Strangers in Venice

by A W Hartoin

  “Signora?” he asked in a lovely resonate tenor voice and Stella looked up into a pale face with gentle, brown eyes and a priest’s collar under the dimpled chin.

  “Oh, thank God,” Stella burst out. “Sorry, Father.”

  He looked rather startled, but quickly asked, “Non see la Signora Goldenberg?”

  Stella wasn’t sure what he was asking, but she didn’t know anyone named Goldenberg, so she shook her head no.

  Down the line of train cars, the silent family dashed onto the platform and huddled together, looking around for someone.

  “Scusi, signora.” The priest hurried over and hustled them away with a glance back at Stella. He couldn’t get away fast enough.

  Nicky came through the waterfall, lugging her hat box and makeup case. “Who was that?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Not the Bissets though.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ll explain later.”

  Nicky looked around at the platform with passengers rushing past them to board, but no staff in evidence. “Well, I was hoping there’d be someone to help.”

  Stella took her makeup case from him and found its weight surprising. She’d forgotten that she’d stowed Gabriele Griese’s pistol in the bottom. The unwelcome reminder made the image of Gabriele’s body slipping into the Seine bloom in her mind. Stella felt no guilt. It had to be done, but it was less than pleasant all the same, and she forced it away. “Come on. There has to be someone around.”

  They trudged off the platform and into the station, braving two more waterfalls and a puddle the size of Lake Como only to find the station practically deserted.

  “It’s like Vienna,” said Nicky.

  “Don’t say that,” said Stella, but he wasn’t entirely wrong. When they’d left Venice, a person could barely move in Santa Lucia. There were buskers, hawkers of exotic food, and travelers, so many travelers, rushing to get wherever it was that they were going. Now they could hear their footsteps on the floor. “At least there aren’t any of those hateful flags.”

  “You’re right. No swastikas to ruin our day. I wonder how long that will last.”

  “Oh, come on. Germany can’t take over everyone.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  Stella ignored him and walked off toward a newspaper man who was shuttering his little stand. She didn’t want to hear any more miserable predictions. Monsieur Volcot’s new papers had only succeeded in making Nicky gloomy. It seemed the world did not care about what happened on the Kristallnacht, unless you counted a few stern words of disapproval. Everyone wanted to avoid another war and if the Jews had to be sacrificed, so be it, or at least that’s what Nicky told her as she was practicing her vocabulary. He was on about the annexation of the Sudetenland and the future of Czechoslovakia. He might be right about them and some others. Austria, obviously, maybe Poland, but Italy, no. They were just so Italian. Rules were just considered suggestions. How many times had she heard “Domani,” when she asked when something would get done. Tomorrow meant tomorrow or the next day or more likely never. Italians wouldn’t comply the way the Austrians had. Regulations didn’t run in their veins. Wine did.

  The station was a good example. Sure, it was empty and cold, but it didn’t have a jot of the fear that wafted around the Vienna station. The travelers there had been terribly afraid, for good reason as it turned out, but the travelers in Santa Lucia were just soggy and irritated.

  “Scusi, signore.” Stella asked if he had a water bus schedule. He stared at her bewildered so she tried again. He shrugged and shooed her away. She started to insist, but Nicky dragged her away. “Forget it.”

  “I know my pronunciation was perfect. You heard me. Vaporetto. That’s what the buses are called. Wasn’t it perfect?”

  “Apparently, it wasn’t. Let’s just go out to the stop. I think they have schedules posted.”

  They pushed through a crush of sopping wet tourists hurrying into the station and came out onto the steps overlooking the Grand Canal, except the Grand Canal was more like a lake. The water was up over the steps that led to the vaporetto dock. People were wading through the water, holding luggage up over their heads and cursing in multiple languages.

  “How deep do you think that is?” asked Stella.

  “I don’t think it matters.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re on stilts.”

  He laughed and tried to pick her up. “I’ll carry you.”

  She pushed him away and took off her shoes, tucking them in her pockets.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I only have one pair.”

  “It’s dirty and you might cut your feet.”

