My fellow students had also abandoned me. Imelda and Gaston had gone home to their families. Henry had set off on a tour of Tuscany. I had no idea what Franz was doing. Presumably he had also gone home to Austria—or was it Germany?—if Henry’s suspicions were correct, to report on what he found here.

So I was alone in a city that was almost deserted. Normally at this time of year there would be tourists, a shopkeeper told me. But who would risk coming if there was to be a war? And the British, who normally came in August—they stayed away because Mussolini had signed his ridiculous non-aggression pact with Hitler.

It was too hot to sit outside sketching for long. I tried to work on paintings. I visited churches and studied architecture. I got a parade of letters from my mother, begging me to come home before it was too late. I was tempted, but I couldn’t leave before Signora Martinelli returned. There was Bruno to consider. Someone had to feed him. Maybe it will all blow over, I told myself. Maybe England will make another pact with Hitler, and the threat of war will melt away.

I started taking the vaporetto and going out to the Lido to swim. The beach was the only place that was crowded, as Venetians who could not afford to head for the hills took refuge in the water. But the Adriatic Sea was as warm as a bath, and one had to walk on the narrow planks because the sand burned the feet. Still it made a pleasant change, and there was a breeze on the crossing of the lagoon. As I was walking back after my swim one day, I passed the contessa’s villa. She had invited me to call on her, I recalled, although she had probably gone away for the month of August like everyone else. However, I took the chance, went up to her front door and knocked.