Page 58 of When We Were Enemies
The next photo, same size, is of a smaller group of men. On the back I read—chapel construction committee. The next photo shows my grandmother smiling next to the same man she’d stood beside in the picture of the dedication. It’s a version of my grandmother I’m unfamiliar with.
As a child, I knew her as a glamorous woman with rich brown hair, long eyelashes, and perfectly colored lips that always had a compliment for me. She doted on me, her only granddaughter. She would wrap my hair in rags to give me long ringlets, and we’d stay up to watch the late-night shows, and she’d point out her friends or my mom’s friends and tell me stories, and I’d fall asleep in her bed. As she aged, she grew frail but graceful in her frailty. She let her hair go white and her wrinkles set in. I respect that.
Sure, I know the glamour shots of her early career and her days as a pinup girl. But the fresh-faced innocence and unrestrained joy on her face in this photo—these I’ve never seen.
I flip to the next picture. This one is of my grandmother sitting at an outdoor desk, men in a field behind her working, a soft, close-to-seductive smile on her face. The next one is similar, with less of a smile, the background fading away, and I can see the future superstar rippling under the surface.
I turn the pictures over. Both are blank, though I have no doubt they must be from the same time as the other images—1943.
The next photograph is of a young Italian POW in a tidy prison uniform with the lettersPWshouting out from his sleeve. He, too, is smiling, like my grandmother, but looking away like he’s embarrassed by the attention, laughing. He’s handsome with thick dark hair and a strong jaw, clean-shaven. And though the other picture is fuzzy, this man could be the same one pictured next to my grandmother at the dedication of the chapel grounds.
I turn this photo over, assuming it, too, will be blank, but it’s not. Written in the same loopy handwriting that I’m starting to think belongs to my grandmother, are a name and a date.
Father Antonio Trombello—1943.
Antonio Trombello. That name—it’s the one I’ve been looking for. Such a common name, and with few other details, my cursory research has found a plethora of Antonio Trombellos. But here he is—the man who purchased my grandfather’s grave and headstone. He was an Italian POW.
Marty pulls into the covered drive outside the Haymark Garden Inn, and everyone piles out. I shuffle the photographs back into a stack and slide them carefully into the envelope again, not sure what to do. I could give them to Mac; that’s what Dottie intended. And I see why—the photos provide a visual timeline to the construction of the Chapel in the Meadow and proof my grandmother was an integral part of that process.
But what about Antonio Trombello—this man who took pictures of my grandmother and made her smile more radiantly than I’ve ever seen? No. Not Antonio Trombello.FatherAntonio Trombello, thepriestwho paid for my grandfather’s grave.
I haven’t forgotten Dottie’s comment about Vivian Snow’s rumored love affair with an Italian priest at the camp. And now it’s clear why that rumor started. The question is, Do I want to spread an unsubstantiated story about my own flesh and blood?
“You getting out?” Marty asks. Back in the driver’s seat after unloading the equipment into the lobby, he’s ready to park the SUV for the night.
“Oh yeah. Sorry.” I slide the envelope into my bag and climb out of the car. My mom will be here in the morning, and then I can get at least some answers. Until then, my grandmother and Father Antonio Trombello, whoever he may be, will have to wait in the darkness of their envelope.
CHAPTER 18
Vivian
Friday, June 4, 1943
Streets of Edinburgh
I walk away from Archie with my head held high, hoping I look like Katharine Hepburn inThe Philadelphia Story. When I step off Main Cross Street, just past the last streetlight, onto our pitch-black road, a chill runs up my spine.
If papà finds out I walked home alone, he may never allow me to leave the house again. But the greatest danger in this darkness isn’t my father’s fury—there are real threats out here, too—the kind thatmakefathers overprotective.
I hug my torso. It’s hard to navigate in the darkness, and I’m not surprised when a rock catches my heel. My ankle turns, and the strap on my shoe snaps. I stumble onto the road, my shoe half-off. I rub the sore spot on my foot and try to inspect the damage to my only pair of presentable show shoes.
“Dang it.”
Headlights rushing down the road blind me. A horn blares. I slap my hands over my ears and jump off the pavement with a squeal,leaving my damaged shoe behind. A Chrysler runs over my abandoned footwear, shredding it into a mangled bit of leather and cork.
“You okay?” a young man’s voice calls from the inside of the dark car, sounding as frightened as I feel.
“Keep driving, Ernie. She’s probably drunk,” a woman’s voice, high and judgmental, orders.
“You don’t know that,” he scolds. “Hey, you. You all right?” he asks again. I clear my throat, not sure if I can find my voice.
“I ... I’m fine,” I say, my cheeks burning, more embarrassed than traumatized by the near miss.
“What in heaven’s name were you doing in the road?” the woman asks as though I’ve committed a crime equivalent to murder. A rush of giggles trickles out of the lowered windows. Likely, they’re just girls leaving the dance and heading home to Columbus with a brother or friend playing chauffeur and bodyguard.
“My strap broke on my shoe ...,” I try to explain.
“Vivian?” From the back of the car, a deep and familiar voice interrupts my explanation.
