LIKE MOST THINGS in life, it was easier said than done. The first church they tried was locked. Locked. On a Sunday morning.
The next stop was a small high baroque church with a single nave and no side chapels. The double doors were open but the pews were empty. No mass times were posted. They hunted around for an office, but found all the doors locked.
“This is insane,” said Nicky. “Anybody could come in here and steal the altarpieces. Look at that gold candelabra. It has to be worth a mint.”
“Who would steal from a church?” ask Stella.
He raised an eyebrow at her.
“Not even the Nazis would do that,” she whispered as if speaking their very name was sacrilege.
“I read it in the London Times.”
“Where did that happen?”
“Germany. Mainz.”
“But why?”
“Why did they burn the synagogues?” asked Nicky. “Enemies of the state, I assume.”
“I wonder if the Vatican knows.”
“If the Times knows, the Vatican knows. Why is no one here? Where’s the priest?”
“They must not have a big enough congregation to have mass,” said Stella. “We need a church that’s actually up and running.”
“I’d take a priest, any priest over going out in the rain again,” said Nicky.
“It can’t be helped.”
“Maybe it can. Someone might be upstairs.” Nicky looked up at the pipe organ that covered the entire front of the church above the doors and cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting, “Hello! Is anyone here?”
“Have you lost your mind?” Stella smacked him repeatedly. “We’re in church.”
“My job is to take care of you. I’m getting the job done,” he said. “Hello?”
“Stop that!”
A loud, grinding click echoed through the nave, bouncing off the marble and sounding fierce in all that empty space. Then a head popped out from a door to the left of the altar. A dark-haired woman in a baggy blouse and skirt eyed them from behind the safety of the door.
Nicky raised his hand. “Hello. Do you speak English?”
She stared.
“Come on.” He took Stella’s hand and half-dragged her down the aisle.
“Slow down.” Stella had plastered a smile on her face, but she couldn’t keep up with Nicky’s long strides. “Or just go.”
He let go and went rapidly toward the woman. For a moment, she seemed transfixed by the stranger and Stella started to feel good about it. Nicky had a way with women. It didn’t matter the age or whether they were married. It was a pleasure to look at him and talking to him increased their pleasure.
Not so with this Italian woman.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I just—”
The woman pulled her head back and slammed the door. Another grinding click resounded through the church. Nicky kept on and knocked on the door. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just need some information. We’re looking for Father Maximilian Girotti.”
Stella came up behind him and said, “She doesn’t understand you.”
“You say it then.”
Stella patted her pockets. “I didn’t bring my dictionary.”
“Swell.” He banged on the door, rattling it on its hinges.
“That’s not going to help.”
“Tell me what will help then?” Nicky was angrier than she’d ever seen him. He usually went blank when riled, but, just then, he was fiery with two spots of color on his cheeks and he looked about to gnash his teeth.
“Don’t get mad at me,” she said, crossing her arms.
He grabbed her and hugged her tight to his chest. “I’m not mad at you. I just don’t know what I was thinking.”
“About?”
“Coming here. Doing this.”
“We had to,” she said.
“Did we?”
She looked up at him and it gave her a crick in her neck. “We owe it to Abel to at least try to find them.”
He kissed the top of her head. “You forgot your hat.”
“We better not go to a garden party then.” She grinned up at him.
“Garden parties aren’t on the agenda. How are your feet?”
“Fine.” That’s what she said, but the stinging had started again. “Let’s go to that big church next to the Grand Canal.”
“Which one? There’s about a hundred and twenty.”
“We passed it in the water taxi. Big, white columns.”
“Are you joking?” he asked. “They all have big white columns.”
“You know, we saw it last time we were here. You said it looked like someone used a shoehorn to fit it in.”
He thought for a moment and then said, “At the San Stae vaporetto stop?”
“I have no idea.”
“I guess we’ll try that one.” He banged on the door one last time. “God is not happy with you right now.”
They hurried down the nave and out into the rain. Nicky put up the too-small umbrella and Stella said, “I think that was blasphemy.”
“Aren’t you supposed to offer succor to strangers in need?”
“Not crazy strangers.”
“They’re the ones that need it the most.”
Stella shrugged. He had a point, but she said a little prayer, just in case.
Nicky, with an unfailing sense of direction, took them through narrow alleys, over bridges, and under the occasional archway. He carried her when the water got too deep and got his pants soaked in the process. Stella’s teeth wanted to chatter so she knew he was freezing, but he didn’t show it. The mask was on.
“There it is,” he said as they emerged from a small alley.
Stella peered out at a huge baroque church covered in statues, columns, and bas reliefs. “That’s not the one I meant.”
“Well, we’re going in anyway.”
“It’s pretty flooded,” said Stella, doubting that they’d be having mass in such conditions.
The water from the canal was coming in waves to lap at the small steps in front of the twenty-foot outer doors that happened to be open. Another couple of inches and it would be over and seeping into the church itself.
Nicky didn’t respond. He waded into the small square in front of the church and dragged Stella along. The water only came up to her ankles, but the waves from passing boats brought it up another six inches. Her feet were safe, for the moment.
They tromped up the steps and into the small atrium. Nicky tugged on the iron ring attached to smaller set of doors leading into the sanctuary. To Stella’s surprise, they opened and she rushed inside as a blast of rain hit them from behind. The umbrella offered some protection, but they got wet from the waist down.
Nicky closed the door and stood there for a moment, looking wet dog dejected and holding an umbrella that was now saturated. “If they don’t help, we’ll have to go to another hotel.”
