Somewhere in the Stars

by Frank Polizzi

  Caterina’s eyes welled up and she walked ahead of him.

  “Mi dispiace! I didn’t mean you’re really crazy,” he called out. He caught up with her and stood in front of her. “Tell me more.” They continued walking at a slower pace.

  “My father was Baron Ferdinando Rossetto. He got caught up in Mussolini’s web, joining the fascista party. My mother died while horse jumping, but she never cared for politics. I was against this whole business from the start, but my father would not listen to a young, university student. That’s how Rachele and I bonded over our disgust with fascism and nazism.”

  “I see.” Nathan’s eyes brightened at the sound of Rachele’s name. He tripped on an upturned cobblestone but gained his balance.

  “Attenzione, Nathan!”

  “Hold up. I gotta digest all of this. So why the hell were you selling …?” His voice trailed off, when they stopped.

  Caterina glowered at him. “Go ahead. Finish what you have to say.”

  Nathan waved his palms up.

  “My father moved down to Roma, so he could be closer to the central government. I left the Univeristá di Padova so as not to be trapped up north. The Germans were seizing more power. Many of my professors had gone into hiding with the partigiani. I wasn’t in Roma too long before the partigiani dragged my father out to the street right before the Americans took control of Rome.” Caterina winced. “They shot him, leaving him to die in the gutter. One of them set our apartment on fire. I hated his politics, but he was still my father. Anyway, I had no money or family in Roma, so I had to survive.”

  “And you’re never mentioned any of this to Nick?”

  “Swear that you’ll keep this to yourself. I am not looking for his sympathy.”

  Nathan nodded yes.

  They reached San Damiano and met up with Padre Esposito but there was no word about Nick, so they returned to their cells to meditate about things beyond their control. When Nathan opened his casement window, he could see the outline of the campanile of the Basilica of St. Francis rising in a sky full of puffy clouds, the cypress trees pointing up in the hills, sentinels for the orange-red tile roof farmhouses scattered about. He brooded over what was happening to Nick up north, trying to smuggle his cousin out. Nathan regretted that he hadn’t been chosen instead of his buddy, but he didn’t want to dwell on it. His thoughts turned to Rachele and the swatch of red-brown hair marking her brow. The clouds blew away to reveal a fresco blue sky, almost like a cabalistic signal. He left his cell and rapped on Caterina’s door, coaxing her to follow him into the garden.

  As they strolled around, he said: “You’re a student of art history. If I taught you how to draw, you could connect better with the art world.”

  “I have tried to paint but I gave up. That’s why I decided to major in Art History.”

  “That’s because you didn’t have me as a teacher.”

  “I suppose I could try again.” She sat down by the well and looked up at Nathan, the sun over his head. “What do you want in return?”

  “I’m not trying to make a pass. Not that you’re not pretty. You could have been a model for Piero della Francesca.”

  Caterina blushed and laughed. “So Nathan, you now find me attractive!”

  “You’re my buddy’s girl, you know, off limits!” Nathan smelled one of the tall, white roses. “Anyway, I’d like to see Rachele again.”

  “That’s easy enough. Remember she’s very fragile like that rose you were holding.”

  “Nah, don’t worry about it. Just looking for some good conversation.”

  “It might be helpful for Rachele, but I’ll have to act like a chaperone. Don’t make a face.” She smiled with such perfect, white teeth he studied her features. “She’s living in a convent.”

  “I can see now why Nick is stuck on you.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. Do you know something I don’t know?”

  “Nick can be an enigma sometimes. Seems moody when you least expect it.”

  “What do you mean? Emotional?”

  “I can’t say. He can be very protective about you. There’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “Since his cousin Paul died, he gets lost in his own world. The funny thing is that’s what he accuses me of. So why not ask him about it?”

  “I don’t think he would want me to pry. Why don’t we stick with painting lessons for now?”

  Nathan, Caterina and Rachele spent several mornings together in the parlor of the convent guesthouse. Caterina had arranged everything with the Mother Abbess, who spoke to Caterina through the open shutters of a double grille, behind which the cloister was situated. Caterina assured the Mother Abbess that everything would be proper. On the third visit, Caterina didn’t join them and watched from the nearby kitchen window as Nathan and Rachele conversed.

