The Garden of Letters by Alyson Richman Page A

parents.”
    “We’re not little schoolgirls,” Lena snaps. “We’re old enough to be married!”
    “And how old is that?”
    “Nineteen,” Elodie replies for her friend.
    “Nearly twenty,” Lena shoots back.
    “Well,” he says, smiling at both of them. “You now have two jobs then: Give out those papers and then go find a husband.”
    He walks over to a huge stack of flyers and lifts them, his arms stiffening from the weight. There is a flicker, like a branch of blue lightning, that runs through the veins of his neck.
    Elodie and Lena open their arms and receive their parcels.
    “Tell me,” he says, “which would be a heavier responsibility? This or a husband?”
    Lena is the first to respond.
    “A husband, of course!” She let out an enormous laugh. “At least we can give these flyers away and then be done with them!”
    The three of them continued to laugh until Elodie looks up and sees Jurika walking toward them. She says nothing to Luca, nor to Elodie or Lena.
    With a quick, deft movement, she reaches into her pocket and withdraws a cap, which she immediately pulls over her eyes. Without a trace of femininity in her look or in her gait, she turns from them and walks out the door.

    The next week, after having successfully distributed their pamphlets, the girls return to Luca’s store.
    When they enter, a little chime sounds from above the door. Luca is on his knees, uncrating a box of books. He looks up; his eyes pass over Lena then focus on Elodie.
    “The two musicians,” he says.
    “The bookseller,” Elodie answers.
    Lena shoots her a glance, showing her surprise at Elodie’s answer.
    Luca stands up from his crate. He is taller than she remembered. He wears the same brown apron he was wearing the first time they met. There is a small notebook in the center pocket, a pencil behind his ear.
    “I’m sorry. We weren’t properly introduced the last time.” He extends his hand to her. “Luca Bianchi.”
    “Elodie Bertolotti,” she answers. She feels a tingle in her fingers as he grips her hand in his.
    “Elodie?” A quizzical expression washes over him. “I have never heard that name before.”
    “Yes, it’s French. My mother chose it.”
    “Is your mother French?” He smiles again. “We could use a French speaker. We’re trying to learn as much as we can from the French Resistance.”
    Elodie laughs. “No, my mother’s Venetian, and if you met her, you wouldn’t think her a prime candidate for the Resistance.”
    “You might be surprised,” he tells her. He raises an eyebrow and his voice betrays a hint of flirtation. “We even have some gondoliers . . .”
    Elodie nods, impressed. “I had no idea.”
    “Well, regardless, your name is beautiful. It suits you.”
    “Thank you,” she says, blushing from his attention.
    Out of the corner of her eye, Elodie could see Lena’s eyes rolling.
    “Well, this is all very interesting . . .” Lena interrupts, “but we have a lot to report. Are the others here yet?”
    “A few are in the back, but we’re still waiting for most of them.”
    He smiles at Elodie and she finds herself hesitating as Lena begins to walk into the back room.
    “Will you tell me what instrument you play?”
    She smiles, touched at his curiosity about her. “The cello.”
    “Again, you surprise me.” He lets out a small laugh. “Such a big and serious instrument.”
    She feels the touch of his hand, a feather-light sensation at the small of her back, gently ushering her into the back room.

    The men seem satisfied by Lena’s reporting of their pamphlet distribution.
    “We need to be saturating the university,” someone suggests. “At least there, some are not afraid to fight the Fascists.”
    A few people agree, but others argue among themselves about where they can find more support.
    Finally Luca stands up and says he has an announcement.
    “Our head leadership has told us repeatedly it’s essential we find new and innovative ways to