by A W Hartoin
“We bought them,” said Rosa trembling, “at a house sale.”
“A huge collection of first editions? I don’t think so. You have to strip the name out,” said Stella. “It’s not safe for you.”
Karolina shook her head and traced her fingers lovingly over the cover of a book of poetry. “We will not do that, but I thank you for your concern.”
“I understand.” That’s what Stella said, but she didn’t understand. It was a slip of paper pasted in a book. They took the trouble to get fake passports, but that wasn’t enough, not nearly. “In case someone asks me, what are you doing here?”
“We’re moving to Tuscany for Rosa’s health. She needs warm weather,” said Karolina.
“Then why are you still here? It’s cold and the city is practically empty.”
Rosa held out a frail hand and Karolina took it. “My sister won’t leave me.”
That Stella did understand.
The lure of coffee was too strong to hide away and wait for Nicky to show up, so Stella hobbled down the hall towards the front desk in hopes of finding something to eat and the much-needed coffee. She’d even take that evil Turkish blend they tried in Rome.
When she reached the desk, she found it unmanned with a dirty boot print on the wood. Worse, there was no coffee.
“Hello? Buongiorno?” she called out and Matteo darted out a door behind the desk with his finger to his lips.
She clamped her mouth shut and raised her palms to say, “What?”.
He pointed behind her and she turned around. Outside, beyond a set of arched double doors that she hadn’t noticed before was Nicky and a man she assumed was Bartali. She could only see his hat through the small windows at the top of the doors. It amazed her that she could tell he was angry from only a hat, but the way it jerked and bobbed, the carabinieri had to be furious. Nicky, on the other hand, was calm and bland, barely blinking in response, which probably infuriated Bartali all the more.
Stella started for the door. If Nicky hadn’t said his name yet, all wasn’t lost. She could steer the conversation.
“No,” hissed Matteo. “Signora, por favore.”
Stella glanced back and he shook his head wildly, pointing back at the door and saying something that was barely audible. All she caught was “Sofia” and “Antonio.” But that was enough to make her hesitate. Sofia knew her “name” now. Hopefully, she would think to use it. But what if she couldn’t make Nicky understand?
She went for the door again and Matteo darted around the desk and, without asking, bear-hugged her to carry her out of sight.
The door opened and Sofia’s voice echoed down the hall, much louder than necessary. “I apologize, Mr. Myna. You won’t be inconvenienced again.”
The door slammed shut and Nicky said, “What in the world was that about?”
“Your wife met Capitano Bartali and—”
“She met him? How did that happen?” He was practically shouting.
Nicky, Sofia, and Antonio arrived at the desk and simultaneously turned to see Stella and Matteo standing off to the right. Matteo let go of her and jumped back, looking tremendously guilty.
“Where have you been?” Stella thrust her chin out. Her guilty? Not a chance.
“Me?” Nicky whipped off his fedora and ran his fingers through his hair. He was probably counting to ten or some such nonsense in order not to tell her off. He needn’t have bothered. She was ready.
“Where’d you get the suit?” she asked.
He looked down at the grey suit he wore as if he didn’t know how he happened to be wearing it or the galoshes that his pant legs were tucked into. “Sofia…never mind that. What happened? Why are you out of bed?”
“I woke up. You were gone and I was starving. I came looking for food.”
That shut him up and he looked nearly as guilty as Matteo.
“You shouldn’t have come out.” He came over and swept her up in his arms before turning to Sofia and Antonio. “Thank you once again. Can you please bring us something to eat and coffee, if you have it?”
“Of course,” said Sofia. Her voice was strong, but she was bracing herself on the desk. That’s when Stella felt guilty. They came to that hotel and no doubt they’d brought a wave of misfortune with them.
“Thank you and I’m sorry,” Stella called out from around Nicky’s shoulder and Sofia gave her a weak smile in response.
“What were you thinking?” asked Nicky.
“That I was hungry, obviously,” she said. “Where were you?”
