Strangers in Venice Page 30

  “You’re not.”

  Then he tried on a watch that he’d already tried and did a lengthy bit of admiring with Stella rolling her eyes at him. She knew what he was doing and it wouldn’t work. She paid the lady for her watch and marched to the door.

  “Wait,” he said. “Where are you going?”

  “Cagier men than you have tried this. I’m leaving.”

  “What men?”

  “Cyril Welk with the cheese in Paris.”

  Nicky darkened. “I know you are not comparing me to that bastard.”

  “If the shoe fits. You’re trying to keep me busy so I don’t have time to search for them.”

  “I am not.”

  “So you’ve suddenly developed an interest in hat boxes? Really?”

  “I want you to have what you need.”

  “I need to go to the nearest telegram office. That’s what I need.” She shoved open the door and the little brass bell nearly fell off its tether.

  “Wait a minute!” Nicky yelled, but she was out the door and down the street with the list of telegraph offices in her hand. There were six on the island, according to Sofia. That wasn’t too many to get done, but they were spread out. San Salvador was probably the closest. Stella headed for the main thoroughfare while unfolding Sofia’s map. Yes, there it was. A fifteen-minute walk.

  “St—Eulalie!” yelled Nicky. The pain in his voice made her pause and then stop, tapping her galosh on the stone impatiently.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Nicky hobbled. “You can’t go off on your own.”

  She turned around and glared up at him. “I’m checking the telegraph offices. I don’t care what you say.”

  Nicky swallowed hard and leaned on the nearest building, a pink one that had actually been painted in the last decade. “I’m not trying to stop you.”

  “Oh, yeah? Check your watch.”

  He did. It was eleven already. “It’s not that late.”

  She stared at him and it was her big husband that had to look away. “Are you going to help me or not?” she asked.

  “I am helping you.”

  “By slowing me down?”

  “Peiper’s here in this city right now,” said Nicky. “He could find you before you find them.”

  “You mean us.”

  “I mean you. I love you. I don’t care what happens to me or anyone else. To hell with them. My job, my most important job, is to take care of you.”

  “I’ve been taking care of myself and you, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  Nicky took off his hat and ran his hands through his hair. “Your father pulled me aside before our wedding and told me to take care of you. He said that you have every trait that makes the Bleds succeed, but that those are the same ones that make them crazy.”

  “He said that?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry, but he did,” said Nicky, looking unrepentant. “I thought he was wrong, and I—why are you smiling?”

  “Father does want me to succeed him at the brewery. I was never sure. Now I am.”

  “That’s what you got out of what he said?”

  “Yes and it’s wonderful.” She kissed his cheek.

  He took her by the shoulders. “Your father thinks you might…be like Uncle Josiah or Elias?”

  “Or my great grandmother Leonie or Cousin Alfonz?”

  “What did they do?” he asked.

  She wrinkled her nose. “You don’t want to know and it doesn’t matter. I’m myself and not any of them. Are we doing this or not?”

  Nicky threw up his hands. “Do you promise me that we will be on that train?”

  “I promise, unless we get a lead, of course.” She held up the list and ripped it in half. “Which half do you want?”

  “We’re going together.”

  She explained that they didn’t have time to get to the offices and get the money and return the clothes to Father Girotti. He’d forgotten about the money and the clothes, even though he’d seen them rolled up under her arm.

  “Do you think we have to give the clothes back?” he asked dubiously.

  “I do. Other people need them and they’re bound to be in worse circumstances than us.”

  “Still. We can send a generous donation when we get home. Surely, that would be more useful.”

  “What about our old passports?” Stella asked. “Don’t we want those back?”

  Nicky slapped his forehead. “I completely forgot. We have to have those.”

  “All right then. Pick a list,” she said. “Any list.”

  He examined both, gauging which would keep her safe and he took the one with the offices farthest from the Santa Lucia train station. Stella was to go to Father Girotti and the ones around the station.

