Strangers in Venice

by A W Hartoin

  “No!” He sat up, his eyes darting around the room, then slumped back, exhaling a ragged breath. “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?” she asked while fiddling with the stockings Sofia brought. She had to wear stockings. It was practically indecent not to, but she didn’t think they’d fit over the bandages she wrapped her feet in.

  “I thought you’d…that someone.”

  “Got me?” She tossed the stockings aside. Indecent it was. “As if I’d go without a fight. Don’t you know me at all?”

  Nicky sat up again and pondered his wife. His expression said it all. He didn’t and he wasn’t crazy about that fact. “Why are you dressed?”

  “Did you imagine I’d stay in my robe while searching for the Sorkines?”

  “I imagined you’d stay here while I searched.”

  “You’re bananas if you really thought that.” She eyed her shoes, also freshly cleaned, and knew there wasn’t a chance she could stuff her fat feet into them. “Hey, where did you get your galoshes?”

  “Sofia has a store room full of them.” He slid out of bed and pulled on his pants. “Don’t get any ideas.”

  Stella put on her slippers and went for the door. “Too late.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Breakfast starts at seven.”

  “I’ll bring you a tray.”

  “No, thanks.” With that she went out wearing a smile and no stockings. Indecent.

  Stella expected the breakfast room to be empty that early in the morning in a flooded city, but it was nearly full. To be fair, the breakfast room wasn’t much larger than their hotel room and had only five tables and a long counter laden with piles of fruit, rolls, and drinks.

  “Mrs. Myna,” said Sofia when she turned around. “What are you doing up?”

  Everyone turned to look and Stella immediately rethought her plan. She was recognizable, if not for being a Bled and her wedding that had been featured on society pages coast to coast, then for her beer. Her father had lovingly named a beer after her on her sixteenth birthday, Stella’s Honey Lager. She hated it, both the beer—too sweet—and her face sketched on the label. But the beer sold like hot cakes and there was no chance her father would retire a winner.

  Stella smiled and sauntered in. “I’m absolutely fine.”

  “And Mr. Myna. He is well?”

  “Well and on his way.”

  Sofia’s shoulders relaxed and she led Stella past another couple to the only empty spots, a small cafe table that would’ve been more at home outside. “Let me bring you coffee.”

  “I can do it,” said Stella, reddening under the scrutiny.

  “No, no. You must rest.” Sofia bustled over to the coffee urn and Stella decided that a strong opening was essential to success. People believed what they were told or so her Uncle Josiah claimed. Say a man is wicked long enough and people will believe he’s wicked. He would know since Uncle Josiah was generally considered to be wicked. If he was right, saying her name over and over would make people believe it was her name.

  “Hello,” she said with a little wave. “Do you speak English? I’m Eulalie Myna.”

  The couple nearest had the look of Americans. He wore a dull black suit, unimaginatively cut, and she wore a day dress in a loud combination of polka dots and stripes. Their faces had been clouded, but they lightened at her greeting.

  “Hello, there,” he said. “I’m Randolph Hutchins and this is my wife, Dolores. Have I met you before? You seem awfully familiar.”

  Stella stood up and held out her hand. “I don’t think so. I’m pleased to meet you, Randolph. Please call me Eulalie.”

  Dolores frowned, but shook her hand. “You do seem familiar. Are you from Des Moines?”

  Stella had to come up with something fast. “No. I’m afraid not. We’re Canadian, born and bred. But perhaps you’ve heard of us?”

  “I don’t think so. Are you famous?”

  There was a light in Dolores’s eyes and Stella put it out. “Only for our honey. We’re Myna Bird honey, but we’re only on the East coast in the States.”

  “That must be it. We were in New York for two weeks waiting for our passage,” said Randolph. “We must’ve had your honey.”

  “Very possible.” Stella smiled warmly. “We’re in the best hotels.”