“Out.” He set her down to dig in his pocket for the room key.
“It’s open.”
He clenched his teeth and a muscle twitched on his jaw. “You left it open? Stella. God help me.”
Stella put her little nose in the air and hobbled in. “I don’t have a key and I’m not really worried about someone coming in to steal my rouge, are you?”
He closed the door. It was the quietest slam she’d ever heard in her life and her mother was the master of the quiet slam. “Someone could’ve searched our room.”
“So what?” She threw her arms wide. “We’ve got a makeup case, a dead woman’s pistol, my handbag with no money or identification in it, and a copy of The Hobbit. If they robbed us blind, we’d barely notice.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point then? And where were you? Don’t say out.”
“The ghetto.”
“You went without me?” It was Stella’s turn to clinch her jaw.
“You were asleep and time is of the essence,” he said.
“Why didn’t you wake me up?”
He hung his wet fedora on the radiator knob and slipped off his jacket. “Dr. Salvatore said you need as much rest as possible.”
“I’m fine. My feet are better. A lot better, in fact.”
“Not that much better.”
“We can go now. Where are my clothes?” she asked.
“They’re being cleaned, but it’s too late anyway.” He closed the wardrobe and sat down in the chair, stretching out his legs and kicking off the galoshes. “Everything’s closed and the water’s rising.”
“Had anyone seen them?”
“No, not that I was able to ask many people.”
“Well, it’s the evening. That’s to be expected.”
“I searched all day,” he said.
“All day?”
“All day.”
Stella’s brain couldn’t comprehend what he was saying. “What time is it?”
“Nearly six.” Nicky rubbed his eyes. “We need to soak your feet again.”
“Is it…tomorrow?”
He chuckled. “It is. You slept for over twenty-four hours.”
“How could I sleep that long? How could anyone sleep that long?”
“Darling, you were well past exhausted. You hadn’t really slept since we left here two weeks ago.”
“Still—”
A knock resounded on the door and Nicky went over to answer it. Sofia came in with a tray loaded with rolls, butter, and jam. A squat coffee pot and two cups sat in the center and Stella had to restrain herself from diving for it when she set it on the bed.
Nicky poured two cups and a generous amount of cream in hers. “Thank you, Sofia.”
She turned to go, but he quickly asked, “Would you please explain why you keep calling me Mr. Myna?”
Sofia stopped at the door and looked at Stella.
“I did it,” she said.
“What did you do?”
“The carabinieri wanted to know who we were. I had to say something,” she said.
“You could’ve said our names, our real names.” Nicky’s jaw was back to twitching.
“Oh, yeah? You want our names in a report? Reports are read. When the SS come looking for us, and they will, they’re going to go to the local authorities first.”
“Sofia,” Nicky nodded at their hostess, “headed him off, but he’s going to come back looking for our
passports, that are Canadian, apparently.”
“We can pass for Canadians,” said Stella before tearing into a roll slathered in a ludicrous amount of butter.
Sofia grabbed the bedpost and steadied herself. “I must ask, why does the SS want you?”
“We kept them from getting someone else’s property and they aren’t happy about it,” said Nicky.
“I’m familiar with the Nazi’s love of other people’s property. What was it?”
“It’s better if you don’t know.”
She glanced around, paling slightly. “Do you still have it?”
“No,” said Stella. “But they probably think we do.”
Nicky stood up and reached behind the chair. He pulled out the basin and asked Sofia to fill it with hot water. After she left, he began pacing. “We have to go. I don’t know if we can wait until tomorrow.”
Stella pried her swollen feet out of the slippers. “We’re not leaving.”
“We don’t have Canadian passports.”
“I’m not running away. We’ll get passports and stay right here.”
“Where are we going to get passports?”
“Father Girotti.”
He gaped at her.
“He’s here in Venice and he’s done it before,” she said.
“Why would some priest help us get fake passports?” he asked. “How do you know his name in the first place?”
