The Italian Prisoner Read online

  The Italian Prisoner is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical figures, are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Italian Prisoner

  Published by Burgundy Bend Press

  Copyright © 2022 by Elisa M. Speranza

  All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Learn more at: www.elisamariesperanza.com

  Cover art by Deedra Ludwig

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021953440

  ISBN (hardcover): 9781662924125

  ISBN (paperback): 9781662924132

  eISBN: 9781662924149

  In memory of my sister Laura,

  and all the souls of the faithful departed.

  For Jon

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  New Orleans—March 1943

  Rose looked around the church, hoping not to run into the pastor or anyone else she knew. The early morning light shining through the stained-glass windows made little prisms of color on the pews; the cloying smell of incense transported Rose to comforting childhood times. She needed that today. The church custodian moved silently around the altar, focused on his dusting and polishing. An older woman knelt up front, dressed in black and murmuring prayers in Sicilian as she worked her rosary beads. Rose craned her neck from her seat in the back but couldn’t identify her.

  Rose wasn’t where she should be on a Friday morning: working at the family grocery store. Instead, she was headed to a job interview at the Higgins Shipyard. She’d told her parents she was going to a blood drive. The lie was just a venial sin, she rationalized. For the war effort.

  She felt through her blouse for her scapular, a drawing of the Virgin Mary on a small brown felt rectangle, tied to a ribbon she wore around her neck. She knew her big brother Giovanni and older sister Laura were wearing theirs too, wherever they were; the thought brought Rose some solace. Giovanni had enlisted right after Pearl Harbor and now worked as a mechanic somewhere in the Pacific. Meanwhile, Laura was an Army nurse stationed in North Africa, which seemed impossibly romantic to Rose. Like something out of Casablanca.

  She prayed God would keep them safe, then added a request that the job interview would go well. Asking forgiveness for the lie to her parents could wait until her next confession.

  Rose never thought she’d have a chance to work at the shipyard; her small frame wasn’t built for manual labor. But her cousin Rocco recently enlisted, and he’d recommended she take his place as a bookkeeper. She felt ready, excited for the chance to do her part. And at eighteen, she was desperate to get out from under her parents’ thumb, at least five days a week.

  Rose looked at her watch. Her best friend Marie, who worked as a welder at the shipyard, had said the streetcar ride to Higgins would take about forty-five minutes. She couldn’t risk being late. As she got up to leave, so did the old woman up front. Rose felt her heart race—it was Mrs. Serio. Immaculate Conception was the “Italian church,” and all Rose’s Sicilian neighbors worshipped here. Rose bent her head as she blessed herself and genuflected in the aisle, but when she looked up, Mrs. Serio was coming right at her.

  “Rose! I never see you here on a weekday,” Mrs. Serio said in a loud whisper. Her English was accented with Palermo, like so many others in the neighborhood. Like Rose’s own parents. “Is everything alright?”

  “Buongiorno, Mrs. Serio. Yes, everything is fine. I…” Rose felt hot suddenly, her mind fumbling for a plausible excuse for being there. “I just stopped in before work to light a candle for my brother. We haven’t heard from him in so long.” Another lie. They’d had a postcard from Giovanni just last week, palm trees on the front, postmarked Manila. I miss Ma’s cooking. The food is terrible—otherwise still in one piece. No information on his whereabouts or condition. Even so, they’d clung to the message. Proof of life.

  “You never know these days,” Mrs. Serio said, leaning on her cane. “I’ll add him to my prayer list.”

  “Grazie,” Rose said. “What about Stefano? Any news?” Rose had been in school with Mrs. Serio’s grandson, who’d enlisted around the same time as Giovanni.

  “Only that he’s in North Africa somewhere. God keep him,” Mrs. Serio said, blessing herself.

  “That’s where my sister is,” Rose said. “Hopefully they won’t cross paths—Laura’s working in the field hospital.”

  They walked toward the exit, Mrs. Serio limping along. “God bless her too. Such a brave girl.”

  Rose held open the heavy cypress door and let in the blazing sunlight. She was touched that Mrs. Serio called Laura brave. Her own mother didn’t see it that way. Rose helped the older woman down the wide granite front steps of the church.

  “Sorry I’m so slow—my leg, it hurts with the sugar diabetes,” Mrs. Serio said, turning toward home.

  Rose pointed in the opposite direction. “I’m going this way—need to run an errand.” She didn’t want to give Mrs. Serio an opening to start a litany of ailments. She needed to catch the streetcar soon or she’d be late for the interview. “Arrivederci!”

  Mrs. Serio waved her cane and walked off. Rose hoped she wouldn’t turn up at the store and expose the lie to her parents. Of course, Rose would have to confess it eventually—if her prayers were answered and Higgins offered her the job. Besides, Marie’s advice rang in her head: One step at a time. Don’t worry before you need to.

