NICKY STAYED PERCHED on the bottom step of the train car and Stella ducked, trying to see around him in the narrow area. “Go. What are you waiting for?” It had taken them ten minutes to get through the mad rush of boarding passengers.
“It’s worse than I thought,” he yelled over his shoulder.
“What is?”
“The water.”
Stella squeezed between him and the railing and was shocked to find what amounted to a waterfall in front of her. The platform had a roof that ended about five feet from the train and the rain was pouring off it in a solid sheet. She could make out the platform and it wasn’t under water, which was the only positive.
Nicky’s giant golfing umbrella was lost in Vienna and they hadn’t known to buy a new one in Paris. Stella never owned galoshes in her life, but she wasn’t even sure galoshes would do it. They needed something like the rubber overalls the men at the brewery wore to clean the vats.
“I guess we’ll get wet,” said Stella.
“Just when I’d gotten used to being dry and warm.”
“Good things never last.”
“Don’t say that. You’ll jinx us,” he said.
“You don’t believe in luck, but you believe in jinxes?” asked Stella, looking for a break in the water. There wasn’t one.
“I’m beginning to. Let me—”
Stella jumped through the water and landed with an inelegant splat on the platform, sending rockets of pain through her damaged feet and up her legs. She stumbled forward and someone caught her. She gasped in pain, clinging to his black coat. It could be anyone. It could be an SS officer.
“Signora?” he asked in a lovely resonate tenor voice and Stella looked up into a pale face with gentle, brown eyes and a priest’s collar under the dimpled chin.
“Oh, thank God,” Stella burst out. “Sorry, Father.”
He looked rather startled, but quickly asked, “Non see la Signora Goldenberg?”
Stella wasn’t sure what he was asking, but she didn’t know anyone named Goldenberg, so she shook her head no.
Down the line of train cars, the silent family dashed onto the platform and huddled together, looking around for someone.
“Scusi, signora.” The priest hurried over and hustled them away with a glance back at Stella. He couldn’t get away fast enough.
Nicky came through the waterfall, lugging her hat box and makeup case. “Who was that?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Not the Bissets though.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll explain later.”
Nicky looked around at the platform with passengers rushing past them to board, but no staff in evidence. “Well, I was hoping there’d be someone to help.”
Stella took her makeup case from him and found its weight surprising. She’d forgotten that she’d stowed Gabriele Griese’s pistol in the bottom. The unwelcome reminder made the image of Gabriele’s body slipping into the Seine bloom in her mind. Stella felt no guilt. It had to be done, but it was less than pleasant all the same, and she forced it away. “Come on. There has to be someone around.”
They trudged off the platform and into the station, braving two more waterfalls and a puddle the size of Lake Como only to find the station practically deserted.
“It’s like Vienna,” said Nicky.
“Don’t say that,” said Stella, but he wasn’t entirely wrong. When they’d left Venice, a person could barely move in Santa Lucia. There were buskers, hawkers of exotic food, and travelers, so many travelers, rushing to get wherever it was that they were going. Now they could hear their footsteps on the floor. “At least there aren’t any of those hateful flags.”
“You’re right. No swastikas to ruin our day. I wonder how long that will last.”
“Oh, come on. Germany can’t take over everyone.”
“Wanna bet?”
Stella ignored him and walked off toward a newspaper man who was shuttering his little stand. She didn’t want to hear any more miserable predictions. Monsieur Volcot’s new papers had only succeeded in making Nicky gloomy. It seemed the world did not care about what happened on the Kristallnacht, unless you counted a few stern words of disapproval. Everyone wanted to avoid another war and if the Jews had to be sacrificed, so be it, or at least that’s what Nicky told her as she was practicing her vocabulary. He was on about the annexation of the Sudetenland and the future of Czechoslovakia. He might be right about them and some others. Austria, obviously, maybe Poland, but Italy, no. They were just so Italian. Rules were just considered suggestions. How many times had she heard “Domani,” when she asked when something would get done. Tomorrow meant tomorrow or the next day or more likely never. Italians wouldn’t comply the way the Austrians had. Regulations didn’t run in their veins. Wine did.
