Strangers in Venice

by A W Hartoin

“Yes. Almost immediately,” said Dr. Salvatore, who was packing up his bag and keeping his head down.

  “What will happen to them?” asked Stella.

  “They were sent back to Germany. They left without paying the tax that had been levied on them,” said Father Girotti. “They will have to pay or be left in prison to rot.”

  “How much will it be?” asked Nicky.

  “Everything they have, in every bank account they have.”

  The word “everything” echoed in Stella’s ears and she looked back at the book. Maria turned in some people, but others got away. Maria was very orderly. She had a schedule. Sometimes she was at the station and sometimes she wasn’t. But what about the lack of lira on some entries?

  She looked through and found one of those. “How about the same train in August? Looks like a lot of people. Six.”

  Father Girotti shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. Doctor?”

  “The Strauss family came,” he said. “But they had the proper papers. They have gone to Naples now.”

  “That’s it. That’s why Maria didn’t get paid,” said Stella, pointing at the page. “Sometimes she has an entry, but there’s no number underneath.”

  Nicky plucked the book out of Stella’s hands. “Very good. You’ve cracked it.”

  “Hey.” Stella jolted to her feet. “Give that back. I’m not done.”

  “You’re done, darling. You did it.”

  The way he said it rankled. Like she was a little girl who’d won a prize and ought to be satisfied with a sweet.

  “Give that back. There’s a pattern.”

  He tried to push her back, but she wouldn’t go. “Please, your feet.”

  “My feet are better than your butt. Give it to me.” She stepped out of the water, Nicky turned to keep the book away from her, and gasped in pain.

  “Mr. Myna, please,” said Father Girotti. “Your injury.”

  Nicky bent over, pressing his hand to his wound, and Stella easily recaptured Maria’s book. “Serves you right.”

  “For God’s sake, Stella. I’m trying to protect you.”

  A zing went through her and she shouted, “Then try remembering my name.”

  Nicky’s eyes went wide for a second and then his mask came firmly down. “I know your name, Eulalie.”

  Father Girotti smiled at his feet and Dr. Salvatore flushed with embarrassment at Nicky’s lapse.

  “Oh, really. I’m terribly impressed that you remember it now,” said Stella. “You didn’t marry her. You married me.”

  “I know that.”

  “Good.” She started to tuck the little book in her handbag, but Nicky stopped her.

  “What are you doing?” asked the priest.

  “I’m going to figure out Maria’s schedule, Father, and when I do, you can have your people avoid her. Easy as pie.”

  “You can do that?” asked the doctor.

  “I learned schedules from my father. There are patterns to people. I had to learn how to schedule workers at the right times. If someone was sick, it changed. If equipment was being installed, it changed. Maria isn’t always at the station. She does other things.”

  The men looked nervously at the floor.

  “Why do you insist that I’m completely ignorant of the world?” Stella stomped her foot and pain rocketed up her leg, making her leg buckle. Dr. Salvatore grabbed her and lowered her back to the cot. “You must be more careful.”

  “You must stop looking at me like I’m a child. I understand what Maria is.”

  He flushed to the tips of his ears as he smeared her feet with thick honey and then bandaged them, rolling the socks up over what looked like man-sized feet when he got done. None of them would say anything and Nicky refused to sit down. “We have to go and we’re not taking that book.”

  “You don’t think I can figure out her pattern,” said Stella. “You have no faith in me.”

  “I do, but it’s evidence of what happened today. If Bartali gets ahold—”

  “He won’t.”

  Father Girotti held out his hand. “He might arrest you or search your room. Please give it to me.”

  Stella reluctantly handed it over. “Will you look for a pattern?”

  “I’ll try.”

  She quickly explained how she’d do it with a chart noting days, times, trains, and number of first-class carriages.

  “Surely first class isn’t important.”

  “It is. Dr. Davide said she liked when there were multiple first-class carriages,” said Stella. “That’s her target for…you know.”

  The men made faces and Nicky said, “You don’t know anything about…what she does.”

