Strangers in Venice

by A W Hartoin

  Like most good things, that lovely feeling didn’t last long enough. Stella followed Elena’s map back to the square intent on her telegram. She wasn’t paying attention. She was happy, not thinking, and she didn’t notice until it was almost too late.

  Elena’s father was still standing in the doorway of the telegraph shop, holding the hose and smoking, his face dark, his teeth bared. The motor chugged away behind him and wisps of black smoke snaked out of the top of the doorway.

  He saw her when she reached the well, and his eyes lit up but not in a welcoming way. He gave a little shake of his head. She kept walking trying to remember the Italian she’d just added to her repertoire. But then he took his cigarette out of his mouth and flicked the ashes at her, a big fat go-away, if there ever was one.

  Shocked, Stella stopped directly in front of Elena’s father. He stepped into the middle of the doorway and waved her away, saying nothing.

  Why? What was going on? It wasn’t riposo yet.

  Then she saw someone behind him through the gap and she leaned to the side to get a better look. Uniforms. The ordinary carabinieri uniform and another, the distinctive black of the SS. Stella couldn’t breathe. How could he be there? Of all places. There. Right where she was going.

  Stella turned quickly to the right and went into the first little alley she saw. She didn’t think. She walked, taking as many turns as possible, and found herself lost. She was afraid to keep going and she was afraid to stop going. What if she ended up back on the square? What if she ran into Peiper on accident? What if Elena told Peiper about her? No, her father warned Stella away. Sofia and Daniel had said the people weren’t overly fond of the carabinieri and they probably knew Peiper was the SS that was shooting up the streets of Venice and wrecking their beloved boats. That wouldn’t win him any popularity contests either. Besides, she was Eulalie Myna with a Canadian passport, not half of an American couple named Bled Lawrence.

  She turned a corner and at the end of the street were two carabinieri, her worst nightmare. No. Not quite. She didn’t recognize them, not that she necessarily would. Men in uniform were sadly similar, but she couldn’t turn tail. That would be the height of suspicious. So she became what her mother always warned against, a girl who flirted with strange men. That was supposed to be a black mark against one’s character that could never be washed away, although Stella could never see why. All men were strangers until you met them. And the two at the end of the street, walking rapidly toward her, were prime candidates for flirting, young, handsome, and they’d noticed her in a big way.

  Stella swung her hips and smiled, tilting her chin down and her umbrella back so that they might see her better. It could be a big mistake, but every instinct she had said to do it. She was wearing Italian clothes. She could be an Italian girl.

  “Ciao, signorina,” said the one closest to her. He had stunning green eyes and Stella breathed a sigh of relief. She would’ve remembered him.

  “Ciao, signore,” she said in the shop lady’s accent and moved to the side to pass them.

  Both men paused and her chest tightened, but there was no recognition in their eyes. The other man, dumpy but with a lovely smile, said, “Hai tempo per un caffè, signorina?”

  Stella caught the words for time and coffee. Just enough, along with the flirty smiles, to understand and she said almost without thinking, “No mi dispiace.” She heard that plenty in the shop when she asked for certain items the lady didn’t have, silk stockings, for instance, and rayon was the only option.

  The men made sad faces and she said with her little wave, “Ci vediamo.” She hoped it was the right thing. Antonio used it kindly and so had Matteo.

  The carabinieri nodded enthusiastically and the green-eyed one winked. She passed them and felt their eyes on her as she walked away. It wasn’t a wholly unpleasant experience to be watched. She liked being a pretty girl again and to be seen, not skulking around hoping to get by unnoticed.

  She turned the corner, took a breath, and got out Elena’s map again. It was useless with where she’d ended up, but she thought she could hear boat engines over the drizzle and she went in that direction, smiling at everyone she passed. She could do it. She could be Italian in limited doses and it seemed as big an accomplishment as getting the money.

