Scandal in the Secret City (8 page)

I
hesitated to mention the day’s events to Ruth. The general’s orders for a change in my housing situation seemed to be just a nebulous possibility. And if it did occur, I certainly did not expect that it would happen any time soon. But the day after Groves’ visit, I was surprised by the receipt of a letter informing me that I’d be moving in a couple of days.

‘Ruthie,’ I said as I entered the room.

‘What’s wrong, Libby? Bad news from home?’

‘No, it’s—’

‘You look awful. Like you just had the shock of your life.’

‘No, Ruthie, I’m just dumbfounded that—’

‘Sit down, sit down. Do not say another word until you sit down. Can I get you a glass of water?’

‘No, Ruthie, but—’

‘Anything, Libby?’

‘Ruthie, you need to sit down.’

‘Me?’

‘Oh no! Is it my family?’ she wailed.

‘Sit, Ruthie …’

‘I couldn’t bear it if something happened to my family, especially my sister Irene …’ she said, easing down onto her bed.

‘As far as I know, Ruthie, your sister is fine.’

‘Then what …?’

Holding my index finger to her lips, I said, ‘Sssh! Listen to me.’

Ruth furrowed her brow and held her breath.

‘I’m moving out.’

‘Did you quit?’

‘No, Ruthie …’

‘Were you fired?’

‘No, Ruthie, I still have my job.’

‘Have I been a horrible roommate?’

‘No, Ruthie, you’ve been wonderful. Just let me start at the beginning. Did you hear about General Groves’ visit yesterday?’

‘Oh, yes, that’s all anybody’s been talkin’ about.’

‘I talked with him,’ I said.

Ruth’s mouth dropped open and her eyes widened, ‘No! You didn’t. Really?’

‘Yes,’ I said and told her about my encounter with the general. After that I explained the contents of the letter in my hand. ‘I have to be packed and ready to move my belongings at 0700 hours on Saturday morning.’

‘That’s just two days!’ Ruth protested.

‘I know but it’s not as if I have a lot of belongings. I’m just surprised because I didn’t think it would really happen.’

‘Where is your house? Is it one of the flattops?’

‘Yes, it’s at 384 East Drive.’

‘I can’t wait to see it. Do you want to go walk past it now?’

‘Sure,’ I said, delighted by her excitement. ‘It’s dark but I bet we can find it.’

As we walked down the boardwalk, we talked about what the change would mean. ‘I think it’s super that you’ll have a place of your own, Libby. I hope you’ll ask me over to visit sometime,’ Ruth said.

‘All the time. You’re always welcome at my place. I’m counting on you to be a frequent visitor. I wonder who you’ll get for a roommate.’

‘I don’t know. I was thinking about asking if my sister Irene could move in – she’s in a dorm room with two other girls right now. They’d all be happy to have a little more space.’

‘Speaking of your sister, why have I never met her?’

‘I’ve asked her to come by and meet you but she never seems to have the time. She barely has a minute for me. For a while, she was going out with a different fella nearly every night. The next day, we’d meet up at lunch in the cafeteria and she’d tell me all about her date. She was crazy about most of them. Seemed like every week she was in love with a different one of them – a soldier one week, a young scientist the next. Lately, though, she’s mostly been seeing one fella in particular but she won’t tell me what they do or where they go. I often stop by her room right after work and talk to her while she’s changing clothes for another night out. I keep asking her questions but all I’ve gotten out of her is that his name is Bill and he’s a scientist and is a little older than most of the other guys she dated. I pressed her on that one but she won’t tell me how old he is.

‘Then, the other day, she started to say something about his family obligations but stopped and threw her hand over her mouth. I wanted an explanation but she tried to say I misheard her. When I wouldn’t give up, she turned away from me and mumbled something about an elderly mother who was sickly.

‘I didn’t like the way she said that ’cause there was that little catch in her voice she had when she was little and I caught her in a lie. I got a real sick feeling in my gut and I just went ahead and asked, “Is your boyfriend a married man?” She puffed all up and said, “How dare you ask me that?”

‘And I said, “You’re not answering my question, Irene. Are you a home-wrecker?” And all she said to me was “You can leave now, Ruthie. I’m all grown-up and what I do is none of your business.” She thinks I don’t understand her. She says she wants to have fun – doesn’t want to be an old maid, stick-in-the-mud, stuck in the sticks, Wallflower Queen like me. Maybe she’s right.’

‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen you cut a rug. You’re a quick learner, a natural dancer. You’ve really gotten the knack of the Lindy Hop. You impressed all the boys at the dance.’

‘Thank ya, Libby. But to Irene, I’m just the boring older sister. I’m hoping she’ll room with me when you move out, so at least I can keep an eye on her like a big sister should.’

‘I sure hope that works out, Ruthie. Well, looks like this is it, doesn’t it?’

The square little bungalow with its flat roof sat on a small rise. A newly constructed stairway, still smelling of sawdust, rose from the boardwalk to a landing at the door. We went up the steps and Ruth shone the flashlight inside but the light reflected off the glass and without it, it was too dark to see much of anything.

‘Two days, Libby and this is all yours. I’m so excited.’

‘Me, too, Ruthie. But I’m sure going to miss you. You must come over often so I don’t miss you too much.’

On Friday at the lab, I didn’t tell anyone except Ann Bishop about my upcoming move, but Ann apparently had a firm grip on the grapevine. In a matter of minutes, everyone knew. I was dismayed at the reactions I got. A few of the men treated me just as they always had, some with a smidgen more respect because my theories had been proven right. But the rest of them were another story.

They all lined up in two camps. One group became overly deferential as if I were capable of influencing their fates. Worse, was the surly segment who resented what they called special treatment. They made nasty insinuations about what I must have done to get it. They either snubbed me or whispered insults loud enough for me to hear every time they saw me in the halls. All I ever wanted was to be treated as an equal – respected for my education and analytical ability. But even the best of them, the ones who believed in principle in the equality of the sexes, still seemed to carry the attitude that I was a good scientist for a woman, but …

Saturday morning, just minutes after Ruth left for work, two soldiers arrived to load up my boxes in the back of a small truck and deliver me and my belongings to the flattop. When they pulled up in front, one of the soldiers handed me a key. I hurried across the boardwalk, past the coal box and up the steps of the small rise to the tiny front porch. I slid the key into the knob and held my breath in anticipation as I eased open the door.

Entering the living/dining room, there was a sofa on the left, stretched under a bank of four windows, set high on the wall. Caddy-corner from it, an overstuffed chair looked like the picture of comfort. On the front wall, a wooden table set below a larger window. The air inside was cold – colder, it seemed that the outdoors.

I looked to my right and saw the kitchen. I ran my hands across the curves of the white refrigerator. A long counter with two sinks ran under another bank of windows that sat down a little lower than the ones in the living room and above them smaller cabinets were attached to the wall.

Opposite was a four-burner electric stove with an oven. A cast iron skillet sat on its surface. I could cook my own meals. I could even bake a cake if I could get my hands on some sugar. My kitchen. My very own kitchen.

One of the soldiers, entering the front door carrying a box in one arm and a full coal scuttle, said, ‘Sorry about the chill in here, ma’am. I’ll get a fire started right away. You know how to work a coal stove?’

‘Yes,’ I smiled, remembering my dad’s tricks for building and keeping the embers going during long hours away from the house.

‘Roane-Anderson will keep a good supply in your coal box – leastways, they’re supposed to,’ he said with a grin. ‘Well, there’s just a couple more boxes to bring inside.’

I felt dazed as I drifted through the living room to the small bathroom. A sink, a toilet and a shower – oh, how I yearned to soak in the large claw-foot tub Aunt Dorothy had in her home. But even without a bathtub, it was my personal bathroom – a definite improvement over the communal restrooms in the dormitory.

I went into the last room – the bedroom. It had a dresser and two single beds. Ruthie could spend the night any time she wanted and we’d each have our own bed. As soon as the soldiers were gone, I pulled the sheets out of a box and made the beds. I only had one blanket and one bedspread so I put one on the first bed and the other on the second. I’d have to get one more of each and some more sheets. I felt the chill of the house, and amended my thinking – I’d have to have two blankets for each bed.

I sank into the cozy armchair with a sigh of delight. My place. My place. In one week, I would celebrate Christmas in my place. No matter how anyone treated me at work, I could come here. My shelter from any storm. My place. No one would come in unless I invited them. I felt the warmth of the fire blending with the glow in my chest. I couldn’t remember ever being happier.

