I was certainly nervous when I stood in the station waiting for the arrival of the train from Milan that would bring the Austrian girl. What if she wouldn’t go with me? What if I couldn’t communicate with her? What if the bully carabinieri were watching and saw that she was Jewish? My heart was thumping within my chest as the train puffed its way to the platform. Passengers emerged through the steam. Businessmen hurrying with determination, grandmothers from the countryside, carrying bags of produce to share with city-living relatives, and then, a pale and skinny girl, her hair in tight braids, carrying a small suitcase and looking around with big frightened eyes.

I went up to her. “Hanni? Hanni Gottfried?”

“Ja.” Her eyes darted nervously.

“Do you speak Italian?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“English?”

Another shake.

“Je parle un peu français ,” she said.

“Eh bien, moi aussi,” I replied. And I told her Contessa Fiorito had sent me. I was going to take her to the contessa’s villa. A relieved smile spread across that tight little worried face.

“I’m taking you to her now,” I told her. “She lives on an island. It’s very beautiful. You will like it.”

She took my hand, and we went down to the vaporetto dock. We made the trip with no problems, and I saw her hesitate, looking worried, when she saw those impressive iron gates.

“She lives here?” she asked me in French.

I nodded. “You will have a good time here. She eats well. And she’s a very kind person.”

She gave me a brave little nod. Poor little thing, I thought. Having to leave her family to God knows what fate and come all this way alone. I longed to wrap my arms around her. Instead I led her up to the front door. The contessa opened it herself and took one look at the child.

“Mayn lib meydl. Du bist oyser gefar mit mir,” she said in what I presumed was Yiddish. Then she threw her arms around the girl.

I had not seen such demonstrations of affection from the contessa before, but she was clearly moved. I watched her wipe her eyes as she let the girl go.

“I’m sorry,” she said to me in Italian, “but she looks just like me at the same age. A refugee child just like her. Poor little thing. Who knows if she’ll ever see her parents again.”