  “Do I speak English too fast?” Nathan asked, as her face signaled pain to him. “I can also speak German.”

  “I told you yesterday that I was a linguistics major and I’m fluent in many languages.” She looked at the floor. “Besides, I never speak German anymore.”

  “I’m sorry. You’re right.” Nathan could see the quizzical pain in her face, as if she were repelled and drawn to him at the same time.

  “Caterina, she’s always trying to save me. What for, I don’t know,” she said at length, while Nathan listened patiently.

  “You don’t have to wear that habit anymore, Rachele. The Nazis are gone.”

  “Are they really gone? What about your cousin? The one you mentioned yesterday.”

  “Carlo.” Nathan’s face blanched.

  “Mi dispiace! I can’t help it. When I hear these stories …”

  “I shouldn’t have mentioned my cousin.”

  “Why?” She raised her voice. “Do you feel you have to tiptoe around me like we’re dancing in some kind of French ballet?” Rachele looked at her black sandals. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be speaking this way.” A tear lined her left cheek. “My whole family is gone. My two beautiful, young sisters probably raped and murdered. That’s what Nazis do to young, defenseless women, you know.”

  “There’s always some chance they might be alive.”

  “There’s no hope now!” Her lovely white skin turned even paler than before.

  Nathan thought she might be right but said, “I haven’t given up on my cousin Carlo, so why should you give up? For me, I’m betting on Nick.” Nathan placed his hand on hers and this time she did not push it aside.

  “I’m so confused. I don’t know where to turn. Why can’t I get myself to leave this convent?” For the first time she broke down and sobbed. “What has become of my family? Can you answer that, Nathan?” Nothing came to him there but in the quiet of his own cell, he would mull over everyone important to him this side of the Atlantic—Rachele, Nick and Carlo, even Caterina, then segue to his family on the other side, or al di là as Nick might mumble in Italian when he missed his la famigghia, switching to Sicilian.

  “I need to rest now,” she said, placing her hands into her lap.

  “But couldn’t we stay longer? There’s no rush.”

  She left and, though Nathan could only see the back of her black coif over the brown habit, he sensed she was crying.

  As Nathan and Caterina trekked down the path to San Damiano, they remained quiet most of the way.

  “I’ll teach you some more art tricks in the garden before dusk.”

  “Grazie, that would be lovely. Keep our minds off of things, no?” Caterina gave a sideways glance at Nathan who kept looking down at the path.

  “It’s funny …”

  “Continua, Nathan.”

  “I have always been very comfortable with women. They always seem to like me.” Caterina chuckled and he faced her, never missing a step. “I’m not a sheik like your paesano, Nick.”

  “Don’t take it personally. I’m just amused by your new interest in my friend. But you are right about Nick.” She giggled. “He do
es spend a lot of time in front of the mirror, but go ahead.”

  “There’s something special about Rachele, despite all her fragility.” Nathan shook his head. “I can’t explain her appeal to me.”

  “You have to be able to describe it; otherwise it’s just make believe.”

  “Her spirit speaks to me in a way like no other girl has before. She brings out my anima like Jung says is found in a man’s personality. You know the female side of man.”

  “To be in touch with your true inner self.”

  “Yes, and I want to travel with her wherever she goes, even to the dark places. You see, I want her to get better even if she never likes me in the same way.”

  “Who can say what will happen? You might as well try and read tarot cards, Nathan.”

  After they entered the monastery, they went upstairs to their separate cells. When Nathan shut the door, he lay on the cot with his hands wrapped behind his skull. He felt a tightening sensation in his head and then it went away, grateful that he wasn’t slipping into another seizure. He didn’t want to be shut out by someone like Rachele. There was always something new about her, like a spring awakening, after each brief encounter. It was meshuganah or maybe the way the cards had been dealt. He didn’t have magical powers that could transform things on the spot. He had his art, but she might be someone who could help him get through this war, but … but he couldn’t reach her. The damn deck was stacked against the two of them.