The station was a good example. Sure, it was empty and cold, but it didn’t have a jot of the fear that wafted around the Vienna station. The travelers there had been terribly afraid, for good reason as it turned out, but the travelers in Santa Lucia were just soggy and irritated.
“Scusi, signore.” Stella asked if he had a water bus schedule. He stared at her bewildered so she tried again. He shrugged and shooed her away. She started to insist, but Nicky dragged her away. “Forget it.”
“I know my pronunciation was perfect. You heard me. Vaporetto. That’s what the buses are called. Wasn’t it perfect?”
“Apparently, it wasn’t. Let’s just go out to the stop. I think they have schedules posted.”
They pushed through a crush of sopping wet tourists hurrying into the station and came out onto the steps overlooking the Grand Canal, except the Grand Canal was more like a lake. The water was up over the steps that led to the vaporetto dock. People were wading through the water, holding luggage up over their heads and cursing in multiple languages.
“How deep do you think that is?” asked Stella.
“I don’t think it matters.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re on stilts.”
He laughed and tried to pick her up. “I’ll carry you.”
She pushed him away and took off her shoes, tucking them in her pockets.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I only have one pair.”
“It’s dirty and you might cut your feet.”
Stella hoisted up her skirt and coat. “And there might be sharks. Come on. There’s the vaporetto.”
They walked down into the water and Stella regretted it almost instantly. The water was beyond dirty and ice cold. Her teeth were chattering before they made it half way. There had to be a hotel close by. She started to turn around, but Nicky shouted. “It’s leaving. I’ll catch it.” He surged off through the grey water, waving his arms and shouting the only word he knew, “Basta! Basta!”
The water bus did not basta. It left, belching black smoke and creating waves that brought the water up to Stella’s thighs. Being hammered into a beer barrel was starting to seem like an elegant way to travel.
“Swell,” said Nicky. “Let’s go back. There has to be someone who can help.”
“There is,” said Stella, pointing at a small and non-too-seaworthy looking water taxi on the other side of the canal. There was a captain in it, smoking a cigarette and smiling laconically at them.
“He’ll charge an arm and a leg.”
“And we’ll pay it.” Stella waved and shouted. The captain nodded, lit a second cigarette, and fired up his engine. The dingy craft bounced over the waves to collide with the dock and bobble around like a cork until the captain gunned the engine in a kind of coughing way and persuaded it to calm down enough so that they could climb aboard.
Stella slipped around on the waterlogged space between the canvas-covered helm and the glassed-in passenger area.
“Buongiorna, signora,” said the captain, continuing to smoke the two cigarettes at once.
“Buongiorno, signore,” said Stella while holding onto the back of the captain’s seat for dear life.
Nicky stepped into the boat and lost his footing in the narrow stair. He fell on his rump, long legs and arms flailing. Stella grabbed the makeup case, but the hatbox went flying overboard. The captain gave him a hand up and asked something incomprehensible.
Nicky looked at Stella and every Italian word she’d learned flew out of her head.
“Quoi?” she shouted over the rattling engine, the rain, and the cargo boat that chose that moment to chug by.
The captain said something.
“Quoi?” she repeated.
“Isn’t that French?” yelled Nicky.
“Maybe he knows it!”
The look on the weathered seaman’s face said he didn’t and that he was rapidly losing patience.
“Hotel!” yelled Stella.
“Sì!”
“We want the Hotel al Ponte Vittoria!”
He nodded vigorously and put his hand up to shield his eyes from a fresh onslaught of stinging rain. “Sì hotel.”
Stella tried again, but her teeth were chattering so badly she couldn’t get it out in anything that sounded like actual words.
“Show him the paper!” yelled Nicky.
“What?”
“You wrote it down, didn’t you?”
She’d totally forgotten that she’d taken the precaution of writing down key phrases and the hotel. She’d forgotten so well that she’d shoved her wet shoe in her pocket on top of the list. It came out soaked and had to be peeled apart with her fingernails. The hotel name was mostly intact and when she showed it to the captain, he nodded. “Ah! Sì! Sì! Sì! Vittoria!”
“Yes! Yes! Vittoria!” yelled Stella and he pointed at the passenger door.
Nicky flung open the door and they squeezed into the small area that smelled like mold and wet dog. The bench seats had springs sticking out of them and had some stains that Stella chose to believe were either dirt or chocolate.
