by A W Hartoin
“Yes,” said Father Girotti, getting thoughtful. “Seeing is believing.”
There was a soft knock on the door and a boy’s soprano voice called out, “Father Girotti?”
The priest rushed to the door and Stella noticed he was careful to only open the door far enough to let the boy slip in. Father Girotti returned to his chair and the boy stood awkwardly by the door, wearing his galoshes and a heavy raincoat made of thick canvas. He was plump and big-eyed with long lashes. Stella suspected he was quite a happy boy but being called into the Father’s office was cause for alarm.
“This is Pietro Russo,” said Father Girotti. “Pietro, these guests of mine” —he emphasized guests— “would like to meet your friend, Jacopo. Could you take a message to him for me?”
Pietro nodded.
“You can say hello.”
A smile crept over Pietro’s face in response to Stella’s smile. Dimples popped out on his cheeks and Stella never saw a happier boy.
“Hello. Good morning. Good day,” he said.
“Very good,” said Father Girotti. “We are learning English. Pietro is a fast learner.”
The Father wrote a quick note and gave it to Pietro, who nodded at Stella and dashed out another door.
“This will take a few minutes. You do not mind?”
“Not at all.”
“I do have another question,” said Stella. “Do you know Dr. Davide?”
“Everyone knows Dr. Davide. Do you need a doctor?”
Stella first explained her feet and their reaction to the canal water and then quietly said that there might be a need to see Dr. Davide before he came to the hotel.
The priest watched her for a moment and then steepled his fingers. “I think there is more to this story.”
Stella said nothing, mostly because she couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Is Dr. Davide a member of your parish?” asked Nicky after a moment.
The priest chuckled. “Davide? No, no. His faith is gone as is much of his soul.”
“What do you mean by that?” Stella took a big drink of the tea and burned her tongue.
“You haven’t met him, have you?” asked Father Girotti.
“Not exactly,” said Nicky.
“Who has treated your feet? Dr. Salvatore?”
They stayed silent.
“Of course, he did. An excellent doctor and a good man. I send him as much business as I can, but it is difficult.”
“Because of the new laws?” asked Nicky. “What’s happened?”
Father Girotti explained the Leggi Razziali that went into effect on November tenth. They excluded Jews from owning any businesses or participating in any profession save a few. They couldn’t teach at universities or schools that had gentile students. They couldn’t marry gentiles anymore or leave the country with more than 120 lira. The list went on and on.
“I hope you were able to pay Dr. Salvatore,” he said. “He has a family.”
“We did,” said Nicky.
“How are they supposed to live?” asked Stella. “What are they expected to do?
“I can’t explain this madness,” said the priest. “I don’t know what they will do, but the community is not unsympathetic.”
“Is that why you send patients to Dr. Salvatore?” asked Stella.
“I do as my conscience and the Holy Father commands.”
Nicky sat up. “The Pope said to help the Jews. When?”
Father Girotti waved for him to settle down and got a paper out of his desk. “He did not, but I know many people and they tell me things.” He explained that a friend of his told him that Pope Pius XI told a group of pilgrims, “It is not possible for Christians to take part in antisemitism.”
“I hate to break it to you, Father,” said Nicky. “It’s possible.”
He nodded sadly. “Indeed that is true. The people should listen to the Holy Father. He is leading albeit quietly.”
Stella bit back a retort. There was such a thing as being quiet because you feared being heard and fear never helped anyone. Abel didn’t need quiet words, neither did the Sorkines. They needed shouting, stamping of feet, and loud protests from His Holiness. Father Girotti saw her expression and smiled serenely. “I don’t believe the Holy Father will be subdued for long.”
“Why not? The Kristallnacht was weeks ago. People died.”
“Because he also said, ‘Spiritually we are all Semites.’ That is all I needed to hear.” But then he winked. “But I didn’t require permission to be kind. It is a sacred duty.”
“Not everyone feels that way. We’ve been chased away from a hotel and out of a church because they thought we were Jews,” said Stella.
