Two women, generations apart, in the spotlight. A powerful novel about family secrets, devastating choices, and hope for the future by the bestselling author of When I’m Gone.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and the second chapter of Emily Bleeker’s When We Were Enemies, which is out now.
Camera-shy Elise Branson is different from the other women in her matriline. Her mother is an award-winning actress. Her late grandmother, Vivian Snow, is a beloved Hollywood icon. But when Elise’s upcoming wedding coincides with a documentary being made about Vivian, Elise can’t escape the camera’s gaze. And even in death, neither can her grandmother.
It’s 1943 when Vivian, a small-town Indiana girl, lends her home front support to the war effort. As a translator in the nearby Italian POW camp, she’s invaluable. As a celebrated singer for the USO, she lifts men’s spirits and falls in love with a soldier. But behind this all-American love story is a shocking secret—one vital to keep buried if Vivian is to achieve the fame and fortune she covets.
For Elise and Vivian, what’s hidden—and what’s exposed—threatens to unravel their lives. The heart-wrenching choices they must make will change them both forever.
Chapter 2
Vivian
Monday, April 26th, 1943 Camp Atterbury
The sun sits low in the eastern sky. I fight off a shiver as the chilled morning air hits my bare calves. I wish I had one intact pair of nylons to make a good impression on my first day and to protect my feet from the inevitable blisters. As I walk down the dirt path towards the front gates of Camp Atterbury, a fine spattering of mud collects on the black leather of my new heels. Well, new-to-me. My friend Mary found them in the charity bin at the USO and put them aside for me. I should feel guilty about taking something meant for the poor, but with mom still locked away and dad’s broken foot, we’re closer to poor than we’ve ever been.
If I were singing in a real club in Indianapolis or even Chicago, I’d make more than a dollar a weekend. And then I’d have enough money to pay for mom’s doctors and dad could cut down on his hours at the factory and Aria could have a normal childhood full of bobby socks and school dances.
Stop it, Vivian, I chastise myself. There’s no room in my life for fantasy or big dreams. I’m nineteen, almost twenty, and I’m the only hope for keeping my family together. Mother lost herself in her sphere of dreams and fantasy and look where that got her—locked away in Mount Mercy Sanitarium. So instead of voice lessons with experienced teachers and trips to the city for auditions, I got my secretarial training from Marian University and applied for a real job at Camp Atterbury.
After two interviews with the help of Charlie, the handsome married officer I dance with at the USO most Friday nights, one typing test, and a few toothy smiles, I got the job working the switchboard at the front office for Camp Atterbury. I say front office, but I don’t even know where the office is located, never having stepped foot on base.
The bus dropped me off on the side of the road in front of buildings protected by not only a fence but a front gate and guardhouse and a sign with large lettering above it that says:
Main Entrance
Camp Atterbury
Internment Camp
I shiver, not only from the cold but from a sudden dread that runs through me at the sight of the gates, white posts with chain-link and barbed wire. This is a camp for prisoners of war captured in the European theater. And this is where I’m going to work.
Every part of my body tells me to turn around and leave. I suppose it’s more necessity than courage that keeps me moving toward the front gate. Around the perimeter stand impressive lookout towers as tall as the bank in downtown Edinburgh. I can see uniformed men inside, milling about with big rifles slung around their arms. They’re watching me watch them. I swallow and square my shoulders to look more professional.
My tweed suit coat and tailored skirt are a bit tattered but nice enough for a desk job, at least that’s what Mary said. I smooth my hair, my fingers getting tangled, the wind and moisture in the air making it a mess.
Feeling eyes on me not only from above but also from the guardhouse, I walk up to the gate. The top half of the door swings open before I touch it. Inside, stand two uniformed young men.
“Can I help you, Miss?” the taller one asks. I’m pretty sure he’s the more senior of the two.
“Yes. I…I’m here for the new secretarial position,” I say, shoulders so straight I might throw out my back.
“You’re the new secretary?” The young soldier, who I’m certain I’ve seen at the dance hall at least once, looks me up and down. He gives me a little knowing grin like he knows what I look like in my garter belt.
“Yes…yes. I am.” My voice quivers slightly, making me feel weak but the private seems to like my timidity. “I’m Vivian….”
“Vivian Santini?” he pronounces it Sane-tie-nye.
I nod. I’ve learned to accept any pronunciation that comes close to the correct San-tee- nee.
“Yes—you’re on the list.” A tall, smooth-faced soldier exits the guardhouse from a side door, and waves to his partner. The white gate covered in barbed wire pulls back slowly, barely wide enough for me to slip through. On the other side I’m faced with another loftier set of gates.
The shorter of the two guards crosses to the locking mechanism and rolls back the barrier. I search his waist for a gun. I don’t like the idea of being surrounded by weapons. Papà has one gun. My little sister Aria found his old rabbit pistol under his pillow within a week of President Roosevelt declaring war. We tried to convince him it wasn’t a safe place to store a loaded weapon, but Papà insisted he needed it close at hand in case we’re invaded by I Tedeschi—the Germans. I guess he forgot his own countrymen are also on the wrong side of the conflict. He refused to give the pistol up, even though living in central Indiana, it’s pretty unlikely we’ll see any fighting. But I understand the overwhelming desire to protect our family. He does it with a gun—I do it by providing an income.
