Gammell doesn’t acknowledge Simpson, and I remove myself to the other side of the room where a full pitcher of water sits. I take it to the lieutenant colonel first and fill his glass and then to Sergeant Major Simpson.
“You can’t tell me our boys are being treated the same in prison camps overseas. You just can’t,” Simpson says as he drags the cup across the wooden desk and then takes a long drink. I’m relieved by the silence and hope that’ll be the end of the conversation.
But when he slams his glass on the table, gesturing for another refill, I know he’s about to go into round two. I stand in front of him in my tweed dress suit, teetering on aching feet wedged into heels that were not meant to be worn for ten-hour days, and his eyes narrow.
“What do you think about all this, huh?”
My mouth goes dry.
“Me?” I ask, my voice timid like it is when I placate papà or comfort mamma during one of my visits. I’m well versed at staying calm in the storm. I think that’s the only way I keep from being swept up in the tornado.
“Yeah, you.” His voice lowers. He places his elbows on the table, leaning forward. “You heard all the requests and complaints today. What do you think?”
“Oh, well, I . . . I agree with what Lieutenant Colonel Gammell says. The Geneva Conventions are important.” I glance at Gammell, hoping he’ll jump into the conversation, or blurt out a command or something, but he doesn’t look up from the file.
“You’re a modern working girl. You’ve got your own mind. What do you think?” There’s a smugness to the question. I have no choice but to answer.
“My father’s against it. He doesn’t think we should shelter people who tried to kill our men.”
“I didn’t ask what your father thinks,” he says in a condescending rebuke.
I try to slow my breathing, collecting my thoughts again.
“I know a lot of the local farmers think the investment is worth the money since most of the prisoners will replace the workers who are drafted and at only a fraction of the cost.”
“Are you a farmer?”
“Well, no.”
“Then try again, dear.”
“Well, I guess I think . . .” I pause, flipping through my opinions like I’m searching through the phone book. “I can see it both ways.”
He glares in a way that might seem playful, but there’s nothing friendly behind his eyes. I wrestle through the muck of years of doing as I’m told and listening agreeably when a man speaks. I dig into the place inside of me I know is brave and smart and unwavering, like I’m onstage with the spotlight turned my way for a solo.
“I guess I believe in the Golden Rule and that we’ve gotta follow through on our promises if we expect the other side to.” Simpson’s eyes narrow, and another opinion rises in me. Instead of pushing it away or swallowing it, I let it float out like there’s an audience waiting on the edge of their seats to hear my soliloquy. “And, anyway, don’t you think that once these fellas see what America is really like, what they’re fighting against, that they might change their perspectives a little? Can’t believe a lie when you’re staring at the truth.”
“Should’ve known you’d say that,” he says as he shoves his glass away like it’s poison. “Heard if you eat enough garlic, you can smell it through the pores on your skin. Your pretty perfume can’t cover that up forever.”
Gammell takes off his glasses, irritation legible in the carved lines of his face and his raised, overgrown eyebrows.
“Sergeant Simpson. That’s enough.” He slaps the manila folder closed with a crashing thud. I jump. If my heart weren’t already in my throat, it’d be there now. “We follow the Geneva Conventions and pray our enemies have the same integrity. And, Miss Santini.” He wiggles a finger in my direction. I’m worried he’ll reprimand me for speaking out of turn, but I’m grateful to have a reason to turn away from Simpson. “I hear the men in the hall. Please let them in if you would.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, replacing the pitcher of water on the cart and heading to the door that leads to the hall. I know my cheeks must be flushed. I can’t change that, but I can straighten my shoulders, shake my hair back, and blink the tears away while the officers aren’t looking.
Through the thin wall, I hear the men approaching and find homey comfort in the rise and fall of male voices speaking a language that, until now, I’ve only heard in my most intimate circles.
I set my smile as though I’m about to film my close-up and swing the door open. Red-faced, ruddy-haired Talbot stands there. It takes all my effort to hold on to my warm expression. He’s the last man I want to be friendly to after witnessing his role in the altercation on my first day. Not to mention enduring his inappropriate comments when I check in at the gate each morning and leering stares when I leave each night.
I can tell he’s just as surprised to see me as I am to see him.
“Oh,” he says, standing up straighter, and he stutters for a moment like he’s missed his big cue.
“Lieutenant Colonel Gammell is ready to see you now.” I step back to make room for Talbot as he calls out to the prisoners behind him.
“Line up. Single file,” he says in English. It’s questionable if the dark-haired men understand him, but they fall into line despite the language barrier.
“Vi ha chiesto di disporvi su una sola fila, per favore,” I translate automatically. He asked you to line up in single file, please.
“What did you say to them?” he asks as the men shuffle into a line.
“I told them to line up, like you did.”
“I didn’t tell you to do that.”
“I know, but . . .”
“Let’s go,” he says before I can explain. The men follow without my assistance. Talbot walks past, shooting me a look that leaves me on edge.
I hold the door open as the prisoners enter dressed in their Royal Italian Army uniforms with a PW band around their upper arms. It’s unsettling seeing the men dressed in enemy regalia rather than their blue prison uniforms. They smell of musty wool, warm sweat, tobacco smoke, and I swear, the faint remnants of spent gunpowder. They stare straight ahead as though they’ve been coached on proper behavior. I wonder if they’re having rebellious fantasies. Might they be imagining a time where we all are their prisoners? When their army occupies our country?
As images of Italian soldiers with guns advancing on our small town run through my head, the last prisoner enters. Unlike the rest of the men, this soldier breaks protocol ever so slightly, letting his gaze stray to meet mine. His dark, warm brown eyes glow with a kindness that doesn’t match the warlike pictures I’ve created in my mind or the heartless enemy soldiers I see on the news film strips at the movies. And then I realize—I know those eyes. It’s the prisoner I saw my very first day on the base, the one whose gentle command of the situation spurred me to speak up in his defense. Trombello.