by Janet Beard
“Be sure to keep writing to Ma,” Jon ended his letter, and Sam felt mildly resentful. He knew he should write his mother more often, but didn’t like to have his little brother telling him so. He also knew that Jon, in the midst of fighting a war no less, likely wrote her more than he did, and that made him feel guilty.
We should have stayed in Berlin. When he thought of his mother, those were the words that echoed through Sam’s head. He had heard them hundreds of times throughout his childhood, mumbled under her breath, spat accusingly at his father, or recited in commiseration with his grandmother. When his sister came down with polio, when his father lost his job, when it rained and she was caught without an umbrella, his mother always returned to the refrain: We should have stayed in Berlin.
When he was in a good mood, Sam’s father would roll his eyes. When he was in a bad mood, he would shake his head. “What good would have come to us in Germany? I’d have been killed, no doubt, on the Western Front, and you and the children would have starved along with my sisters back in the city.”
And in fact Sam’s mother had spent only a few short months of her life in the city that now loomed so large in her memory. But it was the first city she’d ever seen, and it had gripped her imagination. She was only a teenager, a Polish peasant en route to America with her parents and siblings. They stopped in transit in the German capital, like thousands of Jewish immigrants before and after them. The difference for Dworja was that she fell in love not only with the city but also with Sam’s father, Solomon, a Berlin native and university student who must have seemed impossibly sophisticated to her. He showed her the city, confidently speaking German, telling her of his plans to become a chemist.
Sam had often wondered how his uneducated, always worried, always nagging mother had ever been desirable enough to lure his father away from his studies to New York. At first both Dworja and Solomon were lost in New York, struggling with English and the foreign customs. But unlike his wife, Solomon became convinced of the promise of America, even if the only work he could find was in a bakery. Study, study, study, he told Sam, as often as Dworja mourned for the life that could have been in Germany.
Of course, 1933 was enough to overcome even Dworja’s ardent nostalgia. Some small part of Solomon must have wanted to thank Hitler for finally shutting her up about Berlin. But most of him was consumed with worry for his family, particularly his beloved little sister Rachel. She had written to them every week for Sam’s entire life. During the thirties, her letters became increasingly disturbing. When Solomon died unexpectedly from a heart attack in 1936, Dworja tried to convince Rachel to come to New York. But it was too late for her to get out. And soon her letters could no longer get out, either. It had been almost six years since they’d heard anything from the family in Germany.
Sam shoved Jon’s letter back in his pocket and glanced at his watch. The man was late—what had he gotten himself into? This fellow could easily be a spy. Supposedly one in every four people here worked as an informant. That was how the Army kept folks in line—you really didn’t know who you could trust. Mention you have liquor to sell while waiting in line for cigarettes, and the next thing you know it winds up in a report. Anyone might inform on you. Then there were professionals, of course, whose sole job was to watch for breaches in security. Sam thought he’d spotted one at Y-12. He’d seen him around for the last week, wearing a maintenance uniform, but he was never actually doing any work.
Sam heard a whistle and swung around. The man was standing in front of him, holding a suitcase. “I done brought plenty to keep you warm and happy tonight.”
“How much is it?”
“Four dollars a bottle.”
It seemed excessive, but Sam felt pretty desperate. Still, he figured he ought to negotiate. “What is it exactly?”
“Splo.”
“What?”
“Hooch, corn liquor, whatever you want to call it.” Sam squinted at him in the darkness. The man sighed and said in a loud whisper, “Moonshine whiskey. Homemade.”
“Well, I’m not paying four dollars for a bottle of anything I haven’t tasted.”
“It’s too risky to get it out here. You got a place nearby we could have a drink?”
Sam considered. The house wasn’t far from here, and Ann and Charlie would already be at the rec center. “We can go to my room, if you want.”
“Fine by me.”
Sam led him toward the house. What would Ann think if she knew he’d just invited a bootlegger into her home?