I Tedeschi aside, the only other way I can imagine my father pulling a gun on a man is if he caught one trying to woo Aria or me, which keeps me from inviting any gentlemen callers into our home. Not that I’ve had time for a love life between work, Papà, Aria, and school.
“That way,” the taller guard gestures toward a long, white gravel drive and the other man, Talbot I think his name is, ushers me in the right direction. The buildings on this side of the road are gray, unlike the white barracks across the street that house the American servicemen. I wonder if the different colors are symbolic. A large office building sits inside the barbed wire barrier. Behind it is another fence topped with razor sharp wire, the last defense against a potential prisoner revolt.
As I follow Talbot, the other soldier watches me walk away. I think I feel the men in the tower doing so as well. This attention from men—it’s new to me. I’d always been a dowdy, quiet girl in high school and went to an all-girls college.
When I’m on stage it’s different. I feel bulletproof under those lights. But here I feel the weight of their gazes.
I keep my heels out of the mud the best I can. It’s been a wet spring and the clouds rolling in signal another storm on the horizon. The deep rumble of thunder in the distance vibrates through my midsection and I breath in the pre-storm scent. Aria will be a mess when I get home tonight, covered head to toe in dirt from her garden, I’m sure of it.
Talbot walks ahead, opens the door to the building and waits for me to step inside. It’s warm and the air is thick with a heavy, manly smell. A desk sits behind a window with a door immediately to the right, and a sitting area with chairs to the left. A young woman works behind the glass and Talbot gives her the same sickly grin he’d given me at the gate.
“Hey, Judy—is Gammell in?”
The girl has a plain face and a sweetly curled bob and she responds with an innocence I find comforting. Her soft brown eyes are friendly and a welcome escape from Talbot’s obvious glances.
“No—he’s at the fields. Should be back shortly. Wanna wait?” She talks to him so casually, they must know one another. I have a sudden shock of worry for the girl. Then a flash of gold on her left hand catches my attention.
She’s married. Thank heavens. Talbot looks me over again and then back at Judy and shrugs.
“I don’t mind staying, you know, for a little bit, “ Talbot says, and points to the chairs lining the walls by the front door. I take one of the seats but stay perched on the edge of the cushion, afraid of looking lazy if the Lieutenant Colonel walks in. I cross my legs, one over the other, at first. But when I notice Talbot watching, I quickly change my position, crossing at my ankles instead, tugging at the hem of my skirt.
Judy raises her eyebrow and seems to catch on to Talbot’s interest. She sits up tall, as if her spine is a puzzle clicking into place.
“Sarah had fun last night,” she says in a lowered voice but loud enough I can hear. “We should do it again sometime. How about Friday? At the hall?”
“This girl sings down there on Fridays. I’ve seen her lots of times.” Talbot looks at me and back at Judy, ignoring the question about poor Sarah.
“She does?” Judy squints through the glass and laughs. “Oh, by golly, yes! I remember you. Sorry, dear, what’s your name?”
“Vivian,” I say, a warm blush on my cheeks. I’m proud of my work on stage at the USO, but I hadn’t planned to tell anyone at my new job about my stage persona.
“Yes! Vivian Snow,” Judy says the name like she’s reading it off a marquee outside a theater. Goosebumps break out on my legs and arms.
“Snow? I thought it was Santino…something or other.
“Snow is my stage name.” I sound shy, like little Vivian Santini, who hid behind her mother’s skirts on the first day of school and was too nervous to sing the solo in the first grade Christmas concert.
“Ah. Cause your real name makes you sound like an immigrant,” Talbot says, matter of fact like he knows the ins and outs of such things. I switch my ankles to keep my outrage from being obvious. This is why I use a stage name. I’ve always been judged for being Italian. Both of my parents with accents. Wearing funny clothes. Living in a family with old-fashioned values. I have to hide so many things from my dad. My stage name is only one of them.
Judy seems to sense my uneasiness and leans across her desk to speak to me directly.
“Well, Vivian, that’s no matter. I’m star-struck here. What brings you to Camp Atterbury? Are you doing a show for the boys?”
Before I can answer, Talbot intervenes.
“Nah. She’s just a secretary.”
Judy gasps in exaggerated offense, “Gary! JUST a secretary? Excuse me?”
“Well, you know what I mean….”
As Talbot and Judy debate, I sink back and stare at the door, wishing I could walk out.
It’s not that I don’t want to work here. Judy seems fine but Talbot…there’s something about him that makes my skin crawl.
Just then, the door swings open like I’d willed it to happen. A uniformed soldier stomps in with mud on his boots that spills onto tiled floor. Following behind him are three men in dark blue uniforms with the letters PW painted on their sleeves, pants, and worn leather boots.