“They have to help. I left Great Grandmother’s hatpin in the room. I will not lose that on top of everything else,” said Stella, marching to one of the four-foot high fonts on either side of the aisle. She dipped her hand in and crossed herself in an act of penitence, if nothing else.
The church was as empty as the last one, but huge in comparison. The walls were white with columns and statues like the façade. It reminded Stella of a Roman temple, beautiful, but too austere for her tastes. She liked her faith a little scruffy with color and feeling. That church gave off no feeling for her, unless you counted the floor. It had more soul. Her galoshes slapped on the marble that was beautifully done in diamonds of orange and gray. She looked up and overhead was lovely Romanesque vaulting. The church was a whole lot older than the overdone exterior let on. Someone had seen fit to redo it. Stella hated that. Leave things as they were meant to be.
“I don’t see anyone,” said Nicky.
“The door to the left of the altar is open. I think I see a light.” Stella walked down the center aisle, heading for the door but stopped at a cordoned off area.
“I hope this isn’t a sign.”
Nicky came up behind her. “I thought we decided against signs.”
“You decided against luck. I didn’t.”
“I feel the same way about signs.”
“Look down.”
A red velvet rope kept people from walking on a large rectangle in the aisle. There was more color than even Stella had a taste for. A motley marble border enclosed a tomb that was unusual to say the least. Directly in front of her was a skull and crossbones, white marble set in a black field. Around the rest of the tomb were more crossed bones and full-sized skeletons with raised scythes, looking like they were in the act of stabbing whoever had the misfortune to be buried there.
“That’s unusual,” said Nicky, “but it’s not a sign.”
“A jinx?”
“Definitely not.”
“You don’t know,” she said.
A voice echoed through the church, assaulting them from all sides, and then an ancient priest hobbled with surprising speed down the aisle, waving a stout cane.
“That’s more like it,” said Nicky, totally unperturbed.
Stella backed away, her hands over her mouth. An enraged priest was a bad sign, a terrible sign. What had they done? At home, she’d seen Father Joseph angry when he had to counsel Uncle Josiah after his many misdeeds, but this was nothing like that. Father Joseph was practically a teddy bear in comparison, vein popping and all.
“Excuse me, Father,” said Nicky.
The priest continued his stream of Italian, not stopping to breathe. He pointed his cane at the tomb and came around looking as if whacking them wasn’t out of the question. Nicky eased Stella behind him and raised the umbrella. “Father, please listen.”
The priest kept coming, his jowls flapping and his collar askew. Nicky stepped back and bumped into Stella. She slipped in their puddle and had to catch herself on one of the posts around the tomb.
“It’s the water,” she said. “Look.”
They’d dripped a lot and it was spreading onto the ornate marble. The priest pointed at the tomb and behind them. Sure enough, they’d left a trail from the door.
“Scusi. Scusi,” said Stella with her hands clasped together, pleading for forgiveness, but he was not having it.
The priest kept yelling and they backed away, but he chased them, arms waving.
“We need Father Maximilian Girotti,” said Nicky.
The name made no difference. He kept on yelling. Then a woman came out of the other door, raised her hands in horror and started yelling, too. But instead of a cane, she got a mop and came for them.
“They’re crazy,” said Nicky.
“It is very clean in here,” said Stella. “Father, we need Girotti. Father Girotti.”
The woman got to the tomb, brandished the mop at them, and started cleaning.
“How do you say it in Italian?” asked Nicky.
“What?”
“Father.”
“Oh, Abel said padre, I think.” She peeked around Nicky’s shoulder and said, “Padre Girotti? Padre Girotti?”
“No Girotti!” yelled the priest. “Basta con gli ebrei!”
“Where is Padre Girotti?” Stella stepped to the side and put her palms together. “Por favore, Padre Girotti?”
He didn’t care. He waved the cane in Nicky’s face and chased them past the fonts so that they bumped into the door.
“Por favore. Padre Girotti. Por favore.”
He poked at the door, but beyond him, the woman had stopped mopping. She yelled something about Padre Girotti and then went back to mopping. The priest yanked open the door, yelled, and they were outside in the continuing downpour having the door slammed in their faces. Nicky got the umbrella up, but the rest of them was half-soaked before he did.
“I don’t like Italy much more than Germany at this moment,” said Nicky, staring down at the water that was creeping over the step and was about ten feet from the door. “I wonder if he realizes that he’s got bigger problems than our puddles.”
“Hold on,” said Stella. “Did you hear what she said?”
“What?”
“The woman with the mop. What did she say?”
“How would I know?” he asked.
“Did you hear ebrei?” asked Stella, yelling over the drumming of the rain on the taut umbrella.
“Maybe. I think the priest might’ve said it. What’s ebrei?”
She grinned up at him. “Jews.”
“Where are we going?” asked Nicky.
Stella didn’t answer. She just kept dragging him through the rising water to the edge of the canal. “There’s a taxi. Wave. Wave.”
He whipped her around. “Where are we going?”
“To the ghetto.”
“Because she thought we were Jewish?”
“I don’t think she thought that,” said Stella.
“I do. Everyone does. I guess we look like refugees.”
Stella turned back around, frantically waving at the approaching taxi that happily wasn’t a floating rust bucket but in good repair and shiny with fresh lacquer on the wood. “Wave. Wave.”
Nicky gave up and waved. “This is going to cost us.”
“We can find a bank and have money wired.”
“To us? Using our names? I don’t think so.”
The boat slowed and, despite being buffeted by the waves, turned in the canal to head toward them.
