Page 66 of When We Were Enemies
Cresci, sweaty and out of breath, joins the conversation. “Who? That Americanstronzo? Don’t let him make you a fool.”
“I don’t plan on it,” I mutter, tucking a curl behind my ear. I ready my pencil to take notes on the progress on the site using cement blocks and a piece of wood for a makeshift desk.
“It’s him you need protection from, not us,” Cresci continues. “We’re your countrymen. Your blood comes from our home.”
I slap my hand against the wooden surface but withhold my instinctive response. My father could be right—I shouldn’t be here. Even the prisoners think I’m one of them. What happens if Lieutenant Colonel Gammell starts to question my allegiances?
“Don’t you two have work to do?” Trombello asks, walking up the slight hill from the road, his sleeves rolled up and collar unbuttoned now that the archbishop’s departed. A tuft of dark hair peeks out through the V at his collarbone.
“Yes, Father,” Gondi says, eyes cast downward.
“Sorry, Father,” Cresci says, grabbing the wheelbarrow next to the table. “Speak some sense to the girl,” he adds quietly to Trombello, as though I won’t hear it.
“Worry about your own grass, Vincenzo. Yes?” Cresci nods and heads off to literally tend to his own grass.
“They really respect you.”
“They used to call me Father to make fun, but over time it changed, I think.” He unrolls the chapel’s plans on the table, his forearm brushing my hand as it crosses me. He stoops and places two large rocks on each end of the rectangle, and I notice the fresh dirt under his neatly trimmed nails. It reminds me of Aria and then of my mother.
When I was a child, my mother showed me how to dig a hole in the tilled garden soil deep enough to provide protection for the vulnerable seeds. I remember her delicate hands on mine, a thin film of soil the only thing between us. Those are the good memories, the ones I know Aria relives when she loses herself in the garden. I’m more interested in forgetting that version of my mother. Remembering her fondly brings me no comfort, not when I know she’ll never be my loving teacher or protector again.
But when I see Trombello’s hands, the dirt under his nails, it brings up repressed longing for a caring, consistent guide. And leaves me wondering what his hand would feel like over mine.
No.I shake the involuntary and completely inappropriate question away, forcing myself to return to the conversation at hand.
“What changed?” I ask. He doesn’t seem to notice I’m blushing.
“I don’t know. I’d like to say God softened their hearts after the battle at Sidi Barrani. The British army wasmassiccio. We knew nothing of war. General Bergonzoli said we’d understand how to fight when guns fired at us, but we didn’t. Some of us ran toward the explosions; some ran away, and some stood still. On that first day, we saw so much death, so much.”
He has a far-off look in his eyes as he stares at the pencil drawing of the chapel. I stand still, slowing my breathing to keep from distracting his recollection.
“I volunteered to be a soldier in ’40. I thought myself a coward for staying behind to hide in a church when all the men I’d grown up with had been conscripted. When my friends andcommilitonicrossed to the other world in my arms, I wondered if I’d made the right decision. But war needs God more than peace does. And I believe more service happens here than from the pulpit.”
He looks out at the small group who volunteered their time to build this chapel. They’ve sacrificed paid work at local farms in order to create this sacred place and a piece of the home they miss so dearly.
“You chose to enlist?” I ask, finding the confession provocative and potentially frightening. “Are you loyal? To Mussolini?”
“I’m loyal to no man but God,” he says as he looks to the sky. He lowers his voice and moves to my side, his arm hair tickling my skin. A line of perspiration races down the side of my neck. “The church has found Mussolini to be godless, and when I left, people were growing tired of fascism. Not all the soldiers here agree, but many do. From time to time, they have great arguments over politics as though they can change anything while inside these walls.”
He tinkers with a camera, clicks the lens into place, and cocks a small lever.
“What of you?”
“Me?” I ask.
“Yes. Where do your loyalties lie?”
“My country,” I reply automatically. “I’m loyal to my country.”
“Just your country? Not your family, youramore, your church, or your God?”
“All of them, I guess.”
“But which first, do you think? Who would you go to battle for if they did not all agree?”
Who would I go to battle for?
It’s a challenging question. If all I hold dearest were in conflict—who or which would I choose? Would I abandon my father to please my country? Would I give up my religion to please a man I loved? Would I sacrifice my life before betraying my country? I’m too young to know these answers. Then again, I’m surrounded by younger men forced to make these choices every day.