“I’m not surprised.”
“I guess they didn’t get the Pope’s message,” said Nicky.
The father slid the paper over to Nicky. “They got this message.”
The paper was in Italian, but Stella could see that it was a Vatican paper by the emblems and script at the top.
“What does it say?” asked Nicky.
“That the Jews are controlling Italy and hurting our faith,” he said.
Nicky made his hands into tight fists. “What happened to ‘We are all Semites’?”
“The Pope didn’t say these things himself, but it came out of the Vatican from the lower ranks. Our government is asserting its influence. Mussolini said the Jews are polluting our culture.”
“Then it’s no different than the Reich,” said Nicky.
The priest jolted to his feet and sputtered, “We do not throw people out of windows.”
“Sorry, Father,” said Stella, hastily. “We know that. It’s different.”
“That carabinieri isn’t different,” said Nicky.
“Carabinieri?” asked the priest, his face flushed and Stella feared he wouldn’t help them after all.
“It’s fine,” she said. “Nothing to bother you about.”
“Which carabinieri?” he asked.
“Bartali,” said Nicky. “He was at us about Dr. Salvatore and Stella says he’s been sniffing around the von Bodmann ladies.”
Father Girotti sat down, making his chair complain again. “Yes. Bartali was just here about the von Bodmann ladies. He is against the Jews. He listens to lies and hears the truth.”
“He’s the reason I lied about my name. If he put it on a report…”
“I understand. Stay far from Bartali.”
“What about the other carabinieri?” asked Nicky.
He shrugged. “Who can say?”
A knock on the door brought the Father back to his feet and he went to the door, asking a quick question before opening it. A middle-aged man in a floppy hat and work clothes rushed in with a boy about Pietro’s age. That was where the comparisons ended. This boy wasn’t round and jolly. He was the exact opposite and Stella’s heart hurt to see his furtive eyes darting around the room, looking for danger. His father whipped off his hat and greeted the priest warmly while still seeming nervous and wary. He was out of breath to the point of panting. He must’ve run the whole way.
“Come. Come,” said Father Girotti. “Have tea and let us discuss.”
The man and his son accepted tea in two more cups that the Father found in his desk. Then he produced a tin of cookies and offered them first to the boy, whose sallow cheeks said he could’ve used the whole box.
“These are my friends, Douglas and Eulalie Myna. They require your expertise,” he said, offering Stella a cookie, which she gratefully accepted. “Douglas, Eulalie, this is my friend, Alberto Gattegno and his son, Jacopo.”
They said hello and Stella could see he was guessing at who they were and whether they were Jewish, but he couldn’t come to a decision on either question. It seemed everyone was judging and guessing and she couldn’t help thinking it would get much worse before it got better.
“Father Girotti’s note said that you need a literary opinion,” said Alberto. “You are Americans?”
“Yes, b
ut we need Canadian passports,” said Nicky. “What is your profession, Alberto?”
“I owned a bookshop and provided translations for those who required them, books, letters, documents.”
Owned. Past tense. It hadn’t been that long since the tenth, but long enough for desperation to creep in. Stella watched as they discussed the passports, how to do them, and when they’d be done. She couldn’t work up any interest. Yes, they would have to use the photos in their American passports. Yes, that was a problem for going home. But for Stella, it was a problem for later. The Sorkines were not. Nicky’d scoured the ghetto. Where else would they go? Not to the tourist spots surely.
“Stella?” asked Nicky.
She looked up. “Yes.”
“We’re done.”
They stood up and shook hands with Alberto and Jacopo, for good measure. Then Nicky handed over a stack of bills and Stella couldn’t help noticing that they had little left. They would have to telegram the family and have money wired. No way around it. Then she brightened. She could use Miss Myna. Her father would understand it was her and it wouldn’t tip off anyone who happened to be watching.
Alberto walked to the door and she asked, “Do you have any of your books left?”
“A few,” he said and she regretted asking. The loss pushed him down into the folds of his coat, diminishing a proud man. “Why do you ask?”
