Chapter One


THE RAIN STARTED the moment the train crossed into Italy as if the country expected them and wasn’t thrilled about a repeat visit. Stella wasn’t thrilled either, but there was a job that must be done and nothing could stop her from doing it. 

“Where’s everyone going?” she whispered, her breath steaming up the wide window of her compartment and obscuring her already dim view of the rain-soaked platform outside. 

She squinted and the tip of her nose touched the cold glass. Vicenza? Padua? She couldn’t make out the sign, but it definitely didn’t say Venice. The station was too small and there wasn’t supposed to be another stop after Verona anyway. 

Nevertheless, people were scurrying through the torrents of rain with their luggage, disappearing into the darkness. Was this some sort of tourist destination that she was unaware of? No. It couldn’t be. If there was something to see, Abel would’ve shown it to them. 

Stella dug her fingernails into the edge of the window’s shiny brass trim. Abel. Where was he? In Dachau? Had the Nazis discovered his identity? It hurt to think about him and what might have happened in the last two weeks or could be happening right at that moment. She did know that whatever they did to Abel, it would get them nowhere. He couldn’t give them what they wanted. He couldn’t even say where Gutenberg’s diary was, only that Stella had it, which they already knew or thought they did. The book was gone, packed up in a crate and headed to the States with the Boulards, Amelie and Paul. The trick was letting the Nazis know that it was gone without telling them where it was. Uncle Josiah was the one to ask about that and she hoped that she would see him soon, within a week or two. 

Josiah was on his way to Munich to help Abel, but she wasn’t fool enough to think that the Nazis would release him just because Josiah Bled asked them to. He would have to come up with a good incentive, something they couldn’t resist. The Nazis had been trying for some time to get in contact with the Bled family in hopes of getting some sort of boost from the famous brewing family. Apparently, they thought their name valuable, and Uncle Josiah could use that. He could talk about a possible deal, tantalize, cajole and coax. He excelled at that. Talking was her beloved uncle’s forte and talking was how they met Abel in the first place. 

Uncle Josiah just happened to be in Rome when a group of importers were being sallied around the city in an effort to get them to sign with a Belgian brewing conglomerate. He accidentally ran into them and their tour guide, Abel, in a bar. By midnight, they’d signed an agreement with Bled brewing and by dawn, Uncle Josiah and Abel were drunk as skunks, bathing nude in the Trevi fountain, and being arrested by the carabinieri for public lewdness. A first for Abel, but not for Uncle Josiah, unfortunately. 

Stella’s mother, Francesqua, declared that they had to make it up to Abel because no one doubted for a moment that it was all Josiah’s fault. He was a bad influence, the worst influence. People did things with him that they would never remotely consider otherwise. In the face of the family’s recriminations about drinking, Uncle Josiah just grinned. Being drunk wasn’t necessary for having fun, he said. It just sped things up. 

Maybe he could work his magic in Munich. They had beer and schnapps. He had money and clout. That was a good combination for making a beneficial deal in the normal world. But who knew about the Nazis? Their motivations made no sense. Why attack their own population? There had to be a point, but it eluded her. Nicky said it was hatred. What kind of a person hated someone they’d never met and had no knowledge of? Stella couldn’t understand it. She did understand that they had to get Abel out of Dachau. It was their fault he was there, hers and Uncle Josiah. 

If he hadn’t gotten Abel arrested, she and Nicky wouldn’t have hired him as their guide for their honeymoon. They wouldn’t have known his name. If Stella and Uncle Josiah hadn’t wanted to help people smuggle their art out of Vienna before the Nazis got their greedy claws on it, he wouldn’t have been in Vienna to be arrested. Their fault, so it must be their solution whatever the cost. 

The train whistle blew even as more people exited the train. Then the O’Sullivans went by her window. She and Nicky had had dinner with them and they were definitely going to Venice. The old couple crept along the platform with no less than five porters and four carts piled high with luggage. They were Irish gentry and didn’t go anywhere without a valet and a maid. Mr. Marchand and Mrs. Fawcett were holding enormous umbrellas over the couple’s heads and they couldn’t see Stella as she waved and tried to yank down the stiff window. 

