by A W Hartoin
The woman snorted in derision and countered with 850. Back and forth they went and Stella lost interest. A jewelry purchase had never been so boring. All she cared about was how hard it would be to pry out the cheap stones and clip off the filigree to get it to something that didn’t scream tacky.
She turned away as the passengers began exiting the train and exclaiming at the pouring rain as if they didn’t know. There were a lot more people on that train than on theirs. Maybe someone told them it would stop domani and they expected to find a dry Venice. The porters rushed around, searching for umbrellas for the demanding passengers, and Stella rolled her eyes. They could survive a little wet. She could. She did. She was.
Nicky and Maria raised their voices and the woman wasn’t the least bit intimidated by him. She was getting mad. A flush was coming up her neck to color her cheeks. Then she eased her coat back to expose a nicely-rounded shoulder and voluptuous breasts, sweetening the deal as she puckered and licked her lips.
“It is worth a few more lira. I promise,” said Maria.
Apparently, she’d forgotten Stella was there or maybe she didn’t care as long as it got results. Stella stared in surprise. No one she knew would do that. Sure flirting happened with skirts short and décolletages low. But this was a whole other animal and it dawned on Stella that Maria’s “soliciting” might be about more than jewelry. She wasn’t exactly sure how ladies of the evening worked or what exactly they did, but it seemed train stations were where they did it.
Maria caught Stella evaluating her and in frustration yanked her coat back up. If Nicky had even noticed what she was trying, it didn’t show. He kept on about quality and price. Stella suspected that Maria thought his quality talk might be about her and Stella smiled, which only provoked her to raise the price another fifty.
“I’ll give you a hundred,” said Nicky.
“Hundred and fifty,” said Maria.
Back and forth again and a shout got Stella’s attention. The voice was French and familiar. She scanned the complaining passengers and saw Monsieur Volcot speaking to an elderly woman who was refusing to get off the train. Stella couldn’t tell if she wanted him to make the rain stop or wanted an umbrella. Her umbrage was completely overboard so it could very well be the rain, which showed no signs of abating. Monsieur Volcot tried to reason with the woman and then looked up at someone behind her. Something in Monsieur Volcot changed. While he was deferential when talking to the old lady, his body easy, his movements loose, when he spoke to whoever was behind her, he got stiff to the point of rigid and a familiar thrill of fear went through Stella. She squeezed Nicky’s arm before she left and walked toward the train. She was shivering. Was it the cold and wet or was it this feeling of fear coming over her in waves?
The first thing she saw was the tip of a very shiny black boot. Her chest got tight. She couldn’t breathe. She didn’t want to breathe. It couldn’t be him. Not yet.
Stella edged sideways, trying to see and not be seen. He came into view in profile. Oberführer Peiper in his black SS uniform, his hat pulled low and a grimace of familiar anger on his face as he waited to get off the train. Stella stood there for a moment, frozen in shock and horror, dozens of thoughts racing through her head.
Then a reasonable thought popped up. Stay calm and walk away like nothing is wrong. So she turned around, ducking behind an irate couple and their huge pile of luggage to casually walk back to Nicky.
She gently touched his arm. “We need to go. Just pay the woman.”
“This is extortion. This stuff isn’t even worth the hundred I’m offering and she’s raised the price to two hundred.”
“I don’t care. Pay her,” said Stella.
“I know I’ve been patient with your work and your family, but I am still your husband. The man of the house, if that means anything to you.”
It didn’t, but Stella said, “It does, but please just pay her.”
Behind them came an outraged howl and then a screech of pain. They turned to see the crowd scattering and the old lady spread-eagle on the platform at Monsieur Volcot’s feet. Walking off the train was Peiper followed by a boy of about thirteen carrying a small case and wearing a delighted smirk. Peiper slipped on a pair of black gloves and stepped over the old woman, who appeared to be unconscious as Monsieur Volcot dropped to his knees to attend her.
“Oh my God,” whispered Nicky.
“Pay her,” said Stella.