  “I know she’s pretty and has the right kind of clothes. Maybe she wouldn’t fit in in first class, but she’s not far off.”

  Father Girotti shook his head. “She’s not that kind of person at all. I would think third class. We should look at trains with mostly those cars.”

  Stella laughed. “Forget that. Maria is pretty and well-dressed in a hussy sort of way. If she worked in a bakery, you’d think she was pretty.”

  The men harrumphed and agreed at long last and, once that was done, Stella started in on things like Maria’s rent and when that had to be paid.

  “I believe her sister may be—”

  A soft knock stopped the priest and he opened the door to find young Jacopo standing there, shifting from foot to foot with his eyes darting around.

  “Ah, Jacopo,” said Father Girotti, shaking the boy’s hand.

  Jacopo gave him a small packet and an Italian songbook. Then, without a word, the boy darted off. The priest closed the door and opened the packet. He handed Nicky two well-worn Canadian passports and held up their red US passports. “Would you like me to keep these for the moment?”

  “I’ll take them, Father,” said Nicky.

  “No,” said Stella. “They’re safer here. We might get searched. And keep the songbook. You never know, I might want to buy it again.”

  Nicky hesitated but agreed. He looked through the Canadian passports and smiled. “These are very good. I’d never know they aren’t real. How does Alberto do it?”

  “He was a master bookbinder in addition to owning his bookshop. Paper was his business,” said Dr. Salvatore.

  “What about the stamp on the photos? You’d never know it wasn’t original.”

  The doctor glanced at the passports. “I believe he made his own stamp. He carved it out of rubber.”

  “He’s a genius.”

  “I agree, but now we must get you back to the hotel and into bed.”

  Nicky limped toward the door, barely moving his right leg.

  “People are going to notice that,” said Stella.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Your limp. It must hurt terribly.”

  Nicky frowned and looked down. “Actually, it doesn’t. It’s stiff and aches, but mostly I’m tired and lightheaded.”

  “When the Eukadol wears off, you will be in very much pain,” said Dr. Salvatore. “That is why you should go now.”

  “Wait,” said Father Girotti. “You should know I sent a message to Dr. Davide.”

  “What on Earth for?” asked Nicky. “I hope you didn’t tell him where we are.”

  The priest’s face was still thunderous. “I reminded him what he owes me and the church.”

  “And what is that?” asked Stella. “It better be good.”

  “He owes me his life.”

  “No insult intended, Father,” said Nicky, “but I don’t think he’s that fond of his life.”

  “Yes, but he didn’t want it to end,” he said.

  Stella crossed her arms. “He sent us to Maria. He’s probably in on it.”

  Father Girotti shook his head. “Davide’s sins are many, but that is not one of them.”

  “You’d be in a position to know?” asked Nicky.

  “I would, but I will say no more.”

  “I still don’t trust him.”


  Stella retrieved her boots from where they’d been tossed in a corner. “It’s good enough for me.” Stella slipped on her damp boots and smiled. Not too bad. Not bad at all. She could search Venice on her own. Three days in bed for Nicky should be enough time.

  “I don’t like that smile,” said Nicky.

  “You should,” she said. “My feet feel good.”

  “I seriously doubt that.”

  “Doubt all you want. It’s the truth.” She turned to Father Girotti. “So what do you expect Dr. Davide to do?”

  “I expect him to do what his wife would want.”

  “He’s married?” asked Nicky, clearly aghast.

  “He was. The lady passed away some time ago. Her death broke him in every way possible. He remains in Venice, her favorite city and where she died, as penance for not being able to save her.” The priest went to Maria’s case and riffled through the contents. “Ah, yes. This one will do.” He held up the crucifix Stella had initially chosen, but it seemed uglier and more garish in the humble room. And worse, it was very obviously something that Maria would sell.

  “I don’t think so, Father,” she said. “Someone might recognize it.”

  The doctor nodded. “I agree and it does not suit you either. Let me see.”