  Stella emerged onto the Grand Canal as she was hoping to, but in the last part she wanted. She’d gotten turned around at some point and was back at the San Silvestro vaporetto stop. There were a couple of carabinieri loitering in a doorway, smoking and drinking out of tiny espresso cups. They didn’t look her way and several people were rushing onto the dock and Stella decided to go ahead and blend in with them. The vaporetto chugged down the Grand Canal and would be there in moments. She could get away from the carabinieri and back to Nicky quickly, if she was willing to chance it. She and the other six people on the dock looked the same, hunkered down with black umbrellas and old galoshes. She could do it. They’d never notice her.

  The vaporetto cut its engine and coasted up to the dock. Before it even stopped the passengers were rushing aboard to get out of the rain and Stella followed suit. She stepped onto the boat and passengers came at her, trying to get off. She grabbed the edge of the guardrail to keep from being knocked back and several men came up behind her. Her stomach knotted as she folded her umbrella, reluctantly, and got through the small crowd to the other side of the bus, keeping her back to the entrance. No one asked for a ticket and or appeared to be selling them so she did her best to look like an old hand at vaporetto riding and examined her nails. The men, who came on behind her, smelled of sweat and espresso and were blowing out huge amounts of rancid smoke. Stella dared to glance back and caught a glimpse of a uniform.

  Of course, it was the carabinieri. What had she been thinking?

  But the men still weren’t paying any attention to her. They were belly-aching about something. That was understandable in any language. She didn’t pay much mind until she heard “Gestapo”. They had to mean Peiper. According to Nicky, the Gestapo wasn’t the same thing as the SS, but what they did sounded pretty much the same to Stella. Besides, how many Nazis were running around Venice irritating the carabinieri anyway?

  “Che palle!” exclaimed one man and the other agreed.

  The vaporetto pulled up to another stop, the Rialto bridge. She couldn’t move. She should get off, get away, but somehow she couldn’t. She had to hear what they said. If they mentioned the hotel or the Sorkines, she had to be there to hear it.

  “A chi importa di una ragazza americana? Può cercarla, se la vuole.”

  The other man responded to the affirmative with what Stella took to be cursing. Americana. That had to be her, not Nicky.

  The vaporetto jolted forward and Stella cursed to herself. The engine was so loud she could barely make out what they were saying, but it didn’t seem significant. No mention of the Sorkines, their hotel, Dr. Davide, or Father Girotti.

  Then she cursed herself. She should’ve studied last night instead of lying in bed listening to Nicky groan. That was useless. She needed Italian. Maybe she could’ve found out why they happened to be at the telegraph office. That was quite a coincidence, but it could be nothing. She was going to check all the other offices for the Sorkines. Maybe Peiper was doing the same, looking for her. It was logical.

  The men continued to crab for a couple more stops and then switched to lunch. At least, that’s what Stella thought with all the talk mentioning fish and pasta. They may have been talking about their wives cooking for all she knew, but it wasn’t about Peiper or her, unless they were calling her branzino.

  When the water bus pulled up to the San Stae stop, she took a breath, turned and pushed between the men, keeping her head down, and saying, “Scusi. Scusi.”

  The men parted and kept talking, not really seeing her at all. Stella stepped off the boat, opened her umbrella, and casually walked away, splashing onto the piazza in front of the church they’d been so unwelcome in. But she didn’t go far
, just far enough to see if they were getting off, too. They weren’t and when the vaporetto started up again, Stella waited a moment after it left to return to the dock and peek around the edge of the building. When it was well enough away, she dashed out onto the dock.

  They didn’t go far. The next stop was the nearest to the ghetto. It’d take some walking, but they have to get off if they wanted to go to there. Stella squinted and wished for binoculars. People got off, but the umbrellas blocked everything. She thought she saw the carabinieri get off, but it was far enough away that she couldn’t be certain.

  She turned around and went as fast as she could across the piazza. The water was deeper and threatening to come up over the edges of her boots, if she wasn’t careful. The church now had sandbags piled against the doors, making it even less friendly than before. She carefully trod down the water filled alley beside it and found herself at the Vittoria’s backdoor in the tiny alley in record time. It was locked and she knocked, making a concerted effort not to pound on the door, even though her feet were freezing and she’d begun to worry that she’d been gone too long. Nicky might’ve gotten up. Someone could’ve seen his wound.

