When We Were Enemies: A Novel(27)
“I told you to call me Elise,” I say, and Mac calls cut.
And as Ben removes my mic, I wonder if there’s a loose wire somewhere that generated the electric charge or if it could’ve been a giant dose of static electricity? Or maybe I just imagined it. I’m not sure. Sitting here in a room filled with crosses and Bibles and priests, it’s easy to wonder if God might have something to do with it. But I spent a good part of my life believing in God and never experienced anything like what I felt tonight when I touched Father Patrick’s hand.
CHAPTER 10
Vivian
Tuesday, May 18, 1943
Camp Atterbury
I cover my mouth with the back of my hand as I yawn, trying to look professional and poised. Next to me sits Lieutenant Colonel Gammell and his NCO assistant, Command Sergeant Major George Simpson. When Gammell said we’d have a late night, I didn’t expect to stay past dinnertime. I called Aria at five o’clock and told her where to find all the ingredients for the meal I’d planned.
I haven’t had a moment to consider the consequences of staying late. I can barely keep my mind focused on switching back and forth between Italian and English, which I do over and over again until I can hardly tell the difference between the two languages.
Across the room are five empty chairs for elected officials from each of the five one-thousand-man compounds. Each group has one spokesman to present projects to the lieutenant colonel.
Combined, the five compounds make up the entirety of the prison. I’ve learned they’re all self-managed and run with a military structure that leans heavily on preexisting rank. It’s a system of rules and regulations I know little about but find fascinating. I’ve heard the phrase “Geneva Conventions” more in the past two weeks than in my entire schooling.
As I’ve become accustomed to my position, I’ve taken on more responsibilities, but I don’t find them a burden. Of course, I have routine duties of filing and typing and answering calls and putting them through to this building or that office. I haven’t had any official training as a translator or interpreter, and McNeil, the military translator/interpreter, seems to take offense at my role, though we rarely cross paths. He manages the disputes in the brig, like the fight I witnessed on my first day, and I manage the translation issues in the office with the lieutenant colonel.
Though I’m kept far away from the rough-and-tumble bits of prison life, that incident in the front office keeps replaying in my mind like a reel of film at the Pixy Theater. I keep looking around each room I walk into for Trombello’s face. I rarely venture deep enough into the camp to see many prisoners. Civilian staff is welcome in the mess hall, and I’ve heard some good things about the food, but Judy eats with her husband across the street most days, and I don’t have any other friends around here other than Mary, so I usually end up eating a sandwich at my desk when she’s not around.
“Thank the Lord, only one more,” Lieutenant Colonel Gammell grumbles under his breath as I pass him the file for the fifth and final set of compound representatives. He’s not as grouchy as he seemed when I first met him. He’s softened more than I’d expected.
“More letters home. Different food rations. Warmer winter wear. More rec time. These men act like this is summer camp and not war,” Gammell’s NCO, Simpson, blurts out.
I’ve heard this same sentiment about the US POW camps from my family and neighbors. I don’t know where my opinions stand on the matter, but I do know I’m glad to have a job. So I stay busy and mind my own business.
“We follow the rules, Sergeant. That’s all we can do,” Gammell says dispassionately, still reading the file.
Simpson doesn’t take Gammell’s hint and continues with his rant.
“They get fatter every day. Have you noticed that? Is that the strategy? We fill their ranks so full of overweight, out-of-shape baby-men that if they were to escape, they’d be out of breath trying to wrestle into their gear before battle.”
Gammell doesn’t acknowledge Simpson, and I remove myself to the other side of the room where a full pitcher of water sits. I take it to the lieutenant colonel first and fill his glass and then to Sergeant Major Simpson.
“You can’t tell me our boys are being treated the same in prison camps overseas. You just can’t,” Simpson says as he drags the cup across the wooden desk and then takes a long drink. I’m relieved by the silence and hope that’ll be the end of the conversation.
But when he slams his glass on the table, gesturing for another refill, I know he’s about to go into round two. I stand in front of him in my tweed dress suit, teetering on aching feet wedged into heels that were not meant to be worn for ten-hour days, and his eyes narrow.
“What do you think about all this, huh?”
My mouth goes dry.
“Me?” I ask, my voice timid like it is when I placate papà or comfort mamma during one of my visits. I’m well versed at staying calm in the storm. I think that’s the only way I keep from being swept up in the tornado.
“Yeah, you.” His voice lowers. He places his elbows on the table, leaning forward. “You heard all the requests and complaints today. What do you think?”
“Oh, well, I . . . I agree with what Lieutenant Colonel Gammell says. The Geneva Conventions are important.” I glance at Gammell, hoping he’ll jump into the conversation, or blurt out a command or something, but he doesn’t look up from the file.