by Janet Beard
Joe had never heard a woman talk like Shirley. No wonder Ralph was still nervous around her. Joe himself was nervous around her.
After breakfast, Joe decided to go for a walk, to get as far away from the buildings and construction as possible. The days were getting warmer, and though he kept his hands thrust into his coat pockets for warmth, the sun felt good on his back. He followed the patchworks of trees. Whenever he came to a crossroad, he turned away from whichever buildings were larger. Eventually he found an undisturbed meadow full of grass, chickweed, and henbit. No roads, no buildings, no ditches. If he stood just so, all he could see was meadow and trees, as though Oak Ridge didn’t even exist. He sat on the roots of a poplar and looked up at the blue sky. Wispy white clouds swirled up above him. He could look at that sky and imagine he was home.
He met Ralph back outside the cafeteria when the boy was done with his shift. Ralph looked surprised to see him. “I ain’t sure you coming.”
“Got nothing better to do. Besides, your Shirley’s mighty persuasive.”
They walked toward the rec center. Ralph looked thoughtful. “Shirley does say whatever’s on her mind.”
Joe tried not to smile too broadly. “She sure does.”
“I don’t know what to make of it half the time.”
“Girls grow up different in Atlanta, I reckon.”
“Yeah. I don’t know. I think it might just be Shirley.”
“Be careful.”
“You’re always telling me to be careful. Shirley ain’t dangerous!”
“All women are dangerous.”
The meeting was in a small room around the back of the building, away from the noise and gambling. Shirley was already there, along with a group of something like twelve men, sitting in a circle of chairs. Joe didn’t look out of place—most of them were also construction workers in work clothes and muddy boots. But he felt out of his element. The others all knew each other. Ralph was welcomed heartily as he introduced Joe around. Joe hoped that no one asked him any questions, and he could just sit back and be ignored.
When everyone had quieted down and found a seat, a man began to speak. Joe remembered Robert Wales from the last meeting Ralph had dragged him to. He was a small man, yet he carried himself in a way that gave the impression of strength—back straight, head held high, and a deep, resonant voice that commanded other men to listen. “Thank y’all for coming tonight. And thank you to those of you who accompanied me to the meeting with Roane-Anderson last week. I wish I had better news to report back. But as those of you who were there know, it was unproductive.”
Ralph spoke up: “Mr. Newman denied all our requests.”
There were groans and exclamations. Shirley shook her head in disgust.
Wales put his hand up to ask for silence. “His exact words were that he would review our requests.”
Another man chimed in, “He said we could expect an answer in four to five months.”
More groans. “Unless anyone objects,” said Wales, “I think we should forget about Roane-Anderson for the time being and go straight to the Army.”
“Yes, sir!” said the man beside Joe.
“I’ve drafted a letter to send to Colonel Hodgson.” He took a letter out of his shirt pocket and unfolded it to read. “‘We are sure that you, as a distinguished representative of the American Army, appreciate the great number of Negro youth fighting and giving their lives for democracy and the American way of life, as well as the Negroes here on the home front laboring to make the war effort possible. We simply request twenty-five or thirty homes to accommodate the Negro workers with families currently unable to live near the work site, constructed to the same standards as those built for white families.’”
People called out affirmations. Shirley spoke in a commanding voice, “I think you need to soften it.”
Wales nodded. “You may be right.”
Shirley continued, “Add something like ‘we’d be grateful.’ White folks like it when we beg.”
“When we gonna do something about our wages?” asked the man beside Joe.
Wales looked the man in the eye. “Our wages are good, Leroy.”
“Not as good as white men’s wages.”
“Be that as it may, our first priority has to be housing. The situation at the moment is untenable for Negro families.”
Joe didn’t know what that meant but could guess. There were more murmurs of agreement. Leroy crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.
“What about the buses?” another man asked. “Half the time, they don’t stop for colored men.”
“That’s true,” said Ralph. “Maybe we should mention the buses in the letter to the colonel.”
Wales shook his head. “I know the buses are a problem. But I truly believe our best strategy is to focus on one issue at a time.”
Some men nodded; others grumbled in disagreement. The discussion went on like this for some time. Men brought up all the various difficulties with Negro life in Oak Ridge, and Wales tried to convince them to wait to try and solve them until the housing had been improved. Joe was impressed with his consistency. The very fact that Wales never faltered began to persuade Joe that he must know what he was doing. Finally he seemed to wear them all down. It was resolved that Wales would send his letter with Shirley’s revisions to Colonel Hodgson on behalf of the council.
Joe and Ralph walked Shirley back to the women’s quarters. “What’d you think, Joe?” Shirley asked.
“Mr. Wales seems like a real smart man.”
“He is. We’re lucky to have him.”
They had to walk through the men’s hutment area to get to the women’s side. Ralph held Shirley’s hand as they walked, and Joe tried to hang back to give them privacy. It had turned cold when the sun went down, and the streets were quiet. But as they reached the far side of the hutments, Joe could hear men shouting. Ralph put his arm around Shirley, protective. They slowed their walk as the sounds grew closer. Two men stumbled out into the street from behind a hut, in a struggle. The larger man threw a punch and knocked the smaller one back. Joe then saw that the smaller man was Otis.
