The Secret Messenger. Mandy Robotham

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СКАЧАТЬ a swirl of dirty white clouds.

      ‘Fräulein – I beg your pardon – Signorina.’ A voice comes from behind the smoke, and I see his face at last. It’s fat. That’s my first impression. He’s vast. His red, oily skin is stretched tight over wide cheeks, pumped up no doubt by good living and too much grappa, and he sports a meagre moustache, not even worthy of being fashioned into anything like Hitler’s silly little brush. His black eyes sit like minuscule cherries in the pudgy dough of his face; his body a larger version of the same, squeezed with effort into his green Wehrmacht tunic. At first I think he has the face of a fool, but know at the same time it’s never good to underestimate the hatred he and his kind might harbour; hatred for Jews, alongside a disdain for weak Italians who need hand-holding in this war. He hasn’t earned his place behind that desk by not showing strength. Already General Breugal has made a distinct – and deadly – impression on Venice’s opposition to Nazi penetration of our city; last night’s ghetto cull was just one example of his zeal to carry out Hitler’s cleansing of Jews from our city.

      Breugal doesn’t get up, but merely extends a hand across the desk and I have to make contact with his moist fingers before I sit down in one of two chairs placed in front of the desk. He looks up from his furious scribble and digs the stub of his cigar in a nearby ashtray.

      ‘So, I will need a minimum of two typed reports daily, translated from German to Italian,’ he says in clipped German. ‘I take it you are fluent?’

      ‘Yes, Herr Breugal.’

      ‘General,’ he corrects briskly.

      ‘Sorry – General,’ I say. I worry that I’ve marked myself out already but he barely looks at me, so I feel safe his arrogance will lead to a general ignorance about me. And that’s the way I want to keep it.

      Once I’m dismissed with a grunt and a wave of the general’s hand, I head back to my desk, clutching the first report I need to translate. Outside the door, I meet the general’s long and lean – and much younger – deputy, Captain Klaus. He introduces himself, but there’s no emotion in his voice – it’s merely duty. There is, however, a steely glint to his blue eyes. I do the best I can to remain businesslike even though I can almost feel the heat of this first report on my chest.

      Finally, Captain Klaus feels we have exhausted the formalities and I sit down and open the pages. This is pure gold for the Resistance, information straight from the horse’s mouth which they will use to plan sabotage of German movements, initiate rescues of targeted families, and generally be a thorn in the side of the Nazi regime. Tempting though it is, we can’t use all of the intelligence consistently – my Resistance colleagues have made it clear my position is to be protected, so that I can remain in post without arousing suspicion. To General Breugal, and the slightly odd Cristian De Luca, I am a good Italian girl, a patriot and lover of order, a true believer that fascism will win out over the current chaos. I am to be trusted.

      At first glance, the report I am to translate looks to be merely an engineering update on precious water supplies in Venice, pumped in from the mainland. But as I consult my German-Italian dictionary for more specific words, I discover it’s also about rerouting food supplies through new shipping lines, although the word ‘supplies’ doesn’t always appear to refer to scarce flour, sugar or wheat. The report’s complexity means I can’t possibly remember it word for word, despite having a talent for ingesting and harbouring facts. Luckily, the Resistance has prepared for this. They know I can’t risk making a carbon copy of my translation, or writing notes in my own hand, so it’s been agreed with my unit that I’ll type up brief notes I can immediately recall in the office. Operating in plain sight is sometimes the best form of camouflage and I’m suddenly grateful that having a desk backing onto a bookcase is useful for not being overlooked. Or else I will scribble any facts the minute I can make excuses for a toilet break. A sympathetic cobbler has already made adjustments to several pairs of shoes, allowing me to hide folded notes in my heels. I’ll return to my desk, with an expression of indifference and a willingness to carry on the Reich’s work. That’s the plan.

      ‘Fräulein Jilani, have you settled in?’ The voice is raised above the office noise and takes me by surprise, not least because Cristian De Luca’s German is cut-glass perfect. He sees my surprise.

      ‘Yes, we speak German in the office – the general prefers it,’ he explains. ‘Do you have everything you need?’

      ‘Yes, thank you,’ I say, my eyes glancing back to my keyboard. I need to work quickly to complete both the official and unofficial notes, though not so noisily that I attract attention. Sergio, Captain of the Venetian Resistance Central Brigade and my commander, has stressed that I’m to lie low for several days, or even weeks, not be intent on passing information, but this to me looks too important. I feel sure it could really make a difference. I need to get on and this man is loitering.

      Still, Cristian De Luca hovers beside my desk. I look up, inquisitive.

      ‘Erm, I’m just hoping everything was all right with you and the general?’ he ventures. ‘Nothing too … brusque?’

      ‘No … no,’ I lie, purposely upbeat. ‘He was … direct, but perfectly charming.’

      ‘Good, well, don’t hesitate to, you know …’ His last words are lost as the general’s voice comes booming from behind me, prompting one of the secretaries to scurry towards the door, almost turning a heel as she goes.

      Cristian De Luca walks towards a desk by the window, annoyingly only two away from my own. He puts on a pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses and opens up a file to read. Now I think he looks even more like a librarian.

      The efforts of the previous night are beginning to take their toll – my eyes are smarting with tiredness as I pull the cover over my machine at the end of the day, while the office begins to empty. One of the office girls asks if I’d like to join them for a drink but I make an excuse that I’m expected at my parents’ for dinner. The thought of a bowl of Mama’s pasta – exquisite even with increasingly scant ingredients – makes my mouth water, but instead I grab a bread roll from a nearby bakery and head briskly in the opposite direction, wrapping my coat around me as I head towards the canal’s edge. Despite my fatigue, it’s time for the third part of my full and sometimes complicated life.

      Waiting at the stop for the vaporetto that will transport me across the expanse of water to the island of Giudecca, I stare at the soaring tower of the church of San Giorgio Maggiore, perched on the adjacent island’s edge. The Palladian monolith looks particularly magnificent tonight, caught in the occasional beam of boat traffic toing and froing across the lagoon. I’m not particularly religious – not as much as Mama would wish anyway – but the tower’s continued existence through centuries of war and strife warms my heart. That warmth is particularly welcome now since the bitter wind is apt to whip through this wide stretch between Venice proper and what’s considered the less ornate, more industrial Giudecca. But that’s what’s so attractive about it tonight, for me at least. The sometimes choppy waters are a divide which helps more than hinders.

      The crossing is unhindered by German patrol boats and takes just ten or so minutes; I’m one of only a dozen or so passengers stepping onto the pontoon at Giudecca. The streets are mostly dark with minimal lighting – a consequence of burned-out bulbs not replaced – but I have a mind map of where I’m going. I think I could find it in my sleep, which is a bonus since my eyes are struggling to stay open after so little rest. But I must. This is business and not pleasure. However tired I am, there is more typing to do, though rather than reports to uphold the Nazi occupation, these are my words. Each time I come to Giudecca, I become a different type of translator, one whose fiercely loyal passion for the Resistance is laid on a page for all of Venice to see. It’s one part СКАЧАТЬ