Strangers in Venice Read online

  Nicky’s hand ran up her leg and rested on her hip, squeezing it and somehow giving her strength. The man had been shot and there he was comforting her as he fought to control his ragged breath.

  The sound of a door banging open echoed through the church and Father Girotti exclaimed. The hard, sharp raps of heavy boots reverberated on the marble floor and Peiper demanded something in German. Stella recognized “man” and “woman.” Beyond that, his words were lost in a rant that Father Girotti responded to in confused Italian.

  “A man and a woman came in here,” Peiper yelled at the priest, switching to English. “Where are they?”

  Father Girotti responded, once again, in Italian, sounding utterly confused and even a bit feeble. Stella had to smile over her clenched teeth. The good Father was quite an actor.

  “I know they came in here!”

  The priest responded the same way, but now his voice was added to. Footsteps ran through the church and the young priest’s voice asked something in Italian. The two holy men went back and forth. Stella could feel Peiper seething. He yelled. He demanded. The priests countered in Italian. Then more voices came. Women, speaking Italian.

  Stella couldn’t resist. She delicately pulled a tiny portion of the curtain aside and peeked out into the nave. Peiper had been surrounded by the two priests and a passel of nuns. The nuns, in particular, weren’t happy. They raised their hands in lamentation. One held out a bible and looked as though she might hit Peiper with it. Unlike Mavis, Stella had always had a great affection for nuns. Cousins Lidija and Paloma were Carmelites. They were lovely and spent, Stella suspected, a good deal of their time praying for her mother, in particular, and the Bleds, in general. Sister Paloma wrote wonderful, witty letters about her sisters and their cloistered life. She was nothing like the nuns Mavis described in her native Ireland. Mavis would walk five blocks to avoid having contact with a nun, despite Stella’s assurances that no sister was going to whip out a ruler and hit her on the back of the head. Mavis said Stella didn’t understand, having never attended school in a traditional sense and she was right. Stella got tutors and governesses, not angry nuns with weaponry.

  But now, peeking out into that old church, she could see what Mavis saw. Those nuns were taking no guff off an intimidating SS officer with a pistol. Their habits flapped as they waved their arms and got in front of the priests and herded Peiper backward toward the door like a flock of oversized bats bent on feeding. He kept yelling in English and German, but it got him nowhere. The sisters had him backed up against the door and then outside in a matter of minutes. Then the tallest sister, an imperious lady with the kind of face Stella could easily see behind a brandished ruler, pulled out a large key and locked the door. “Basta! Sei un idiota tedesco!” she yelled at the door and then sped back to the priests as if on wheels and gave them a good talking to before she gathered her fellow sisters and they sped off down the nave, disappearing. A door slammed, but the priests didn’t move for a moment, frozen in shock. If Stella had known nuns could get rid of the SS, she’d have found some earlier.

  “It’s fine,” she whispered and Nicky let out a low groan, dropping his hand.

  Footsteps came racing over and Father Girotti jerked back the curtain. “He’s gone. You’re safe.”

  Stella clasped his hand and pressed it to her heart. “I can’t thank you enough, Father. Nicky, did you hear that?”

  Nicky didn’t answer and she turned to find her husband slumped against the wall of the confessional, unconscious with a pool of blood under his feet.

  Chapter Eight

  “CLOSE THE DOOR, Mrs. Myna,” said Father Girotti.

  Stella quickly closed the door behind them and the priests carried Nicky through the office and down a short hall into a small antechamber with a couple of cots and a wash basin.

  “I can walk,” said Nicky.

  “Yes, I know,” said the priest without letting Nicky take his arm from over his shoulders. “But now you will lie down and we will look to your injury.”

  They forced Nicky to lie down and roll over, revealing the large bloody spot on his hip and buttock. There were two holes in his pants. Two. Stella’s legs went weak. He’d been shot twice.

  “Let me see,” she said.

  “Perhaps…you should go,” said the priest. “The area.”

  “He’s my husband, Father.”