They turned back to Maria who was now wearing a smirk similar to the boy’s. Nicky opened his wallet to pull out the 150, but she didn’t give him the chance. She snatched the wallet and waved it in the air, “Achtung! Achtung! Juden! Juden!”
Everyone on the platform turned to look, including Peiper. Instantly, he saw Nicky’s shining blond head and his eyes lit up with malicious glee. Maria turned with the wallet to dash past Stella, who, on instinct, grabbed the case and twisted it out of Maria’s hand.
Stella pointed at Maria. “Thief! Thief!”
Nicky grabbed Stella’s hand and they ran through the crowd with Maria howling with rage behind them and Peiper shoving people out of his way. Passengers screamed and Stella didn’t need to look to know he’d pulled a gun. The panic announced it.
The pain in her feet turned to fire as they pounded on the floor and she couldn’t go any faster. They’d never make it.
“Stop!” yelled Peiper. “I’ll fire!”
He would, too, and it didn’t matter who got in the way, but they kept running, dodging around luggage carts and abandoned bags, hearing him get closer by the intensity of the screams. They got to the station doors and Nicky shoved Stella through. She stumbled into the driving rain, turning in time to see Nicky face Peiper and his pistol. He didn’t freeze or hesitate. He picked up a luggage cart and threw it at Peiper. The thing was huge and Stella caught a glimpse of Peiper’s eyes as it came hurdling through the air at him. He panicked, firing wildly before being hit and driven to the floor.
Nicky ran out the door, tossed Stella over his shoulder, and dashed through the flooded piazza, his long legs being a distinct advantage. He high-stepped over the water using his full length without Stella’s short little legs holding him back and jumped over the side of the taxi, startling their captain.
The man protested as Nicky dumped Stella and went for the wheel. The men grappled for control of the boat, rocking it wildly. Stella rammed into the side and almost went over. She dropped Maria’s case and saw Peiper limp out of the station with the boy. He pointed and the boy dropped his case, running for them full tilt, a gun in his young hand.
“We have to go. Right now!” said Stella.
“I know.” Nicky punched the captain in the jaw with little to no effect. The man punched him back in the stomach and Nicky went double. The captain cried out in triumph and then he saw the boy wading through the water with the gun pointed at them. Luckily, he wasn’t tall so it was slow going, and, in frustration, he fired at them. The bullet ripped into the cabin and Stella screamed. The captain froze and Nicky socked him again.
They grappled, going down onto the deck, and Stella squeezed past them to get in the captain’s chair. She’d never driven a boat before. But how hard could it be? She turned the key and the engine roared to life. She grabbed the wheel and pushed the lever on the right. They jolted forward and there was a terrible cracking sound. They were tied to the dock.
“Nicky, get the rope!”
The boy was almost on them, but a carabinieri was running for him, tall and much faster. He shouted at the boy and raised his weapon. The boy hesitated and the carabinieri tackled him. A huge splash went up and the boy and the carabinieri went under a wave. Peiper was coming, slower with blood running down his face, but he was coming.
“Nicky!” yelled Stella.
“I’m trying.” He picked up the case and swung it. It cracked the captain upside the head and he went down long enough for Nicky to get to the rope. He yanked it off the pylon and Stella shoved the lever forward aga
in. The boat lurched forward wildly and sideswiped the taxi in front of them as they raced from the dock. Stella looked back and Peiper was fighting with a second carabinieri.
Their captain struggled to his feet and he was volcanically angry. He leapt at the helm and Nicky grabbed him around the chest in a bear hug. “Turn around!” Nicky yelled through clenched teeth.
“What?” she yelled, trying to avoid a collision with a boat piled with crates.
“Turn! Around!”
She turned but not around, barely missing a vaporetto. The canal curved to the right and got significantly wider. In the distance, a large container ship spewed black smoke. They were leaving Venice and heading out into the Lido.
“Turn!” yelled Nicky.
“I am!” She yanked the wheel to the right, the engine screamed and made a disturbing, grinding noise as they spun in the water. They narrowly missed the vaporetto again and Stella got them through a gauntlet of boats. The taxi sped back past the train station and Stella saw Peiper climbing on a boat, a larger one, unfortunately pointed in their direction.
