CHAPTER EIGHT
From Dr. Smythe to Johanna
July 18, 1944
Dear Miss Berglund,
After all I did to secure this position for you, I am surprised that I have not heard a single word from you this spring and summer. However, Major Davies has jotted off an enthusiastic note or two on your behalf explaining how vital you’ve been to the camp. Army-trained translators are notoriously overconfident in their abilities despite the fact that their training is inadequate, so I’m pleased that you are representing the superiority of university-trained professionals.
If you would write a short report as to your work so far, the university trustees would like to deliver it to the administrator of the foreign-language scholarship.
I must ask that you take care to avoid the rather abrupt manner you often displayed in class. The point of communication is not, in fact, to alienate as many people as possible in as few words as possible. Bear this principle in mind as you write, please.
If you could deliver your letter to me by the end of the month, I would be most grateful.
Dr. Sheridan Smythe
Chair of the Modern Languages Department,
University of Minnesota
From Johanna to Dr. Smythe
July 22, 1944
Dear Dr. Smythe,
Thank you for inquiring after my progress. Prior to this, I thought I’d let Major Davies write on my behalf and spare you my “abrupt manner.”
I will send a letter to you within the next few weeks. You should recall that I’ve never turned in a single assignment late, no matter how trivial.
And don’t worry, I will have proper respect for the donor and his financial contributions to my university studies, no matter how mysteriously anonymous.
Finally, in defense of the army-trained translators, while I have a much broader and literary knowledge of German, the guards here have more practical instruction and aren’t nearly the dullards you imply. I’ve learned a great deal from them in the past few months. It’s an entirely different matter to translate Kafka and Kant than it is to calm a mob of angry POWs when the mess hall runs out of coffee at breakfast.
I hope to be rejoining your classes in September. Save a desk for me in the front row.
Cordially,
Johanna Berglund
A draft of a letter from Johanna to the University of Minnesota trustees and scholarship donor, never sent
July 23, 1944
To my Mysterious Scholarship Donor,
Well, you got what you wanted. I’m serving my country during wartime, and in doing so, I gave up the studies I love. It feels unreasonable that all of my hopes and dreams for the future rest on the favor of some anonymous Daddy Warbucks who’s probably smoking a Cuban cigar in a Summit Avenue mansion.
A draft of a letter from Johanna to the University of Minnesota trustees and scholarship donor, never sent
July 23, 1944
To Whom It May Concern,
Dr. Smythe, my stuffy academic advisor, has informed me that you are using the scholarship to blackmail and bribe young people into public service to recognize students working toward careers in politics and diplomacy. I hope the following will help you understand how my current work aligns with this goal.
Even I am forced to admit that my time at Camp Ironside has been fascinating. My work requires skills such as a nuanced approach to interactions, an understanding of people, and the ability to adapt to new developments, none of which I possess in abundance.
My recent tasks have included teaching an English class to spoiled officers who resent being indoctrinated, censoring mail, serving as a liaison to the YMCA, making rounds of the camp to assess the men’s attitudes, settling disputes about the quality and number of latrines important matters of day-to-day life, and regularly infuriating half of the town’s population by editing a column in the town newspaper designed to improve the camp’s relationship with the citizens of Ironside Lake.
Currently, the camp is relatively entirely peaceful. The community has reached a place of grudging acceptance since there have been no disturbances since the men’s arrival. Around two dozen men even attend a worship service in town. When I visit worksites to assess conditions, the farmers report that the prisoners’ work is adequate exceeds expectations.
I feel I have a duty to help my fellow Americans recognize their essential shared humanity with the POWs. If only the rest of Ironside Lake, the rest of the nation, even, could sit down and speak with Stefan Werner about childhood memories and women’s rights and the US Constitution these men, they would want the war to end even sooner to prevent the loss of life on both sides, and would pursue a policy of peaceful reconciliation rather than vindictive punishment. However, this is something I feel I can do even more effectively from Minneapolis than Ironside Lake, since it seems my services here might not be needed for the duration of the year.
I hope this essay is enough to satisfy your unreasonable demands keen interest in the next generation and their pursuit of noble goals.
