Stop it, Vivian, I chastise myself. There’s no room in my life for fantasy or big dreams. I’m nineteen, almost twenty, and I’m the only hope of keeping my family together. Mother lost herself in her sphere of dreams and fantasy, and look where that got her—locked away in Mount Mercy Sanitarium. So instead of voice lessons with experienced teachers and trips to the city for auditions, I got my secretarial training from Marian College and applied for a real job at Camp Atterbury.
After two interviews with the help of Mary who introduced me to Charlie, the handsome married officer I dance with at the USO most Friday nights, one typing test, and a few toothy smiles, I got the job working the switchboard at the front office for Camp Atterbury. I say front office, but I don’t even know where the office is located, never having stepped foot on base.
The bus dropped me off on the side of the road in front of the buildings protected by not only a fence but the front gate I’m approaching, a guardhouse, and a sign with large lettering that says:
MAIN ENTRANCE
CAMP ATTERBURY
INTERNMENT CAMP
I shiver, not only from the cold but from a sudden dread that runs through me at the sight of the gates, white posts with chain-link and barbed wire. This is a camp for prisoners of war captured in the European theater. And this is where I’m going to work.
Every part of my body tells me to turn around and leave. I suppose it’s more necessity than courage that keeps me moving toward the front gate. Around the perimeter stand impressive lookout towers as tall as the bank in downtown Edinburgh. I can see uniformed men inside, milling about with big rifles slung over their arms. They’re watching me watch them. I swallow and square my shoulders to look more professional.
My tweed suit coat and tailored skirt are a bit tattered but nice enough for a desk job; at least that’s what Mary said. I smooth my hair, my fingers getting tangled and the wind and moisture in the air making it a mess.
Feeling eyes on me not only from above but also from the guardhouse, I walk up to the gate. The top half of the door swings open before I touch it. Inside stand two uniformed young men.
“Can I help you, miss?” the taller one asks. I’m pretty sure he’s the more senior of the two.
“Yes. I . . . I’m here for the new secretarial position,” I say, shoulders so straight I might throw out my back.
“You’re the new secretary?” The young soldier, whom I’m certain I’ve seen at the dance hall at least once, looks me up and down. He gives me a little grin like he knows what I look like in my garter belt.
“Yes . . . yes. I am.” My voice quivers slightly, making me feel weak, but the private seems to like my timidity. “I’m Vivian . . .”
“Vivian Santini?” He pronounces it Sane-tie-nye.
I nod. I’ve learned to accept any pronunciation that comes close to the correct San-tee-nee.
“Yes—you’re on the list.” A tall, smooth-faced soldier exits the guardhouse from a side door and waves to his partner. The white gate covered in barbed wire pulls back slowly, the opening barely wide enough for me to slip through. On the other side, I’m faced with another, loftier, set of gates.
The shorter of the two guards crosses to the locking mechanism and rolls back the second barrier. I search his waist for a gun. I don’t like the idea of being surrounded by weapons. Papà has one gun. My little sister, Aria, found his old rabbit pistol under his pillow within a week of President Roosevelt’s declaration of war. We tried to convince him it wasn’t a safe place to store a loaded weapon, but papà insisted he needed it close at hand in case we’re invaded by I Tedeschi—the Germans. I guess he forgot his own countrymen are also on the wrong side of the conflict. He refused to give the pistol up, even though living in central Indiana, we’re pretty unlikely to see any fighting. But I understand the overwhelming desire to protect our family. He does it with a gun—I do it by providing an income.
I Tedeschi aside, the only other way I can imagine my father pulling a gun on a man is if he caught one trying to woo Aria or me, which keeps me from inviting any gentlemen callers into our home. Not that I’ve had time for a love life between work, papà, Aria, and school.
“That way.” The taller guard gestures toward a long, white gravel drive, and the other man, Talbot I think his name is, ushers me in the right direction. The buildings on this side of the road are gray, unlike the white barracks across the street that house the American servicemen. I wonder if the different colors are symbolic. A large office building sits inside the barbed-wire barrier. Behind it is another fence topped with razor-sharp wire, the last defense against a potential prisoner revolt.
As I follow Talbot, the other soldier watches me walk away. I think I feel the men in the tower doing so as well. This attention from men—it’s new to me. I’d always been a dowdy, quiet girl in high school and went to an all-girls college.
When I’m onstage, it’s different. I feel bulletproof under those lights. But here, I feel the weight of their gazes.
I keep my heels out of the mud the best I can. It’s been a wet spring, and the clouds rolling in signal another storm on the horizon. The deep rumble of thunder in the distance vibrates through my midsection, and I breathe in the prestorm scent. When I get home tonight, Aria will be a mess, covered head to toe in dirt from her garden; I’m sure of it.
Talbot walks ahead, opens the door to the building, and waits for me to step inside. It’s warm, and the air is thick with a heavy, manly smell. A desk sits behind a window with a door immediately to the right and a sitting area with chairs to the left. A young woman works behind the glass, and Talbot gives her the same sickly grin he gave me at the gate.
“Hey, Judy. Is Gammell in?”
The girl has a plain face and a sweetly curled bob, and she responds with an innocence I find comforting. Her soft brown eyes are friendly and a welcome escape from Talbot’s obvious glances.
“No—he’s in the fields. Should be back shortly. Wanna wait?” She talks to him so casually; they must know each other. I have a shock of worry for the girl. Then a flash of gold on her left hand catches my attention.
She’s married. Thank heavens. Talbot looks me over again and then back at Judy and shrugs.
“I don’t mind staying, you know, for a little bit,” Talbot says, and points to the chairs lining the walls by the front door. I take one of the seats but stay perched on the edge of the cushion, afraid of looking lazy if the lieutenant colonel walks in. I cross my legs, one over the other, at first. But when I notice Talbot watching, I quickly change my position, crossing at my ankles instead, tugging at the hem of my skirt.
Judy raises her eyebrow and seems to catch on to Talbot’s interest. She sits up tall, as if her spine were a puzzle clicking into place.
“Sarah had fun last night,” she says in a lowered voice but loud enough that I can hear. “We should do it again sometime. How about Friday? At the hall?”
“This girl sings down there on Fridays. I’ve seen her lots of times.” Talbot looks at me and back at Judy, ignoring the question about poor Sarah.