by Janet Beard
The smell of cooking meat wafted from the kitchen. Ann was sitting on the living room sofa reading Time. “Hello, June. How are you?”
“I’m good, thanks. And you?”
“Fine.”
Sam ignored her as per usual these days and continued toward the door. “I’m sure we can find someone to teach you,” he continued.
“Do you know anyone with a typewriter?”
“I have a portable typewriter,” Ann interposed.
Sam stopped in front of the door. She was beaming at them from the sofa, the magazine laid across her lap.
“Really?” asked June. “Can you type?”
“Oh, yes. I typed all of Charlie’s papers at Princeton. Do you need lessons?”
“Desperately! Could you teach me? We’d be so grateful.” Sam’s head was pounding now, and he wished June would stop squealing.
“I’d be delighted to help.” Ann was smiling broadly and gave Sam a look that he couldn’t interpret. Was she gloating? Proud to be able to help a simple girl like June? “When do you need to learn by?” she asked.
“Next week.”
“Then we should start immediately.”
“I could come back after dinner.”
“Nonsense! Stay here for dinner. There’s plenty for both of you.” Sam felt trapped; there was no way out of this. He took off his hat and hung it by the door.
“Thanks, Ann,” he said. “It’s really swell of you to help out.”
It wasn’t long before Charlie was home, and Ann served them beef hash and potatoes. She was so kind and pleasant throughout the meal that Sam found it hard to maintain his anger, though he wanted to. She seemed to take a special interest in June, and they chatted and laughed about feminine matters, like lipsticks and skirt length. Charlie grinned at Sam, rolling his eyes at the women in his good-natured way. After dinner, Ann got out the typewriter and began teaching June how to use it at the dining room table. Charlie and Sam went to the living room for a game of chess. The sound of female voices combined with the typewriter’s rat-a-tat-tat made Sam feel like he was in a secretarial school.
The next day he came home to find June already there, practicing as Ann knitted beside her. And so it went the whole week; June and he shared dinner with Charlie and Ann, and June spent every free moment pounding on the typewriter. By the weekend, he was carrying on conversations with Ann again and realized that without either one of them saying anything, they had made up. June was gaining confidence with her typing, and Ann said she was getting the hang of it. Sam had found out as much as he could from Dr. Armstrong’s secretary about what June could expect at her interview on Monday. One thing he hadn’t counted on was a lie detector test. It struck him as ridiculous for a secretary, especially since the machines were notoriously unreliable. But June panicked again when he told her about it.
“But I’ll have to lie when they ask me what I know about Y-12!” She was sitting at the typewriter. It was Saturday afternoon, and Charlie and Ann had gone out to the movies, so they had the house to themselves. He’d been hoping to get June into bed, but so far hadn’t managed to pull her away from the typewriter. He saw now that mentioning the lie detector had been a tactical error.
“There’s no need to worry. The machine can’t really tell if you’re lying. It just measures your blood pressure and pulse. If you remain calm when they ask you questions, it should be fine.”
June’s eyes were wide, and Sam was afraid her blood pressure was spiking right now.
“Let’s practice,” he said, dragging his chair beside her. He put his hand gently on the nape of her neck and felt the thumping of her heart.
“Is your name June Walker?”
She giggled. “Yes.”
“How long have you worked at the Clinton Engineer Works?”
“Um . . . five months.”
“Have you ever spoken with anyone about the nature of your work?”
“No.” Her heartbeat seemed steady to him, though it was difficult to tell.
“Have you ever had sexual relations with any of your superiors at the CEW?” Her heart sped up for sure that time.
She looked him in the eye, with a mischievous grin. “No.”
He kissed her and a couple of minutes later managed to get her away from the typewriter after all.