  “But you are so young.”

  “I was, but not so much anymore.” Stella knelt by the cot and rolled Nicky on his back, reaching for his belt buckle.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, batting her hands away.

  “Taking off your pants.”

  “I don’t think so. Get Dr. Salvatore. I don’t want you seeing this.”

  Stella rolled her eyes. “It can’t be as bad as Oliver.”

  “Who is this Oliver?” asked Father Girotti.

  “A friend,” said Nicky. “Sort of. Can you get Dr. Salvatore?”

  “Dr. Davide is closer.” He spoke to Father Giuseppe and the young priest went for the door.

  “Not him,” said Stella. “That old scoundrel is the reason we’re in this fix.”

  “You saw Davide?”

  Nicky started to speak, but gritted his teeth, grasping at Stella’s hands and holding them so tight she thought the bones would snap. “Dr. Salvatore, please, Father,” she said, gasping herself.

  Father Giuseppe rushed out and Father Girotti locked the door behind him. “Tell me what happened.”

  They unbuckled Nicky’s pants and slid them down to expose his bloody briefs while Stella told him about the doctor and his fabulous idea of going to Maria at the train station.

  “He took your coats,” marveled the Father, “in this weather.”

  “He said we’d get them back. We didn’t have much choice.” Stella pushed Nicky onto his side, cringing when he groaned in pain. She pulled down the briefs and found two bloody holes. Compared to Oliver and the gash on his shoulder, it was almost a relief.

  “Do you have a towel?” she asked and he gave her the cloth from the washbasin and she wiped the blood away. The holes refilled quickly but not like Oliver’s gash. Nothing could be as bloody as that.

  “How bad is it?” Nicky tried to look over his shoulder.

  “Honestly, not too bad, but it must hurt something awful.” Stella pressed the towel to the wounds and his shivering got worse. “We have to get him out of these wet clothes.”

  “Please sit down, Mrs. Myna,” said Father Girotti.

  Stella sat on the other cot and watched as the priest helped Nicky off with his jacket, tie, and shirt, all completely soaked. She saw Father Girotti noting the bruises and the ribs that stuck out too much. Then he covered Nicky up and turned to her. “You’re limping.”

  “Am I?” she said lightly.

  He knelt at her feet. “We must take off these boots.”

  “I don’t think you want to see my feet.”

  “I’m certain that you are right.” He pulled off her boots but had no reaction to the wet and pink-stained bandages. He unwound the fabric and let it fall with a slap on the floor.

  “Oh, Stella,” said Nicky. “How could you run?”

  “I don’t know. I just did.”

  The men were clearly horrified, but Stella wasn’t. Her feet had looked worse and she chose to concentrate on that.

  Father Girotti put a blanket around her shoulders. “I must get help for you.”

  “Isn’t Dr. Salvatore coming?”

  “I believe so, but you need…to get those wet clothes off and I can’t.”

  She patted his hand. “I’m fine, Father. Don’t worry about me.”

  “I sent you to Dr. Davide and he sent you…” His face flushed. “That foul creature. That Maria.” He turned on his heels and said, “I will come back with help.”

  He left and Nicky said, “Are you all right? How much do they hurt?”

  Stella wiggled her toes and remembered a time when she was worrie
d they would rot and fall off. “Not that bad. They feel a lot better getting out of those boots.”

  “Stella, we have to face the facts.”

  She stiffened. She knew what was coming and it wasn’t happening. It just wasn’t. They owed Abel. He was in prison. Swollen feet didn’t change that. “My feet will be fine. They just need a soaking. That’s all.”

  He tried to roll on his side to face her but couldn’t manage it. With a gasp, he went back to his front and stared down at the cot’s cotton ticking. “We have to leave as soon as possible. There are ships in the harbor. We can book passage.”

  “To where?”

  “Anywhere. We have to leave.”

  “I’m not getting on some random ship.”

  “Then we can take a train to Genoa and book passage on the Italian Line. Straight to New York,” said Nicky.

