Edinburgh Middle School Gymnasium
I exit the stage with a bow, and the men whistle and cheer in their native tongue. I’ve never performed in front of a crowd where English wasn’t the primary language, and during the performance, I found myself talking to the gathered prisoners in Italian.
The dance was officially organized by the Italian American Organization (IAO), Father Theodore, and the parishioners at Holy Trinity, but Lieutenant Colonel Gammell asked me to act as a liaison between the groups and the camp. The leaders from each of the divisions were awarded passes along with a few hand-picked men seen as deserving of a special reward. Those in the chapel construction crew were a part of that limited list.
The dance is held in the middle school gym at the rear of the long rectangular building behind Holy Trinity, with Father Theodore presiding as the host and chaperone. The women attending are of a slightly different sort than those at the USO dances. These girls have been bussed in from other Catholic parishes in the area by the IAO. Their skirts are longer and hair darker, and many have accents that blend in with the men they dance with.
And the band isn’t my usual ensemble—this one is made up of POWs playing old, beat-up instruments that barely hold a tune. But we know enough of the same songs, and our performance is made more vibrant by the rarity of it.
At the bottom of the rickety stage stairs stands the whole committee, Trombello included. Gravano and Cresci clap and grin like I’m their daughter or niece finishing a school recital. Other than Trombello, the men softened toward me over the week, especially with the dance looming ahead. My priestly friend is still kind enough, but it seems to take great effort.
“You are a bella prima donna!” Gravano declares, helping me down the last step.
“Why did you keep this secret?” Cresci demands.
“It wasn’t a secret! I sang at the dedication of the altar.”
“Eh, different.”
“No, it’s not,” I laugh as the band starts up again. Gravano asks for a dance. I’ve already danced with all the men from our little crew at least once—every man but Trombello, who stands on the side of the room, declining every dance request from every girl who has the guts to ask.
But I’m tired. I’ve been married two days, and I spent the first night at the fancy Hotel Severin in Indianapolis with my new husband, talking, drinking, dreaming, and making love. I told papà I was visiting mamma at Mount Mercy Sanitarium, and he didn’t bat an eye. I almost feel more guilty about that lie than eloping.
On Friday morning, my husband and I woke after only an hour of slumber. Hung over and exhausted, we drove the hour back to Camp Atterbury. He dropped me off at my gate and then drove off in his borrowed car to make the most of the rest of his twenty-four-hour leave. I haven’t seen him since. He left a message with Aria that he’d gotten back onto base on time and he’d call again soon. As of dinnertime tonight, the only evidence I have that I’m married is the signed marriage license I passed off to Carly’s care after the wedding and the ring tucked into the waistband of my skirt alongside Archie Lombardo’s business card.
“I need to sit this one out, but I promise you my next dance.”
“Yes, bella. Yes.”
“And me!” adds Ferragni, his pale eyes glowing in the dim lights.
“And me!” Gondi echoes the same request.
They see something new in me, something different. Trombello steps forward and takes my hand, gesturing for his fellow prisoners to leave.
“Shoo, shoo. Let the girl rest.”
“Yes, Padre,” they say in near unison, like altar boys reprimanded by their Sunday school teacher.
“Come. Come with me,” he says, tugging gently and guiding me to the refreshment table. He passes me a cup of punch and leads me to a seat in a dim corner of the gymnasium.
“Thank you. You saved me.”
“You deserve a break,” he says, taking the chair next to me.
“I don’t know about that.” I stare at my punch, Trombello’s awkward kindness making me shy.
“You do. You’ve made many things possible for us, and we are indebted to you.”
“You’re acting like we’re done working together. You’re all stuck with me for a while longer,” I say, taking a drink of the overly sugary red liquid that’s stained the inside of the cup. Tom wants me to quit my job once he’s a Ranger, but he’ll be away at training for months, and I hope I’ll have found a way to change his mind by then. The only way I’ll consider quitting is if I get an agent.
“But I thought with the wedding . . .”
“Tom supports my career,” I say defensively. “I’m auditioning for the USO Camp Shows next week. He said if I make it, he’ll help me get headshots . . .”
“Yes, yes,” he says as he eyes my bruises. He obviously doesn’t believe me, and I can’t blame him. He’s only seen the Mr. Hyde side of Tom.
“I know he seems bad, but . . .” I try to think of a way to convince Trombello my husband isn’t a controlling jerk, when a loud clank echoes through the hall, interrupting the big-band music. The lights in the gym flick on, and the dancing comes to a stop along with the music. Uniformed men enter the room.
“All right. Night’s over. Time to go,” a man shouts into the crowd. “Women on the back wall. Men in line. Let’s go.”
This was not how it was supposed to end. We reserved the building until ten thirty, and it’s only ten. The girls twitter and squeal as the uniformed men urge them to one side of the room. And the POWs stand in place, clearly not understanding the orders.
I rush up to the stage, pushing past panicked girls and confused prisoners, and take the mic to translate. I steady my voice, trying to make the announcement sound routine, although I’m sure the prisoners sense the tension in the air. Finally understanding the orders, the men groan with disappointment and follow the directions without hesitation.
As I stand onstage and scan the crowd, a familiar face approaches. Tom. It’s not surprising I didn’t recognize him at first. This man isn’t my handsome, Dr. Jekyll Tom but the dark and dangerous version, a version of my husband that scares me.
He shoves several of the prisoners aside, trying to get to the stage.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands. I move closer to the edge of the elevated platform and cover the mic to keep our conversation private.
“It’s a paying gig,” I say, trying to make it sound reasonable.
“Get off that stage.”
“In a minute,” I say, holding up the microphone and repeating the directions again in English and then Italian. As I finish, I feel his hand around my ankle. He’s leaning across the stage, and before I realize what he’s about to do, he tugs at my leg. I wobble, losing my balance. I reach back to break my fall but tumble onto my bottom, dropping the microphone and jamming my wrist in the process. An ear-piercing squeal goes through the sound system. Two of the POW band members rush to my side, thinking I slipped.