I looked around my tiny abode, feeling like royalty. ‘My place,’ I said out loud, savoring the vibration of the two words on my tongue and lips. ‘My place.’

T
he morning after the move, I started the day by attending a service at the Chapel on the Hill.

I returned home full of Christmas spirit, and rushed in to find the six glass ornaments I’d packed so carefully before leaving home. I hung them on drawer pulls and cabinet knobs around my little home. My home. I still found it so hard to believe.

In the kitchen, I made a peanut butter sandwich for lunch, wishing that I had some jelly to spread on the other piece of the bread. But sadly, I knew that I might not see any jelly or jam until after the war. I’d taken the first bite when I heard a knock on the door.

Ruth stood on the porch, clutching a small valise. She was flanked by two men in uniform holding large cardboard boxes. ‘What’s this, Ruthie?’

‘C’mon in, boys, and set the boxes down on the floor,’ Ruth said before flashing a grin in my direction. ‘Got a surprise for you, Libby.’ To the soldiers she said, ‘Thank you, boys. See you at the next dance.’

‘Glad to be of service, Ruthie,’ one man said.

‘Don’t forget to save a dance for us,’ the other one added as they walked out and closed the door behind them.

‘Ruthie, what’s going on? What’s in the boxes?’

‘Just look, Libby,’ Ruth said, dropping to her knees and pulling apart the criss-crossed flaps on the top of one box.

I peered inside. ‘Blankets?’

‘Yes. And some sheets and two pillows.’

‘Where did all this come from?’

‘I went all over the dorm asking for donations of extra bed linen. Lots of girls who had more than they needed were glad to get rid of them since they were taking up space they just didn’t have in those teensy rooms.’

I kneeled beside her, overcome with gratitude. ‘You did all this for me.’

‘Well, yeah, but it was a little selfish, too. You said I could spend the night whenever I wanted and I sure didn’t want to spend it shivering.’

‘Thank you, Ruthie,’ I said, leaning forward to give her a hug.

When we had the contents of the boxes either spread on the beds or tucked away, Ruth said, ‘Bundle up, Libby, it’s mighty cold up in those woods.’

‘Woods?’

‘Where else would we go to get a Christmas tree?’

‘A Christmas tree? I don’t have an ax, do you?’

‘Yep,’ Ruth said, turning her suitcase on its side and clicking open the two latches. She pulled out a small hand ax in a leather case. ‘Borrowed it from Willie. He was one of the two fellas who carried in the boxes.’

‘You think we can cut down a tree with that puny thing.’

Ruth spun around, looking at the room. ‘Libby, look at this place. Do you think you have the room for a regular sized tree? Shoot, it would be so close to the coal stove, you’d probably burn the whole house down. We’ll get a little one – one that can sit right on that table over there,’ she said pointing to one by a window.

Ruth bent back down and pulled two paper sacks out of her valise and shook them, making the contents rattle.

‘Beans?’ I said. Was Ruth planning on cooking beans tonight?

‘No, silly,’ Ruth said with a giggle. ‘Whoever heard of putting beans on a Christmas tree? I brought some popcorn. We can pop it up and string it into garlands with the needles and thread I have in this other bag.’

Even though I was living alone far from family and friends, thanks to Ruth, I’d have a real Christmas after all. ‘Look, Ruthie, look,’ I said as I grabbed a gaudy red and white glass ball from off of a knob. ‘I’ve got ornaments. Only six of them but …’

‘Six is plenty for our little tree – with the popcorn wrapped around it, it will be beautiful. And we can cut a star out of one of those cartons and tie it to the top.’

We both scurried out of the house and up the hill to the wooded ridge. As we hurried out in search of a tree I was so caught up in the exuberance of the moment that I didn’t notice the cold and wind. Finally, we located a suitable candidate on the edge of a clearing. It was small but it had an acceptable amount of foliage particularly in comparison to the others we’d seen.

It took much longer than it should have cutting down the little tree as we took turns swinging the ax, laughing as our clumsy strokes went far off the mark and embedded in the dirt. At last, I struck the final, fatal blow and Ruth hollered, ‘Timber!’ The three-foot-high tree plopped on the ground.

The walk back seemed to take a whole lot longer than the journey out. I didn’t know if it simply took that length of time for the cold to seep through my clothing and for my nose, cheeks and earlobes to start aching from exposure or if now that the task was accomplished, I finally was paying attention to how cold it really was.

