Francesca comes once a week to clean when I am not at home but every day to cook and shop for me when I am there. With Christmas around the corner, I came back into the city to try to do some shopping at the holiday markets, which are still taking place outside the churches. I wanted to give the contessa something, and Hanni, and of course Angelo. I tried to think what the contessa might like and wondered if I dared to paint a picture for her. She who has old masters hanging from her walls. But she is a patron of the Biennale, which, I’m told, will take place as usual next year, war or no war. So I have been painting her an abstract. Professor Corsetti has been out to visit the contessa several times and has encouraged me to keep painting. I showed him the portrait I was painting of Angelo and he made good suggestions. But now it is almost finished, and I am quite proud of it.

The contessa’s new gardener, Peter—or rather Pietro now—is building Angelo a wooden engine he can ride on. Angelo and I returned to the city for a few days. I felt guilty if I was not doing the job I had promised to do, and I wanted to shop for Christmas presents. So I left Angelo in Francesca’s care and went to the market to see if there were any oranges or sweets, also to find something for Hanni, and found a little glass flute that actually plays. And in my favourite bookshop a couple of books in German. I don’t want her to forget her native language. I couldn’t think what to get for Francesca, who is so completely practical, so I decided she wouldn’t be offended if I gave her some money. Living with the contessa much of the time has meant that I have not used my monthly allowance. I have offered to pay my share for food, but she has turned me down. I’m exceedingly grateful because I have no ration card. I don’t quite know what I’d do without her and Francesca. And Hanni. I have become so fond of that girl. In some ways she is wise beyond her years and affectionate, too. It was as if having a baby has somehow opened my heart to the possibility of love. I love it when she sees me coming and rushes to hug me. The contessa adores her.

“If anything happens to me, Juliet,” she said the other day, “I have made a provision in my will that she will be taken care of and her university will be paid for. She deserves a good life.”

“Don’t say that about anything happening to you,” I said, giving an involuntary shudder. “You’ve said many times that Jewish people in Venice are safe.”