Page 6 of The Women of Oak Ridge
I accepted the paper. It bore my name at the top, along with a five-digit number. “Thank you,” I said. She nodded and called for the remaining woman.
I made my way to the door she’d indicated. It opened into a room where ladies sat behind desks, the clickety-clack of typewriters and voices echoing off bare wooden walls. Women I’d watched go through the door ahead of me sat in chairs opposite the typists.
“Over here.” A lady seated toward the back of the room waved to me.
I hurried in her direction.
She didn’t introduce herself once I was seated but immediately began to ask dozens of questions—my birth date, where I was born, and more—then typed out my answers. She wanted to know what I did at my job at the hardware store and if I could drive a vehicle.
Then she inquired about personal things that made me uneasy.
Are you a drinker? Do you have a boyfriend? Would you turn in a family member if they did something illegal? Would you ever belong to an organization that wished to overthrow the government?
I didn’t have anything to hide, but I wondered what my answers had to do with the job I’d been hired for.
When the questioning came to an end, she took my photograph,made ink impressions of all ten of my fingertips, had me sign some official-looking documents that emphasized the need for confidentiality, and handed me a carbon copy of the form she’d filled out. “You’ve been assigned to the maintenance shop at K-25. Your security clearance will take a few days but be ready to start work as soon as you’re notified. Go through there”—she pointed at yet another door—“to continue the process.”
I didn’t know what K-25 was, but now didn’t seem the time for questions.
I did as I was told and found myself in a large room filled with rows of chairs, occupied by women I’d seen in the first line, including Sissy. She motioned me to the empty seat next to her.
“What’d you think about all those questions they asked?” she whispered once I was seated.
“I suppose they have to be thorough before they can hire us and know what we’ll be good at.”
“I ain’t good at anything useful,” she said. “I just finished school in May. Been helpin’ Pa on the farm since my brother left for Europe, but I don’t guess these folks’ll need a hand with hogs ’n’ chickens.”
We shared a laugh.
“Mama wasn’t too keen on me coming to Tennessee,” she confided, “but Pa said I needed to experience the world outside of Georgia. I’m to work at someplace called Y-12.”
“I’ll be at K-25.”
“What do you s’pose those letters and numbers mean?”
I shrugged. I honestly had no idea. Everything about Clinton Engineer Works seemed shrouded in mystery and speculation.
An older man wearing a suit made his way to the front of the room.
“Ladies,” he said, his voice commanding silence. “Congratulations on joining Clinton Engineer Works. The job each of you willperform here is vital to the war effort, but as you may have guessed already, it is not something you’re allowed to talk about. To anyone. Each of you signed an agreement that states you will follow the rules we’ve established and will do your utmost to protect your fellow workers by keeping quiet about everything you see and do. Signs are posted throughout the Reservation to remind you to stay mum about what goes on here.”
A woman in the center of the room put her hand in the air. “Why is that, sir?”
He wore a grave expression as his gaze traveled over the audience. “Because we don’t want our enemies to know about this place or what might be happening here. It’s as simple as that.” He paused. “What I’m about to tell you may come as a shock, but it’s the truth. Someone in this very room could be a spy.”
An audible gasp went through the women, followed by murmuring and suspicious glances. Sissy and I exchanged a wide-eyed look.
The man called for silence. “It’s true,” he said when he had our full attention once again. “Spies are not always sinister-looking men wearing dark suits. They can be handsome gentlemen or amiable young women. They come in all shapes, sizes, and ages. You might work with a spy or even live with a spy and never be aware of it. That is why it isimperative”—he emphasized the word—“that you do not talk to anyone about the job you do here. Not to your coworker. Not to your roommate. Not to your boyfriend or your husband if you have one. Not even to the mother who brought you into this world. No one must know what you do. If anyone asks, tell them you make lights for lightning bugs or holes for donuts.”
Although his comment received a smattering of chuckles, I didn’t think he meant it as a joke. Whatever was happening at CEW was important enough to the war effort that the enemy had an interest in it.
When the room quieted, he read something called the Espionage Act of 1917. It defined what a disloyal American citizen might do and the punishment one would receive for such acts, including imprisonment and even death. As I listened, I couldn’t imagine why anyone born in America would do something to bring harm to their country. Surely it was foreigners, people with roots in a distant land, that would do such things.
I cast an uneasy glance around the room, wondering if the man exaggerated. Surely none of these women—normal-looking women—could possibly be a spy.
I peeked at Sissy out of the corner of my eye. She sat on the edge of her seat, listening intently as the man told the tale of an employee who was fired for writing a letter home that listed the number of dormitories at CEW. Sissy came across as a simple farm girl from Georgia, but was it a charade? Could someone as innocent looking as she was be a spy? The very thought seemed absurd. But what about the others, I wondered, studying the unfamiliar faces around me? Was someone even now gathering information to pass on to...
To whom? The Germans?