Once inside, we improvised a tree stand using a big pot from the kitchen that we filled with rocks to stabilize the evergreen in an upright position. After popping the corn, we settled down by the coal stove to string the garlands. I turned on the radio, spinning the dial until I found Christmas music.

Bing Crosby’s voice filled the room singing ‘White Christmas’.

‘I do love that man’s voice,’ I said.

‘Me, too,’ Ruth said. ‘I think if I ever heard him in person, I’d just swoon. Have you heard his new one?’

‘You mean, “I’ll be Home for Christmas”?’ I said and had to squeeze my eyes tight to fight off the threat of tears.

‘Oh, I shouldn’t have mentioned that, Libby. I’m sorry. Me and Irene are going home but you’re stuck here. Please forgive me.’

‘Nothing to forgive, Ruthie. I like the song a lot, too. It’s just that it usually makes me cry.’

‘Should I turn the radio off?’

‘No need for that. Tell me about growing up in Lynchburg so I can think about something else.’

‘Life there isn’t too exciting, Libby. Tell the truth, the only big thing that ever happened was my pa gettin’ killed.’

‘How did that happen?’

‘Pa was out on the tractor plowing a field. He went up a hill that he’d gone up hundreds of times and never had a problem. This time, he musta done somethin’ different ’cause that tractor tipped over and pinned him underneath it. Don’t know how long he was layin’ out there and don’t know how long it took him to die. When he didn’t come home for supper, Ma went looking for him. She found him flattened out in the field with his blood soaking into the ground. She built a fence around that spot and buried him right there. It was a peculiar service with the preacher and everybody else dressed in nice clothes trompin’ out over clods of dirt and through the furrows he’d dug ’fore he died.’ Ruth sighed. ‘Poor Ma. For a while she went out there every single day, rain or shine. Nowadays, she still goes most Sundays right after church. What about your pa? He died in a fire?’

‘When my aunt and uncle’s farmhouse caught fire, my brother and my cousin got trapped inside. My dad ran in after them even though everyone told him it was too dangerous. When they finally put out the fire, they found him laying face down on the floor with an arm around each boy. They said that they all died of smoke inhalation but for a long time I had nightmares of them catching fire and burning alive.’

We sighed in unison and sat silently for a while. We both clutched a needle and thread in one hand but neither of us worked on the popcorn garland. I was lost in my painful memories of the fire and I imagine Ruth was remembering the day her dad died, too. But when Bing crooned ‘Silent Night’ on the radio, Ruth broke the spell.

‘What are we doing here?’ she asked. ‘It’s Christmastime and we’re talking about dying. If we cry on the popcorn, it won’t be no good for stringing.’

‘Turn up the radio, Ruthie. I’ll fix us a pot of tea.’

The volume went up and just then the song we both needed filled the flattop with its perky rhythm – ‘Jingle Bells’ sung by Bing and the Andrews Sisters. We sang along at the top of our lungs. By the time the tune ended, our spirits were up and our fingers flying on the garlands.

On Christmas morning, I opened my eyes and started thinking about work before I even had time to yawn. The ultimate goal had troubled my sleep that night as it quite often did. I now was certain that an atomic fission bomb was the end result and wondered if it would end the war or just unleash a new monster on the world.

I pushed those thoughts away, remembering that it was Christmas and I was alone. No time for morose thoughts. I did have a tinge of regret that I wasn’t in the dorm on this morning. Most of the time, I loved my little flattop home but on this morning, I longed for the easy camaraderie of dormitory life, even though I was usually more of an observer than a participant.

I shrugged off the covers, ignored the warning of my frigid nose and slid out of the warmth of the bed. I slipped into my robe and slippers, and hurried out to the living room. I stabbed at the embers in the coal stove, and was delighted to see a core of glowing red. I tossed in more coals, stirred up small blue flames, closed the door and opened the flue a little wider.

The plywood walls of my home, devoid of insulation, provided little protection from the coldness of a winter night. I wrapped my arms tight around my body as I shuffled across the blue-green linoleum floor and into the kitchen. I daydreamed about a real cup of coffee as I tossed the ground chicory into the tin pot and turned on the stove. I warmed my fingers over the burner before sliding the coffee percolator onto it. I pulled a cup out of the plywood cabinet and set it down on the silver-specked white countertop. At first, I huddled close to the warmth of the stove as I waited for my hot cup of bitter brew.