“He saw us. He’s coming.”
“We don’t have much money left, Stella.”
“I’ll think of something.”
The taxi bumped the dock and Stella went for it. The captain emerged from the helm and looped a thick rope over the pylon. “Buongiorna, Signora.”
“Buongiorno. Inglese?”
“No, Signora.” He pointed to his left. “San Marco piazza?” Then, pointing to his right, he said, “Santa Lucia?”
“Ghetto Ebraico,” said Stella. “I think that’s right.”
“Ghetto Ebraico?” The captain eyed them and then said something rapidly that Stella couldn’t make out.
“Fantastic,” said Nicky.
“You understood that?”
“I understand money and he said he wants more, either because he thinks we’re Jews or we’re going to the ghetto.”
Stella splashed in-between the men without any care for getting water in her boots and stuck her finger in his face. “You low-down communist piece of filth.”
Nicky picked her up from behind and stepped into the boat, giving the captain a thumbs up. He got a sly grin in return and the man opened the passenger cabin for them. Stella sat down in a huff and tugged off a boot. Her bandages were pretty damp but only around the ankle. “We could’ve found another taxi or walked.”
Nicky shook off his fedora and tossed it on the opposite seat. “Not in your condition.”
“My condition is just fine. That man is a—”
“Capitalist, not a communist. He saw a chance to make an extra buck and he took it.”
“It’s disgusting.”
“It’s a fact,” said Nicky. “You wanted to go to the ghetto. This is what it takes.”
Stella forced herself to refocus. “You were there, in the ghetto, all day yesterday?”
He shrugged off his coat and shook it, spraying the cabin liberally. “Yes. What of it? I didn’t find out anything.”
“How many churches did you see?” Stella asked.
“In the Jewish ghetto?”
“Not in it. Around. Nearby.”
He helped Stella off with her coat and shook out the fur. “Not many. I can tell you that.”
“Any?” she asked.
“I wasn’t looking for churches, but I think passed one,” he said.
“Do you remember the name?”
Nicky leaned back on the seat and looked up at the ceiling. “No, darling, I don’t remember the name of one church in a city jammed with them.”
“Don’t get snotty with me. A name would help.” Stella used Nicky’s handkerchief to dry her hair.
“How?”
“She said Father Girotti and ebrei, right?”
“So? We already know he helped your friends with their passports and you think they’re Jewish.”
“If he’s a friend to the Jews then it makes sense that he’d know the community. He’d be nearby,” said Stella.
Nicky shrugged. “Maybe.”
“There is one more thing.”
Nicky sighed. “How did I know that was coming?”
“I really couldn’t say.” Stella glared and then told him about the family on the train and how she ran into the young priest, who thought she was Frau Goldenberg. “I bet that’s Father Girotti.”
Nicky’s eyes grew steely. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m telling you now.”
“Before. Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“There wasn’t much to tell. I didn’t think it mattered.”
“I’ll be the one to decide that. I’m your husband,” he said with a patriarchal tone.
Stella crossed her arms. “Congratulations.”
“You know what I mean. As your husband, I’m entitled to know everything that happens to my wife.”
“Then, as your wife, I’m entitled to know everything about you, right?”
“It’s not the same,” Nicky said, looking uncomfortable and Stella enjoyed it.
The captain banged on the roof as they slowed and approached a dock. Stella put on her boots and coat. “Are you coming?”
“How are you mad? You obviously should have told me.”
“Lots of things are obvious.” With that, she grabbed the umbrella, flung open the door, and marched out.
Stella was off the boat and scanning the buildings before Nicky managed to get his coat on. The captain was highly amused, which only served to make Nicky’s frown deepen into furrows on his forehead. He haggled with the man and then paid him what Stella assumed was an obscene amount before clambering out of the boat.
“Hey!” yelled Stella and the captain popped his head out to squint at her through the rain pelting his face.
“Father Girotti?”
He shielded his face with his hand. “Eh?”
“Father Girotti. We want Padre Girotti.”
The captain said something about Jews and Stella had an urge to punch him. Then he pointed at them. “Ebrei?”
“No,” said Nicky, turning to Stella. “How do you say Catholic?”
“I don’t know, but it can’t be that different.”
Nicky pointed to the two of them. “Catholic.”
The captain smiled and patted his chest. “Cattolico.” Then he came out and gave Nicky back some of the lira. Nicky accepted it but with gritted teeth.
“Father Girotti?” Stella asked, hopefully.
He shook his head.
“Um…church?”
He shrugged and shook his head again.
Stella crossed herself and put her hands together in prayer.
“Ah, sì. Chiesa.” He waved for them to get back in. “Chiesa di San Girolamo.”
Stella got back on the boat without looking at Nicky for approval. He followed saying nothing and the captain drove them farther up the canal. It was probably less than a fourth a mile, but it was kind all the same and Stella decided to appreciate it. The man had some goodness in him, even if it was selective.
“Grazie. Grazie.” Stella got off and looked through the rain at a stuccoed wall with brick showing through the dilapidated parts. Above was a church as plain as plain could be without a statue in sight and only flat brick columns and simple pediments. Still, people were hurrying down the flooded walkway to an arched entrance in the wall where a wrought-iron gate hung open.
Nicky joined her as the taxi sped away and she said, “I think mass is starting. Let’s hurry.”
“Stella?”
“What?” she asked, tugging on his sleeve.
“I want you to understand what happened back there.” He said it like she was a child or worse a simpleton.
“Oh, I understand well enough.”
“I don’t think you do.”
