by A W Hartoin
“Garden parties aren’t on the agenda. How are your feet?”
“Fine.” That’s what she said, but the stinging had started again. “Let’s go to that big church next to the Grand Canal.”
“Which one? There’s about a hundred and twenty.”
“We passed it in the water taxi. Big, white columns.”
“Are you joking?” he asked. “They all have big white columns.”
“You know, we saw it last time we were here. You said it looked like someone used a shoehorn to fit it in.”
He thought for a moment and then said, “At the San Stae vaporetto stop?”
“I have no idea.”
“I guess we’ll try that one.” He banged on the door one last time. “God is not happy with you right now.”
They hurried down the nave and out into the rain. Nicky put up the too-small umbrella and Stella said, “I think that was blasphemy.”
“Aren’t you supposed to offer succor to strangers in need?”
“Not crazy strangers.”
“They’re the ones that need it the most.”
Stella shrugged. He had a point, but she said a little prayer, just in case.
Nicky, with an unfailing sense of direction, took them through narrow alleys, over bridges, and under the occasional archway. He carried her when the water got too deep and got his pants soaked in the process. Stella’s teeth wanted to chatter so she knew he was freezing, but he didn’t show it. The mask was on.
“There it is,” he said as they emerged from a small alley.
Stella peered out at a huge baroque church covered in statues, columns, and bas reliefs. “That’s not the one I meant.”
“Well, we’re going in anyway.”
“It’s pretty flooded,” said Stella, doubting that they’d be having mass in such conditions.
The water from the canal was coming in waves to lap at the small steps in front of the twenty-foot outer doors that happened to be open. Another couple of inches and it would be over and seeping into the church itself.
Nicky didn’t respond. He waded into the small square in front of the church and dragged Stella along. The water only came up to her ankles, but the waves from passing boats brought it up another six inches. Her feet were safe, for the moment.
They tromped up the steps and into the small atrium. Nicky tugged on the iron ring attached to smaller set of doors leading into the sanctuary. To Stella’s surprise, they opened and she rushed inside as a blast of rain hit them from behind. The umbrella offered some protection, but they got wet from the waist down.
Nicky closed the door and stood there for a moment, looking wet dog dejected and holding an umbrella that was now saturated. “If they don’t help, we’ll have to go to another hotel.”
“They have to help. I left Great Grandmother’s hatpin in the room. I will not lose that on top of everything else,” said Stella, marching to one of the four-foot high fonts on either side of the aisle. She dipped her hand in and crossed herself in an act of penitence, if nothing else.
The church was as empty as the last one, but huge in comparison. The walls were white with columns and statues like the façade. It reminded Stella of a Roman temple, beautiful, but too austere for her tastes. She liked her faith a little scruffy with color and feeling. That church gave off no feeling for her, unless you counted the floor. It had more soul. Her galoshes slapped on the marble that was beautifully done in diamonds of orange and gray. She looked up and overhead was lovely Romanesque vaulting. The church was a whole lot older than the overdone exterior let on. Someone had seen fit to redo it. Stella hated that. Leave things as they were meant to be.
“I don’t see anyone,” said Nicky.
“The door to the left of the altar is open. I think I see a light.” Stella walked down the center aisle, heading for the door but stopped at a cordoned off area.
“I hope this isn’t a sign.”
Nicky came up behind her. “I thought we decided against signs.”
“You decided against luck. I didn’t.”
“I feel the same way about signs.”
“Look down.”
A red velvet rope kept people from walking on a large rectangle in the aisle. There was more color than even Stella had a taste for. A motley marble border enclosed a tomb that was unusual to say the least. Directly in front of her was a skull and crossbones, white marble set in a black field. Around the rest of the tomb were more crossed bones and full-sized skeletons with raised scythes, looking like they were in the act of stabbing whoever had the misfortune to be buried there.
“That’s unusual,” said Nicky, “but it’s not a sign.”
“A jinx?”
“Definitely not.”
“You don’t know,” she said.
A voice echoed through the church, assaulting them from all sides, and then an ancient priest hobbled with surprising speed down the aisle, waving a stout cane.
“That’s more like it,” said Nicky, totally unperturbed.
Stella backed away, her hands over her mouth. An enraged priest was a bad sign, a terrible sign. What had they done? At home, she’d seen Father Joseph angry when he had to counsel Uncle Josiah after his many misdeeds, but this was nothing like that. Father Joseph was practically a teddy bear in comparison, vein popping and all.
“Excuse me, Father,” said Nicky.
The priest continued his stream of Italian, not stopping to breathe. He pointed his cane at the tomb and came around looking as if whacking them wasn’t out of the question. Nicky eased Stella behind him and raised the umbrella. “Father, please listen.”
The priest kept coming, his jowls flapping and his collar askew. Nicky stepped back and bumped into Stella. She slipped in their puddle and had to catch herself on one of the posts around the tomb.
“It’s the water,” she said. “Look.”
They’d dripped a lot and it was spreading onto the ornate marble. The priest pointed at the tomb and behind them. Sure enough, they’d left a trail from the door.
