He is so young, I am terrified he will be killed. Of course, your papa calls him a traitor, says he’ll never forgive him. People blame us, although what we could have done to stop him I don’t know. These boys have their heads filled with wicked Communist talk at school. Carlo is very angry, too. He says if he sees Filippo again he will shoot him, but I don’t think either Papa or Carlo mean it, they are just afraid of what could happen to him, and all of us. These are bad times, my darling. Be good and do whatever Aunt Maria tells you. It is so kind of her to take you in and look after you. We miss you but you must stay there. At least I know you are safe.
Vittoria knew then that nobody would come to take her home: she was going to have to stay with Aunt Maria for the rest of the war. How long would that be? It seemed to have been going on for ever – she could barely remember a time when they had not been fighting.
As she grew older she began to understand more of what was happening in her country, how the war was going. News was talked about openly in Venice, in the cafés, streets and squares. It was at her little school that Vittoria first heard that some cities were being bombed by the British, whom newspapers described as barbarous war-mongers who had forced Italy into a war she did not want.
Aunt Maria read the newspaper aloud over dinner each evening, her voice quavering. If Italy lost the war, they were constantly warned, the British and the Americans would force Italians to work for them, they would become slaves. The Allies would burn down their factories, seize all their food, steal all their art treasures, shut the schools and universities, kill all the men and rape all the women, including the children.
The newspaper Mussolini had founded, the Popolo d’Italia, went further: it wrote that if Britain won the war the Italian people would be ruthlessly exterminated.
Looking up, Aunt Maria would say, ‘But I’ve known so many English. They came to Venice all the time in the old days. Such kind, such charming people – I cannot believe they would be so cruel and wicked.’
Vittoria remembered Frederick Canfield and was silent. The English could be treacherous: she knew that from her own experience.
By mid-1943 the rumours swelled as the tide of war turned against the Fascist forces. Il Duce was seriously ill, might be dying; the demoralised Italian army joined the partisans in the hills. There were worrying rumours that the
Germans were poised to invade, but it was the Anglo-American force that arrived first, from North Africa, on the island of Pantelleria, which Mussolini had believed impregnable.
By July the Allies were moving rapidly up Italy. ‘They won’t come here, they wouldn’t destroy Venice – the English love Venice as much as we do,’ Aunt Maria said, her stiff, gnarled fingers fumbling with her old ivory rosary, whose beads were worn, yellow with age and use. She lapsed into prayer, which sounded to Vittoria more desperate than confident.
Not long after that news that Mussolini had been arrested spread like wildfire. A sense of wild relief and hope filled everyone. Fascism had collapsed. Surely now they could get back to normal and end this war.
Within days of that the Allies bombed Rome. The Holy City, was burning, street by street, and waves of panic swept through the country. Aunt Maria spent hours on her knees in prayer: all the churches in Venice were crowded with terrified people whose murmured prayers swelled to a sound like groaning. Some wept, others were white and silent, staring at the altar, at the statues of Our Blessed Lady and the saints, as if hoping for a miracle that never came.
Vittoria never forgot those days: it was like living through the end of the world. Every night you went to bed not sure that you would be alive in the morning, and every morning began with fresh news of disaster and death.
On 3 August the Allies bombed Milan. Thousands of civilians were killed in their own homes. From miles away, people could see the houses burning and crashing to the ground. Even the statues on the cathedral were blown to smithereens and La Scala was half destroyed.
Vittoria heard the news at school. Reverend Mother came to her classroom, her rosary clinking in agitation and sympathy. ‘They have bombed Milan,’ she told the class, but looked at Vittoria, who was blanched with terror at her desk. ‘Vittoria, you may go home now, and be brave, whatever the news. We will pray for your family, child, that God has been merciful and they are all safe.’
As Vittoria made her way shakily to the door, Olivia and Gina put out their hands to touch hers. ‘I’m sure they’ll be safe,’ Olivia whispered.