  After a long, drawn-out minute, Antonio came. He opened the door with a smile and Stella’s knees went weak. Smiles were good. Well, they were good when the SS wasn’t smiling them anyway.

  “Ciao, bella,” he exclaimed, taking in her new clothes.

  “Ciao, Antonio.”

  Sofia came around the corner. “You’ve been shopping, yes? The green is lovely on you.”

  She led her into the main hallway and Stella closed the umbrella, depositing in the bin.

  “Thank you. I found a little shop and they were very helpful,” she said. “How is Mr. Myna? Have you checked on him by chance?”

  “He is better,” she said. “Dr. Davide is with him now.”

  Sofia was smiling, but her eyes were serious.

  “Such service,” said Stella.

  “Yes, I fear this will be costly.”

  Stella patted her bulging handbag. “Not to worry. I’m happy to pay for good care.”

  Sofia relaxed and Stella left her at the desk, walking down the hall past several guests with a smile and in no particular hurry.

  The room door was unlocked and she went in, continuing to smile. It didn’t last but a moment. “What is that smell?”

  “Me.” Dr. Davide was stretched out in the chair with his arms behind his head, revealing large sweat stains. “I’ve had a long day.”

  “I imagine all of your days are long.” Stella turned to Nicky and was surprised to see him sitting up. “You’re better.”

  “He gave me a shot,” said Nicky. “A big one.”

  “Eukadol?”

  “Beats me.”

  She looked at the doctor and he nodded. “I found him trying to get dressed, not resting.”

  Nicky plucked at the covers and wouldn’t look at her. “I was going to the bathroom.”

  “He was going to look for you,” said Dr. Davide. “Some nursemaid you are.”

  Stella unbuttoned her new coat and hung it in the wardrobe. “I’m a fine nursemaid. I got the money to pay you.”

  He slapped his hands together and rubbed them furiously. Stella waited for him to salivate, but it didn’t get that far. “All of it?”

  “Yes, all of it.”

  He gave her the once over. “Nice rags. Those’ll get you through.”

  Nicky blinked at her, bleary-eyed. “You went shopping before you came back?”

  “We needed clothes.” She jerked a thumb at Davide. “Ask him.”

  “You two looked like you’d been through hell and I know hell,” said Dr. Davide. “Nose is good now, too. How are the feet?”

  “You care?”

  “You paying me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I care.”

  “Better. I saw another doctor.”

  Dr. Davide put his hands behind his head again. “I heard. Spooner’s a good man.”

  “How did you know?” she asked.

  “He told me.”

  Stella put her handbag on the side table and sat on the bed, putting her hand to Nicky’s forehead. No fever. That was good. “Why on Earth would he tell you?”

  “Fifty lira,” said Dr. Davide.

  “Are you serious?”

  He sneered at her and pulled a flask out of his breast pocket. “If you’ve got my 2000 lira, what’s another fifty?”

  “That’s not the point,” she said. “What is wrong with you?”

  He took a long drink and offered her the flask. “I’ve got bills to pay like everyone else.”

  “What would you charge me for a drink?” asked Stella.

  “On the house.”

  Nicky reached out. “I’ll take it.” He leaned too far and Stella had to pull him upright again.

  “No, sir,” said the doctor. “You don’t mix medications. You want to know the purpose of the good Dr. Spooner’s call or not?”

  Stella was suddenly tired. She could’ve laid down beside Nicky and gone right to sleep. “Fine. Why did he call?”

  “He got a friendly little visit from the carabinieri this morning, except it wasn’t so friendly. Spooner got smacked around for a while.” For the first time, Dr. Davide’s expression wasn’t one of greed or smarmy indifference. Stella couldn’t quite read it, but there was some kind of pain there.

  “The carabinieri beat up some doctor?” asked Nicky, becoming alert.

  “Not too bad,” said Dr. Davide. “Call it a little official motivation.”

  “I can’t believe they hurt him.” Stella stood up and turned to the wall. There she went again, making a victim where there wasn’t one before.

  “Believe it. That’s how the carabinieri work, saves time.”

  “Is he okay?” she asked.

