“Well, think on it. I’m heading up to my room. If you need me, I’m in suite 435,” she says. That’s Mac’s room. I know it from the one-on-one interviews he films in the sitting area there. I shouldn’t be surprised—of course she’ll stay with him. But as she walks out of the room with as much flair as her entrance, I start to devise a crisis-management plan because it looks like I’m the only one watching out for this family, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon.
CHAPTER 20
Vivian
Monday, June 7, 1943
Chapel in the Meadow
The lane is dimly lit by light streaming through the branches and thick leafy cover. If I didn’t know we were still on camp property, I’d think we’d entered a fairy world. But the deep rumble of the military vehicle and the death clutch I have on the bar on the side of the jeep keeps me from straying too far from reality.
West, through Nineveh. Talbot’s poetic confession came back to me the moment we headed out this morning for the chapel site. These woods border the small town of Nineveh and must be the cover used by soldiers brave enough, or foolish enough, to go AWOL for a night. It’s also rumored that POWs use the forest as well. It’s no wonder they make it in and out undetected—the land is rough and raw, untouched for the most part by humans. Besides the small POW cemetery, the only other vestiges of modern man are the tire tracks in the tall grass and the group gathered in the clearing ahead.
Finally, I’ll stand on the actual spot where the chapel will be built. The river runs on one side of the path, with pussy willows hugging its edges like crinolines peeking from the bottom of a skirt. White-and-gray waterbirds dot the reeds, and a few ducks lounge in the water, unfazed by the influx of humanity. On the other side of the path, a broad meadow stretches along the barbed wire of the western side of the POW compound.
The foundation is scheduled to be fully dug and poured in two weeks. At that point, the exterior fence will be completed to make the structure officially part of the camp. If all goes as planned, the full project should reach completion before the weather turns cold. It’ll be a small building, wholly made of cement and surplus building materials from the camp, but the planned artwork and masonry are breathtaking. Selfishly, I’m eager to get past the labor portion of the project so I can watch the artists as they work on the murals that’ll line the walls of the chapel.
Private Craig angles the jeep up the slight slope to the cluster of prisoners and guards. The men use what look like old-fashioned scythes to clear the grass. A figure dressed in religious vestments stands in a northern corner of the clearing, sprinkling what I assume is holy water with a brass aspergillum.
Beside him, Trombello stands with his head bowed and hands clasped, likely the only one of the men to know by memory the Latin prayers of dedication. I don’t recognize the other man, except I can tell from his dress that he’s an archbishop. He’s wearing a robe with red lining and a loose black cassock, red sash at his waist, and red zucchetto on the crown of his head.
Perhaps that’s the reasoning behind the vestments, like the uniforms worn by the army men and by the POWs, the ceremonial clothing of the clergy lets others know to whom their loyalties belong.
Which is why things got so mixed up with Trombello. He’s a sort of a plant, I think. A man of God living undercover as a man of war or perhaps the other way around. Which uniform did he choose, and which was forced upon him?
“Miss Santini, you’re needed in the clearing.” A guard helps me out of the jeep. My heels, borrowed from Mary, sink into the soft soil.
The prisoners have gathered around the archbishop. A knee-high wooden cross sticks out from the ground like a marker for a grave that hasn’t been dug yet. Even with the June sun high in the sky, I shiver at the thought.
I haven’t seen Trombello since dinner in the POW mess hall, and I’ve been preoccupied with confusion about Tom and excitement about Archie’s business card I carry with me, but I still think of Trombello often. Mostly, I feel foolish for the strange reaction I had to the man who turned out to be a priest. Not that he’d given any indication he’d ever considered me anything other than an interpreter.
And though he’s handsome, I’m not touched by his physical appearance. I’m not drawn to him like I’m drawn to Tom, who can make my insides boil in a delicious heat with one touch. I’m drawn to the idea of Antonio Trombello, that there are men in this world who are both strong and kind.
Perhaps it’s the godly part of him I crave. Perhaps my silly, romantic mind had taken over, and instead of seeing Trombello’s kindness and patience for what it was—a sign of his religion and life’s work—I took it to mean something more.
But it means nothing.
It has to mean nothing.
“Buongiorno, signorina!” Trombello greets me with a wave that makes my heart flutter.
It has to mean nothing, I remind myself, clutching the leather satchel with the plans and paperwork across my body.
“Buongiorno, Padre,” I respond, muted and without meeting his lively eyes. He speaks to me in Italian, so fast I almost can’t keep up.
“Come and meet the Most Reverend Amleto Cicognani. He’s finished his dedicatory prayer and would like to meet you.”
“Meet me? Are you sure?” I smooth my skirt and tidy my hair, wondering how the archbishop knows I exist.
“Yes—all the men have had your name on their lips. Parlano bene di lei.”
“Singing my praises? Without an interpreter?”
“I did my best,” he says in English before returning to Italian. “And it seems Lieutenant Colonel Gammell spoke of you as well.”
I blush at the thought. As a secretary, I’m supposed to fade into the background, my work invisible, though necessary. But Trombello seems to be saying I’m important. Me. Vivian Santini. The praise doesn’t match the level of my work on the project.
“I’m only doing my assignment.”
“False modesty is a form of dishonesty,” he says, wagging his finger. The mention of deceit stirs up my guilty conscience.
My heels catch on a clump of prairie grass, and I stumble.
“Attenta, signorina!” Trombello grasps my elbow, and I steady myself immediately.
“I’m sorry. My shoes aren’t meant for trekking, I guess,” I joke to calm my nerves and to distract myself from his hand on my arm.
“I suppose, no.” He grips a little tighter but without any aggression, putting pressure on the bruise from when Tom yanked me into the car on Friday. I flinch.
“I hurt you?” he asks, stopping to inspect my arm. His eyes land on the bruise. I tried to cover it with makeup before work, but with the heat and the sweat from my skin and Trombello’s hand, it’s rubbed off.
“No, no. That’s from another day. I . . . I . . .” I stammer through an explanation, every lie since my talk with Father Theodore sending up flares of guilt. What would it help to tell Trombello about my difficulties with Tom? This is what I don’t understand—how do I tell the truth when it could hurt Tom’s reputation or my own?
“I fell, and . . . and someone caught me. I’m lucky. It could’ve been worse.” When I hear the false story, it sounds true, even to me.