  She hurried down Ursulines Avenue, trying not to make eye contact with anyone as she made her way out of the thick of the French Quarter. Purple and pink bougainvillea spilled over wrought iron balconies on brick and stucco buildings, and she could smell jasmine wafting from behind narrow gates that led to hidden courtyards. These streets looked the same as they had for centuries—they were all Rose had ever known. Until today, she thought.

  She passed the newsstand on the corner. The headlines read, 13 JAP SHIPS SUNK BY ONE YANK SUB and ROMMEL DRIVEN BACK TO STARTING POINT. She paid much more attention to the papers these days. As she passed her favorite bakery, Brocato’s, she noticed the blue service star in the window had turned to gold since she last walked this
way: a loved one lost in the war. She blessed herself. In the door of her own family’s store, two stars hung on a banner—one for Giovanni, one for Laura. Each night she prayed they would stay blue. She checked her watch again and quickened her pace. It was warm for March and the heat prickled her skin. She worried she’d be sweaty by the time she got to Higgins, but she couldn’t be late.

  Rose stepped down from the streetcar at the City Park stop. The massive Higgins factory loomed ahead, rising from the edge of Bayou St. John’s murky waters. The grounds were much tidier than she’d pictured, with swaying palm trees and well-tended flower beds; a few fancy-looking cars sat parked in the small lot. Higgins couldn’t be more different from the crumbling charm of the French Quarter. The building’s sleek, curved façade looked like a giant boat with round porthole windows. A huge wooden replica of a ship’s steering wheel hung on the wall above the front entrance. An enormous American flag flew over everything.

  At the main door, a guard in a glass booth checked Rose’s name against his list before letting her pass inside. There, a receptionist with a teased-up blond hairdo sat behind a tall oak desk. She wore a brown-and-white checked dress with a tight bodice, and coral-colored lipstick—like a chic working woman from the movies. Rose smiled up at her, feeling like a schoolgirl in her white blouse and navy-blue skirt.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Good morning,” Rose said, speaking loudly. A rhythmic, muffled hammering sound came from behind the wall. “I’m Rose Marino. Here for an appointment with Mr. Sullivan.”

  The receptionist raised one penciled-in eyebrow. “Just a moment, hon,” she said, holding up a red-nailed finger. She picked up a black telephone handset on her desk and dialed three numbers. “A Miss Marino for Mr. Sullivan,” she said into the receiver. “Uh-huh. OK.” She hung up. “He’s finishing up a meeting, but he’ll be down for you shortly. You can have a seat over there.” She pointed to a chartreuse-colored sofa in an alcove near the front door.

  “Is there a ladies’ room I can use?” Rose asked.

  “First door on the left.”

  “Thank you,” Rose said, glad for the chance to pull herself together.

  There were four stalls in the restroom; a large mirror spanned a long row of immaculate white sinks. A poster on the wall showed a pair of red lips with a big X over them. LOOSE LIPS SINK SHIPS! Rose shuddered, thinking about Giovanni or Laura on one of those ships.

  She inspected herself in the mirror, now wishing she’d worn more makeup. Her olive-toned skin looked sallow in the fluorescent light. She took a round silver compact from her purse, blotted out the shine from the humidity, then reapplied pink lipstick, and dabbed her cheeks to add some color. Turning to the side, she re-pinned a loose brown curl into the neatly knotted bun. She stood up as straight as she could, hoping she looked professional enough. Old enough. She’d worn the small gold stud earrings her deceased grandmother had sewn into the lining of her coat for the voyage from Sicily to America as a young woman. Rose tried to channel her nonna’s bravery for the interview to come. Marie had helped her prepare. Still, they couldn’t have possibly anticipated every question.

  Back in the reception area, Rose sat on the sofa and picked up the company magazine, Eureka, from a stack on the coffee table. She leafed through the pages—photographs of Higgins boats landing on beaches in Morocco and the Philippines, advertisements to work harder. She flinched at a cartoon of Mussolini looking like a menacing monster, an Italian flag clutched in his hand—just like the one her father insisted on flying over the entrance to his grocery store. Since Italy was part of the Axis, the government had required her parents to register as “enemy aliens” when the war broke out. She knew her father disdained Mussolini, but that didn’t stop the FBI from taking away his short-wave radio and his camera. Some people refused to do business with Italians after that, and he’d lost a few long-time customers.

  “Here’s Mr. Sullivan now, Miss Marino,” the receptionist called.

  Rose put down the magazine and stood, smoothing her skirt as Mr. Sullivan walked toward her. He was stocky, with a round, freckled face, and wore a tan suit. His brown tie was slightly askew, and his reddish curly hair looked uncombed. Still, his kind smile put Rose a little more at ease.

  “Miss Marino?” he asked, enveloping her tiny hand with his sweaty mitt. He smelled like cigarettes and cologne. “Michael Sullivan, pleased to meet you. Follow me.” An Irish brogue gave his voice a musical lilt.

  The thumping and grinding noises got louder as they walked down the corridor. Through a long rectangular window in the wall, Rose glimpsed the factory floor: row after row of giant wooden hulls and scaffolding so high it seemed to disappear into the ceiling. It surprised her to see so many women, Black and white people working side by side. A giant sign hanging from the rafters read, THE GUY WHO RELAXES IS HELPING THE AXIS.