“Shouldn’t I know your name before I see your house?” asked the man.
“Sam Cantor.” He didn’t bother shaking hands, as he was now leading the man along the boardwalk.
“Pleased to meet you, Sam. I’m Homer Clabough.”
Sam walked quickly for a number of reasons. It was cold, he hoped to avoid conversation with Homer, and he wanted their entire interaction to be over as quickly as possible.
“You ain’t from around here, huh?” questioned Homer.
“I grew up in New York.”
“New York! Imagine that! What you think of Tennessee?”
Sam struggled to think of something inoffensive to say. “Your biscuits are delicious.”
“You ain’t got biscuits in New York?”
“No, sir.”
“Great day!” Homer spoke with a level of innocence surprising in a bootlegger.
Sam led him into the house and instructed him to wipe his boots. He turned on the light and motioned for Homer to take a seat on the couch. “I’ll get some glasses.”
“This is a right pretty place! Look, a record player! Did you bring it all the way from New York?”
“It’s not mine.” Sam set two glasses on the coffee table. “I’m just a boarder here.”
Homer opened his suitcase and took out a gallon-sized glass bottle. He poured the clear liquid into the two glasses. “Here you go! Authentic splo.”
It smelled like fire. Sam sipped. It tasted like fire, too. But it was drinkable, and it would certainly get the job done. “Three dollars.”
Homer shook his head. “I’m sorry, Sam. I can’t lower the price, even though I like you. You see, it ain’t just me running this operation. I got one man on the outside brewing it, and another who gets it inside for me. It ain’t no small thing getting past Army security.”
Two more sips made Sam’s head feel light. He was warming to Homer. “How do you do it?”
Homer shrugged. “Different ways. You sure you ain’t a spy?”
“Cross my heart.”
“We got a car with a special hidden compartment under the seats. Security ain’t found it yet!” Homer took a swig and shook his head fiercely. “Shoo dawg!”
“So what’s your job here?”
“I do construction. Union Carbide pays good, but tell you what, the real bread and butter’s this here shine. I tried to join the Army and all, but I’m blind in one eye. I always done got by fine, but they didn’t want me.”
“You’re better off here.”
Homer shrugged. “Wanted to do my part, is all.”
“Have you always lived around here?”
Homer nodded. “Grew up about ten miles down the road, when there weren’t nothing here but some farms. Never could’ve imagined this. You hear tell of John Hendrix?”
Sam shook his head.
“He were a prophet lived right here back in 1915. Folks in these parts all knew about him and thought he was crazy. He would go off into the woods for days, not eating or sleeping, just praying and getting these visions. One time he went into the woods for forty days, and when he come out, he told everyone around about his vision of the future. He said that Bear Creek Valley would be filled with factories and that they would help win the greatest war that would ever be.”
Sam knew he must be getting drunk, because he was enjoying Homer’s story. “Is that true?”
“That’s not all. He said there’d be a big city on Black Oak Ridge and named the
exact spot where headquarters is located. He knew there’d be a railroad spur off the main L&N line. He said big engines would dig big ditches, and thousands of people would be running around, and there’d be lots of noise and the earth would shake.”
“Wow.”
“You can ask anyone from around here. They all know the story. My pappy’s friends with John Hendrix’s son.”
“Well, that’s good news, then.”
“What is?”
“He said we’d win the war, right?”
“Oh, yeah! He did!”
Sam took out his wallet and handed Homer four dollars.
Sam regularly purchased moonshine from Homer Clabough now, once every two weeks, and he carried his flask with him to the canteen to help the near beer go down. He surreptitiously took a sip and offered it to Max.
“No thank you, I’m not quite that desperate yet.” Max wordlessly offered Sam a cigarette from his pack, and for a moment they smoked and drank in silence. They’d developed the sort of friendship and routine that didn’t require constant conversation.