  The couple smiled and glowed with pleasure at “the best hotels”. They would stay in the best New York hotels or, at least, they were happy to have her think that.

  Stella went around introducing herself to the group. Karolina was alone in a corner and she stood up, playing her part perfectly. “Mrs. Myna, it is so good to see you here.”

  Dolores noticed her feet and rather impolitely stared at her stockingless legs and bandages.

  “Your reaction is better,” said Karolina, pointedly looking down.

  Stella held out her right foot. “Much better. I’m going out walking today.”

  “What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?” asked Randolph.

  “I had to wade through canal water when we arrived,” said Stella. “I had a reaction. Dr. Davide fixed me right up though. He’s very good. If you need anything, I recommend calling him at once.”

  The room came alive with discussions of toxic canal water, the never-ending rain, and the apparent difficulty of getting a train out. It seemed everyone wanted to leave but hadn’t found seats yet. Karolina played along, saying that she would like to go home to Germany, but that Rosa was ill.

  Stella sipped her delicious coffee and buttered a roll, while nodding and never forgetting to answer to her new name.

  “Mr. Myna,” said Sofia more loudly than necessary in such a small room. “I was wondering if you were lost.”

  Nicky stiffened at the sound of “Mr. Myna” and Stella could see him running it through his mind. “I was lost. If there was a wrong turn, I took it, but I can see my lovely Eulalie didn’t have that trouble.” He came over, gave her a kiss, and went to get coffee.

  After twenty minutes, the guests left to start their days, which mainly consisted of trying to get on a train, any train. Stella and Nicky stayed with her downing her fourth roll and him drinking black coffee and glaring.

  “What is it, Douglas?” she asked sweetly.

  “You know what it is.”

  “I do know.” She turned in her seat. “Sofia, do you have some galoshes I can borrow? We don’t want to waste another day in your fabulous city.”

  Nicky gritted his teeth so hard she could hear it. “You stay in, darling. I’ll go out and see how flooded St. Mark’s Square really is.”

  “I won’t hear of it,” said Stella. “Sofia?”

  Their hostess looked back and forth between the two set faces and then called to Matteo, unleashing a stream of Italian that Stella was pleased to understand a small amount of. He was to get her several pairs of galoshes. Matteo came back straight away and helped her try on three pairs. The one that fit was sadly two sizes larger than her normal size and she looked positively ridiculous with her man-sized feet.

  “These will work fine,” she said.

  “Wait another day. Your feet will be better,” said Sofia.

  “Venice awaits,” said Stella. “I can’t wait to see it.”

  Nicky scowled but helped her up. “Maybe you could take a nap.”

  “At seven-thirty in the morning?”

  “You have to rest.”

  “We have to—”

  Antonio ran into the breakfast room and hissed at Sofia. Stella’s chest got tight. Unless she was very much mistaken, Matteo had said that the carabinieri was there and he mentioned her name.

  “Sì. Sì,” said Sofia calmly.

  “What is it?” asked Nicky.

  “Bartali is here. He would like to question you again about Dr. Salvatore.”

  Antonio gestured wildly and there was a shout behind him.

  Nicky jumped and pointed at a narrow door Sofia had been using. “Where’s that go?”

  “The kitchen.”<
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  He grabbed Stella and almost pulled her off her feet. “Come on.”

  “Let him question me,” said Stella, “the nasty worm.”

  “Passports.”

  “Oh, right.” Stella yanked open the door and rushed into the kitchen, startling an elderly lady kneading bread. “Scusami. Scusami.”

  Nicky closed the door and a voice burst out behind it, haranguing Sofia about Signora Myna. They spun around. So many doors.

  The old lady pointed at one with a dough-encrusted hand.

  “Grazie. Grazie,” said Stella and Nicky kissed her weathered cheek, making her flush.

  The door led into an office, which led into another office, which led into the hall. Stella peeked out and she could hear Bartali. He was getting closer. Nicky ran across the hall to what looked like an exterior door. He yanked it open and beyond it was a dingy alley filled with water and empty wooden crates. “Come on.”

