When the truck takes a left instead of a right at the front gate, my attention shifts. We’re heading through the heart of the camp, passing the barracks and the mess hall, to the westernmost border of the camp. The ride is bumpy, and I have to grab my hat a few times to keep from losing it. And the rough drive does little for my already tender stomach.
Thankfully, the ride is over shortly. As we approach the old rear gate, I see the barbed-wire barrier has been extended to enclose the rear meadow. A tall, octagonal wooden guard tower overlooks the fields. All the trees and wild brush have been removed and the ground turned to a rough, packed clay on one side and a tidy sports field on the other. The transformation is dizzying, and I’m not sure how the chapel can keep the moniker of Chapel in the Meadow when the meadow looks more like a dirty tundra.
Mass has already begun. A large crowd of POWs dressed in dark slacks, the blue collars of their PW uniforms sticking up neatly from the tops of their thick, black woolen sweaters, surround the finished chapel in a hushed reverence, virtually encompassing it with their number. The compact, one-room structure is only big enough for the officiant, his deacon, and altar servers. The inside of the three-walled chapel is covered with colorful paintings of saints on the plaster and cherubs behind the altar.
The colors are vibrant, though I know the lack of supplies meant that the men created the art out of found items and reused plaster. The crimson-colored steps lead up to the altar, painted in a pattern like tiles in an ancient cathedral.
Despite the surroundings—the fences, guns, towers, and uniforms—our little chapel is perfect. As I watch the men take Communion, I notice something I hadn’t before. The PW on the men’s sleeve is gone. It reminds me of another reason I couldn’t miss the opportunity to visit today. Soon the Italian men and the melody of their voices will be replaced by German prisoners who may not have much use for the Catholic chapel.
Since Italy surrendered last month and declared war on Germany just four days ago, these men in blue and black are no longer our enemies—they’re our allies.
A cutting wind whips through the field, sending debris against my legs and a shiver through my bones. I slip my arms into my coat. I’m sure it’d be warmer nearer the crowd, but I’m not prepared to take Communion—not yet.
As the congregation moves into an orderly line to receive the Eucharist, I spy Trombello heading my way. He looks much like he did before, a strong jaw and kind eyes. But there’s something else in my priestly friend now, something I’d expect from a man coming home after war. It’s a strength I respect but also a coolness that I fear comes from sacrificing who he thought he was in order to protect those he cared about. It’s even more painful to see, knowing I’m the cause of it.
He catches my eye and I nod at him.
When Mass has ended, I move with the congregation away from the chapel and spot Trombello standing a short distance away, watching me approach.
“Signora Highward, è così bello vederla.” Mrs. Highward, so good to see you, he says, using my married name to greet me.
“Buongiorno, Padre,” I say, letting him take my gloved hands. We’ve stayed in touch the past few months with postcards and drawings. But only so much can be said on a three-by-five piece of paper that’ll be screened by the authorities before reaching its intended recipient. Trombello covers only the basics, and even those are limited, though meaningful.
“Lei è luce per i miei occhi.” You are a light for my eyes, he says, the Italian version of “you’re a sight for sore eyes.” And I feel the same about seeing my friend again—any shift in his countenance hasn’t changed a thing about how he makes me feel. In these moments, I’m jealous of sharing his charity with others and that the church has him in a way I never can.
“It is beautiful,” I say in Italian, gesturing to the chapel. Trombello beams with pride and then turns somber.
“We’ll be leaving soon,” he says.
“Back to Italy?” I ask, uneasy, wondering how the POWs will make it through the havoc of war-torn Europe or Africa to get back to their terrified families and villages.
He shakes his head.
“No, here. In America. There are jobs for men who sign papers of allegiance.”
“You’re staying?” A flash of hope flares up.
“Only till the war is over,” he says.
“Oh,” I say, allowing my disappointment to show. “I’d hoped . . .”
“I know,” he says, letting his fingers brush against the back of my hand as they hang parallel at our sides. “But you are strong on your own. With your work and your marriage certificate and your mamma and papà cared for. God will watch over you now.”
“I doubt God has any kind feelings for me, Father.”
“You are wrong. He is all love,” he says, sounding like the priest I often forget he is.
“But my sins . . . Tom . . .” I’ve had no one to talk to about that night—about what happened to Tom. What the knife felt like in my hand as it pierced his flesh. How there are times I’m suffocated by guilt and other moments I’m sure I did what had to be done.
“Do you blame a soldier for killing his enemy on the battlefield?” Trombello asks before the tears gathering in my eyes make their way to my cheeks.
“No. Of course not, but . . .”
“No ‘but.’ You were a soldier, figlia mia. A brave soldier. God knows of it, and so do I.”
A soldier. It feels sacrilegious to think of myself as a soldier with the horrors of war facing our brave young men every day. But when Trombello says it, I understand his meaning.
“I’m pregnant,” I blurt without preamble. Trombello stiffens and then responds mechanically.
“Congratulazioni per la bellissima notizia.” Congratulations on the great news.
I didn’t tell him in order to seek his felicitations. As this life has grown inside of me, I’ve wondered if it is God’s way of telling me that actions have consequences. If caring for this child is my penance, for myself, for my family. To make up for what I’ve done to the child’s father, to make up for the life my brother didn’t get to have.
“What do I tell my child?” I have so many questions I need answered. I want the guidance I can get from only one source. “How do I tell him his father is gone? That I am the thief who stole his father away. How do I repent?”
Trombello gazes at the chapel. It’s a long, unbroken stare.
“Tell him his father died at war.” I nod. Trombello’s body sways as his knees lock, and the breeze tosses my hair into my face. I don’t panic at his withdrawn demeanor and far-off look. I know it’s not an easy question, and I don’t expect a simple reply. At long last, he says, “One day, when your child learns of God, tell him this in addition and nothing else—his father is buried on consecrated ground, with last rites, and God will open the gates of paradise to him if he is found worthy.”
I imagine my child sitting on my knee, wanting to know stories of his papà. I’ll tell him of a man who didn’t exist, not really, not in any way I’d want my little one to know of. My child will worship a fable. I touch the scar at my neck where Tom cut me with the knife that killed him moments later. I grew up knowing who and what my mother was. Her darkest moments were also mine. If I can protect my child from such a harsh understanding, I will.