“Stupid thing.” Stella hammered on the window, hoping Marchand would look up. He was French and had taught her a few essential phrases in his many languages. They had intended to continue lessons in Venice and she needed those lessons. “Nicky, help me. The window’s stuck.” 

He didn’t answer. 

“Nicky, the O’Sullivans are leaving. Something’s going on.” Stella turned around and found, not to her surprise, Nicky was sleeping with his long legs stretched out and his new fedora perched over his face. Her husband had shown an amazing capacity to sleep. Once the train was out of Paris, he’d assumed the position and slept steadily for going on twelve hours, waking only to eat and ask if there were any new newspapers available. He hadn’t even woken up when she’d left the train with Marchand in Milan to buy dictionaries or when she accidentally spilled tea on his legs when she awkwardly climbed over them. 

“Oh, for crying out loud.” She glanced back at the O’Sullivans’ retreating umbrellas and then climbed over Nicky’s legs, ramming open their door as loudly as possible. Nicky’s emaciated body in his baggy suit didn’t twitch. She slammed it closed and stalked down the corridor, glancing through windows at all the empty compartments. Their car had been nearly full of wealthy tourists, excited to see the sites they’d only read about. Now they were gone. 

She exited the car and got hit with a blast of painful rain so powerful she didn’t consider running after Marchand. Instead, she darted into the second-class car. The double rows of red-upholstered seats were empty. Not a single passenger remained. Stella didn’t know if it had been full, but there should’ve been someone there. 

The train whistled again and she saw porters and conductors rushing by. She looked back through the door and saw no one coming aboard so she marched through second-class and into the next car. Third-class and it was occupied. Barely. A family of five huddled at the back looked up and then quickly down, avoiding Stella’s enquiring eyes. All except the youngest, a boy of four leaned into the aisle to get a good look only to be yanked out of sight. 

“Pardon,” she called out, coming down the aisle. “I’m sorry. Do you speak English?” 

They didn’t answer, sinking lower into their seats. 

“I don’t mean to bother you, but do you know why everyone is getting off the train?” 

The parents, mute, shook their heads and Stella looked the family over. They were well dressed and not normally third-class passengers she wouldn’t have thought and the luggage rack at the end of the carriage had only two small valises on it, hardly enough for a family. 

“Oh,” she said. “I…” 

The door behind her opened and cold air flooded the carriage.

“Mrs. Lawrence, what are you doing here?” Monsieur Volcot, the first-class conductor, rushed down the aisle, red-faced and sweaty.

“Trying to find out what’s going on,” said Stella. 

“What is going on? Nothing at all. This is the…Bisset family. They are traveling to visit their family in Bologna.” 

“I see,” she said with an arched eyebrow. “I meant what is happening with everyone leaving the train.” 

Monsieur Volcot’s cheeks got redder. “Yes, yes, of course. Venice, it is flooded.” He gently turned her around and led her to the door. 

“Venice is always flooded. It’s practically a permanent condition of the place.” 

“Yes, but this is very bad. The rain has not stopped in three days.” He opened the door and hustled her outside. In a flash, they were in the empty second-class carriage.

“So what? Venice is chock-full of boats. We were told it never shuts down for rain,” said Stella. 

Monsieur Volcot herded her down the aisle. “Yes. Normally, that is true. But this time it is.” 

“Shut down?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why?” 

“The rain will not stop for several days and San Marco is knee-deep in water. I only found out in Verona. They tried to tell me that the rain will stop tomorrow, but it won’t, and I told our passengers that. No one could say when the basilica or the Doge’s palace will reopen.” 

He reached for the door handle and Stella asked, “What will people do?” 

“Make other plans. Perhaps go to Czechoslovakia until the waters have receded.” 

“I meant the Venetians,” said Stella. “What will they do?” 

Monsieur Volcot stopped and met her eyes. “They will do what people do when things happen beyond their control.” 

“Hunker down or escape, you mean.” 

