Mandy Robotham - The Secret Messenger

‘Thankfully my radio equipment fared better than me and it’s intact,’ he adds. ‘Would you be willing to transport it across to the main island?’

I think of how big the equipment might be, how I will hide it and look in no way suspicious. A larger bag would almost certainly be searched by a fascist patrol. Even in the gloom, this man sees the working of my mind.

‘Don’t worry, it comes apart in multiple pieces,’ he says. I see the white of his teeth in his smile. It’s nice. He looks friendly, genuine.

‘How small?’ I wonder.

‘I can make each package small enough for your handbag, at worst a small shopping bag. But it will mean several trips.’

‘I’m here on Giudecca twice a week, but I can easily manage another trip,’ I say, not daring to think how I will fit it into my life.

‘Well, I’m not going anywhere, not for a while,’ he quips, and taps the brace on his useless leg. I feel sorry for him, trapped in this dank hole. He’s undoubtedly well looked after by the sisters, but he must be bored stiff.

‘Is there anything I can bring you? Books, or a newspaper?’ I offer.

His face lights up. ‘A book would be wonderful, even a cheap thriller would lift my head out of here for a while.’

I get up to go, and hold out my hand to shake his. ‘I can be back in two days. Is that enough time to get the first parcel ready?’

‘Plenty,’ he replies. ‘I look forward to it …’ and he’s clearly hanging out for my name.

I look at him intently – the expression that says no names are safer.

‘Please,’ he says. ‘Listen, I’m a sitting duck here. I don’t think names between us will make much difference. It’s just nice to have contact with the outside world.’

‘Stella,’ I say after a pause, for no other reason than I think I can trust him.

‘Jack,’ he offers back, still holding onto my fingers.

‘Jack? Surely that’s English?’

‘Which I am – sort of. It’s Giovanni, really. But everyone at home calls me Jack. Except my mother, of course.’

The perfect Italian with a foreign accent suddenly fits into place, and the fact that he’s part of an Allied operation.

‘Seemingly, they thought I would be better equipped to blend in, with having Italian parents,’ he adds. ‘Only they didn’t reckon my coming down on some very hard Italian stone. Just my luck.’

I find it difficult to concentrate as I return to the bar and descend into the cellar. Arlo is already starting to lay some pages – I have to work fast to catch up. At the back of my mind, projecting a very distinct image, is this evening’s earlier meeting – both Jack, and the job ahead of me. Every time I make the journey over to Giudecca I’m breaking fascist law, since even owning a wireless tuned into Radio Londra can earn you jail time. Being caught creating anti-fascist propaganda will undoubtedly result in far worse than that. Each paper message I transport is heavily weighted contraband, and yet it has never felt dangerous, or potentially fatal. It’s just what I do. I wonder if adding one more task is pushing my luck? And whether I will live – or die – regretting it?

It seems like a lengthy wait until my next visit to Giudecca – to Jack and the task ahead of me in transporting his handmade receivers. Luckily, Mimi is there to distract me.

‘So, come on, tell me all,’ my oldest and best friend says as we nestle into the corner space of a crowded bar in the Santa Croce district. It’s tucked down a side street and not widely known by Nazi or fascist soldiers. Still, we’re careful to keep our voices low, hunkering under a fog of cigarette smoke for cover. Mimi’s big eyes are even wider than normal, her painted red lips pursed in anticipation. With her near-black curls, she often reminds me of the American cartoon character, Betty Boop, though Mimi is infinitely more beautiful.

‘I’ve made contact with an Allied soldier, and I’m to transport some vital packages,’ I tell her. Saying it aloud still makes me fizzle with both nerves and excitement, and I can see Mimi – a seasoned Staffetta herself – is impressed. I tell her why the soldier can’t deliver the radios himself and she’s aghast at the story. Since Mimi also has a reputation as a shameless matchmaker, I brush her off when she asks whether Jack is good-looking, saying simply, ‘He’s very grubby.’

For all her flightiness, Mimi understands the risk I’m taking. ‘Be careful,’ she says, although she knows I will be, as we all are – have been trained to be. We are all too aware of the consequences of being caught; man, woman or child, the Nazi and fascist regimes are uncompromising when it comes to betrayal.

Being with Mimi, full of fun and smiles, and talking about her latest flirtations, is the release I need when I’m holding myself in for days at a time, strapping myself into a straitjacket of a different persona, whether it’s at the Reich office or slipping into another guise as a Resistance messenger. It’s good to feel like the real Stella, even for just a few hours, and we dip into what I’ve come to think of as ‘normal conversation’, events untouched by war – the handsome operator at the telephone exchange where she works by day, and her plans to secure his affections. ‘You’re incorrigible,’ I say to her, although I’m full of admiration for Mimi’s ability to rise above the dense cloud of conflict. She’s not unaffected, but she refuses to let it crush her natural optimism.

‘You never know, my current fancy could well have a nice friend,’ she says with mischief.

‘Stop that, Mimi!’ I chide her. While I’m not averse to having someone in my life, I just can’t fit them into it right now.