by A W Hartoin
“What did Nicolai say?”
“Nothing. We all knew who it would be. We always knew. Father started at the brewery at ten, years before my uncles. He loves it the most. He works the hardest.”
“I thought he was the oldest because you’re so old,” said Nicky, flinching when Stella gave him a look that should’ve frozen the damp on his skin. “I didn’t mean you’re old. It’s just your cousins are little girls. Millicent can’t even walk yet.”
“She can,” said Stella. “She’s just lazy.”
“Well, I’m still your husband,” said Nicky.
“I said it before and I’ll say it again. Congratulations.”
“Stella, someone has to be in charge.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Because that’s how it’s done.”
She waved his protests away and leaned forward as a hush fell over the church. Three priests came in robed in heavy vestments and Stella recognized one of them as the priest from the train station. She elbowed Nicky and grinned. Success. But he looked at her with a curious expression, not his usual mask, more numb.
She turned back to the altar and breathed deep as the oldest priest began. He spoke in Latin, of course, but Latin was the same everywhere and the comfort, too. Soon, her mother and Aunt Florence would be taking Millicent and Myrtle to the cathedral, sitting in their pew and wearing their hats. Father and Uncle Nicolai would be late because they were at the brewery checking wort or deliveries or one of a million things that had to be checked on a Sunday morning and mother would be angry. Florence would smile into her gloved hand and then Grandmother would give Millicent and Myrtle little treats out of her handbag so they wouldn’t fuss. Grandfather would help Grandmother to kneel and she would kiss his hand. The old church they were sitting in was so different than the cathedral with its fresh paint and new mosaics, but the stories playing out around them, love, irritation, whining children, and the rest of it were the same everywhere.
They came to the Eucharist and the young priest led the prayer in a calm, tenor voice that settled on everyone like a much-needed blanket. People all around them were smiling. He was well-liked in this small parish and Stella had the feeling that many came to that humble church for the sole reason of hearing the word from him. It sounded sweeter, felt kinder.
But, as he was speaking, the church doors opened and icy air flowed into the nave, causing a collective shiver. The father finished the prayer and the doors slammed shut. The other priest took over and said The Lord’s Prayer, but as the end of the service went on a whispering started and people were glancing back toward the doors. Stella turned to see what they were worried about, but she was too short to see.
She squeezed Nicky’s hand. “Who is it?”
That shook him out of his revelry and he bent over to her. “What?”
“Who is it? Who came in?”
Nicky looked back and sunk down in his pew. “Bartali.”
“Are you kidding?”
“It’s him. We have to get out of here now,” he said, beginning to stand, but Stella pushed him down.
“Wait,” she said.
“He’s here for a reason.”
“It doesn’t have to be us,” she said.
“Remember how you believe in luck? Isn’t this luck? Bad luck?”
Everyone started to stand for communion and Stella did, too. “I believe more in good luck and we’re having it right now.”
“We’re not taking communion. That’s crazy.”
“It’s perfect. We can’t go straight for a door and if we stay here we’re sure to be noticed. Look around. Everyone’s taking communion. It’s a mad rush.”
And it was. No peaceful, calm procession for the Italians. They were out to get in line first like the priests were going to run out of wine or something.
“This is ridiculous,” whispered Nicky.
“And perfect.” Stella sidled down the pew, curbing her urge to look back and wishing Nicky could put on his hat. That blond was like a beacon among all the dark heads and black clothes.
When they got to the aisle, she bit back her politeness urges and cut off a lady to get Nicky ahead of another tall man in hopes that he would be shielded.
The Italians didn’t mess around and the line moved forward quickly. When it was her turn, she knelt before the older priest and received her wine-dipped wafer with the younger priest she’d spoken to at the station holding the basin under her chin. She rose and broke tradition in what might be an unforgivable way. Stella turned to stand directly in front of the young priest, and said, “Hello, Father.”
His eyes went wide as he recognized her and the older priest harrumphed and glared. Stella shuffled to the side, watching the priest from the corner of her eye. He was inattentive as Nicky took communion. He watched her instead, which got him a stern look.
They joined the crowd heading back to their seats, but when no one was looking they slipped out the door to the far right of the altar and closed themselves in darkness. After a few minutes when no one came after them, Nicky said, “Well, that’s not going to make you popular.”
“I wanted him to know I was here. He saw where we went. He was watching.”
“This could be a huge mistake.”
“He helped Karolina and Rosa.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. I feel it.”
He took her arm to lead her away when the door clicked and opened. Slipping inside was the young priest, highlighted with the light from the nave. He turned a knob and a single lightbulb overhead came to life, shedding a dim, yellowish glow around the chamber.
The priest closed the door and said, “Buongiorno.”
“Father Girotti?” asked Stella.
“No.” He asked several questions that were far beyond Stella’s comprehension.
“Do you know Karolina von Bodmann?”
The priest seemed puzzled and he asked several questions. Stella caught Americani.
She patted her chest. “Sì, Americani.”