  XII

  After several days of readying Giuliano’s boat in a marshy cove below the Via del Conero, waiting for calm seas, they edged northwest along the coast of Ma l’Adriatico. Nick’s eyes opened wide when he witnessed all the heavy traffic on the Grand Canal of Venice, a jumble of every imaginable type of craft. The fisherman managed to pilot his boat down a narrower channel, where he throttled the engine slower making them more noticeable. Dusk slipped into darkness and they still hadn’t found the right docking spot. In the distance an open door cast light on a man smoking a pipe near a zebra-striped wood piling. As they got closer, Giuliano shut the engine off and floated over to the Venetian. Nick threw a rope to the man, who promptly tied it to the piling and ushered them inside the house without a comment. They walked through the house that connected to another canal on the other side, climbed down into a gondola and glided on an even narrower channel.

  Nick had ditched his cane in the monastery cell, after he had practiced faking a normal stride with insightful coaching from Padre Esposito. He thought it would be better for Nick not to draw any attention to himself since the Gestapo might wonder why he limped. From his work with the CIC, Nick learned that even a Roman priest was not safe. One had been killed by the SS in the Fosse Ardeatine massacre of 335 Italians of all ages—partigiani, random bystanders and 75 Jews from the Roman ghetto. Instead of a firing squad, SS Captain Erich Priebke organized the execution by having each victim shot in the back of the head aiming for the cerebellum, their bodies piled up and then moved to a cave sealed by explosives. This horrific story was something that lingered in Nick’s mind and he figured that this mission was not going to be any Tom Sawyer adventure.

  Venice was dark as pitch with all house lights turned off under German blackout orders. Nick heard the swooshing of the water as it slid off the huge oar, the sounds so distinct as if the canal water were self-referential. He worried whether they would get out alive. They reached what looked like tar-stained garage doors, which opened and closed behind them. They followed their gondolier up stone steps, wet and slippery with brown and green moss. They waited in a dining room until an older gentleman and a young man entered. Nick noticed that the young man had a dimpled chin similar to Nathan’s. He lowered the brown hood of his monk garb, as their host spoke in Venetian dialect. He asked the older one if they could switch to English, Nick’s native language.

  “I have known Carlo’s father since he was a child,” said Don Ca Botto who stroked his white, Van Dykestyle beard. “We worked in the same import-export business. One of my workers stopped Carlo before he reached home, the day the Gestapo arrested his family. They were sent to Buchenwald. The boy has been here ever since. Very dangerous if the Gestapo gets hold of Carlo.” He nodded towards the young man who remained silent.

  “Your cugino, Nathan, has been very worried about you,” Nick said. “He sends his tanti auguri.” Carlo smiled a bit. “He was annoyed when Padre Esposito wouldn’t let him come.”

  “So he sent a monk for me,” Carlo responded, gazing out the window overlooking the canal illuminated by a sliver of moonlight. “My parents and younger brothers are missing.” Carlo looked at Nick. “I have no delusions. There are many death camps and that’s where all Jews are headed.”

  “I am here to bring you back behind Allied lines.” Nick tugged on the neckline of his robes. “I’m not a Franciscan monk, you know. Your cousin and I were in the same tank crew, till it got blown up. You’ll be safe once you’re in Assisi. Put this on.” Nick took the Franciscan robe out of his backpack. “I have an identity card too. I’ll attach your photo to it and mark it up with a seal just like an official one.” He pulled out a rubber stamp from under his robe.

  “Carlo, you’re like a son to me,” Don Ca Botto said. “But you must leave now or risk being found and sent to your death. There’s nothing you can do here for the Moretto family. It’s what your father and mother would want.” Carlo peered out the window again.

  “I will go then, Don Ca Botto.”

  “Ben! Do what these brave gentlemen tell you.”

  After a supper of homemade gnocchi and a carafe of yellow brown Soave, Carlo led his new friends through a hallway to a huge armoire. He opened the doors, stepped in and vanished. Nick and the fisherman looked puzzled until Carlo waved his arm through the cloaks to follow him into the concealed room, where the only light source was through the skylight from the North Star. After donning the Franciscan robes, Carlo sat down to put on brown leather sandals. Giuliano approached with a barber’s razor and some soapy water.

