by A W Hartoin
“Pardon,” she called out, coming down the aisle. “I’m sorry. Do you speak English?”
They didn’t answer, sinking lower into their seats.
“I don’t mean to bother you, but do you know why everyone is getting off the train?”
The parents, mute, shook their heads and Stella looked the family over. They were well dressed and not normally third-class passengers she wouldn’t have thought and the luggage rack at the end of the carriage had only two small valises on it, hardly enough for a family.
“Oh,” she said. “I…”
The door behind her opened and cold air flooded the carriage.
“Mrs. Lawrence, what are you doing here?” Monsieur Volcot, the first-class conductor, rushed down the aisle, red-faced and sweaty.
“Trying to find out what’s going on,” said Stella.
“What is going on? Nothing at all. This is the…Bisset family. They are traveling to visit their family in Bologna.”
“I see,” she said with an arched eyebrow. “I meant what is happening with everyone leaving the train.”
Monsieur Volcot’s cheeks got redder. “Yes, yes, of course. Venice, it is flooded.” He gently turned her around and led her to the door.
“Venice is always flooded. It’s practically a permanent condition of the place.”
“Yes, but this is very bad. The rain has not stopped in three days.” He opened the door and hustled her outside. In a flash, they were in the empty second-class carriage.
“So what? Venice is chock-full of boats. We were told it never shuts down for rain,” said Stella.
Monsieur Volcot herded her down the aisle. “Yes. Normally, that is true. But this time it is.”
“Shut down?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“The rain will not stop for several days and San Marco is knee-deep in water. I only found out in Verona. They tried to tell me that the rain will stop tomorrow, but it won’t, and I told our passengers that. No one could say when the basilica or the Doge’s palace will reopen.”
He reached for the door handle and Stella asked, “What will people do?”
“Make other plans. Perhaps go to Czechoslovakia until the waters have receded.”
“I meant the Venetians,” said Stella. “What will they do?”
Monsieur Volcot stopped and met her eyes. “They will do what people do when things happen beyond their control.”
“Hunker down or escape, you mean.”
“I believe so.”
“So why didn’t you tell us that Venice has closed up shop?” she asked.
A hint of a smile curved his thin lips. “Because Monsieur Lawrence told me that you will go to Venice come hell or high water. It was not a phrase that I was familiar with, but I understood the situation.”
“He’s right. Hell or high water.”
“Yes, madam.” He opened the door and a gust of wind nearly ripped it out of his hand. “Please return to your compartment, Madam Lawrence. We will be on our way shortly.”
Stella stepped into the rain, but turned around. “Monsieur Volcot.”
His face closed up, fear in his eyes. “Yes, madam?”
She leaned back toward him. “In the future say less about the Bissets. No one goes to Venice to get to Bologna.”
He took a breath and whispered, “Yes, madam.”
Stella darted across the passageway, leaving Monsieur Volcot frozen in the doorway.
Their compartment was empty. No long legs. No sleeping Nicky. Just his fedora sitting on the seat. The train lurched forward, whistle blaring. Stella ran to the window, but she couldn’t see the platform through the great sheets of rain pelting the window. He might have gotten off. She never imagined he’d look for her. He slept through hot tea, for God’s sake.
She grabbed her coat and ran out into the corridor, spinning around, unsure where to go.
“Stella, what are you doing?” Nicky came in the forward door carrying a coffee pot with a couple of cups dangling from his fingers.
“Oh, thank God.” She leaned on the wall and clasped her coat to her chest. “I don’t think I could’ve jumped off another train.”
“Why would you?” Nicky walked down the corridor in that casual, unperturbed way of his, kissed her on the forehead, and ducked into their compartment.
“I thought you might’ve gotten off,” she said.
“Why?”
“To look for me.”
“I wasn’t looking for you,” said Nicky, balancing the coffee pot on the stack of newspapers and putting the cups on Stella’s new favorite book, The Hobbit.
“No?”
“I knew you wouldn’t get off the train.” He looked around and rifled through the papers on the opposite seat. “Where’s The London Times? Did you throw it away?”
“No.”
“Where did all these dictionaries come from?” he asked, tossing aside her French and Italian dictionaries and a child’s book, Histoire de Babar le petit elephant, that Monsieur Marchand had recommended.
“I bought them when I left the train,” said Stella, coming in and plunking down on the seat just the way a lady shouldn’t. It had been well-established in the last two weeks that Stella was no lady so she no longer bothered to pretend.
Nicky stopped searching. “You left the train. Why in the world would you do that?”
She held up the dictionaries he’d so casually tossed aside. “To buy these. If I’m going to learn, I need the tools to do it.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“You say that like I could,” said Stella.
“You could and you should.” He leaned over and slid the door shut. “If you think the SS has given up on getting Abel’s book, you’re wrong.”
“Of course I don’t think that. Peiper’s like a bloodhound only starchy and with less moral fiber. And I couldn’t wake you up,” she said.
“You could.”
“Look at your legs.”
Nicky peered down at his formerly pristine pant legs. “What is that? It’s crusty.”