She pulled him through the gate to a small paved courtyard with absolutely nothing to recommend it and the church wasn’t any more attractive in full view either. But it was real, not new and improved for better flavor. That church was as the builder intended and Stella was disposed to like it, on principal.
She went toward the low steps, but Nicky held her back. “We have to settle this.”
“What? That you think you’re in charge? Fine. Go right ahead and think that. I’m getting out of this awful rain.”
“I don’t think I’m in charge, Stella. I’m your husband.”
“So what? You don’t own me, and I’m good at plenty of things that you aren’t. Flying planes, for instance.”
That stumped him for a second and then his eyes got shifty. Stella braced herself for a trump card.
“I’m older,” he said.
“Barely.”
“Six years isn’t barely,” he said with a smile. “And I’ve graduated from Yale.”
“I don’t need to graduate from Yale to know that age doesn’t mean a thing.” She walked away up the stairs into the plain church, lovely in its simplicity. All things should be so simple.
Nicky charged in after her, closing the umbrella and squeezing his large form past tiny Italian ladies, who viewed him with both admiration and irritation. “Age does matter. Your father is the CEO of Bled Beer because he’s the oldest.”
“No, he isn’t.” Stella darted to the right to try to get to an open pew but was beat out by a family of six.
Nicky caught up and asked, “He’s not the CEO?”
“The oldest.”
Stella found a pew in the back, knelt, crossed herself, and squeezed in next to a young man who was very happy that she did. Nicky barely managed to get his rear on the seat it was so full. “What do you mean he’s not the oldest?”
“I mean, my father is not the oldest. Uncle Nicolai is the oldest. Nicolai, Aleksej, Josiah.”
“But…but your father is the CEO.”
“I know.”
“Why isn’t Nicolai in charge?” Nicky’s frown was back and then some.
Stella sighed. How could a Yale graduate be so terribly dim? “Because when my grandfather retired, he picked his most capable son to take his place. My father. Age doesn’t make a person better, just older.”
“What did Nicolai say?”
“Nothing. We all knew who it would be. We always knew. Father started at the brewery at ten, years before my uncles. He loves it the most. He works the hardest.”
“I thought he was the oldest because you’re so old,” said Nicky, flinching when Stella gave him a look that should’ve frozen the damp on his skin. “I didn’t mean you’re old. It’s just your cousins are little girls. Millicent can’t even walk yet.”
“She can,” said Stella. “She’s just lazy.”
“Well, I’m still your husband,” said Nicky.
“I said it before and I’ll say it again. Congratulations.”
“Stella, someone has to be in charge.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Because that’s how it’s done.”
She waved his protests away and leaned forward as a hush fell over the church. Three priests came in robed in heavy vestments and Stella recognized one of them as the priest from the train station. She elbowed Nicky and grinned. Success. But he looked at her with a curious expression, not his usual mask, more numb.
She turned back to the altar and breathed deep as the oldest priest began. He spoke in Latin, of course, but Latin was the same everywhere and the comfort, too. Soon, her mother and Aunt Florence would be taking Millicent and Myrtle to the cathedral, sitting in their pew and wearing their hats. Father and Uncle Nicolai would be late because they were at the brewery checking wort or deliveries or one of a million things that had to be checked on a Sunday morning and mother would be angry. Florence would smile into her gloved hand and then Grandmother would give Millicent and Myrtle little treats out of her handbag so they wouldn’t fuss. Grandfather would help Grandmother to kneel and she would kiss his hand. The old church they were sitting in was so different than the cathedral with its fresh paint and new mosaics, but the stories playing out around them, love, irritation, whining children, and the rest of it were the same everywhere.
They came to the Eucharist and the young priest led the prayer in a calm, tenor voice that settled on everyone like a much-needed blanket. People all around them were smiling. He was well-liked in this small parish and Stella had the feeling that many came to that humble church for the sole reason of hearing the word from him. It sounded sweeter, felt kinder.
But, as he was speaking, the church doors opened and icy air flowed into the nave, causing a collective shiver. The father finished the prayer and the doors slammed shut. The other priest took over and said The Lord’s Prayer, but as the end of the service went on a whispering started and people were glancing back toward the doors. Stella turned to see what they were worried about, but she was too short to see.
She squeezed Nicky’s hand. “Who is it?”
That shook him out of his revelry and he bent over to her. “What?”
“Who is it? Who came in?”
Nicky looked back and sunk down in his pew. “Bartali.”
“Are you kidding?”
“It’s him. We have to get out of here now,” he said, beginning to stand, but Stella pushed him down.
“Wait,” she said.
“He’s here for a reason.”
“It doesn’t have to be us,” she said.
“Remember how you believe in luck? Isn’t this luck? Bad luck?”
Everyone started to stand for communion and Stella did, too. “I believe more in good luck and we’re having it right now.”
“We’re not taking communion. That’s crazy.”
“It’s perfect. We can’t go straight for a door and if we stay here we’re sure to be noticed. Look around. Everyone’s taking communion. It’s a mad rush.”
And it was. No peaceful, calm procession for the Italians. They were out to get in line first like the priests were going to run out of wine or something.
“This is ridiculous,” whispered Nicky.
“And perfect.” Stella sidled down the pew, curbing her urge to look back and wishing Nicky could put on his hat. That blond was like a beacon among all the dark heads and black clothes.
When they got to the aisle, she bit back her politeness urges and cut off a lady to get Nicky ahead of another tall man in hopes that he would be shielded.
