The Garden of Letters (11 page)

Verona, Italy

J
UNE
1943

Elodie was not so beautiful that the other girls were jealous of her. She dressed so modestly, and her body was so slender and without curves that her only striking feature was the intensity of her eyes. But this was a benefit to her work for the group—a cloak of plainness that enabled her to walk undetected through the streets of Verona, not a single man lifting his head in her direction. For Lena, it was far more difficult. She was harassed constantly. The soft, protruding pillow of her breasts, the roundness of her hips, and the elevated shelf of her buttocks, were all physical attributes that made her far more likely to draw attention. Aware of this, Lena tried to dress as modestly as possible, choosing primarily drab shirtdresses or the standard white blouse and navy skirt. But still she caught the eyes of the men who sat in the café calling out to girls as if it were a sport.

Most of the other girls who volunteered were handed books that contained small coded messages, just as Elodie and Lena had first been given. The others, who traveled on bicycle, were able to carry their messages in other clever ways. The men removed the rubber stops at the end of each handlebar and inserted the scrolled paper. The girls pedaled through the streets, committed to their delivery. They were never told the content of the messages, even if they asked.

“We’re doing you a favor, by maintaining your ignorance,” the men told them. “We can’t take the risk that you might divulge something if you are ever interrogated. It’s best to keep you in the dark.”

The girls did not insist, and continued to do as they were told. They reveled in the excitement of having an assignment for the cause, which contrasted so sharply to the routine of their lives. At home, their mothers expected them to help with the laundry and do schoolwork. They felt a freedom, and even a sense of power, when ferrying secret information that needed to be delivered to help liberate Italy.

A few weeks later, the girls entered the back of the bookstore to attend one of the meetings, but arrived in the middle of a heated discussion. “We’re hearing from our comrades that we should be expecting a German invasion by the fall and that we need to be prepared. Our men are starting to get ready in the mountains. We’re going to start organizing delivery of guns, ammunition, and more supplies to them,” a voice said from the crowd.

Luca agreed. “My brother’s already scouting the mountains with Darno Maffini. Berto is arranging contacts in France. All of us here in the city need to be efficient and organized. They’re counting on us to get them what they need.”

A large, stocky man in overalls was standing in the front, trying to get his point across. “Yes . . . Luca’s right. We need to start preparing before winter comes and access becomes too difficult.”

“And what about men? There aren’t nearly enough of us . . .”

“We need to think about getting more women involved . . .”

“Too dangerous!” someone barked back. “Would you want your own sister in the line of fire? Think about what those pigs would do to one of them in a holding cell.”

Beppe, one of the key organizers, tried to settle the crowd. “Listen, we can’t deny the danger. That is a fact. But we also know the women of Verona are fed up with war.”

Someone in the background snickered. “They can gladly take their husbands, but not their sons!”

Beppe smiled. “Well, that’s true. That’s why they’re getting angrier.” He leaned over the crowded table. “But let’s be serious. Our own mothers and sisters have been selfless for years in the name of Italy. But now they are becoming disillusioned. They see their conditions deteriorating. The milk and food for their children being rationed, their shelves nearly bare. Mussolini promised them a strong, united Fatherland, and they are tired of receiving nothing but empty promises for their hardship.”

“Our own partisan, Jurika, in the mountains now, enlisted with us because her brother was sent to Africa and came back with an amputated leg and no money to provide for his family. He shot himself in the head, just so his mother and sister could get his pension. And the state tried to refuse him even that on the grounds of his suicide.”

“We have two other women in our room today who want to help!” a voice shouted.

Elodie and Lena could feel all the eyes of the room suddenly turn to them. Brigitte Lowenthal wasn’t in attendance and the girls were the only females in the room. It was Luca’s voice that had pointed them out.

“These young girls want to save Italy as much as we do!” His voice was so impassioned, it gave Elodie goose bumps.

As everyone craned their necks to gain a view of Elodie and Lena, both girls blushed in embarrassment. Then Lena’s strong voice filled the air.

“It’s true. I would die for Italy! And my friend here saw her own father dragged from his house and beaten by the Fascists.”

Beppe stood up and clapped his hands to silence the room.

“We will get the job done. We will get the guns to our men. We will sabotage the rails and intercept deliveries. We will find ways to be more cunning . . . one step ahead of them, even when we have less manpower. Let’s put our heads together, make full use of our talents, and figure out how to stop this bloody regime!”

The room exploded with applause and cheer.

“They better quiet themselves down.” Elodie looked at Lena, revealing her apparent alarm. “What if someone hears all the noise and reports it?”

But Lena wasn’t listening. She appeared to have become completely enraptured by Beppe’s speech.

“I wish he wouldn’t wear those overalls,” Lena whispered. “Otherwise, that’s a man whom even I could cook pasta for at night.”

