Page 55 of When We Were Enemies
“Thank you!” I say, smiling at her as I inspect the drawing. “It’s beautiful.”
Ash is the interpreter assigned to the shoot for the day, and she relays my message in Farsi. I attempted to say a few phrases when Father Patrick introduced me to the class, but they giggled so much at my errors, Patrick suggested I let Ash step in.
Father Patrick and Ash have been invaluable today. With their help and the strict guidance of Atterbury’s PR rep, we’ve spent the day touring the facility and exploring the refugee program up close. Last week when Mac finally caught up with me after our fight in the sexton’s office and begged me to continue with the project, this was my bargaining chip.
I told Mac that if he’d include a segment on the refugees in the documentary and references for the charitable organizations that assist in this work domestically and internationallyandpledge a percentage of the profits to the cause, I’d continue with the documentary.
After some discussion with attorneys and the officials at Camp Atterbury, Mac signed off on the deal. And so, we’re here, and it’s been a full day of filming. Mac is in and out, hardly engaging with the subjects, but it doesn’t matter to me how much of a selfish jerk he is because I finally, finally feel like this project has some meaning.
I’ve spent two of the past five days volunteering at the camp under the guidance of Father Patrick and his team. At first, I organized donations and helped in the kitchen, but at the end of the first day, Patrick invited me to his art therapy class.
I can’t speak the language, and I don’t have training in mental health or public service, but something about the camp calls to me and makes me want to do more. I spend so much of my life helping the privileged create and maintain a beautiful image that’s sold to the public to keep them wealthy or famous, and I’ve enjoyed being behind the scenes in the society I was brought up in, but volunteering here hits differently. It isn’t about making people look a certain way but about making actual change.
“I think that’s you and that’s Esin,” Father Patrick explains, pointing to the figures. Ash relays the analysis, and eight-year-old Esin nods her head.
“You are such an artist,” I say to the girl, who giggles when Ash tells her what I said. “It’s my turn. I’ll draw one for you,” I say, taking out a blank piece of paper and some crayons. I draw a little girl with dark hair and a tall woman in a long purple dress shaped like a triangle who is supposed to represent me. I writeEsinin English under her figure andEliseunder mine. Ash takes a moment to write both in Farsi beneath my crayon letters and then passes the final drawing to Esin. She hugs it and says, “Thank you,” in English and walks back to her seat. Macgives a thumbs-up, and I hold on to my happy face, even though I’m still not in a good place with Mac.
“I should at least learn how to say thank you,” I say to Father Patrick and Ash, embarrassed that as an adult I can’t even learn one phrase in Farsi, while Esin is working to master an entire second language.
“We can work on it next time,” Ash says. The day is almost over, and there likely won’t be a “next time,” at least not with Mac involved. He reported at the beginning of the art class that he’s gotten everything he needs for this segment.
I had lunch with Esin’s family members, and they’ve signed a release to have their story told through the documentary. Mac says he’ll find a way to parallel the Italians’ and Afghans’ respective experiences in the camp. And I can see the similarities in their storylines.
More than 88 percent of the POWs left Camp Atterbury and the other 174 branch camps in the fall of 1943 when Italy left the Axis powers and joined the Italian Service Unit of the US Army. They spent the rest of the war in temporary housing in places with labor shortages until it was safe to be repatriated. Some stayed and made their homes here.
He’ll never admit it, but I can tell he knows this timely storyline will add more weight to his production. We still haven’t found common ground on the whole “grandpa grave” issue, but my mother’s flight lands tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, and I for one will be relieved to have her here. The wall of assistants and agents she’s built around herself over the years is virtually impenetrable when she wants it to be.
Father Patrick is preparing for the end of the day, and as soon as the kids file out, Mac will head back to the hotel. We have a dinner planned at Cracker Barrel, but I’m tired of the overly starchy menu, and other than talking with Lisa, I have little to look forward to, conversation-wise. In my free time these past few weeks, I sneak away to the small diner on East Main Cross Street in downtown Edinburgh. Their coffee is rich and as strong as their free Wi-Fi, and when I need to get some work done, Big Red’s Place has become my makeshift office.
As he says goodbye in what sounds like flawless Farsi, I watch Father Patrick interact with the class. The dark-haired and bright-eyed refugee children are eager to please. Father Patrick explained how the art projects provide an escape from the trauma of having to flee from their homes without warning and landing in a new and foreign country. Joy is useful, especially when it’s in short supply.
The children leave with friendly waves, and Mac barks some orders to his crew. Lights quickly disappear and are packed away in hardbacked boxes. Ash walks up to me with her hand extended.
“It was lovely to meet you,” she says, a slight accent turning up the last syllable in every sentence she speaks.
“You too. I mean it. Here ... take my card. I’d love if we could keep in touch.” I rustle through my bag and retrieve one of my business cards. She hands one back to me with yellow-and-blue coloring on the top and the name of her organization:Language Over Borders.
“Yes—thank you. This means so much,” Ash says.
“I’m not kidding. I want to learn more. Not only about language but about everything you do.” Father Patrick watches discreetly as he collects the papers from the desks.
“Well, thank you. I’ll pass it on to my superior. Any exposure helps.” She smiles and places the business card in her blazer pocket.
“Yeah!” I say with an awkward level of exuberance. We stand in this uncomfortable space until she speaks again.
“Well, I better head out. See you next week, Father,” she says, waving at Father Patrick. I wave a goodbye, too, wondering what exactly I want from her. Gratitude? No—I don’t want her to look at me as some celebrity savior. I want her to look at me as an equal—a colleague.
“Oh, by the way ...” Ash pauses, stepping out the door. “I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but I’m such a big Gracelyn Branson fan.Toy Departmentwas on every night after school, and my mom let me watch it while she made dinner. I always say your mom was my first English teacher.”
And there it is. I’m not a coworker or a friend. Not even a top PR professional. I am Gracelyn Branson’s daughter.
“I ... I’ll pass it on,” I say. She waves again and then leaves. Mac and his crew are right behind her, Conrad the last in line.
“You coming?” He’s given up on his pretend politeness since my little standoff with Mac and now treats me with just enough disdain to keep things real, which I actually appreciate.
“I’ll be out in a few. I promised Stan and Dottie I’d say goodbye.”
Conrad checks his watch. “Mac’s blood sugar is crashing, and we ran out of protein bars, so we don’t really have time for a social visit.”
