The Venice Sketchbook(66)

It was opened by a young man I hadn’t seen the last time I had visited. He was thin to the point of being almost gaunt. I told him who I was and that I’d like to see the contessa. He frowned as if he was having a hard time understanding me, and I wondered if he only spoke Venetian. Surely my Italian was now pretty good. I had chatted easily with the family at the festa. I repeated my request, slowly. He bowed and went away, returning to usher me into a room at the back of the house. It had a wonderfully high ceiling, tall arched windows. The blinds were drawn, giving it an aquarium-like feel so that it was hard to see the colour of the furniture or the paintings that filled the walls. But it was delightfully cool. An electric fan was running, and the contessa was lying on a chaise longue, listening to Mozart on the gramophone.

She opened her eyes, sat up and gave me a big smile. “My little English lady. You have come. How lovely. Josef, tell Umberto to bring citron pressé and cake.”

He nodded, then left us. She motioned for me to take a chair, and I sat facing her. She was wearing a dark-green Japanese kimono and no makeup, so that her face had a skull-like appearance in the gloom.

“You have a new footman?” I asked. “I don’t remember seeing him when I visited you a month ago.”

“You wouldn’t have. He is quite new,” she said. She looked away from me, staring out into her beautiful garden. A palm tree was swaying in the breeze. When she turned back, she said, “You are English. Clearly of a good family. You were brought up to do the right thing.”

“Yes,” I replied, feeling confused and wondering where this conversation might be leading. Then she beckoned me closer, as if someone might overhear. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, because I feel I can trust you. I am usually a good judge of character.” There was another pause, and I wondered what could possibly be coming next. “My footman,” she began. “He is not a footman at all. He is a Jewish painter from Germany. Nobody must know this. I am doing my best to smuggle out as many as I can—painters, writers, poets—those who are most at risk of being rounded up and transported God knows where. They have nowhere else to run, poor things. America is not accepting them, nor Britain, and France is too dangerous. Too close. So I bring them here, on the grounds of offering them employment. Then I work on their Italian and find them suitable jobs in Italy. Unfortunately, I can only bring one at a time, every now and then. I’d like to save them all, but I can’t.”

“It’s a very noble thing you do,” I said.

“Not noble at all,” she said. “A righteous duty. They are my kinsmen, my fellow Jews. They reminded you I am Jewish, I’m sure.”

“They did,” I said. “Are you not worried for your own safety? Isn’t there an anti-Jewish sentiment in Italy, too?”

“There is, but not like in Germany, and certainly not in Venice. We are a tolerant people. Jews have lived here since the Middle Ages. And in my own case the Venetians value art above all else. Why, we are already planning for next year’s Biennale. How is that for optimism? We fully intend to hold an international art festival when half the world may be at war. As a major patron of the arts here, I am too valuable to them. Without people like me, there would be no Biennale.” She reached across and patted my hand. “So you see, my dear, you do not need to worry for my safety.” She paused, her hand resting on mine. “But what about you? You choose to stay and not go running home to safety?”

“I’ve been debating this,” I said. “At this moment I am a little lost. I have no classes, nothing to do. My mother wants me home. But I am committed to looking after my landlady’s cat, so I can’t go anywhere until she returns. And frankly I don’t want to leave. I love it here—everything about it: the colours, the sounds, the people, the food. Everything is so alive. Everybody knows they are alive. If I go home, it will be to silent evenings, sitting in the parlour and listening to the ticking of the clock until my mother turns on the nine o’clock news and we go to bed.”

“Then you are right to stay,” she said. “You cannot live someone else’s life. Your life is what you make of it. You have to decide what you want.”

“What I want is what I can’t have,” I wanted to say but didn’t.

The young man reappeared, carrying a tray on which there was a jug of freshly squeezed lemonade and a plate of various goodies—biscuits dusted in powdered sugar, marzipan fruits and small cakes studded with candied peel. He poured glasses for us and offered me the plate. I took one of each, realizing a little too late that when I bit into the biscuit the powdered sugar would fly all over my navy dress.

“Danke, Josef,” the contessa said, switching to German. I saw a flash of alarm on the man’s face, but she gave him a reassuring gesture. “It is all right,” she said, using English now. “The young lady knows about you. She is from England. All is well.”

He gave me a shy smile.

“Josef is a fine painter,” she went on. “He is lucky I was able to get him out.”

Josef nodded. “They came for Father,” he said, stumbling with the English words. “He was professor at university in Munich. Then they say no Jew may teach or attend university. Then they take him away. I don’t know where. And they find my painting and Gestapo take me. Bad place. Many questions. They will come for me very soon, to concentration camp, I am sure. But Contessa send people to bring me out. She save my life.”