“Don’t say it,” she said, picking up a crusty wool blanket and wrapping it around her legs.
“Say what?” asked Nicky as he wedged himself between two wickedly sharp springs.
“Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“That phrase has never been more accurate.”
“It’s fine. We’ll go to the hotel, defrost in the bath, and figure out what to do.” Stella sounded cheerful, but homesickness was settling in for a long stay.
A faster boat blew past them and a huge amount of spray hit the windows, coming through the cracks and broken panes to soak Nicky from the back.
“The worst honeymoon in history just got even worse,” said Nicky, his teeth beginning to chatter, too.
“It’s not that bad,” said Stella.
“We could be dead, I suppose.” He stared at her from under his sagging fedora with water dripping off the tip.
“We could be Calvin.”
“Calvin?”
“My friend, Emily’s husband. They went to England for their honeymoon.”
“Wise decision.” Nicky took off his fedora and shook it, spraying the floor and Stella.
She wrinkled her nose at him and said, “He found out about a game they play called rugby.”
“If you’re trying to say that a rugby injury is worse than being chased by Hitler’s thugs across half of Europe, getting frost bite, and nearly killed, not to mention this colossal disaster, I’m going to have to say no.”
“He was hospitalized for a week and lost his vision in the left eye,” said Stella.
“I’d take that over this honeymoon,” said Nicky. “It’s not over. We don’t know where the Sorkines are and, if I had to lay bets, Peiper is going to turn up, sooner rather than later.”
“Maybe he won’t.”
“He will.”
“Then we better hurry up.”
The boat turned onto a smaller canal and slowed down. Stella didn’t want to think about Peiper. Not just then. Her teeth had stopped chattering and she leaned back to look out the window. Venice was lovely, even in a deluge. The ancient buildings loomed overhead with their faded colors and crumbling stucco, speaking of a more elegant age. Tiny little balconies in wrought iron sat in front of tall, narrow doors shuttered against the rain, but occasionally she’d catch a glimpse of a multicolored chandelier with snaking tubes of delicate glass and encrusted with flowers and leaves. Stella couldn’t remember why she wanted to leave so badly. She’d been safe, but then again she hadn’t been aware that safety wasn’t guaranteed.
She wanted to go home and feel that safety again, but when she turned back to Nicky and saw his eyes trained on her, she remembered. Where was home? They hadn’t discussed it. Home to her was St. Louis. It couldn’t be otherwise. Nicky was a New Yorker and he worked at his family’s company, United Shipping and Steel. He would think that they’d live there. Never mind the brewery.
Nicky started to say something, but the engine cut out and the captain banged on the glass. Stella threw off her crusty blanket and picked up her makeup bag.
“I hope you didn’t have anything important in that hat box,” said Nicky.
She laughed and nudged him with her shoulder. “I only have one hat.” She flicked the formerly fabulous feather that now lay on her shoulder, limp like a black rat’s tail.
“I’m going to fix that. Eventually.”
“I’ll settle for a hot bath.”
The taxi glided up to a small dock under an elegant canopy and Nicky frowned. “We should’ve specified not too expensive.”
The dock did have a pricey look about it, similar to the five-star hotel they’d stayed in before. The polished steps up from the boat had a non-slip covering and a brass handrail with a lion’s head perched on the end.
“Too late now,” said Nicky.
“Much too late.”
The captain asked for their fare and Stella was forced to get out her dictionary that was nearly as bad off as her Italian notes, but she gathered that they could buy a boat for what he wanted. Nicky started haggling and Stella climbed out, wincing at the pain in her feet. They were under the canopy so at least she wasn’t getting more wet, which was probably possible although she was sure that she didn’t look it.
Nicky came up the stairs and said, “Well, that was a rip-off, but we’re here.” He tried the door, but it was locked. “This cannot be happening.”
Stella pointed to the bell. “I think we have to ring to come in.”
“Ring then.”
She rang and they waited an exceedingly painful five minutes for a man to walk leisurely down the teak-paneled halls with a clipboard and a look that was both eager and haughty at the same time.
When he got to the door, he looked them over slowly and checked his clipboard, his liver-colored lips pursed in dismay. Then he looked around their feet and his frown deepened.
