Strangers in Venice

by A W Hartoin

  Between Luca and his father they got directions to the right hotel that happily wasn’t too far. Ten minutes, Luca claimed, but it might as well have been an hour. Stella’s teeth were chattering and her feet numb. It was a toss-up when she’d felt worse, just then or after she’d crashed Peiper’s plane.

  “Be careful,” called out Luca after them. “It’s different after the Leggi Razziali.”

  “The what?” asked Nicky.

  “The new laws for the Jews. Life will be harder for your friends.”

  Nicky nodded and Stella whispered, “Here, too?”

  “It started in September, but I didn’t think it was that serious. No one said anything to Abel when we were here.”

  “Something new then?”

  “Must be,” said Nicky. “I told you Italy is next.”

  “They don’t seem like the type.”

  “It looks like every country is the type.”

  Stella stood in front of the door of the Hotel al Ponte Vittoria with her finger hovering over the bell.

  “What on Earth are you waiting for?” asked Nicky.

  She looked left and right for an escape route, but there were no good options. They were in the narrowest passage she’d ever seen. She and Nicky had walked single file and he kept bumping the sides. Even the door was small. Stella sized. Nicky would have to stoop. But reassuringly, the name Hotel al Ponte Vittoria was painted above the arched door in graceful script and the passage wasn’t flooded.

  “Stella, please.”

  “I’m figuring out where to run if this doesn’t work out.”

  “It’s going to work out.”

  “That’s what we always think.”

  “I see your point, but your lips are turning blue and icicles are forming on my elbows.” He pressed her hand and she pushed the small button.

  “Here goes nothing,” she said.

  “Right now, it’s everything.”

  A few fretful minutes later, a woman opened the door. She wore a thick white apron and a welcoming smile until she saw the state of them. Stella’s heart sunk and she got ready to run.

  “We lost our luggage.” She almost said that they weren’t Jewish, but her heart wouldn’t let her. It shouldn’t matter.

  “Do you speak English?” asked Nicky.

  The woman stepped back and welcomed them in. “Buonasera. Yes, of course, I speak English. Let me apologize. I was startled by your appearance. You have had a difficult day, yes?”

  “I can’t even begin to tell you.” Stella squeezed past her into a surprisingly large and pleasing hall with a fat umbrella stand on octagonal tiles dotted with Turkish rugs. The walls were a warm yellow and lit by small, tasteful chandeliers, Murano glass but a quieter style, only frosted glass and leaves. And it was warm, so warm and inviting Stella’s eyes welled up.

  “Excuse me,” said Nicky and there was a thump.

  “Oh, sir. Your head,” said the woman. “Are you all right?”

  “If you have whiskey, I will be.”

  She laughed. “We do.”

  Stella turned and saw Nicky standing in a growing puddle rubbing the top of his head.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “Your floor.”

  But the woman wasn’t looking at the puddle under Nicky. She was looking at Stella’s feet. “Antonio! Antonio!” Then came a burst of rapid Italian and a little old man came running down the hall, stooped, frowning, and carrying a pile of towels. He exclaimed and spread out a towel for each of them to step on.

  “I’m so sorry about the mess,” said Stella.

  “It is nothing. I am Sofia, your host. We must get you out of those wet clothes.”

  “Do you have a room?” asked Nicky as the old man slipped off his sodden coat and held it up at arm’s length, making a new puddle.

  “Of course. It is the off-season and this rain.” Sofia made a tsking sound that seemed to be universal among older ladies and eyed Stella’s feet again before she helped her off with her coat and hat. “You will need a doctor. I will call our friend. He will know how to help you.”

  “Oh, no. I think it’s all right,” said Stella.

  “Call the doctor,” said Nicky. “The sooner the better.”

  “You have the currency to pay him?” asked Sofia.

  “We have money, just no luggage.”

  Sofia’s smile widened and Stella sensed a bit of relief. She accepted a towel and began drying off as best she could. “As for the doctor, I don’t—”

  “Stella, for once, can you not argue?” asked Nicky. “Look at your feet.”