The Italians didn’t mess around and the line moved forward quickly. When it was her turn, she knelt before the older priest and received her wine-dipped wafer with the younger priest she’d spoken to at the station holding the basin under her chin. She rose and broke tradition in what might be an unforgivable way. Stella turned to stand directly in front of the young priest, and said, “Hello, Father.”
His eyes went wide as he recognized her and the older priest harrumphed and glared. Stella shuffled to the side, watching the priest from the corner of her eye. He was inattentive as Nicky took communion. He watched her instead, which got him a stern look.
They joined the crowd heading back to their seats, but when no one was looking they slipped out the door to the far right of the altar and closed themselves in darkness. After a few minutes when no one came after them, Nicky said, “Well, that’s not going to make you popular.”
“I wanted him to know I was here. He saw where we went. He was watching.”
“This could be a huge mistake.”
“He helped Karolina and Rosa.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. I feel it.”
He took her arm to lead her away when the door clicked and opened. Slipping inside was the young priest, highlighted with the light from the nave. He turned a knob and a single lightbulb overhead came to life, shedding a dim, yellowish glow around the chamber.
The priest closed the door and said, “Buongiorno.”
“Father Girotti?” asked Stella.
“No.” He asked several questions that were far beyond Stella’s comprehension.
“Do you know Karolina von Bodmann?”
The priest seemed puzzled and he asked several questions. Stella caught Americani.
She patted her chest. “Sì, Americani.”
He said something about Karolina and Germany, but since they couldn’t understand, it was no use. Nicky squeezed Stella’s arm. He wanted to go, but she wasn’t about to give up. She liked him, this priest that wasn’t Father Girotti. He helped the Goldenbergs. Only a good person would do that. Since he was a priest, it couldn’t be for money.
“Frau Goldenberg?” she asked.
“Sì.” He nodded emphatically.
What was the word for help? She couldn’t think.
“Passport?” She patted her chest again. “We need passports.”
“Ah! Passaporti. Sì.” He glanced back at the door and then pointed at another door at the end of the chamber before rushing out.
“I guess we should go wait in there,” said Stella.
“Or he wants us to go in there while he gets Bartali to turn us in,” said Nicky.
“He wouldn’t do that. He’s a priest.”
“Priests have to follow the law.”
“We haven’t broken any laws,” she said.
“You just asked for fake passports.”
“I didn’t say fake.” Stella marched through the long, narrow chamber that appeared to be a kind of dressing room for the altar boys and choir. Rows of hooks with dripping coats and umbrellas lined both sides with galoshes underneath and a couple of rickety wardrobes framed the door at the far end, probably where the robes were kept. The door itself was plain with heavy hinges and a unique lever door handle in the shape of an angel and her wing. She reached for the wing and Nicky grabbed her hand. “We need to get out of here.”
“We will.” She pulled the door open to reveal a small office with two desks in the middle pushed back to back, a simple coat rack with the obligatory wet coats and umbrellas, and bookcases covering the walls up to the ceiling.
Nicky crossed the room and opened another door. “It’s another office and it’s got a door. We might get out through it.”
“I think we should wait,” said Stella, wishing she could take off her wet coat, but wearing a red suit to mass was too rebellious, even for her.
“We’re not waiting. He’s not Girotti. We don’t know who he is.”
“I know he was at the station to pick up that Jewish family. They were terrified and desperate. He came for them. He did. That priest. I’m staying right here.”
“No,” said Nicky, taking a breath. “You’re not.”
Stella walked over to one of the office chairs and sat down. “You’re not my father and I never obeyed him much anyway.”
“Obey.” Nicky puffed up and a slow smile came over his face. “You promised to obey at our wedding. Now get up, we’re going.”
Stella stretched and leaned back. The chair was quite comfortable, despite being wooden and cushionless. She could stay there all day, if required. “No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. I was there, Stella.”
“I guess you weren’t paying attention then, which doesn’t say much for your vows.”
“Obey is part of the vows. You said it,” said Nicky, but his confidence was faltering. She could see it and felt a small thrill of triumph. Obey, indeed. She’d show him obey.
“It’s not required and we didn’t have it in there.”
“I heard you say it.”
“Then you were hallucinating,” said Stella. “Do you really think a Bled would promise to obey? Really?”
He began to pace and smack his fedora against his leg with wet slaps. “But it’s in the vows.”
“We took it out.”
“When? How?”
“It was discussed,” said Stella, getting bored of the conversation. She couldn’t imagine why he cared so much about one little word, a word that wasn’t really taken seriously. Did wives obey because they vowed to at their wedding? Hardly. “Are you hungry? I’m getting hungry.”
“No, I’m not hungry. When was it discussed?”
Stella sat up, putting her elbows on the desk, and her clasped hands under her pointed little chin. “At mother’s garden party, the one you were too drunk to attend.”
“I wasn’t drunk,” he protested, looking around. “Where is that priest? We haven’t got all day.”
“Florence said you vomited in her favorite ficus and fell asleep in Millicent’s trundle bed in the nursery.”
“I…didn’t know she told you that,” said Nicky, blushing like Stella didn’t know he could.
“She didn’t. Millicent did.”
“Oh, come on. The kid that can’t walk.”
“I told you she can walk and she can talk, too. You got drool on her dollies and she wasn’t happy about it.”
Nicky covered his eyes. “This is a nightmare. Who else knows?”
“Everyone, I imagine.”
He looked up. “Your mother?”
“Why do you think she didn’t mind me not obeying you? Mother was your only hope, in that regard.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.
“Would you have called off the wedding?” Stella batted her eyelashes at him and smiled.