A large, loud group of soldiers and girls came in. They were laughing and shouting, full of energy and abandon. The girls were wearing colorful dresses, red, green, and blue, which looked all the more brilliant next to the drab beige of the men’s uniforms. One soldier went to the bar and whistled to get beers from the waitress. Another two took over a table and began pulling out chairs for the ladies, which they presented to them with a flourish. “Ah, to be young and stationed in a noncombat zone,” said Max.
“We’re no better. What’s our excuse for not fighting?”
“Our brilliant minds. With any luck, we can kill far more people by thinking over here than by fighting over there.”
The soldiers began bringing drinks over, beer for themselves, Cokes for the girls. Sam recognized a couple of them from Y-12. One was hard to forget: a real looker with dark hair, a perfect face, and an excellent figure, which she knew just how to carry. The soldiers had obviously noticed this as well; they all seemed to lean in toward her, desperate to get as close as possible. Sam recognized the girl beside her, too. She was the one from the Greeleys’, and he’d often seen her in her cubicle at work. She was plain compared to her friend; her dress looked homemade. He was surprised to see her with the other girl. She hadn’t struck him as the type to hang out with such a ridiculous flirt. Her big gray eyes watched the others around the table, yet she seemed to be not quite one of the group. She looked distant, thoughtful, not frivolous like her friends.
“We don’t have enough fun, Sam. Look at these young people, having the time of their lives! That could be us.”
“What do they have to be so happy about?”
“Well, as aforementioned, they aren’t going to be slaughtered anytime soon in battle. The hundreds of young girls in town seem to amuse them as well.”
“But living in this miserable place!”
“Give it time and it all becomes more bearable.”
“I’ve been here a year.”
“Well, I’ve been here a year and a half and have become resigned to it. After a while, Tennessee becomes inevitable. One stops fighting it, so to speak.”
Sam knew he would never become resigned to life here. He had always been resistant to reconsidering negative opinions, once such opinions had been formed. He took a slug of whiskey. Max considered his friend. “You really are in a foul mood this evening, aren’t you?”
“Like I said, I’ve been here a year.”
“There are worse places to be. Battlefields, for instance.”
“At least I’d be doing my duty.”
Max gave him a quizzical look. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Sam didn’t know if he was serious or not. He drank the beer. “It’s just I get these letters from my brother. He doesn’t say much about what he’s seen—he can’t, of course—but you sort of read between the lines. . . . He’s my kid brother, for God’s sake. I feel like a coward compared to him.”
“Here’s to cowardice.” Max raised his glass.
But Sam wasn’t done. “He was supposed to be the screw-up. I was the smart one who aced every class in school; Jon was always getting in scrapes. A sweet, funny kid who could never stay focused or do anything right. It just doesn’t make any sense.”
“Of course, I understand.” Max’s voice had a rare ring of sincerity. “I don’t have a brother, but I do have a sister whose flat was destroyed. She’d just left London the day before, thank God. But I felt it then more than at any other time, I suppose. Your family is attacked, and you are supposed to go off and fight for king and country.”
They drank in silence. Finally Max spoke again. “We are fighting in our way, you know.”
Sam nodded. “Yeah, I know.”
The soldiers’ group was breaking into spontaneous dance. They all got up and began swaying and twirling to the swing music playing on the radio, except for the quiet girl, who stayed seated. She didn’t seem to mind being left behind and sat up straight in her chair, taking occasional sips from her almost-empty Coke bottle. A wild notion occurred to Sam to offer to buy her another. Idly, he wondered what she would look like with her sweater off, then immediately dismissed the thought, embarrassed at himself. Why was he lusting after this plain country girl? He gulped down his beer. “Another?” he asked, already getting up to buy a third round.
“Isn’t it my turn?”
“I’m sure I owe you.” He walked toward the bar, past the girl’s table. As he went by, he couldn’t help but look down at her. Her big eyes met his, and she smiled. He suddenly felt as awkward as if he were a teenager, and he walked as quickly as he could to the counter. What had he been thinking? She was practically a child. “Two beers,” he ordered, determined to not look back.
