Strangers in Venice

by A W Hartoin

  “Or not,” said Nicky. “Honestly, we don’t know.”

  “It is important that you find them?” asked Dr. Salvatore.

  Nicky nodded. “Yes, and they may be looking for us, too.”

  “I will ask those that I know. Perhaps they have been seen.”

  “They’re Jewish,” said Stella and then she paused. “I guess we don’t know that for sure.”

  “I think we do,” said Nicky.

  “You know very little,” said Dr. Salvatore.

  “We know we have to find them,” said Stella.

  Dr. Salvatore opened a little box and got out another vial. A pair of deep grooves had appeared between his eyes. “You can’t ask the carabinieri for help?”

  “It’s better if we don’t,” said Nicky. “But they aren’t criminals, you understand.”

  “Just Jews.”

  Stella didn’t hesitate. “Probably. We have some information for them. It’s essential for their safety. We wouldn’t want them going where they aren’t wanted.”

  The doctor met her gaze and within those dark, concerned eyes was understanding. “I will do what I can.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Would you like something for the pain to help you sleep?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Chapter Three

  THE FIRST THING Stella saw when she opened her eyes was the same dismal grayness outside the hotel window. Rain continued to pound against the glass, making the view wavy and muted.

  She knew she was alone before she sat up and looked. Nicky had that kind of presence. Maybe it was their connection or perhaps just his size, but she felt his absence like an empty stomach. There were no clues about where he’d gone and she didn’t remember being put in bed or what had been done to her feet after the soak, but something had been done. They were propped up high and, judging by their size under the blanket, they were huge. On the upside, they only ached. The burning was gone.

  She wiggled her toes to make certain they were still there and a mild pain assured her that they were. She tossed off the covers and found her feet wrapped up in cotton strips like a mummy and didn’t resemble feet in size or shape. It was more like she had pumpkins at the ends of her legs, so she started unwrapping them with a tight knot of fear in her chest and prepared herself for blackened, dead skin. Instead, the swelling had gone down dramatically. Her feet, while still sausage-like, were half the size and the color was in the neighborhood of normal. Two more toenails had fallen off, leaving her with five, but she had working toes so she wasn’t about to complain. Besides, nails grew back. Her older brother, Lucien, had banged his thumb with a hammer when he was learning how to make beer barrels. His whole hand swelled up to the size of a catcher’s mitt and the nail popped off during a family dinner, landing in his pot roast. Her mother had fainted so it was a good thing she couldn’t see her daughter’s feet. Francesqua Bled didn’t have a strong stomach for that kind of thing. Sausage feet might put her in a coma.

  Stella touched her left foot and discovered that it was covered in a sticky substance that when sniffed made her terribly hungry. It was honey and something else that she didn’t recognize. Dr. Salvatore was full of tricks. Why would honey be good for frostbite or anything other than toast?

  Since it was clearly working, she rewrapped her feet lightly and swung them over the side of the bed. Her wet clothes were gone, but someone had thoughtfully, or perhaps distractedly, left slippers and a robe for the person who wasn’t supposed to walk. She managed to stuff her feet into the slippers, took a deep breath, and stood up. No sharp pain, just a more intense ache that was completely livable.

  “We’re back in business.” Stella peeked into the large wardrobe that took up half of one wall, but it was empty. She needed Nicky and food so there was nothing to be done but to go out in public, wearing her robe and slippers. One more thing to put her poor mother in a light coma.

  That wasn’t a cheerful thought, but Stella smiled as she hobbled to the door. Her mother was one thing. Uncle Josiah was another. She couldn’t wait to tell him. He’d laugh and raise a glass. They’d raise many glasses when it was all done. And it would be all done. She was better. They made it to Venice intact, minus a few useless toenails, and they’d find the Sorkines.

  She left the room unlocked, tied her robe tighter, and went toward the heavenly scent of fresh coffee and baking bread. She didn’t see a clock or anyone else in the halls, but she’d be surprised if Nicky wasn’t wherever that bread was. Since they’d left Paris, he’d been eating like he’d just discovered the existence of food. She fully expected to find him eating an entire loaf and throwing back Sofia’s whiskey at an Uncle Josiah rate.