From Johanna to the University of Minnesota trustees and scholarship donor
July 23, 1944
To Whom It May Concern,
First of all, please let me extend my heartfelt thanks for the scholarship that enabled my first two years of study at the University of Minnesota. I believe it is vital to have women represented in all fields, as there are roles we are uniquely qualified to fill. I am finding this to be true in my current position.
I have attached a detailed description of my responsibilities here at the camp and how they might prepare me for a possible future career in diplomacy and foreign aid.
Major Davies will confirm that the government is seriously considering dissolving my position within the next month if there are no setbacks in relations between the camp and the community. Therefore, I’m excited to report that I plan on reenrolling in courses beginning in September. I hope this essay satisfies you that I am qualified for the scholarship to which you have so generously donated.
If you would like more detail, either about my current work or my future aspirations, please feel free to write me at this address.
Yours truly,
Johanna Berglund
Article in the Ironside Broadside on July 24, 1944
ALLEGED NAZI BREAKOUT ON LOCAL’S PROPERTY
A local farmer believes he saw one of the prisoners from the POW camp on his property last night at around ten o’clock in the evening. Lifelong Ironside Lake resident Jacob Lindberg reports that he was sitting on the porch smoking when he saw someone moving at the edge of his property.
“At first, I thought it was one of the Johansson boys trying to steal a chicken,” he said. “But there was just enough moon, I caught a glimpse of his back. I’m sure I saw PW marked there. Dead sure.”
According to Lindberg, when he called out, “Who’s there?”, unsure if the man was armed, the stranger ran for the trees.
Camp Ironside’s only statement was a repetition of the safety measures in place: Curfew and bed checks ensure everyone is in their barracks, except on Sunday evening, the camp’s day of rest. During the week, prisoners are taken to their work assignments under armed guard and are fully visible at all times while laboring. Guards regularly patrol the fence and are stationed day and night in two sixteen-foot guard towers overlooking the camp.
Our research indicates there have been dozens of escapes from camps across the nation, including several reported in Minnesota. Most were classified as “incidents” because the prisoners returned of their own accord the next day, sneaking out for drink or other entertainment. The New Ulm newspaper has reported three such incidents in the past year alone, with exactly the same security measures as our own camp.
What’s more, under the Geneva Convention, an escape is not classified as a crime. Unless it can be proven that a POW has committed theft, murder, or another violation of the laws of the land, he can only be disciplined with time in solitary confinement (maximum of thirty days), a bread and water diet, and the loss of some privileges.
Mayor Carl Berglund has announced that he will investigate the camp’s security and provide a statement for any interested community members at next week’s town hall meeting, including procedure for reporting any possible escapes.
From Stefan Werner to Johanna, left on her desk at headquarters Recalled from memory—original was burned
July 24, 1944
I did not want to answer your question while there were others around. They might see my answer as a betrayal, but I will tell you the truth.
Yes, it is possible that some have gone outside the compound, though I have not heard of it. A man could bend the wires of the fence and dig underneath like a badger, if he meant to bolt.
Still, I am not concerned, and your army men should not be either. It might be that some men slip out every now and again to meet a woman or to go for a moonlit swim or to fulfill a challenge. They are bored, and escape is something to fill the time. But if they do go, they always come back. Never has morning roll call revealed one of my men missing.
You are always clever, Fräulein Berglund. Take my advice in this: Be clever enough to let it go.
And please destroy this note. If my men or the major found it, the worst of it would fall on me.
–S
From Johanna to Major Davies
July 24, 1944
Major Davies,
While Miss Harrigan was out to lunch, I took six calls from her desk regarding suspicions of sabotage caused by our POWs. Six. In an hour. It seems like everyone in town thinks the camp operates a revolving door for saboteurs and thieves. I’m going to be hearing the telephone in my sleep tonight.
The following is an exhaustive list of reported incidents. Some have also notified the local police and possibly rung up Fort Snelling and the FBI and General Eisenhower’s aide-de-camp, for all I know.
I would like to request that I not be called on to act as substitute secretary in the future. I have important work to do and can’t waste my time being stenographer to the collective paranoia of a town whipped into a frenzy by a specious article.