“He’s got a boat!” she yelled.
“God damn swell.” Nicky took a glancing blow to the head and gave one in return. “Turn, Stella, turn!”
He couldn’t mean turn around again, but, in her panic, Stella yanked the wheel and they carved a curve in the water, cutting off a private boat that pegged them in the stern, and shocked Peiper who was coming up hard from behind. He tried to hit them, but missed and hit the private boat, slicing it in half.
“What in the hell are you doing?” yelled Nicky.
“You said turn!”
He pointed at a side canal. “Turn there.”
The captain punched him in the chest and Nicky turned a shade of red that panicked Stella again, but she held it. Peiper cleared the wreckage and was heading for them. The canal Nicky wanted was small and crowded with docked boats. Big enough for Peiper? She smiled. No.
Stella throttled back and turned. She went too wide and managed to miss, bumping into several pylons. She looked back to see if they were badly damaged in time to see Nicky toss the captain overboard into the Grand Canal. She worked the throttle and wheel until they got in the smaller canal. She was too slow. Much too slow. Peiper had turned and was heading straight for them.
Nicky lurched into the helm. “I’ll take it.”
“Just shoot him!”
“With what? I didn’t bring the pistol. Did you?”
She hadn’t. Of course, she hadn’t. They didn’t expect to shoot anyone in Venice. “He’s coming.”
“He can’t. It’s too crow—”
A huge crash exploded behind them and he was coming, bulldozing his way through the smaller boats like Tinker Toys, his eyes fixed on them.
“I can’t believe it,” said Nicky under his breath. They raced down the canal, but the engine was sputtering and they seemed lower in the water.
“Are we sinking?” asked Stella, pushing the throttle but not getting faster.
Nicky sat in the other seat. “I think so. I can take the wheel.”
“He’s catching up.”
“I know how to drive a boat.”
“I’m driving a boat right now.”
“We’re sinking.”
“I’m turning!” Stella saw another canal and tried to do a better job. She failed and they hit two boats and a pylon, but they did get into the canal.
“Let me drive. I grew up yachting,” yelled Nicky.
“This isn’t a yacht!”
“Stella!”
“There’s the Grand Canal again!” She looked back and Peiper was bearing down on them. “Where should we go?”
“Let me have the wheel.”
They raced out into the Grand Canal, barely missing the stern of the same vaporetto.
“We’ll go there,” she said, pointing at another small canal.
“I know where we are. Give me the wheel.”
Stella gritted her teeth and got out of the seat. They couldn’t get past each other and, in that few seconds they were tangled up, they sideswiped another boat and the engine popped. Stella looked back, a plume of black smoke funneled up between the looming Venetian townhouses.
Nicky maneuvered into the small canal, but Peiper would be on them in fifteen seconds.
“Get out!” yelled Nicky.
Stella grabbed Maria’s case and got poised to jump. Nicky came out of the helm. The boat bumped a pylon, he grabbed her around the waist, and leapt onto the walkway next to the canal. A bullet pinged off the building, shattering the masonry and making Stella scream. Nicky dropped her and took her hand before taking off, dragging her along behind him. She looked back and Peiper rammed the taxi, demolishing it. They ran onto a bridge as Peiper jumped onto the walkway and started running full out with a pistol in hand.
Another shot ricocheted off the corner of a building as they ducked into an alley. Nicky took lefts and rights. He seemed to have a plan, but Stella had no idea what it was. Everything looked the same in that relentless rain. All the buildings ancient and worn with wrought-iron balconies, no balconies, fresh plaster, no plaster, big doors, small doors. A flooded street there. A dry one here. Everything unique, but also the same in a blur of wet and fear.
“Yes,” said Nicky, whipping her around through a door and banging her into a wall covered in stacks of books and papers bound together with twine. Nicky slammed the door shut and turned the hefty iron key in the lock. A resounding grind and click made it through the rain pounding on their heads. Stella stared at the door. It wasn’t very thick, despite the incredibly large lock. Nicky pressed his ear against the door and listened. Then his shoulders relaxed and he turned. “He passed us.”