  Stella kept hobbling and hobbling. She wasn’t sure how much farther it was to the desk, it hadn’t seemed such a long way when Nicky had been carrying her, but she definitely wasn’t alone in the hotel. Men’s voices echoed down the halls, coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once. None of the voices was Nicky’s though. They spoke Italian, but she couldn’t make out the exact words. Someone was demanding something and someone didn’t like it. That much she understood and it made her nervous.

  She crept down the last hall before the desk and saw room A’s door crack open. An elderly woman peeked out, listening intently. Stella was about to ask if she spoke English when the woman saw her and abruptly closed the door.

  Stella paused and thought she could hear German being spoken. She bit her lip and focused on those angry men again. They were definitely speaking Italian, but could they be the SS, fluent in the language? After a few more minutes, Stella’s finely-tuned ear said no. The accents were Italian with no hints of the Germanic cadence that she’d come to know and fear. Unless they were myna birds like her, they were Italian. She took a breath and continued down the hall until she heard a word she did understand. Medico. The men went back and forth and she realized that one voice was Antonio, the old man. The others she didn’t recognize. Then one of those voices said, “Doktoro Salvatore,” and her heart shot up into her throat. She turned around and saw A’s door open again, just an inch and a blue eye gazed at her curiously. Stella ignored it and started hoofing her way back to her room. Her feet began to hurt more and it was slow-going.

  A’s door opened a little wider and the lady asked something in Italian. Stella shook her head and automatically asked, “Sprechen Sie Englisch?”

  The blue eye widened. “Ja. Ja. Are you Am—”

  A loud bang echoed down the hall. It sounded like someone had kicked the desk and the old lady reached out to grab Stella’s wrist. “Come in here. You must hide.”

  Stella wasn’t sure if that was the right thing, but it was the only thing, so she went in. The old lady carefully closed the door behind her and it was Stella’s turn to have wide eyes. The room, identical to her own, didn’t only contain furniture. It had books, wall-to-wall books, stacked up on the floor waist high and covering the small side tables on either side of the canopy bed and the foot of the bed, too, where another elderly lady sat, swathed in a flower-patterned silk shawl and holding a steaming cup of what smelled like medicinal tea.

  The first lady held out her hand. “Welcome, young lady. I am Karolina and this is my sister, Rosa. Please sit down.”

  Stella shook her hand and obediently sat on the one chair they had next to a small cabinet filled with liquor bottles. “Thank you for letting me in. I needed to sit down.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Karolina as she bustled around the room straightening books and tucking in Rosa.

  If they were sisters, Stella would drink canal water. The ladies looked nothing alike. Rosa was tiny and delicate with snow-white hair and a narrow face. Stella’s grandmother would’ve called her bird-boned. If Rosa was standing, Stella guessed she would be well under five feet. Karolina, on the other hand, stood at a good six feet, maybe more. She had broad shoulders, heavy features, dyed red hair, and a restless vitality that was nothing like her “sister’s” sere
ne manner.

  “Do you know what they were saying? The men that are yelling, I mean,” Stella asked.

  “They are the carabinieri and they were asking about you,” said Rosa softly.

  “Me?”

  Karolina sat on the bed next to a pile of books by Rudyard Kipling. “Dr. Salvatore came to see you last night, didn’t he?”

  Stella wasn’t sure what to say. The cops knew about her already? How was it possible? They hadn’t even used their names one single time.

  Karolina reached over and patted her leg. “Try not to be frightened. This happens now. The leggi razziali changed how the Jews live and work. Dr. Salvatore is a Jew. They are very interested in his patients.”

  Stella blew out a tensely-held breath, thought about it for a second, and decided she wasn’t frightened. She was tired and irritated. “How do you know that I’m his patient?”

  Karolina gestured to her feet. “I saw you last night. You couldn’t walk and this morning the carabinieri are here. It was not difficult.”

