The Venice Sketchbook(96)

“To whom do I broadcast? And what do I say?”

“Patience, dear lady. All will be made clear,” he said.

I went back into the kitchen and poured two cups of tea, then carried them back on a tray to where we’d been sitting. Mr Sinclair took a sip and gave a sigh of satisfaction.

“Ah, tea that tastes like tea. One thing I shall enjoy when I get home.”

I took a drink myself and waited.

He put the cup down. “Do you know Morse code?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“I’ll get a booklet over to you. Learn it as soon as possible. Along with the radio, you will receive a codebook. You will keep that hidden apart from the radio, in a place where nobody would think of looking. Your messages will be sent in code. For example, if you see two destroyers, you might say, ‘Granny is not feeling well today.’”

“And if the Germans break the code?”

“The codes will be changed frequently. You will not know in advance how you’ll receive a new booklet. Maybe a package from your auntie in Rome with recipes in it.” He shrugged. “Our secret service is highly resourceful. The good thing is that you will never have to make personal contact with anyone, so should you be questioned, you will not have to worry about betrayal.”

“That sounds so reassuring,” I said drily and saw the twitch of a smile on his lips.

He took another sip, then put down his cup once more. “One more thing,” he said. “You will need a code name for communication. What do you suggest?”

I stared out across the canal. A cargo ship was moving slowly past. Was I mad to agree to this? “My name is Juliet,” I said, “so my code name could be Romeo.”

“Romeo. I like it.” He laughed. “I should take my leave now. As you can imagine, there is a lot to pack up and dispose of after ten years here. May I have my unused food sent over to you? And wine? I’m afraid you’ll not have an easy time of getting food in the future.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’d appreciate it.”

“Anything else you might need that I’ll have to leave behind? Blankets? An electric fire?”

“That would be wonderful,” I said. “Who knows if coal will be rationed?”

“I’ll see what I can do, then.” He held out his hand to me. “Good luck, Miss Browning. I think you’ll need it.”





CHAPTER 38


Juliet, Venice, June 20, 1940

This morning I went out to stock up on food before rationing begins in earnest, leaving Angelo asleep with Francesca in charge. It felt good to be out in the fresh air with the warm sun on me, and I lingered as I walked along the Zattere. A navy vessel approached from the dock area, reminding me of what I had agreed to do. Why hadn’t I simply refused? Now I might have put myself and my son in danger. But I had been brought up to do the right thing, hadn’t I?

I turned off the broad waterfront and was making my way down a side canal to where a vegetable barge was usually moored when two men in uniform came towards me. They were carabinieri, not normally seen in the city, where the city police operate. I went to walk past. But one grabbed my arm.

“You,” he said, using the familiar form of the word. “Where is your identity card?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t bring it with me,” I lied, trying to make my accent sound Venetian.

“Didn’t you hear the directive that identity cards are to be carried at all times?” He was blocking my way forward.

“I’m sorry. I’ll do better,” I said.

“You’ll come with me,” he said.

“I’ve done nothing.”

The older of the two, a big dark swarthy man, stepped up into my face. “Someone mentioned you are the Englishwoman. An enemy alien. You will be taken to a camp.”

“No,” I said, struggling to free myself. “Let go of me. You are making a mistake.”

The two men were grinning as if they were enjoying this.

“You have the wrong person. I live here.”

Suddenly there was a shout, and we looked up to see a large woman barrelling towards us, waving her hand in a threatening manner. “Let go of her at this moment, you Sicilian bullies,” she shouted. “You leave her alone, do you hear?”

“Go about your business, woman,” the man who held me said.

“I will not, until you let me take her home. This is the young lady who saved my life when the bridge collapsed at the Festa of the Redentore last year—but of course you wouldn’t know about that, would you? Coming from so far away from our city. She held me above water, and I didn’t drown. An angel. And I won’t let you touch her, isn’t that right, sisters?”

A crowd had gathered, many of them women.

“That’s right,” another said. “Leave her alone, or you’ll have to deal with us.”

“Don’t think you can come into Venice and start throwing your weight around,” a third said, stepping within inches of his face. “We are not Palermo or Messina here. We are civilized people. Go back where you came from.”

“Step back or you could get in trouble,” he said, but he didn’t sound quite as aggressive.

“And you could get thrown into that canal.”