  “I’m not leaving before we find the Sorkines,” said Stella at her most stubborn.

  “Stella.”

  “No. Abel is in that awful place. I’m sure this is a picnic compared to that.”

  “I’ve been shot,” said Nicky. “Peiper shot me. It’s just luck that he didn’t hit me in the head.”

  “I know that. What do you think will happen to the Sorkines if they go to Vienna and start asking after us? He tried to nab them in Paris and just missed.”

  “He’s after us.”

  “For now, maybe,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Roger saw the train schedule at their apartment. He figured out they were going to Italy. Maybe Peiper did, too. He’s here now.”

  “Because he thinks we have the book. We should go and lead him away from them.”

  Stella crossed her arms. “And how do you propose we do that? Hand out flyers at the train station? ‘Newsflash! Nicky and Stella have gone to wherever, follow them and leave other people alone.’”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Same to you,” she said. “We have to warn them and hope Peiper doesn’t catch their scent.”

  He tried to sit up and cringed. “We can’t. Look at us.”

  The same feeling Stella had in Vienna came over her again. She had to do it and she didn’t care if it made sense. She couldn’t see Nicky lying on that bed or her damaged feet. She only saw Abel being pulled into that boxcar. If the Nazis didn’t discover who he was and Uncle Josiah got him out safe, what would they tell him? It was hard, so we didn’t do it? What would she tell her father? Uncle Josiah? What would she tell herself if something happened because she gave up?

  “You can go if you want to,” she said.

  “We’re leaving and that’s it,” he said.

  “Before we even try?”

  “I tried, Stella. I searched the ghetto. They weren’t there.”

  She wiggled her frigid toes. It might’ve been her imagination, but they looked better already. “We haven’t gone to our old hotel yet.”

  “You can’t walk.”

  Stella jolted to her feet, ignoring the stabbing pain, and said, “I’ve been walking. I’ve been running.”

  The door opened and Father Girotti hustled in with his arms outstretched. “Are you all right, Mrs. Myna?”

  “Never better,” she said, pointing at Nicky. “I’m not quitting. Bleds aren’t quitters.”

  Nicky rolled over, grimacing hideously. “You can’t be a Bled right now.”

  “I can’t be anything else.”

  “Be a Lawrence. Be sensible.”

  “Uncle Josiah says sensible people don’t change the world.”

  “He got arrested for being naked in the Trevi Fountain. I’m not listening to him. What would your father want? What would he want his only daughter to do?”

  Stella sat down and the cot practically buckled in protest. “He wouldn’t be afraid. Father went to war, too, you know. He was in France with Uncle Josiah,” she said, but, in truth, she didn’t know what Aleksej Bled would say.

  Unlike Uncle Josiah, whose emotions and motives were ever at the surface, her father was inscrutable. As the designated heir to the company, he had defied his father and went to war with his brothers. They could all have been killed. Grandmother had been certain that was what was going to happen. Being in the army meant rules, but they were Bleds and unlikely to play by rules that they themselves had not defined. Grandmother thought at least one would be shot for disobeying orders, but the trio had survived.

  Then when prohibition happened, Stella’s father broke every law, bootlegging in the Ozarks and running speakeasies, while outwardly appearing to be the very model of conservatism. In contrast, this was also the man who wouldn’t let her go to a regular school, fearing she would pick up “bad influences” and insisted her skirts be unfashionably long. But, then again, he let her work in the brewery with men who looked as though they could’ve spent time in Alcatraz. They hadn’t. Perhaps that was the important point to remember.

  “Darling, please.”

  “I don’t care.” The thought startled Stella. She didn’t care what her father would do or want. He wasn’t there. Abel wasn’t his friend. He wasn’t to blame. “I’m going to try. I have to try or I’ll always regret it.”

  “What are you talking of?” asked Father Girotti.

  “Our friend’s family,” she said. “I’m not giving up.”

  The Father held out his hand to her and helped her to her feet. “I never thought you would. Come into my office. Sister Claudia will help you.”

