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.
“She does?” Judy squints through the glass and laughs. “Oh, by golly, yes! I remember you. Sorry, dear, what’s your name?”
“Vivian,” I say, a warm blush on my cheeks. I’m proud of my work onstage at the USO, but I wasn’t planning to tell anyone at my new job about my stage persona.
“Yes! Vivian Snow.” Judy says the name like she’s reading it off a marquee outside a theater. Goose bumps break out on my legs and arms.
“Snow?” Talbot butts in. “I thought it was Santino . . . something or other.”
“Snow is my stage name.” Once again I’m little Viviana Santini, the shy daughter of immigrants who hid behind her mother’s skirts on the first day of school and was too nervous to sing the solo in the first-grade Christmas concert.
“Ah. ’Cause your real name makes you sound like an immigrant,” Talbot says matter-of-factly like he knows the ins and outs of such things. I switch my ankles to keep my outrage from being obvious. This is why I use a stage name. I’ve always been judged for being Italian. Both of my parents with accents. Wearing funny clothes. Living in a family with old-fashioned values. I have to hide so many things from my dad. My stage name is only one of them.
Judy seems to sense my uneasiness and leans across her desk to speak to me directly.
“Well, Vivian, that’s no matter. I’m starstruck here. What brings you to Camp Atterbury? Are you doing a show for the boys?”
Before I can answer, Talbot intervenes. “Nah. She’s just a secretary.”
Judy gasps in exaggerated offense. “Gary! Just a secretary? Excuse me?”
“Well, you know what I mean . . .”
As Talbot and Judy debate, I sink back and stare at the door, wishing I could walk out. It’s not that I don’t want to work here. Judy seems fine, but Talbot . . . There’s something about him that makes my skin crawl.
Just then, the door swings open like I’d willed it to happen. A uniformed soldier stomps in with mud on his boots that spills onto the tiled floor. Following behind him are three men in dark blue uniforms with the letters PW painted on their sleeves, pants, and worn leather boots.