Sixteen

Jimmy sat at his desk trying to ignore the commandant’s abrasive bellowing at a hapless sergeant in the adjoining office as he thought about Imogene and the untenable task she had asked of him.

He knew how dangerous it would be for them both if the commandant found out he had met with her last week. Even more dangerous if he found out they’d had a prior relationship. At best, Jimmy would be punished; at worst, transferred. Either way he would no longer be able to protect her.

Wearily he dropped his head onto his crossed arms on the desk. “Dear God,” he murmured, “please give me an idea of what I can do to help them.” They had suffered so much. He sat up and absently began to sort the sheets of requisitions on his desk, putting them in appropriate piles for the commandant’s signature.

He paused, stared at the paper in his hand, put it down, and stared at it again. Then he slipped a page into his typewriter and typed in his request, leaving blank the line at the bottom. He stuck it in the middle of the pile, lost among the other sheets to be signed.

❧

It was midafternoon, and the dorm was empty except for Imogene and Becky. Imogene sat on her cot, her back propped against the wall, a book open in her lap. It might as well have been closed for all the reading she had done.

It had been over a week since her conversation with Jimmy. If he was making any progress toward getting Becky out of the camp, he gave no sign. From the beginning she had wondered if his “I’ll try” had been merely a way of placating her. An idle promise. Time would tell. She sighed, glad she’d had the wisdom not to mention the possibility of escape to Becky.

She looked over at her sister, napping on the cot next to her. The support of David’s family since they’d learned of Becky’s internment had helped. As Greeks, they had not been imprisoned as the Americans were, and they visited outside the gate regularly, bringing her nourishing food and loving encouragement.

But clearly Becky’s strength came from her belief in a loving and protective God. A conclusion, in the face of such devastating grief, that Imogene could not understand.

One of the twins tiptoed into the room, pulled a checkerboard from the stash of games under her bed, and tiptoed out again.

Their roommates had responded to the tragedy with an unexpected kindness. Even the twins had been more considerate than Imogene thought possible for energetic thirteen year olds. She wondered how long it would last.

Miss Goldie appeared in the door holding a package. “It’s for you,” she whispered, handing it to Imogene. “Amazing how quickly the Red Cross managed to track you down.”

“Seems like an eternity to me.” This was the first package any of them had received.

“You don’t have to whisper. I’m awake.” Becky sat up and dropped her feet to the floor. She rubbed her protruding belly.

If Jimmy didn’t come up with something soon, time would not only tell, but it would also run out.

“Who is it from?” Becky asked, revealing her own excitement.

“My college roommate, Daisy,” Imogene said, studying the return address. “It was mailed in March. Went first to Negros.” She tore open the box.

On top was Daisy’s letter.

“Read it aloud,” Becky said. “I’m dying to hear what’s happening in America.”

“I suspect anything worth hearing about will be censored,” Imogene said. She glanced down the page. “What a surprise! Nothing’s blacked out.” She cleared her throat and began.

Dear Imo,

How life has changed here at Oxy. At first the war seemed so far away, and I’m afraid I saw it as quite glamorous. The boys looking so handsome, dashing about importantly in their new uniforms.

“That sounds like Daisy,” Imogene murmured. “Always alert to what’s important.”

I must say, though, that it didn’t take long for my attitude to change. We’re not just playing at war; this is the real thing. Aside from the silly little inconveniences like running out of colas in the beverage machine and that yucky oleo margarine instead of butter, we’ve painted all the windows in the dorms black and collected scrap metal. Some of the boys have become fire wardens and learned about incendiary bombs. I even picked up a shovel and filled sandbags.

Imogene looked up. “From the girl who can’t stand to perspire.”

As for me personally, I’ve become quite proficient at first aid, and I’m on the “Dance for Defense” Committee—

“That figures.” Imogene laughed.

We moved the Wednesday night mixer to the girls’ gym and charge a ten-cent defense stamp admission fee. You’d be amazed at how many we collect. I’m also learning to knit so I can knit sweaters for the Red Cross.

So you can see, I’m not the frivolous scatterbrain you once thought I was. I’m doing my bit for the war effort, but I’m missing you dreadfully.

“I miss you, too, dear Daisy.” Imogene folded the letter. They were worlds apart now, in distance and in experience, but certainly not in heart.

“I can’t wait to see what she sent you,” Becky said.

“Knowing Daisy, I’m sure it will all be very practical.” Imogene grinned. She rummaged around in the box and drew out a smart green pouch. “Ah, a makeup kit. Just what I’ve needed.” She unzipped the kit and laid it flat open in front of her on the cot. “And look—it has special pockets for the important beauty necessities.”

“Like an eyelash curler,” Becky cried, picking it up and demonstrating how it worked. She handed it to Miss Goldie, who giggled like a schoolgirl and followed suit.

“And nail polish,” Imogene said. “My favorite color. And two bottles.”

“One for your fingers and one for your toes,” Becky said.

Imogene dug deeper into the box and pulled out—“Ta da!”—a double box of See’s candy. She held it just out of her sister’s reach.

“Oh, Imo, really.” With mock disgust, Becky grabbed the box, ripped it open, and popped a truffle in her mouth before Imogene could snatch it back.

“Don’t eat it all at once. We’ve got to make it last.”

“Remember what Cluny said about wearing our valuables,” Becky reminded her, shoving another bonbon into her mouth. “What better way.”

Again Imogene rummaged in the box and pulled out—

“A snood.” Becky cackled.

Imogene tied the band around her head and tucked her bob of dark hair into the woven net pouch. She assumed a model’s pose. “Do I look glamorous?”

“Indeed you do. Let’s see how Rebecca looks in it,” Miss Goldie suggested.

Looking in a hand mirror that had accompanied the makeup kit, Becky giggled as Miss Goldie tucked her long, dark hair into the snood.

“Hey, Imogene.” Gloria stood in the doorway. Smoke from the cigarette dangling in the corner of her mouth snaked around her head. She wore a short green sheath, so snug that if it had been any tighter, it would have looked as if it were tattooed on her.

Crooking her index finger for Imogene to follow, she waited in the hall, one hand resting on her cocked hip. The ash from her cigarette dropped toward the floor, intercepted by her generous bosom. Her voice was low and covert. “Jimmy wants you to meet him in the music room at four.”