the candles on the tree. It was getting dark outside, and she was looking forward to seeing the candlelight flickering. She was interrupted by the sound of knocking on the front door. She blew out the taper, and laid it on the hall table. Opening the door, she found three men wearing dark overcoats and homburg hats standing on the doorstep.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked politely.
‘We are here for a meeting with Signor Moretti.’
‘Oh, please come in. He didn’t mention he was expecting anyone.’ She paused, waiting for an explanation, but the men simply huddled together in silence. ‘I’ll go and fetch him,’ Livia suggested, hurrying to knock on her father’s door. ‘Papa, there are some men for you.’ She heard him unlocking the door.
‘Ah, I’ve been expecting you,’ he said, ushering the three into his study. ‘Livia, my dear…’
‘Yes, Papa.’
‘Tell your mother I must not be disturbed.’
Livia was used to her father holding meetings at home, both in the villa and in the apartment in Florence. Although he had an office in the city, clients often sought him out in his private residences, anxious to escape prying eyes. But for clients to seek legal advice so close to Christmas seemed unusual, even for him.
Intrigued, she loitered in the hallway, lighting the candles, and tidying up the boxes of decorations. From time to time, she crept over to listen at the door to her father’s study, hoping for some clue about the identity of the three strange men. But much to her irritation, the thick chestnut door was virtually soundproof. Finally she gave up, and was just taking the spare decorations upstairs, when she heard the door to her father’s study being unlocked. She stopped on the landing and listened as the men, accompanied by her father, emerged into the empty hall.
‘So, you will get the papers finalised as soon as possible?’ Said the tallest of the three men.
‘Of course,’ said Giacomo. ‘But you must understand, nothing will happen now until the New Year. The transfer of a business like this – to a fabricated individual – is very involved. The creation of your non-Jewish partner will take a lot of doing.’
‘We understand, and hope it does not bring you trouble.’
‘So do I,’ said Giacomo.
At that moment, the back door that led to the garden opened, and Gino came into the hall, carrying a basket of logs.
‘Well, thank you gentlemen,’ Giacomo said briskly. ‘I wish you a happy Christmas.’
‘And to you, Signor Moretti – you are a good man.’
Giacomo showed the men out and closed the door behind him. ‘Ah… Gino – good. Stoking up the fires?’
Gino nodded, and took the firewood into the sitting room.
Giacomo glanced up and saw his daughter observing him from the landing. ‘How long have you been there?’ he asked.
‘Long enough,’ she replied.
He frowned, beckoning her into his study. ‘Come in, sit down.’ He pointed to a chair opposite his desk. ‘You shouldn’t listen to my business, it’s private – I have people’s confidences, do you understand?
‘Yes, Papa. But those men, what business are you transferring? I don’t want you to get into trouble.’
‘Too late for that,’ said Giacomo with a smile. ‘There are terrible injustices, Livia. Our Jewish friends are being forced out of their businesses as well as their homes. I’m just doing what I can to help. Theft is theft, even if it’s done by the State, and I won’t have it. But say nothing of this – especially to your mother.’
‘I understand.’ Livia stood up to leave, but at the door she turned. ‘Papa…’
He looked up from his desk. ‘Yes, darling?’
‘I’m proud of you.’
The following day was Christmas Eve. The family attended Mass, and then exchanged presents. Luisa had knitted a dark-red scarf and matching hat for Livia. She also gave her a powder compact inherited from her own mother; the lid was studded with red jewel-like stones.
‘They’re only semi-precious,’ Luisa explained, as Livia unwrapped it. ‘Garnets, I think, not rubies.’
‘But it’s so pretty. Thank you, Mamma.’
‘Yes, it is a pretty thing; you do like it, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Mamma, I love it.’ Livia kissed her mother fondly.
In return Livia gave her mother a tiny pill box decorated with a cameo.
‘Oh Livia,’ her mother protested, ‘it’s too extravagant!’
‘Papa helped me choose it,’ said Livia, glancing shyly towards her father.
Her gift to Giacomo was a small anthology of American poetry she had found in a second-hand bookshop in Florence. Her father opened the book straight away.
‘This is one of my favourites; it’s