  He took the cross and chain, examining the filigree and stones before asking, “Do you mind if I change it?”

  “Not at all. Please do,” she said and the doctor went to work, using the tools of his trade pulled out of the depths of his doctor’s bag. He used a pair of scissors to nip off the filigreed edges and a stout needle to pry out the red stones. They went flying around the room and skittered across the stone floor to be lost in the cracks. Then he used a rather frightening pair of pliers to cut the cross down to a smaller size. Stella didn’t want to think about what that tool might be used for on a human being.

  “How do you like it now?” he asked with a pleased smile.

  Stella took it. “It’s almost elegant and, more importantly, nothing like the way it was before.” She kissed his cheek. “Thank you. What do you think about the rosaries? They are nice, but are they too distinctive?”

  Father Girotti reached in his pocket and came out with a plain, simple rosary of wooden beads and a rough cross. “Take this with my blessing. It is common enough not to be noticed.”

  Stella took it and pressed it to her chest where Abel’s book had once been. “I don’t know why you are so kind to us.”

  “It is my duty and my privilege. I may need to ask a favor of you someday.”

  “Please do, Father,” said Nicky. “There’s no way we’d refuse.”

  “You may come to regret that statement.”

  “Maybe, but that won’t change it.”

  Father Girotti smiled and nodded as a gentle knock sounded on the door. He opened it and the altar boy, Pietro, stood there with a big smile on his round, happy face. He had a load in his arms. “I have a letter from Dr. Davide, Father Girotti.”

  “And our coats,” said Stella, rushing over to unburden the boy. “Thank you.” She kissed Pietro on the forehead.

  “I still say that doctor is a nasty piece of work, but I’m happy your note worked.” Nicky put on his coat, covering up his ragged clothes and donned his now battered fedora, pulling it low to conceal his hair.

  Stella put on her fur and asked, “So what does the note say, Father?”

  Father Girotti frowned and appeared to read Dr. Davide’s message twice.

  “Does he apologize for sending us to Maria?” asked Nicky.

  “Or for taking our coats?”

  “It is not in Dr. Davide’s nature to apologize directly, but he has a suggestion.”

  “I hope he’s suggested to himself that he jump in a canal headfirst.”

  The priest folded the letter and put it in his pocket. “Dr. Davide only jumps headfirst into a bottle.”

  “Let’s have it then.”

  Like Dr. Davide’s suggestion about Stella having a cross, this new idea had merit. Unfortunately, it depended heavily on him and they were not inclined to trust the doctor. He thought that Nicky must hide his wound at all costs and claim that he had an illness that would keep others at bay while he healed.

  “And what illness am I supposed to have?” asked Nicky.

  “Cholera.”

  Stella’s mouth fell open as did Nicky’s. Dr. Salvatore’s did not. He nodded and agreed. “Yes, that will be the best solution and could be true, considering the flood.”

  “What’s the flood got to do with it?” asked Nicky.

  “Our water supply, our sanitation is affected. You could easily become ill, if you drink the wrong water.”

  Nicky buttoned his coat. “One more reason to leave immediately.”

  “There have been no reports of illnesses,” said Dr. Salvatore quickly. “I believe you are safe.”

  “But you think people will buy that I have cholera? Come on, doc.” Nicky spread his arms. “Do I look ill?”

  The men stayed silent and Stella had to be the one to say, “You’ve looked better.”

  “Well, I was shot.”

  “And we have to cover it up. You are very pale and…” she trailed off.

  “What, Eulalie? Say it.”

  “Frail-looking. You were thin but getting better. Now you’re back to gaunt.”

  He turned to Father Girotti. “Do I look that bad?”

  “You do not look like a well man. People will ask questions. Dr. Davide is correct. You need a reason that is not a gunshot to keep people away.”

  “But I tell you it hardly hurts.”

  “It will and soon.”

  Nicky looked at Stella and she said, “I think you have cholera.”

  “But it’s crazy. No one gets cholera anymore,” he said.

  The doctor raised his hands. “No, no. It happens. We had many deaths in 1911.”