  She didn’t look, having learned that looking only made things worse. “It’s fine. I need a bath and a bed. That’s all.”

  They all looked at her silently and then Sofia popped into action, yelling for someone named Matteo. A young man about Stella’s age peeked out from the large desk at the end of the hall and Sofia waved to him to come down. Matteo stopped next to Stella, doing his level best not to stare, nodded, and attempted to grab her.

  “Hey.” Stella slapped his hands and he jumped back.

  “Matteo will carry you to your room,” said Sofia hastily. “You cannot walk on those feet.”

  “I’ve been walking on them just fine.”

  Sofia set her jaw and Nicky said, “I agree, but I’ll carry her.”

  “Nobody is carrying me. I’m not a child,” said Stella, taking a step and flinching from the burning pain in her foot.

  “Look at your feet and say that,” said Nicky.

  “I don’t need—”

  “Do it.”

  She sucked in a breath and looked down, preparing for the worst and getting more than that. Her feet looked like boiled pork sausages that had rotted. The skin was peeling and had split and somewhere along the line she’d lost several toenails. “Oh my God.”

  “All right then,” said Nicky. “I’ll carry you.”

  Sofia pointed at Matteo. “He is very strong and you are tired.”

  “I can do it,” said Nicky and Sofia gave him a look that Stella recognized. Her imperious grandmother looked at Uncle Josiah that way when he said things like, “I think I’ll have another double,” or “What kind of fool do you think I am?”

  Nicky shrank back and conceded the way that Uncle Josiah never did and Sofia waved at Matteo, who blushed to the roots of his wavy black hair. But he obeyed and swept Stella off her hideous feet.

  Led by Sofia, he carried her down a warren of halls to a door with an ornate H on it. She opened the door and Matteo carried her to a canopy bed draped in green damask. Sofia bustled over to put down a double layer of towels and Matteo gently laid her down.

  “May I help you with your stockings?” asked Sofia and Stella looked down in surprise. She’d forgotten she’d had stockings and indeed she now didn’t. The silk had shredded and hung around her calves in limp, wet tendrils.

  “It’s okay. I can do it,” she said sadly, but the stockings were the least of her worries. Her new red suit was a wreck, the skirt drenched, but, at least, the jacket and creamy silk blouse that Amelie had so lovingly selected had been protected by her fur.

  “Don’t worry,” said Sofia, sensing her dismay. “There are shops nearby. They will accommodate you.”

  Stella nodded, wondering how she could possibly get there on those feet and in those clothes.

  “Here.” Sofia handed her a toweling robe. “I will have your clothes and coat cleaned.”

  Antonio knocked and came in, saying something about a medico and Sofia nodded. “Dr. Davide will be here in an hour. May I draw you a bath, sir?”

  “Thank you.” Nicky pulled out his wallet. “How much for a week?”

  Sofia demurred, but Nicky insisted on paying ahead and she finally accepting a wad of lira.

  “Another thing. Would it be possible to arrange a transatlantic call?” asked Nicky.

  “You want to call your family?” interrupted Stella.

  “No.” He seemed puzzled at the suggestion. “Yours. To te
ll them we’ve arrived and…find out their news.”

  Stella folded her hands over her stomach. “I should’ve known.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Sofia. “Our telephone doesn’t not work. The rain has broken the lines. I could arrange for a call at one of the larger hotels, but it will take some time to arrange.”

  “When will it be fixed?” asked Stella.

  Sofia asked Antonio and the old man shrugged, “Domani.”

  Stella and Nicky exchanged knowing glances.

  “Never mind,” said Nicky. “We’ll telegram.”

  She nodded. “As you wish.”

  After Sofia and the others had left, Nicky stripped. Stella popped opened her makeup case and dug out the pistol. Nicky raised an eyebrow but said nothing as she shoved it under the mattress. Out of sight wasn’t quite out of mind, but it would have to do.

  “She didn’t ask us to register, but I suppose we’ll have to, at some point,” said Stella as she unsnapped the remains of her stockings from her garter belt. “Do we tell them we’re the Bled Lawrences?”