Gina said, ‘I’ll pray for you, Vittoria.’
She ran home so fast that she tripped on the way and hit her cheek on the edge of a pavement, arriving home with blood running from the cut. Her head beat with terrifying questions: what had happened to her mother and father, to Nico, to Carlo, to their home? Rosa met her at the door, swathed in a white apron far too big for her, flour on her nose and on her hands.
‘You poor little mite,’ she said, hugging Vittoria.
Vittoria burst out, ‘What have you heard? Are they dead?’
Rosa looked horrified. ‘Don’t say that! It’s bad luck to say things like that out loud. We don’t know anything yet. Your aunt tried to telephone but all the lines are down in Milan.’
It was a week before Vittoria heard that her home had been destroyed. Her father had been killed outright when his factory was hit. Her mother and Carlo had survived because they had taken shelter in the cellars, from which they had emerged later, bruised and in shock – half deaf from the explosions but alive. Anna wrote a long description of the raid, told her that Papa had been buried, that she, Carlo and Niccolo were in no danger, they were living in the ruins of their house on whatever food they could get. It was even more imperative that Vittoria stay in safety in Venice.
Vittoria went back to school in black, filled with anguish and hatred. After a while, though, she realised that she was only one of many other children at the school who had lost brothers and fathers, killed on the battlefield or in the bombing raids. At first you cried, but even grief did not last long: fear was stronger, and prayers, she now knew, were useless. God was deaf, people said openly. God was dead, one or two dared say, angry and defiant, hating Him for having failed them. The churches were still full: most people prayed harder than ever – but not Vittoria. She told herself she would never pray again. God had let her father be killed.
It was at that time, wanting to comfort Vittoria, that Olivia first invited her and Gina to her home. Few people in Venice had gardens – the houses were mostly crammed together with no land between them. Vittoria had had no idea what Ca’ d’Angeli looked like for nobody had warned her what to expect, but she knew it was thought one of the loveliest houses in the city and she was eager to see it. They walked the long way round, through dark, narrow alleys and quiet, dusty, sunny squares, and entered through the rear gate into a magic kingdom of clipped box trees and gravel paths, statues of naked men and women, lemon and orange trees in huge pots, a curtain of purple wisteria over the high red-brick walls.
‘We’ll play out here. I’ll ask someone to bring us cakes,’ Olivia said, loping off to the door, her smooth black plaits bouncing on her shoulders.
‘She’s not going to ask us into the house. I knew she wouldn’t,’ whispered Gina. ‘Her family wouldn’t allow it, because we’re not of their class. We’re trade – my father’s a grocer and yours sold drugs – and the d’Angeli family never mix with tradespeople. If it wasn’t for the war Olivia would have been sent away to boarding school where she wouldn’t meet girls like us.’
Olivia came back with a maid in a black dress and white apron, whose hair was piled up behind her head under a lacy white cap with long streamers, which fluttered as she walked. She brought them a tray of little golden cakes and glasses of home-made lemonade, which she laid out on a table beside a splashing fountain in the centre of the garden.
‘Let me know if you want more lemonade, Signorina.’ The maid glanced at the other two children and gave a disdainful little sniff. ‘And, you two, don’t touch anything! La Contessa will be very angry if you pick any of her flowers or make a mess.’
As she walked back into the house Olivia put out her tongue and the other two giggled. They each took a cake and had a glass of the lemonade, which had hardly any sugar in it and made your tongue fizz. In the shade of the lemon and orange trees the sun was not too hot, and they sat lazily, nibbling cakes, listening to the trickle of water. Then they played hide-and-seek. Vittoria hid behind a hydrangea bush, whose blue flowers reminded her of her own garden in Milan. The colour made her want to cry. Olivia soon found Gina but although they peered into every corner neither of them could see Vittoria.
‘We give up! Come out, come out, wherever you are,’ called Olivia, at last. ‘You win.’