The Venice Sketchbook(71)

“Hush. Careful what you say.” Another boy touched his arm. “You never know who is listening, and there are those who think that Mussolini is the saviour of our country. They really believe he’ll create a second Roman empire and we’ll all live like kings.”

This brought chuckles of disbelief from all those in the group. But he was right. You did never know who was listening. I found myself thinking about Franz. Henry might be right about Franz reporting to Germany on what was happening in Venice.

I tried to put worrying thoughts from my mind and to make the most of my last few classes. The radio was saying that the war was like two boxers getting into a ring, sizing each other up before any blow would be launched. So there was time to take a train home across France before Hitler or the Allies made any significant move. From what I had heard in church, Britain was not equipped to launch any offensive against Germany. We didn’t have the weapons or the manpower to face the Nazi might.

At lunch Gaston talked about going home. “I must do my duty and join the French army, I suppose,” he said. He said it with bravado, but I saw the utter despair in his eyes. “Not that we have much chance against Germany. I just pray it’s not a repeat of the last war and that we don’t all die in the trenches.”

We sat in silence, pondering this. Then Imelda said, “I think I’ll stay. My parents are talking about going up to the hills, to Basque country, just in case. What would I do there? Where could I go? At least Italy isn’t going to declare war on anybody for a while.”

“That’s what I think,” Henry said. His Italian had obviously improved to the point that he could understand the gist of conversations. “America is keeping out of this war, so I think I’ll stick around and finish my year abroad.”

“Just pray you can get home again when the German U-boats start patrolling the Atlantic,” Imelda said drily.

He shrugged. “Then I’ll go to Switzerland and wait until it’s over. No one will touch Switzerland, will they? Or Australia? Australia would be good.” He looked at me. “What about you?” He switched to English. “Do you want to go home and risk Germany invading?”

“I don’t want to go,” I said, “but I feel obliged to. My mother will worry terribly if I’m far away. She didn’t want me to come in the first place, but my aunt agreed to stay with her. I suppose I must check to see if trains are still running normally across France and the ferries are still crossing the Channel.”

“It’s too bad, when we are finally settling into our routine here and the classes are so interesting,” Henry said. “I feel I’ve learned more in a few weeks than I did in all the art classes I took at home.”

“Me too,” I said. “I really hate to go.”

We finished eating and made our way back to the accademia, where the first person we saw was Professor Corsetti.

“The very people I wanted to see,” he exclaimed. “I have instructions from my wife. She wants to hold a dinner party to welcome you back after the holiday, despite our dire situation. Is Sunday acceptable? And my wife is intent on serving shellfish. You can all eat it?”

“That is fine. I love all the seafood here,” I said.

The others nodded.

“Your wife is a good cook,” Gaston said. “I am sure anything she prepares will be delicious.”

“Flatterer,” Imelda muttered as we parted company with the professor.

Gaston smiled. “How else am I going to get a passing mark in his class? I don’t think I am destined to be Picasso or Miró .”

“I agree,” I said. “It does not come naturally to me to distort reality.”

“I’ve noticed that,” Gaston replied. “Your nude drawings are very attentive to detail.”

“Be quiet.” I slapped him with my notebook, laughing.

At that moment it dawned on me that I had not had a chance to behave like this for years. To be free, to tease, to laugh and, as I began to realize, to love. Now I would be going back to the grim reality of a war, to danger, deprivation, maybe even a German invasion.

“My last days,” I whispered to myself as we went up the stairs to our class.

Sunday September 10, 1939

This evening we went to dinner at Professor Corsetti’s. I agreed to meet Henry at the traghetti dock so that he didn’t get lost this time.

“When are you leaving?” he asked.

I sighed. “I don’t know. I had a letter from my mother today, telling me to come home immediately. I should probably go before the end of the month, but I tell myself I have paid my landlady for September and it’s quite possible that the war will stay in Eastern Europe. I don’t think Britain is prepared to do anything too dramatic yet.”

We walked on in companionable silence. He was a nice boy, I thought. Too young for me, of course. But it was pleasant to have the companionship of a male. I hadn’t seen Leo, although he must have returned from his villa by now. At least going home would cease the fantasy of being with him.

There was a bigger group this time at the professor’s house. Gaston was not present, but Imelda and Franz were both there, along with two girls I hadn’t met before. These were introduced as Lucrecia and Maria, new students from Sicily. They looked painfully shy and clung together, giving one-word answers to questions put to them.