The Garden of Letters (13 page)

Verona, Italy

J
ULY
1943

Elodie and Lena were changing from girls to young women. Even Elodie, who had never seen herself as a siren, now felt she was being treated differently. The girls noticed that with the success of every mission, the men treated them with more respect. Lena now hoped they would help her get the necessary counterfeit papers for the Morettis.

No longer did the importance of a resistance group seem abstract. On the streets, people were more anxious than ever. The fear that the German army may invade at any moment was ever more palpable.

Berto Zampieri had just returned to Verona from a secret mission in Paris, where he met with members of the French Resistance. During a meeting in Luca’s bookstore, he informed everyone that the Germans had already started deploying troops into Italy.

“We can’t wait any longer,” Beppe told the group. “We need to get organized. Establish our men in the mountains. Get the provisions ready. Make our connections with the villagers up there who will help us.”

There was a rumbling through the room. “Quiet!” Luca bellowed. “Let Beppe speak!”

“Every one of you is valuable to our mission. We will be talking with you all individually over the next few days about how to best use your assets and connections to our advantage.”

Lena looked at Elodie and raised an eyebrow. Her eyes were ablaze.

Elodie could see that Lena didn’t seem nervous at all. On the contrary, Lena looked as though it was the night before Christmas. She was radiant and smiling.

Two days later, Lena met with Beppe in a café nearby. She came alone. “The men who have already gone to the mountains now need ammunition and grenades,” he told her. He asked Lena if she’d be willing to undertake a mission.

He told her she could tell no one. They would give her a small shopping basket of vegetables with grenades hidden underneath. She would have to carry it several miles, past Fascist police who might ask to look inside her basket.

“You will not only risk death if you’re discovered,” Beppe told her. “Before they shoot you, they could do things to you that are worse than death.” He looked at her with grave seriousness, never once blinking his eyes. “It is essential that you understand the risk before you take this on.”

Lena looked squarely back at him. “I’ll do it. Just tell me when and where.”

A few days later, she was given the basket. On top, someone had put a head of lettuce, a cluster of tomatoes, and a loaf of bread. Underneath were eight hand grenades. The weight of the basket was substantial.

“Lena, you cannot let on that the basket is so heavy,” Beppe instructed her. “You don’t want some man to offer to carry it for you. I want to see that you can lift it now, without showing any physical strain.”

Lena walked over to the basket and raised it. She was used to carrying her viola everywhere, so this delivery seemed quite manageable.

“I can do this,” she said. “Just tell me where I have to go.”

“You need to pass the amphitheater, cross the Piazza Bra, then take Via Roma to reach Castelvecchio. There you will cross the bridge, walk for several meters through the Campagnola area, until you find a park. Someone will meet you there. He will be sitting on a park bench reading a copy of the
Inferno
. You are to sit on the bench and place the shopping basket on the ground. After a few moments, he will get up and take your basket. You are to distract yourself by looking at the children playing in the playground. Do not look in his direction until he has walked away.

“He will leave the copy of the
Inferno
on the bench. You are to take that home with you and give it to me.” Beppe cleared his throat. “Is that clear?”

Lena nodded. “Yes. I understand what I have to do.”

“One other thing,” Beppe said. His hand reached out to touch her shoulder, but she moved, and his fingers accidentally touched the skin below the short sleeve of her blouse. She shivered.

“Yes . . .”

“If they arrest you, they will interrogate you. And they will use brutal measures . . .” He didn’t need to elaborate any further; she knew very well what they could do to her. It was beyond words.

“But no matter what they do to you, it’s essential you don’t give any information about who you are working for. Do you understand?”

“I will tell them the truth, Beppe.” She looked him straight in the eyes and he felt heat pouring out from her, as though her gaze had the capacity to scorch his skin. “That I did this completely and wholly by myself and for Italy.”

She walked with the bag for what seemed like over an hour. In agony from the weight, she did her best not to show the strain. Through the streets, past the amphitheater, along Via Roma, and across the Adige River. When she got to the third crossing, Fascist police were there checking people’s papers.

She stood on line with her basket. The lettuce was beginning to wilt, and the tomatoes were sun-ripened and fragrant from the heat. Below, the grenades were getting heavier.

She was wearing a light blue dress and her hair looked even blonder from the sun.

