“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.
“I’m sorry. Which meetings?” I ask, flustered. I was actively taking notes but not paying close enough attention to understand his meaning.
“The chapel construction committee. With the prisoner who presented today. The one who knows the Geneva Conventions as well as his Bible.”
“Oh. Yes, sir,” I say, matter-of-factly, trying not to reveal the terrible thrill of danger that takes me by surprise.
I’ll be working with him—the prisoner with kind eyes. I’ll get to know his voice and he mine.
But there can be no more hidden looks, and I can’t indulge any level of intimacy.
This isn’t like the innocent flirting when I dance with soldiers at the USO or the winks and giggles I give to the men in the audience when I’m performing. This man is a prisoner of war, an Italian prisoner of war. He may seem safe and kind and religious, but I don’t know who he is on a battlefield. Besides, even if he’s untouched by fascist fanaticism, it’s dangerous for a daughter of Italian immigrants to appear to have any special interest in these enemies of America. Especially when many in my country already think I should be numbered among them.
CHAPTER 11
Elise
Present Day
Camp Atterbury
A week into the shoot and I’m already tired of so many things.
The lights have been giving me a headache. And though we’ve been outside most of the day, I can’t seem to kick it.
It’s cold but unpredictably so. Some parts of the day feel like spring is about to burst through. Then as soon as a cloud crosses the sun, we’re tossed into the depths of winter. So far today, it’s warm enough to wear my leather coat and the mustard-yellow scarf Lisa added to insert a splash of color into the not-yet-green landscape of browns and grays. But who knows how long this temperature will last.
I’m also tired of Mac’s dual personality, friendly in front of the lens, terse and narcissistic in the rest of his interactions. He wants authenticity on camera but also micromanages every step of the process, which makes authenticity on my part a near impossibility.
This morning, his booming voice echoes through the open fields of Camp Atterbury, disturbing the peaceful surroundings. He told me twenty minutes ago to take a five-minute break so he could address a technical issue. I’m starting to think it’s not going to be resolved anytime soon.
I’m seated on a folding chair one hundred yards away from the crew. They’re surrounding a small white chapel in the middle of a long, mowed field. This little building is the crowning achievement of the Italian prisoners—the hand-constructed POW chapel—the Chapel of Our Lady in the Meadow. The building doesn’t have any doors on the front, just a glass fa?ade protecting the altar and intricately decorated interior. The red-painted steps have crosses embedded in their cement, and a small cross is carved into the side wall. Apparently, my grandmother walked here when she was an unknown secretary with a different last name. She hadn’t told me about this part of her life, and for the first time in this endeavor, I’m taking in her story like an outsider.
An adorable elderly woman named Dottie took us through the camp museum earlier this morning. I like to imagine she’s always lived here, knew my grandma when she was a young woman, before Nonna’s fame and before her stage name removed the Italian roots from her movie-star persona.
But that dream is an impossibility. Dottie didn’t move to Nineveh until after the war and didn’t start working here until her husband retired. His name is Stan, and he’s out working with the maintenance crew in a supervisory capacity.
Dottie sits in the row behind me in her own chair, waiting to finish our tour. She’s wrapped up in an ankle-length dusty purple Lands’ End jacket that looks so warm, I’m tempted to buy one tonight at the outlet mall. As Mac shouts again and gestures wildly to the gaffer, Dottie sighs and retrieves a tattered paperback novel from one of the giant pockets on the front of her coat. It’s been years since I’ve let myself get lost in a book, and there’s something about the swishing of the pages and her unwavering focus that makes me want to sit next to her and peek into the fictional lives she’s devouring.