“You know I wouldn’t have.”
“Then what’s all the fuss about? We were going to be married in any case.”
“You exhaust me.”
Stella grinned wider. “You’ll get used to it. Mother did.”
“What if—”
Stella shushed him. “Listen.”
Men’s voices came through the cracks around the door. The young priest, another man, and a voice that was unmistakable, the gruff carabinieri, Bartali.
The men were going back and forth about something, not exactly angry, more tense and a touch weary like this conversation had happened before and was fully expected to happen again.
Stella got up and went to Nicky, hugging him tight and watching the door.
“I want to leave,” he said. “We still have a chance to get out of here.”
“He’s not here about us,” said Stella. “I heard Goldenberg. He wants the Goldenbergs. That poor family.”
“It’s not illegal to emigrate,” said Nicky, frowning.
“Maybe their papers were fake, too.”
“Did you hear that? Von whatever. Karolina’s name.”
The voices went to two. Bartali was either silent or gone. Then the room filled with young, cheerful voices, boys and the choir were coming in to shed their robes and go home. Stella and Nicky watched the door and then at long last the angel wing moved. A man was talking, giving orders it seemed, and the boys called out in jest and joy. There was laughter and any nervousness that Stella had vanished. It would be fine. She knew it, like she knew it was right to come after the Sorkines, like she knew Uncle Josiah would find Abel and get him out of Dachau.
The door opened and a man slipped inside. Stella very nearly gasped. It wasn’t the young priest but the old one.
“Buongiorno.” He didn’t seem surprised to see them standing there, huddled and wet. “Hello. Good morning.”
Stella was so surprised she couldn’t say anything.
“You wanted to see me? I am Father Girotti.”
Her knees went weak. Perhaps she was afraid. She just hadn’t known it.
“Father Girotti,” said Nicky in a rush. “Boy, are we glad to see you.”
He chuckled. “I hear this often. Come. Let us go to my office where we will not be disturbed.”
He crossed the room and ushered them into an office that was nearly identical to the first one, only it had a single desk and two comfortable chairs in front of it for them.
“Please take off your coats.” The priest turned around and switched on a rusty little hot plate and set a kettle on top of it. “Would you like some tea?”
“I would,” said Stella, “very much.”
“Your coat,” he said as she went to sit.
“Well, Father, you see, I didn’t think we’d be going to mass today and—”
He held up his hand, rather stumpy and well-calloused. “God does not care if you are dressed in rags.”
“What about red?”
He smiled. “Take off your coat.”
They did as they were told and sat down as the priest took off his vestments and hung them on a hanger that he hooked onto a bookshelf. Then he found three tea cups in his desk and a small teapot. As he readied the tea, he asked, “Father Giuseppe said that you mentioned passports.”
“Yes, Father,” said Stella. “Karolina von Bodmann said that you helped her and her sister, Rosa.”
He sat down heavily and his chair creaked in protest. “You’re Americans?”
They hesitated, but Nicky said, “Yes.”
“Why not contact your embassy?” He raised a dark eyebrow that set off his piercing green eyes.
“We need different passports,” said Stella.
“False identities.”
“Yes, Father.”
The kettle spewed steam and he poured the boiling water into the teapot, careful not to spill a drop. “I must ask why. Have you done something illegal?”
The picture of Gabriele Griese’s body sliding under the water flashed in Stella’s mind, but she said, “No, Father. Nothing like that.”
His eyebrow went up again.
Stella and Nicky looked at each other. They were there and he could help them if he chose to. They had to explain.
“We had some problems with the Nazis,” said Nicky.
“And they wish to arrest you?”
“Probably.”
Stella leaned forward and put her fingertips on the edge of the desk. “We’re here in Venice to help someone. They’re innocent, I swear to you, but the SS would arrest them if they had half a chance.”
“These people are Jews?” asked Father Girotti.
“We think so. They’re family to our dear friend and he is.”
The Father swirled the teapot. “What happened to your friend?”
Stella’s eyes filled with tears, unexpected and unwelcome.
“He was arrested in Vienna,” said Nicky. “We think he was sent to Dachau.”
“The Night of Broken Glass?”
“Yes, Father,” choked out Stella. She could see Abel in the boxcar. She couldn’t push the image away.
“Father Giuseppe tells me that you saw him at the station and that you saw the Goldenberg family, as well?”
“Yes, Father.”
He considered that and her for a moment. “What are the names of your friend’s family?”
“Raymond-Raoul and Suzanne Charlotte Sorkine,” said Nicky. “You see, our friend had this package that the SS—”
Father Girotti raised his hand. “I don’t want to know.”
“Have you seen or heard of the Sorkines?” asked Stella.
“I haven’t, but I will make inquiries.”
“Can you get us the passports?”
“I can, but it’s costly. I don’t do this myself. I know certain craftsmen who have the ability and they must make a living like everyone else.”
“We understand,” said Nicky. “We’re very grateful and my family, our families, will be grateful. I come from—”
“No, sir. I don’t want your real names, only the ones you want to use.”
“Douglas and Eulalie Myna,” said Stella.
“Good names.” He poured them tea and went to the door calling out, “Giuseppe!” The rest of what he said was lost and then he returned to the desk.
Since it seemed like a safe topic, Stella asked, “You speak English beautifully. Where did you learn it?”
“In your state of Wisconsin,” he said with a wistful smile. “A lovely place. I was sent there when I was newly ordained to learn English and to understand Americans.”
“Do you understand us, Father?” asked Nicky.