“Where are you going?” one of the police asked. He took a rifle and pointed it at her bag. He looked at her and smiled again. “And
what
do you have there?”

She smiled coquettishly. “What does it look like, Officer? Bombs, of course!”

He laughed and made a lewd gesture.
Bombe,
he said, the Italian slang for breasts.

But Lena didn’t reprimand him. She gave him her heartiest laugh, which delighted him even more.

“You’re a spunky one. I like that! Would you want to go to a movie with me sometime?”

Inside Lena was shaking, but she kept her arm straight with her dangerous package and her smile firmly on her face.

“Maybe,” she said. “But I have to get this to my grandmother before lunch. You’ll have to catch me another time.”

“I’ll be here waiting,” he said. She noticed that he winked at her as he waved her through.

Lena was unable to keep her latest mission a secret from Elodie. The story was too good not to relay to someone.

“When I told him I was carrying bombs, he just laughed!”

“Oh my god, you’re just lucky he didn’t take a look inside your basket!” Elodie gasped. She was shocked by her friend’s brazenness. She could never have pulled off something like that.

“I had a backup plan, if he did that,” Lena said, laughing. She took a finger and with a quick flip was able to knock the button of her blouse out of its loop.

“I would have leaned over and let him peek into something else instead of the basket.”

Elodie shook her head. “I would never be as good as you under pressure . . . and I certainly don’t have those to fall back on!” She pointed to her friend’s generous cleavage.

They both laughed, before Elodie suddenly grew serious.

“We shouldn’t take this lightly, Lena. We both know that had he not fancied you, you could have been discovered and shot!”

Lena looked at her friend and nodded. “Now that it’s over, it almost doesn’t seem real. It feels more like a dream. But you’re right.”

“I know I’m right,” Elodie said. “I wonder if they’re going to ask me to deliver grenades, or if they think I’m not competent enough . . .”

Lena looked at her friend. “Honestly, I think they realize you’re capable of carrying more important things. Your memory is an enormous asset to them, and they fully realize that. Think about how they’ve already been able to give you with so much coded information.”

Elodie smiled. “Who knew the Venetian in me would be so helpful . . .”

Lena raised an eyebrow. “What’s the Venetian connection?”

Elodie shrugged. “I’m not sure. But my mother says if Venetians see something once, they never forget it.”

Verona, Italy

J
ULY
1943

Elodie busied herself with her family while waiting for Luca or Beppe to call on her. Finally, the cast on her father’s leg was removed and both Elodie and Orsina were shocked by the wrinkled flesh of his calf. The muscles had atrophied to such an extent that his leg was now as thin as one of Elodie’s arms.

“You have to use those crutches . . . You must get around and move,” Doctor Tommasi told him. “You won’t ever be able to get back to the Liceo Musicale at this rate.”

On the way out, the doctor chastised Orsina for not being more forceful with him. “You need to make him walk a little each day. He’ll lose all mobility if he doesn’t get out of the bed.”

Orsina shook her head. “I’ve tried, Doctor, but . . .”

“I know it’s hard, but try and help him. He’s lucky to be alive.”

Orisna wiped her eyes. “I know you’re right. I will work on getting him moving around as soon as I can.”

“Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.” He kissed Orsina on both cheeks. “I’ll come by next week to check on him.”

“Thank you, Doctor. You’ve always been so kind,” she said, walking him to the door. “I hope we’ll all be in better shape when you come for your next visit.”

The next day, Pietro moved from the bed to the kitchen table. Even without the cast, he still needed crutches.

To see her father in such a frail and weakened condition upset Elodie greatly.

“I hate seeing you like this,” she said, coming over to where he now sat slowly reading the morning headlines. She began to rub her father’s shoulders.

“Tell me, Papa, when do you think all this is going to end?”

“When they shoot Mussolini, that’s when . . .” her father answered.

“Pietro!” her mother whispered, but her tone was severe. “Use a lower voice. I’ll die if you’re arrested again!”

“Let’s hope the partisans get him sooner rather than later,” he said as he placed the paper on the table. “Who knows what will happen in the next few weeks? There is talk they are going to close the Liceo Musicale.”

“Is that true, Papa?” Elodie couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“If it becomes too unsafe here, yes, it is possible.”

Elodie was in shock. And for the first time in her life, Elodie wondered if there was a place for music in all this chaos and war.