  Mr. Sullivan ushered her into a windowless office. Even with the door shut, the room still hummed with vibrations. “Sorry for the noise. We’re working full steam ahead on a new order from the Navy. Oh, forget I said that.” He made a zipper motion across his lips.

  Rose nodded, remembering the poster in the bathroom. Yet another hung here showing blue and black stylized gears: WORK WITH CARE!

  Mr. Sullivan opened a manila file folder and took out a sheaf of papers. On top, Rose spotted the application she’d filled out in her best Catholic school penmanship. Cousin Rocco had managed to slip it to her at the store without her father seeing.

  “Let’s see,” Mr. Sullivan said, putting on a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses. “Miss. . . Marino. Rocco’s cousin. So, you’re Eye-talian too, I take it?”

  Rose felt her heart thump—she and Marie hadn’t thought of this one.

  “Yes, sir. My parents came over from Sicily as children, but they’re becoming citizens now. My father and Rocco’s father are brothers. I was born here, of course.” Rocco’s father was back in Sicily, but she kept that information to herself.

  Mr. Sullivan held up a hand. “It’s OK. I’m an immigrant myself, as you can probably tell.” He smiled and Rose relaxed a bit. “Of course, the Irish are on our side…but we have lots of Eye-talian people here, like your cousin. Good workers.”

  She felt a small wave of relief.

  He looked down at the paperwork. “You’ve got a certificate from the Soulé school, I see. Did you take bookkeeping there?”

  “I did,” Rose said. “I enjoyed it very much. Shorthand and typing too.” Her high school principal Sister Mary Arnold had put her in for a scholarship to the one-year business program. Rose’s mother had objected, of course, saying they needed her at the store, and that Rose would be better off finding a good husband. But Rose’s father intervened—a rare occurrence—saying she should go, that it wouldn’t cost them anything. Besides, he’d said, they could use her help with the books. Rose had been excited to stretch her mind, to imagine working outside the store, though she hadn’t shared that part with her parents.

  Mr. Sullivan pointed to a line on the application. “Current job—in your family grocery? Do you think you’ll be able to make the leap to working in a big factory like this?”

  As if on cue, a loud BANG from the shop floor made her jump.

  “Ah, the sound of victory,” Mr. Sullivan said. “You get used to it. As I was saying.”

  “Oh, yes, sir.” Rose nodded; she and Marie had practiced this question. “I use some of my training now, helping my father run the business. Inventory, bookkeeping, and reports for the Ration Board.”

  “Rocco said you were a smart girl.”

  Rose felt herself blush. When she was a child, Rose was always told she was the “pretty one,” Laura the “smart one.” Neither took this as flattery.

  Mr. Sullivan closed the file and removed his glasses. His brown eyes were a little bloodshot. “So, tell me. Why do you want to work at Higgins?”

  Rose sat up as straight as she could. She wanted so much to give the right answer. “To help
in the war effort. My sister’s an Army nurse and my brother’s in the Pacific—I want to do my part, beyond collecting scrap metal and grease. My friend’s a welder here, and between her and Rocco I’ve heard a little about Higgins. Not too much, of course. They’re always mindful of security. But they’ve both encouraged me, sir. I want to make a difference.”

  The corners of his mouth turned up in a slight smile, and she knew her rehearsed answer had hit the mark.

  “You’re right about what we do here,” he said. “I can’t tell you too much until you’re an official employee, but it certainly is important work. Vital, in fact.”

  “I’ve seen the boats in the newsreels. Very impressive.” His words had buoyed her hopes. Vital. Until you’re an official employee.

  “Indeed. Any questions for me?”

  Marie had insisted she ask about pay, but in truth the topic made Rose uncomfortable. She took a deep breath. “Um, well, I’m just wondering about the pay and the hours?”

  “Of course. Seventy-five cents an hour to start. Eight to five, half hour for lunch, Monday through Friday.”

  Rose knew Rocco made over a dollar an hour but didn’t want to push it. She’d been working at the store since she was old enough to see over the counter and her parents had never paid her a dime. “Sounds fine, thank you.”

  He tapped his pencil on the table. “Now, when are you available to start?”

  She was startled. Was he offering her the job? “When would you need me?”

  “Yesterday. Rocco’s only been gone a week and already I’m drowning in paperwork. I’ve got plenty of other applications, mind you, but the job is yours if you can make a fast decision.”

  She almost didn’t believe what she was hearing. She’d never imagined things would move so quickly. But of course, they would. The factory was running at full throttle. “I…I’ll have to ask my parents’ permission,” she blurted, suddenly feeling childish and embarrassed.

  He put her file on top of a stack of others, offering a strained smile. “Your cousin’s a fine lad. Out of respect for him, I can give you until Monday morning. But you’ll have to let me know then or I’ll move on. The war won’t wait, Miss Marino.”