Mandy Robotham - The Secret Messenger

And now, thanks to maintaining that low profile, I am here, about to enter the lion’s den; my transfer to Nazi High Command – the Reich headquarters – has been requested because of my fluent German, although the move couldn’t be more timely or fortuitous. Or intimidating.

Beyond the grand exterior near the Correr Museum in San Marco, I present my pass from the works department and a young German soldier runs down a list for my name. He seems pleased to find it.

‘Up the stairs, first door on your right,’ he says in faltering Italian.

‘Thank you, I’ll find it,’ I say in German and he smiles his embarrassment. Poor boy, he’s no more than a child, perhaps the same age as my brother, Vito. Too young for this, both of them.

The office at the top of the sweeping marble stairway is behind a large, ornately carved door. It’s filled with desks in a strict formation, the opulent walls of the vast room deadened by the austere dark wooden furniture and the Nazi icons dotted around. A fierce clattering of typewriters hits me like a wave and I’m briefly startled. I must have shown it because a man approaches – I can tell from his face and his civilian clothes that he’s Italian, and I’m surprised again, though pleased too. Even now, a stark Nazi uniform makes me pull in a short breath and I feel a guilt rising in me, although I’ve become adept at hiding it.

‘Morning. Can I help you?’ the man, in his well-cut grey suit, says in Italian. He’s not Venetian; his accent says he’s from the south. Tall and with a short, dark beard – in his early thirties I guess – he looks immediately out of place amid the military surroundings, reminding me of an academic or librarian. His whole demeanour is Italian; it’s only the tiny metal pin on his jacket lapel – the jawless death’s head insignia – that tells me he is a fascist too. A paid-up member of Mussolini’s gang. In any other scenario, I might have thought him attractive, but here, he is marred by his allegiance.

‘I’ve been sent here by the works department – as a typist and translator,’ I venture, holding out my references. ‘Am I in the right office?’

He scans the papers, holding them closer to his face, and I notice his large brown eyes scanning the script.

‘Welcome Signorina Jilani,’ he says. ‘Yes, you’ve found the right place. I’ll show you to your desk.’

He turns and leads me towards the back of the room, passing a vacant desk with a silent typewriter upon it. Backing onto a wall entirely shelved with books and files, he gestures to an empty desk with a large machine to the side.

‘There, that’s for you,’ he says.

‘Oh, I thought I would be over there with the other typists,’ I say, casting a backwards glance. The desire to blend in is well grounded in me.

‘Well, as you’ll be translating for General Breugal, I thought it would be better if you were nearer his office’ – he nods his head slightly towards a closed door, even larger and more ornately carved than the last – ‘since he has a tendency to be a little brief when it comes to instructions. I can’t see him striding across the office ten times a day – he would get a bit annoyed about that. It will hopefully spare you some of his …’ he falters over the next word carefully … ‘irritation.’

He smiles as he says it, an embarrassed offering, perhaps because he’s betrayed a little of his opinion of the general, in painting him as some blustering despot. Except the general’s reputation is anything but – a despot, yes, but his cruelty is already well known within the Resistance.

‘Well, thank you for that in advance,’ I say. I’m genuinely grateful, since the last thing I want to do is attract any unwanted attention. I’m here to type, to translate and to absorb what will help the partisan Resistance wage war with effective sabotage against our German trespassers. But I’m also here to be utterly compliant, in office hours at least.

‘Marta will show you the bathroom and the canteen, and I will arrange a meeting with General Breugal when he arrives shortly.’

I nod, and he turns to go. ‘Oh, and by the way, my name is Cristian – Cristian De Luca – under-secretary to the general, admin mostly. Civilian.’ He adds the last part most definitely, as if he doesn’t want me to guess he’s a card-carrying fascist. As if by not wearing a black shirt and donning a dark ski cap, he’s not part of the bully brigade. But I know plenty of innocents who have been condemned by a typewriter, by being on a list. I have to remind myself that what I’m doing is not collaborating – my Resistance commander assures me the information I can absorb will save many more lives than I could ever condemn.

‘Please come to me if you need anything, or you have a problem.’ Cristian De Luca smiles weakly, but even his friendly eyes don’t convince me. I nod again and return his expression, because that’s what I’m supposed to do.

I have time enough to meet some of the other typists over tea before I’m called in through the foreboding door. I grab the pen and notebook on my desk, not knowing whether it’s simply an interview or if I’m expected to begin work immediately. Beyond the door, the walk towards the desk is a long one as the office is vast, with high ceilings and walls crawling with carved plaster figures. My eye is drawn to the overly large picture of the Führer placed over the grand fireplace. His expression in such portraits never ceases to make me laugh inside, as though he’s swallowed too much of my mother’s chilli pasta and is feeling the effects on his digestion. There’s an unmistakable stench of cigar smoke, and the winter sun streaming through the tall windows creates 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.