The Venice Sketchbook(106)
“Definitely. Neither should my grandmother. It will remain our secret.” She paused, then said, “When would you like to go to scatter your grandmother’s ashes?”
They waited for the first fine afternoon. His boat sped them to the Giardini. They walked together amid the swirls of dying leaves until they stopped and both said, “Oh” at the same time. There was the sad statue, now missing more fingers, its legs weathered from the salty wind, almost swallowed behind large bushes and a towering tree. Caroline opened the little urn and tipped out some of the contents, slowly, reverently. “Goodbye, dear Aunt Lettie,” she whispered. Then she handed the urn to Luca, who walked around the tree, gently sprinkling ashes.
“Goodbye, dear Grandmother,” he added. “I wish I could have met you.”
As if in answer, a breeze sprang up, catching leaves, mingled with ashes, swirling them overhead, then carrying them out into the lagoon.
On the way back they stood together at the helm in silence until Luca said, “I spoke with my mother. She told me she came to see you. She also told me . . .” He broke off. “Never mind that now. We both think you should just fly to New York and bring your son home.” He paused. “I have to go on business anyway soon. Would you like me to come with you?”
Caroline stared out, not daring to look at him. “If you want to.”
“I do,” he said.
CHAPTER 43
Juliet, Venice, July 1942
I have not written a diary for such a long time. It has been too painful, but I must put some of the events of the past months down on paper or they will stay forever as a burden in my heart.
After Angelo was taken from me, life essentially had no meaning. Frankly I didn’t care if I lived or I died. There were times when I stood on the Accademia Bridge and wondered if I should just jump off. But I have kept on existing. I have divided my time between the contessa’s villa and my top-floor flat. I have found my spying activities to be a chore, something I am unwilling to do in my bitterness and grief. Why should I save lives when mine has been brutally snatched from me? And yet my British sense of duty won’t leave me. And so I have spent at least two or three days a week sitting in my window. Francesca comes occasionally, bringing me food, but I have lost interest in eating. I have taken my binoculars to the canal, where I can spy on the Da Rossi palace, hoping to catch a glimpse of Angelo. But then I was accosted by a strange man.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Bird-watching,” I said quickly. “There is a seagull’s nest on the roof over there. New chicks in it.”
He accepted this, but I realized the danger I was putting myself in. Part of me still wanted to escape to Switzerland and safety, but how could I travel with no identity card? Even if I didn’t take the train but used local buses on my journey north, I would be a target of suspicion. Someone would report me along the way. There would be checkpoints. And I would need to eat. To buy food. And I have no ration card. So I am stuck, whether I want it or not. And I keep telling myself that Leo will come home. He’ll come back to me, and everything will be all right. Although now I have to accept that he will not give me back my son. A nagging sliver of doubt always lurked that Leo had indeed orchestrated the raid. Had he instructed his men, “If I am not back by this time, go and bring the child to the palazzo”?
I couldn’t believe he could be so cruel to take Angelo without allowing me to say goodbye, but perhaps he thought it was for the best, knowing how hard I’d find it to let go.
I try to find solace in the time I spend with the contessa and with Hanni. I helped do some of the cataloguing for the Biennale, which amazingly has taken place as if there was no war. Vittorio was very much in evidence, strutting around with a great air of importance, giving orders to those building the displays in the pavilions, and also persuading the contessa to buy certain pieces. I was rather gratified that he spotted the picture I had painted for her on her library wall.
“Where did you get this one?” he asked. “I hope you didn’t pay too much for it.”
“Do you like it?”
He frowned. “It has a certain appeal,” he admitted. “A pleasing use of colour. Another of your Jewish refugees?”
“No, my darling house guest.” She took my hand. “She has talent, don’t you think?”
It was one small moment of satisfaction in a long line of darkness.
Leo has not returned. I have to accept what Bianca thought: that he is missing, either dead or captured. I pray the latter. If he is in British hands, he would be treated fairly. But then why hasn’t he been able to write a letter home?
September 1942
The Biennale came and went, mostly populated by Mussolini’s henchmen or German officers, strutting around. This year, of course, there were no Russians since Hitler had turned on his former best friend, Stalin. And the occasional snippet of good news has been that the Allies were making progress since the Americans came into the war. Battles were being won in North Africa. England was no longer subject to daily bombing. I found myself wondering and worrying more and more about my mother. Since I had become a mother myself, I realized what a wrench it must have been to let her children go so far away. She must be worrying about me every day, and I could do nothing to alleviate that worry.
The contessa’s steady stream of Jewish refugees has ceased. We hear dire news from Germany. Jews have been rounded up and shipped off to work camps in Eastern Europe. There are now no Jews left in Germany’s cities, or in Austria either. We fear the worst for Hanni’s parents but wisely keep our worries to ourselves. And she no longer asks us about them. Let her be happy and enjoy childhood while she can. I have made sure she kept up with her schooling. She practices her piano and loves to go to the beach with me during the hot weather. We swim together in the warm Adriatic, floating on the calm surface as if we hadn’t a care in the world for those few moments. Then she splashes me, I chase her and she screams in delight like any normal girl. I’m afraid I am coming to love her, and it will break my heart for a second time when I have to go.