“What’s he looking for?” Nicky knocked.
The man shook his head and made a shooing gesture at them like they were a couple of vermin that washed up on shore.
Nicky knocked again and the glass door rattled on its fancy brass hinges. “We can pay. We’re Americans.”
The man sneered at them and pointed at a black telephone on a little mahogany table.
“I think he’s going to call the police,” said Stella.
Nicky pounded on the door. “I’m wet. I’m tired. I’m rich. Let me the hell in.”
The hotelier picked up the phone and began dialing. Stella grabbed Nicky’s arm and wedged herself between him and the door. “Stop it. The last thing we need is the police.”
“Maybe we do need the authorities. Maybe he needs to be taught a lesson.”
“Aren’t Italy and Germany allies? Do we want to be arrested by a Nazi ally?”
Nicky abruptly stopped, took off his fedora, and smoothed his hair. “No. Obviously not.”
She pulled him away from the door as the hotelier began speaking into the receiver. “Hurry up. We need to be gone.”
“Where are we going? Into the canal?”
She pointed at a second set of stairs that led to an arched bridge over the canal. They ran up the steps past a couple of drowned rats and a broken wine bottle to find a choice.
“Left or right?” asked Stella.
Down the narrow passageway, a man stuck his head out a door and raised a fist. “Vittene, sporchi ebrei!”
“Not that way.” Nicky spun her around and they ran up the stairs of the bridge. Stella had forgotten how exhausting Venice was. Stairs everywhere.
Another narrow passageway waited on the other side. It was lower and flooded. Two men stood in the pouring rain, using what looked like an oversized bicycle pump attached to a hose. Water was trickling out a window through a wide tube. It was a mystery why they’d be pumping out the building when they were standing in four inches of water, but she saw why when they splashed down into the passageway. The door had sandbags stacked up in it and the interior appeared mostly dry.
“Once more into the breech,” said Nicky, dragging her behind him and the man from the hotel came over the bridge and yelled at them as they splashed away.
The two men at the pump yelled back, making a rude hand gesture at the hotelier that Abel had called “the horns.” People did it a lot in traffic. Stella averted her eyes. “The horns” were sometimes followed by crotch scratching and her day had been bad enough.
The hotelier stopped yelling, beaten back by the ferocity of the workers, but Stella and Nicky kept trudging away.
“Sei ebreo?” yelled one of the workers after them.
They ignored him and sped up.
“Sind sie Juden?” he yelled.
Nicky kept going, but Stella stopped and nearly got pulled off her feet.
“Come on, Stella!”
“I think he asked if we’re Jewish,” she said.
“So?” Nicky looked up at the faces that were popping out of the windows above them and was rewarded with rain in the face.
“I’d like to know why.” She wrenched her hand out of his and turned back to yell, “Nein! Kein Juden!”
“Hello, Stella,” said Nicky. “We’re being chased.”
“Not anymore. Thanks to them.”
The men waved at her and they splashed over. The younger worker said something in German that Stella couldn’t make out. “Do you speak English at all?”
“Ah, English,” he said with a broad smile. “You are Americans, yes?”
“Yes,” said Stella. “Why was he chasing us? We wanted a room for the night.”
“Fabrizio hates Jews,” said the man. “My sister she marry Lorenzo. He is a Jew.” He shook a fist in the direction that Fabrizio had disappeared in.
“We’re not Jews,” said Nicky.
“You look like Jews.”
“Because we’re wet? Everyone is wet,” said Stella.
“Because you have nothing with you. The Jews, they come from the North and they have nothing.”
“Well, thank you for explaining,” said Nicky. “We’ve got to find another hotel.”
“There are many hotels, but some will not like no luggage,” he said, holding out his rough hand. “I am Luca and this is my father Antonio.”
“You’re very good at languages.”
“I studied in Rome before I come home to help my father,” said Luca. “You want cheap hotel, yes?”
“Cheap is good,” said Stella, “and near the ghetto. We are trying to find some friends and we think they might be there.”
He nodded and spoke to his father. The older man nodded, considered, and gave a name that was very familiar.
“My father says that you want to go to the Hotel al Ponte Vittoria. They will take you.”
Nicky pointed at the bridge. “Isn’t that the Hotel al Ponte Vittoria with Fabrizio the Jew hater?”