He said something about Karolina and Germany, but since they couldn’t understand, it was no use. Nicky squeezed Stella’s arm. He wanted to go, but she wasn’t about to give up. She liked him, this priest that wasn’t Father Girotti. He helped the Goldenbergs. Only a good person would do that. Since he was a priest, it couldn’t be for money.
“Frau Goldenberg?” she asked.
“Sì.” He nodded emphatically.
What was the word for help? She couldn’t think.
“Passport?” She patted her chest again. “We need passports.”
“Ah! Passaporti. Sì.” He glanced back at the door and then pointed at another door at the end of the chamber before rushing out.
“I guess we should go wait in there,” said Stella.
“Or he wants us to go in there while he gets Bartali to turn us in,” said Nicky.
“He wouldn’t do that. He’s a priest.”
“Priests have to follow the law.”
“We haven’t broken any laws,” she said.
“You just asked for fake passports.”
“I didn’t say fake.” Stella marched through the long, narrow chamber that appeared to be a kind of dressing room for the altar boys and choir. Rows of hooks with dripping coats and umbrellas lined both sides with galoshes underneath and a couple of rickety wardrobes framed the door at the far end, probably where the robes were kept. The door itself was plain with heavy hinges and a unique lever door handle in the shape of an angel and her wing. She reached for the wing and Nicky grabbed her hand. “We need to get out of here.”
“We will.” She pulled the door open to reveal a small office with two desks in the middle pushed back to back, a simple coat rack with the obligatory wet coats and umbrellas, and bookcases covering the walls up to the ceiling.
Nicky crossed the room and opened another door. “It’s another office and it’s got a door. We might get out through it.”
“I think we should
wait,” said Stella, wishing she could take off her wet coat, but wearing a red suit to mass was too rebellious, even for her.
“We’re not waiting. He’s not Girotti. We don’t know who he is.”
“I know he was at the station to pick up that Jewish family. They were terrified and desperate. He came for them. He did. That priest. I’m staying right here.”
“No,” said Nicky, taking a breath. “You’re not.”
Stella walked over to one of the office chairs and sat down. “You’re not my father and I never obeyed him much anyway.”
“Obey.” Nicky puffed up and a slow smile came over his face. “You promised to obey at our wedding. Now get up, we’re going.”
Stella stretched and leaned back. The chair was quite comfortable, despite being wooden and cushionless. She could stay there all day, if required. “No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. I was there, Stella.”
“I guess you weren’t paying attention then, which doesn’t say much for your vows.”
“Obey is part of the vows. You said it,” said Nicky, but his confidence was faltering. She could see it and felt a small thrill of triumph. Obey, indeed. She’d show him obey.
“It’s not required and we didn’t have it in there.”
“I heard you say it.”
“Then you were hallucinating,” said Stella. “Do you really think a Bled would promise to obey? Really?”
He began to pace and smack his fedora against his leg with wet slaps. “But it’s in the vows.”
“We took it out.”
“When? How?”
“It was discussed,” said Stella, getting bored of the conversation. She couldn’t imagine why he cared so much about one little word, a word that wasn’t really taken seriously. Did wives obey because they vowed to at their wedding? Hardly. “Are you hungry? I’m getting hungry.”
“No, I’m not hungry. When was it discussed?”
Stella sat up, putting her elbows on the desk, and her clasped hands under her pointed little chin. “At mother’s garden party, the one you were too drunk to attend.”
“I wasn’t drunk,” he protested, looking around. “Where is that priest? We haven’t got all day.”
“Florence said you vomited in her favorite ficus and fell asleep in Millicent’s trundle bed in the nursery.”
“I…didn’t know she told you that,” said Nicky, blushing like Stella didn’t know he could.
“She didn’t. Millicent did.”
“Oh, come on. The kid that can’t walk.”
“I told you she can walk and she can talk, too. You got drool on her dollies and she wasn’t happy about it.”
Nicky covered his eyes. “This is a nightmare. Who else knows?”
“Everyone, I imagine.”
He looked up. “Your mother?”
“Why do you think she didn’t mind me not obeying you? Mother was your only hope, in that regard.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.
“Would you have called off the wedding?” Stella batted her eyelashes at him and smiled.
“You know I wouldn’t have.”
“Then what’s all the fuss about? We were going to be married in any case.”
“You exhaust me.”
Stella grinned wider. “You’ll get used to it. Mother did.”
“What if—”
Stella shushed him. “Listen.”
Men’s voices came through the cracks around the door. The young priest, another man, and a voice that was unmistakable, the gruff carabinieri, Bartali.
The men were going back and forth about something, not exactly angry, more tense and a touch weary like this conversation had happened before and was fully expected to happen again.
Stella got up and went to Nicky, hugging him tight and watching the door.
“I want to leave,” he said. “We still have a chance to get out of here.”
“He’s not here about us,” said Stella. “I heard Goldenberg. He wants the Goldenbergs. That poor family.”
“It’s not illegal to emigrate,” said Nicky, frowning.
“Maybe their papers were fake, too.”
“Did you hear that? Von whatever. Karolina’s name.”
