by Janet Beard
He sat on a hard wooden chair and faced the forms. Name: Samuel Abraham Cantor. Date of Birth: December 14, 1913. Place of Birth: Brooklyn, New York. Previous Employer: University of California, Berkeley. Position Held: Assistant Professor. He had provided the information on countless forms already.
A wide smile was stamped across Mrs. Hawthorne’s face. “Mr. . . . oh, excuse me, Dr. Cantor. Welcome! Here’s some information for you about life in Oak Ridge”—she pushed a number of brochures at him—“and Manhattan Engineer District procedures.” She winked. “Don’t worry, Dr. Cantor, you’re almost done with the paperwork. Just as soon as we get your security clearance, we’ll send you on a quick tour. For now I’d like you to attend a lecture on safety and security just down the hall here.”
He felt around his pockets for a stray cigarette for the fourth time since leaving Knoxville. There still weren’t any. “How long until I get my housing assignment?”
“With any luck we’ll have that all set up in the morning!”
“Where will I stay tonight?”
“In the guest house, Dr. Cantor. It’s lovely, I assure you.”
After the safety and security lecture, there were similar presentations on first aid, Tennessee driving laws, and most useless of all, Tennessee customs and folklore. “Welcome to Tennessee,” said the serious-looking man lecturing a room of thirty-odd new employees, “the Volunteer State, so called because of the many brave Tennesseans who volunteered to join the Texans in their fight for independence.”
Sam’s eyelids slowly descended. He bit his tongue to try and keep himself awake as the man discussed the Tennessee state bird and told a story about Davy Crockett. Behind him, a large poster inquired, “Are you really doing your part for security??” Sam squinted at the other audience members. The worker beside him was wearing dirty coveralls, a pack of cigarettes sticking out of his chest pocket. Sam stared at the cigarettes, full of longing.
It was seven hours before he finally got a smoke, bummed from the engineer who was to be his roommate for the night. The young man was thrilled to find out that both he and Sam had grown up in New York City. Sam didn’t particularly feel like reminiscing about Coney Island and egg creams, but he desperately needed a cigarette, so he gave in to his roommate’s excitement. They puffed by the window of their small but hospitable room.
“You oughta see what they call spaghetti here. What I wouldn’t give for a meal at my cousin Eddie’s restaurant on 187th Street! You ever been up that way?” his companion asked in a Bronx accent.
“I’m afraid not.”
“I miss the old neighborhood. My whole family lives there, you know? And it’s where I went to school, where I went to church. You Jewish?”
He asked the question innocently, but Sam still paused before replying, “Yes.”
“Yeah. I miss all the Jews in New York. Funny, huh? Guess I’m just real homesick.”
Sam said nothing but drew on his cigarette. The boy lacked menace; he seemed genuinely nostalgic for Jews. Sam’s silence didn’t seem to worry him. “You understand a word these folks are saying?”
“Not a damn thing,” said Sam. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs.
“I never heard an accent like it!”
“Say, Mikey, you know where we can get a drink around here?”
“There’s beer at the canteen, but that’s all. It’s a dry county, haven’t you heard? Prohibition never ended in Tennessee.”
“Damn! I could sure use a drink right now.”
“I know what you mean. But be careful—you can get arrested if you’re caught bringing liquor in through the gates. This is the honest-to-God Bible Belt. You’re not in Flatbush anymore!”
Sam sucked at the end of the cigarette until it tasted terrible, not wanting to let it go. Grudgingly, he stubbed it out and tossed it from the window.
His security clearance came through the next day, and Sam got his promised tour from Private John Bagger, who hardly looked older than fifteen, with a small round face and ears too large for it. He drove Sam around in an open-top car and told him about the Manhattan Engineer District’s amazing achievements in building this town out of nothing. “Just one year ago, sir, this land was empty except for the occasional farm or cabin. There was only one paved road on the whole reservation! Now there’s a fully functioning city.” They passed a few makeshift buildings that were hardly more than shanties, with sloping roofs and noticeable gaps in the walls.