  “Have it your way.” She took the list and studied the map. “I think I’ll get the passports first. I don’t want to carry this bundle around. It’s getting heavy already.”

  “Excellent idea. I’ll go to Garibaldi.”

  “That’s pretty far. Are you sure you want to walk that?” She pointed to it on the map. “It’s way over there.”

  “I’ll take a vaporetto. An hour round trip tops. Then I’ll go to the Bella Luna and get the money.”

  “An hour? That’s optimistic.”

  He pulled her to him and kissed her. “Now who’s worrying about somebody getting to the train on time.”

  “Do you think you can?” she asked. “Because I won’t leave without you.”

  “I’ll make it. You worry about where you want to live in New York.”

  “Ha ha. Very funny. I can still find them.”

  He tweaked her hat. “We’ll see.” Then he tried to slip her Gabriele’s pistol.

  She pushed it back down in his pocket. “I don’t want it.”

  “I’m not interested in want. Take it.”

  She pulled out the pocket in her new coat. “Too small.”

  Nicky looked at her handbag, also too small, and frowned. “I don’t like it. You need a weapon.”

  “I have one. My ability to blend in. You, on the other hand, have never blended in your life.”

  He shoved the pistol back down and kissed her. “You have your lethal pin, I suppose.”

  “And I’m not afraid to use it.”

  Another kiss and they hurried off to the Rialto, getting on vaporettos going in opposite directions. A few more hours and it would all be done, one way or another.

  Chapter Twenty

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Stella was at the dock beside Father Girotti’s church, stepping out onto a damp walkway and able to thank the captain in flawless Italian. She was sure he never suspected. Her night studying had paid off and it didn’t hurt that she said very little.

  People passed by her, singing out buongiorno and smiling at her, sunny as the weather. Everything was different, not that the Venetians weren’t friendly before. They were, but there was a restraint to it, a kind of acknowledgement that she wasn’t one of them. It was small, so small that she didn’t know it was there before. She couldn’t hear it. Now that she did, she couldn’t fail to notice all the other little differences. The women held themselves a certain way with a kind of pride and swing of the hips. Once Stella saw it, she could imitate the attitude and it gave her a satisfaction she’d never felt before. To blend and become, in an odd way, invisible was special.

  She turned and went under the archway into the church’s courtyard. A bunch of little boys were kicking a ball through the remaining water, cheering wildly. They were the first kids she’d seen since she’d encountered Peiper’s boy and they were a whole different story. Peiper’s boy looked as though smiling was a foreign country and not to be trusted.

  Stella glanced around nervously, remembering the hate. Maybe it was his youth, but something about that boy made him seem worse than Peiper as bad as he was. The boy was actually more like Gabriele Griese and that thought made her hurry into the church and down the nave as if she were being chased.

  Stella kn
ocked on the door to the dressing room. No one answered so she went in. The room had changed. No coats, boots, or umbrellas. Instead, there were stacks of crates stuffed with clothing, old dishes, and tins of food.

  The office door at the far end was cracked open and soft, musical Italian voices floated out into the dressing room. Stella walked down, smiling. Although she couldn’t follow exactly what they were saying, she knew that noise. It was as familiar to her as her mother’s voice. Clinking china, scraping forks, talk of food, money, and children. The priests were hosting a charity meeting and the good ladies of the parish had turned out with their pastries and pocketbooks to decide what to do about fundraising and the donations.

  Francesqua Bled had hosted a million and a half of those meetings. It wasn’t unusual to have fifty ladies in the garden discussing how much money an orphanage in Arkansas needed to stay afloat. Stella loved those meetings. She was rarely called on to attend, since she was supposed to be studying, and fifty ladies was enough of a distraction that she was able to sneak out to the airfield or the brewery.

  Stella paused at the door, trying to think of how to get Father Girotti out of there. Should she be Italian or Canadian? Maybe English was best.

