“He was. Oh, God, he was right. All that blood, Nina. How will I ever wash it away?”

Chapter 15

5 January 1944

Growing up in the heart of Venice, hemmed in at every side by Gentiles, Nina had been aware of her neighbors’ traditions, but only in the most general way. She’d known of Christmas and Easter and their lesser holidays, but she’d never taken part in the celebrations, nor had she ever needed to pretend she was familiar with them.

She had thought she might hang back from the preparations for Epiphany. Remain at the margin of things, and so avoid drawing attention to her otherness. But it was hard to stay aloof when the children were so excited they could talk of nothing but the great bonfire in the piazza, the once-a-year treat of Rosa’s pinza cake, and the possibility of sweets and even a toy in the stockings they would leave out for la Befana that night.

Carlo was still young enough to believe in the old woman who’d been too busy with her chores to help the wise men search for the Christ child, and who now left out gifts for children on the night before Epiphany. “But only if you are good,” he earnestly explained to anyone who would listen. “Did she ever give you lumps of coal?” he now asked Nina.

“No,” she answered honestly enough. “I was always a good girl.”

“How big was your stocking? Ours are so small,” he grumbled. “We should pin up Nico’s socks instead.”

Nina pretended to consider the suggestion. “I suppose we could, but what if la Befana were to see your brother’s big socks and decide you were too greedy? Then it would be nothing but coal for you.”

“I promise there will be nothing but coal if you don’t get out of my way,” Rosa warned him. “How am I supposed to make the pinza della Befana with you underfoot? Off you go—and you girls, too. I don’t want to see you inside again until suppertime.”

Nina had seen similar cakes for sale in bakeries and markets, but had never thought to wonder how they were made. Rosa’s version began with a pot of cooked polenta, to which she added flour and sugar and an eye-watering amount of grappa. This she turned out onto the table before kneading in raisins, currants, dried figs, chopped apples, and fennel seeds.

“How do you remember how much to add of everything?” Nina asked.

“Practice, I suppose. I started helping Mamma to make it when I was even younger than Carlo is now. After she died, I worried I wouldn’t get it right. But I just got to work and it turned out. Even Papà said it was as good as hers.”