Her family hadn’t done much to mark the holy days in recent years, for her mother had always been the one among them who insisted on doing things properly, and after she had been moved to the casa it had felt strange, and a little depressing, to observe the seder without her. But Nina had washed and polished their best china and silver, and she’d ironed the tablecloth and napkins Mamma had always kept for Passover alone, and then she had helped Marta clean the house from top to bottom. Marta had also prepared a simple menu of chicken brodo with polpette di matza, baked mullet with fried artichokes, and a hazelnut torta. Not the abundant feast that was proper, but her father hadn’t complained. They had said the prayers together, and she had answered the four questions Papà had put to her, as if she were still a little girl, and together they had recited the L’Shana Haba’ah B’Yerushalayim. Next year in Jerusalem. And then, even though it was late already, they had walked over to the casa with a slice of the torta, which was soft enough that Mamma was able to eat a bit of it, and before they had left, Nina had sung her mother to sleep.

Her wandering gaze swept across the front of the church before it landed on Father Bernardi. Perhaps he might be able to find out when Passover began. She resolved to take him aside, under some pretext or other, and ask; but not on the church steps, where everyone was hovering and listening. It would have to wait until she could contrive an excuse to visit him at the rectory during the week.

When Mass ended she joined the queue to greet Father Bernardi on the steps of the church, waiting long minutes as he shook hands and kissed the children’s heads and patiently listened to everyone with worries or concerns to share. When it was the Gerardi family’s turn at last, she was surprised when the priest shook her hand before everyone else, his greeting even more voluble than usual.

“My dear Nina—you’re just the person who can help me.”

“With what, Father?”

“Nothing of consequence,” he answered, and then, leaning a little closer, his whisper strangely loud, “it’s my bunions, you see, and I wonder if you might, ah, use your expertise as a nurse . . .”

His expression was strained, but then he was probably feeling a little embarrassed to be discussing the state of his feet in front of so many witnesses.

“Of course, Father. I’ll just fetch my things from home, and—”

“No need, no need. I’ve a well-stocked first-aid kit in the rectory.”

“You go ahead,” Rosa encouraged, “and I’ll set aside your dinner for later.”