Nicky frowned at her and Father Girotti wasn’t pleased, but she went ahead. Sometimes you just have to. “Are any for sale?”
“They are in Italian and not in good condition. I only have them because Roatta—he took my shop—didn’t want them. He said they were trash. They are trash.”
“Are they any good for learning Italian?”
“I…I think so,” said Alberto. “I have a children’s songbook.”
“I’ll take it.” Stella looked at Nicky. It wasn’t much, but it was something that didn’t look like charity.
Nicky understood and gave Alberto a bill.
“No, no. It is too much. This songbook, it is trash.” Flustered, Alberto’s accent got stronger and Stella took his hand that had fresh, broken blisters on the palm and said, “I want to learn Italian. It’s worth it.”
The man herded his thin son out of the room and couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes again. But it wasn’t a mistake to help. It couldn’t be.
“Now that’s that,” said Stella. “When will they be ready?”
“Weren’t you listening at all?” asked Nicky.
“I didn’t need to. You were. So when?”
“A few hours and we’ll be legal, in a manner of speaking.”
“Perfect,” she said. “Can you give us directions to Dr. Davide?”
Father Girotti pursed his lips and stroked the rough wooden cross around his neck. “I think I had better send for him instead. He may be…indisposed.”
Stella took her coat off its hook and said, “If he’s indisposed, we better go to him.”
“Mrs. Myna, perhaps Mr. Myna can go and you can stay here.”
In response, she buttoned her coat.
“Stella,” said Nicky. “Let’s do as the Father suggests.”
“Have you forgotten that we’ve people to look for?”
“We don’t have that much time.”
“It’s time enough to go to Dr. Davide and start asking people,” she said.
“Who? Who are we going to ask?” he asked.
She pondered that and came up with nothing, except simply knocking on doors.
“They don’t know that anyone would be looking for them?” asked Father Girotti.
“No,” said Nicky. “They have no idea. They’re looking for our friend.”
“Here in Venice?”
“Yes.”
Father Girotti nodded and stroked his cross. “Why here?”
“Because he last contacted them here,” said Nicky.
“What did he tell them?”
“I have no idea.”
“Perhaps he told them your hotel,” he said.
Stella dashed over, ignoring her swelling feet, and kissed him on the cheek. “Father, you’re a genius. Of course, they’d go there first.” She grabbed Nicky’s coat and tossed it at him. “Directions. Do we have directions for Dr. Davide?”
“I guess we’re going, Father,” said Nicky.
“I never doubted it.”
They got directions and the Father led them through the back hallways and out onto the canal walkway. “Good luck.” He didn’t say you’re going to need it, but it was implied and Stella didn’t mind.
They had a direction. They had a plan. All she needed was a plan.
Chapter Six
“WE COULD’VE TAKEN a taxi,” said Stella as they made their fifth turn and nearly walked into an over-flowing canal.
“No, we couldn’t,” said Nicky. “I’m not sure we have enough to pay the doctor.”
“We can telegram my father to wire money.” She’d been working it out in her head. A couple thousand dollars ought to be more than enough. Stella hadn’t paid any attention to money before Vienna. She’d been spoiled, pampered, and praised all her life and thought little of it. Now that she’d seen the world and, in particular, little Jacopo’s eyes. Children shouldn’t look like that. He should look like Millicent and Myrtle, plump and full of mischief. She wanted to make him look that way. Maybe she could buy more books or make a loan. Alberto might take a loan.
“And give away our location?” asked Nicky. “Father Girotti made it pretty clear that Italy’s going the way of Germany. We can’t use the name Bled. It’s like a beacon.”
“We’ll use Myna,” said Stella. “Father will know who it is.”
“You’d be sending the telegram to a Bled, Stella. Two and two still adds up to four.”
“Oh, right. Let me think.”
They splashed into a passage that looked minimally flooded but nearly went over their boots.
“I’m really getting sick of this rain,” said Nicky. “For all we know, the Sorkines have sense and took themselves home.”
