“Do you not know where San Polo is?” a girl standing next to me asked, giving him a withering look. She was svelte and olive-skinned, dressed in a simple black dress that looked somehow stunning on her. “It is the quarter next to Dorsoduro on this side of the canal. You can walk from the academy, if you don’t get lost. Do you not have a map?”

Her Italian sounded really good, fluid and fluent. I studied her with more than a little envy.

“Yes, but it’s no use,” the American said in Italian. “None of the streets go where you think they will, and they keep changing names.” Actually he said, “Not help me. Street not going where I want and change names.” Or something along those lines. His pronunciation was so bad that it was hard to decipher.

There were nods of agreement from the other students.

“It is a most disorganized city,” a tall, fair boy said. “And dirty, too. I do not think they clean the canals very often.”

“They say the tide takes things away eventually,” the man beside the American said with a Gallic shrug. He was quite attractive, with unruly dark hair, not unlike Leo’s, and wearing an open-necked white shirt. French, I decided, and not as young as the others. But then, not as old as I. None of them were. “I am Gaston. I am from Marseilles. And you are?” He turned to me.

“Juliet. From England,” I said. I did not intend to be Lettie while I was away from home.

“Juliet—such a romantic name.” He gave me a little grin. The name did sound romantic the way he pronounced it, and it reminded me that Leo had called me Julietta.

“I should watch this one,” the other woman said, addressing me. “The French are notorious flirts.” But I saw the look she flashed at him. Also a flirt, I thought.

“I am Imelda Gonzales, from Madrid,” she said. “My family has been living in Biarritz, in France, since the civil war. Such a terrible time. My brother was killed.”

“At least it is now over, and the right side won,” the blonde young man said. “General Franco has restored peace and order to his country.”

“You think so?” Imelda said. “At what cost?”

“But you could not have wanted the communists to have gained control?”

“Perhaps I would,” she said. “My father had to flee because he was a professor at the university and had expressed more . . . democratic views. When it is communist versus fascist, there is no place for middle ground. One has to choose.” She stared hard at the blonde boy. “I suppose you must be from Germany and think that Herr Hitler is wonderful.”

“I am Franz. Franz Halstadt.” The blonde boy clicked his heels and gave a sharp little bow. “But I am from Austria. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”