The Venice Sketchbook(98)
CHAPTER 39
Juliet, October 23, 1940
What a strange year this has been. In Venice nothing much has changed except food has become scarce. Produce no longer flows in so frequently from the Veneto. I think it is diverted to feed the big cities of Milan and Turin, where the factories are making war equipment. Luckily, my friend Contessa Fiorito, whom I visit regularly, has created a vegetable garden on her property and keeps me supplied with fresh produce. This will end soon, as the weather has turned cold and wet suddenly.
The contessa has stepped up her efforts to extricate Jews from Nazi Germany. It seems strange to me that the Nazis have made it so clear the Jews are not wanted and yet they forbid them to travel.
“I don’t know how long I can continue this little service,” she said to me last week. “Now that we are allies of the German bullies, our government is falling into line with Hitler. There is a plan to make all Jews wear the Star of David and move to selected areas.”
“Will you have to do that?” I asked, my heart leaping in fear.
She smiled. “My darling, nobody knows I am Jewish. And those who do value what I offer this city and will conveniently forget. So don’t worry. I am quite safe. It is you that I worry about.”
“I think I’ll be all right,” I said. “Leo instructed me on how to say, ‘Of course I have my identity card’ and other useful and not so polite things in Venetian. Most of the enforcers are from the south and can’t understand the language.”
She reached out then and laid her slim and bony hand on my knee. “Then there is a small favour I wish to ask of you.”
“Of course,” I said. “You have done so much for me.”
“There is a person I wish you to meet at the station. Josef is no longer with me. I have sent him on to a friend. Umberto is too old to go rushing around, and besides, he does not approve of what I do. My only other servant at the moment is the little maid, and she would be hopeless.”
“What about Vittorio?” I asked. “I haven’t seen him recently. Is he not here?”
“I told you once that Vittorio knows who butters his bread,” she said, giving me a little smile. “He has latched himself on to Mussolini’s inner circle. It seems they are interested in acquiring art, one way or another.”
“Oh dear,” I said, actually feeling relieved that he was not going to be hanging around her. “Very well. I’ll be happy to meet this person for you.”
“She is the daughter of Anton Gottfried, the former first violinist of the Vienna Staatsoper orchestra. Her father is under house arrest in Vienna and fears for his safety, but he wants to get Hanni away. And a chance has presented itself. The girl attended a Franciscan convent school until she was barred from doing so. The nuns are fond of her, it seems. Two of them are leading a pilgrimage to Rome this week and have agreed to take Hanni along. When the train stops in Milan, she will be put on a train to Venice. She arrives around noon on Friday. Can you meet her for me?”
“Of course,” I said. “What does she look like?”
“I have no idea.” The contessa laughed. “A Jewish girl of around twelve from Vienna. And I’m not sure if she speaks anything other than German. Do you speak any of that language?”
“I’m afraid not. But maybe she has learned English or French in school.”
“Let us hope so, or we shall have a difficult few days.” She smiled. “I’ll try to remember my Yiddish, but I haven’t spoken it since I was a young child.” Then the smile faded. “Let’s hope they do not choose to do identity checks on that particular train.”
I was certainly nervous when I stood in the station waiting for the arrival of the train from Milan that would bring the Austrian girl. What if she wouldn’t go with me? What if I couldn’t communicate with her? What if the bully carabinieri were watching and saw that she was Jewish? My heart was thumping within my chest as the train puffed its way to the platform. Passengers emerged through the steam. Businessmen hurrying with determination, grandmothers from the countryside, carrying bags of produce to share with city-living relatives, and then, a pale and skinny girl, her hair in tight braids, carrying a small suitcase and looking around with big frightened eyes.
I went up to her. “Hanni? Hanni Gottfried?”
“Ja.” Her eyes darted nervously.
“Do you speak Italian?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“English?”
Another shake.
“Je parle un peu fran?ais ,” she said.
“Eh bien, moi aussi,” I replied. And I told her Contessa Fiorito had sent me. I was going to take her to the contessa’s villa. A relieved smile spread across that tight little worried face.
“I’m taking you to her now,” I told her. “She lives on an island. It’s very beautiful. You will like it.”
She took my hand, and we went down to the vaporetto dock. We made the trip with no problems, and I saw her hesitate, looking worried, when she saw those impressive iron gates.
“She lives here?” she asked me in French.
I nodded. “You will have a good time here. She eats well. And she’s a very kind person.”
She gave me a brave little nod. Poor little thing, I thought. Having to leave her family to God knows what fate and come all this way alone. I longed to wrap my arms around her. Instead I led her up to the front door. The contessa opened it herself and took one look at the child.