“Not noble at all,” she said. “A righteous duty. They are my kinsmen, my fellow Jews. They reminded you I am Jewish, I’m sure.”

“They did,” I said. “Are you not worried for your own safety? Isn’t there an anti-Jewish sentiment in Italy, too?”

“There is, but not like in Germany, and certainly not in Venice. We are a tolerant people. Jews have lived here since the Middle Ages. And in my own case the Venetians value art above all else. Why, we are already planning for next year’s Biennale. How is that for optimism? We fully intend to hold an international art festival when half the world may be at war. As a major patron of the arts here, I am too valuable to them. Without people like me, there would be no Biennale.” She reached across and patted my hand. “So you see, my dear, you do not need to worry for my safety.” She paused, her hand resting on mine. “But what about you? You choose to stay and not go running home to safety?”

“I’ve been debating this,” I said. “At this moment I am a little lost. I have no classes, nothing to do. My mother wants me home. But I am committed to looking after my landlady’s cat, so I can’t go anywhere until she returns. And frankly I don’t want to leave. I love it here—everything about it: the colours, the sounds, the people, the food. Everything is so alive. Everybody knows they are alive. If I go home, it will be to silent evenings, sitting in the parlour and listening to the ticking of the clock until my mother turns on the nine o’clock news and we go to bed.”

“Then you are right to stay,” she said. “You cannot live someone else’s life. Your life is what you make of it. You have to decide what you want.”

“What I want is what I can’t have,” I wanted to say but didn’t.

The young man reappeared, carrying a tray on which there was a jug of freshly squeezed lemonade and a plate of various goodies—biscuits dusted in powdered sugar, marzipan fruits and small cakes studded with candied peel. He poured glasses for us and offered me the plate. I took one of each, realizing a little too late that when I bit into the biscuit the powdered sugar would fly all over my navy dress.

“Danke, Josef,” the contessa said, switching to German. I saw a flash of alarm on the man’s face, but she gave him a reassuring gesture. “It is all right,” she said, using English now. “The young lady knows about you. She is from England. All is well.”

He gave me a shy smile.

“Josef is a fine painter,” she went on. “He is lucky I was able to get him out.”