He sipped his tea and smiled. “No. Your country is a great one, but it is confusing to me. Such generosity, anger, greed, and love live there. Your country will not help the Jews, I fear.”
“I think you’re right,” said Nicky, “and I’m ashamed to say it.”
“You saw this Night of Broken Glass yourself?” He looked back and forth between them.
“Yes,” said Stella. “It was horrible. They burnt the synagogues. People were thrown out of windows.”
“I wouldn’t have believed it, if I hadn’t seen it for myself,” said Nicky.
“Yes,” said Father Girotti, getting thoughtful. “Seeing is believing.”
There was a soft knock on the door and a boy’s soprano voice called out, “Father Girotti?”
The priest rushed to the door and Stella noticed he was careful to only open the door far enough to let the boy slip in. Father Girotti returned to his chair and the boy stood awkwardly by the door, wearing his galoshes and a heavy raincoat made of thick canvas. He was plump and big-eyed with long lashes. Stella suspected he was quite a happy boy but being called into the Father’s office was cause for alarm.
“This is Pietro Russo,” said Father Girotti. “Pietro, these guests of mine” —he emphasized guests— “would like to meet your friend, Jacopo. Could you take a message to him for me?”
Pietro nodded.
“You can say hello.”
A smile crept over Pietro’s face in response to Stella’s smile. Dimples popped out on his cheeks and Stella never saw a happier boy.
“Hello. Good morning. Good day,” he said.
“Very good,” said Father Girotti. “We are learning English. Pietro is a fast learner.”
The Father wrote a quick note and gave it to Pietro, who nodded at Stella and dashed out another door.
“This will take a few minutes. You do not mind?”
“Not at all.”
“I do have another question,” said Stella. “Do you know Dr. Davide?”
“Everyone knows Dr. Davide. Do you need a doctor?”
Stella first explained her feet and their reaction to the canal water and then quietly said that there might be a need to see Dr. Davide before he came to the hotel.
The priest watched her for a moment and then steepled his fingers. “I think there is more to this story.”
Stella said nothing, mostly because she couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Is Dr. Davide a member of your parish?” asked Nicky after a moment.
The priest chuckled. “Davide? No, no. His faith is gone as is much of his soul.”
“What do you mean by that?” Stella took a big drink of the tea and burned her tongue.
“You haven’t met him, have you?” asked Father Girotti.
“Not exactly,” said Nicky.
“Who has treated your feet? Dr. Salvatore?”
They stayed silent.
“Of course, he did. An excellent doctor and a good man. I send him as much business as I can, but it is difficult.”
“Because of the new laws?” asked Nicky. “What’s happened?”
Father Girotti explained the Leggi Razziali that went into effect on November tenth. They excluded Jews from owning any businesses or participating in any profession save a few. They couldn’t teach at universities or schools that had gentile students. They couldn’t marry gentiles anymore or leave the country with more than 120 lira. The list went on and on.
“I hope you were able to pay Dr. Salvatore,” he said. “He has a family.”
“We did,” said Nicky.
“How are they supposed to live?” asked Stella. “What are they expected to do?
“I can’t explain this madness,” said the priest. “I don’t know what they will do, but the community is not unsympathetic.”
“Is that why you send patients to Dr. Salvatore?” asked Stella.
“I do as my conscience and the Holy Father commands.”
Nicky sat up. “The Pope said to help the Jews. When?”
Father Girotti waved for him to settle down and got a paper out of his desk. “He did not, but I know many people and they tell me things.” He explained that a friend of his told him that Pope Pius XI told a group of pilgrims, “It is not possible for Christians to take part in antisemitism.”
“I hate to break it to you, Father,” said Nicky. “It’s possible.”
He nodded sadly. “Indeed that is true. The people should listen to the Holy Father. He is leading albeit quietly.”
Stella bit back a retort. There was such a thing as being quiet because you feared being heard and fear never helped anyone. Abel didn’t need quiet words, neither did the Sorkines. They needed shouting, stamping of feet, and loud protests from His Holiness. Father Girotti saw her expression and smiled serenely. “I don’t believe the Holy Father will be subdued for long.”
“Why not? The Kristallnacht was weeks ago. People died.”
“Because he also said, ‘Spiritually we are all Semites.’ That is all I needed to hear.” But then he winked. “But I didn’t require permission to be kind. It is a sacred duty.”
“Not everyone feels that way. We’ve been chased away from a hotel and out of a church because they thought we were Jews,” said Stella.
“I’m not surprised.”
“I guess they didn’t get the Pope’s message,” said Nicky.
The father slid the paper over to Nicky. “They got this message.”
The paper was in Italian, but Stella could see that it was a Vatican paper by the emblems and script at the top.
“What does it say?” asked Nicky.
“That the Jews are controlling Italy and hurting our faith,” he said.
Nicky made his hands into tight fists. “What happened to ‘We are all Semites’?”
“The Pope didn’t say these things himself, but it came out of the Vatican from the lower ranks. Our government is asserting its influence. Mussolini said the Jews are polluting our culture.”
“Then it’s no different than the Reich,” said Nicky.
The priest jolted to his feet and sputtered, “We do not throw people out of windows.”
“Sorry, Father,” said Stella, hastily. “We know that. It’s different.”
“That carabinieri isn’t different,” said Nicky.
“Carabinieri?” asked the priest, his face flushed and Stella feared he wouldn’t help them after all.
“It’s fine,” she said. “Nothing to bother you about.”
“Which carabinieri?” he asked.
“Bartali,” said Nicky. “He was at us about Dr. Salvatore and Stella says he’s been sniffing around the von Bodmann ladies.”