  “I don’t know why we would.” He stood glaring at her in his sagging briefs with his formerly pristine body looking like he’d been to war, which in a way Stella supposed he had. She wouldn’t really know because every time she asked about what happened when they were apart, Nicky promptly went to sleep.

  “Because that’s who we are.”

  “That may be who you are, but I’m still Nicky Lawrence.”

  Stella flung her stockings on the tile with a wet slap. “Okay.”

  “Don’t say it like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like it’s not true.”

  “Okay.”

  “Stella,” he growled.

  She unbuttoned her jacket and examined her blouse before glancing slyly at her husband. “What happened to Hans after I left the two of you at the brewery?”

  He picked up his robe and turned away from her.

  “All right. How did you get to Paris?” she asked.

  “Sofia probably has my bath ready.” He stalked over to the door, whipped it open, and left without looking back.

  Stella took off her jacket and unbuttoned her blouse. “That’s what I thought.”

  Stella managed to get all her clothes off without standing up. She wrapped herself in her fluffy robe, propping her feet up on a wad of semi-wet towels with her blouse draped over them. It wasn’t good for the silk, but a little stained silk was better than looking at those feet, in her estimation, and silk was the only thing that didn’t chafe. Now they weren’t burning as much as hurting, which under any other circumstances would’ve been horrid, but just then, it was actually an improvement.

  Such an improvement that she laid back on the feather pillows and closed her eyes. The room smelled faintly of lemon verbena and cigarette smoke. It was almost like having her mother and grandmother there with her but without the exasperation and worrying. The bed was comfortable and she was almost able to drift off when a quiet knock came to ruin it. She called for the person to come in. They didn’t, not immediately, so she expected Matteo, but it was Sofia, wringing her hands and avoiding Stella’s direct gaze.

  “I have bad news. Dr. Davide, he is not here.”

  “Okay. It’s fine.”

  “There is a baby coming. It’s fast and he can’t come.”

  “I understand.” Stella was rather relieved. If a doctor didn’t come, he couldn’t tell her that her toes were going to fall off and he couldn’t do anything about it. If her toes were going to fall off, she rather they just did it without an unhelpful warning.

  “He has sent his associate,” she said. “Would you like to see him?”

  Nicky strode into the room, freshly washed with his blond hair combed back to show off the bruise on his forehead. “Yes, she would.”

  Stella sighed. “I guess so.”

  Sofia didn’t move.

  “Well?”

  “There may be a…complication.”

  “Isn’t there always?” Nicky picked up his clothes that had been drying on the radiator, his indifference masked frustration although to Stella it was quite visible. “He wants an outrageous fee? Is that it?”

  “No, no. He is quite reasonable,” said Sofia.

  “Then get him in here. Those feet aren’t going to heal up on their own.”

  “They might,” interjected Stella.

  Sofia kept wringing her hands. “She must be seen. I explained the feet to Dr. Davide.”

  “Then what’s the hold up?” asked Nicky.

  “Hold up?” asked Sofia.

  “What are we waiting for?”

  She nodded. “I see. There may be a complication.”

  “You said that already.”

  Sofia leaned back to look at their door, which was open. She went over and quickly closed it. “Salvatore is a Jew.”

  “And a doctor?” asked Nicky.

  “Yes.”

  “A good one?”

  “Yes, I trust him…with several of our guests,” said Sofia.

  Nicky’s indifference fell away and the congenial Nicky took over. “Bring him in. My wife needs help.”

  Sofia relaxed but still had her hands clasped together. “You understand it’s against our law.”

  “What is?” asked Stella, her throat suddenly tight and hot. “Being a Jew?”

  “Not yet, but I do not think that is far from us,” said Sofia. “Dr. Salvatore cannot treat gentiles.” She paused and then asked, “You are gentiles?”

  “Yes, and we don’t care about that stupid law. Do we, Nicky?”

  Nicky stood up, casual and loose, and Sofia stopped clenching. “We won’t tell if he won’t.”