“Scusi. Scusi,” said Stella with her hands clasped together, pleading for forgiveness, but he was not having it.
The priest kept yelling and they backed away, but he chased them, arms waving.
“We need Father Maximilian Girotti,” said Nicky.
The name made no difference. He kept on yelling. Then a woman came out of the other door, raised her hands in horror and started yelling, too. But instead of a cane, she got a mop and came for them.
“They’re crazy,” said Nicky.
“It is very clean in here,” said Stella. “Father, we need Girotti. Father Girotti.”
The woman got to the tomb, brandished the mop at them, and started cleaning.
“How do you say it in Italian?” asked Nicky.
“What?”
“Father.”
“Oh, Abel said padre, I think.” She peeked around Nicky’s shoulder and said, “Padre Girotti? Padre Girotti?”
“No Girotti!” yelled the priest. “Basta con gli ebrei!”
“Where is Padre Girotti?” Stella stepped to the side and put her palms together. “Por favore, Padre Girotti?”
He didn’t care. He waved the cane in Nicky’s face and chased them past the fonts so that they bumped into the door.
“Por favore. Padre Girotti. Por favore.”
He poked at the door, but beyond him, the woman had stopped mopping. She yelled something about Padre Girotti and then went back to mopping. The priest yanked open the door, yelled, and they were outside in the continuing downpour having the door slammed in their faces. Nicky got the umbrella up, but the rest of them was half-soaked before he did.
“I don’t like Italy much more than Germany at this moment,” said Nicky, staring down at the water that was creeping over the step and was about ten feet from the door. “I wonder if he realizes that he’s got bigger problems than our puddles.”
“Hold on,” said Stella. “Did you hear what she said?”
&
nbsp; “What?”
“The woman with the mop. What did she say?”
“How would I know?” he asked.
“Did you hear ebrei?” asked Stella, yelling over the drumming of the rain on the taut umbrella.
“Maybe. I think the priest might’ve said it. What’s ebrei?”
She grinned up at him. “Jews.”
“Where are we going?” asked Nicky.
Stella didn’t answer. She just kept dragging him through the rising water to the edge of the canal. “There’s a taxi. Wave. Wave.”
He whipped her around. “Where are we going?”
“To the ghetto.”
“Because she thought we were Jewish?”
“I don’t think she thought that,” said Stella.
“I do. Everyone does. I guess we look like refugees.”
Stella turned back around, frantically waving at the approaching taxi that happily wasn’t a floating rust bucket but in good repair and shiny with fresh lacquer on the wood. “Wave. Wave.”
Nicky gave up and waved. “This is going to cost us.”
“We can find a bank and have money wired.”
“To us? Using our names? I don’t think so.”
The boat slowed and, despite being buffeted by the waves, turned in the canal to head toward them.
“He saw us. He’s coming.”
“We don’t have much money left, Stella.”
“I’ll think of something.”
The taxi bumped the dock and Stella went for it. The captain emerged from the helm and looped a thick rope over the pylon. “Buongiorna, Signora.”
“Buongiorno. Inglese?”
“No, Signora.” He pointed to his left. “San Marco piazza?” Then, pointing to his right, he said, “Santa Lucia?”
“Ghetto Ebraico,” said Stella. “I think that’s right.”
“Ghetto Ebraico?” The captain eyed them and then said something rapidly that Stella couldn’t make out.
“Fantastic,” said Nicky.
“You understood that?”
“I understand money and he said he wants more, either because he thinks we’re Jews or we’re going to the ghetto.”
Stella splashed in-between the men without any care for getting water in her boots and stuck her finger in his face. “You low-down communist piece of filth.”
Nicky picked her up from behind and stepped into the boat, giving the captain a thumbs up. He got a sly grin in return and the man opened the passenger cabin for them. Stella sat down in a huff and tugged off a boot. Her bandages were pretty damp but only around the ankle. “We could’ve found another taxi or walked.”
Nicky shook off his fedora and tossed it on the opposite seat. “Not in your condition.”
“My condition is just fine. That man is a—”
“Capitalist, not a communist. He saw a chance to make an extra buck and he took it.”
“It’s disgusting.”
“It’s a fact,” said Nicky. “You wanted to go to the ghetto. This is what it takes.”
Stella forced herself to refocus. “You were there, in the ghetto, all day yesterday?”
He shrugged off his coat and shook it, spraying the cabin liberally. “Yes. What of it? I didn’t find out anything.”
“How many churches did you see?” Stella asked.
“In the Jewish ghetto?”
“Not in it. Around. Nearby.”
He helped Stella off with her coat and shook out the fur. “Not many. I can tell you that.”
“Any?” she asked.
“I wasn’t looking for churches, but I think passed one,” he said.
“Do you remember the name?”
Nicky leaned back on the seat and looked up at the ceiling. “No, darling, I don’t remember the name of one church in a city jammed with them.”
“Don’t get snotty with me. A name would help.” Stella used Nicky’s handkerchief to dry her hair.
“How?”
“She said Father Girotti and ebrei, right?”
“So? We already know he helped your friends with their passports and you think they’re Jewish.”
