Page 104 of When We Were Enemies
“Nah. Prisoners only, besides you and some guards and the priest doing the service.”
Priest.
The term brings up so many emotions. It used to be a word of safety and comfort, but it’s very different now for many reasons. I haven’t seen Father Theodore since the night he drove me home, bruised and bloodied, my voice scruffy from Tom’s hands around my throat. He debated taking me to the hospital, but I begged him not to. My family couldn’t afford one more medical expense, and the doctors would have had questions I couldn’t answer.
I never went to him and confessed what happened that night with Tom. And to this day I don’t know what happened after Gravano escorted me out of that middle school locker room. All I know is Tom never came back. And Trombello and the rest of the crew never mentioned the incident. I ran away to audition for Archie in Chicago as soon as my throat had healed enough for me to sing again.
“Well then. We’ll have to catch up when I sign out. I want to hear all about your guy and what’s been going on here since I left.” I give her arm a little squeeze as I head toward the door, both dreading and desiring my next challenge.
“Sure. Sounds great. And how about a cup of coffee, you know, when you come back round Christmas?” Judy asks, hand on her hip, pencil buried in the curls of her bob haircut. “Mary should be back by then. We can all complain about our husbands and exchange casserole recipes like all the good married girls do.”
Mary found her own soldier and married him only a month after she watched me walk down the aisle. She’s visiting his family in North Carolina for a few weeks, but we write often, and she promises to be home for Christmas. I hope her dreams of marital bliss have come to a happier ever after than mine.
“It’s a date,” I chirp cheerfully, pretending I’m the same as Judy and Mary, worrying about my housekeeping and meal planning.
As I take the transport to the chapel site, I do all I can to maintain a cheerful expression. I keep up the façade, not to hide my feelings about seeing Judy or the familiar scenery, or the regrets that pop up at the most unexpected moments, but to hide how I feel about coming home again in December and the reason why.
Archie’s going to call it medical leave, say I have pneumonia. But pneumonia rarely leads to a baby, so that’ll only work for so long. There’s no scandal in a married woman having a child, but it does change how a casting director sees an actress, and so Archie suggests keeping it as quiet as possible. A child is far easier to explain than a husband who never comes home from a war he’s not fighting in, but I guess I have some time to figure out those details.
When the truck takes a left instead of a right at the front gate, my attention shifts. We’re heading through the heart of the camp, passing the barracks and the mess hall, to the westernmost border of the camp. The ride is bumpy, and I have to grab my hat a few times to keep from losing it. And the rough drive does little for my already tender stomach.
Thankfully, the ride is over shortly. As we approach the old rear gate, I see the barbed-wire barrier has been extended to enclose the rear meadow. A tall, octagonal wooden guard tower overlooks the fields. All the trees and wild brush have been removed and the ground turned to a rough, packed clay on one side and a tidy sports field on the other. The transformation is dizzying, and I’m not sure how the chapel can keep the moniker of Chapel in the Meadow when the meadow looks more like a dirty tundra.
Mass has already begun. A large crowd of POWs dressed in dark slacks, the blue collars of their PW uniforms sticking up neatly from the tops of their thick, black woolen sweaters, surround the finished chapel in a hushed reverence, virtually encompassing it with their number. The compact, one-room structure is only big enough for the officiant, his deacon, and altar servers. The inside of the three-walled chapel iscovered with colorful paintings of saints on the plaster and cherubs behind the altar.
The colors are vibrant, though I know the lack of supplies meant that the men created the art out of found items and reused plaster. The crimson-colored steps lead up to the altar, painted in a pattern like tiles in an ancient cathedral.
Despite the surroundings—the fences, guns, towers, and uniforms—our little chapel is perfect. As I watch the men take Communion, I notice something I hadn’t before. ThePWon the men’s sleeve is gone. It reminds me of another reason I couldn’t miss the opportunity to visit today. Soon the Italian men and the melody of their voices will be replaced by German prisoners who may not have much use for the Catholic chapel.
Since Italy surrendered last month and declared war on Germany just four days ago, these men in blue and black are no longer our enemies—they’re our allies.
A cutting wind whips through the field, sending debris against my legs and a shiver through my bones. I slip my arms into my coat. I’m sure it’d be warmer nearer the crowd, but I’m not prepared to take Communion—not yet.
As the congregation moves into an orderly line to receive the Eucharist, I spy Trombello heading my way. He looks much like he did before, a strong jaw and kind eyes. But there’s something else in my priestly friend now, something I’d expect from a man coming home after war. It’s a strength I respect but also a coolness that I fear comes from sacrificing who he thought he was in order to protect those he cared about. It’s even more painful to see, knowing I’m the cause of it.
He catches my eye and I nod at him.
When Mass has ended, I move with the congregation away from the chapel and spot Trombello standing a short distance away, watching me approach.
“Signora Highward, è così bello vederla.”Mrs.Highward, so good to see you,he says, using my married name to greet me.
“Buongiorno, Padre,” I say, letting him take my gloved hands. We’ve stayed in touch the past few months with postcards and drawings. But only so much can be said on a three-by-five piece of paper that’ll be screened by the authorities before reaching its intended recipient. Trombello covers only the basics, and even those are limited, though meaningful.
“Lei è luce per i miei occhi.”You are a light for my eyes,he says, the Italian version of “you’re a sight for sore eyes.” And I feel the same about seeing my friend again—any shift in his countenance hasn’t changed a thing about how he makes me feel. In these moments, I’m jealous of sharing his charity with others and that the church has him in a way I never can.
“It is beautiful,” I say in Italian, gesturing to the chapel. Trombello beams with pride and then turns somber.
“We’ll be leaving soon,” he says.
“Back to Italy?” I ask, uneasy, wondering how the POWs will make it through the havoc of war-torn Europe or Africa to get back to their terrified families and villages.
He shakes his head.
“No, here. In America. There are jobs for men who sign papers of allegiance.”
“You’re staying?” A flash of hope flares up.
“Only till the war is over,” he says.