  Stella hoisted up her skirt and coat. “And there might be sharks. Come on. There’s the vaporetto.”

  They walked down into the water and Stella regretted it almost instantly. The water was beyond dirty and ice cold. Her teeth were chattering before they made it half way. There had to be a hotel close by. She started to turn around, but Nicky shouted. “It’s leaving. I’ll catch it.” He surged off through the grey water, waving his arms and shouting the only word he knew, “Basta! Basta!”

  The water bus did not basta. It left, belching black smoke and creating waves that brought the water up to Stella’s thighs. Being hammered into a beer barrel was starting to seem like an elegant way to travel.

  “Swell,” said Nicky. “Let’s go back. There has to be someone who can help.”

  “There is,” said Stella, pointing at a small and non-too-seaworthy looking water taxi on the other side of the canal. There was a captain in it, smoking a cigarette and smiling laconically at them.

  “He’ll charge an arm and a leg.”

  “And we’ll pay it.” Stella waved and shouted. The captain nodded, lit a second cigarette, and fired up his engine. The dingy craft bounced over the waves to collide with the dock and bobble around like a cork until the captain gunned the engine in a kind of coughing way and persuaded it to calm down enough so that they could climb aboard.

  Stella slipped around on the waterlogged space between the canvas-covered helm and the glassed-in passenger area.

  “Buongiorna, signora,” said the captain, continuing to smoke the two cigarettes at once.

  “Buongiorno, signore,” said Stella while holding onto the back of the captain’s seat for dear life.

  Nicky stepped into the boat and lost his footing in the narrow stair. He fell on his rump, long legs and arms flailing. Stella grabbed the makeup case, but the hatbox went flying overboard. The captain gave him a hand up and asked something incomprehensible.

  Nicky looked at Stella and every Italian word she’d learned flew out of her head.

  “Quoi?” she shouted over the rattling engine, the rain, and the cargo boat that chose that moment to chug by.

  The captain said something.

  “Quoi?” she repeated.

  “Isn’t that French?” yelled Nicky.

  “Maybe he knows it!”

  The look on the weathered seaman’s face said he didn’t and that he was rapidly losing patience.

  “Hotel!” yelled Stella.

  “Sì!”

  “We want the Hotel al Ponte Vittoria!”

  He nodded vigorously and put his hand up to shield his eyes from a fresh onslaught of stinging rain. “Sì hotel.”

  Stella tried again, but her teeth were chattering so badly she couldn’t get it out in anything that sounded like actual words.

  “Show him the paper!” yelled Nicky.

  “What?”

  “You wrote it down, didn’t you?”

  She’d totally forgotten that she’d taken the precaution of writing down key phrases and the hotel. She’d forgotten so well that she’d shoved her wet shoe in her pocket on top of the list. It came out soaked and had to be peeled apart with her fingernails. The hotel name was mostly intact and when she showed it to the captain, he nodded. “Ah! Sì! Sì! Sì! Vittoria!”

  “Yes! Yes! Vittoria!�
�� yelled Stella and he pointed at the passenger door.

  Nicky flung open the door and they squeezed into the small area that smelled like mold and wet dog. The bench seats had springs sticking out of them and had some stains that Stella chose to believe were either dirt or chocolate.

  “Don’t say it,” she said, picking up a crusty wool blanket and wrapping it around her legs.

  “Say what?” asked Nicky as he wedged himself between two wickedly sharp springs.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “That phrase has never been more accurate.”

  “It’s fine. We’ll go to the hotel, defrost in the bath, and figure out what to do.” Stella sounded cheerful, but homesickness was settling in for a long stay.

  A faster boat blew past them and a huge amount of spray hit the windows, coming through the cracks and broken panes to soak Nicky from the back.

  “The worst honeymoon in history just got even worse,” said Nicky, his teeth beginning to chatter, too.

  “It’s not that bad,” said Stella.

  “We could be dead, I suppose.” He stared at her from under his sagging fedora with water dripping off the tip.

  “We could be Calvin.”

  “Calvin?”