Luca laughed. “No, no. That is Hotel Palazzo Vittoria.”
“Well, that explains it,” said Nicky. “How far is the other one, the good one?”
Between Luca and his father they got directions to the right hotel that happily wasn’t too far. Ten minutes, Luca claimed, but it might as well have been an hour. Stella’s teeth were chattering and her feet numb. It was a toss-up when she’d felt worse, just then or after she’d crashed Peiper’s plane.
“Be careful,” called out Luca after them. “It’s different after the Leggi Razziali.”
“The what?” asked Nicky.
“The new laws for the Jews. Life will be harder for your friends.”
Nicky nodded and Stella whispered, “Here, too?”
“It started in September, but I didn’t think it was that serious. No one said anything to Abel when we were here.”
“Something new then?”
“Must be,” said Nicky. “I told you Italy is next.”
“They don’t seem like the type.”
“It looks like every country is the type.”
Stella stood in front of the door of the Hotel al Ponte Vittoria with her finger hovering over the bell.
“What on Earth are you waiting for?” asked Nicky.
She looked left and right for an escape route, but there were no good options. They were in the narrowest passage she’d ever seen. She and Nicky had walked single file and he kept bumping the sides. Even the door was small. Stella sized. Nicky would have to stoop. But reassuringly, the name Hotel al Ponte Vittoria was painted above the arched door in graceful script and the passage wasn’t flooded.
“Stella, please.”
“I’m figuring out where to run if this doesn’t work out.”
“It’s going to work out.”
“That’s what we always think.”
“I see your point, but your lips are turning blue and icicles are forming on my elbows.” He pressed her hand and she pushed the small button.
“Here goes nothing,” she said.
“Right now, it’s everything.”
A few fretful minutes later, a woman opened the door. She wore a thick white apron and a welcoming smile until she saw the state of them. Stella’s heart sunk and she got ready to run.
“We lost our luggage.” She almost said that they weren’t Jewish, but her heart wouldn’t let her. It shouldn’t matter.
“Do you speak English?” asked Nicky.
The woman stepped back and welcomed them in. “Buonasera. Yes, of course, I speak English. Let me apologize. I was startled by your appearance. You have had a difficult day, yes?”
“I can’t even begin to tell you.” Stella squeezed past her into a surprisingly large and pleasing hall with a fat umbrella stand on octagonal tiles dotted with Turkish rugs. The walls were a warm yellow and lit by small, tasteful chandeliers, Murano glass but a quieter style, only frosted glass and leaves. And it was warm, so warm and inviting Stella’s eyes welled up.
“Excuse me,” said Nicky and there was a thump.
“Oh, sir. Your head,” said the woman. “Are you all right?”
“If you have whiskey, I will be.”
She laughed. “We do.”
Stella turned and saw Nicky standing in a growing puddle rubbing the top of his head.
“Oh, no,” she said. “Your floor.”
But the woman wasn’t looking at the puddle under Nicky. She was looking at Stella’s feet. “Antonio! Antonio!” Then came a burst of rapid Italian and a little old man came running down the hall, stooped, frowning, and carrying a pile of towels. He exclaimed and spread out a towel for each of them to step on.
“I’m so sorry about the mess,” said Stella.
“It is nothing. I am Sofia, your host. We must get you out of those wet clothes.”
“Do you have a room?” asked Nicky as the old man slipped off his sodden coat and held it up at arm’s length, making a new puddle.
“Of course. It is the off-season and this rain.” Sofia made a tsking sound that seemed to be universal among older ladies and eyed Stella’s feet again before she helped her off with her coat and hat. “You will need a doctor. I will call our friend. He will know how to help you.”
“Oh, no. I think it’s all right,” said Stella.
“Call the doctor,” said Nicky. “The sooner the better.”
“You have the currency to pay him?” asked Sofia.
“We have money, just no luggage.”
Sofia’s smile widened and Stella sensed a bit of relief. She accepted a towel and began drying off as best she could. “As for the doctor, I don’t—”
“Stella, for once, can you not argue?” asked Nicky. “Look at your feet.”
She didn’t look, having learned that looking only made things worse. “It’s fine. I need a bath and a bed. That’s all.”