“I believe so.” 

“So why didn’t you tell us that Venice has closed up shop?” she asked. 

A hint of a smile curved his thin lips. “Because Monsieur Lawrence told me that you will go to Venice come hell or high water. It was not a phrase that I was familiar with, but I understood the situation.” 

“He’s right. Hell or high water.” 

“Yes, madam.” He opened the door and a gust of wind nearly ripped it out of his hand. “Please return to your compartment, Madam Lawrence. We will be on our way shortly.” 

Stella stepped into the rain, but turned around. “Monsieur Volcot.” 

His face closed up, fear in his eyes. “Yes, madam?” 

She leaned back toward him. “In the future say less about the Bissets. No one goes to Venice to get to Bologna.” 

He took a breath and whispered, “Yes, madam.” 

Stella darted across the passageway, leaving Monsieur Volcot frozen in the doorway.


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Their compartment was empty. No long legs. No sleeping Nicky. Just his fedora sitting on the seat. The train lurched forward, whistle blaring. Stella ran to the window, but she couldn’t see the platform through the great sheets of rain pelting the window. He might have gotten off. She never imagined he’d look for her. He slept through hot tea, for God’s sake. 

She grabbed her coat and ran out into the corridor, spinning around, unsure where to go. 

“Stella, what are you doing?” Nicky came in the forward door carrying a coffee pot with a couple of cups dangling from his fingers. 

“Oh, thank God.” She leaned on the wall and clasped her coat to her chest. “I don’t think I could’ve jumped off another train.” 

“Why would you?” Nicky walked down the corridor in that casual, unperturbed way of his, kissed her on the forehead, and ducked into their compartment. 

“I thought you might’ve gotten off,” she said. 

“Why?” 

“To look for me.” 

“I wasn’t looking for you,” said Nicky, balancing the coffee pot on the stack of newspapers and putting the cups on Stella’s new favorite book, The Hobbit. 

“No?” 

“I knew you wouldn’t get off the train.” He looked around and rifled through the papers on the opposite seat. “Where’s The London Times? Did you throw it away?” 

“No.” 

“Where did all these dictionaries come from?” he asked, tossing aside her French and Italian dictionaries and a child’s book, Histoire de Babar le petit elephant, that Monsieur Marchand had recommended.

“I bought them when I left the train,” said Stella, coming in and plunking down on the seat just the way a lady shouldn’t. It had been well-established in the last two weeks that Stella was no lady so she no longer bothered to pretend. 

Nicky stopped searching. “You left the train. Why in the world would you do that?” 

She held up the dictionaries he’d so casually tossed aside. “To buy these. If I’m going to learn, I need the tools to do it.” 

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” 

“You say that like I could,” said Stella. 

“You could and you should.” He leaned over and slid the door shut. “If you think the SS has given up on getting Abel’s book, you’re wrong.” 

“Of course I don’t think that. Peiper’s like a bloodhound only starchy and with less moral fiber. And I couldn’t wake you up,” she said. 

“You could.” 

“Look at your legs.” 

Nicky peered down at his formerly pristine pant legs. “What is that? It’s crusty.”

“Tea with sugar.” 

“You poured tea on me?” he asked astonished. “Why in the world would you do that?” 

“I spilled it while climbing over your unconscious body,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It was an accident.” 

He pulled up a pant leg and examined the reddish mark on his shin. “You burned me.” 

“And you still didn’t wake up.” 

“Stella.” 

“Nicky.” 

They eyed each other until Nicky cracked. A smile broke through and they started laughing, almost upsetting the coffee pot. 

“Good God, I was tired. I didn’t know a person could get so tired,” he said. 

“Are you still tired?” asked Stella. 

“I won’t be after this coffee.” He poured a cup and offered it to her, steaming hot and thick from an espresso maker. “How about you? Did you sleep at all?” 

“No, I couldn’t.” 

