When We Were Enemies: A Novel(39)

“Thanks, Mike!” I wave as he walks away but stay in place next to Trombello.

“You want to stay with us criminals?” Trombello asks.

“As long as you promise to reform your ways,” I joke back.

“On God,” he says, touching the points of the cross and looking up to the sky.

“You promise . . . uh . . . Trombello.” I use his last name since I’m not sure how to refer to these men. Do I use their rank or formal address?

“Antonio,” he corrects. “And I promise.”

“Ah, redemption,” I say with some grandiosity, and our voices mingle in laughter that is the same in any language. A few heads turn and take note of our interaction. “Antonio.”

I say his name a little quieter, remembering my vow not to get too familiar with the committee members—just in case.

“So, your life. After war. After your padre is healed. You do this?” He points to the green-roofed bunkers that surround us.

“Stay in the military?” I ask, making sure I’m reading his gestures right.

He nods.

“No, no, not at all.” I wave my hands, canceling out the very idea that I might do this forever. “But if I could do anything?”

“Yes. Anything.”

“Acting,” I say sheepishly. “Singing, maybe.”

“Hollywood!” he bursts out like he’s found the answer to a million questions in that moment. I pat the air and lower my voice.

“Shhhh. Yes . . . yes . . . that’s the dream, you know? But for now—Chicago?”

He steps back and looks at me with wise eyes, his hand cupping his chin.

“No. Hollywood. That’s where you go. I see now.” My face flushes, and I know it’s not from the balmy air blowing in from the south or the scented heat pouring out of the kitchen.

“Well, thank you.” I give him a tiny but overly proper curtsy, my cheeks aching from smiling. Halfway through my bob, there’s a tap on my shoulder and the rumble of a familiar voice. Surprised, I stumble a bit, but a strong hand around my waist keeps me from falling.

“Tom!” I know his touch. His hand at my waist has become familiar from dancing at the USO, and his voice follows me home at night in my memories.

“Hey, doll.” He stands close to a foot taller than me and shoots down a brilliant smile from his lofty perch, leaving his hand on my waist.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, stepping back until his hand slips away. I notice something stiff and off about him. He’s not even looking at me; he’s staring at Trombello.

“I waited for ya by the bus stop. Thought you might be working late when Private Craig told me he left you over here waiting for dinner.”

“Oh, I’m sorry! We had the chapel committee meeting today, so I’m taking the later bus, and Signor Trombello invited me to try the lasagna. Mike said it was no big deal, so I thought I’d give it a go . . .”

“Private Craig shouldn’t have left you here alone.” Tom stresses Mike’s full, official name, and I realize I’ve fallen into using his name casually.

“Oh, I’m fine. This is the chapel committee right here, and this is Antonio Trombello. He’s from my parents’ hometown in Salerno.” I pronounce the Italian names and town with an accent that sounds out of place sandwiched between my midwestern vocabulary. “You should see the plans they’ve drawn up—it’s amazing. And Signor Puccini, he’s the one carving that big rock out on the east side of the base.”

I make proper introductions.

“This is my friend Corporal Tom Highward. Oh, sorry. Il mio amico Corporal Tom Highward.”

Tom barely takes note of the introductions.

“You wanna eat here?” he asks. I can see his angle now. This is kind of a work around to the “no dates” caveat at the USO, and he knows it. “You know—as friends.” The word sounds like sticky poison in his mouth, and my heart rate climbs as I sense tension in the normally charming guy.

“Um, sure. Sure. That’s fine,” I say slowly, processing through the possible fallout. It’s not a date. It’s not against the rules of my position here at the base either, as far as I know. Judy eats with her husband almost every day.

“Ci vediamo la prossima settimana,” I say, telling the committee members I’ll see them soon. Then I turn to Trombello. “If I hear anything sooner about the schedule, I’ll make sure you know.”

“Grazie, signorina. See you next week . . . if Hollywood doesn’t take you first,” Trombello says with a tip of his head, hands behind his back looking very official in my opinion.

“Hollywood doesn’t even know I exist yet,” I say timidly.

Then as we start to move past the waiting prisoners to the front of the line, Trombello acknowledges Tom with a quick, “Ufficiale.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tom asks, lunging forward. I grab his tensed bicep and pull backward with no effect.

“Officer. He just called you an officer, that’s all.”

Trombello doesn’t respond to Tom’s aggressive move. He remains firmly in place, and I can imagine him as a soldier. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his pulse pounding at his jugular at double speed.

“Tutto bene, Padre?” Are you all right, Father? Ferragni asks in a low mumble.