  “Mannaggia, what do you think you’re doing with that razor?” Carlo asked.

  “Calma! You need a bald spot on the crown of your head. Otherwise you will give yourself away. Ricorda! Tu sei un monaco francescano adesso.”

  “Ah, it’s not so bad, Carlo,” Nick added. “Have a look for yourself.” He took off his skullcap and bent his head down. “Stop squawkin’. It’ll grow back.”

  “Ben!” Carlo stuck his chin out.

  Don Ca Botto entered the concealed room within an hour. “The fog has rolled in. You must go now. Our gondolier will get the three of you to the fishing boat you came in with. From there, your fisherman friend, Giuliano, will pilot you to a safer place.”

  “What shall we do, Don Ca Botto?” Nick asked.

  “Act like monks. Pray. Pray for your lives.”

  “What is the worst danger?” Carlo asked.

  “Going under bridges. The German patrols frequently stop on them, when they want to have a smoke. They are bored, so they stare at the traffic below.” Carlo embraced the old man, who had tears in his eyes.

  “We’ll make it to Ancona with Giuliano at the tiller,” Nick said.

  “From your mouth to God’s ears,” Carlo added.

  Don Ca Botto’s men had already stowed provisions below the deck of Giuliano’s boat and moved it out of the canals, flying the flag of the winged lion and anchoring in darkness on one of the islands surrounding Venice. The three of them set out in a waiting gondola for Murano, a small but busy port known for exporting Venetian glass. Nick and Carlo sat together in the middle with Giuliano right behind them. They faced the gondolier who steered the flatbottomed boat, shiny like a black coffin, through the fog in the narrow channels. He called out haunting whistle sounds at dangerous curves, increasing Nick and Carlo’s anxiety. As they approached the last dimly lit overpass, several German soldiers aimed their strapped submachine guns at the gondola. The sergeant flashed a light on them. The gondolier in sotto voc
e warned his passengers not to move. They crept under an arched, marble bridge and the German patrol moved to the other side with their fingers on the triggers. The German sergeant yelled Halt! The gondolier jerked the oar out of the water, while the sergeant observed the monks praying, the fisherman fast sleep. He changed his mind, calling out Vershwinde, while his patrol lowered the nozzles of their MP40 guns. The sergeant doused the light and lit up a cigarette.

  Upon entering the Grand Canal, they slid into a docking area where there were many gondolas. They scurried across a narrow walkway and jumped onto a tiny motorized craft that had been idling. They continued through the dissipating fog, motoring northeast to the midpoint of the Grand Canal, then lighted through a narrower connecting canal that led them past the tiny island of San Michele. They were returned to their fishing boat, fueled up and waiting for them in the elongated harbor of the famous, glass blowing island. They switched boats for the last time and Giuliano took the helm, cruising out to sea.

  “I don’t like it,” Giuliano shouted over the engine noise. “Le cose sono troppo calma cosi vincino Venezia.”

  “But Don Ca Botta said the worst danger was the bridges,” Carlo said.

  “Don Ca Botto sa Venezia. Mal’Adriatico è la mia area,” Giuliano said, as he piloted the boat from his rear bench.

  “Is there anything we can do besides praying?” Nick asked.

  “Si, I stash a Beretta submachine gun e due Carcano rifles under a blanket sotto il ponte.” He pointed to the hatch in the middle of the boat. “Vai adesso, Nick. Make sure they in good working order. Carlo, you keep a look out.”

  Murano was no longer visible as they headed south to Ancona, when suddenly, a German S-boot gunboat, churning up waves at 40 knots of speed, came out of the blackness in pursuit of their fishing boat.

  “Attenzione, Giuliano!” Carlo shouted.

  “Calma. Tell Nick grab the Beretta. Keep the hatch open un po’. He no come out unless I cough. Then sit on my left side and read your Bible. I will do all the talking. I have done this many times sul largo.” In a short while the gunboat slowed down running parallel to them and an SS officer shouted in German. Getting no reaction, he spoke in Italian. “Come fa in Murano?”