  “My friend, Emily’s husband. They went to England for their honeymoon.”

  “Wise decision.” Nicky took off his fedora and shook it, spraying the floor and Stella.

  She wrinkled her nose at him and said, “He found out about a game they play called rugby.”

  “If you’re trying to say that a rugby injury is worse than being chased by Hitler’s thugs across half of Europe, getting frost bite, and nearly killed, not to mention this colossal disaster, I’m going to have to say no.”

  “He was hospitalized for a week and lost his vision in the left eye,” said Stella.

  “I’d take that over this honeymoon,” said Nicky. “It’s not over. We don’t know where the Sorkines are and, if I had to lay bets, Peiper is going to turn up, sooner rather than later.”

  “Maybe he won’t.”

  “He will.”

  “Then we better hurry up.”

  The boat turned onto a smaller canal and slowed down. Stella didn’t want to think about Peiper. Not just then. Her teeth had stopped chattering and she leaned back to look out the window. Venice was lovely, even in a deluge. The ancient buildings loomed overhead with their faded colors and crumbling stucco, speaking of a more elegant age. Tiny little balconies in wrought iron sat in front of tall, narrow doors shuttered against the rain, but occasionally she’d catch a glimpse of a multicolored chandelier with snaking tubes of delicate glass and encrusted with flowers and leaves. Stella couldn’t remember why she wanted to leave so badly. She’d been safe, but then again she hadn’t been aware that safety wasn’t guaranteed.

  She wanted to go home and feel that safety again, but when she turned back to Nicky and saw his eyes trained on her, she remembered. Where was home? They hadn’t discussed it. Home to her was St. Louis. It couldn’t be otherwise. Nicky was a New Yorker and he worked at his family’s company, United Shipping and Steel. He would think that they’d live there. Never mind the brewery.

  Nicky started to say something, but the engine cut out and the captain banged on the glass. Stella threw off her crusty blanket and picked up her makeup bag.

  “I hope you didn’t have anything important in that hat box,” said Nicky.

  She laughed and nudged him with her shoulder. “I only have one hat.” She flicked the formerly fabulous feather that now lay on her shoulder, limp like a black rat’s tail.

  “I’m going to fix that. Eventually.”

  “I’ll settle for a hot bath.”

  The taxi glided up to a small dock under an elegant canopy and Nicky frowned. “We should’ve specified not too expensive.”

  The dock did have a pricey look about it, similar to the five-star hotel they’d stayed in before. The polished steps up from the boat had a non-slip covering and a brass handrail with a lion’s head perched on the end.

  “Too late now,” said Nicky.

  “Much too late.”

  The captain asked for their fare and Stella was forced to get out her dictionary that was nearly as bad off as her Italian notes, but she gathered that they could buy a boat for what he wanted. Nicky started haggling and Stella climbed out, wincing at the pain in her feet. They were under the canopy so at least she wasn’t getting more wet, which was probably possible although she was sure that she didn’t look it.

  Nicky came up the stairs and said, “Well, that was a rip-off, but we’re here.” He tried the door, but it was locked. “This cannot be happening.”

  Stella pointed to the bell. “I think we have to ring to come in.”

  “Ring then.”

  She rang and they waited an exceedingly painful five minutes for a man to walk leisurely down the teak-paneled halls with a clipboard and a look that was both eager and haughty at the same time.

  When he got to the door, he looked them over slowly and checked his clipboard, his liver-colored lips pursed in dismay. Then he looked around their feet and his frown deepened.

  “What’s he looking for?” Nicky knocked.

  The man shook his head and made a shooing gesture at them like they were a couple of vermin that washed up on shore.

  Nicky knocked again and the glass door rattled on its fancy brass hinges. “We can pay. We’re Americans.”

  The man sneered at them and pointed at a black telephone on a little mahogany table.

  “I think he’s going to call the police,” said Stella.

  Nicky pounded on the door. “I’m wet. I’m tired. I’m rich. Let me the hell in.”