“They can’t go home. It’s not like Peiper’s going to forget their address and I think they knew he was coming,” said Stella. “I know what we’ll do. We’ll send the telegram to Mavis’s brother, Patrick.”
Nicky stopped at a door and looked doubtfully at its peeling paint and rusty knocker. “This is it.”
Stella peeked up at the building from beneath the edge of the umbrella. “A doctor lives here? It looks like a tenement.”
“How do you know what a tenement looks like?” His mouth was twisted into a wry smile and Stella said haughtily, “Mavis showed me pictures of Dublin.”
“Who is Mavis?”
“My friend. She was at the wedding, Nicky. Were you paying attention to anything at all?”
“I was paying attention to my bride.”
Stella rolled her eyes. “Mavis is very pretty. Black hair. Freckles.”
He was still blank.
“Irish.”
“Her? Isn’t she the laundress?”
Stella smacked his arm and said, “And my friend. We can telegram Mavis’s brother for money.”
“The laundress’s brother has money?”
“No, but he’s Mavis’s brother and he knows me. He knows I’m Miss Myna. He’ll go to Mavis directly and give it to her.”
Nicky shook his head as if he had to expel that idea from his ears. “First of all, that’s insane, and second, I’m not asking your family for money. I’m a Lawrence, for God’s sake.”
“We’re asking for my money.” Stella lifted the knocker and dropped it with a clunk.
“I’m not dipping into any trust fund or whatever your father gave you. I’m your husband and I’ll provide for us.”
“Don’t start with that husband stuff again. It is my money.”
“That your father gave you, so it’s his money.”
“I earned it.” She banged the knocker again.
“By what? Bei
ng born.”
“By working.”
“Hey!” came a bellow from above. “Shut up down there. You’re disturbing my beauty sleep.”
They looked up and got instantly pelted with rain in the face. Two floors up, a man with a grey fringe of hair sticking out at all angles and wearing a grubby undershirt glared at them.
“Dr. Davide?” yelled Nicky.
“Yeah. What of it?”
Stella waved at him. “I’m your patient!”
“I doubt that! I’d remember you,” he said.
“Eulalie Myna!”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake! I’ll see you this afternoon. I’m busy. Go away.”
Nicky banged on the door again. “She needs to see you now!”
“You got money?” he asked, eyeing them critically.
“Some!” yelled Nicky.
“How much is some?”
Stella banged on the door herself. She was tired, rain was dripping off her chin, and her feet had swollen so much she might have to cut her boots off. “Now! Right now! It’s an emergency!”
“You’re disturbing my neighbors!” Dr. Davide yelled down.
“Open up!” Nicky kicked the door and it cracked open. It would’ve flown open and banged against the wall, but the entire first floor was flooded and it could only slosh.
“Never mind!” yelled Stella.
“Son of a bitch!”
They walked into Dr. Davide’s house, if it could fairly be called that. Mavis’s pictures of the slums in Dublin looked spiffy in comparison and Stella felt beaten down by the crumpling walls and fetid stench of stagnant water.
“Do you now agree that Father Girotti was right?” asked Nicky as he guided her around some debris floating in the water and bumped into a rotted box.
“I do not.” Stella climbed onto the stairs and questioned the wisdom of it. They were wooden and none too new. “This won’t take long.”
“He can’t be a real doctor.”
“Father Girotti would’ve told us if he wasn’t.”
Nicky climbed on the stairs and they groaned and creaked.
“You better wait,” said Stella. “I’ll go up first.”
“You’re not going—”
She was already gone, climbing as fast as she could on the narrow stairs with her oversized and clumsy boots. She wanted to get up to what she hoped was a solid floor as much as she wanted to get away from Nicky. She hadn’t meant to tell him about working or the wedding vows. She was never going to tell him about the wedding. Florence advised her not to. Men set a great store by such things and since he didn’t notice, he couldn’t care. It was sound advice. No secrets was still her motto, but Stella didn’t really consider it a secret. He was there when it happened. She couldn’t help it if he wasn’t observant.