***
JUNE WAS ALLOWED a day off from work for her interview. She woke up before her alarm had a chance to ring and went down to the bathroom to wash and take the curlers out of her hair. She had made sure her best dress, red with white buttons, was clean and pressed and had bought a smart jacket at the department store in town to go with it. Mrs. Ransom’s lecture from her first day at Oak Ridge rang in her ears as she applied eyeliner and a touch of rouge, borrowed from Cici. Look attractive, but not too attractive.
Cici was on the night shift and still in bed. June was glad she didn’t have to talk to her this morning. She’d told her a couple of days before about the interview and could tell Cici didn’t like it. June couldn’t really blame her. It wasn’t fair, and she felt guilty to have this opportunity just because of her man. On the other hand, if anyone should understand, shouldn’t it be Cici? She, who so blatantly hunted for a rich husband and showed off Tom’s presents?
June dropped by the cafeteria for breakfast but ordered only one slice of toast to dull her hunger pains. She knew she should eat something but was afraid anything more would make her ill. Her stomach seemed to have a mind of its own, and she was glad the lie detector couldn’t measure her level of nausea, which would surely give her away. She practiced typing even as she ate, thinking of a word such as toast and moving the correct fingers to pretend-type it in the air. Her fingers moved fast, and she no longer had to think consciously about where the keys were. In fact, she liked typing. It was basically as mindless as the work in her cubicle, but she enjoyed racing with herself to go faster and faster, the satisfaction of the clack, clack, clack, and the finished product of bold black-on-white words.
She reported to the bullpen, where she’d spent her first few days in Oak Ridge. Back in November, this plain rectangular office building had seemed daunting; she’d been so unsure of where to go or what would happen to her. She knew Oak Ridge so well now, it was difficult to imagine ever having been so intimidated by this place. It truly felt like home.
The receptionist gave her a pile of forms to fill out. The woman moved with assurance and spoke with a bright smile. June watched her enviously and hoped that soon she, too, could be an administrator. The working women in the movies she watched at the Ridge Theatre seemed to live glamorous lives. It was usually just a matter of time before their bosses seduced them, but this, of course, wouldn’t be a worry for June because Sam would be her boss. She wanted to smile for visitors, answer phones with a syrupy voice, tell people to wait one moment, and take exquisite messages. Besides, it was a career that could take her beyond Y-12 and the war, which was surely winding to a close.
Yesterday, Hitler had killed himself, and now all anyone was talking about was when the Germans would surrender. The papers were filled with news of triumph—yet there were more horrors still. The Americans and Russians had found vast camps where human beings had been made to live like animals and then were slaughtered like animals as well. The horror of it could hardly be contained in a newsreel. Pictures showed American soldiers giving food to starving men and women who looked more dead than alive, their bones visible through their taut, sickly skin. These images stayed with June. Every time she thought she had a handle on, at least an understanding of, this war, she realized she had no idea. She would never have any idea, really, safe here in Tennessee. In future years, on occasions when she had encounters with veterans and a handful of Europe’s displaced persons, she would always know that they had seen sights she would never be able to imagine and had known things about people she couldn’t begin to understand. Attending dinner parties populated with the wounded men of her generation or chatting with the shy foreign woman who
worked in the market, June would remain horrified and humbled by the suffering she knew was beyond comprehension.
Another woman came out to tell June her typing test was about to commence. A big green typewriter waited for her on a desk; beside it was a document holder with the letter she was to type, and a stack of paper. June breathed deeply, sat down, and loaded the paper into the machine.
“Ready?” asked the woman.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“All right. Start!”
She got off to a flying start, a sprinter bursting off the starting block. Then she ground to a halt as she watched herself type HTE twice in one sentence. Her heart was beating faster than she was typing, but she forced herself to concentrate, go slower, more carefully. Gradually she built up speed once again. Clack, clack, clack went the keys, and she was back in control, her fingers bounding around the keyboard. In a flash, the five minutes were over. She had filled up just over half the page, single spaced.