  Nicky grabbed her hand as she walked by. “Please, Stella, how could I face your father or worse your mother, if something happened to you? We have a choice this time.”

  The look on his face made her heart hurt. She hadn’t thought of that, of his position. But he was wrong, there was no choice, not for her.

  Stella squeezed his hand and said, “I’ll think about it.”

  Nicky dropped her hand and looked away. He knew the truth.

  Father Girotti didn’t say anything. He just opened the door and ushered her down the hall to his office where they found a middle-aged nun, who’d managed to cram herself in a corner between two bookshelves and looked as though she might make a run for it.

  He closed the door and said, “Mrs. Myna, this is Sister Claudia. You can trust her. She knows everything I know. More, perhaps, as she is German.”

  “Hello, Sister,” said Stella.

  Sister Claudia didn’t answer. She did shake a little.

  “The sister is a shy person, but she will help you with your clothes.” He indicated a pile of fabric on his desk. “From our donations. I’m sure you can find something to get you back to the Vittoria.”

  Stella had to smile. Donated clothes for the poor, no doubt. Her mother would faint dead away. “Thank you, Father. I appreciate your help.”

  Someone knocked on the door and Father Girotti let in Father Giuseppe and Dr. Salvatore, who rushed over to her and made her sit down. “What have you been doing? Not resting, I see.”

  “It couldn’t be helped,” said Stella. “They are better.”

  “They would be better still if you would stop walking.”

  “I’m not the problem. Ni…Douglas has been shot.”

  The doctor spun around. “Why didn’t you tell me this? Where is he?”

  “It’s only the buttocks, doctor,” said Stella. “When do you think—”

  The doctor ran out with the priests and she didn’t get to ask when he’d be up and walking. In hindsight, it was a disgraceful question. Nicky had to heal. He’d walk when he was ready.

  “Well, Sister, it’s you and me,” she said to the petrified nun.

  She didn’t answer so Stella stood up with a wince. The nun put up her hand and whispered, “I’ll help you.”

  “Oh, you speak English. Thank goodness. I’ve been trying to learn Italian and German, but I can’t get a moment to study.”

  Sister Claudia touched her with one finger and said, “Please sit.”

  “So you’re German?”
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  “Yes.” She peeked at Stella and began looking through the clothes.

  “So you know what Father Girotti knows. About the von Bodmanns?”

  She held up a skirt that would’ve fit two Stellas and then some. “Yes.”

  “Did you know about that family coming in on our train? The ones that Father Giuseppe met?”

  “Yes.” Another skirt was rejected.

  “A German shot my husband.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re helping me and the Jews?”

  “Yes.” She found a skirt that looked reasonable and offered it to Stella. She got to her feet and, ever so hesitantly, the shy nun helped her unzip her skirt and step out of it. Stella took off her jacket and blouse, but then was undecided. Her brassiere was soaked as well. Putting dry clothes on over it didn’t make any sense. She would’ve asked Sister Claudia about a brassiere, but she was afraid the poor lady would pass out at the word.

  “Do you have something I can dry off with?” she asked.

  The sister gave her a cloth. “I’m going to take my… off. You might want to look away.” She needn’t have said anything. Sister Claudia certainly wasn’t going to look.

  Stella took off her brassiere and panties and squeezed the panties out in the cloth. Since they were silk they’d dry quickly and Stella wasn’t quite ready to go without panties.

  She put her damp ones back on and got dressed. “Sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s very dangerous to defy the Nazis.”

  “I know this.”

  Stella finished dressing in a baggy cotton blouse and a sweater with several holes. The skirt hung on her hipbones but stayed up and she’d never felt so warm and grateful. “Thank you. I feel so much better.”

  The nun nodded and backed away. “I will hang these in my cell to dry. I have a small fire.”

  “Thank you.”

  She reached for the angel wing and Stella said, “That SS, he would hurt you to get to me.”

  The nun looked at the floor. “Yes.”

  “Why are you helping me then? You don’t seem like the kind of person who would.”