Ralph let go of Shirley and ran in between the men. “Back away!” he shouted to the large man.
Joe followed. The last thing he wanted was to get in a fight on behalf of Otis, but he couldn’t leave Ralph out there by himself.
“Get on out of here!” Ralph yelled to the man.
The big man considered Joe and Ralph. Otis shook himself off and walked back to join them. Otis gave his opponent his crooked smile. “You want to take another shot? Not so brave now, is you?”
“Otis!” shouted Ralph in annoyance. He turned back to the man. “I said get on out!”
“Tell your friend he best not cheat at dice no more,” said the man.
“I didn’t cheat!” said Otis.
“Otis, shut up!” said Ralph.
The man spat on the ground and turned to walk away. When he was a safe distance back, Ralph went over to Shirley. “You all right?”
She nodded. Joe turned to Otis. “You need to watch yourself.”
“I didn’t cheat!” repeated Otis. “He just don’t want to pay what he owe me.”
“Gambling ain’t nothing but trouble, Otis,” said Ralph.
Otis rolled his eyes and turned into the night. “Thanks for your help!” he shouted over his shoulder.
“Come on,” said Ralph. “Let’s go.”
When they came to the gate to the women’s area, Joe stayed back to let the young people have a moment to themselves. He was anxious to get on home and get to bed. It’d be up again at five thirty tomorrow for the morning shift. He looked over to see if Ralph was done. He and Shirley were wrapped in an embrace, mouth to mouth, arms around each other. Joe looked away quickly. A moment later, Ralph was by his side. “Ready to go on home?” Joe asked. Ralph nodded, and they walked in silence back to the hutment.
(Courtesy of the Department of Energy)
Chapter 12
THE CITY LOOKED DIFFERENT TO JUNE THE MORNING AFTER HER first date with Sam. Everything had a purpose she now understood. She saw the maintenance men and factory workers on the bus and thought, You are all here to build a bomb. The sprawling facilities at Y-12 made sense; her job wasn’t a mindless turning of meters, but rather an effort toward a specific outcome: building the most destructive weapon in history.
It was one of those January mornings when the sun makes up for its abbreviated time in the sky by shining with exaggerated brilliance. Buildings gleamed in the brightness, people seemed encouraged by the light, and the whole scene added to June’s sense of renewal. She had a strong, slightly ridiculous sense that she was changed and nothing would ever be quite the same. It wasn’t just being in love, though she was hopelessly, madly, desperately in love. She also had a profound sense of hope and possibility. Sam was completely unexpected, and meeting him, loving him, was extraordinary. June had never really expected anything extraordinary to happen to her. Some children imagine growing up to be movie stars, baseball players, the president, but not June. Until today it had not occurred to her that life could hold surprises on this scale. That she could be having an affair with an important scientist—a Jew from New York—was incredible! That she could be building a bomb that would change the course of world events. That she could be in on the secret that none of these other girls turning knobs and dials had an inkling of. That someone like Sam might exist, that she could meet him, that he could want her—it was all too wonderful to believe. She wasn’t naive enough to think that because he’d slept with her he loved her, and she knew men were perfectly capable of abandoning girls in these situations. But she didn’t regret it. She wanted to be with him again, and as soon as possible.
She was reacting slowly at work, hardly able to concentrate, fingers fumbling, taking twice as long as usual to correct the position of the dials. She hadn’t really slept. After she had dozed for maybe an hour at Sam’s, he had walked her back to the dormitory, and she sneaked in as quietly as possible. Cici was asleep but must have noticed how late June was getting home. She’d already worked out her story—that she’d been with Sally in her room and fallen asleep. It was feeble, but the best she could do.
Sam was waiting for her at lunch. She was ravenous, despite her exhaustion, or perhaps because of it, and he laughed, watching her devour her macaroni and cheese. He seemed happier than normal, definitely happy to see her, and if he had any plans of abandoning her, it didn’t seem like it. By now all the girls she worked with must have known something was going on between them. When lunch was over, he asked if she’d like to go to the movies with him that night. She could swear she felt her heart swelling—it was a silly notion, but she could feel it in her chest.
They began spending their evenings together regularly; usually every other night or so, they went to the movies or the canteen together. No announcement was ever made, but June soon realized they were going steady. They met for lunch in the cafeteria when she was on the day shift and ate supper together most evenings. She let him keep drinking, of course, too flushed with love to want to pick a fight. But he hardly drank much with her anyway, and she never had more than a single beer after that first night.
It sometimes amazed her how much they had to say to each other. She found herself telling him the craziest thoughts in her head, things she never thought she could share with anyone. Her wondering about Ronnie in heaven, her thoughts about the other girls at Y-12 flirting in the cafeteria, even the Hollywood romances she made up to keep herself entertained at work. He didn’t seem to think she was crazy. He laughed at her in a good-natured way or listened seriously, asking her questions, surprising her with his genuine interest in her thoughts.
