, little lady,’ I say as I place the loose board back and pile on the shoes in the same ramshackle fashion as before.
Immediately, I feel bereft, although perhaps less exposed, too. It feels odd that I may not be writing anything for some time, with the exception of those damning reports for Breugal; if Sergio’s message is to be believed, I am to stay well away from the newspaper office. They will find a replacement – I’m not so naïve as to believe I’m indispensable – but I feel it is the end of a small era, for me at least.
I’m restless, roaming the small apartment and trying to scratch together a decent meal from my meagre larder. I pull out a book, and then realise it’s the copy of Pride and Prejudice given to me by Cristian. Even that life seems so far away, his goodwill as a colleague morphed into bitterness.
I feel trapped, but only by my own languor and depression. So far in this war I have had moments – days even – of anger and sadness, but never time enough for my whole being to feel deflated. As if the person inside is under bombardment, like the docks and ships in the lagoon. Jack is gone, there’s not even Mimi here to boost my mood and, selfishly, I can’t face the walk to my parents. I know Papa will guess at my melancholy, and what can I say to lift Mama, to make her feel better? For the first time in months, I have only myself to help boost my own inner spirits. And I find myself as barren as my own larder.