In spite of the war, the days pass pleasantly enough, even though I worry about being interrogated every time I go out. Of course, I do my daily scanning of the canal. I make a note of the German and Italian navy boats going past and then feel a small sliver of pride when a particular boat does not return to port. I have become skilled in Morse code and can quickly adapt when a new codebook arrives in a basket of produce or someone slides one under my door. I have no idea who delivers them. I don’t want to know. I have kept the radio hidden from Francesca. She is a good woman but rather a lazy cleaner, and I’m sure she would never think of pulling out the bedside table to dust behind it. And if she did, she would probably not be interested in that square cut in the floorboards. She is remarkably disinterested in anything outside of her own little world. Her children, her grandchildren, the neighbours—and her interest ends there. She probably doesn’t even care there is a war on, except that her oldest grandson is coming up for enlistment age and she can’t stand margarine.

Other than my daily report, I take care of my child, and I go for walks on fine days. The weather has been glorious lately. The swallows have returned, and I watch them wheeling and diving overhead, their high-pitched cries echoing above the buildings of the city. Most days I take Angelo in his pushchair to the nearby park to watch the pigeons or the boats passing along the Giudecca Canal. He has become too mobile and wants to run around and catch those pigeons. At least once a week, I go over to the Lido, now taking Angelo with me. Clearly the contessa adores Hanni, absolutely spoiling her, but nothing can make up for the fact that she misses her parents. She tries to be brave and grateful, but she is a sensitive child and worries a lot. Every now and then, she will ask about her family.

“Do you think my parents will ever make it to Venice now?” she asked me once, when we were in the middle of a card game. “Why don’t they write?”

“I’m sure they have tried to write to you, darling,” I said. “Perhaps they are not allowed to. Perhaps they do write and then the letters are taken at the border.”

“They are in danger, aren’t they?” she asked.

“They may be,” I agreed. There was no sense in giving her false hope. “That was why they sent you away when there was a chance.”