“Tea with sugar.”
“You poured tea on me?” he asked astonished. “Why in the world would you do that?”
“I spilled it while climbing over your unconscious body,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It was an accident.”
He pulled up a pant leg and examined the reddish mark on his shin. “You burned me.”
“And you still didn’t wake up.”
“Stella.”
“Nicky.”
They eyed each other until Nicky cracked. A smile broke through and they started laughing, almost upsetting the coffee pot.
“Good God, I was tired. I didn’t know a person could get so tired,” he said.
“Are you still tired?” asked Stella.
“I won’t be after this coffee.” He poured a cup and offered it to her, steaming hot and thick from an espresso maker. “How about you? Did you sleep at all?”
“No, I couldn’t.”
Nicky smoothed back his thick blond hair and straightened his tie. He looked every bit the man she married, but also not, at the same time. It wasn’t the gaunt lines of his face or the bruises. He was different and she was different, too. But she didn’t want to be different. She wanted to be Stella, the girl before it happened, and she wasn’t. In Paris, she thought all she needed was clean clothes and a good meal. The Boulards had seen to all that. Her bruises were fading and would soon be invisible, but she wasn’t Stella, not that Stella, not anymore.
“What is it?” he asked, sounding very much like he was afraid of the answer.
“I don’t know.”
“You do.”
She told him the truth, but only the part she knew he would understand. She couldn’t say that the moment that she finished reading The Hobbit a wave of homesickness had come over so strong that she’d nearly begun crying. She was tired. She was sore. Everything hurt from her swollen, frost-bitten feet to her battered nose.
Stella Bled Lawrence was eighteen, married, arguably a murderer, and she wanted her mother.
“I keep thinking about Abel,” she said.
“I do, too.”
“When you’re conscious.”
He smiled and her homesickness got the tiniest bit better. “When I’m conscious.”
“What do you think will happen?” she asked.
“To Abel? Nothing, I hope. Josiah will go, throw the Bled weight around, and get him out.”
“You don’t think they’ll arrest him then?” asked Stella. That had been one of her nightmares. Josiah in Dachau with Abel.
“No, I don’t think they can do that,” said Nicky.
Stella took a couple of aspirin and washed them down with a sip of coffee. It wouldn’t help her feet. They’d been getting worse. All the running in Paris had finally caught up to her.
“They would’ve arrested us if they’d gotten the chance,” she said.
Nicky looked out the window at the long fingers of rain slithering across the window, his mask of indifference sliding into place. “Yes, that’s true.”
Once Stella would’ve thought him bored, cold, untouched by the danger, but she wasn’t a newlywed any longer, despite the brief amount of time since the wedding. Peril had made them well and truly married and she knew him. Nicky Lawrence was seriously concerned so she didn’t press.
“Actually, I’m more concerned about the Sorkines at the moment and what will happen in Venice,” she said.
“Are you?”
She thought that might kick a crack in his composure, but it didn’t. He sipped his coffee and chose a newspaper. The New York Times from four days ago.
“You realize that Venice is flooded and everyone left the train?”
“Yes.”
“The Sorkines might’ve left Venice, too.”
That did it. Nicky turned to her with a flicker of concern, no more. “That changes nothing.”
“Yes, it does. We need to tell them about Abel and the book. If we don’t find them, they might follow our trail to Vienna. They’re not going to give up on the book any more than the Nazis, Peiper, in particular.”
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”
“We need a plan,” she insisted.
“What would you like to do?” he asked, his blue eyes half-mast and completely bored.
She wanted to smack him, to shake something loose. “I want to know what’s going to happen.”
Nicky yawned. “I can’t tell you that. I can’t even tell you what has already happened.” He tossed the old newspaper on the floor with a sigh. “This is maddening.”
“Really?”
“Of course,” he said.
“Good. I want you to be as frustrated as me,” she said with a grin before coming to his seat and cuddling up.
“How is that helpful?” he asked, pouring her another cup of coffee.
“I don’t know, but it is.”
He rested his head on hers. “You are ridiculous.”
“And sublime?”
“Without a doubt.”
A quiet knock rattled the door and they looked up to find Monsieur Volcot standing in the corridor holding up a newspaper. Nicky waved him in, but the conductor hesitated, glancing at Stella. She smiled with what she hoped was reassurance and he came in.
“Monsieur Marchand sent these for you. He believed you would like to have the news,” said Monsieur Volcot.
Nicky practically snatched the papers from him. “Thank you very much. What day are these? Yesterday. It’s a miracle.”
Monsieur Volcot smiled and nodded as he backed out of the compartment.
“Wait,” said Stella and his face tensed. “Do you speak Italian?”
“Yes, madam. I do. A little.”
Stella knew well enough that when a European said “a little” they meant a lot. “Are you busy?”
“Well…I…” He kept backing up and glanced around as if an excuse might emerge from the walls.
“There aren’t any other passengers,” said Stella with a well-placed wink behind Nicky’s bowed head.
“Um…yes, madam. You are the only passengers at present,” said Monsieur Volcot.