  She didn’t get a chance to decide. The door opened and two portly ladies in black came out at top speed.

  “Buongiorno,” said Stella automatically and the ladies came at her in a rush of Italian, taking the rolled-up clothes and adding them to a stack of boxes next to the door. She couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Stella recognized that, too. Whenever her mother’s cadre of volunteers got a new recruit there was a whole lot of happiness. Those women didn’t know what they were in for and neither did Stella.

  The ladies herded her into the office and before she knew it, she was in a chair with a coffee cup in her hands and a chipped plate holding a slice of almond cake, a croissant, and five cookies. She must’ve looked hungry because she didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. The group of ladies, ten in all, did it for her. When Stella looked up, she met the astonished eyes of Father Giuseppe. The poor man was wedged between two of the older ladies, who looked like they were force feeding him. He sat there with his shoulders up around his ears with a coffee cup halfway to his mouth.

  “Buongiorno, Father Giuseppe,” Stella said sweetly.

  He nodded and took a sip, presumably too shocked to speak. The ladies took care of that and, luckily for Stella, they were talking over each other and she just kept nodding and stuffing herself with cake so she couldn’t speak. She was able to nod correctly to being married and shake her head when she thought they asked if she had children. There was a lot of encouragement about bambinos. They pinched her cheeks and admired her curls. She was pretty sure they thought her babies would be beautiful.

  Father Giuseppe just sat there totally useless. He never spoke and nodded so much she would’ve thought he didn’t speak Italian either. She had to get out of there and quick. Time was going by way too quickly. She was on her third cup of coffee and her plate was nearly clean. If Stella knew them, and she was pretty sure she did, they’d be piling her up with more cake any second.

  Stella forked the last bite in her mouth and swallowed without chewing. It hurt, but it was worth it.

  One of the ladies saw and went for a tall cake with lemon filling and Stella made her move. “Father Giuseppe, dov’è il bagno, per favore?”

  The ladies sucked in a breath and leaned back. Stella hadn’t considered that going to the bathroom was a crime, but clearly ladies didn’t go to the bathroom.

  “Scusi. Scusi.” She had to save it, even Father Giuseppe was horrified. The man was blushing intensely.

  She held up her sticky fingers and tapped them together, making a face. The ladies let out a collective breath and smiled understandingly. Several started to get up to take her to the bathroom, but Father Giuseppe finally came alive and insisted on taking her to Stella’s relief. She didn’t miss the knowing glances that zinged back and forth between the ladies. Little did they know how wrong they were.

  Father Giuseppe opened the door to Father Girotti’s office and ushered her inside, closing the door behind them. He leaned against the door and whispered something so fast she couldn’t catch a word.

  “Scusi, Father Giuseppe. Passporte?”

  He went blank.

  “American passporte. Dov’è Father Girotti?”

  Father Giuseppe said he was gone. Something about ladies.

  “Dov’è passporte?” she asked.

  He clearly didn’t know.

  “Mr. Myna and I are leaving Venice. We’re going today.”

  He shook his head and she was forced to get out her dictionary to cobble together an explanation.

  Father Giuseppe understood, but he didn’t know where they were. He took Stella by the shoulders and put her against the door to block any noisy ladies from coming in. There was a key in the lock, but no doubt the sharp ears in the next room would hear it turning and there would be talk. Forever.

  The priest started going through drawers and then seemed to have an epiphany. He went to the floor to ceiling bookcase and hunted down a fat book with a French title. Once he opened it, Stella saw that it had been hollowed out and inside was a cache of money in several denominations, papers, and their passports. Father Giuseppe held them up in triumph and Stella patted her chest over her heart whispering, “Grazie mille.”

  He gave her the passports. She tucked them away and stopped him from replacing the book.

  “Here,” she said, handing him a good deal of lira and dollars. “For the cause.”