Then I moved over to a window and scraped off a patch of icy crystals that had formed on the inside overnight. In the early morning sunlight, the ice-covered tree branches twinkled as if stars had fallen from the night sky and embedded in the bark, turning the frigid reality of the outdoors into the vision of a magical fairytale setting.

My nose scrunched in protest as I took the first sip of the harshly bitter dark liquid. I went into the living room and sat on the floor by the tabletop Christmas tree, a smile on my face as I recalled the tree-cutting adventure with Ruth a weekend earlier.

I’d deferred opening my Christmas packages until this morning to add a little festivity to the lonely day. Looking at the packages, I felt a flash of annoyance. The tattered, retaped edges bore silent witness that each one had been opened, inspected and rewrapped by a stranger’s hands before being delivered. It didn’t seem right that someone else had learned the secret of their contents before I did. They were my presents – not the government’s.

I doubted I’d care for whatever it was my mother had sent so I opened it first, saving the best for last. I felt a lot of guilt for that sentiment when I discovered a tin of coffee – real coffee! – inside the box. How did Mother get hold of that? She must have raided my stepfather’s supply; he would have never given his permission. He couldn’t have known about it at all. I’ll have to keep my thank you note vague to keep Mother out of trouble.

For a moment, I clutched the tin to my chest as I savored the anticipation of that first sip of the real thing. Then I jumped to my feet and hurried back to the kitchen. I poured the chicory drink down the sink and prepared a fresh pot of actual, real ground coffee.

I swallowed down the first cup too fast, scalding my tongue. But I didn’t care – it was so good, so right, so welcome. I poured a second cup and returned to the living room and the package from Aunt Dorothy.

Four different gifts awaited in that box: a copy of the new best-selling novel,
The Robe
by Lloyd Douglas I’d been wanting to read; a hand-knit cardigan sweater, which I slipped on right away – oh, so thick, so warm, so comfortable – a perfect gift for my living conditions; and wonder of wonders, a Fifth Avenue candy bar! I had thought it was impossible to get one of those unless you were a soldier shipped overseas, but here it was – chocolate, and it was all mine. Real coffee and real chocolate – all on the same day.

The fourth present in the box was wrapped in white tissue paper and had a note attached that read: READ BEFORE OPENING. I removed and unfolded it:

Dearest Libby,

I was shopping one day and discovered the latest in fashion for intimate garments. It made me chuckle. I asked the clerk about what I saw and she said that elastic was very difficult to procure. Thus, we have panties without an elastic waist. I thought you’d get a good laugh out of them, too. Is nothing sacred? No sacrifice too great to defeat the Fuhrer!

With Love, Aunt Dorothy

I unwrapped the package and there, lying in my lap, were a pair of panties with little tiny buttons on the side. I laughed as I dropped the ones I was wearing and pulled them on. A perfect fit, but how long would it take me to get used to the feel of the lump of thread on the back of the buttons rubbing against bare skin?

I went back into the kitchen for a third cup of coffee and got out a knife. I was careful not to damage the wrapper as I sliced a piece of it away from the chocolate and cut off about a fourth of the bar. I folded up the end sealing it shut with a creased fold to keep fresh for later. Curling up in the chair in front of the coal stove, I savored that chunk of chocolate, pressing it against the roof of my mouth with my tongue, allowing its delicious flavor to melt and ooze across my taste buds for as long as possible. I must have looked like a simpleton getting so much joy from that small pleasure but I didn’t care. That’s one thing war taught me – every moment was a gift.

When I finished rhapsodizing over my bite of chocolate, I noticed the unusual silence outside. The world was muffled by the ice but it was more than that. The bustle and noise of a place in a constant state of construction, I almost didn’t hear the cacophony any longer. But now the absence of it roared with a fury. It seemed louder than the rumbling trucks, squeaking cranes, pounding hammers, yelling voices. For the first time since I arrived here at Clinton Engineer Works, the world was still.

And that made me curious. A walk was in order. I left the house, bundled up against the morning cold, reminding myself to be cautious on the ice. Stepping out on the stoop, I pulled the wooden knob to shut the door. I instinctively reached for my dirt-caked galoshes, but then realized that cold had hardened all the mud, making it easier to navigate. If there was too much ice on the boardwalk, I could detour onto the street without the fear of sinking into the muck.