“If he’s a friend to the Jews then it makes sense that he’d know the community. He’d be nearby,” said Stella.
Nicky shrugged. “Maybe.”
“There is one more thing.”
Nicky sighed. “How did I know that was coming?”
“I really couldn’t say.” Stella glared and then told him about the family on the train and how she ran into the young priest, who thought she was Frau Goldenberg. “I bet that’s Father Girotti.”
Nicky’s eyes grew steely. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m telling you now.”
“Before. Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“There wasn’t much to tell. I didn’t think it mattered.”
“I’ll be the one to decide that. I’m your husband,” he said with a patriarchal tone.
Stella crossed her arms. “Congratulations.”
“You know what I mean. As your husband, I’m entitled to know everything that happens to my wife.”
“Then, as your wife, I’m entitled to know everything about you, right?”
“It’s not the same,” Nicky said, looking uncomfortable and Stella enjoyed it.
The captain banged on the roof as they slowed and approached a dock. Stella put on her boots and coat. “Are you coming?”
“How are you mad? You obviously should have told me.”
“Lots of things are obvious.” With that, she grabbed the umbrella, flung open the door, and marched out.
Stella was off the boat and scanning the buildings before Nicky managed to get his coat on. The captain was highly amused, which only served to make Nicky’s frown deepen into furrows on his forehead. He haggled with the man and then paid him what Stella assumed was an obscene amount before clambering out of the boat.
“Hey!” yelled Stella and the captain popped his head out to squint at her through the rain pelting his face.
“Father Girotti?”
He shielded his face with his hand. “Eh?”
“Father Girotti. We want Padre Girotti.”
The captain said something about Jews and Stella had an urge to punch him. Then he pointed at them. “Ebrei?”
“No,” said Nicky, turning to Stella. “How do you say Catholic?”
“I don’t know, but it can’t be that different.”
Nicky pointed to the two of them. “Catholic.”
The captain smiled and patted his chest. “Cattolico.” Then he came out and gave Nicky back some of the lira. Nicky accepted it but with gritted teeth.
“Father Girotti?” Stella asked, hopefully.
He shook his head.
“Um…church?”
He shrugged and shook his head again.
Stella crossed herself and put her hands together in prayer.
“Ah, sì. Chiesa.” He waved for them to get back in. “Chiesa di San Girolamo.”
Stella got back on the boat without looking at Nicky for approval. He followed saying nothing and the captain drove them farther up the canal. It was probably less than a fourth a mile, but it was kind all the same and Stella decided to appreciate it. The man had some goodness in him, even if it was selective.
“Grazie. Grazie.” Stella got off and looked through the rain at a stuccoed wall with brick showing through the dilapidated parts. Above was a church as plain as plain could be without a statue in sight and only flat brick columns and simple pediments. Still, people were hurrying down the flooded walkway to an arched entrance in the wall where a wrought-iron gate hung open.
Nicky joined her as the taxi sped away and she said, “I think mass is starting. Let’s hurry.”
“Stella?”
“What?” she asked, tugging on his sleeve.
“I want you to understand what happened back there.” He said it like she was a child or worse a simpleton.
“Oh, I understand well enough.�
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“I don’t think you do.”
She pulled him through the gate to a small paved courtyard with absolutely nothing to recommend it and the church wasn’t any more attractive in full view either. But it was real, not new and improved for better flavor. That church was as the builder intended and Stella was disposed to like it, on principal.
She went toward the low steps, but Nicky held her back. “We have to settle this.”
“What? That you think you’re in charge? Fine. Go right ahead and think that. I’m getting out of this awful rain.”
“I don’t think I’m in charge, Stella. I’m your husband.”
“So what? You don’t own me, and I’m good at plenty of things that you aren’t. Flying planes, for instance.”
That stumped him for a second and then his eyes got shifty. Stella braced herself for a trump card.
“I’m older,” he said.
“Barely.”
“Six years isn’t barely,” he said with a smile. “And I’ve graduated from Yale.”
“I don’t need to graduate from Yale to know that age doesn’t mean a thing.” She walked away up the stairs into the plain church, lovely in its simplicity. All things should be so simple.
Nicky charged in after her, closing the umbrella and squeezing his large form past tiny Italian ladies, who viewed him with both admiration and irritation. “Age does matter. Your father is the CEO of Bled Beer because he’s the oldest.”
“No, he isn’t.” Stella darted to the right to try to get to an open pew but was beat out by a family of six.
Nicky caught up and asked, “He’s not the CEO?”
“The oldest.”
Stella found a pew in the back, knelt, crossed herself, and squeezed in next to a young man who was very happy that she did. Nicky barely managed to get his rear on the seat it was so full. “What do you mean he’s not the oldest?”
“I mean, my father is not the oldest. Uncle Nicolai is the oldest. Nicolai, Aleksej, Josiah.”
“But…but your father is the CEO.”
“I know.”
“Why isn’t Nicolai in charge?” Nicky’s frown was back and then some.
Stella sighed. How could a Yale graduate be so terribly dim? “Because when my grandfather retired, he picked his most capable son to take his place. My father. Age doesn’t make a person better, just older.”