The first two men enter loudly, shouting and wrestling against their restraints. The noisy one is short, not much taller than me, but fills out his button-up shirt with muscle, not fat. The second man is taller, about Talbot’s height, but slim and looks to be swimming in his oversized uniform. Both are covered in dirt. It’s on their faces, clothing and hair, and I smell sweat even though the morning has been crisp. A third man enters slowly, his whole countenance a stark contrast to the first two prisoners.
He’s a touch above average height but not towering. He’s slender but not gaunt and he looks fit—as though he could run a few laps around a track without losing his breath. He has thick dark hair without a single silver strand giving any clues to his age. His eyes are dark, warm, and friendly. And though he seems tidier than the other two men, he’s just as muddy.
Agitation buzzes between the first two prisoners. But the third seems composed, collected, cooperative, resigned to the restraints around his wrists, focused on the conflict in front of him.
“E Tutta colpa tua,” the short man spits under his breath at the tall one. This is all your fault. The words come through in my mind as clear as if I’d heard them in English.
Italian. The only language spoken in my home for most of my life, at least until my mother went into the hospital.
“Quante volte te lo devo dire? Chiudi la bocca,” the taller one grumbles back. How many times do I have to tell you? Shut your mouth! The strong language puts me on edge.
“Quante volte ti ho detto di smettere di toccare le mie cose?” the shorter man responds. How many times have I told you to stop touching my things?
The tension is building, both men clenching their fists like they long to punctuate their words with action. The guards seem oblivious as they chat with Judy and stare at the door like they’re waiting for someone else. I scootch even closer to the edge of my seat, wondering if I should alert them that the men look like they’re about to fight.
“Adesso Basta.” That’s enough, now. The quiet man still standing in the entrance mumbles in a calm but authoritarian way. Perhaps he’s their commander?
“So che hai fatto la foto. Restituiscilo.” I know you took the picture. Give it back. The shorter man continues without acknowledging the third man.
“Non ce l’ho! Hai una testa dura.” I don’t have it! You’re stubborn.
Testa dura—literally meaning having a hard head. My father calls my sister that when he catches her wearing her gardening trousers to school or reading her books late into the night.
The calm man interjects again.
“Non ricominciare, Romano. Ti imploro. Te l’ho detto, troverai la tua foto.” Don’t start this again, Romano. I implore you. I told you, we’ll find your picture.
The short man, Romano , takes a deep breath. He wipes his sweaty brow with his bound hands, and finally gives in.
“Mi dispiace. Mi dispiace. Mi fido di te.” I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I trust you. He sounds repentant at first but then adds with a touch of hotness, “Lui, non tanto. Ma tu, Trombello? Con la mia vita.” Him, not so much. But you, Trombello? With my life.
As Romano makes a partial bow to the calm one, Trombello, the tall man fires back, “Nessuno vuole vedere la tua ragazza grassa, comunque.” Nobody wants to see your fat girlfriend, anyway.
“Bononcini! Basta!” Trombello chastises when Romano leaps forward, his hand in a fist. In that half a second, Trombello jumps into action, grabbing hefty Romano by the front of his collared shirt, holding him back while also straight-arming Bononcini who looks ready for the fight.
“Madonna Mia!” I squeal, and jump to my feet, seeing the flow of the fight heading in my direction. At the sound of my shout, Trombello, with his hands already full—quite literally—
whips his head over his shoulder. We lock eyes for a brief, almost imperceptible moment and I can see the confusion in them.
I cover my mouth, surprised at my linguistic slip, but my moment of impropriety had its effect. In Trombello’s hesitation, Romano ‘s fist finds Trombello’s jaw and a crack that sounds like a dried-out branch breaking slices through the air, louder than the thunder. I recoil and close my eyes, expecting blood.
I hear a rush of loud aggressive voices, speaking in English and the frenzied shuffling of feet from the hall. In that bedlam, the door to the office squeaks open and the bitter, damp wind touches my cheek.
“What the hell is going on here? Get these men under control and out of here. You’ve got to be shitting me. Whose idea was this?”
My eyes open at the sound of the deep, authoritarian voice. The scene has changed drastically. Guards hold back Romano and Bononcini. Trombello lies face down on the tiled floor, his mouth bloodied and Talbot’s muddy boot on his back. A thick, middle-aged officer stands by the open front door, not seeming to notice the deluge of rain and cold air rushing in.
This must be Lieutenant Colonel Gammell. The boys I’ve danced with say he’s strict, fastidious, and quick-tempered. I can see why. If he were a Loony Toons cartoon character, he’d have steam coming from his ears.
His outraged masculine voice makes my chest tighten and my shoulders stiffen. My father’s temper has the same effect on me. I try to be small and silent like I am when my father has an outburst. All of the men in the room begin speaking at the same time, starting up the conflict again.
Keeping myself hunched over, I glance around for an escape route but all I can see are the outraged faces of angry men and all I can hear are raised voices in two different languages, combining into a cacophony of confusion and commotion. There’s no escape.
I close my eyes again, and try to disappear, hide inside my mind while they fight in front of me. There’s nothing I can do. Because, in this world of war, one nineteen-year-old girl is meaningless.
And just like inside my father’s house and inside Edinburgh, Indiana—I’m stuck.
