“She does?” Judy squints through the glass and laughs. “Oh, by golly, yes! I remember you. Sorry, dear, what’s your name?”
“Vivian,” I say, a warm blush on my cheeks. I’m proud of my work onstage at the USO, but I wasn’t planning to tell anyone at my new job about my stage persona.
“Yes! Vivian Snow.” Judy says the name like she’s reading it off a marquee outside a theater. Goose bumps break out on my legs and arms.
“Snow?” Talbot butts in. “I thought it was Santino . . . something or other.”
“Snow is my stage name.” Once again I’m little Viviana Santini, the shy daughter of immigrants who hid behind her mother’s skirts on the first day of school and was too nervous to sing the solo in the first-grade Christmas concert.
“Ah. ’Cause your real name makes you sound like an immigrant,” Talbot says matter-of-factly like he knows the ins and outs of such things. I switch my ankles to keep my outrage from being obvious. This is why I use a stage name. I’ve always been judged for being Italian. Both of my parents with accents. Wearing funny clothes. Living in a family with old-fashioned values. I have to hide so many things from my dad. My stage name is only one of them.
Judy seems to sense my uneasiness and leans across her desk to speak to me directly.
“Well, Vivian, that’s no matter. I’m starstruck here. What brings you to Camp Atterbury? Are you doing a show for the boys?”
Before I can answer, Talbot intervenes. “Nah. She’s just a secretary.”
Judy gasps in exaggerated offense. “Gary! Just a secretary? Excuse me?”
“Well, you know what I mean . . .”
As Talbot and Judy debate, I sink back and stare at the door, wishing I could walk out. It’s not that I don’t want to work here. Judy seems fine, but Talbot . . . There’s something about him that makes my skin crawl.
Just then, the door swings open like I’d willed it to happen. A uniformed soldier stomps in with mud on his boots that spills onto the tiled floor. Following behind him are three men in dark blue uniforms with the letters PW painted on their sleeves, pants, and worn leather boots.
The first two of the three men enter loudly, shouting and wrestling against their restraints. One is short, not much taller than me, but fills out his button-up shirt with muscle, not fat. The second man is taller, about Talbot’s height, but slim, and he looks to be swimming in his oversized uniform. Both are covered in dirt. It’s on their faces, clothing, and hair, and I smell sweat even though the morning has been crisp. The third man enters slowly, his whole countenance a stark contrast to the first two prisoners.
He’s a touch above average height but not towering. He’s slender but not gaunt, and he looks fit—as though he could run a few laps around a track without losing his breath. He has thick dark hair without a single silver strand giving any clues to his age. His eyes are dark, earnest, and friendly. And though he seems tidier than the other two men, he’s just as muddy.
Agitation buzzes between the first two prisoners. But the third seems composed, collected, cooperative, resigned to the restraints around his wrists, focused on the conflict in front of him.
“è tutta colpa tua,” the short man spits under his breath at the tall one. This is all your fault. The words come through in my mind as clear as if I’d heard them in English.
Italian. The only language spoken in my home for most of my life, at least until my mother went into the hospital.
“Quante volte te lo devo dire? Chiudi la bocca,” the taller one grumbles back. How many times do I have to tell you? Shut your mouth! The strong language puts me on edge.
“Quante volte ti ho detto di smettere di toccare le mie cose?” the shorter man responds. How many times have I told you to stop touching my things?
The tension is building, both men clenching their fists like they long to punctuate their words with action. Talbot and the soldiers seem oblivious as they chat with Judy and stare at the door like they’re waiting for someone else. I scooch even closer to the edge of my seat, wondering if I should alert them that the men look like they’re about to fight.
“Adesso basta.” That’s enough, now. The quiet man still standing in the entrance mumbles in a calm but authoritarian way. Perhaps he’s their commander?
“So che hai preso la foto. Restituiscila.” I know you took the picture. Give it back. The shorter man continues without acknowledging the third man.
“Non ce l’ho! Hai una testa dura.” I don’t have it! You’re stubborn.
Testa dura—literally meaning having a hard head. My father calls my sister that when he catches her wearing her gardening trousers to school or reading her books late into the night.
The calm man interjects again.
“Non ricominciare, Romano. Ti imploro. Te l’ho detto, troverai la tua foto.” Don’t start this again, Romano. I implore you. I told you; we’ll find your picture.
The short man, Romano, takes a deep breath. He wipes his sweaty brow with his bound hands and finally gives in.
“Mi dispiace. Mi dispiace. Mi fido di te.” I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I trust you. He sounds repentant at first but then adds with a touch of hotness, “Lui, non tanto. Ma tu, Trombello? Con la mia vita.” Him, not so much. But you, Trombello? With my life.
As Romano makes a partial bow to the calm one, Trombello, the tall man fires back, “Nessuno vuole vedere la tua ragazza grassa, comunque.” Nobody wants to see your fat girlfriend, anyway.
“Bononcini! Basta!” Trombello chastises when Romano leaps forward, his hand in a fist. In that half a second, Trombello jumps into action, grabbing hefty Romano by the front of his collared shirt, holding him back while also straight-arming Bononcini, who looks ready for the fight.
“Madonna mia!” I squeal, and jump to my feet, seeing the flow of the fight heading in my direction. At the sound of my shout, Trombello, with his hands already full—quite literally—whips his head over his shoulder. We lock eyes for a brief, almost imperceptible moment, and I can see the confusion in them.
I cover my mouth, surprised at my linguistic slip, but my moment of impropriety has its effect. In Trombello’s hesitation, Romano’s fist finds Trombello’s jaw, and a crack that sounds like a dried-out branch breaking slices through the air, louder than the thunder. I recoil and close my eyes, expecting blood.
I hear a rush of loud, aggressive voices speaking in English and the frenzied shuffling of feet from the hall. In that bedlam, the door to the office squeaks open, and the bitter, damp wind touches my cheek.
“What the hell is going on here? Get these men under control and out of here. You’ve got to be shitting me. Whose idea was this?”