They all looked at her silently and then Sofia popped into action, yelling for someone named Matteo. A young man about Stella’s age peeked out from the large desk at the end of the hall and Sofia waved to him to come down. Matteo stopped next to Stella, doing his level best not to stare, nodded, and attempted to grab her.
“Hey.” Stella slapped his hands and he jumped back.
“Matteo will carry you to your room,” said Sofia hastily. “You cannot walk on those feet.”
“I’ve been walking on them just fine.”
Sofia set her jaw and Nicky said, “I agree, but I’ll carry her.”
“Nobody is carrying me. I’m not a child,” said Stella, taking a step and flinching from the burning pain in her foot.
“Look at your feet and say that,” said Nicky.
“I don’t need—”
“Do it.”
She sucked in a breath and looked down, preparing for the worst and getting more than that. Her feet looked like boiled pork sausages that had rotted. The skin was peeling and had split and somewhere along the line she’d lost several toenails. “Oh my God.”
“All right then,” said Nicky. “I’ll carry you.”
Sofia pointed at Matteo. “He is very strong and you are tired.”
“I can do it,” said Nicky and Sofia gave him a look that Stella recognized. Her imperious grandmother looked at Uncle Josiah that way when he said things like, “I think I’ll have another double,” or “What kind of fool do you think I am?”
Nicky shrank back and conceded the way that Uncle Josiah never did and Sofia waved at Matteo, who blushed to the roots of his wavy black hair. But he obeyed and swept Stella off her hideous feet.
Led by Sofia, he carried her down a warren of halls to a door with an ornate H on it. She opened the door and Matteo carried her to a canopy bed draped in green damask. Sofia bustled over to put down a double layer of towels and Matteo gently laid her down.
“May I help you with your stockings?” asked Sofia and Stella looked down in surprise. She’d forgotten she’d had stockings and indeed she now didn’t. The silk had shredded and hung around her calves in limp, wet tendrils.
“It’s okay. I can do it,” she said sadly, but the stockings were the least of her worries. Her new red suit was a wreck, the skirt drenched, but, at least, the jacket and creamy silk blouse that Amelie had so lovingly selected had been protected by her fur.
“Don’t worry,” said Sofia, sensing her dismay. “There are shops nearby. They will accommodate you.”
Stella nodded, wondering how she could possibly get there on those feet and in those clothes.
“Here.” Sofia handed her a toweling robe. “I will have your clothes and coat cleaned.”
Antonio knocked and came in, saying something about a medico and Sofia nodded. “Dr. Davide will be here in an hour. May I draw you a bath, sir?”
“Thank you.” Nicky pulled out his wallet. “How much for a week?”
Sofia demurred, but Nicky insisted on paying ahead and she finally accepting a wad of lira.
“Another thing. Would it be possible to arrange a transatlantic call?” asked Nicky.
“You want to call your family?” interrupted Stella.
“No.” He seemed puzzled at the suggestion. “Yours. To tell them we’ve arrived and…find out their news.”
Stella folded her hands over her stomach. “I should’ve known.”
“Excuse me, sir,” said Sofia. “Our telephone doesn’t not work. The rain has broken the lines. I could arrange for a call at one of the larger hotels, but it will take some time to arrange.”
“When will it be fixed?” asked Stella.
Sofia asked Antonio and the old man shrugged, “Domani.”
Stella and Nicky exchanged knowing glances.
“Never mind,” said Nicky. “We’ll telegram.”
She nodded. “As you wish.”
After Sofia and the others had left, Nicky stripped. Stella popped opened her makeup case and dug out the pistol. Nicky raised an eyebrow but said nothing as she shoved it under the mattress. Out of sight wasn’t quite out of mind, but it would have to do.
“She didn’t ask us to register, but I suppose we’ll have to, at some point,” said Stella as she unsnapped the remains of her stockings from her garter belt. “Do we tell them we’re the Bled Lawrences?”
“I don’t know why we would.” He stood glaring at her in his sagging briefs with his formerly pristine body looking like he’d been to war, which in a way Stella supposed he had. She wouldn’t really know because every time she asked about what happened when they were apart, Nicky promptly went to sleep.
“Because that’s who we are.”
“That may be who you are, but I’m still Nicky Lawrence.”
