I was invited to stay for lunch, but I had to rush to catch the only trip back to the mainland. My faithful Francesca had agreed to stay on until I returned, but Angelo would need a feeding and would let the world know it. Leo’s company was using the ground floor mainly for storage. I was glad that the floors below me were empty, so that the cries of a baby would not easily be heard. The trip across the lagoon was rocky, and clouds over the mainland promised rain at any moment. I thought of the little girl I had just delivered and wondered what her fate would have been if the contessa had not rescued her. But then I found myself wondering how long she could stay safe. Would Jews be rounded up here soon? And then what?

Christmas 1940

I never thought I would write again about a time of great happiness, but as the end of the year approaches, I am feeling full of love and gratitude. Of course, I worry about my mother. I haven’t received a letter in several months, not since France fell to the Germans and Italy entered the war. And I can’t risk sending her a parcel. The postal clerk would be interested to see an English address. All the news from England has been bad: nightly bombing raids on London, and Germany poised to invade.

On Christmas Eve, I decorated the flat. There were no Christmas trees available, but I found a pine branch blown down by the wind in the Giardini and stuck it in a pot, hanging glass ornaments from its branches. Angelo is quite fascinated. Luckily he can’t crawl yet, or I fear it would be toppled in seconds. He sits up, turns over and wriggles across the floor with great agility. And he laughs—a deep belly laugh that is so satisfying to hear. And he has two teeth, which he likes to try out when he is nursing. I’m not sure how much longer I can go on, but I must. The moment I stop is when I must give him up.

Darkness had fallen when there was a tap on the door and Leo came in. He carried a stuffed horse on wheels, a bottle of Prosecco, a panettone and a bag of oranges. We sat and had a drink together while Angelo lay on the rug, staring up at his new prize.

“I have a gift for you,” I said. “For the man who has everything.”

“I don’t have you,” he said softly.

I handed him a scroll, tied with a ribbon. He opened it and found it was a watercolour of Angelo. I had tried to draw and paint him ever since his birth, and this one had just captured his look of delight and mischief as he reached for a toy.