Stella unwound the bandages from her feet, ignoring Nicky’s wincing at the sight of them, and told him about Karolina and Rosa. He immediately went to her makeup case and pulled out The Hobbit. He opened the cover and heaved a sigh of relief. “It’s okay. No ex libris.”
“Even if there was one, it wouldn’t be Cyril’s real name or a name that could be traced.”
“You’re right. That old codger is too smart for that.”
Stella knew that to be true better than Nicky ever would. Cyril Welk helped them escape Gabriele Griese and the SS in the Vienna Westbahnhof. Stella met up with him again after she crashed Peiper’s plane near a safe house. It was clear that Cyril was some sort of spy, but what side he was on was less clear.
Sofia came back in with the water and Antonio, who carried a little box filled with bottles that Dr. Salvatore sent. He couldn’t take the chance of coming back so Dr. Davide would be by the next day. Stella was sad to hear it, but the worse news was that he wanted her to have another shot of Prontosil. Nicky and Antonio put Stella in the chair and Sofia mixed in the tinctures. The stinging seemed worse that time, but it also felt good in an odd way.
“So who wants to give me a shot?” asked Stella.
Nicky picked up the syringe. “I’ll do it.”
Sofia said she had to be going. The sight of the needle made her look like she needed to grab onto the bedpost again and Antonio rushed her out.
“How do I do this?” he asked, brandishing the needle and the little glass vial.
Stella told him and he gave her the shot like it didn’t bother him a bit. “How many rolls do you want?”
“All of them. I’m starving.” Stella licked her lips and reached for another roll.
Nicky read the directions that came with the syringe and cleaned it with a little bottle of spirits before he packed up the medications. “I hope I don’t have to do that again.”
“Well, there’s still the Eukadol for later,” said Stella, pointing at another vial.
Nicky grimaced.
“I can do it myself.”
His blank face went back on and he said, “I’ll do it.”
She gazed at him, looking for something that gave a feeling away and found nothing but detached calmness. It was unsettling.
“What?” he asked.
“It didn’t bother you to stick that needle in me. I hated doing that to Oliver.”
Just the mere thought of Oliver brought back the smell and shock of the explosions at Hans Gruber’s brewery and that dear man’s death. Stella looked down at her hands and was surprised they were clean, not covered with sticky blood with its metallic tang so strong that she could still smell it weeks later.
“You did it well,” said Nicky.
“Not as well as you. I can still see the blood and the meat of his arm when I think about it.”
Nicky squatted in front of her basin with his hands on her knees. “It bothered me tremendously, but I didn’t think it would help you if I showed it.”
“It wouldn’t.”
“Now I have something to ask you,” he said.
Stella bit her lip. She’d eaten and she was tired again. Fighting about the passports would just make him angry and change nothing.
“Why Douglas Myna?”
She brightened and sloshed her feet in the water. “Miss Myna.”
“Huh?”
“I’m Miss Myna. Remember? It’s my nickname.” She imitated Sofia’s accent perfectly.
He chuckled. “Right. I forgot. What about Douglas? I hate Douglas.”
“Aunt Eulalie says you look like Douglas Fairbanks Jr..”
Nicky screwed up his mouth in the ultimate vision of displeasure. “Do you think that?”
“Maybe a little around the eyes.” She grinned and slapped his hand. “You think you’re better looking than Douglas Fairbanks Jr..”
He stood up and crossed his arms.
“All right. You are. But you’re still Douglas. We can’t change it now.”
“And what is your name? Myrna?”
“As in Myrna Myna? I don’t think so.”
“As in Myrna Loy.”
Stella made her own displeased face. “Myrna Myna sounds stupid. And how old do I look to you?”
“Myrna Loy isn’t old.”
“She could be my mother,” said Stella.
“If she had you when she was fourteen.”
She glared at him.
