Tom thinks I could be a model; he tells me all the time when we dance at the USO. Every time I see him, he begs me for a date. He’s figured out my work schedule, and most days he walks me to and from the bus stop outside Atterbury or Mary’s car on the days my schedule aligns with hers.
I don’t know how he finagles the free time, but he’s in the Eighty-Third Infantry Division, which is signified by the yellow-and-black symbol on his sleeve. They’re called the Thunderbolts, and according to Tom, they’re a step above the average soldier in basic training. He’s hoping to move on to Ranger training by the end of the summer, and I like to cheer him on toward his dreams like he does for me.
Carly is wary of Tom but understanding since he’ll be moving on sooner rather than later. Mrs. Portia, a gray-haired former schoolmistress and the only paid member of staff at the USO, has already put me on warning with Tom—I’ll have my card pulled if it looks like I’m encouraging his advances. But it’s not easy to dodge his determined advances. Not to mention that he’s handsome, charming, and has a brilliant smile.
“Signorina Santini.” Hearing Trombello say my name in his sweet, steady baritone brings me back to the present moment.
“Yes?” I respond in Italian, finding it easier than forcing the prisoners to stumble through their limited English vocabulary.
“Is that possible? The timeline?”
I glance at the notes I’ve taken and shrug.
“Lieutenant Colonel Gammell will have to look it over and give his approval.”
“Sure. Sure. But what do you think? Possible?”
“Oh,” I say with a slight gasp. “You want my opinion? But . . . I don’t know much about building things.”
Having an opinion often means running up against someone with the opposite ideals, which is why I usually keep my thoughts to myself. Trombello beckons me to the table, not accepting my nonanswer. I glance at the guard, Mike Craig, one of Tom’s buddies. He stares off into space, apparently lost in his own daydreams.
“Would you like to see?” Trombello asks. I do want to see the plans. I’m intrigued.
I slide out from behind the small desk in the corner and put down the notepad and pencil. I smooth my skirt and walk across the room. I expect Trombello to watch, as most men do, especially soldiers, but he doesn’t. He turns to the rough sketches at the table and the rudimentary architectural plans drawn out in pencil on oversized pieces of butcher paper.
“It’s not very big, but God can fit into even the smallest places; don’t you think?” he asks as I take in the pencil outline of a small, rectangular box, topped with a modest cross. When I first heard Trombello propose the construction of a “chapel,” I’d imagined a fairly substantial structure—not one of the grand churches in Indianapolis, but a moderately sized, solidly built, and attractively appointed house of worship that would welcome the faithful. But this is a small building, open to the elements, with no pews or stairs and barely big enough for two or three men to stand side by side.
“I believe God can be in all of us if we welcome him,” I say, quoting Father Theodore.
“Yes, exactly,” Trombello says, like we understand one another perfectly.
He introduces me to the new committee members. The names are familiar, and I remember bits of information about each man.
First, Simon Gondi. He’s a short but strong-looking man who comes from a long line of masons in Florence. “My ancestors built the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, and we’ve never turned away from a challenge. This will be like playing with sticks and stones,” he says, full of a bravado I’ve grown used to in Italian men.
Next, I meet Cresci, so tall and thin that I worry for his health. He’s from Spello, Umbria, and did road work before being conscribed. When he speaks, I see he has more teeth missing than intact.
Gravano, from Savona, wears thick glasses and likes to wink at me when no one is looking. Trombello explains this winking soldier studied architecture before the war. He bows and says in broken English, “Beautiful girl. To meet you is to be delight.”
“Thank you.”
The fourth man sits quietly with his hands folded in his lap. He’s the youngest of the crew and seems unused to the rough culture of the military and masculine competition. My little brother, Tony, might look much like him if he’d lived to be a man.
“This is Libero Puccini. He’s a master craftsman with the chisel and hammer. There’s a grand rock by the front gates of the camp that he’s been tasked with carving, and he’ll be doing a similar carving for outside our Chapel in the Meadow in time for its dedication.”
“Nice to meet you all,” I say, tipping my head in a semibow.
“So, you’re Italian, I assume,” Cresci asks, his voice whistling through the holes of his missing teeth when he speaks.
“Yes, well, my parents are. They’re from Salerno. I was born in America, though.”
“Your blood is Italian. You just live in America,” Cresci states with a finality that reminds me of my father’s declarations. “If they’d stayed only twenty years more in Salerno, your father and brothers would be sitting here with us.”
“I . . . I don’t know about that . . .”
“Don’t let Cresci disturb you, Miss Santini. We’re only glad to speak with a beautiful woman who reminds us of home; am I right?” Gravano interrupts, speaking to Trombello.
“Don’t ask him.” Gondi tags into the conversation. “I’ll spare you and say yes for all of us.” Then he turns to me with a paternal tone in his voice. “You seem like a good girl. I’m sure you make your papà proud.”
“Yes. Thank you.” I don’t explain that my father would be furious if he knew I work with Italian POWs. I’m not exactly a “good girl” unless good girls lie to their fathers.
A whistle sounds outside, and Puccini, who sat silently for the whole meeting, jumps up. Cresci drops his feet from their perch on the table’s edge with a thump. I’ve been around long enough to know this means it’s dinnertime in the camp. Most nights I’ve left before the whistle blows, but I can smell the culinary creations each day as I walk through the gates. Although the food smells irresistible, for lunch I usually eat at my desk or occasionally walk across the street to the base mess hall and eat the plain ham sandwiches and multicolored Jell-O on the days Mary and I are on the same schedule, abandoning the tempting call of garlic, fresh baked bread, and simmering tomatoes.
“è ora di cena!” Cresci shouts out, announcing dinner as though he’s declaring the end of the entire war. The men at the table collect their plans and belongings and make their way to the door without another moment of discussion. Each man says a formal farewell, Gravano winking as he says his goodbye. Everyone’s lined up by the door within a minute, all except Trombello. He’s from Salerno and the only one in the group with true manners.
“Thank you for your assistance, Signorina Santini,” Trombello says in his accented English, his first attempt of the evening.
“You’re welcome, Signor Trombello,” I respond, copying his formal address. I fall back into Italian. “I’m glad to help, but I don’t know that I’ve done much.”