“Really?” Mary couldn’t hide her surprise. She didn’t want to say, And he’s still alive? “What do you mean by border guard?”
“The Immigration Service ran this camp during the war, so the guards were technically border guards. As I say, Mr. Milton was a mechanic, but he might know the answer to your question. Let’s go find him.”
“Not often we find someone so interested in the camp as you,” Mr. Milton said, smiling shakily as they stood together in the gift shop. His eyelids were hooded, and his jowls soft with perhaps eighty years of smiles. He was tall and lanky in baggy pants and a red flannel shirt that smelled pleasantly of cherry pipe tobacco, and Mary liked his manner immediately. Truth to tell, she was partial to older people. They knew everything.
“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Mary said. His hand felt cool and papery in hers, but his calloused grip was still strong, and she fought the feeling that she was shaking hands with history. “I’m just doing some research on an Italian internee who was from Philadelphia. There were a few internees from Philly, and the man’s name was Amadeo Brandolini. Does that sound familiar?”
“No, no. Wait, hold on.” Mr. Milton paused, putting a clubby index finger to dry lips. He shook his head after a minute, and Mary respected him for double-checking. “No, it doesn’t ring a bell. I knew some of the internees, but not many. I kept the Jeeps running and the officers’ cars, that was my job. But the internees I met, they were a nice group of fellas. Played the music, in the little orchestra, the ones from the ship.”
The cruise ships. One was Il Conte Biancamano, Mary knew from her reading.
“Got bocce going and soccer, in the field out back. Sang operas, put on shows. They were lively.”
Mary had seen the photos at the exhibit and in books. The internment camp had sounded like summer camp at times, at least for the Italians. Except for Amadeo, especially after he’d learned Theresa had died. “This internee, Amadeo Brandolini, he committed suicide.”
“Suicide!” Mr. Milton startled, then nodded. “I do recall that now. Not him, but I do recall that. A suicide. That was big news here.”
“I would think so.”
“Yes, and my memory is very good.” Mr. Milton nodded, with a faint hint of pride. “There was only the one suicide here. Everybody knew about it. One of the internees, an Eye-talian, he did himself in.”
“What did you know about it? About him? I’d like to see his grave, if I could. I’m guessing he’d be in a Catholic cemetery but for the fact he committed suicide.”
“No, let me think. This isn’t my bailiwick, either. I think the internees who died here are buried at the city cemetery in Missoula.”
No.
Mary blinked. Who said that? “Excuse me? Did you say the city cemetery?”
“Yes.”
Then who said no? She must have. “There must be a Catholic cemetery in Missoula.”
“There is,” Mr. Milton answered. “Out on Turner Road. I guess that’s a possibility, too.” He paused. “You know, I remember, about that suicide. How he killed himself, and where. It was big news. Big news.”
“What happened?”
“I’ll show you, if you like.”
“Show me?”
“I’ll take you there.”
Mary felt her heart begin to pound. “When can you go?”
“Anytime. That’s the pleasure of being retired, dear.”
“How does right now sound?”
Mr. Milton grinned.
Fifteen
Mary found an empty space in the congested parking lot and got out of the rented Toyota, looking around in disappointment. They were only a ten-minute drive up Reserve Street from the camp, but the Sapphires and Bitterroots had been replaced by the Staples and the McDonald’s. Cars and trucks drove back and forth, and shoppers laden with plastic bags tugged daisy chains of children to minivans. Mary couldn’t see the connection between this bustling strip mall and Amadeo’s suicide.
“This is the place,” Mr. Milton said, emerging from the car. At that moment, a stiff breeze whipped across the lot, ruffling his sparse gray hair. He stood up, leaning against the hood on his side. “My, windy today, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Mary said, only because he actually seemed to be waiting for her agreement.
“This is the old Mullan Road. It was built by Captain John Mullan in 1859, 1860. Went all the way from Fort Benton to Walla Walla. This land here, all around us, used to be sugar beet fields.” Mr. Milton gestured with a sweeping hand, his shirtsleeves flapping like plaid sails. “Sugar beets as far as the eye could see, and then some.”
“This used to be all beet fields?” Mary looked around, skeptical. Businesses anchored all four corners of the busy intersection of Mullan and Route 93; a Conoco gas station, a SuperWalMart, another strip mall, and a liquor store. On the horizon stood a gray-and-red Costco. “How far? Far as the Costco?”
“Farther. Sugar beet fields for twenty miles, all the way to Frenchtown.”
“I’ve seen the pictures, but it’s so different now.”
“Do you have an imagination?”
“Yes.”
“Use it.”
Ouch. Mary screened out the stores and the traffic, and finally could imagine the scene the way it had been. Acres upon acres of flat crops, row after row of leafy, dark greens. Amadeo had walked here. He dug beets from this ground, and it didn’t matter that it had been paved over. It became real to Mary then. “So this is where they worked, in the beet fields?”
“Yeah. The war left the sugar companies short-handed, so they used Eye-talians from the camp.” Mr. Milton squinted against the brightness, but he didn’t flip down the green shades over his bifocals. “They worked in the sugar beet fields and in the town. In the forests, too, cutting down trees. They liked the work. The Japanese, they had a tougher time of it. Lots of folks didn’t like when they went to work in town. You couldn’t blame us, really. It was a crazy time.”
“Sure.” Mary didn’t judge. “People get nuts in wartime. They get scared. That’s only human.”
“That’s right.” Mr. Milton looked over the car at her and smiled gently. “Not many people understand that.”
“Hey, it’s only with beets I’m a rookie.”
Mr. Milton snapped his clubby fingers. “See that? How you’re always makin’ jokes? That’s ’cause you’re Eye-talian. That’s how they all were, the Eye-talians. That’s why everybody loved ’em. Loads of fun.”
Stereotypes can be good for something. “So this was a beet field. Tell me -”
“You keep sayin’ beet field. It’s a sugar beet field.”
“I stand corrected.” Mary was flunking Montana. “Sugar beet.”
“Ever seen a sugar beet?”
“Not unless it takes the C bus.”
Mr. Milton smiled, and they became friends again. “It looks like a big fat carrot, only white.”
“Does it taste good?”
“You can’t eat sugar beets, city girl.”
“Why not? I eat beets. They come in cans, from Harvard. They’re geniuses. Genius beets.”
Mr. Milton didn’t smile. “Now you’re just bein’ silly. Sugar beets make sugar. They plant ’em in early spring and harvest in September through October, depending on frost and freeze.”
“How do they make sugar?” Mary asked, actually starting to care.
“They slice ’em, extract ’em, put ’em in a diffuser to get the juice out. Press ’em and you’re good to go.”
“They grind it fine enough to make sugar?”