When We Were Enemies: A Novel(76)

“Do not tell me you work for the camps, Viviana. Do not tell me this.”

I look at my hands. To lie about which side of the road I work on would be so easy. It would hurt no one. It would be a victimless crime. Father Theodore would understand. God would understand. I’m sure of it.

But I can’t. Father Theodore says temptation is devious; it makes you think sin is not just permissible but that it’s for the greater good. I won’t fall into that trap.

“I’m a secretary in the main office of the prisoner of war internment camp, papà. It’s a very good job, and they pay double what my salary would be anywhere else.”

“You work in the same place that makes people hate us? This camp where they bring the worst of our kind who steal jobs for little pay? Do you want to be locked away like they did with the Japanese? Do you want this, Viviana?”

He speaks with his hands like he’s directing his own symphony. I understand his position, and it’s not completely unfounded. When the military base became a POW camp, people in Edinburgh and the surrounding towns were filled with fear and resistance. Even before that, it wasn’t easy to be an American with an accent and a foreign last name. And though they haven’t come for us yet, my father’s fear is real and fed by life experience.

“You know I don’t, papà. And I’ve been afraid, too, but don’t you think if I’m working for the army, it might help keep us safe?”

“My daughter is spending time with prisoners. With Blackshirts? You sound as though you respect these men—these fascists.”

“No, I don’t respect fascism, papà. But there are rules that all the countries in the war follow, and Lieutenant Colonel Gammell says we must follow them exactly, or our men will be treated poorly in POW camps overseas. I do as I’m told. I follow orders.” The complexities of the Geneva Conventions are not something I’m prepared to explain, not that I fully understand them myself.

“And you lie to me about it? You make Aria lie? It’s no good, Viviana. No good at all.”

He fills his glass and rips off a hunk of the bread, seeming to consider what I’ve said. He’s softening ever so slightly. I continue as he chews.

“I know, papà.” Tears of shame spill down my cheeks. “It was wrong. In confession last week, Father Theodore told me I must be honest with you even though . . . I’ve been afraid.”

“Of what, passerotta? Of what?” he asks, with something akin to tenderness in the gruff question.

He clearly doesn’t know how frightening he is to his children. Even if I told him, I don’t think he could possibly understand.

“I was afraid you’d make me quit, and I want to work and help you take care of mamma and Aria. And I’m doing well in my position. I’ve already had a promotion.”

“A promotion?” He chuckles cynically as he swallows a mouthful of grappa. “What? You type faster, now? What kind of promotion do they give women typists?” he asks skeptically, his old-fashioned ideals continuing to cloud his understanding of the present-day workforce that employs more women than ever.

“I’m an interpreter,” I explain, filled with an unexpected pride. “And they have me assisting on the building of a chapel on the base for the Catholic prisoners. I work with some artisans, builders, a priest even. Oh,” I add, seeing the doubt in his expression, “I . . . I met Archbishop Cicognani last week. He had me sing at the dedication of the site.”

“A chapel?” he asks.

“Yes, papà. A chapel.”

He shifts in his chair, intrigued at least for the moment, but then he turns dark again.

“And what do you call singing and dancing with men for money?” he asks, the accusation clear. It could seem like a blow, but I know better. He’s accepted my first confession, along with the lies that accompanied them. He knows we can’t live without my paycheck, and anything that has to do with the church, papà sees as blessed.

I can keep my job—for now at least. Relief brings me an extra surge of courage.

“It’s the USO, papà. United Service Organizations. The government runs it. There are tons of rules and chaperones, and I get paid to sing, not to dance. The dancing I do as a volunteer. They call it a patriotic duty. Mrs. Portia from church, she’s in charge. And Mrs. Tawny is a senior hostess. You can call her if you like—she’ll tell you it’s all on the up and up.”

He raises one eyebrow, still suspicious.

“If that’s true, then who was the man you were with late at night? The one in the uniform? Mrs. Brown said you were fighting.”

I think back to that horrible night, and I can only imagine what it looked like from fifty yards away and through the lens of the town gossip. I’ve gotten this far on honesty, but I can’t tell him everything, not about that night and not about Tom. But I will give him as much of the truth as I can.

“I was going to talk to you about that tonight. It wasn’t a fight. Tom—”

“Tom? That’s his name?”

“Yes, Tom Highward—he’s a technician fifth grade at Camp Atterbury.”

“You were alone with this man?”

“No, no, papà. I’d missed my bus and was walking home alone and . . .”

“Viviana!” he says, tapping his forehead, which I know means he thinks I’m brainless.