Father Girotti sat down, making his chair complain again. “Yes. Bartali was just here about the von Bodmann ladies. He is against the Jews. He listens to lies and hears the truth.”
“He’s the reason I lied about my name. If he put it on a report…”
“I understand. Stay far from Bartali.”
“What about the other carabinieri?” asked Nicky.
He shrugged. “Who can say?”
A knock on the door brought the Father back to his feet and he went to the door, asking a quick question before opening it. A middle-aged man in a floppy hat and work clothes rushed in with a boy about Pietro’s age. That was where the comparisons ended. This boy wasn’t round and jolly. He was the exact opposite and Stella’s heart hurt to see his furtive eyes darting around the room, looking for danger. His father whipped off his hat and greeted the priest warmly while still seeming nervous and wary. He was out of breath to the point of panting. He must’ve run the whole way.
“Come. Come,” said Father Girotti. “Have tea and let us discuss.”
The man and his son accepted tea in two more cups that the Father found in his desk. Then he produced a tin of cookies and offered them first to the boy, whose sallow cheeks said he could’ve used the whole box.
“These are my friends, Douglas and Eulalie Myna. They require your expertise,” he said, offering Stella a cookie, which she gratefully accepted. “Douglas, Eulalie, this is my friend, Alberto Gattegno and his son, Jacopo.”
They said hello and Stella could see he was guessing at who they were and whether they were Jewish, but he couldn’t come to a decision on either question. It seemed everyone was judging and guessing and she couldn’t help thinking it would get much worse before it got better.
“Father Girotti’s note said that you need a literary opinion,” said Alberto. “You are Americans?”
“Yes, but we need Canadian passports,” said Nicky. “What is your profession, Alberto?”
“I owned a bookshop and provided translations for those who required them, books, letters, documents.”
Owned. Past tense. It hadn’t been that long since the tenth, but long enough for desperation to creep in. Stella watched as they discussed the passports, how to do them, and when they’d be done. She couldn’t work up any interest. Yes, they would have to use the photos in their American passports. Yes, that was a problem for going home. But for Stella, it was a problem for later. The Sorkines were not. Nicky’d scoured the ghetto. Where else would they go? Not to the tourist spots surely.
“Stella?” asked Nicky.
She looked up. “Yes.”
“We’re done.”
They stood up and shook hands with Alberto and Jacopo, for good measure. Then Nicky handed over a stack of bills and Stella couldn’t help noticing that they had little left. They would have to telegram the family and have money wired. No way around it. Then she brightened. She could use Miss Myna. Her father would understand it was her and it wouldn’t tip off anyone who happened to be watching.
Alberto walked to the door and she asked, “Do you have any of your books left?”
“A few,” he said and she regretted asking. The loss pushed him down into the folds of his coat, diminishing a proud man. “Why do you ask?”
Nicky frowned at her and Father Girotti wasn’t pleased, but she went ahead. Sometimes you just have to. “Are any for sale?”
“They are in Italian and not in good condition. I only have them because Roatta—he took my shop—didn’t want them. He said they were trash. They are trash.”
“Are they any good for learning Italian?”
“I…I think so,” said Alberto. “I have a children’s songbook.”
“I’ll take it.” Stella looked at Nicky. It wasn’t much, but it was something that didn’t look like charity.
Nicky understood and gave Alberto a bill.
“No, no. It is too much. This songbook, it is trash.” Flustered, Alberto’s accent got stronger and Stella took his hand that had fresh, broken blisters on the palm and said, “I want to learn Italian. It’s worth it.”
The man herded his thin son out of the room and couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes again. But it wasn’t a mistake to help. It couldn’t be.
“Now that’s that,” said Stella. “When will they be ready?”
“Weren’t you listening at all?” asked Nicky.
“I didn’t need to. You were. So when?”
“A few hours and we’ll be legal, in a manner of speaking.”
“Perfect,” she said. “Can you give us directions to Dr. Davide?”
Father Girotti pursed his lips and stroked the rough wooden cross around his neck. “I think I had better send for him instead. He may be…indisposed.”
Stella took her coat off its hook and said, “If he’s indisposed, we better go to him.”
“Mrs. Myna, perhaps Mr. Myna can go and you can stay here.”
In response, she buttoned her coat.
“Stella,” said Nicky. “Let’s do as the Father suggests.”
“Have you forgotten that we’ve people to look for?”
“We don’t have that much time.”
“It’s time enough to go to Dr. Davide and start asking people,” she said.
“Who? Who are we going to ask?” he asked.
She pondered that and came up with nothing, except simply knocking on doors.
“They don’t know that anyone would be looking for them?” asked Father Girotti.
“No,” said Nicky. “They have no idea. They’re looking for our friend.”
“Here in Venice?”
“Yes.”
Father Girotti nodded and stroked his cross. “Why here?”
“Because he last contacted them here,” said Nicky.
“What did he tell them?”
“I have no idea.”
“Perhaps he told them your hotel,” he said.
Stella dashed over, ignoring her swelling feet, and kissed him on the cheek. “Father, you’re a genius. Of course, they’d go there first.” She grabbed Nicky’s coat and tossed it at him. “Directions. Do we have directions for Dr. Davide?”
“I guess we’re going, Father,” said Nicky.
“I never doubted it.”
They got directions and the Father led them through the back hallways and out onto the canal walkway. “Good luck.” He didn’t say you’re going to need it, but it was implied and Stella didn’t mind.
They had a direction. They had a plan. All she needed was a plan.