“Eulalie then. That way we won’t forget.” He leaned over and cupped her face in his hands. “You’re prettier than Myrna Loy.” He kissed her and she forgot about her feet and the pain where the needle went in.
“And don’t you forget it.”
“No chance of that.”
Chapter Four
STELLA WOKE EARLY; warm, cozy, and thoroughly confused. The darkness disoriented her, but she was more puzzled by the warmth and how very comfortable she felt. That wasn’t a normal occurrence anymore and made her heart beat faster like when she first set eyes on Nicky Lawrence.
With the thought of her husband, Stella realized where the warmth was coming from. She slid her hand over and found Nicky’s ribcage, still bony and defined but rising and falling in a lovely comforting rhythm. It was fine. They were in Venice and safe. She wiggled her toes to see how safe she really was. They hurt but less than before. She could run now, if running was required.
“Nicky?” she whispered.
He rustled around slightly and took a deep breath, so Stella threw back the covers and took a deep breath of her own before putting her damaged feet on the cold floor. To her surprise, there was only a little stinging and although she could feel the splits in the skin, they were different, itchy and healing.
She felt around in the pitch black, bumping into the bedpost, wardrobe, wall, and chair until she touched the heavy damask curtains. Drawing one to the side, she saw a hint of color through the rain above the ancient buildings facing the other side of the canal. Morning or, at least, the beginnings of it. They really needed watches, first thing, right after she got clothes and galoshes.
“Nicky,” Stella said without whispering, but he didn’t even move. A sliver of pale grey light ran over his face, highlighting the eye sockets that were still a bit sunken, jutting cheekbones, and pale bruises. She suspected he would’ve slept through a flashlight or flood lamp. You’d have thought he’d taken a shot of Eukadol instead of her. Nicky had given her the second shot right after she’d eaten a huge pile of linguine with clam sauce covered in a cloud of finely-grated parmesan, but she didn’t really need it. She could bare
ly keep her eyes open and only dimly remembered Nicky putting her in bed before the injection.
Sofia had thoughtfully brought her a sponge bag with their dinner so she picked that up after slipping on her robe and headed out with only the smallest worry about Nicky waking up to find her gone. He was forever thinking the opposite of what made sense to her so there was no point in trying to anticipate him.
The bathroom door hung open at the end of the hall and the closet-sized room was empty. Stella put her sponge bag on a hook, selected a towel, and proceeded to fill the bathtub that was really more like an oval washtub, tin with a wooden rim. Nicky called the bathroom rustic. Her mother would’ve called it medieval. The beautiful Francesqua couldn’t have imagined her daughter, a spoiled Bled, sharing a tiny bathroom with ten other people and using a towel that had the texture of unsanded wood and was just as stiff.
But to Stella it was the height of luxury. The water came out piping hot and filled the room with a minerally steam. She breathed deep and thanked God for helping her to be there and then asked that he please help her to find the Sorkines before they got it in their heads to go into the Reich to search for Abel.
She asked for a sign, but one wasn’t forthcoming so she washed and soaked until the water grew cold. On her way back to the room, she ran into Antonio, who made it clear that she wasn’t to be up and about on her own. She waved that silly notion away, although it would be the same one Nicky would have, and tapped her wrist. After a short back and forth, he showed her his watch. Six-thirty. Not bad. She remembered the word for breakfast, and he pointed to seven on his watch.
“Perfecto, Antonio,” she said. “Grazie mille.”
He insisted on walking her to the room, got her a basin of hot water for her feet, and generally fretted like her old nanny, Mrs. O’Connell, a lady who liked worrying more than a nice draught of whiskey, which was saying something since it was the only thing that eased her rheumatism.
Stella shooed the nervous Antonio out of the room and mixed up her own foot bath. She soaked for ten minutes, got dressed in her red suit and blouse that Sofia had returned, vigorously towel-dried her hair next to Nicky’s snoozing face, and, when that didn’t work, she switched on the lights. Nicky finally stirred enough to reach for her and discover she was missing.