“Then would you mind helping me with some Italian phrases? Monsieur Marchand taught me a few, but it’s not nearly enough.” She held up her Italian dictionary. “I have this, but pronunciation is the sticking point.”
“Well, I should be—”
“Give it up, man,” said Nicky, waving him to the opposite seat. “She’ll chase you down the corridor and who has time for that?”
“Very well,” said Monsieur Volcot, sitting stiffly on the seat. “What would you like to know?”
“I know how to say hello and all that, but I need to ask for a hotel, a small, out of the way place, not so popular with Americans.”
“I thought you’d been to Venice before.”
“We have, but our…circumstances have changed,” said Stella.
“I see.” He flicked a glance up at the luggage rack above their heads. It held only Stella’s battered handbag, a hatbox, and her new makeup case. “There are a few options I can recommend.”
Nicky looked up. “We’d appreciate that.”
“Close to the ghetto would be best,” said Stella and Monsieur Volcot got stiffer. She hadn’t thought it possible. The poor man looked as though he might pop a vessel.
“No need to look as though you’re facing the firing squad,” said Nicky, suddenly radiating charm, but it didn’t change the petrified conductor’s demeanor one bit. “She’s on your side.”
“Sir, I assure you, I don’t have a side.”
“We’ve been in Europe for over two months,” said Nicky. “Let me assure you that there are definitely sides and unless you are a National Socialist, we’re on yours.”
Monsieur Volcot blew out a breath and relaxed into the seat back. “I would recommend the Hotel al Ponte Vittoria. They are friendly and reasonably priced.”
“Close to the ghetto?” asked Stella.
His eyes roamed over her face. It only took a second, but she’d come to understand that he was looking for a hint to her origins, as if being Jewish would be written on her forehead or in the slant of her pale blue eyes. Such a ridiculous notion. But since he was obviously protecting the family in third class, she decided not to take offense. Monsieur Volcot didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted to know her. That was a dangerous thing. Stella had come to think of herself as a kind of disaster magnet. The Dutch historian, Dr. Van Wijk, her father’s friend, Hans, Albert Moore, and Roger Morris the artist dead or very nearly so.
“Yes,” he said. “Walking distance, but it floods very easily. It will not be passable.”
“We’ll find a way.”
He smiled and said, “I believe you will.”
Stella looked at that nice man, not young, not old, probably a husband and father, at the very least a good and loyal friend and a fresh wave of homesickness came over her. How she wanted to go home, to walk off that train, be safe, and cause no one any trouble anymore.
“You know our names,” she said.
He tensed again. Monsieur Volcot had seen their passports. They could’ve been fake, but they weren’t. “Yes, madam.”
“It’s a good idea if you forget them,” said Nicky.
“Yes, sir. I forget many things. I am very unreliable that way.”
“That’s not usually an admirable quality.” Then Stella added with a smile, “But in such cases as these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever remember it myself.”
Neither man got her Jane Austen reference and her eyes fell on The Hobbit. Cyril Welk had given it to her and he certainly would’ve known the quote. She missed him, in spite of herself. The little spy had saved and then betrayed her, trying his best to keep her from Napoleon’s tomb and Nicky, but why? That she didn’t know and feared she never would.
“My memory is terrible and I will never
improve it,” said Monsieur Volcot.
“Glad to hear it,” said Nicky. “Now what’s the name of that hotel again?”
“The Hotel al Ponte Vittoria. Very good people. Understanding and forgetful.”
Stella shook off her sadness and picked up her dictionary. “Now how do I ask for it?”
They began their lesson, working through simple phrases and questions. The rain poured and Nicky read. In the short amount of time left before they arrived in Venice, Stella got everything she needed, except a plan.
Chapter Two
NICKY STAYED PERCHED on the bottom step of the train car and Stella ducked, trying to see around him in the narrow area. “Go. What are you waiting for?” It had taken them ten minutes to get through the mad rush of boarding passengers.
“It’s worse than I thought,” he yelled over his shoulder.
“What is?”
“The water.”
Stella squeezed between him and the railing and was shocked to find what amounted to a waterfall in front of her. The platform had a roof that ended about five feet from the train and the rain was pouring off it in a solid sheet. She could make out the platform and it wasn’t under water, which was the only positive.
Nicky’s giant golfing umbrella was lost in Vienna and they hadn’t known to buy a new one in Paris. Stella never owned galoshes in her life, but she wasn’t even sure galoshes would do it. They needed something like the rubber overalls the men at the brewery wore to clean the vats.
“I guess we’ll get wet,” said Stella.
“Just when I’d gotten used to being dry and warm.”
“Good things never last.”
“Don’t say that. You’ll jinx us,” he said.
“You don’t believe in luck, but you believe in jinxes?” asked Stella, looking for a break in the water. There wasn’t one.
“I’m beginning to. Let me—”
Stella jumped through the water and landed with an inelegant splat on the platform, sending rockets of pain through her damaged feet and up her legs. She stumbled forward and someone caught her. She gasped in pain, clinging to his black coat. It could be anyone. It could be an SS officer.