Page 65 of When We Were Enemies
“Promette?”Promise?
“Prometto.”
He sighs deeply and mutters something I don’t understand and then releases my arm.
“Follow me.” He navigates a path through the crowd of men. Some I’ve seen before during the planning phase of the chapel; some I recognize from my dinner in the mess hall, but the rest are new faces. They say hello to Trombello, calling himPadre, and then offer shy greetings to me, and a cautiousbellahere and there, eliciting a harsh glare from my guide. I pick up the smell of unwashed men and hold my breath to hide my reaction. But overall, the prisoners are courteous, parting for me like the Red Sea in Exodus.
In front of Archbishop Cicognani, Trombello kneels.
“Vostra Eccellenza, I show to you—Miss Santini.”
“Your Excellency,” I say with a curtsy, taking his offered hand and kissing his ring, hoping I’m behaving in accordance with proper protocol.
“You’re doing a good work here, Miss Santini.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency.” I fight off the urge to curtsy or bow every time I speak. He asks of my family and my parish; he speaks of Father Theodore as though he knows him well. I wonder if they reveal to one another what their parishioners confess. Is that covered by the seal of confession? I’d ask Trombello, but only a guilty person asks such questions.
“Miss Santini, I’ve heard you are a singer; is that right?” I want to deny it, but I can’t fib to this man of God.
“I am, Your Excellency.”
“Would you lead us in a closing hymn?”
“We have no hymnals,” I protest.
“It doesn’t matter much if they join you,” the archbishop reassures me. “Your voice raised in praise is sufficient, my child.”
He points to the open space in front of him, and I step forward, unable to refuse his holy request. The crowd goes still and silent, the birds chittering in the trees my only musical introduction.
I’m used to a big band playing me in and a microphone to project my voice. And usually, it’s young American soldiers in the audience, not our sworn enemies. But at this moment, in this meadow that is now considered hallowed ground, and in front of the altar of our shared religion, I sing to them as brothers in faith and children of a shared God.
A clutch of birds takes flight on my first note. I haven’t warmed up or practiced, so my voice catches in a few spots as I struggle to remember the verses of the Latin hymn I’ve sung in the Holy Trinity choir.
At first I sing alone, but soon Trombello joins in with a rich baritone, making me jump at first and then smile with gratitude. He knows the words better than I do, and with his bravery on display, the rest of the workers add their voices when we reach the chorus, timidly at first and then with increasing gusto, until the meadow reverberates with the song of praise as though we’re singing in a grand cathedral.
We conclude our song, the echo of our raised voices still vibrating as Archbishop Cicognani says a few more words. He keeps it brief, those in the crowd growing restless knowing they have plenty of work ahead. Trombello walks with the archbishop as he departs with an armed pair of guards, leaving behind the cross where the altar will be and a symbolic stone placed where the foundation will be dug in the newly hallowed ground.
I retrieve my bag with the plans.
“You have a beautiful voice,” Gondi says in Italian as he reviews the drawings. “We heard you are aprima donna, and it looks to be true.”
I think of the business card in my waistband and shrug.
“Well, not exactly but maybe one day.”
“One day, when?” he asks. “You won’t find ‘one day’ here with ruffians like us,” he says, gesturing to the men in blue prison uniforms, “or that Americancretinoat the mess hall. Your boyfriend?”
My spine stiffens at the mention of Tom.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Not yet,” Gondi says, pointing his finger up like he’s made a discovery. “But let’s say bread for bread and wine for wine. He’sun donnaiolo.”
A womanizer. I know the term is a dirty one. And though things with Tom are in a very rocky place, he’s always seemed deeply interested in me, only me. And I guess Pearl ... perhaps ...
I scoff, the purity of the religious moment gone.
“You don’t understand. It’s very complex, me working here. He was only being—what’s the word? Oh. Protective.”