  The priest tried to refuse, but Stella insisted. She couldn’t think of the right words and could only say, “Per Goldenbergs and per Ladners. Dalla Germania.”

  He put his hand on his heart and bowed his head. “Grazie, Signora Myna.” Then he took her to the other door and opened it, looking out briefly.

  “It’s okay,” whispered Stella. “I can do it.”

  “Sei sicuro de questo?”

  She wasn’t sure what that meant, but she agreed to it and went out the door. Then she turned to kiss him on both cheeks before hurrying away in the warren of back hallways. She must’ve made a wrong turn because she ended up getting shunted out the door on the right side of the altar instead of the backdoor Father Girotti had sent them out. She considered turning around but decided that would take too long and there was a good chance she wouldn’t do any better a second time. The church was empty anyway, except for a few people praying in the pews and they didn’t pay her any attention.

  Stella walked quickly down a side aisle, heading for the doors when three men burst in. They discussed something loudly for a second and then one, the youngest, dashed down the nave and ran into the cloak room. Stella stepped behind the pillar, listening as more people came into the church. Voices were raised and panicky, but she couldn’t make out what was happening. They were talking so fast their words ran together in a jumble of fear. Then she heard the distinctive tones of the ladies and peeked out to see them flooding into the nave, throwing up their hands. Some were raising their fists. Her mother’s volunteers never looked so feisty. Whatever it was, it was a cause for rage, not sorrow, and more and more people flooded through the front doors. She’d never get out that way.

  Stella turned around and nearly yelped in surprise. Sister Claudia stood ten feet away as shocked as she was. The terrified nun hadn’t gotten her wish to never see Stella again and she was acting so oddly someone was bound to notice her there, frozen with her mouth open. Stella walked over and quickly turned the nun around, hustling her to the door beside the altar.

  When Stella closed the door behind them, Sister Claudia took a breath and whispered, “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to return the clothes and get our passports. We’re leaving.”

  “When?”

  “Today at two.” Stella checked her watch. “I have to go.”

  “Yes. Go. Go quickly.” Sister Claudia t
ook her by the hand and practically dragged her down the hall. Something about the way she did it was odd, even for Sister Claudia. Stella dug her heels in. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. You will be late.”

  “I have a little time.”

  Sister Claudia shook, her pale hands fluttering against her black habit. “You must go.”

  Stella narrowed her eyes. “Tell me what happened.”

  “They can’t find you here.”

  “They?”

  Sister Claudia glanced around. “The carabinieri.”

  Stella shook a little herself. “Now you have to tell me what happened.”

  The little nun could barely speak she was so frightened. Father Girotti had been arrested by Bartali for something. She didn’t know what, but she expected Bartali to invade the sanctity of the church at any moment to search for evidence.

  “Can he do that?” Stella asked. It didn’t seem right. She didn’t think that priests could even be arrested.

  “He will. He knows no bounds,” Sister Claudia said. “Please if he finds you here…”

  Stella took her by the arms. “If he finds you here.”

  The nun shook like a sapling in a summer storm. “God will protect me, if it is his will.”

  “Let’s forget about his will for a minute and get out of here.”

  Sister Claudia became calm. “I cannot leave the church to hide, but you must go.”

  “Please,” said Stella. “You have false papers. Bartali might notice.”

  “He might notice that one of my number are gone, too.”

  She had a point, but Stella wasn’t ready to give up. “Just make yourself scarce. Go buy bread or visit the sick. That’s not out of the normal, is it?”

  Sister Claudia hesitated. “No, but…”

  “What would Father Girotti want? You in jail with him? I don’t think so.”

  She shook her head. “No. I will stay with my sisters and pray for the Father and the ladies.”

  “The ladies?” asked Stella.

  “Father Girotti was visiting the sick when the German came.”

  All the air left Stella’s lungs and Sister Claudia pulled her through the hallway, getting her to the outside door. “You will go now and leave Venice. No one can find you. They will know that the Father helped you.”