Stella flung her stockings on the tile with a wet slap. “Okay.”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like it’s not true.”
“Okay.”
“Stella,” he growled.
She unbuttoned her jacket and examined her blouse before glancing slyly at her husband. “What happened to Hans after I left the two of you at the brewery?”
He picked up his robe and turned away from her.
“All right. How did you get to Paris?” she asked.
“Sofia probably has my bath ready.” He stalked over to the door, whipped it open, and left without looking back.
Stella took off her jacket and unbuttoned her blouse. “That’s what I thought.”
Stella managed to get all her clothes off without standing up. She wrapped herself in her fluffy robe, propping her feet up on a wad of semi-wet towels with her blouse draped over them. It wasn’t good for the silk, but a little stained silk was better than looking at those feet, in her estimation, and silk was the only thing that didn’t chafe. Now they weren’t burning as much as hurting, which under any other circumstances would’ve been horrid, but just then, it was actually an improvement.
Such an improvement that she laid back on the feather pillows and closed her eyes. The room smelled faintly of lemon verbena and cigarette smoke. It was almost like having her mother and grandmother there with her but without the exasperation and worrying. The bed was comfortable and she was almost able to drift off when a quiet knock came to ruin it. She called for the person to come in. They didn’t, not immediately, so she expected Matteo, but it was Sofia, wringing her hands and avoiding Stella’s direct gaze.
“I have bad news. Dr. Davide, he is not here.”
“Okay. It’s fine.”
“There is a baby coming. It’s fast and he can’t come.”
“I understand.” Stella was rather relieved. If a doctor didn’t come, he couldn’t tell her that her toes were going to fall off and he couldn’t do anything about it. If her toes were going to fall off, she rather they just did it without an unhelpful warning.
“He has sent his associate,” she said. “Would you like to see him?”
Nicky strode into the room, freshly washed with his blond hair combed back to show off the bruise on his forehead. “Yes, she would.”
Stella sighed. “I guess so.”
Sofia didn’t move.
“Well?”
“There may be a…complication.”
“Isn’t there always?” Nicky picked up his clothes that had been drying on the radiator, his indifference masked frustration although to Stella it was quite visible. “He wants an outrageous fee? Is that it?”
“No, no. He is quite reasonable,” said Sofia.
“Then get him in here. Those feet aren’t going to heal up on their own.”
“They might,” interjected Stella.
Sofia kept wringing her hands. “She must be seen. I explained the feet to Dr. Davide.”
“Then what’s the hold up?” asked Nicky.
“Hold up?” asked Sofia.
“What are we waiting for?”
She nodded. “I see. There may be a complication.”
“You said that already.”
Sofia leaned back to look at their door, which was open. She went over and quickly closed it. “Salvatore is a Jew.”
“And a doctor?” asked Nicky.
“Yes.”
“A good one?”
“Yes, I trust him…with several of our guests,” said Sofia.
Nicky’s indifference fell away and the congenial Nicky took over. “Bring him in. My wife needs help.”
Sofia relaxed but still had her hands clasped together. “You understand it’s against our law.”
“What is?” asked Stella, her throat suddenly tight and hot. “Being a Jew?”
“Not yet, but I do not think that is far from us,” said Sofia. “Dr. Salvatore cannot treat gentiles.” She paused and then asked, “You are gentiles?”
“Yes, and we don’t care about that stupid law. Do we, Nicky?”
Nicky stood up, casual and loose, and Sofia stopped clenching. “We won’t tell if he won’t.”
She smiled and went into the hall. Nicky got dressed and, a minute later, she returned with a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair and wearing a well-cut pin-striped suit and a dark overcoat. He could’ve been anyone, practically anywhere with any religion. He could’ve been her father or Uncle Nicolai. Not Uncle Josiah. He’d never been that respectable in his life. The whole thing was beyond ridiculous. A doctor needed patients and vice versa.
“Dr. Salvatore,” Nicky held out his hand, “thank you for coming.”
“You are very welcome.” The doctor paused. “I don’t believe I know your name.”
“Because I haven’t given one.”
Dr. Salvatore bowed his head slightly. “I understand and apologize.”