  “That was a lifetime ago before the war. And what happens when I don’t die?”

  The doctor chuckled. “You don’t have to die. Dr. Davide will give you injections.”

  “Wait. What?” Nicky went paler still. “One injection was quite enough.”

  The men went back and forth about cholera, but Stella couldn’t see what the fuss was about. It was a good idea and a few pretend punctures seemed a small price to pay for their safety. Nicky wasn’t happy with his symptoms though. Diarrhea and vomiting wasn’t dignified. Nobody claimed it was, but it did give him an excellent excuse to not walk normally.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Stella put on her cross and tucked it under her bulky sweater. She was beginning to like the rough wool. She’d been cold so often and for so long, the coziness was lovely, even if it came with a hint of wet dog and holes. “You have cholera. Let’s go before you can’t walk. I’m not going to be carrying you on these feet.”

  “What about the flu?” asked Nicky.

  “That comes with diarrhea as well,” said Dr. Salvatore.

  “What doesn’t?”

  “Syphilis.”

  “Doctor, please be serious,” said Nicky as Stella stifled a yawn.

  “I’m seriously tired. Please, Douglas. Let’s go.”

  Nicky set his jaw. How anyone that attractive could resemble Winston Churchill in any way was beyond her comprehension. “There has to be another way or maybe we get on a train right now.”

  “You can’t and I won’t,” she said.

  “Please.”

  “No. I’m not leaving my books or my pin. Honestly, you’re worse than Millicent when it’s time for her bath.”

  The Winston look got worse. “I don’t like it.”

  “You don’t have to, but you’ve been through worse or so I suspect,” said Stella with a warning in her eye.

  That got Nicky moving. Dr. Salvatore left and Father Girotti tucked Maria’s box away under one of the cots. “You are ready?”

  Nicky winced as he took a step. “I have to be. Darling?”

  “I’m fine.” Ste
lla hooked Nicky’s arm over her shoulder and he surprised her by consenting to lean on her. They went through the hallways, seeing no one but Sister Claudia, who smiled shyly at them before ducking her head and giving her a bundle of her clothes. That woman was brave as brave could be. Seeing her, Stella knew she could do it. She could be brave like Sister Claudia or Uncle Josiah without the crazy.

  They left from a side door right on the canal and found a small boat there waiting in the never-ending rain.

  “When will this stop?” asked Nicky as he straightened up, attempting to walk normally for the benefit of any onlookers. The grimace on his face showed how much it cost him.

  “Domani,” said Father Girotti.

  “I’m starting to think that means never.” Nicky stepped on the boat with the help of the captain, a man Father Girotti called his dear friend.

  “Father?” asked Stella, squinting in the rain.

  “Yes?”

  “How long will the SS be in jail?”

  “That is hard to say. The people are very angry, but our carabinieri have many obligations.”

  “I see.” When Nicky was inside the cabin and well out of hearing range, she said, “There’s something else you should know, Father.”

  “I fear what you are going to tell me.”

  “I don’t know if you should or not,” said Stella. “The SS officer. He wasn’t alone. He had a boy with him.”

  The priest’s face grew dark again. “He brought a child on his hunt for you? What kind of man is he?”

  “The worst kind, but, Father, this boy, he wasn’t just a bystander. He chased us at the station with a gun. You need to be wary.” She described the boy as best she could and Father Girotti nodded grimly and helped her into the boat.

  “He is not a child then, this boy,” said the priest, pressing her hand between his. “You believe he is one of them.”

  “I saw his face, Father. He is someone to fear.”

  Chapter Ten

  THE BOAT PUTTERED down the narrow canal around the submerged boat below Stella and Nicky’s window to the Vittoria’s small dock. It only took a mere ten minutes to get there, but Nicky was already in more pain. He insisted on standing and clung to the edge of a shelf in the cabin, occasionally spasming and gritting his teeth. Stella tried to support him, but he wouldn’t have it. All he would say was, “We’re leaving.”