  She smiled and went into the hall. Nicky got dressed and, a minute later, she returned with a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair and wearing a well-cut pin-striped suit and a dark overcoat. He could’ve been anyone, practically anywhere with any religion. He could’ve been her father or Uncle Nicolai. Not Uncle Josiah. He’d never been that respectable in his life. The whole thing was beyond ridiculous. A doctor needed patients and vice versa.

  “Dr. Salvatore,” Nicky held out his hand, “thank you for coming.”

  “You are very welcome.” The doctor paused. “I don’t believe I know your name.”

  “Because I haven’t given one.”

  Dr. Salvatore bowed his head slightly. “I understand and apologize.”

  “Think nothing of it. What do you know about frost bite?” Nicky lifted the blouse and Stella was certain she saw the good doctor wince ever so slightly.

  “It is not my field of expertise, but I believe I can help.” He opened his big black medical bag and asked for a basin of hot water. Nicky and Sofia got Stella situated in a chair and the doctor mixed several tinctures into the water and swirled it with a wooden tongue depressor.

  He squatted in front of the basin and gingerly picked up her foot. “You have been walking?”

  “Yes. I had to, but it wasn’t this bad before. It just happened,” said Stella.

  “Have you been taking anything?”

  “Just aspirin.”

  “That’s very effective for swelling and pain. You should continue taking it.” Then he surprised her by sniffing her foot. “You have been walking in the canal water.”

  “Yes. There wasn’t much of a choice.”

  “It is very bad for the skin and yours was already damaged.” He lowered her foot to the water. “This will hurt you.”

  “Swell,” said Stella, gripping the sides of the chair.

  He stopped and asked, “Would you like to continue?”

  “Yes,” said Nicky, but Dr. Salvatore didn’t look at him as Stella suspected a doctor in the States would have. He only looked at her, only she mattered.

  “Yes,” she said. “I have to get up and walking soon.”

  He lowered her foot into the water and she gasped at the stinging heat, but then it was sort of tingly.


  “Too hot?” he asked.

  “I think it’s okay.”

  He put the second foot in and then pulled out a syringe. Stella stiffened and then reminded herself, if she could give a shot she ought to be able to take one. “Is that for Prontosil?”

  He pulled a small vial out of his bag and snapped it open. “You have medical knowledge?”

  “Only about that,” said Stella. “And Eukadol.”

  He drew the liquid into the syringe and Nicky asked, “What’s that for?”

  “To kill the infection.”

  “The water gave her an infection?”

  “I believe it was already there and she reacted to the…soiled water,” said Dr. Salvatore as he gave her the shot. It wasn’t more painful than her feet which was all she could say for it.

  “What’s in your treatment?” she asked, grasping for a distraction.

  “Copper salts, vitamins A and D, lavender, and pomegranate. I have used them to good effect on burns.” He lifted her right foot and examined her toes. “This hurts?”

  “A whole lot.”

  “Then I think you will recover well, but you must soak your feet twice a day and not walk.”

  Stella glanced up at Nicky. “That is not an option.”

  He checked the other foot and then stood up. “Your feet are in poor condition. Rest is essential for healing.”

  “I understand, but we need to find someone so I have to walk.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Nicky.

  “We’ll do it together.”

  “Who are you looking for?” asked Sofia.

  “Our friend’s family,” said Nicky. “The Sorkines, Raymond-Raoul and Suzanne. They might have their daughter with them. Do you know them?”

  Dr. Salvatore and Sofia shook their heads.

  “What do they look like?” asked Sofia and Stella was stumped. She had no idea. They were related to Abel, but that didn’t mean anything. She didn’t resemble Uncle Josiah, except for the eyes.

  “You don’t know?” asked Dr. Salvatore.

  “Not really.” Stella pointed at her handbag. She’d managed to keep it dry inside her coat and the only clue she possessed was hidden in it. Nicky gave it to her and she pulled out the pictures Nicky had rescued from the rubble of Abel’s flat. She showed them the young woman with braids and the German officer. “They could look like them.”