“Yes, miss, when can we do some shopping?” another voice chimed in.

“It is supposed to be a cultural trip, you know,” I pointed out. “Tomorrow we’ll go to Murano, and you can buy some glass if you like. It’s very lovely.”

They liked this idea, and so we visited the island the next day. I saw the same beads I had so admired when I visited with Aunt Hortensia, and this time I bought a necklace. We were waiting for the water bus to return to the city when I noticed a poster advertising the Biennale. Of course, it was an even year—the great modern art exhibition would be taking place in the gardens.

“I think you girls might enjoy seeing some more-modern art,” I said as we disembarked and made our way back to the convent. “There is a famous exhibit of modern art from around the world held in some really lovely gardens. Maybe we’ll go there tomorrow.”

“Are you sure that modern art is suitable for the girls?” Miss Frobisher asked. “I’ve seen some of the things they call art these days.”

“It is good for them to know what is being created, rather than just relying on the past,” I replied. “They can make up their own minds whether they think modern art is equally beautiful.”

And so the next morning we headed for the Giardini on the water bus. It was cool and pleasant as we approached the exhibition on the tree-lined paths. I found myself wondering exactly where Leo’s tree with the statue had been, or the lawn where we had eaten a picnic and he had kissed me. The gardens were full of people, including a good sprinkling of Mussolini’s black shirts, the armed squads of Italian Fascists, and local police, observing the crowd as they passed. It took away the serenity of the surroundings. What could they be looking for? Everyone here seemed so relaxed and happy to be enjoying a day in the park.

We visited the main pavilion, where Miss Frobisher was suitably shocked at some of the painting and sculpture.

“Now how could you call that art? It’s just daubs. It looks as if the canvas is spattered with blood.”

“That’s what the artist wanted to achieve, I suspect,” I answered. “It’s about the Spanish Civil War.”

She approved more of the German pavilion, where the works were in keeping with Nazi propaganda, depicting happy blonde peasants in fields and impressive monuments. I realized that Jewish artists had probably fled from Germany, as would those artists whose work did not go along with party thinking.

Miss Frobisher pointed out with interest that some of the artists were Austrian. “Of course,” she said. “Germany has annexed Austria, hasn’t it? Nice to see them happily together now.”

I kept quiet and didn’t say what I was thinking. As we were about to leave, a group of German officers entered the room, talking loudly and brushing people aside with such arrogance that I had to swallow back my anger.