The Venice Sketchbook(114)

CHAPTER 46


Juliet, December 1945

I am writing this on a train bound for the French coast and then a boat to England. I waited for Leo. He never came. I wondered if he was still in prison, or if he had gone home to his family after all. I spent two weeks recovering in a Swiss hospital and then was found a job at a girls’ convent school in Lausanne. It was peaceful and quiet amongst the nuns, but nothing could heal the ache in my heart. I dreamed about Leo. I dreamed about Hanni. I dreamed about Angelo. When the Allies finally liberated Italy, I wrote to Leo’s father and received a short reply: Leonardo Da Rossi was shot, trying to escape from a prison camp, November 1943.

As soon as the war ended, I tried to search for Hanni. I joined an organization helping refugee children, but there were almost no Jews amongst them. It seemed that every Jew had vanished from the face of the Earth. It took a while before we learned names like Auschwitz, Treblinka, Bergen-Belsen. And then we knew. And there were no tears left to cry.

I didn’t go home as soon as the war ended. At first I wanted to find Hanni, and then, when I learned the awful truth, I wanted to do something useful—something to somehow make up for the fact that I had promised to keep her safe and I had failed. But I did write letters home. My mother was delighted to hear from me and glad that I had been working with refugees in Switzerland. She got it into her head that I had been doing this throughout the war and wrote long letters telling me how much they had suffered in England while I had been living on good Swiss milk and cream. I am not going to disillusion her. I have also decided that I am not going back to teaching again. Every time I looked at one of the young girls, I would see Hanni and know that I hadn’t been able to save her. I pray that Angelo is thriving. I will not be going back to Venice to see for myself. I will never go back again. Too many painful memories. I will start a new chapter in my life, reinvent myself as a new person—an automaton with a padlock around my heart. And I find that I have no desire to paint again.

I was going to keep these recollections, but now I realize that I don’t want anyone to know. And I certainly won’t want to read them again. The only stories worth reading have happy endings. And so I have decided, as we cross the Channel, I shall tear them up and throw them into the sea, as if this chapter of my life never existed.





CHAPTER 47


Postscript: Caroline, October 28, 2001

The plane gathered speed, lifted into the air and then wheeled to the right. Below her Caroline saw the whole of Venice spread out like a map, the tower of the campanile rising above the domes of St Mark’s, the canals sparkling as they divided the city into little islands within the island. There was the Zattere and the building with her flat, awaiting her return. Caroline allowed herself a small glow of happiness. Luca was right. It was a time for new beginnings. And just one of them, she suspected, might include him. She was flying home to England now, but he was to join her. He had already bought them tickets to New York and reserved a suite at the Plaza. When Caroline had offered to pay, he had laughed it off and said, “Business expense.”

What had made this even sweeter was that she’d had several emails from Josh in the last few days.

Cara, I’ve been trying to reach you, one of them said. Your grandmother said your phone isn’t working in Italy. Is that true, or are you just avoiding me? Answer, please.

And then, Cara, we need to talk. I’m not sure how things are working out here. I don’t seem to be getting any more commissions, and I can’t go on living off Desiree forever. Frankly, I’m not so sure I want to stay on indefinitely. This life is so incredibly phony. It’s all about show. Call me as soon as you get back to England. You are coming home soon, aren’t you?

The plane levelled out and the seat belt sign was turned off. As she stared out, watching white puffball clouds drifting below the wing, she realized, with stunning clarity, that she didn’t want Josh back. He had said that he only married her to do the right thing. Well, maybe the same had been true for her. She had thought she was in love, but she had been twenty. What did she know about love at that age? Or about life? Girls’ boarding school to college, sheltered all the time. She simply hadn’t been ready for marriage or a long-term relationship. The one thing that held them together had been Teddy. And now they had both matured, gone their own ways, and she was ready to move on.

And if that moving on included Luca? Included a life that was at least partly in Italy? She realized it was far too soon to make such momentous decisions, but it was good to be able to look forward again. Maybe she would go back to fashion design, or maybe pursue some other kind of art, maybe just rent out her flat in Venice for most of the year and enjoy life. And she found herself wondering if this was what Aunt Lettie wanted when she left her that cardboard box.

“My Angelo,” she had said. Not “Michelangelo,” but “my Angelo.” Had her real wish been to have Caroline complete the life that had been denied to her? Find Angelo? Find happiness? Had she maybe known about Luca and hoped . . . Caroline smiled to herself.

“I did it, Aunt Lettie. It’s all working out as you wanted,” she whispered.

She reached under her seat for her backpack and brought out the folder containing Great-Aunt Lettie’s drawings. She was still curious why these particular sketches had been precious enough to hide them away, when others, equally good, had been left in plain sight. She turned them over, one by one, until she stopped, staring, frowning. This was not Great-Aunt Lettie’s work. Even though it was a rough sketch, it had been done by a much more skilled hand. Was it a copy? A print?