“You have and you will. Without your language skills, we might not be as far along as we are.”
“I know nothing about building a chapel. I only know about going inside one.” I blush. He’s giving me far too much credit. I’m not taking down their meeting notes out of the goodness of my heart, but because I’ve been ordered to by my boss. Ultimately, I’m a bit of a spy.
“Well, that’s a blessing too.” The men keep looking back at Trombello with impatience.
“Hurry. All the bread will be gone,” Ferragni calls out.
“Trombello, line it up or you’ll all go hungry,” Mike, the guard, says sternly. Trombello gives a slight bow.
“I must go or there’ll be a mutiny.”
“I understand. It smells delectable.”
“It’s lasagna tonight. And a Monday, so that means Vigo has been baking bread all day.”
My stomach grumbles and knees tremble at the idea of a home-cooked meal I didn’t have to make myself.
“I haven’t had a real lasagna since my mamma . . .” I stop. How can I finish that sentence without sharing more than I’m willing to? I refocus my comments. “I’ll bring your plans to Lieutenant Colonel Gammell. You should have a response soon.”
Loudly enough for the other men to hear, he says, “Join us! Plenty of the officers come to the mess hall or get bread or pastries from the bakery door. A few ladies too.”
“Yes, yes. Come, signorina,” the men chant in Italian.
“Come,” Trombello says, this time in English.
“Come with us or stay here. Doesn’t matter to me, but we have to go,” Mike says.
“Really? You think it’s okay?” I ask Mike. He shrugs.
“Can’t say for sure, but Lieutenant Colonel Gammell is in there all the time. I sneak in sometimes. It’s better than anything on base or even in town.”
It’s a tempting offer, and my stomach growls at the hope of warm ciabatta. I already told papà I’d be working late tonight, and as long as I make it to the seven-thirty bus, I’ll be home around the same time I’ve been slinking in on nights I’m required to sit in on these meetings. It’s one more lie, but a small one, wrapped up inside the original lie. So, does it even count?
“I need to take some things by the front office. Can I have a quick moment?”
“Sure. If you can move fast.”
“Lickety-split. I swear.”
Mike grunts and adds, “Fine. Meet us in front.”
“Thank you!” As the prisoners file out, I collect my papers and the plans and walk swiftly back to the office. Judy has already packed up for the night. I drop the load from my arms onto my desk in a neat pile, unlock the bottom drawer where I keep my purse, put on a quick coat of lipstick and powder, and then sling the bag back over my shoulder.
It’s already well past my normal quitting time, so I punch out my timecard and then rush out the front door into the warm evening air.
The men wait on the lawn, six Italians wearing POW uniforms and one uniformed US soldier with a gun in his holster and a frown on his face. I fall to the back of the line, and we follow Mike like ducklings waddling behind their mother.
“Your mother, she’s passed?” Trombello asks me in English as we walk. I’m surprised by his question, forgetting that Italians are more direct.
“Uh, no. No. But she doesn’t live with us anymore. She grew very ill after my brother died and has never . . . uh . . . recovered.”
“She’s in ospedale? Um . . . in the hospital?”
I nod, finding it simpler to let him create whatever picture he’s developing in his mind than divulge the truth.
“And your padre? He’s close?”
My father is a little easier to talk about, especially around these young men who remind me so much of him. We follow the gravel path toward the homey scent of dinner, and Trombello falls back to walk beside me.
“Yes. I live with my father and sister in town. He works at the plastics factory but was injured after Christmas and hasn’t been able to return to work.”
“So, you are the mother and the father, eh? You work here and take care of your family?” His accent is heavy but easy to understand. It’d be easier to speak in Italian, but I like the privacy English provides us from the rest of the crew.
“I do my best,” I respond, blushing again from his praise. Unlike most men, his words seem sincere and not meant to soften me up or seduce me. He’s never looked me up and down or complimented my eyes or lips or hair. He is looking at me—who I am as a person, and that’s refreshing—and rare.
“And your life—what do you want for it?” he asks as we join the line that must lead to the food. Gondi and Cresci are complaining about being late. The guard drops the line at the back of the queue and then walks to where I stand with Trombello.
“You don’t have to wait. You can go to the front,” he says, his voice as sleepy as his eyes.
“Thanks, Mike!” I wave as he walks away but stay in place next to Trombello.
“You want to stay with us criminals?” Trombello asks.
“As long as you promise to reform your ways,” I joke back.
“On God,” he says, touching the points of the cross and looking up to the sky.
“You promise . . . uh . . . Trombello.” I use his last name since I’m not sure how to refer to these men. Do I use their rank or formal address?
“Antonio,” he corrects. “And I promise.”
“Ah, redemption,” I say with some grandiosity, and our voices mingle in laughter that is the same in any language. A few heads turn and take note of our interaction. “Antonio.”
I say his name a little quieter, remembering my vow not to get too familiar with the committee members—just in case.
“So, your life. After war. After your padre is healed. You do this?” He points to the green-roofed bunkers that surround us.
“Stay in the military?” I ask, making sure I’m reading his gestures right.
He nods.
“No, no, not at all.” I wave my hands, canceling out the very idea that I might do this forever. “But if I could do anything?”
“Yes. Anything.”
“Acting,” I say sheepishly. “Singing, maybe.”
“Hollywood!” he bursts out like he’s found the answer to a million questions in that moment. I pat the air and lower my voice.
“Shhhh. Yes . . . yes . . . that’s the dream, you know? But for now—Chicago?”
He steps back and looks at me with wise eyes, his hand cupping his chin.
“No. Hollywood. That’s where you go. I see now.” My face flushes, and I know it’s not from the balmy air blowing in from the south or the scented heat pouring out of the kitchen.
“Well, thank you.” I give him a tiny but overly proper curtsy, my cheeks aching from smiling. Halfway through my bob, there’s a tap on my shoulder and the rumble of a familiar voice. Surprised, I stumble a bit, but a strong hand around my waist keeps me from falling.
“Tom!” I know his touch. His hand at my waist has become familiar from dancing at the USO, and his voice follows me home at night in my memories.