  The hotelier picked up the phone and began dialing. Stella grabbed Nicky’s arm and wedged herself between him and the door. “Stop it. The last thing we need is the police.”

  “Maybe we do need the authorities. Maybe he needs to be taught a lesson.”

  “Aren’t Italy and Germany allies? Do we want to be arrested by a Nazi ally?”

  Nicky abruptly stopped, took off his fedora, and smoothed his hair. “No. Obviously not.”

  She pulled him away from the door as the hotelier began speaking into the receiver. “Hurry up. We need to be gone.”

  “Where are we going? Into the canal?”

  She pointed at a second set of stairs that led to an arched bridge over the canal. They ran up the steps past a couple of drowned rats and a broken wine bottle to find a choice.

  “Left or right?” asked Stella.

  Down the narrow passageway, a man stuck his head out a door and raised a fist. “Vittene, sporchi ebrei!”

  “Not that way.” Nicky spun her around and they ran up the stairs of the bridge. Stella had forgotten how exhausting Venice was. Stairs everywhere.

  Another narrow passageway waited on the other side. It was lower and flooded. Two men stood in the pouring rain, using what looked like an oversized bicycle pump attached to a hose. Water was trickling out a window through a wide tube. It was a mystery why they’d be pumping out the building when they were standing in four inches of water, but she saw why when they splashed down into the passageway. The door had sandbags stacked up in it and the interior appeared mostly dry.

  “Once more into the breech,” said Nicky, dragging her behind him and the man from the hotel came over the bridge and yelled at them as they splashed away.

  The two men at the pump yelled back, making a rude hand gesture at the hotelier that Abel had called “the horns.” People did it a lot in traffic. Stella averted her eyes. “The horns” were sometimes followed by crotch scratching and her day had been bad enough.

  The hotelier stopped yelling, beaten back by the ferocity of the workers, but Stella and Nicky kept trudging away.

  “Sei ebreo?” yelled one of the workers after them.

  They ignored him and sped up.

  “Sind sie Juden?” he yelled.

  Nicky kept going, but Stella
stopped and nearly got pulled off her feet.

  “Come on, Stella!”

  “I think he asked if we’re Jewish,” she said.

  “So?” Nicky looked up at the faces that were popping out of the windows above them and was rewarded with rain in the face.

  “I’d like to know why.” She wrenched her hand out of his and turned back to yell, “Nein! Kein Juden!”

  “Hello, Stella,” said Nicky. “We’re being chased.”

  “Not anymore. Thanks to them.”

  The men waved at her and they splashed over. The younger worker said something in German that Stella couldn’t make out. “Do you speak English at all?”

  “Ah, English,” he said with a broad smile. “You are Americans, yes?”

  “Yes,” said Stella. “Why was he chasing us? We wanted a room for the night.”

  “Fabrizio hates Jews,” said the man. “My sister she marry Lorenzo. He is a Jew.” He shook a fist in the direction that Fabrizio had disappeared in.

  “We’re not Jews,” said Nicky.

  “You look like Jews.”

  “Because we’re wet? Everyone is wet,” said Stella.

  “Because you have nothing with you. The Jews, they come from the North and they have nothing.”

  “Well, thank you for explaining,” said Nicky. “We’ve got to find another hotel.”

  “There are many hotels, but some will not like no luggage,” he said, holding out his rough hand. “I am Luca and this is my father Antonio.”

  “You’re very good at languages.”

  “I studied in Rome before I come home to help my father,” said Luca. “You want cheap hotel, yes?”

  “Cheap is good,” said Stella, “and near the ghetto. We are trying to find some friends and we think they might be there.”

  He nodded and spoke to his father. The older man nodded, considered, and gave a name that was very familiar.

  “My father says that you want to go to the Hotel al Ponte Vittoria. They will take you.”

  Nicky pointed at the bridge. “Isn’t that the Hotel al Ponte Vittoria with Fabrizio the Jew hater?”

  Luca laughed. “No, no. That is Hotel Palazzo Vittoria.”

  “Well, that explains it,” said Nicky. “How far is the other one, the good one?”