“There’s certainly a lot of dirt.”
“Yes, sir! The construction has kicked up a lot of mud, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. I hope you’ve got a good pair of boots!”
Sam looked down at his once-black shoes, now caked grayish brown.
“We’re driving on the main street of Oak Ridge, Tennessee Avenue. To our right are brand-new residential communities. You’ll never get lost here because of the clever system of street names. The avenues are named alphabetically from east to west after the states of the union. For instance, Arkansas is the easternmost, next over is California, and so on. Then any street that turns off of one of the avenues has a name beginning with the same letter, A for Arkansas, C for California—”
Sam couldn’t bear any more and cut him off. “Yes, I see. That is terribly clever.”
Private Bagger had turned onto New York Avenue so Sam could get a better look at the homes. The yards were covered in mud and they all looked eerily similar to one another, but not altogether awful. An effort had been made to leave some trees standing in the midst of the construction. Still, the winding cul-de-sacs and rows of identical houses had the look of children dressed up in adult clothing. They wanted to be a real neighborhood but hadn’t quite managed.
“You may notice that the houses all have a similar look; that’s because they are prefabricated for us. We call them cemestos, because they’re constructed of a mixture of cement and asbestos. A new house goes up in Oak Ridge every thirty minutes.”
“Well, that explains the noise.” Sam had spent another sleepless night in the guest house.
They drove down the hill, out of the cemesto houses and into a neighborhood of trailers. “We have a wide range of dwellings, depending on people’s position in the MED, the size of their family, and the length of their stay here.”
Private Bagger pointed to a barbed-wire fence and gate off to the left. “That’s one of the prohibited areas. You have to pass through a security gate to enter the CEW from the outside, and once inside, you’ll have to pass through another gate to get to the prohibited area where you work. It’s very important you keep your badge with you at all times!” Sam had been given a badge with his picture, a payroll number, some letters representing the restricted areas where he would be allowed to work, and the Roman numeral IV, which gave him access to all the information about the site where he was to be working for the Tennessee Eastman Corporation, though the various other work sites were still restricted.
“And here on your right is the dormitory where you’ll be staying—”
“Excuse me, did you say ‘dormitory’?”
“Yes, sir, this is it right here.” Private Bagger pulled the car up in front of a four-story rectangular institution.
“There must be some mistake. I’m not supposed to be staying in a dormitory.”
“Well, that’s what it says here.” The boy tapped the file beside him. “I’m sure it’s just temporary. With so many people coming and going, it can take a while to make housing arrangements.”
Private Bagger was already leaping out of the car, grabbing his suitcase, but Sam was paralyzed with rage. “Please take me back to headquarters.”
Private Bagger’s face seemed to grow even smaller with distress. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m under orders to drop you off here.”
Sam jumped out of the car and grabbed his bag from the boy’s hand. “Thank you, Private. That was a very informative tour.”
“You’re welcome, sir. Hope you enjoy your time in Oak Ridge.”
>
Sam approached the front desk, explaining to the woman there that this must be a mistake, but she assured him that it was not. “You’re lucky, Dr. Cantor. Last week we were squeezing them in five to a room.”
He left his bag at the dormitory and walked back toward the administrative building at a quick, determined pace. Lack of sleep compounded his already acute sense of injustice. He was irrational with exhaustion, ready to take on the entire Army if need be to get himself a private room for the night.
He wound up back in line behind the blond receptionist. “There’s been a mistake with my housing assignment,” he sputtered as soon as he reached her. She cut him off immediately.
“You’ll need to speak to Mr. Newman. He’s in charge of housing. Down this hallway . . .”—she pointed—“third office to the left. Knock on his door, and I’ll let him know to expect you.”
He did as he was told. A hearty voice called out, “Come in!”
“Hello, I’m Dr. Samuel Cantor,” he began calmly, formally, preparing to build into an impassioned rant.
Mr. Newman, an imposing figure in a gray suit, half rose and extended his hand. “Doug Newman. Pleased to meet you. Have a seat.”
