“I don’t know. I’d like to say God softened their hearts after the battle at Sidi Barrani. The British army was massiccio. We knew nothing of war. General Bergonzoli said we’d understand how to fight when guns fired at us, but we didn’t. Some of us ran toward the explosions; some ran away, and some stood still. On that first day, we saw so much death, so much.”
He has a far-off look in his eyes as he stares at the pencil drawing of the chapel. I stand still, slowing my breathing to keep from distracting his recollection.
“I volunteered to be a soldier in ’40. I thought myself a coward for staying behind to hide in a church when all the men I’d grown up with had been conscripted. When my friends and commilitoni crossed to the other world in my arms, I wondered if I’d made the right decision. But war needs God more than peace does. And I believe more service happens here than from the pulpit.”
He looks out at the small group who volunteered their time to build this chapel. They’ve sacrificed paid work at local farms in order to create this sacred place and a piece of the home they miss so dearly.
“You chose to enlist?” I ask, finding the confession provocative and potentially frightening. “Are you loyal? To Mussolini?”
“I’m loyal to no man but God,” he says as he looks to the sky. He lowers his voice and moves to my side, his arm hair tickling my skin. A line of perspiration races down the side of my neck. “The church has found Mussolini to be godless, and when I left, people were growing tired of fascism. Not all the soldiers here agree, but many do. From time to time, they have great arguments over politics as though they can change anything while inside these walls.”
He tinkers with a camera, clicks the lens into place, and cocks a small lever.
“What of you?”
“Me?” I ask.
“Yes. Where do your loyalties lie?”
“My country,” I reply automatically. “I’m loyal to my country.”
“Just your country? Not your family, your amore, your church, or your God?”
“All of them, I guess.”
“But which first, do you think? Who would you go to battle for if they did not all agree?”
Who would I go to battle for?
It’s a challenging question. If all I hold dearest were in conflict—who or which would I choose? Would I abandon my father to please my country? Would I give up my religion to please a man I loved? Would I sacrifice my life before betraying my country? I’m too young to know these answers. Then again, I’m surrounded by younger men forced to make these choices every day.
He picks up the camera and takes a picture of the field and workers, and then another of the newly placed cross where the altar will soon stand.
“Not simple to say, eh?”
I shake my head, the uncomfortable weight of shame settling on my shoulders. My head bows.
“Ehi, pull up your eyes.” He taps under my chin. “Don’t be like a wilting flower. You’ll know.”
I’m about to open my mouth to say, “I’m not sure I will,” when he lifts the camera again and takes a picture of me. I blink, surprised, and smile at his childlike antics. He takes another photograph.
“Trombello, fermati,” I say, telling him to stop, laughing a little but also embarrassed my face will turn up in photographs of the building site.
“Excuse me. Miss Santini?” Private Craig interrupts our tête-à-tête and photography session. He’s leaving, and I’m supposed to accompany him.
“You’ll make sure these plans get back to me tonight?” I ask Trombello in English now that the soldier is listening. He’s put down the camera and taken on a more officious and collected air.
“Yes, miss,” the soldier replies as though I’d spoken to him, but Trombello nods, and I know he’s understood my English instructions.
“Well then. Best of luck to you all,” I say in English.
“Grazie. Ci vediamo presto,” Trombello responds. We will see each other soon.
“Yes. Soon.”
As I leave the meadow, I linger on Trombello’s last words. I’ll see him again soon, and that brings me peace. I’d like to say it’s because of our shared religion or our shared heritage, but it’s not. I just plain like him—the way his mind works and how words sound coming from his mouth. And I like who I want to be when he’s beside me. I might not know all the answers to all his thought-provoking questions, but I do know this—I’m not ready to say arrivederci to him just yet.
CHAPTER 21
Elise
Present Day
Big Red’s Place
“Two egg whites. From real eggs, not from a carton, please. And a side salad with as many tomatoes as you can give me. No dressing.” The waitress takes my mom’s menu. It shakes in her hand. She’s serving the Gracelyn Branson. What an exciting day. Calloo! Callay!
I frown. Poor girl.
Nancy, the owner, has kindly kept my family connection under wraps. I’ve been using her diner as my office a few days a week for the past month.
My mom is in full makeup and wearing a designer blouse and a pair of high-waisted khaki-colored silk pants. Her hair is curled and sprayed. I try to see her through the eyes of her fans to understand how, even when she’s borderline rude and as condescending as she was with that food order, little sixteen-year-old Kaylee doesn’t mind.
“And you?” Kaylee asks me as an afterthought.
Kaylee must not remember that I already ordered and ate, so I follow up with a “no thank you” instead of correcting her. She doesn’t move for a moment, smiling brashly while staring at my mom.
“Kaylee. Kitchen,” Nancy shouts from her perch at the cash register. The trance is broken, at least for the time being, and Kaylee slips away to the back of the restaurant.
Mom and I don’t acknowledge Kaylee’s behavior because it’s a part of pretty much any public outing with her. She arranges her discarded outer layers of clothing and settles into the vinyl seat.
“No work today?” Mom asks.
“Lots of work today,” I say, gesturing to the evidence. Paperwork covers half the table, and my laptop sits open in front of me.
“Oh, sorry. Not that work.” She flips her hand at the stacks of paper dismissively. “I mean, filming. Your day off?” The fact that my mom thinks of this documentary as my day job rather than as a favor I’m doing for her with great sacrifice to my real career is frustrating but not surprising.
“Not today. Remember? I drove in with the crew, but I’m not filming. Tomorrow, we shoot the Pre-Cana with Father Patrick, and then Friday—dress shopping in Indianapolis.”
“Ah, yes. Father Patrick. ‘The Hot Priest.’ I’ve heard a lot about this fella.” She giggles.
“Ew, Mom.” My mother’s gnat-like attention span with men has always bothered me, but this assessment grosses me out. “The Hot Priest” sounds like something you’d hear on a porn set.
“What? I think it can only help the film. How else do we fill a four-part series with your grandmother’s early life? Most of the good stuff’s been told before, so we have to, you know, lean into some of the smaller bits to bring flavor. Like when you simmer all the tasty pieces left over in the pot after cooking a roast to make the sauce.” She dated a French chef for the first six months of the COVID pandemic, so now we get food analogies.