When We Were Enemies: A Novel(30)
“All right. I’ll consider your requests with this article in mind. If you’ll give Miss Santini a list of specific changes you’d like to petition, we can reconvene in a week to discuss my assessment.”
I translate into Italian without looking up as I write the date so I can make sure it gets into his diary.
“Any further items?” he asks Ferragni.
“Solo uno, signore. Soldato Trombello?”
“Just one, sir,” I translate.
Trombello stands in front of his chair, adjusts his cap and his coat, and then settles into a stance with his hands clasped behind his back and his feet spread wide apart. His voice is calm and assured. This time he speaks, not to me, but directly to Lieutenant Colonel Gammell and Sergeant Simpson.
“Nella sezione due, capitolo quattordici, articolo sedici della Convenzione di Ginevra del 1929 si afferma che . . .”
In section two, chapter fourteen, article sixteen of the 1929 Geneva Convention, it is stated that . . .
He’s quoting the Geneva Conventions again. Simpson and Talbot stiffen at its repeated mention. I focus on Trombello’s impassioned speech, keeping my translation as close as possible to his planned-out narration.
“In section two, chapter fourteen, article sixteen of the 1929 Geneva Convention, it states that ‘Prisoners of war shall be permitted complete freedom in the performance of their religious duties, including attendance at the services of their faith.’ We’ve come to propose the construction of a Catholic chapel here, on the grounds of Camp Atterbury.”
“A chapel?” Lieutenant Colonel Gammell asks, looking as though Trombello has requested a purple peacock to wander the grounds of the camp.
“Yes,” Trombello responds, his dark eyes glistening with intensity. “Canon law requires the eucharistic celebration to be carried out in a sacred place.”
“I thought fascists were godless,” Simpson interjects with an edge of pious fervor.
Before I can translate Simpson’s comment, Trombello says, “Dio non è un politico,” with intensity, showing he understands more than the basics of English.
His statement translates to God is not a politician or more like God has no place in politics. Which isn’t the case according to what my father says of Mussolini.
“God is not political,” I translate, somewhat loosely, to which Trombello raises his eyebrow. If he understands what I’m saying, why doesn’t he speak for himself?
Gammell consults the manual again and seems to find it matches Trombello’s reference.
“Go ahead,” he says, sounding reluctant but resigned. “Tell me what you have in mind.”
“Of course.” Trombello speaks in Italian, while I translate, his hands moving in front of him as he gets more comfortable in front of the officers. “It will be small. I have plans.” Trombello holds up a roll of papers, and Lieutenant Colonel Gammell gestures for Ferragni to bring them to the table. “We can use the leftover construction materials that currently sit out to rot in the back lots. Very little money will be spent. We have craftsmen of all trades who’ve already pledged their skills. All we will need is access to tools and permission to spend recreation times on the erection of the building.”
“Hmm,” Lieutenant Colonel Gammell says as he listens to my translation and reads the pages in front of him. “This looks manageable. Twelve feet by seven. Not exactly a Notre Dame, now, eh? You’ll have to get the other compounds to sign off.”
“I already have signatures, sir,” he says in Italian as I continue to translate. Ferragni places the document in front of both officers. I can see from where I’m sitting hundreds upon hundreds of handwritten names. He looks through them, and then Simpson does the same.
“Well, I’ll have to review your proposal. But as long as the cost is negligible and the timeline presented is held to, I don’t see why not. I’d like to pair you with one of our engineers to check these plans and keep things on the up-and-up.” He writes a few notes as I translate his decision. Trombello takes his seat with a smile at the corners of his mouth and a tremble in his hands I hadn’t noticed before. “Any further matters?”
There are none, and after a few formalities, the men are dismissed. Talbot stands at the doorway, scrutinizing each prisoner as they walk past as though they could’ve acquired a weapon during their time in the security checkpoint. As Trombello crosses the threshold, he glances back over his shoulder and meets my curious gaze. There it is again, the bouncing energy that makes me want to sing and hide at the same time. I won’t smile at this prisoner. I can’t let myself.
“Hold up there. Your plans,” Lieutenant Colonel Gammell calls out, holding out the rolled pages Trombello had presented to the panel.
“Hey, Padre. You forgot something,” Talbot says roughly, calling him Father sarcastically.
As the young Italian soldier crosses the tiled floor, I can see that Trombello’s legs are long and muscular, his hands browned by working in the sun. He’s a peacemaker but also an able-bodied man who could fight if he needed to. Which makes me even more curious.
“The Lord be with you,” he says in accented English to Gammell and Simpson.
Lieutenant Colonel Gammell nods back and grumbles something I can’t hear as Trombello exits with his arms full of papers.
“I’ll need you to take minutes and act as an interpreter for those meetings, Miss Santini,” Gammell says.