29
Dear Diary,
Last night, I read Jakob”s letter a hundred times. It was no more than four lines, written in haste and unfinished. It didn”t say where he was or where he’ll be taken to next. All he said was that he loved me and that we would see each other again. He repeated his promise to take me back to Spain, even if it was the last thing he ever did.
After reading it, I’ve been left with more questions than before. The last written word ends in a long streak of ink as if the paper had been snatched from his hands.
This missive makes me uneasy. I have a bad feeling, and the only thing that helps keep my hopes up is Miroslava”s prediction. It seems unbelievable that, at the time, I hated her so much for revealing it to us.
I need to know what has become of Jakob, and I”m afraid my only option is to go to the appointment that the Italian suggested. He’s the only one who might know something.
But is it safe to meet him? After all, he now works for Mussolini’s regime. Or so it seems.
I still remember the day when Jakob and I went together to see Mr. Rossi. Jakob wanted to offer me a new life in peace, leaving behind all links with one side or the other. We had heard terrible things during the trip, and, as much as the political convictions of the Yugoslavs were very different from those in Germany, Italy, and half of Spain, Jakob didn’t trust that we could live safely forever with a past like ours. We needed to become neutral and invisible.
Thanks to his contacts, he learned of the existence of a translator from Gorizia, who, apart from his ordinary services, could also provide false documents.
Gorizia was the last foreign stop of our journey. It was close to the border, and once there, we would cross into Yugoslavia to join Jakob”s family. Just a couple of days, and we would be safe.
We went to see the forger, terrified of falling into a trap after having survived a trip like that. Jakob insisted that it was a necessary evil.
Enzo Rossi seemed too young and gentrified to be a partisan. He was elegant, perfumed, perfectly shaved, and coiffed. Both his age and his refinement made me distrustful the second I clapped eyes on him.
Jakob emptied the change from his pockets onto the forger’s table and explained our predicament.
“I understand,” the translator replied, and I felt a little calmer when I saw that he spoke Spanish. “Shall I make up the last name? Or did you have anything in mind?”
He handed us a fake document so that we could scrutinize it up close. His work was remarkable, indistinguishable from the original.
“Put whatever you want, but make it sound Slavic and impossible to trace,” Jakob replied.
Enzo Rossi looked at us, silent. I wondered what he would think of us. Dirty, smelly, and haggard, with parchment-like clothes after the long journey. Jakob, tall and malnourished, with a long beard and a marked limp; me, with my dark, greasy hair and my tanned face, which gave away I was a foreigner even before I opened my mouth.
“What do you think of Br?ljan?” the man asked at last, with a triumphant air. “I think it would suit you. Br?ljan—the ivy,” he added, looking at me. “It always keeps growing, keeps climbing, even after an earthquake. It makes its way up to the sky, regardless of devastation or darkness. It takes care of itself, and it’s strong. I think it’s perfect.”
I felt as if he were reading those words from the very bottom of my heart. I looked at him with different eyes. The ivy. I liked it.
“Br?ljan...” Jakob repeated the word a couple of times, rolling it around on the tip of his tongue like someone checking the ripeness of an exotic fruit. “Fine. I will be Jakob Br?ljan.”
“And the lady?” Rossi continued. “What name shall we give her?”
“Maria del Carmen,” I answered without thinking.
“A beautiful name, but quite a giveaway, don’t you think?“ The Italian raised an eyebrow.
“Write Marija then,” Jakob interjected without waiting for my confirmation.
I shrugged. After what I had left behind, it was a small price to pay for a peaceful life.
“Marija and Jakob Br?ljan,” murmured the Italian, noting our new identity in his notebook. “Good choice. It suits you.”
Mr. Rossi handed us our papers, and we left with our heads down. I tried to pronounce my new name, but it was impossible. Five consonants in a row. Five. I would never learn to say it.
As Jakob stepped out into the street, a huge, spiky icicle as sharp as a sword broke off the roof and nearly stabbed him. He dodged it by a sheer miracle.
“I hope it”s not a sign,” I muttered, agitated.
“Everything will be fine, my love, don”t worry,” he reassured me.
On the way to the station, I couldn’t stop thinking about the irony of that piece of ice, which could have annihilated him in a second, all after having survived the trip and the bullets from the frontline. I imagined my fate in such a situation. Widowed and alone in an unknown country, where I didn’t speak the language or know anyone. For my own sake, I’d better take care of my new husband. I promised myself to always look after him because my life depended on it.
I took Jakob by the arm, and we made our way through the muddy, half-melted snow. Or the damned plundra, as they call it here. I kept him away from the treacherous overhangs and stuck to the outer edge of the sidewalk to keep him out of harm”s way.
The next day, we managed to get to Bled and, a few weeks later, to Ljubljana, where I became Marija Br?ljan, the seamstress.
I wish I could have kept him safe from his fate forever, but alas, I could not. I wish the only danger had been those long, sword-sharp icicles.
I must be true to my promise, dear diary, so it’s decided.
This afternoon, I’ll go to see the Italian, and may God help me.