He talked, too. He told her stories about his family, about growing up in the city. He told her about his father, who had studied science in Germany, but when he came to New York could only find work in a bakery. Sam had just gotten his doctorate when his father died, and he was so proud that his son would become the scientist he’d never had a chance to be. His mother was still living in Brooklyn and wrote him letters in Yiddish once a week. June thought the strange script was beautiful, but Sam rolled his eyes at the letters as he translated them for her. They were mostly full of complaints—about her health, the neighbors, his brother-in-law, rationing, the heating in her apartment building. June suspected Sam exaggerated some in his translations, but she helped him come up with kind, caring replies in any case. He wrote back in English, which he said his mother should be able to read and even write, if only she would set her mind to it.
Sam also talked to her about the bomb they were making. This was only when they were alone and could be sure no one could hear them, usually in the evening in his room. She had so many questions to ask. What was she doing at her job, what were the dials measuring, what was happening at Y-12? Slowly he explained it to her, and she became familiar with all sorts of words—uranium, enrichment, cyclotron, fission, sustained reaction, and finally the name of the very machine she was working on, the calutron. So she came to learn that there were indeed giant magnets in the calutron, and that they were separating uranium isotopes for a bomb that was being designed somewhere in New Mexico by many of the world’s greatest physicists. It didn’t make the job any less boring, but it felt satisfying to know the truth. Sam explained to her that they were working on a radical new way of producing energy. A bomb was just one awful way of using energy; one day atomic energy might be used to create electricity. But in the meantime, it would be used to kill. Since she was helping build it, did that make her responsible for the lives it might take? Was she like Ronnie now, something of a soldier, at least in the respect that she was helping to kill the enemy? Men and women all across the country worked in factories building guns and planes and all other instruments of war. The planes and guns would kill people as surely as a bomb. They were all part of the war effort. Yet now that she knew the truth, her part seemed bigger than that of any riveter or welder.
This was completely different from going for evening walks with Ronnie; these were real conversations with a real boyfriend, and she felt for Sam the way she knew she was supposed to. They kissed whenever they got the chance and held hands at the movies; he even carried her over one of the giant mud puddles in front of the canteen one night. She laughed and felt foolish and was spectacularly happy.
One evening she met him at the cafeteria as he was getting off work. She was on the night shift that week and had spent the afternoon trying to get some sleep, her mind working against her as she tossed and turned, never able to get used to this schedule. The idea was that she could eat “breakfast” while he had supper, but she was light-headed from exhaustion and didn’t feel hungry. “Could we just go for a walk?” she asked.
They strolled along the boardwalk. The sun was dipping toward the horizon, the air growing colder by the minute, but she didn’t mind with her arm locked around his, the warmth from his body meeting her own.
“I feel lucky I don’t have to work the night shift,” he said.
“You are lucky. I feel like death warmed over.”
“You certainly don’t look it.” He ground to a halt and encircled her with his arms. She tipped her head up to his, and they kissed for a long time. She no longer felt cold at all; she felt nothing but the heat of his mouth on hers.
They could hear a group of girls approaching and slowly pulled away from each other. He looked her in the eye, in a way that made her feel as though no one had ever really seen her before, as though he knew her better than she knew herself. What did he see when he looked at her that way? Surely it wasn’t the country girl who had taken the bus to Oak Ridge three months ago. She wanted to be the girl he saw, and the thought that she was thrilled her.
“You better eat something before your shift starts,” he whispered.
She nodded, and they turned back to the cafeteria, hand in hand. They passed the laughing group of girls, who watched June, wond
ering, she knew, how a girl like her had attracted a man like that. They don’t know, she thought, they can’t see the June that Sam sees. It was growing dark now, the electric lights of the town twinkling before them. She wondered what he was thinking but didn’t ask. He could have his own thoughts, and she could have hers; what mattered was that they were together. It was in these quiet moments that she felt herself overwhelmed with a feeling she had never known before that she could identify only as love. It was a simultaneous sense of contentment and aching for something more, joy heightened almost to sadness as she watched him, wanting him, loving him, desperate for him, praying he felt the same way.
Because she had begun spending so many evenings with Sam, she found it impossible to hide their relationship from Cici. On about their fourth date, she mentioned it casually when her roommate asked where she was headed. June was on her way out the door, all made up, and Cici was just coming home after the evening shift. There was an edge of hurt to her voice, and June realized that she was behaving strangely. They used to spend almost every night together, after all.
“I have a date,” she said, watching for Cici’s look of amazement. “With Sam Cantor.”
“Oh.” Cici didn’t try to hide her disapproval. “Well, I hope he doesn’t drink tonight like he did on New Year’s.”
“We’re just going to the movies.”
“Have fun.” Cici didn’t sound as though she thought they would.
June waved and dashed out the door. They never really talked about it again after that. Cici avoided asking June what she was up to when she went out. She was out most nights with Tom, anyway, so it didn’t much matter. June would have liked to have a friend to talk to about Sam; she longed to moon over him the same way Cici did over Tom, but she could tell her friend would not be receptive.
So it remained her special, secret life. She was overflowing with secrets these days—her secret love affair, secret feelings, secret hopes. And of course the secret that could get her and Sam thrown out of Oak Ridge altogether: the secret of the atomic bomb.
