Josef nodded. “They came for Father,” he said, stumbling with the English words. “He was professor at university in Munich. Then they say no Jew may teach or attend university. Then they take him away. I don’t know where. And they find my painting and Gestapo take me. Bad place. Many questions. They will come for me very soon, to concentration camp, I am sure. But Contessa send people to bring me out. She save my life.”

“You will keep painting and make me proud, Josef.” She took a long drink of the lemonade.

I started to eat the items on my plate, being extra careful with the sugar-dusted biscuits.

“I’ve been thinking.” The contessa broke the silence. “If you are bored with nothing to do at the moment, you can help me. I have some cataloguing to be done, and some preliminary work for the Biennale. Usually Vittorio does these things for me, but he is away in America, selling inferior paintings to people who have more money than taste.”

I had to smile. “Does Vittorio work for you?” I asked. “They said he owns a gallery.”

“He does, but I am his best client, and he knows, as they say in your English, on which side his bread is buttered. He flatters an old lady, and he likes the things I offer him. And he is articulate and amusing, and he makes me feel young and alive, so the relationship is symbiotic.”

This made me wonder again if the relationship had a sexual component to it.

September 1, 1939

These were a couple of pleasant weeks, helping the contessa, sitting in one of her cool and shady rooms, taking tea under the enormous palm tree in her back garden. We examined submissions from artists around the world. I helped to catalogue and file her collection of rare drawings and prints. This included names that made my eyes open wide in astonishment.

“This drawing is an early Picasso!”

“Yes, darling. I know.” She gave a wicked little smile. “His mistress was so jealous that he had to ask me to leave in a hurry, and he thrust the drawing into my hands.”

She was certainly a woman of surprises. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed my visits out to the Lido—the witty conversation, her knowledge of art, the elegance, the refined living, all of which were so removed from my own dreary life in England. Our daily sessions continued until Vittorio returned and was clearly displeased to find me there.

“Why do you let this woman do the things I like to do for you?” he demanded, pacing around the room.

“You weren’t here, my darling,” the contessa replied, patting his hand. “And besides, I have enjoyed Juliet’s company. Sometimes one just needs another woman around.”

“But she is an amateur. What does she know about rare prints? She has probably put her fingers all over them.”