“Who are they?” I ask, interrupting Dottie’s detailing camp division of labor and payment methods during the POW era of Atterbury.
“Oh yes! You noticed. This has been an exciting time at the camp.” Dottie turns around as much as she can, explaining breathlessly, “We’ve been asked to take in guests from Afghanistan as a part of Operation Allies Welcome. Since September of last year, we’ve provided a temporary home to over five thousand refugees who come through our base before finding homes and jobs or settling with family here or elsewhere in the world.”
I stare out the window at the bustling community of Afghans, its members gathering in small clusters but clearly all headed in a similar direction.
“I didn’t know.”
“I didn’t either, not till lately. I thought some of us Midwesterners never would’ve opened up, but now so many people are on board. We’re having fundraising nights and fabric drives.”
As Dottie’s smooth narration continues, I try to imagine these families fleeing their homes and the trust they had to put into the hands of an army that lined their streets in a controversial conflict for decades. Now, they are starting over in a whole new country and culture—their bravery brings tears to my eyes. I’ve seen hard things in my life; I’ve lost great loves, and I’ve made frightening decisions, but I’ve never been brave—not this kind of brave.
I’m lost in my thoughts as the car comes to a stop.
“We’re here.” Dottie starts to unbuckle, but I rush to get out so she doesn’t have to climb down from her elevated seat all by herself.
The building is almost identical to all the others on the base—off-white metal sheeting, green roofing, and steel utility doors with push handles. The Afghan refugees enter through a side door, bundled up against the chill. I wonder what seasons are like in their hometowns.
“The cafeteria has adapted the menu for our visitors. It took a little bit for Stan and me to come around, but I’m starting to like Afghan dishes. And Naghma, our head chef, passed on a few recipes for us to make at home. Care to grab a bite? You won’t regret it.”
The cafeteria is bustling and filled with the rich, tantalizing aroma of spices of Central Asia. The scents of turmeric, coriander, and cumin fill the air, along with the melodic spikes and dips of conversation in their native languages. It sounds musical, and I wish I could understand their conversations.
Although I wasn’t intending to join Dottie and Stan for lunch in the cafeteria, the aromas are so tempting that I decide to sample a few items.
“I’d love to give it a try. Thank you,” I say, eager to participate in the hubbub.
Dottie waves to an elderly man who is sitting at one of the long cafeteria tables across the room. He is wearing a workman’s uniform and has a full head of white hair. He sees her and grins broadly in a way I can imagine on the face of a much younger man.
“I should warn you—he’s a sweetheart but half-deaf, so if I yell, it’s for his own good.”
I smile. My parents never stayed with someone long enough to whisper about their idiosyncrasies with strangers. I hope to reach that stage in my relationship one day.
“I won’t judge,” I promise as Stan makes his way to our spot in line. Two small kids in front of us keep looking back at me with curious, playful eyes. The third time I catch their interested glances, I give them a wave with the tips of my fingers. The girl smiles and hides behind her mother’s arm, but the boy giggles and boldly waves back.
“Well, hello, beautiful!” Stan says in full volume to his wife when he reaches us, kissing Dottie’s cheek and placing his hand on her waist.
“Hello, stranger.” She returns his playful cadence, though at a volume I would never have guessed could come from the tiny woman. She leans into his embrace.
“You brought a friend.” He gestures in my direction. My nerves flutter. I wait for Dottie to mention Vivian Snow or Gracelyn Branson, one of my brothers’ names, or even my father, Clark McFadden. Or, God forbid, Dean.
“Yes, this is Elise. She’s on a tour of the base today for a movie.”
“A movie? Are you a reporter or a movie star?” he asks with a wink that I can’t resist. I never knew my grandfather; he died before my mom was born, but I love to imagine he would’ve been like this charming octogenarian.
“Nope, nothing as interesting as that. But your wife is going to be famous in no time. She’s a natural in front of the camera,” I joke.
“Dottie—I thought you gave up your days as a pinup girl when we got married.” He looks at her with mock horror. She blushes so brightly that I wonder if there’s some truth to his jest.
“Stan.” She smacks his arm.
“Don’t get me wrong; you’re beautiful, but I wouldn’t want some handsome heartthrob to steal you away.”
“I’d be worried, too, if I were you,” I say, playing along with the bit.
We reach a stack of plates and silverware. I follow the kids’ lead on the protocol. The little girl goes slowly, like she knows she’s teaching me a new skill. The servers fill my tray with rice and sauces, and then I grab some naan and a lightly fried dessert of pastry dough at the end of the line.
The kids sit at one of the cafeteria tables, and I pass them wistfully as I follow Stan and Dottie to their seats. I’d love to talk to the kids and their mom. I’d love to hear what life was like for them before, during, and after their flight from their home. Then again, bringing up those painful memories to satisfy my own curiosity could be cruel.
“You’re brave,” Dottie says. She has a brown paper bag perched on the edge of her full tray with a small bottle of white milk. “I always take a cold lunch in case things don’t settle well.”
“This looks amazing.” I dig in hungrily. My mouth’s full as I watch all the tables populate with staff and refugee families. The seat next to me creaks as someone takes the empty space. I glance over my shoulder, flavors and heat exploding on my taste buds.
“Miss Branson.” Father Patrick greets me. He’s dressed in a casual-looking but still priestly uniform with dark slacks and a black blazer, holding a tray full of food very similar to mine.
“Whoa,” I blurt out through a full mouth of food and then swallow quickly. “What are you doing here?”
“Thanks for the warm welcome,” he says, laughing at my shock.
“Father—they have Gosh-e fil today. It looks delectable,” Dottie says.
“Which dish is that?” I ask, scanning the selection.
“These.” He points to the sugary fried dough on my tray.
Dottie speaks louder this time. “They taste like elephant ears from the fair from when I was a girl.”
“Careful, Dot. The kids are gonna think we ate actual elephants.” Stan winks, and I wonder if they could possibly adopt me.
“Does someone write your lines? Are you wearing earpieces linked to a comedian somewhere? You guys are too hilarious.”
“Hey, don’t encourage them,” Father Patrick interjects.
“I can’t help it. They’re too darn charming.”