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it.’
    ‘Did you study history, Commissario?’ she asked.
    Brunetti took this as a compliment. ‘If I had, I doubt I would have lasted the course, either.’ He stopped and they exchanged a smile, both struck by how immediate and democratic was the union of people who sought and found intellectual solace within the pages of books. He went on, giving no thought to the propriety of saying this to someone who was not a member of the forces of order: ‘I still spend most of my time listening to lies, but at least some of the people who tell them to me are presumed to be lying because they’re criminals. It’s not like having to listen to a lie from someone who holds the chair in history at the university.’ He almost added, ‘Or the Minister of Justice,’ but stopped himself in time.
    ‘That makes the lies they tell all the more dangerous, doesn’t it?’ she asked instantly.
    ‘Absolutely,’ he agreed, pleased that she so immediately saw the consequences. Almost reluctantly, he took the conversation back to where it had been before becoming an examination of historical truth. ‘But what is it you wanted to ask me?’ When she didn’t answer, he continued, ‘I think my wife told you that I can’t give you any information until I know the details.’
    ‘You won’t tell anyone?’ she blurted out. The tone in which she asked this reminded Brunetti that the girl was not much older than his own children and that her intellectual sophistication didn’t necessarily imply any other sort of maturity.
    ‘No, not if there’s no sign of ongoing criminal activity. If what you want to ask about happened far enough in the past, then it’s likely that the statute of limitations has run out or a general amnesty has been granted.’ Because the information Paola had given him was so vague, he decided to leave it to the girl to tell him more if she chose to do so.
    There followed a pause in which Brunetti had no idea what the girl might be thinking. It went on so long that he looked away from her, and his eyes were automatically drawn to the printed words on the paper on his desk. He found himself, in the silence, beginning to read, almost against his will.
    More time passed. Finally, she said, ‘As I told your wife, it’s about an old woman I’ve always thought of as my third grandmother. I need the information for her. She’s Austrian, but she lived with my grandfather during the war. My father’s father, that is.’ She looked across at Brunetti, checking to see if this explanation would suffice; he met her glance, looking interested but certainly not eager.
    ‘After the war, my grandfather was arrested. There was a trial, and during it the prosecution presented copies of articles he had written for newspapers and journals where he condemned “alien art forms and practices”. Brunetti recognized this as the Fascist code for Jewish art or art by anyone who was Jewish. ‘Despite the Amnesty, they were still admitted as evidence.’
    She stopped. When it became evident that she was not going to say more unless he prodded, he asked, ‘What happened at the trial?’
    ‘Because of the Togliatti Amnesty he couldn’t be prosecuted for political crimes, so he was charged with extortion. For other things that happened during the war,’ she explained. ‘At least, this is what my grandmother has told me,’ she continued. ‘When it looked as if he was likely to be convicted, he had a sort of breakdown, and his lawyer decided to plead insanity.’ Anticipating Brunetti’s question, she added, ‘I wondered about that, but my grandmother said it was a real breakdown, not a fake one like they have today.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘And the judges believed it, too, so when they sentenced him, they sent him to San Servolo.’
    It would have been better to have gone to prison, Brunetti found himself thinking, though this was an idea he decided to spare the girl. San Servolo had been closed decades ago, and it was perhaps best to