  “Do you have the passports?” whispered Stella.

  “No, that’s why we’re getting out of here.”

  “Our passports.”

  He waved at her to get out. “No, but we don’t need them.”

  The voices got louder.

  “They might search the room,” hissed Stella.

  Nicky paled. “That must be illegal.”

  “I bet it’s not, if he says we’re Jews.”

  “Dammit.” He tossed Stella over his shoulder and ran down the hall. She beat on his back. “Put me down. I’m not a sack of hops.”

  “I agree,” Nicky said, breathing hard.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself.” He jiggled a doorknob. “Damn, I locked it.”

  He kept Stella on his shoulder, unlocked the door and ran in, banging her head on the door frame.

  “Ow, that hurt,” said Stella as he tossed her on the bed and went rooting around the wardrobe.

  “Did you take them?” he asked.

  “No.” She went to the window and looked. No escape. Just a sheer drop into the canal. “Didn’t you put them in the makeup case last night?”

  “Yes. I forgot.” Nicky got the passports and closed her case. Then he threw open the window. “You first.”

  “I’m not jumping into the canal.” Stella backed away. Trains were one thing. Roofs another. A full dunking in a dirty bacteria-infested canal simply wasn’t happening.

  “I agree.” He grabbed her waist and practically stuffed her out the window. “Stop smacking me. There’s a boat.”

  Stella leaned over the sill. There was a boat ten feet below them and half submerged. “No. We’ll never make it.”

  “We can do it.”

  “Maybe you can. I can’t jump ten feet into a skinny boat on these feet.” Stella pried herself out of his grasp and dashed as best she could to the door. She looked through the peephole and saw Sofia arguing with Bartali. He was trying to get a key ring out of her hands. Sofia glanced at the door and she must’ve seen Stella’s eye because she handed over the key ring and pointed at the door across the hall.

  “Donna sciocca.” Bartali fumbled with the keys and rammed each of them in the other door’s lock until he finally found the right one. He went in and Sofia waved to her to get out. Stella opened the door and saw Bartali buried in the wardrobe, rustling around and cursing. Sofia shooed them away and Nicky picked up Stella, running down the hall.

  They went through the warren of halls and ran smack into Rudolph and Dolores.

  “What in the world?” asked Rudolph, jumping aside to make way.

  “Why are you running?” asked Dolores. She was not interested in getting out of the way.

  “I’m sick,” said Stella.

  “Call the doctor, man,” said Rudolph.

  “There’s no time,” said Nicky.

  “She was fine a minute ago,” said Dolores, frown lines appearing between her eyes. “Unless…”

  “Yes,” said Stella. “Unless, I’m in the family way and we have to go.”

  “Don’t get so excited,” said Randolph, primly. “Women are quite capable of handling this business on their own.”

  “Are they?” asked Dolores. “Are they really? Is that why you didn’t call Dr. Alexander when I asked you to?”

  “It was just a little cold.”

  “It was the flu. People die of the flu. They lose their babies,” she said, backing her husband up into the wall.

  “You didn’t die.”

  “No thanks to you.”

  Nicky turned sideways. “Excuse us. In a hurry. Please tell Sofia where we’ve gone.”

  “She’s with that carabinieri,” Dolores called out after them. “He’s looking for Jews.”

  Nicky ran to the desk and turned right to go out the proper front door.

  “No,” said Stella.

  He stopped short and nearly lost his grip on her. “What?”

  “Look.”

  There were men in official hats outside.

  “The bastard brought reinforcements,” said Nicky.

  Antonio hooted at them and Nicky ran for him. The old man opened the little arched door they’d first come in and held a finger to his lips. As Nicky passed, mumbling his thanks, Antonio put an umbrella in Stella’s lap.

  Nicky ran out the door so fast he ran into the wall opposite, squashing Stella up against it.