  “Who would’ve told them about me? Why would anyone care?”

  Rosa shrugged. “Who can say why? Money? Protection? There are informers everywhere.”

  “What happened to your feet?” asked Karolina.

  “I had an accident.”

  “Only to your feet?”

  “To all of me.” Stella smiled and pointed at the faded bruises on her face. “How long before the carabinieri go away? I really need some coffee.”

  The ladies shrugged.

  “Antonio will argue and they will go,” said Rosa, “as long as they don’t see you, it will be fine.”

  As if a signal had gone out, the men’s voices got louder.

  Stella started to speak, but Rosa held a finger to her lips. Doors were opened and slammed. Karolina’s ruddy skin paled and she jolted up, looking at the window frantically and then at Rosa, who sadly shook her head.

  “Lock the door,” she whispered, but it was too late. The door flew open and a large man in a crusty, rumpled uniform marched in and pointed at Stella. He yelled something in Italian and she stared at him, unable to think what to do.

  Antonio rushed in after the officer and got between the two of them. The carabinieri batted him out of the way and shouted again.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Stella, giving him the steely-eyed gaze she’d learned from her grandmother.

  “You are American?” he asked, deflated.

  “Canadian, actually,” she lied on instinct.

  He eyed her feet and said slyly, “What treatment did Dr. Salvatore give you?”

  “Who’s Dr. Salvatore?”

  He sputtered. “Your doctor. He came to you last night.”

  “My doctor is Dr. Davide and he’s very good. My feet are much better.”

  “Dr. Davide was at a birth last night,” he said in triumph.

  Stella channeled her husband and yawned, leaning back in her chair and becoming almost limp with disinterest. “I know.”

  “What do you know?” he asked.

  “That Dr. Davide went to a birth. He was very sorry, but he didn’t have time to do more than give me a shot. Sofia mixed up the treatment after he left.”

  Another carabinieri came in and whispered in the big one’s ear. A smile lit up his face. “You are a Jew. Dr. Davide cannot treat a dirty Jew.”

  Stella bolted to her feet, ignoring the pain, and stuck her finger into his chest. “I am most certainly not a Jew. But you, sir, are dirty. You should wash your uniform more often instead of running around accusing normal people of being Jews.” She stuck out a hip and tossed back her curls with a haughty glare.

  The other carabinieri sneered at her. “You tried to get into the Hotel Palazzo Vittoria.”

  “What of it?”

  “You had no bags.”

  “That’s hardly our fault.”

  “Where are your bags?”

  “You’d have to ask our Wagons Lit conductor,” said Stella.

  “What happened to your feet?”

  “I got them in your disgusting canal water. It’s terrible for the skin.”

  He balled up his fists. “What is your name? Show me your identification.”

  “I am Mrs. Douglas Myna and my husband has my identification.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Out.”

  “Where?”

  “I’m sure I have no idea. Canadian men do not ask permission from their wives to leave their hotel,” said Stella.

  The big carabinieri reddened and he turned on Karolina and Rosa. “Show me your identification.”

  Antonio began shouting at the carabinieri and pointing at the ladies. Rosa’s hands trembled slightly and she put them under the covers, almost upsetting her tea cup and saucer. Karolina watched the men with no sign of fear. She got their passports out of a drawer and handed them over as Sofia rushed in. “What is this? Capitano Bartali! How dare you enter the room of our esteemed guests?”

  “I have a witness that saw Dr. Salvatore enter your hotel last night with his bag. If you have only gentiles, who was he seeing?”

  “I told you,” said Stella. “Dr. Davide saw me. Now get out and go have a bath.”

  “These women—”

  “Have been seen by Dr. Davide,” said Sofia, smacking him with her dish towel. “You know that. You questioned them last week. Signora von Bodmann is very ill. She must rest.” She shooed the carabinieri out and then followed him, yelling what had to be Italian insults to his questionable character.

  Antonio nodded. “Ci vediamo.” Then he closed the door as more shouting erupted in the hall but then it quickly faded away.

