Page 9 of Daughter of Genoa
She smiled at me and I tried to smile back. She was being kind, I knew; more than kind, given everything she and Bernardo were doing for me. But something in me rebelled. What was the good in setting aside all my justified fears, in choosing to trust these people if they couldn’t bring themselves to trust me? What threat, exactly, did they think I posed to them and their operation? I went to bed that night feeling well and truly low, as angry and helpless as I had been since that horrible day when I ceased to exist in the eyes of the law.
It wasn’t long before everything changed.
*
A couple of days later, we were just finishing our meagre lunch when the shop doorbell rang, in three short bursts. Bernardo looked at Silvia. ‘Are we expecting someone?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Shall I…’
‘I’ll go.’ Bernardo got to his feet, putting his napkin down on the table next to his plate. He seemed impassive, but I’d learned by then that he was a man who grew quieter and stiller the more worried he was. He went out and I heard his slow, heavy footsteps on the stairs.
I felt cold. I stood without thinking and started towards the bathroom, but Silvia caught hold of my arm.
‘Wait.’
For an instant we stood there and listened. And then came the most welcome sound in the world: Bernardo saying gruffly, just as he’d said when I first arrived, ‘You didn’t warn us.’ I could hear a cultured male voice offering excuses.
Silvia let go of me and sank into her chair, covering her face with her hands. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘It’s quite all right. Oh, thank God, it’s only him.’
The stairs creaked, and she sprang up and began clearing the dishes away. I barely had time to help her before Bernardo cleared his throat behind us. I turned and saw him standing in the doorway next to an elegant man in his middle forties, clean-shaven and wearing large horn-rimmed spectacles. He had thick dark eyebrows and dark, swept-back hair touched with silver at the temples. And his eyes were extraordinary, even behind those ridiculous glasses: a deep liquid brown, sombre and watchful.
‘This is Mr X,’ Bernardo said, and the man made a small bow. ‘He’s a friend of ours, and he’s come to see if you need any help.’
I haven’t censored the man’s name. Bernardo really did call him Mr X. But the ruse was useless, because I knew exactly who he was. This was Massimo Teglio, the aviator, and I knew him because my little brother Filippo was mad about aeroplanes: an unusual obsession in our literary family. He had begged each of us in turn to take him to the Genoa Aero Club on one of its open days; my mother had finally relented, and Filippo had even been granted a short ride in Teglio’s seaplane. After that, the daredevil pilot with his neat moustache was firmly established as an object of worship. Filippo used to keep a scrapbook where he pasted in every clipping he could find, and in pride of place was a big newspaper photograph of Teglio alongside another flying ace: the Fascist hierarch Italo Balbo, Mussolini’s rival, freshly relegated to his final posting as Governor of Libya.
When my mother found that photograph, she carefully unstuck it from my brother’s scrapbook, cut it in half so that only Teglio remained, and glued it back in again. My brother was furious. I suspect he rather admired Balbo, who had made his Atlantic crossing the previous year, and he tried to argue that his feats in aviation were quite separate from his political record. My mother would not have it.
‘I don’t care what he does in the air,’ she said. She usually spoke quietly in a clipped, measured accent, but when she was angry she became exaggeratedly Italian, like someone doing a comic impression of a Genoese. ‘Nothing, nothing could excuse the things he’s done on the ground. Or have you forgotten the March on Rome? The murder of don Minzoni? I will not have that man celebrated, not in this house, not for anything. Andheshould know better than to consort with Fascists,’ she went on, tapping a disapproving finger against Teglio’s face in the photograph.
‘But Balbo doesn’t hate Jews,’ Filippo protested. ‘He wouldn’t fly with Teglio if he did.’
My mother shook her head. ‘I dare say he has his pets. He might even tolerate the Jews in Tripoli, if they don’t get in the way of his plans, but he wants to remake the world just the same as any other Fascist – and just as violently. No sensible man would have anything to do with him, and if you think otherwise, then I despair of your education.’
As I have said, my parents did not compromise. And now here was Massimo Teglio in front of me, trying his best not to look like Massimo Teglio. It made no sense. Teglio was Jewish, and therefore hunted. He was also a rich man, and even with Balbo gone he must still have had powerful friends. Why hadn’t he left? Why would he stay in Genoa, going about with glasses on and his moustache shaved off, when he could be safe in Switzerland by now?
Teglio gave me a brief, tight smile, and I realised that I was staring. I quickly looked down, and stood there while he removed his overcoat and sat down at the table, accepting a cup of tisane from Silvia. I didn’t know what to do with myself, and I missed my parents and brother terribly in that moment, as you might suddenly miss people who died years ago.
‘Won’t you have some tea, too?’ Silvia asked me. I shook my head, and she put a hand on my shoulder and gave it a pat. ‘Then I’ll leave you to it,’ she said, and hustled Bernardo out of the door before I could ask her to stay.
‘Do sit down, please,’ Teglio said, gesturing to the chair opposite him. I reluctantly sat, and he leaned back and looked at me. ‘Now, signora…’
‘Ricci,’ I said. ‘Marta Ricci.’
‘Signora Ricci, I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but given the circumstances… well, I’m glad you’re here, let’s put it that way. It’s a good thing you ran across Father Vittorio.’
‘You know him?’
‘Oh, yes. In fact, I’m substituting for him today. He was meant to come and drop this off.’ Teglio reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and brought out an envelope, which he handed to me. I opened it to find a new trimestral ration card, valid for the months of April through June, and a bundle of five- and ten-lire notes.
Whatever unease I felt about Teglio’s presence, in that moment, the sight of the ration card blotted it out. I had not seen one up close since the Germans came: obtaining one would have meant showing my false documents, and I tried to avoid that at all costs. The card bore an official stamp in purple ink, and some of the boxes for soap, sugar and fat had already been crossed off; which wasn’t surprising, since we were now some way into April. But the paper was pristine and unhandled, the ink clear and fresh as if recently printed. I couldn’t understand how Teglio had got hold of such a thing, or how he could walk around carrying it. If I had recognised him, then surely anyone might.
‘Silvia will do the shopping, of course,’ Teglio said. ‘Leave all that to her. You’ve landed among good people: the Waldensians are very sound. You might have spotted their church on the way here. You shouldn’t have to worry too much about the neighbours, but the usual security measures apply. Stay away from windows, keep as quiet as you can, and don’t go outside unless absolutely necessary. The nearest shelter’s across the road and up a few steps, which isn’t so bad. I presume they’ve shown you the escape route from the bathroom?’
‘Yes, they have.’
‘Splendid. Now, you should know that if anyone comes by who means to help you – Father Vittorio, say, or me – we’ll always ring the doorbell three times. Of course, we’ll try to send word we’re coming, but that isn’t always possible. The best procedure is to assume that any unheralded visitor is a potential threat. If Bernardo happens to be downstairs…’
I tried to listen as I knew I ought, but my attention was already pulling away from him. I couldn’t stop looking at the ration card, turning it over in my hands. After a year and a half of begging and bargaining for whatever scraps of food I could get, simply to have one was miracle enough. But its strange perfection set my mind racing. I felt sure that if I brought it to my nose, I’d smell fresh ink and warm paper: the same smell that drifted up from the shop downstairs.
