My phone dings, and I look at that instead of the book.
It’s Hunter.
We had a call this morning, and I shot him a text with the basics of my new knowledge when I first sat down for the break. A fifteen-minute turnaround is pretty fast for the busy CFO, and his name still brings up butterflies in my midsection when it flashes on my screen.
HUNTER: Hey babe! You still on break?
ME: Yeah. Might be a while. Mac is yelling—a lot.
HUNTER: Ha.
ME: Yeah. He’s a blast.
HUNTER: Sounds like you’re learning some interesting stuff at least.
ME: Totally. It’s kinda surreal.
HUNTER: I’m sure. But nothing too scandalous, right? You said it’s a camp? Like—like the racist ones from WWII?
ME: Uh, you mean internment camps? For Japanese citizens?
HUNTER: Yeah. Is it shit like that? ’Cause, I know I’m not the PR specialist but that seems like it could be a nightmare if Vivian Snow worked at one of those.
The comment makes me pause for a moment and not the business side of me, more so the fiancée side of me. Is he worried about the nature of the camp because he wants to protect my family from scandal . . . or because he doesn’t want to be wrapped up in a scandal?
ME: From what Dottie said, it was different. POWs. Italians first and then Germans.
HUNTER: Dottie? Prisoners of war?
ME: Dottie’s our tour guide. And they were prisoners of war. Mac seems to think it’s a great detail, so we’re going with it. I didn’t know these camps existed.
HUNTER: Me either. Seems risky to bring it up. Maybe do some low-key opinion testing. Can’t they just stick with the wedding angle?
There it is—that paranoid warning bell inside my head. I’d be fine getting married in my mother’s living room or eloping to Paris—or spending a year or two engaged instead of this mad rush to the altar. But maybe when a philandering father like Hunter’s is also a blowhard who is often on the extreme side of most social, environmental, and political issues, the son’s image as a “good guy” becomes more important than his image as a successful businessperson. And that’s why I’m here, freezing cold in the middle of small-town Indiana and making a film that supports that narrative.
ME: Friendly reminder from your fiancée—none of this was my idea.
I hit send and watch for bouncing bubbles indicating his response, the warning bell growing softer the longer I stare at the screen. Still nothing.
I’m being ridiculous. The distance and solitude are getting to me. Hunter and I spend plenty of time apart because of our careers, but this is different. I’d planned to work on this project with my fiancé, not alone.
I’m just lonely. Hunter is a good guy. Hunter loves me. He wants to be my husband and the father of my children. My warning system is more sensitive than most because of the way I grew up and because my mom falls for users and scammers far too easily.
I stare at my phone, thumb hovering over the pop-up keyboard as I consider the addendum of an emoji, when I hear Conrad calling my name.
“Mac said to take an early lunch, but food won’t be here till noon, so you can sit in the car if you want.”
“In the car?”
“’Cause it’s cold,” he says, like an automaton reciting lines.
I glance over at the cluster of dark vehicles parked in the distance. The sun is bright and the air warm enough to keep my extremities from freezing, but I’m not sure how long that’ll last without the down jacket I stupidly left behind at the hotel. But I also don’t like the idea of sitting in a running motor vehicle for who knows how long.
“Could I wait in the museum?” I address the question to Dottie and Conrad. The POW museum is a five-minute car ride to the main entrance of the camp. The first walk-through of the facility was fascinating but also rushed, highly monitored and controlled by Mac’s editorial eye. I could easily spend another hour soaking in all the newspaper articles, photographs, and artifacts from a time when my grandmother’s life was on the cusp of so many changes.
“I would, dear, but we close for lunch in fifteen minutes or so.” She looks at the delicate watch with a dime-sized pearl face and thin silver band curled around her arthritic wrist. “I’m meeting Stan at the cafeteria for a bite. If you’d like to see more of the camp, I can take you back to the museum afterward.”
I ask Conrad for permission with a raised eyebrow.
“I guess I could have Marty pick you up after he grabs the catering. As long as you keep your phone volume up.”
I turn my ringer on in an exaggerated movement so he can clearly see it.
“Then it shouldn’t be a problem. Take the first car.”
“Let’s go, Dottie. We’re free!” I say, waving to my elderly accomplice as Conrad talks into a walkie-talkie. Moments later, one of the hired cars pulls up. I help Dottie into the front seat and then climb into the back. She guides the driver through the twisty, wooded lane before hitting the main road.
The base was quiet when we arrived at the Chapel in the Meadow this morning, but now it’s full of life.
We’re waved through an open gate that closes behind us. Following the asphalt road through rows of barracks, I notice fewer uniforms and more people dressed in civilian clothing. Men, women, and children walk together in what seem like family groupings dressed in bright, colorful, flowing garments, heads covered and many faces as well. The children are bright eyed with dark hair. One woman, heavily pregnant, walks slowly with three little curly-haired kids behind her.
“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.