Nicky smoothed back his thick blond hair and straightened his tie. He looked every bit the man she married, but also not, at the same time. It wasn’t the gaunt lines of his face or the bruises. He was different and she was different, too. But she didn’t want to be different. She wanted to be Stella, the girl before it happened, and she wasn’t. In Paris, she thought all she needed was clean clothes and a good meal. The Boulards had seen to all that. Her bruises were fading and would soon be invisible, but she wasn’t Stella, not that Stella, not anymore. 

“What is it?” he asked, sounding very much like he was afraid of the answer.

“I don’t know.” 

“You do.” 

She told him the truth, but only the part she knew he would understand. She couldn’t say that the moment that she finished reading The Hobbit a wave of homesickness had come over so strong that she’d nearly begun crying. She was tired. She was sore. Everything hurt from her swollen, frost-bitten feet to her battered nose. Stella Bled Lawrence was eighteen, married, arguably a murderer, and she wanted her mother. 

“I keep thinking about Abel,” she said. 

“I do, too.” 

“When you’re conscious.” 

He smiled and her homesickness got the tiniest bit better. “When I’m conscious.” 

“What do you think will happen?” she asked. 

“To Abel? Nothing, I hope. Josiah will go, throw the Bled weight around, and get him out.” 

“You don’t think they’ll arrest him then?” asked Stella. That had been one of her nightmares. Josiah in Dachau with Abel. 

“No, I don’t think they can do that,” said Nicky. 

Stella took a couple of aspirin and washed them down with a sip of coffee. It wouldn’t help her feet. They’d been getting worse. All the running in Paris had finally caught up to her. 

“They would’ve arrested us if they’d gotten the chance,” she said.  

Nicky looked out the window at the long fingers of rain slithering across the window, his mask of indifference sliding into place. “Yes, that’s true.”

Once Stella would’ve thought him bored, cold, untouched by the danger, but she wasn’t a newlywed any longer, despite the brief amount of time since the wedding. Peril had made them well and truly married and she knew him. Nicky Lawrence was seriously concerned so she didn’t press. 

“Actually, I’m more concerned about the Sorkines at the moment and what will happen in Venice,” she said. 

“Are you?” 

She thought that might kick a crack in his composure, but it didn’t. He sipped his coffee and chose a newspaper. The New York Times from four days ago. 

“You realize that Venice is flooded and everyone left the train?” 

“Yes.” 

“The Sorkines might’ve left Venice, too.” 

That did it. Nicky turned to her with a flicker of concern, no more. “That changes nothing.” 

“Yes, it does. We need to tell them about Abel and the book. If we don’t find them, they might follow our trail to Vienna. They’re not going to give up on the book any more than the Nazis, Peiper, in particular.” 

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.” 

“We need a plan,” she insisted. 

“What would you like to do?” he asked, his blue eyes half-mast and completely bored. 

She wanted to smack him, to shake something loose. “I want to know what’s going to happen.” 

Nicky yawned. “I can’t tell you that. I can’t even tell you what has already happened.” He tossed the old newspaper on the floor with a sigh. “This is maddening.” 

“Really?” 

“Of course,” he said. 

“Good. I want you to be as frustrated as me,” she said with a grin before coming to his seat and cuddling up. 

“How is that helpful?” he asked, pouring her another cup of coffee. 

“I don’t know, but it is.” 

He rested his head on hers. “You are ridiculous.” 

“And sublime?” 

“Without a doubt.” 

A quiet knock rattled the door and they looked up to find Monsieur Volcot standing in the corridor holding up a newspaper. Nicky waved him in, but the conductor hesitated, glancing at Stella. She smiled with what she hoped was reassurance and he came in. 

“Monsieur Marchand sent these for you. He believed you would like to have the news,” said Monsieur Volcot. 

Nicky practically snatched the papers from him. “Thank you very much. What day are these? Yesterday. It’s a miracle.” 

Monsieur Volcot smiled and nodded as he backed out of the compartment. 

“Wait,” said Stella and his face tensed. “Do you speak Italian?” 

“Yes, madam. I do. A little.” 

Stella knew well enough that when a European said “a little” they meant a lot. “Are you busy?” 

