“You speak of those laws as if they are something one might expect within the bounds of normal civil society, but they stripped you and every Jew I know of his profession. No—don’t frown at me like that. Look at what they did to dear Dr. Jona. The man is well into his seventies, had retired years ago, yet still they removed his name from the register of physicians. His professorship at the university—gone, too. All he has left is his presidency of your Jewish community here, and that’s hardly more than a formality.”

“The laws are noxious. On that, my dear Giulio, we agree. But I have found a way to exist, just as we have always done.” Her father leaned forward, his hands clasped so tightly his fingertips had gone white, and his voice faded to a whisper. “I’ve heard that defeat at El Alamein is all but certain. Surely the tide must be turning.”

“That may well be, but it’s turning far too slowly for my liking. And in the meantime, Il Duce grows more desperate, the Germans grow ever bolder, and we wait for the ax to fall. And it will fall, for it’s only a matter of time before they seize power here. Just as they did with Austria. With the rest of Europe, for that matter. And what then?” Father Bernardi asked, his affable voice sharpening into solemnity. “Only think: What if they were in power here? What would prevent them from rounding you up, just as they’re doing with the Jews of Germany, of Poland, of France—”

“And if I were to leave with Antonina, make the journey to Switzerland, what would become of my Devora? She cannot travel. You know that. And you know I will not leave her. Not as long as there is breath in my body. Bad enough that she must live in the rest home.”

Her father wrenched off his spectacles and set about polishing them with a crumpled handkerchief, and from the way he pressed his lips together and pinched at the bridge of his nose, Antonina could tell he was fighting off tears. Just as he always did when he spoke of her mother, the stroke that had left her so weakened, and the agonizing decision to move her to the rest home earlier that year.

It was a good thing, she decided, that she hadn’t allowed herself any of the coffee, for even the idea of abandoning her mother was enough to tighten her throat and turn her empty stomach upside down.

Her father was quick to notice her distress. “Don’t look so alarmed. We are safe enough here. Aren’t we?” he asked Father Bernardi, and it seemed to Antonina that his eyes, as he looked to his friend, held a warning of some kind. But was it to be truthful? Or to be kind?