The voices went to two. Bartali was either silent or gone. Then the room filled with young, cheerful voices, boys and the choir were coming in to shed their robes and go home. Stella and Nicky watched the door and then at long last the angel wing moved. A man was talking, giving orders it seemed, and the boys called out in jest and joy. There was laughter and any nervousness that Stella had vanished. It would be fine. She knew it, like she knew it was right to come after the Sorkines, like she knew Uncle Josiah would find Abel and get him out of Dachau.
The door opened and a man slipped inside. Stella very nearly gasped. It wasn’t the young priest but the old one.
“Buongiorno.” He didn’t seem surprised to see them standing there, huddled and wet. “Hello. Good morning.”
Stella was so surprised she couldn’t say anything.
“You wanted to see me? I am Father Girotti.”
Her knees went weak. Perhaps she was afraid. She just hadn’t known it.
“Father Girotti,” said Nicky in a rush. “Boy, are we glad to see you.”
He chuckled. “I hear this often. Come. Let us go to my office where we will not be disturbed.”
He crossed the room and ushered them into an office that was nearly identical to the first one, only it had a single desk and two comfortable chairs in front of it for them.
“Please take off your coats.” The priest turned around and switched on a rusty little hot plate and set a kettle on top of it. “Would you like some tea?”
“I would,” said Stella, “very much.”
“Your coat,” he said as she went to sit.
“Well, Father, you see, I didn’t think we’d be going to mass today and—”
He held up his hand, rather stumpy and well-calloused. “God does not care if you are dressed in rags.”
“What about red?”
He smiled. “Take off your coat.”
They did as they were told and sat down as the priest took off his vestments and hung them on a hanger that he hooked onto a bookshelf. Then he found three tea cups in his desk and a small teapot. As he readied the tea, he asked, “Father Giuseppe said that you mentioned passports.”
“Yes, Father,” said Stella. “Karolina von Bodmann said that you helped her and her sister, Rosa.”
He sat down heavily and his chair creaked in protest. “You’re Americans?”
They hesitated, but Nicky said, “Yes.”
“Why not contact your embassy?” He raised a dark eyebrow that set off his piercing green eyes.
“We need different passports,” said Stella.
“False identities.”
“Yes, Father.”
The kettle spewed steam and he poured the boiling water into the teapot, careful not to spill a drop. “I must ask why. Have you done something illegal?”
The picture of Gabriele Griese’s body sliding under the water flashed in Stella’s mind, but she said, “No, Father. Nothing like that.”
His eyebrow went up again.
Stella and Nicky looked at each other. They were there and he could help them if he chose to. They had to explain.
“We had some problems with the Nazis,” said Nicky.
“And they wish to arrest you?”
“Probably.”
Stella leaned forward and put her fingertips on the edge of the desk. “We’re here in Venice to help someone. They’re innocent, I swear to you, but the SS would arrest them if they had half a chance.”
“These people are Jews?” asked Father Girotti.
“We think so. They’re family to our dear friend and he is.”
The Father swirled the teapot. “What happened to your friend?”
Stella’s eyes filled with tears, unexpected and unwelcome.
“He was
arrested in Vienna,” said Nicky. “We think he was sent to Dachau.”
“The Night of Broken Glass?”
“Yes, Father,” choked out Stella. She could see Abel in the boxcar. She couldn’t push the image away.
“Father Giuseppe tells me that you saw him at the station and that you saw the Goldenberg family, as well?”
“Yes, Father.”
He considered that and her for a moment. “What are the names of your friend’s family?”
“Raymond-Raoul and Suzanne Charlotte Sorkine,” said Nicky. “You see, our friend had this package that the SS—”
Father Girotti raised his hand. “I don’t want to know.”
“Have you seen or heard of the Sorkines?” asked Stella.
“I haven’t, but I will make inquiries.”
“Can you get us the passports?”
“I can, but it’s costly. I don’t do this myself. I know certain craftsmen who have the ability and they must make a living like everyone else.”
“We understand,” said Nicky. “We’re very grateful and my family, our families, will be grateful. I come from—”
“No, sir. I don’t want your real names, only the ones you want to use.”
“Douglas and Eulalie Myna,” said Stella.
“Good names.” He poured them tea and went to the door calling out, “Giuseppe!” The rest of what he said was lost and then he returned to the desk.
Since it seemed like a safe topic, Stella asked, “You speak English beautifully. Where did you learn it?”
“In your state of Wisconsin,” he said with a wistful smile. “A lovely place. I was sent there when I was newly ordained to learn English and to understand Americans.”
“Do you understand us, Father?” asked Nicky.
He sipped his tea and smiled. “No. Your country is a great one, but it is confusing to me. Such generosity, anger, greed, and love live there. Your country will not help the Jews, I fear.”
“I think you’re right,” said Nicky, “and I’m ashamed to say it.”
“You saw this Night of Broken Glass yourself?” He looked back and forth between them.
“Yes,” said Stella. “It was horrible. They burnt the synagogues. People were thrown out of windows.”
“I wouldn’t have believed it, if I hadn’t seen it for myself,” said Nicky.