The Venice Sketchbook(99)

“Mayn lib meydl. Du bist oyser gefar mit mir,” she said in what I presumed was Yiddish. Then she threw her arms around the girl.

I had not seen such demonstrations of affection from the contessa before, but she was clearly moved. I watched her wipe her eyes as she let the girl go.

“I’m sorry,” she said to me in Italian, “but she looks just like me at the same age. A refugee child just like her. Poor little thing. Who knows if she’ll ever see her parents again.”

I was invited to stay for lunch, but I had to rush to catch the only trip back to the mainland. My faithful Francesca had agreed to stay on until I returned, but Angelo would need a feeding and would let the world know it. Leo’s company was using the ground floor mainly for storage. I was glad that the floors below me were empty, so that the cries of a baby would not easily be heard. The trip across the lagoon was rocky, and clouds over the mainland promised rain at any moment. I thought of the little girl I had just delivered and wondered what her fate would have been if the contessa had not rescued her. But then I found myself wondering how long she could stay safe. Would Jews be rounded up here soon? And then what?

Christmas 1940

I never thought I would write again about a time of great happiness, but as the end of the year approaches, I am feeling full of love and gratitude. Of course, I worry about my mother. I haven’t received a letter in several months, not since France fell to the Germans and Italy entered the war. And I can’t risk sending her a parcel. The postal clerk would be interested to see an English address. All the news from England has been bad: nightly bombing raids on London, and Germany poised to invade.



On Christmas Eve, I decorated the flat. There were no Christmas trees available, but I found a pine branch blown down by the wind in the Giardini and stuck it in a pot, hanging glass ornaments from its branches. Angelo is quite fascinated. Luckily he can’t crawl yet, or I fear it would be toppled in seconds. He sits up, turns over and wriggles across the floor with great agility. And he laughs—a deep belly laugh that is so satisfying to hear. And he has two teeth, which he likes to try out when he is nursing. I’m not sure how much longer I can go on, but I must. The moment I stop is when I must give him up.

Darkness had fallen when there was a tap on the door and Leo came in. He carried a stuffed horse on wheels, a bottle of Prosecco, a panettone and a bag of oranges. We sat and had a drink together while Angelo lay on the rug, staring up at his new prize.

“I have a gift for you,” I said. “For the man who has everything.”

“I don’t have you,” he said softly.

I handed him a scroll, tied with a ribbon. He opened it and found it was a watercolour of Angelo. I had tried to draw and paint him ever since his birth, and this one had just captured his look of delight and mischief as he reached for a toy.

“It’s wonderful,” Leo said. “I’ll have it framed. You are very talented. Have you gone back to your art classes, or are you now a master?”

I laughed. “My stipend was only for one year,” I said. “The year finished right after Angelo was born.”

“If you want, I will gladly pay.”

I shook my head. “No. This isn’t the right time. I want to enjoy every minute with Angelo before . . .” And I couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I have a little gift for you, too,” Leo said. He handed me a box. Inside was an old-fashioned ring, set with a row of diamonds. “It belonged to my grandmother,” he said. “Bianca had no interest in any of the family jewellery. I want you to have it, to let you know that if I could have married you, you would have been my choice.”

“Oh, Leo.” I tried not to cry, but the tears came anyway, and I fell into his arms. They came tightly around me, and he was kissing me. I felt desire, but I pulled away. “Oh no,” I said. “I remember what happened last time. We can’t let that happen again.”

“I just want to kiss and hold you,” he whispered. “No more, I promise.”

And so we sat together, his arms around me, while outside we heard Christmas carols being sung. It was a moment I will treasure forever.





CHAPTER 40


Juliet, Venice, spring 1941

News from the war filters through only occasionally. We hear about the bombing in England, but little of the Italian army, now being defeated in North Africa. Many prisoners taken. Local women worrying about their sons, including Constanza, the woman who saved me from the carabinieri. She hasn’t heard from him in months, not knowing if he’s alive or dead. I feel a pang of guilt every time she mentions it, knowing that my mother may be feeling the same. I’ve tried writing letters, but they don’t get through, or if they do, no reply ever makes it.

In spite of the war, the days pass pleasantly enough, even though I worry about being interrogated every time I go out. Of course, I do my daily scanning of the canal. I make a note of the German and Italian navy boats going past and then feel a small sliver of pride when a particular boat does not return to port. I have become skilled in Morse code and can quickly adapt when a new codebook arrives in a basket of produce or someone slides one under my door. I have no idea who delivers them. I don’t want to know. I have kept the radio hidden from Francesca. She is a good woman but rather a lazy cleaner, and I’m sure she would never think of pulling out the bedside table to dust behind it. And if she did, she would probably not be interested in that square cut in the floorboards. She is remarkably disinterested in anything outside of her own little world. Her children, her grandchildren, the neighbours—and her interest ends there. She probably doesn’t even care there is a war on, except that her oldest grandson is coming up for enlistment age and she can’t stand margarine.