Sam sat across from him, balancing his hat on his knee. He could hear the sound of hammering coming from the construction outside. Mr. Newman leaned back in his chair. “So, Dr. Cantor, how can I help you?”
“There’s been a mistake with my housing assignment. I’ve been told I’m to stay in Dormitory Two with three other men in my room. This is unacceptable.”
Mr. Newman nodded sympathetically. “I’m sorry to hear about the situation. As you can see, and hear, we are in the midst of an unprecedented building project. Now, I work for the Roane-Anderson Company. Have you heard of it?”
Sam shook his head, and Mr. Newman continued. “We’re a new company that the Army has hired to run this town.” Mr. Newman took a cigarette case out of his breast pocket, and Sam couldn’t stop his eyes from widening at the sight of it. “You smoke?” Mr. Newman asked and held out the open case for him.
“Thank you,” said Sam as he eagerly grabbed a cigarette. “I haven’t had a chance to buy a pack since I got here.” He felt around his pockets for a match, but Mr. Newman had already struck one and was holding it out for him. Sam met the flame with the end of his precious cigarette and inhaled deeply.
Mr. Newman lit his own cigarette and leaned back again. “So, Dr. Cantor, part of our job—our biggest job, really—is sorting out adequate housing for all of the employees here at the Clinton Engineer Works. To tell you the truth, the Army has hired more people than we have room for at the moment.”
Sam tried not to be distracted by the glorious jolt of tobacco. “Mr. Newman, I am a highly respected scientist. The government is entrusting me with resources and top-secret information. They cannot expect me to live in a dormitory like a college freshman.”
“I understand your frustration, Dr. Cantor. Let me assure you that an effort will be made to rectify this. In fact”—he began shuffling through a stack of papers on his desk—“I have the paperwork here to assign workers to ten new trailers, and I’m going to make sure that you are placed in one of these.”
Sam remembered the depressing rings of trailers. “Thank you, sir.”
“It will probably be a week until these are up and running. Can you manage in the dormitory until then?”
Sam clenched his jaw. “I can manage. But I want your company to know that I think it’s a fine way to greet the scientists you have working here—by throwing them into accommodations that are hardly better than barracks!” He stood to make his point fully dramatic, took a final drag of the lovely cigarette, and stubbed it out in Mr. Newman’s ashtray. “Thank you for the cigarette and your help.”
“You’re welcome, Dr. Cantor.” He stubbed out his own cigarette as Sam started out the door.
“Oh, and one last thing,” said Mr. Newman, and Sam turned back. “We have better men than you, Dr. Cantor, living in Army barracks in far more godforsaken spots than Oak Ridge.” His face was still friendly, but his voice was cold.
***
SAM WALKED SLOWLY back to the dormitory, the anger and adrenaline gone, replaced by a great tiredness. It didn’t matter if anyone was in the room or not when he got back, he was going to sleep. He could sleep for two days if he wanted; he didn’t have to start work until Tuesday.
“Sam!” he heard someone call out, and he stopped, wondering who might know him in this foreign place. He turned and saw Charlie Stone crossing the muddy street toward him, smiling and waving.
“Sam, it’s so good to see you! I’d hoped you’d make it out this way.” Charlie patted him on the back, and Sam shook his hand heartily.
“Sure is good to see a friendly face!”
“When did you get here?”
“Just two days ago. Is this place as awful as it seems?”
Charlie laughed. “It grows on you.” Sam looked skeptical. “Truly, you’ll see. There’s a certain charm to frontier living. Say, can I get you a cup of coffee? I was just headed to the canteen.”
Charlie led him to a cafeteria near the town site. The two men had been friends in graduate school at Princeton in the thirties. Charlie had been the nicest guy in the physics department.
The cafeteria was bustling, and the strong aroma of bacon alerted Sam to the fact that he was hungry. “They serve breakfast all day here, and the place is open twenty-four hours to accommodate all the different shifts,” explained Charlie.