  Stella fell into the chair so hard it hurt her tailbone. “Have you been seeing Dr. Davide?”

  “Yes.” Rosa began to weep, soft sobs that she was almost too weak to make.

  “I’m sorry I brought them in here,” said Stella, all her strength draining out of her.

  “Bartali comes once a week to question us and he always forgets who we are,” said Karolina. “I think he does it on purpose to terrify us.”

  “Where did you get your passports?” asked Stella.

  “In Heidelberg at the rathaus.”

  Stella plucked their passports off the bed where Bartali had tossed them in a rage and examined them. They were very well done, like the one Kaspar had given her after the plane crash. “So you’re Rosa and Karolina von Bodmann?”

  “Yes,” said Karolina crossing her arms.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Why would you think otherwise?”

  “Because you’re not sisters. That’s for sure,” said Stella, yawning a real yawn that time.

  “We are.”

  “You aren’t. Bartali is an idiot. Look at you two. You couldn’t be more different.”

  Rosa wiped her eyes. “We have the same father. Different mothers.”

  “My mother,” said Karolina, “died young and father remarried Rosa’s mother.”

  “It’s a good story,” said Stella. “He obviously bought it.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “No.”

  Karolina swallowed hard. “You aren’t Mrs. Douglas Myna.”

  “No and I’m going to need a passport immediately,” said Stella. “Will you help me?”

  Karolina and Rosa looked at each other, but no help was forthcoming.

  “I know you’re not sisters because your accents are different.”

  Karolina puffed up. “They are not. We are good German citizens and loyal to our führer.”

  “Spare me,” said Stella, pointing at Karolina. “You are German, maybe even from Heidelberg. I don’t know. But you, Rosa, are Austrian.”

  “It’s not true,” said Rosa, weakly. “Look at our identification.”

  “I don’t care what those passports say. I have a good ear and I know what I know,” said Stella. “I’m not going to turn you in. I wouldn’t do that. I just need passports.”

 
“We have done nothing wrong,” said Karolina.

  “Neither have I. Please give me a name. Just a name.”

  The ladies looked at each other and Rosa nodded.

  “Father Maximilian Girotti.”

  “Thank you,” said Stella although looking for a priest in Italy was a bit like a needle in a haystack. Italy was lousy with priests.

  “I’m sorry we can’t tell you more,” said Rosa. “He met us at the station. It was arranged by a friend in Heidelberg. We don’t know his church, but he does live here in Venice.”

  Stella put her hand to her chest where Abel’s precious book had once been. “That’s all right. We’ll find him.”

  The ladies nodded and Stella could see the fear in their eyes. She would never betray them, but they didn’t know that.

  “May I?” She pointed at the stack of Kiplings.

  Karolina took a breath and said, “Of course. You are an admirer of Kipling?”

  “Not particularly. I love Rikki-Tikki-Tavi though. My uncle used to read it to me.” She picked up what looked like a first edition of The Jungle Book, royal blue with gilt lettering and elephants on the cover.

  “Would you like to borrow it?” asked Rosa.

  “You wouldn’t mind?” asked Stella. “You’re obviously collectors.”

  Karolina’s lips went thinner and Stella had to do it. She opened the cover and it was as she feared. There on the inside was a bookplate, a beautiful one in an art nouveau design with a sensuous woman wrapped in a riot of leaves. Printed at the top was “Ex Libris” and at the bottom “Max Ladner.” She picked up The Second Jungle Book and it had the same book plate.

  “Which one of you is Mrs. Ladner?” Stella asked.

  The ladies said nothing, but Rosa began to weep again.

  “You’re going to have to tear the ex libris out.”

  “No. Absolutely not,” said Karolina.

  “Your identification says Karolina von Bodmann.”

  “That is my name.”

  Stella went around the room picking up books and finding the same book plate in every one. “These books say that you aren’t who you say you are. Bartali is just too stupid to know that people with libraries mark their books. My father has his own ex libris. So do my uncles.”