Next, she had an interview with Sam and someone called Sergeant Johnson. Once she’d gotten the job, it wouldn’t matter if people knew they were going together, but Sam thought it would hurt her chances of being hired if the Army thought he’d requested her only because he found her attractive. She had to pretend that she and Sam were just casual acquaintances, which was nerve-racking. Even so, with the typing test over, she felt relaxed. She shook hands with Sergeant Johnson and Sam and took a seat across from them at a small, round table.
Sergeant Johnson’s demeanor was friendly. “Nice to meet you, June,” he said, shuffling through the forms she’d filled out earlier.
“Miss Andrews tells us you did well just now on the typing test,” he continued and looked up. “Know what you scored?”
She shook her head. “Sixty-eight words per minute, with two errors. That’s very good. Where did you learn to type?”
“I took a course in Knoxville a couple of years back.” This was the lie that Sam had come up with and they’d practiced again and again. She kept focused on Sergeant Johnson to avoid Sam’s eyes.
“Why didn’t you apply for a secretarial job here?”
“Well, sir, I never actually finished that course. I didn’t know if I’d be qualified.”
“Oh, with this typing speed you should be fine. Now, I think Dr. Cantor has a few questions for you.”
Sam nodded and took out a legal pad on which he’d scribbled his questions. Of course she’d already seen them and practiced answering them with him the night before. He spoke in an authoritative voice, and his stare was cold. Later they would kiss and cuddle and laugh about it all.
The rest of the interview went smoothly, and Sergeant Johnson didn’t seem to suspect a thing. Finally it was time for the lie detector test. Miss Andrews led her down a hall to another small room. A large black box sat on a table, wires and cables coming out of it in different directions. June repeated in her mind, Don’t be scared, you’re in control, as Sam had suggested to her. It felt silly, but it did seem to calm her.
A man in a lab coat told her to take a seat. “Please don’t be nervous, June. You understand because of the sensitive nature of this job, all potential employees have to undergo a polygraph test.”
“Yes.”
He explained that he had to attach the polygraph components to her, but it would be totally painless. She nodded, and he asked her to untuck her blouse and unbutton it slightly at the top. He took two of the tubes connected to the machine and attached one to her chest and one to her stomach, just above her skirt, with sticky patches that tugged at her skin. Next he attached small metal plates to the index and ring fingers of her left hand. Then he asked her to roll up her sleeve and placed a blood pressure cuff around her upper arm.
“Is your name June Walker?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you from?”
“Blount County, Tennessee.”
“What is your mother’s name?”
“Rose.”
“Have you ever lied to her?”
June was startled by this and wondered if the machine could tell. “Yes,” she said.
“What did you have for supper last night?”
“Um . . .” Again June faltered; she realized she was getting more and more nervous. She couldn’t remember. Ann had cooked, but what had it been?
“Chicken stew!” she said over-triumphantly, relieved to have remembered.
After that, she managed to keep calm. Don’t be scared, don’t be scared, she kept telling herself. The test went on for over an hour, more mundane questions, then on to the serious ones.
“Have you ever discussed with anyone outside of your job what you do here at Oak Ridge?”
“No.” You’re in control, she thought, don’t be scared.
“Have you ever witnessed another employee revealing classified information?”
“No.”
Finally it was done. He helped her out of the tubes and told her she was free to go. As she stood up, she glanced at the machine and the chart of lines created by her responses. She didn’t know if they were good or bad.
***
SAM HAD LUNCH with Sergeant Johnson, a good guy who said he didn’t see any problems with hiring the girl as long as she passed the security test. When they got back to the bullpen, Johnson’s secretary told them that Mr. Geary, the polygraph administrator, was ready to see them.
“The girl looks perfect from a security perspective. Sweet little country thing as far as I can tell.”
The polygraph man lit up a cigarette and offered his pack to the other men. Sam took one, feeling celebratory.
“Just between us, the lie detector test’s a joke. Miss Walker passed all the security questions, but failed when I asked if she knew how to type.”