Stella spun in a circle, shielding her eyes from the rain. “What is this place?”
All the walls in the small alley were covered in stack after stack of books and paper, exposed to the elements and molding dreadfully.
“I was here yesterday asking about the Sorkines.”
“But what about these books?” she asked.
“As near as I can tell they collect old paper and send it to be milled again.”
“What now? We can’t stay here all day.” And she didn’t want to. That place was like the saddest library in the world. All those thoughts committed to paper allowed to disintegrate felt like a crime.
With that a woman came in the door at the end of the alley and screamed, dropped her load of paper into a large puddle. Nicky held up his hands and tried to calm her, but she backed away screeching. He ran at her and clapped a big hand over her mouth. “Come on, Stella.”
The door with the huge lock rattled and the unmistakable sound of German anger rose behind it. Stella squeezed past Nicky and the woman, dashing into a bookshop, small and ordinary with two choices. Out the front door or up the stairs. That was probably a dead end, but—
Nicky released the woman, who burst out screaming again. He grabbed Stella’s hand and yanked her out the door. He hesitated, his tall frame pulsing with indecision. He looked up, saw something and dragged Stella to the right. They ran down the narrow streets and ended up heading toward a canal at the end, but as soon as Nicky emerged on the walkway, a shot rang out and her husband was knocked sideways, falling to his knees.
Stella dragged Nicky out of the open and another shot barely missed his foot. Men shouted in Italian. One German voice yelled back. Nicky scrambled to his feet with his hand pressed to his hip. Blood seeped through his fingers and he collapsed against the wall. “Go. Run.”
“Are you crazy?” asked Stella, pulling his free arm over her shoulder. “Come on.”
“No. Go.”
She didn’t respond. She dragged him along until he started moving and they got into another extremely narrow alley. “Where are we going?”
“Father Girotti’s church.” He grimaced. “Go straight.”
They wound through a maze of passages and lost the yelling for a moment. Stella inadvertently stumbled i
nto the open and Peiper’s voice rang out. They were at the canal again. The SS officer was surrounded by Italians, outraged and trying to get his weapon.
“Hurry,” said Nicky. “Come on.”
He managed to pull her out of sight and do a kind of hopping run into another alley and then another and Stella found herself hopelessly lost. But then they were in the church’s flooded courtyard. Nicky hopped up the steps and she grabbed the door handle, praying to anyone who would listen to please let it be open.
It was and Nicky hopped inside, his galoshes making horrid wet squelching noises that echoed off the old walls and came back at them like an accusation.
Father Girotti stood in the center aisle, holding a stack of papers. He spun around and his mouth fell open. Stella slammed the door shut and looked for a key in the lock, but there wasn’t one.
“Father,” gasped Nicky. “Help.”
The priest dropped his papers and ran to Nicky’s side. “What happened to you?”
“We have to hide,” said Stella. “The SS. He’s here.”
Father Girotti paled. “Where?”
“Right behind us.”
He looked around in a panic. The back of the church was too far. Stella spotted a confessional that she hadn’t noticed before. It was terribly old-fashioned with a center compartment for the priest to be concealed in and kneelers on either side for the penitents. Her heart quelled at the very idea. It must be some kind of sin, but Father Girotti saw it, too, and started for it instantly. “Inside the chamber. Quickly now.”
The Father opened the lower wooden partition and Stella pulled back the curtain. They shoved Nicky inside and Stella squashed in with him.
“Do not speak,” said Father Girotti.
Stella nodded, unable to speak just then anyway. He closed the partition and drew the curtain. She heard him pad away and Nicky leaned heavily back against the wall before sliding down to sit on the bench. Stella stood with her arms wrapped around Maria’s case, shivering uncontrollably, imagining the worst. Peiper would come in and shoot Father Girotti. She would’ve gotten a priest killed. There was no coming back from that. Absolutely unforgivable. What would Mother say, assuming she ever saw her again.
