The Venice Sketchbook(100)
Other than my daily report, I take care of my child, and I go for walks on fine days. The weather has been glorious lately. The swallows have returned, and I watch them wheeling and diving overhead, their high-pitched cries echoing above the buildings of the city. Most days I take Angelo in his pushchair to the nearby park to watch the pigeons or the boats passing along the Giudecca Canal. He has become too mobile and wants to run around and catch those pigeons. At least once a week, I go over to the Lido, now taking Angelo with me. Clearly the contessa adores Hanni, absolutely spoiling her, but nothing can make up for the fact that she misses her parents. She tries to be brave and grateful, but she is a sensitive child and worries a lot. Every now and then, she will ask about her family.
“Do you think my parents will ever make it to Venice now?” she asked me once, when we were in the middle of a card game. “Why don’t they write?”
“I’m sure they have tried to write to you, darling,” I said. “Perhaps they are not allowed to. Perhaps they do write and then the letters are taken at the border.”
“They are in danger, aren’t they?” she asked.
“They may be,” I agreed. There was no sense in giving her false hope. “That was why they sent you away when there was a chance.”
“Yes.” She went back to the card game. Hanni is making great strides with her Italian, and I help her with other schoolwork, too. She is very bright, and I hate to think of what she has lost. Surely in normal times she would have been headed for a university. Following her father, she is very musical and plays the piano well. Angelo is fascinated with the piano, and I love to see them together, Angelo seated on Hanni’s lap as she puts his chubby little fingers on the keyboard to play a nursery song and he looks up at her in wonder.
Such are the small memories I shall treasure forever. He will be a year old, and I know that I must hand him over soon. And then what? Then I must surely go to Switzerland and wait out the war there. It might be safe here now, but one never knows how soon things can change. As long as Leo is nearby, I don’t worry too much. He comes to visit often, usually bringing a toy, a cake, a pat of butter. Butter has all but disappeared from the shops. It’s only filthy-tasting margarine now. And meat is a rarity. None of this matters as my fake ration card has now expired and I rely on Francesca and the contessa to keep us in food. At least here in Venice we have our fish and our mussels and clams. I have learned to make Francesca’s linguine with clam sauce. She tried to show me how to make the spaghetti with seppie—the cuttlefish ink—but my memory of the disaster at the professor’s house is all too vivid.
May 3, 1941
We celebrated Angelo’s first birthday. Francesca baked a cake—a miracle with eggs and butter now being unavailable. I knitted him a stuffed bear with yarn from a jumper I no longer wore. It looked rather amateurish, but he seemed to like it. Leo came over for tea and cake and brought with him a wooden train set.
“It used to be mine,” he said. “He will have many toys when he comes over to our house. The time is now right, is it not?”
I looked at my son, sitting on the rug, pushing the engine around the floor and making the sort of noises that little boys make. “Can I come and visit him once he is with you?” I asked.
Leo frowned. “That would not be wise, I think. He is still young enough that he will forget. We can’t keep reminding him of the world he has lost. Let him embrace the new one, come to love his nursemaid and have me to adore him.”
“So I end up with nothing?” I heard my voice crack.
“I am sorry with all my heart, cara mia. But we have to do what is best for his future and his safety. What if you had to leave in a hurry in the middle of the night? What if, God forbid, the secret police came for you?” He saw the look of fear crossing my face. “While I am here I like to think you cannot be touched, but things are changing. My father has become disillusioned with Mussolini and is distancing himself, fearing that no good outcome will happen. So let us act while we can.”
He looked at me. I tried to nod and agree, but I couldn’t. “I love him so much, Leo.”
“I know. That’s why you can give him up. Because you love him.”
Angelo tottered over to Leo with the train in his hand and hauled himself up against Leo’s knee. “Papa,” he said, holding out the train.
“I will bring the papers over for you to sign,” he said. “Everything is ready for him.”
“Just give me time to say goodbye. Let me paint one last picture of him.”
“Of course.” He stood up, sweeping the boy into his arms. “I do not wish to cause you pain, Julietta. If there were any other way, I would do it. All I want is to keep you both safe.”
He handed Angelo to me, kissed the top of his head and then kissed me before he departed.
July 8, 1941
I haven’t seen Leo recently. I gather he has been busy on some kind of assignment he can’t tell me about. When he did drop in for a second or two, there was no mention about handing over Angelo. So far I haven’t managed to finish the painting. I wonder why. Then this evening, late, Leo arrived. He looked worried.
“Cara, I have to go away, tonight,” he said. “I couldn’t leave without telling you.”
“Where?” I asked.
“I cannot say. And I don’t know how long I will be gone. Take care.” He took me into his arms and kissed me with great passion. He released me, looked down into my face and then almost ran out of the door.