Sam laughed just a bit too loudly at that, his anxiety released all at once and replaced with a rush of sweet relief.
***
IT WAS ONLY June’s second week at her job, when the news that everyone had been waiting for finally came in. She’d just arrived at the office and was feeding paper into the typewriter on her big wooden desk when the phone rang.
“Dr. Cantor’s office,” she answered.
“Hello there,” said a woman’s voice. “I’m calling from the central office to let everyone know that victory has been declared in Europe.”
Even though she’d been waiting for it for weeks, it still came as a shock.
“Please give everyone in your area the news. But also stress to them that they must keep working. No one is allowed to leave their post. Remind them that the war is not over, and we still have a vital job to perform here.”
“Of course.”
She hung up and went to Sam’s office. He was smoking by his window, looking down at the parking lot, and had obviously already heard. A large truck was driving through the parking lot, and a man was shouting the news through a megaphone out the window: “Victory declared in Europe! Germany surrenders! Please do not leave your posts! We still have to fight a war with Japan. Whose son will die in the last minute?”
Sam turned to her. “We got the Germans,” he said, his voice and face oddly blank, reflecting none of her own jubilation.
Later, when trying to understand his reaction, June would think of only one explanation. Already he was thinking past the victory to the consequences of their work. There was no longer a race with Germany for a bomb; whatever they were building would be destined for Japan.
(Courtesy of the Department of Energy)
Chapter 16
JOE PUSHED HIS MOP DOWN A LONG HALLWAY, WHISTLING SOFTLY under his breath. This section of the building was all offices, and most folks had left for the day. It was quiet save for an electric hum in the background, and the hallway was dark and stuffy. Cleaning the offices was easy work, just a bit of sweeping usually. The laboratories were a different story, and the toilets were the worst. But none of it was the strain that construction had been.
This was Joe’s third summer in Oak Ridge, and t
he hutments never had gotten any cooler or the mosquitoes any less vicious. But now that he had Moriah and his babies with him, it seemed more bearable. Between the two of them, they were making more money in a year than they would have seen in three in Alabama. The children were starting school in the fall and would be able to attend full days for the entire school year, unlike back in Alabama. They had moved into their own hutment—still a wretched place to live, but his and Moriah’s all the same, all to themselves and the children. It was a kind of bliss to come home after his late shifts and find her there, half asleep in the bed, waiting for him, and then in the morning to wake to the smell of bacon frying on the stove and see Moriah standing over the frying pan, little Ben at her feet.
Nevertheless, he worried about the girls, especially Ellie. This was hardly a respectable place to bring up children, and they might be better off back on the farm, away from the gambling and violence of the hutment area. Ellie was almost thirteen now, old enough to get into trouble, with all these rowdy men. The thought of it twisted Joe’s guts. Luckily, she was tall but quite skinny, still gawky in a girlish way that he hoped wouldn’t give anyone any ideas.
After their talk, the foreman had written a note to the officials at Roane-Anderson and arranged for Moriah to come work as a cook in one of the cafeterias. Joe had taken the bus to Knoxville to meet her and the children. He’d gotten to the Greyhound station two hours early, because he wanted to be sure to be waiting when they arrived. He bought three cups of coffee, drinking them slowly on a hard wooden bench by the window of the colored waiting area. Buses came and went; he watched tearful farewells, soldiers getting hugged and kissed hello, and travelers who had no one to say good-bye or hello to.
He saw Becky first, hopping down the steps at the front of the bus in a pink dress and pigtails. Joe ran outside, waving, his coffee forgotten on the bench. By the time he got to Becky, Ellie was beside her, and Moriah was carefully climbing down the stairs, holding Ben, already three years old. Moriah’s face was as familiar as his own reflection and yet a miraculous surprise. She plopped Ben onto the ground and held out her arms. He embraced her, squeezing right through her flimsy cotton jacket, pressing his hand against the felt hat crowning the back of her head. “Moriah . . .” he whispered.
