I straighten my jacket and blouse, rub my lips together one more time, and then work my way out of the elevated back seat, my feet landing on a cement curb. Ignoring the blank stare of Marty’s camera and the smaller, handheld camera focused on Mac, I catch my first real glimpse of Holy Trinity.
I’ve been here before but never as an adult, and it looks almost as large as I remember. The church is built on a hill, the greenery sweeping up to the steepled tower and cement steps leading to the arched carved front doors.
“What do you think? First impressions?” Mac asks, his voice low and hypnotic like he doesn’t want to wake me from some sort of trance.
“It’s beautiful.” I barely get the words out before my throat tightens again, not only from nerves but from a rush of feelings I can’t turn off. As I take in the vision of the church through the barely budding trees, tears sting my eyes.
“Has it changed much since you were here last?”
I caress every sharp angle and delicate curve of the structure with my gaze. I’ve seen greater buildings. I’ve visited the Vatican. I’ve walked on the Great Wall of China. I’ve strolled through the halls of Versailles, stood in Palace Square in St. Petersburg, and gasped at the brilliant beacon that is the Taj Mahal.
But what this site has that none of the others did is a piece of my history, my origin; it feels like it’s almost part of my DNA.
“It looks exactly the same as when I was a kid and . . .” I think back to the photo in the eight-by-ten frame my mother keeps by the side of her bed even to this day. “My mom has a picture of Nonna and Grandpa on their wedding day outside this place. Seeing those carved doors right now—it’s like they could walk out any second.”
“Really? It’s that well preserved?”
“I think so. You should ask my mom for her parents’ wedding picture. It’s a little fuzzy, but you’ll get the idea.”
“What does it mean to you that you’ll be married here in a few short weeks?” he asks in his interviewer voice.
I envision myself dressed in white with Hunter beside me in his tuxedo, the stair rails dripping with flowers and bells ringing in the background. Although I’ve been struggling to imagine our wedding day, in this moment, it seems so clear.
“I think it means . . . everything.” My comment hangs in the air, a meaningful, pregnant pause after my heartfelt sharing moment.
“Let’s cut there,” Mac says to the crew. All the cameras lift or droop, no longer focused on me or the church. Mac places an encouraging hand on my shoulder, squinting through his lenses. “Wow. Elise, that was great. Exactly what we need. Honest, vulnerable emotion. Perfect. Keep doing that, and we’ll be out of here in no time.”
Every piece of encouragement from Mac rings hollow. I feel silly for falling under his hypnotic spell and spouting something so cheesy, so melodramatic. Now, that sentimental moment belongs to Mac and the documentary, impossible to take back. I need to be more cautious. Mac is either a skilled director or a master manipulator—either way, there’s no doubt he’s willing to do whatever it takes to get “the shot.” And it looks like it’s up to me to protect my family’s dignity—as well as my own.
This could be an interesting few weeks, I think as I nod cooperatively at Mac’s stage directions while Lisa touches up the liner slightly smudged from my tears.
“Perfect,” she says, stepping back and smiling at me, although I’m sure she’s smiling at the “granddaughter of Vivian Snow” more so than at “Elise Branson.” But in this case, I’m not offended.
With the cameras rolling again, I walk up the long row of steps embedded in the hillside to the front of the church. I’d heard Mac talking about losing the daylight, so there’s a sense of urgency in the air. And though I’m cold without my fluffy coat, and I have to make a concerted effort not to look directly at the cameras, I realize my hands have finally stopped shaking.
CHAPTER 6
Vivian
Friday, May 7, 1943
Edinburgh USO
The punch table is crowded, but I can’t wait any longer for a pick-me-up. I’ve been dancing the jitterbug with Peter Thomas for the past half hour. I’m out of breath and covered in far more perspiration than is proper for a girl. I’m supposed to sing shortly, but I can’t hop right off the dance floor and onto the stage without grabbing a cool drink.
The air is thick with the smell of cheap perfume, aftershave, and sweat. After performing here for six months, I know that as the night goes on, my senses will numb—the pinch of my shoes and the strange smells in the air will fade away, and all that will matter is the music. But I’m not there yet.
The next number starts, and I can see Peter scanning the room for me. He’d keep me on the dance floor all night if I let him. I duck behind a tall serviceman ladling two glasses of the red punch. It’s actually one of the worst things I’ve ever tasted, barely any sugar in it due to rationing, and it leaves an off-flavor coating on my tongue. Occasionally, if we’re lucky, there are chilled bottles of Coca-Cola waiting at the refreshment table, but not tonight.
I get to the front of the line and reach for the ladle when a serviceman snatches it out of my hand.
A voice in my head yells out, “Hey!” but another calms it immediately with a “You can wait.” I’m convinced the first voice is that of Vivian Snow, singer, dancer, actress. But the second voice, the one that wins every time, the one that keeps me in line, is me, Vivian Santini.
“Let me get that for you.” The man passes me a glass cup.
I take the cup, realizing he wasn’t cutting in line after all. He just wanted to serve me a drink.
“Oh, thank you.” I gulp the liquid quickly, trying not to taste it and wishing I were one of those girls who could quip back in the sassy way men seem to love.
“Saw you dancing out there. You’re pretty light on your feet,” he says, taking a mouthful of the punch, then grimacing. “Wow. This is really, really . . .”
“Terrible?” I say, laughing, placing my empty glass on the return tray.
“That’s a nice way of saying it.” He laughs and attempts another sip before putting his nearly full cup on the table. “It’s truly awful. I’d rather drink old canteen water.”
“We should really treat our soldier boys better, shouldn’t we?” I joke, the sticky film already turning my mouth sour.
“We’re going out there to get shot at. If we could only have something decent to drink before we go . . .”
“This feels like a travesty Washington must hear about. A new bill or something.”
The soldier’s eyebrow lifts, and he looks at me with a bit of a smirk when someone bumps me from behind, shoving me against my companion. He steadies me and calls out to the young private who hasn’t noticed his misstep.
“Hey! Look where you’re going. Aren’t you going to apologize to the young lady?”
“Oh, hey, sorry,” the distracted private says half-heartedly without turning around.
“Really, Private? That’s how you apologize?” he says, reaching out to tap the kid’s shoulder. I glance at his arm and notice a capital T under two bars. He’s a corporal, I think. Which outranks the private.