After Angelo was taken from me, life essentially had no meaning. Frankly I didn’t care if I lived or I died. There were times when I stood on the Accademia Bridge and wondered if I should just jump off. But I have kept on existing. I have divided my time between the contessa’s villa and my top-floor flat. I have found my spying activities to be a chore, something I am unwilling to do in my bitterness and grief. Why should I save lives when mine has been brutally snatched from me? And yet my British sense of duty won’t leave me. And so I have spent at least two or three days a week sitting in my window. Francesca comes occasionally, bringing me food, but I have lost interest in eating. I have taken my binoculars to the canal, where I can spy on the Da Rossi palace, hoping to catch a glimpse of Angelo. But then I was accosted by a strange man.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Bird-watching,” I said quickly. “There is a seagull’s nest on the roof over there. New chicks in it.”

He accepted this, but I realized the danger I was putting myself in. Part of me still wanted to escape to Switzerland and safety, but how could I travel with no identity card? Even if I didn’t take the train but used local buses on my journey north, I would be a target of suspicion. Someone would report me along the way. There would be checkpoints. And I would need to eat. To buy food. And I have no ration card. So I am stuck, whether I want it or not. And I keep telling myself that Leo will come home. He’ll come back to me, and everything will be all right. Although now I have to accept that he will not give me back my son. A nagging sliver of doubt always lurked that Leo had indeed orchestrated the raid. Had he instructed his men, “If I am not back by this time, go and bring the child to the palazzo”?

I couldn’t believe he could be so cruel to take Angelo without allowing me to say goodbye, but perhaps he thought it was for the best, knowing how hard I’d find it to let go.

I try to find solace in the time I spend with the contessa and with Hanni. I helped do some of the cataloguing for the Biennale, which amazingly has taken place as if there was no war. Vittorio was very much in evidence, strutting around with a great air of importance, giving orders to those building the displays in the pavilions, and also persuading the contessa to buy certain pieces. I was rather gratified that he spotted the picture I had painted for her on her library wall.

“Where did you get this one?” he asked. “I hope you didn’t pay too much for it.”