“Hey, no one said we’re doing anything of the sort. I just want to know the procedure . . .” I can hear the BS in his claims of innocence.
“Thanks for the tour, Mr. Christianson.” I drop the portable mic on the table and then rezip my coat, preparing for the cool breeze outside, ready to walk if Mac refuses to provide transportation.
“Elise,” Mac calls after me, but I don’t stop. Let him have his little chat about digging up my family and any secrets my grandmother may have had. Clearly, he wants to use us to bolster his career and make money.
I pull out my cell phone to call my mom but pull up Hunter’s number first. He’s a “take no prisoners” kind of businessperson, and I could use an enthusiastic cheerleader right now. I wish he were here. We’d be an unstoppable team, plus it’d feel good to have his arm around me while I had a good cry into his shoulder. But I’ll settle for a call—for now.
Conrad hovers with a clipboard, asking me where I’m going.
“I’m going for a walk,” I say as I finish dialing and the phone starts ringing. I put on my gloves, yank my zipper up as high as it can go, and pull on the stocking cap from my pocket. I’m so warmed by my anger that I barely feel the cold wind swirling through the frozen cemetery. Phone to my ear, I walk toward the brick entrance, waiting to hear Hunter’s voice, with absolutely no idea where I’m going other than—away. Away from all these complicated questions about Nonna and my family. I’m not sure that I want to know “the truth” if it’s anything other than the beautiful story I’ve wrapped myself in for my entire life.
CHAPTER 14
Vivian
Friday, June 4, 1943
Holy Trinity Catholic Church
“This is all I can remember. I am sorry for this and all my sins.” I say the ceremonial words through the gridded partition, waiting for Father Theodore’s response. I confessed the small lies to papà and the big lies about mamma. I confessed my growing feelings for Tom and how I’m finding it difficult to resist the temptation to go on a date with him. I confessed my occasional rebellion against papà and my prideful nature and my struggle against vanity. I also told Father Theodore about the incident with Tom and Trombello at the mess hall and how it makes me feel lost and confused.
What I don’t share, what I can’t force myself to say in this little box and in front of God, is how often I think about the young Italian POW whom everyone calls Father.
“No improvement from your mother, then, dear?”
“No, Father. I . . . I don’t think she’ll ever get better,” I say calmly, even though I want to drop my head onto the armrest and cry. I’ve come to understand this fact more and more lately, but it’s still hard to say it out loud without feeling like I’m dooming my mother to a life of imprisonment in a sanatorium. I used to imagine we’d find some magic cure, a pill or treatment or elixir, but I fear that hope is dying.
“And your father—do you think you might tell him soon about your position at the camp?”
I shake my head, though I’m not sure he can see it through the grate.
“Forgive me but—no. I can’t. He’d make me quit. I know he would.”
“I see,” Father Theodore says with a familiar sigh that’s a mixture of empathy and judgment. I don’t begrudge him the judgment, and I’m grateful for the empathy. “With that in mind, then it’s important to remember that if you allow this new young man to court you, it should not be entered into on a foundation of deceit. Proverbs, chapter twelve: verse twenty-two. Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord, but those who act faithfully are his delight.”
A delight. I’ve always thought I was deeply trustworthy, and I desire being “a delight” in the eyes of God, but when Father Theodore asks me to be honest about Tom, a dam builds inside me. Being honest is good; I know. But being honest is also hard—really hard.
“Yes, Father,” I say in submission, but that “yes” is yet another lie. What “yes” really means is I’ll try to do better, and I’ll look for ways to tell the truth more often. But that’s all I can commit to. Somehow, I feel that, although Father Theodore doesn’t understand, God does.
Father Theodore finishes our session with words of guidance and then prescribes penance. Penance is actually my favorite part of the sacrament of confession because no matter how I feel walking into the church, stepping out, I feel clean and refreshed.
When I exit through the grand doors and into the humid night air, I’m lighter than when I walked in, and my mind is clear. I rush down the stairs to the street like I’m flying, ready for new opportunities.
Check-in for the dance is in ten minutes, and the dance hall is several blocks away. I let my renewed energy carry me down Main Cross Street, as close to running as propriety and my shoes allow.
I’m eager to make it to my gig because we need the money, yes, but also because Tom is likely to be there. I haven’t seen him since that tense lasagna dinner at the POW mess hall. After the confrontation, we moved to the front of the line and were served immediately. We then joined a group of US guards and officers in the mess hall. Tom sat beside me, his back straight as a rod, a different man from the one I’d been getting to know at dances and on walks to and from the bus.
I watched Tom engage in small talk with the surrounding men and officers and nibbled at the meal I’d been so looking forward to without tasting it.
I wasn’t brave enough to turn around and look for Trombello and the rest of the committee, but every bite I took reminded me that there were other eyes watching the whole dinner play out. And when I took my tray to the dish return, I found the young priest doing the same by my side.
“Did you enjoy your meal?” he whispered in Italian, the clinking of our plates acting as a perfect cover.
“Yes,” I said, my smile plastered on. “Buono.”
“I know Marco will be pleased. He was a chef before the war.” He hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “Everyone’s waiting to hear your review.”
“Me?” I asked loudly, dropping my fork with a noisy clank. I lowered my voice to a whisper again. “Me? Why?”
He shrugged, a little smirk crinkling his sun-bronzed cheek. “You remind them of home—sisters, girlfriends, mothers, and wives.”
My anxiety swelled like a sponge taking in water. I had that feeling again, of being watched when I’m not onstage. And as flattering as that comment was, I also knew it wasn’t safe for me to be the object of affection for men who are our enemies.
I checked my watch without responding to his compliment, aware of the line behind us and knowing Tom was somewhere in the room watching too.
“I’ve gotta go,” I said, in English this time, my heart pounding. Trombello searched my face, his eyes taking in what I couldn’t say out loud. I’m not sure if it was the whisperings of God inside the man or if it was the man inside the Godly vessel, but when he stepped aside so I could pass by, I could tell he understood.
“Sì,” he said and then, “Buona serata,” or good evening.
And with that, I snatched my purse and rushed out the door, ignoring the hundreds of eyes watching my exit. Tom didn’t follow me. He also didn’t show up at my bus stop that night, nor has he shown up any night since then.