Our connection is brief but mutual. He knows me and I know him, and I can see the questions in his eyes. Who is this woman? Why does she speak Italian?
I have my own questions. How did a man who seems invested in peace come to be a prisoner of war? What part of Italy is he from? Is it close to where my parents were born? Does he have a hidden temper like my father? Does he know what it’s like to lose someone close to him? Does he have a family back home worrying about him? And most importantly—why does this stranger seem so familiar to me in some unspeakable way?
The prisoners take their seats, and Talbot stands by the back wall. I return to my small desk. My nerves have me rushing, but I try not to show it as I settle into position. Graceful. Self-assured. The leading lady.
As soon as I pick up my pencil to take notes, Lieutenant Colonel Gammell clears his throat and starts the proceedings.
The lead delegate is named Tessaro. He’s a corporal in the Royal Italian Army and speaks with a thick Tuscan accent aspirating his c’s heavily. He’s a small man with coal-black eyes, and his blazer has four red v’s on the left arm. The second man wears a tattered and unkempt uniform, likely not laundered since his feet landed on American soil. His hat tilts to one side, and his lighter complexion and striking blue eyes make him stand out from the other Italian soldiers. His name is Ferragni, and he speaks in broken English that I can tell Lieutenant Colonel Gammell and Sergeant Simpson can barely understand.
“Tell him not to bother,” Lieutenant Colonel Gammell says to me quietly.
“Chiedo scusa, signore. Io posso tradurre. Parla liberamente, per favore,” I say with a respectful and almost formal attitude. I’m sorry, sir. I can translate. Speak freely, please.
Lieutenant Colonel Gammell needs to trust my translations, so I speak to the prisoners with precision. They have more on the line. It’s a heavy responsibility that I can’t believe rests on my shoulders.
Gammell continues, and I translate seamlessly. Trombello sits silently. His uniform has no fancy bars or pins or badges. He looks to be a lowly foot soldier. I wonder how he ended up elected as a representative, a position usually given to those farther up in rank.
“You men have been elected by your peers and superiors to represent your compound in matters of importance.” Gammell reviews their responsibilities as he has with every other group.
Tessaro covers the major business points, adjusts his uniform jacket, checks the sewn-in flags and awards on his breast, and then hands the floor to Ferragni.
“Something must be done about the food,” Ferragni says in English, pronouncing each word with particular care, as if he practiced.
“The food?” Lieutenant Colonel Gammell asks. I repeat in Italian.
“Yes. The food is . . . how do I say?” He turns his eyes upward, looking as if he were running through a list in his head.
“You men eat better than our boys in the field,” Sergeant Simpson interjects.
“We eat, but there’s not . . . uh . . . beauty in it.”
“Beauty?” Simpson scoffs, turning to Lieutenant Colonel Gammell. “For God’s sake, they’re prisoners.” Talbot seems to agree, nodding at the outburst. I don’t translate.
“Could you be more specific in your objections? What is the problem with your rations?” Lieutenant Colonel Gammell ignores Simpson and speaks directly to Ferragni.
“What is this Jell-O? It moves like a woman but tastes like colors. And the meat is like brick in mouth,” he says with disgust, his hands moving as rapidly as his lips.
I hold back a laugh, wishing that Ferragni would let me translate his words directly rather than stumble through in broken English. Although I doubt that anyone who didn’t grow up with warm focaccia and fresh basil in a red sauce over homemade al dente pasta would understand.
“What do they expect? Veal parmigiana?” Simpson says, butchering the pronunciation in a low aside only meant for Gammell and perhaps me.
“Parte terza. Capitolo due. Articolo undici,” Trombello says, looking right at me.
Lieutenant Colonel Gammell also has his eyes on me, waiting for a translation. And though I don’t understand his comment, I translate it exactly.
“Part three. Chapter two. Article eleven.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Simpson asks.
“I’m not sure what you’re referring to,” Gammell responds.
I translate for Trombello.
He explains directly to me, not to the lieutenant colonel.
“Le Convenzioni di Ginevra. Capitolo due. Articolo undici. Si terrà conto anche della dieta abituale dei detenuti. Ai detenuti saranno inoltre concessi i mezzi per prepararsi da soli gli alimenti aggiuntivi che potrebbero possedere.”
And I understand immediately.
“The Geneva Conventions. Chapter Two. Article Eleven. The habitual diet of prisoners will also be taken into account. Prisoners shall also be afforded the means of preparing for themselves such additional articles of food as they may possess,” I state plainly, and Lieutenant Colonel Gammell nods without comment. He flips through the pages of the dogeared booklet with the Red Cross symbol on the front, and though he doesn’t show it, I can tell he’s impressed.
The booklet is our holy document. Here at Camp Atterbury, it’s our religious scripture. And Lieutenant Colonel Gammell might as well be a cardinal. He closes the booklet and looks at each man in the eye as he gives his response.
“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.”