  “He’s fine. You want to know what they asked him?”

  She did and it was worth the fifty bucks. Bartali had shown up at the doctor’s house, asking for confirmation about Stella’s name and religion. Dr. Spooner confirmed that she was Eulalie Myna and a Catholic, and got a few good smacks just to make sure. Bartali was frustrated. He didn’t believe she was who she said she was. He didn’t believe that Nicky had cholera, or anything like it either, but he had nothing to prove it.

  “Why does he care so much?” asked Nicky. “I don’t understand. We’ve done nothing to him.”

  “Bartali got himself in a little trouble last year. Now he’s down at the bottom of the barrel and trying to claw himself back up. Lucky for you,” said Dr. Davide with little smile.

  “Why’s it lucky?” slurred Nicky. “He’s been on us since we got here. I call that damn unlucky.”

  The doctor kicked his feet up on the bed. “Because Bartali is on the outs. Low man on the totem pole. Dangling on the bottom rung. He’s the—”

  “We get it,” said Stella. “Bartali’s a loser, but that’s not helping us.”

  Dr. Davide drained the flask. “Ah, but it is. Bartali beat the stuffing out of Colonello Costa’s cousin last year. Put the boy in the hospital for a month. He got stripped of four ranks and is persona non grata.”

  “So what?” asked Stella, turning around. “He’s still a carabinieri. He’s still beating people up.”

  He yawned and shook a couple of drops out of the flask onto his tongue. “He got put on the job nobody wants, finding Jews and hassling them. That’s why he’s here bothering Sofia’s guests on a daily basis. She’s known for turning a blind eye to refugees.”

  “How does that help us?” asked Nicky.

  “Because Bartali’s on the Jews, nobody talks to him and I mean nobody. Jews have been marrying Italians forever. Most everybody is friends with a Jew or has a Jewish brother-in-law, including the higher ups in the carabinieri. Bartali wasn’t popular before. Now, he may as well throw himself off the Rialto.” Dr. Davide shook his flask at Stella. “On the downside, he thinks you’re his ticket out of purgatory.”
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  “Us?” asked Stella. “Even if we were Jews, how would that help him? He hassles Jews all the time.”

  The doctor stood up. “I need whiskey.”

  Stella went over and pushed him back down. “No, you don’t. Why does Bartali think arresting us would help him?”

  “Sofia keeps a nice bottle. I could use a drink. You have the money or so you say.”

  Stella put her hands on her hips. “Tell me. Now.”

  He stroked the bristles on his chin and looked up at her. “Bartali may be a bastard, but he’s not stupid. He’s on to you.”

  “On to us?” asked Nicky warily.

  “We all know you’re not Canadians that lost your luggage. Something’s going on with you and Bartali can smell it. You’re lucky the muckety-mucks don’t tell him squat.”

  Nicky got stiff and all the muscles popped out on his torso. “What would they tell him?”

  Dr. Davide laughed. “That the SS officer who shot up our precious little island isn’t just crazy. He’s after someone specific, a couple of pretty Americans named Lawrence that just so happen to look a hell of a lot like you two.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  STELLA PULLED OFF her galoshes and stabbed her new hat with her precious pin. Dr. Davide was paid up for both his work and his silence. It hadn’t taken the doctor long to figure out who they really were. The carabinieri, who were in the know, had been going to every high-priced hotel in Venice asking for Nicolas and Stella Lawrence. That was the bad news. The good news was how they were described; young, beautiful, and wealthy Americans. The Venetians, not overly fond of the carabinieri to begin with, weren’t buying it. According to Dr. Davide, the hotels were pushing back. A Bled of the Bled brewing family stole something in Germany and then came to Venice and stole a water taxi? A couple of places laughed. Others downright thought they were lying for some nefarious purpose as they’d been known to do. The reaction was worse when Peiper was there. Everyone knew what he’d done and people wouldn’t tell him the time of day. Mussolini might have admired Hitler, but the Venetians weren’t enthralled and they didn’t like some SS coming down and demanding information as if they belonged to Germany. They weren’t Austrians and they told Peiper to get lost.