“Is anyone going to answer me? What is the meaning of this?” the decorated officer bellows from the threshold, puddles gathering on the floor beneath him.
“I . . . I have the ringleader right here, sir,” Talbot says. “I was waiting here for you to return, and these prisoners were brought in. This one started a fight with these other two and then lunged at the taller one. I got to him just in time.” Talbot shoves his boot into Trombello’s back. He flinches either from pain or, if he understands English, at Talbot’s incorrect interpretation of the altercation.
Ringleader? Trombello was the peacemaker. He was the only one not involved in the conflict. Sure, he put himself between the two men, but it was to stop the confrontation from escalating, not the other way around. Someone must have seen that other than me.
“These three were fighting in the yard, sir,” one of the guards adds.
“And why are they here in the offices and not in a cell?”
The guard points at Trombello on the floor. “That one asked for an interpreter, and the fight was by the gates, so we thought . . .”
“That you’d bring them into the administrative offices? Get them out of here, and put that one in solitary. They can request the use of an interpreter there. McNeil’s a busy man. He can’t be bothered translating these trivial disputes.”
“Yes, sir.” Talbot salutes and nudges Trombello with his foot. “Get up.”
“All of you, out. Out! Have you all lost your minds?” The man I assume is Gammell pushes past the prisoners and guards and approaches Judy’s wall of glass. I can barely keep track of what’s happening as the guards usher the prisoners back outside.
I watch Trombello, in particular. He winces as Talbot forces him to his feet. He seems confused but passive despite the way Talbot treats him. Blood covers Trombello’s chin, and there’s a cut on his forehead from when he hit the ground.
“Mi dispiace,” I mouth in his direction. I’m sorry. He must understand me, though he cocks his head to the side as if he doesn’t.
The room empties, and Lieutenant Colonel John L. Gammell turns around as Judy points in my direction. I can’t hear what she says, but the officer seems just as angry with me as he seemed with the prisoners.
“You’re in the wrong building. You were supposed to sign in across the street. When Private Talbot gets back, he can take you.” He’s gruff and dismissive as he walks away.
Though I know he’s wrong, my instinct is to sit still and acquiesce like I always do with my father. But then I think of Trombello laid out, bleeding. I think of the kind way he tried to navigate the dispute between the other two prisoners. I’m grateful such men do exist—ones who don’t make me flinch.
“Wait!” I call out, but Gammell doesn’t give my tiny voice any heed.
“Judy, get Major General Hobbs on my private line,” he barks.
Judy lets out a compliant, “Yes, sir.”
“Lieutenant Colonel. Please. Stop,” I plead, louder this time.
Gammell’s hand freezes over the doorknob, and he says something under his breath. He seems frustrated, angry, and more than a little damp, but I take his pause as my opening. I stand up and clutch my purse in my gloved hands, still wearing my hat and fully buttoned coat.
“That man—uh—the one on the ground—he . . . he didn’t start the fight.”
Gammell takes in a rumbling breath and lets it out before responding.
“Miss, I’m sorry, but I’m not in the habit of second-guessing my men.” He turns to face me, his cheeks flushed. When he sees me, really sees me, his expression softens. When he speaks again, I feel like he’s looking at me as a little girl with pigtails asking why the sky is blue. “Listen, sweetie. I’m sure you mean well, but we have it all covered . . .”
“I’m sure you do.” I swallow and take a step in his direction. “But that prisoner wasn’t fighting. He . . . he got caught in the middle.” My hands tremble, but I hide it with a tight grip on my purse.
“I’m sorry, but . . .” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He’s losing his patience. “Have her report across the street, Judy. Call her a car. No need for her to wait.” He looks back at me with a paternal expression of satisfaction on his face. “There you go, dear. We’ll get you to the right place.”
He’s seeing me, finally, but not hearing me. Maybe hearing me even less because he can see me. He stands there, in his intimidating uniform with pins and patches I don’t understand the meaning of, expecting something—what? A thank-you? I’m not ready for any bursts of gratitude yet.
“The other one, the big one, Bononcini, he took something, a picture of the shorter man’s girlfriend, I think. And Trombello was trying to stop the fight. He was being a peacemaker. He was trying to stop it all.”
Lieutenant Colonel Gammell tilts his head and squints his eyes. Now he’s listening. A buzz of apprehension pounds in my ears as he searches me over with those sharp, probing eyes.
“Do you know these men?”
“No,” I answer quickly.
“Have you spoken to them before?” He seems suspicious.
“No. Never.”
“Have you been on this base before? What is your name again?” He looks toward Judy, who is about to answer when I speak up. I will be “onstage” Vivian. I will be confident. I will be warm. I will be clever if the circumstances allow.
“Vivian. Vivian Santini.”
“Ah, so you’re Italian? An immigrant?”
“Well, my parents are. They came to America after the war. I’ve lived here in Edinburgh my whole life.” I speak clearly so he can hear that I don’t have a hint of accent in my voice.
“But you speak Italian? Do you live with your parents?”
“My father and my younger sister. My mother is ill.” I didn’t expect to share so much on my first day, but I don’t think Gammell will take well to any information being withheld.
“And you are totally fluent in the language?”
“What? Italian?” I pause. Could I lose my job if I admit to having the same heritage as the enemy housed here? But I’ve never lied about my family. So I tell him the truth. “Yes, sir.”
“Yes, yes. Very interesting. And you’re our new secretary. What will you be doing for us here at Camp Atterbury?”
“I . . . I was told to report here, to this office,” I reiterate since he seems so determined to send me away. “I was told I’d be working the switchboard. Perhaps take a transcript here or there.” I finish off with his formal title, “Sir.”
“Hmm.” His voice reverberates through his chest.
I tip my chin up, knowing he’s trying to figure out whether he can trust me. To play it safe, to keep my job secure, I should’ve said nothing about the fight. I should’ve sat, half fainted, in my chair and then taken the offered car to a different job on the other side of the road.
“Well, that’s unacceptable.”