The Venice Sketchbook(68)
“The German army was here?” Caroline asked. “I thought Italy was on the same side as the Germans.”
“To start with. Then we changed sides. And the Germans were angry. They occupied the city. They were brutal, too. Lots of arrests and killing and people being shipped off to camps. They tried to starve us. Two long years they were here, until the Allies saved us. Your British army, you know.”
It was amazing how long the shadow of the war had cast a pall over Europe, Caroline thought. But her aunt had escaped to Switzerland and not had to endure the German occupation—escaped in a hurry, judging by the things she left behind. The question was why she chose to stay on in Venice after war was declared and didn’t return to her family in England.
The next morning Caroline set out with her list. She found a big supermarket, further down the Zattere, and was able to get sheets, a pillow and a duvet, as well as her food requirements, plus a bottle of wine. She only realized she had purchased with too much enthusiasm when she had to stagger back the whole length of the waterfront with so many bags. Gasping for air, she dropped everything on the floor inside the door, then made herself a cup of tea before anything else. It felt good to sit, sipping tea, in her own living room, watching the water traffic up and down the canal, including some big cruise ships and freighters. By afternoon the bed was made, and she had found a clean towel and washed the inside of the windows, letting in the rosy light of the setting sun. She poured herself a glass of wine—no refrigerator, she had noted—snacked on some bread and olives and felt remarkably at peace.
Was this what you wanted, dear Aunt Lettie? she thought. You wanted your great-niece to have a place of her own, where she could put her worries aside? This reminded her that she had yet to fulfil the reason she came in the first place, to scatter Aunt Lettie’s ashes. Now it made sense that she might want them scattered in the canal outside her window. But Caroline wasn’t quite ready to do it yet.
She telephoned her grandmother, describing the flat. “And I have found out what two of the keys were for so far. But the little silver key is still a mystery. I have looked all over the flat, and there is no lock that would fit this tiny key. So I have to assume it was for a box she took with her.”
Instead of going out to dinner, she had bought a tin of minestrone soup, which she now ate with more bread and some cheese. The one item she hadn’t acquired was an electric heater, and the room was becoming uncomfortably cold. She closed the big curtains, noting the moth holes. Another thing that would need replacing if she decided to keep this place. Then she discovered an old stone hot water bottle in the bathroom cupboard—the sort one saw in museums—and boiled water for it. The bed became pleasantly warm, and she turned in early, lying staring up at the ceiling and trying to take in everything that had happened: the flat, the old Da Rossi woman who had glared at her with hate in her eyes, her grandson Luca. She would try not to think about him, although he seemed to have been remarkably pleasant about her possession of the top floor. Maybe he was just deciding on the best strategy to remove her. Maybe his lawyers were already working on a way to disprove her lease. People were not always trustworthy, as she knew from Josh. Why did Luca have to be so damned charming?
That night she had a strange dream. She dreamed of a little girl playing the piano. Was that the girl whose clothes were still neatly folded in the bottom drawer? And how did Aunt Lettie know her? Maybe the morning and one of the drawers or cupboards would shed some light on the mystery.
She woke to light streaming in. Before her the whole panorama of the lagoon sparkled in early sunlight. The apartment was remarkably cold, reminding her she needed to find a new electric heater rapidly. She made tea, ate a roll with apricot jam, then started on her investigation, full of anticipation. In the hall cupboard she discovered a portfolio of drawings and paintings—ranging from nude sketches, sketches like the ones in the books, to strange abstracts and some finished portraits. Aunt Lettie had had talent, she thought, and put aside the paintings for later. Then she went through the desk. Some of the drawers were empty. She couldn’t find any personal papers, just more sketches and some finished paintings. She checked under the bed and found a suitcase, containing more clothing, again crumpled and seemingly stuffed into the suitcase. Why had she left her clothes behind? She must have had to flee in a hurry, probably when Italy entered the war and she knew she had to go to Switzerland.
Having exhausted the places where her aunt could have kept papers, Caroline wrapped herself in a crocheted afghan she had found, seated herself in one of the big chairs and started to look at the paintings and drawings. She turned them over, one after the other, nodding in appreciation, until she came to a page that made her stop, staring: the page contained sketches of a baby. She put it aside, then continued, turning up more sketches of the same baby. What’s more, she recognized it. It was the same baby that appeared as the cherub in the painting on Aunt Lettie’s wall. Was it just a neighbour’s child she had used as a model? Another thought struck her—of course. That was how she was connected to the Da Rossi family: she had been a nanny to their child! She couldn’t wait to tell Luca. But then why had her memory invoked such hostility in old Signora Da Rossi? Perhaps there had been some kind of tragedy: The child had died, and the signora blamed Aunt Lettie? That might have been part of the reason she left in such a hurry.
Hearing footsteps coming up the stairs, she put down the drawings on the low table and stood. There was a tap on the door, and Luca entered.