“Well…I…” He kept backing up and glanced around as if an excuse might emerge from the walls. 

“There aren’t any other passengers,” said Stella with a well-placed wink behind Nicky’s bowed head. 

“Um…yes, madam. You are the only passengers at present,” said Monsieur Volcot.

“Then would you mind helping me with some Italian phrases? Monsieur Marchand taught me a few, but it’s not nearly enough.” She held up her Italian dictionary. “I have this, but pronunciation is the sticking point.” 

“Well, I should be—”

“Give it up, man,” said Nicky, waving him to the opposite seat. “She’ll chase you down the corridor and who has time for that?” 

“Very well,” said Monsieur Volcot, sitting stiffly on the seat. “What would you like to know?” 

“I know how to say hello and all that, but I need to ask for a hotel, a small, out of the way place, not so popular with Americans.” 

“I thought you’d been to Venice before.” 

“We have, but our…circumstances have changed,” said Stella. 

“I see.” He flicked a glance up at the luggage rack above their heads. It held only Stella’s battered handbag, a hatbox, and her new makeup case. “There are a few options I can recommend.” 

Nicky looked up. “We’d appreciate that.” 

“Close to the ghetto would be best,” said Stella and Monsieur Volcot got stiffer. She hadn’t thought it possible. The poor man looked as though he might pop a vessel. 

“No need to look as though you’re facing the firing squad,” said Nicky, suddenly radiating charm, but it didn’t change the petrified conductor’s demeanor one bit. “She’s on your side.” 

“Sir, I assure you, I don’t have a side.” 

“We’ve been in Europe for over two months,” said Nicky. “Let me assure you that there are definitely sides and unless you are a National Socialist, we’re on yours.” 

Monsieur Volcot blew out a breath and relaxed into the seat back. “I would recommend the Hotel al Ponte Vittoria. They are friendly and reasonably priced.” 

“Close to the ghetto?” asked Stella. 

His eyes roamed over her face. It only took a second, but she’d come to understand that he was looking for a hint to her origins, as if being Jewish would be written on her forehead or in the slant of her pale blue eyes. Such a ridiculous notion. But since he was obviously protecting the family in third class, she decided not to take offense. Monsieur Volcot didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted to know her. That was a dangerous thing. Stella had come to think of herself as a kind of disaster magnet. The Dutch historian, Dr. Van Wijk, her father’s friend, Hans, Albert Moore, and Roger Morris the artist dead or very nearly so. 

“Yes,” he said. “Walking distance, but it floods very easily. It will not be passable.” 

“We’ll find a way.” 

He smiled and said, “I believe you will.” 

Stella looked at that nice man, not young, not old, probably a husband and father, at the very least a good and loyal friend and a fresh wave of homesickness came over her. How she wanted to go home, to walk off that train, be safe, and cause no one any trouble anymore. 

“You know our names,” she said. 

He tensed again. Monsieur Volcot had seen their passports. They could’ve been fake, but they weren’t. “Yes, madam.” 

“It’s a good idea if you forget them,” said Nicky. 

“Yes, sir. I forget many things. I am very unreliable that way.” 

“That’s not usually an admirable quality.” Then Stella added with a smile, “But in such cases as these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever remember it myself.” 

Neither man got her Jane Austen reference and her eyes fell on The Hobbit. Cyril Welk had given it to her and he certainly would’ve known the quote. She missed him, in spite of herself. The little spy had saved and then betrayed her, trying his best to keep her from Napoleon’s tomb and Nicky, but why? That she didn’t know and feared she never would. 

“My memory is terrible and I will never improve it,” said Monsieur Volcot.

“Glad to hear it,” said Nicky. “Now what’s the name of that hotel again?” 

“The Hotel al Ponte Vittoria. Very good people. Understanding and forgetful.” 

Stella shook off her sadness and picked up her dictionary. “Now how do I ask for it?” 

They began their lesson, working through simple phrases and questions. The rain poured and Nicky read. In the short amount of time left before they arrived in Venice, Stella got everything she needed, except a plan.