Elodie smiled. The thought of Lena cooking pasta for anyone seemed comical.

“Maybe you should offer to play your viola for him. I think you’d have more luck winning his heart with your music than with your cooking.”

Lena shot Elodie a bemused look. “And Luca? Are you going to offer to play your cello?”

Elodie stared ahead, a thin ribbon of a smile crossing her lips. “I won’t offer anything. But I will do whatever I’m asked.”

Elodie and Lena found themselves increasingly busy as summer began, even without their classes at the Liceo Musicale. They would go every Wednesday to Luca’s bookstore. Luca would always greet them at his front desk. If there were customers already in the store, he would wait until they had left before taking the girls to the back room.

“My music girls,” he would say and smile. His smile lingered a bit longer on Elodie. “Too bad all your heart goes into your instruments . . .”

Elodie raised her eyebrow.

He laughed, drawing back the curtain of the storeroom that they knew so well from the meetings.

Elodie had yet to see the room without anyone in it, and she was surprised to find it now so still and empty.

They followed Luca to the shelves in the far corner, pushing past the chairs and leftover debris from the last meeting.

“I’m glad the two of you have passed the first round of tests,” he said.

“Tests? What tests?” Elodie seemed confused.

“The last envelopes we asked you to deliver were actually blank . . . But you got them to where they needed to go, so now we know we can trust you with larger assignments.”

Lena’s face curled.

“Don’t act so insulted.” He laughed. “We do it with everyone.”

“They just need to be cautious,” Elodie said, touching Lena’s arm. “It makes sense.”

“I knew you’d understand the logic, Elodie. Thank you.”

“Well, now that we’ve passed, what’s our next assignment?”

Luca now stood on his tiptoes and pulled down two books from one of the shelves.

“Beppe prepared these last night, so they’re all set.”

He spoke first to Lena.

“Take yours to the bar on the northeast corner of the Piazza San Zeno. There will be a man reading a book with a green cover at the table in the back. Sit down. Order a drink. Finish it. He will come over to you, place his book down on the counter, and pretend to flirt with you. You will get up, take his book seemingly by accident, and leave yours on the table.” He paused. “That’s it. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Lena replied.

“Repeat it back to me,” Luca said to her. “Slowly. I want to make sure you have everything right.”

“I take this book to the bar on the northeast corner of Piazza Erbe . . .”

“Stop!” Luca held up his hand to prevent Lena from going any further.

“What’s the matter? Didn’t you say northeast corner of Piazza Erbe?”

“I said the northeast corner of Piazza San Zeno!”

“Oh.” Lena blushed. “I’m sorry. I must have heard you wrong.”

Luca tried to hide his agitation. “Try again.”

“I take this book to the northeast corner of Piazza San Zeno. I go to the back and look for a man reading a book with a green cover. I order a drink. Finish it, and then after a few minutes, I take the book he was reading, leaving mine on the table.”

“Yes. Exactly.” He handed over a book with a red cover to Lena.

“Now, you.” Luca looked Elodie straight in the eyes. She was mesmerized how his left one seemed to sparkle in the light and his right one seemed to absorb the shadow.

“You will go to 7 Via Fogge. It’s a small tailor shop. The owner will be sitting in front of a sewing machine, making pillows. You go to him with the book in your hands, and tell him your mother sent you to ask how much it would cost to make three square pillows for her if she provides the fabric. He will tell you the price. He will then ask you the title of the book you are reading and whether it is any good. Tell him the title and mention that you wept during chapter thirty-three. After you finish your brief conversation, place the book down on the table next to him, pick up one of the pillows, and make some comment about its beauty. Then leave, pretending to have forgotten the book.

“Now, let’s see if you got it right.”

Elodie smiled.

“I will go to 7 Via Fogge. There, I will find a tailor shop. The owner will be sitting at a sewing machine, making pillows. I go to him with the book in my hands, and tell him my mother would like to know the price for him to make three square pillows for her if she provides the fabric. He will tell me the price. He will then ask me the title of the book I’m reading and ask me if it’s any good. I will tell him the title”—Elodie lifted the book—“and mention that I wept on chapter thirty-three. After we finish our brief conversation, I will place the book down on the table next to him, pick up one of the pillows, and make some comment about their beauty. Then I will leave, pretending to have forgotten the book.”

“Perfect!” Luca said exuberantly. “Perfect.”

Lena reached over to touch her friend’s shoulder. “What did I say at that first meeting? Elodie’s memory is extraordinary.”

The others in their group soon learned about her memory. The cellist. The slender girl with the black hair and green eyes. The girl who said very little but could recite anything back with razorlike precision. They marveled at Elodie’s capacity to recite entire passages of Dante’s
Inferno
, a whole chapter verbatim except for the three words that Beppe had changed for the sake of a code.