Sam got a plate full of eggs, bacon, and biscuits the likes of which he’d never seen before. They were dense yet fluffy, dripping with butter. He crunched into the bacon with the unavoidable guilt that came from disappointing his mother, but it passed quickly.
Charlie sat across from him with a cup of coffee and a tuna sandwich. “How long’s it been? The last time I saw you was back in Princeton . . . in what? Thirty-nine?”
“That sounds right. How have you been? How’s Ann?” Ann was Charlie’s wife, a thin but pretty girl from old Boston money.
“We’re well. Moving here has been . . . a challenge for her. But listen, Sam, could you do us a huge favor?”
“What?” Sam asked through a gluttonous mouthful of eggs.
“Would you move into a house with us? We’re on a waiting list to get one, and since we don’t have children, it would help if we had a boarder.”
Sam swallowed and looked up. “Are you serious? I’m supposed to be living in a trailer; of course, I’d be thrilled! Are you sure it would be all right?”
“Yes, yes! You’d be doing us a favor. Really, I don’t know how long it will take us to get a house otherwise.”
“Well, if Ann will have me, I’ll do it.”
“Ann will be delighted.”
“You’ve made my day, Charlie!”
“Wonderful, then it’s all settled. So what took you so long to get here, Cantor?”
“Security clearance took forever.”
“I see. And that wouldn’t have anything to do with past bad behavior?”
“Who knows? They interviewed every member of my family they could get their hands on—scared my poor aunt half to death. She thought I’d become a spy. Apparently, it’s very suspicious to U.S. Army Intelligence that I have so many relatives in Germany. Never mind, of course, that all those relations have either fled or disappeared.”
Charlie nodded solemnly. “Well, thank goodness you’re here now. We could use you.”
“Is there anyone else here we know?”
“Will Kellerman’s here. Some other names you’d probably recognize, but none of the old gang.”
“Most are in New Mexico, I guess.”
Charlie shook his head and whispered, “Not here.” In a normal voice he said, “I wouldn’t know.” His friendly eyes widened meaningfully. He looked down at the table and picked up Sam’s battered hat. Its edges were frayed and the top drooped, pathetically. “I know there’s a war on, but can we
get you a new hat?”
Sam smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.” He gathered the remainders of eggs and biscuit crumbs up onto his fork and shoved them into his mouth.
(Courtesy of the Department of Energy)
Chapter 3
DESPITE THE FACT THAT HE WAS WEARING ALMOST ALL THE clothes he owned and was further wrapped in two blankets, Joe was cold. Each breath he took sent icy air tearing into his nose and chest. The woodstove in the middle of the room couldn’t combat the wind ripping through the plywood walls of the hutment, nor could the thin, flannel blankets.
The door opened, and a blast of air assaulted him. It was Ralph, finally coming home from the rec hall. Joe watched him walk to the cot to take off his boots. As he started to take off his jacket, Joe whispered, “Ain’t no point. You’re gonna need that on to get through this night.”
“I’m hot.” Ralph hung the jacket on a clothesline strung up across the room.
“You’re crazy.” Joe rolled over in his cot to face the wall, the weak heat from the stove now on his back.
Sometimes it was no use talking sense to Ralph. Still, the boy was his only real friend here at Oak Ridge, at least the only person he’d known long enough to trust. They’d come up from Alabama together a year and a half ago to work in a labor gang. Now they shared a hutment with three other men. The plywood box could hardly be called a house. It was sixteen feet by sixteen feet, and their cots and chairs filled the room right up. There were no windows, just pieces of wood on a hinge you could open in summer. It had been hot when they arrived in July, hotter than Alabama if that was even possible. The colored hutments were built on the lowest point of land in Oak Ridge, a swamp overridden with mosquitoes. They had to keep the windows open at night, and the mosquitoes were as much residents of the place as he and the other workers living there. Those first nights had been sleepless, too, but it was because he couldn’t stop sweating or scratching the great pink welts on his legs and arms.