  “For goodness sake, put me down,” said Stella.

  And he did, bending over to catch his breath.

  “No time for that.” She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him away. “We have to hurry.”

  They dashed down the narrow alley to the bridge that led to the Hotel Palazzo Vittoria.

  “Where exactly are we going?” asked Nicky.

  “To find Father Maximilian Girotti.”

  “Did you ask Sofia about him?”

  Stella groaned and said, “No. I didn’t think of it.”

  “Then where do we start?” asked Nicky.

  “In church, of course.”

  Chapter Five

  LIKE MOST THINGS in life, it was easier said than done. The first church they tried was locked. Locked. On a Sunday morning.

  The next stop was a small high baroque church with a single nave and no side chapels. The double doors were open but the pews were empty. No mass times were posted. They hunted around for an office, but found all the doors locked.

  “This is insane,” said Nicky. “Anybody could come in here and steal the altarpieces. Look at that gold candelabra. It has to be worth a mint.”

  “Who would steal from a church?” ask Stella.

  He raised an eyebrow at her.

  “Not even the Nazis would do that,” she whispered as if speaking their very name was sacrilege.

  “I read it in the London Times.”

  “Where did that happen?”

  “Germany. Mainz.”

  “But why?”

  “Why did they burn the synagogues?” asked Nicky. “Enemies of the state, I assume.”

  “I wonder if the Vatican knows.”

  “If the Times knows, the Vatican knows. Why is no one here? Where’s the priest?”

  “They must not have a big enough congregation to have mass,” said Stella. “We need a church that’s actually up and running.”

  “I’d take a priest, any priest over going out in the rain again,” said Nicky.

  “It can’t be helped.”

  “Maybe it can. Someone might be upstairs.” Nicky looked up at the pipe organ that covered the entire front of the church above the doors and cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting, “Hello! Is anyone here?”

  “Have you lost your mind?” Stella smacked him repeatedly. “We’re in church.”

  “My job is to take care of you. I’m getting the job done,” he said. “Hello?”

  “Stop that!”

  A loud, grinding click echoed through the nave, bouncing off the marble and sounding fierce in all that empty space. Then a head popped out from a door to the left of the altar. A dark-haired woman in a
baggy blouse and skirt eyed them from behind the safety of the door.

  Nicky raised his hand. “Hello. Do you speak English?”

  She stared.

  “Come on.” He took Stella’s hand and half-dragged her down the aisle.

  “Slow down.” Stella had plastered a smile on her face, but she couldn’t keep up with Nicky’s long strides. “Or just go.”

  He let go and went rapidly toward the woman. For a moment, she seemed transfixed by the stranger and Stella started to feel good about it. Nicky had a way with women. It didn’t matter the age or whether they were married. It was a pleasure to look at him and talking to him increased their pleasure.

  Not so with this Italian woman.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I just—”

  The woman pulled her head back and slammed the door. Another grinding click resounded through the church. Nicky kept on and knocked on the door. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just need some information. We’re looking for Father Maximilian Girotti.”

  Stella came up behind him and said, “She doesn’t understand you.”

  “You say it then.”

  Stella patted her pockets. “I didn’t bring my dictionary.”

  “Swell.” He banged on the door, rattling it on its hinges.

  “That’s not going to help.”

  “Tell me what will help then?” Nicky was angrier than she’d ever seen him. He usually went blank when riled, but, just then, he was fiery with two spots of color on his cheeks and he looked about to gnash his teeth.

  “Don’t get mad at me,” she said, crossing her arms.

  He grabbed her and hugged her tight to his chest. “I’m not mad at you. I just don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “About?”

  “Coming here. Doing this.”

  “We had to,” she said.

  “Did we?”

  She looked up at him and it gave her a crick in her neck. “We owe it to Abel to at least try to find them.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “You forgot your hat.”

  “We better not go to a garden party then.” She grinned up at him.