“Think nothing of it. What do you know about frost bite?” Nicky lifted the blouse and Stella was certain she saw the good doctor wince ever so slightly.
“It is not my field of expertise, but I believe I can help.” He opened his big black medical bag and asked for a basin of hot water. Nicky and Sofia got Stella situated in a chair and the doctor mixed several tinctures into the water and swirled it with a wooden tongue depressor.
He squatted in front of the basin and gingerly picked up her foot. “You have been walking?”
“Yes. I had to, but it wasn’t this bad before. It just happened,” said Stella.
“Have you been taking anything?”
“Just aspirin.”
“That’s very effective for swelling and pain. You should continue taking it.” Then he surprised her by sniffing her foot. “You have been walking in the canal water.”
“Yes. There wasn’t much of a choice.”
“It is very bad for the skin and yours was already damaged.” He lowered her foot to the water. “This will hurt you.”
“Swell,” said Stella, gripping the sides of the chair.
He stopped and asked, “Would you like to continue?”
“Yes,” said Nicky, but Dr. Salvatore didn’t look at him as Stella suspected a doctor in the States would have. He only looked at her, only she mattered.
“Yes,” she said. “I have to get up and walking soon.”
He lowered her foot into the water and she gasped at the stinging heat, but then it was sort of tingly.
“Too hot?” he asked.
“I think it’s okay.”
He put the second foot in and then pulled out a syringe. Stella stiffened and then reminded herself, if she could give a shot she ought to be able to take one. “Is that for Prontosil?”
He pulled a small vial out of his bag and snapped it open. “You have medical knowledge?”
“Only about that,” said Stella. “And Eukadol.”
He drew the liquid into the syringe and Nicky asked, “What’s that for?”
“To kill the infection.”
“The water gave her an infection?”
“I believe it was already there and she reacted to the…soiled water,” said Dr. Salvatore as he gave her the shot. It wasn’t more painful than her feet which was all she could say for it.
“What’s in your treatment?” she asked, grasping for a distraction.
“Copper salts, vitamins A and D, lavender, and pomegranate. I have used them to good effect on burns.” He lifted her right foot and examined her toes. “This hurts?”
“A whole lot.”
“Then I think you will recover well, but you must soak your feet twice a day and not walk.”
Stella glanced up at Nicky. “That is not an option.”
He checked the other foot and then stood up. “Your feet are in poor condition. Rest is essential for healing.”
“I understand, but we need to find someone so I have to walk.”
“I’ll do it,” said Nicky.
“We’ll do it together.”
“Who are you looking for?” asked Sofia.
“Our friend’s family,” said Nicky. “The Sorkines, Raymond-Raoul and Suzanne. They might have their daughter with them. Do you know them?”
Dr. Salvatore and Sofia shook their heads.
“What do they look like?” asked Sofia and Stella was stumped. She had no idea. They were related to Abel, but that didn’t mean anything. She didn’t resemble Uncle Josiah, except for the eyes.
“You don’t know?” asked Dr. Salvatore.
“Not really.” Stella pointed at her handbag. She’d managed to keep it dry inside her coat and the only clue she possessed was hidden in it. Nicky gave it to her and she pulled out the pictures Nicky had rescued from the rubble of Abel’s flat. She showed them the young woman with braids and the German officer. “They could look like them.”
“Or not,” said Nicky. “Honestly, we don’t know.”
“It is important that you find them?” asked Dr. Salvatore.
Nicky nodded. “Yes, and they may be looking for us, too.”
“I will ask those that I know. Perhaps they have been seen.”
“They’re Jewish,” said Stella and then she paused. “I guess we don’t know that for sure.”
“I think we do,” said Nicky.
“You know very little,” said Dr. Salvatore.
“We know we have to find them,” said Stella.
Dr. Salvatore opened a little box and got out another vial. A pair of deep grooves had appeared between his eyes. “You can’t ask the carabinieri for help?”
“It’s better if we don’t,” said Nicky. “But they aren’t criminals, you understand.”
“Just Jews.”
Stella didn’t hesitate. “Probably. We have some information for them. It’s essential for their safety. We wouldn’t want them going where they aren’t wanted.”
The doctor met her gaze and within those dark, concerned eyes was understanding. “I will do what I can.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you like something for the pain to help you sleep?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”