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there was a carpet bombing. They escaped on their bicycles, just in time. At a certain moment Gianfranco jumped off his bicycle, threw himself into a ditch, belly to the ground, arms crossed over his neck. Just in time. My father took him back to Venice, alive, with 36 splinters in his back and 7 in the head.

Feverish and blindfolded, he stayed quiet for a while in Calle del Rimedio. Quiet so to speak. With his presence the already intense nocturnal activity of the house seemed to increase: more phone calls announcing a bunch of roses or a kilo of potatoes, which meant the arrival, before curfew, of badly shaved men who had sex at dawn; more wrenches on the internal staircase, and we little girls immediately went to update ourselves on the number of weapons and ammunition hidden under the badly nailed boards.

Eager to cooperate with the Cause, the twins, Jackie, and I would occasionally go out before dawn to throw ink-filled eggs at Nazi and Fascist proclamations, proud of the risk we were taking.

In truth, I felt like a veteran when it came to risks. In San Michele I had often gone with Francesca to bring medicines and books to former Allied prisoners hiding in peasant houses and for several nights I had not slept peacefully after having lost a couple of books written in English, jolting on a bicycle on rough roads.

The Allies were always cheerful, tall and blond with blue eyes. One morning while I was walking on the embankment I decided that the man who was coming towards me was not Italian and, from the haircut, not even German. Passing by: "Do you speak English?" I murmured without looking at him, and at his "Yes" I immediately turned around and walked behind him. I asked if he was hungry and he nodded yes with his head; if he wanted to come to my house to eat something and he said yes again and all this was madness because...