(Courtesy of the Department of Energy)
(Courtesy of the Department of Energy)
Chapter 9
CICI INSISTED ON DOING JUNE’S MAKEUP FOR THE NEW YEAR’S dance. June perched on the side of her bed as Cici carefully selected lipstick and eye shadows, holding the different shades up to June’s face to choose the most flattering. Cici had been in a good mood all week, since she’d met some new soldier on Christmas and Lizbeth had abruptly announced she was moving into a shared house the next day. “I know you don’t believe me,” Cici said as she attacked June’s face with a brush, “but I really feel like Tom is special. I think he may be the one.”
June didn’t believe her but couldn’t reply, as she was under instructions to hold her face still so Cici could apply rouge to her cheeks. “He went to Yale—did I tell you that already?” Cici continued.
“Mmm.” June tried to grunt in an affirmative way.
“His father’s a banker and sounds very respectable. And Tom is so smart. You have to be to get placed in the Special Engineer Detachment, you know.”
June knew because Cici had mentioned it a half-dozen times already. Most of the soldiers in Oak Ridge were in the SED. As best as June could tell, they were lucky above all else to be stationed over here instead of over there.
“Close your eyes,” said Cici, and June did as she was told. She felt something smooth and cool being rubbed against her eyelids. It tickled.
“All right, look at me.” June obeyed, and Cici stared at her eyes intently. “Close again. You know I’ve been thinking, June. Now, don’t be angry at me for saying this, but I think it’s time for you to start looking for a man.”
June’s eyes flipped open. “I’m not ready!”
“I know you feel that way now, but someday, God willing, this war will be over, and what are you going to do then? You can’t be a factory girl forever. We all need to find husbands.”
It seemed like enough managing to get through her time here in Oak Ridge without worrying about the future. But June knew Cici was right; her family would expect her to get married someday. “I guess I could keep my eyes open.”
“Exactly! Tom has lots of friends who’ll be a
t the party tonight. You will dance with them, won’t you?”
“Sure.”
“Good!” Cici gave June’s shoulders a little squeeze and turned her around to face the mirror. “You won’t have any problem getting them to ask you!”
June’s gray eyes were framed with brown liner and accentuated with blue eye shadow. The rouge brought out her cheekbones and her round lips were painted a deep mauve. She stared at herself, surprised by what a difference Cici’s cosmetics had made. She was almost certain that she was pretty.
***
MAX AND SAM spent New Year’s Eve as they spent most evenings—slumped in the corner at the canteen. In deference to the holiday, they had started drinking earlier than usual, so that by ten o’clock, even Max had gotten tight drinking the weak Oak Ridge beer. The canteen was crowded with young people, most stopping by on their way to one of the big parties around town. They were all loud and happy, full of songs and jokes and that general sense of optimism that Sam found so baffling. As a particularly fetching group of girls walked by their table, Max suggested, presumably in jest, that maybe they ought to get girlfriends. He, in fact, had had a series of girlfriends since Sam had known him, though most of the relationships lasted no longer than a week or two. He was good-looking enough, moderately charming, and could easily wow a country girl with his accent.
“What girls are going to be interested in a couple of drunk physicists?”
“I’m serious. Most people do this. They find someone they like, get married, produce children. It makes them happy.”
“There are plenty of miserable families out there.”
“True, I suppose. But it might be worth a shot. Perhaps it would make us . . . care less about the world.”
“Shouldn’t having children make you care more?”
“Okay, it could make us more hopeful.”
“It’s a rotten world to bring a child into.”
Max gave his friend a look. Sam could never quite tell what Max’s stares meant—he seemed to have the same blank expression for rage, happiness, annoyance, or jest. “I see you are not to be convinced on this point. Fair enough.”