Johanna Berglund
From Pastor Sorenson to Johanna
July 25, 1944
Dear Johanna,
Your father mentioned you interrogated him about the vandalism of Immanuel Lutheran some weeks ago. I wish you’d come directly to me. I never intended to conceal anything, though I am surprised you heard about it. I’d thought Annika and I were the only ones who knew. I wouldn’t even have told her—the phrases written were not ones a lady should ever be exposed to—but her bedroom, if you remember, faces the church, and in the summer, her windows are open, so she was the one to hear the vandals in the first place.
As to why I didn’t tell anyone, what could we do? Search every house, barn, and hand for specks of red paint? Ask at the grocery who bought several cartons of eggs at once? In any case, I had no intention of pressing charges even if we could find the culprit.
A small part of me wanted to nail my own “95 Theses” on the church door in response, like Luther himself, but about the treatment that Scripture demands of the foreigner in our midst. “Here I stand, I can do no other,” etc. But I’m better with a paintbrush than I am a hammer.
The way I see it, though, whoever scrawled those cruel and obscene words wanted to make their mark. They wanted to be heard. And if Annika and I could ruin their hopes by going out at 3:00 a.m. with a bucket of soapy water and a can of paint, well, we’ve done the best we could.
I knew what I was getting into, allowing your prisoners of war into our church. Still, it makes me weary, even angry, scrubbing away so much mistrust. I think the reason pastors are more apt to believe in depravity is because we see so very much of it—not only in others, but also in our own hearts.
I know you think the current uproar is unreasonable, and I’m sure much of it is. But we are to be “wise as serpents and harmless as doves,” according to our Lord. I would urge you not to be too much of the dove toward our brothers in your camp, and I will exhort the others in town to set aside some of their snakelike vigor for casting blame.
Peace be with you,
Pastor A. Sorenson
Article in the Ironside Broadside on July 30, 1944
FIRE AT CAMP IRONSIDE
Members of the Ironside Lake Volunteer Fire Brigade were called out late last night to battle raging flames centered on one of the camp’s storage facilities. The fire was extinguished around midnight, and no one was seriously injured. Damage to the building was significant, but the flames barely touched the roof of the adjacent structure—the camp’s chapel—before it was contained.
A guard on one of the tower platforms reportedly saw the rising smoke and alerted camp leadership. By the time the fire brigade arrived, many of the prisoners had abandoned their barracks and added to the general chaos by running around “in a disorderly manner,” according to our source.
Yet the warning sirens installed in the guard towers were never deployed, presumably because the camp commander wished to keep knowledge of this late-night emergency from the general public.
Cause of the fire is presently unknown, but an anonymous source close to the scene indicated that it may not have been an accident.
Once again, Major Davies was unable to be reached for comment, but it is assumed that proper safety and disciplinary action will be taken. Some have speculated that this hazardous incident might cause a Red Cross investigation into the camp, as it would be a danger to the men to remain in a damaged camp, and a danger to our own citizens if the men were allowed outside the fence in case of another such emergency.
This is the second in a string of troubling incidents at Camp Ironside in the space of one week, the first being the recent alleged sighting of an escaped prisoner.
Notice posted to the Camp Ironside canteen Translated into German by Johanna Berglund (three exclamation points removed from original)
July 30, 1944
Due to the incident last night, matches and tobacco will no longer be sold at the camp canteen during the month of August. If there are no further disturbances, sales will resume on a trial basis, with restrictions on designated smoking areas. This policy will be strictly enforced. Fire of any sort is a danger to all of us in a contained facility.
Tomorrow, we will hold an assembly to review emergency procedures for disasters of all kinds so that all will be prepared to face them with order and discipline.
Major J. E. Davies
From Johanna to Peter
July 30, 1944
German Idiom of the Day: Er verlangt immer eine Extrawurst. Literally, “he always asks for extra sausage,” meaning he expects special treatment or privileges.
Context: Grumblings about Stefan using his position as camp spokesman to smoke cigars with the major in his office.
Dear Peter,
No sooner had I posted a letter to my university scholarship donor assuring him there would be no incidents when some fool decides to burn the camp down.
Well, to be fair, it might have been an accident, but that’s certainly not what the major thinks. I know because today I was accused of arson.
If you’re shocked by that, imagine how I felt.
Although I heard no sirens in the night, I witnessed the hard work of the volunteer fire department the moment I reported to work this morning. Our central storage unit—where we kept extra clothes, donations, and bins for the weekly laundry truck delivery—was a charred mass of rubble, and the corner of the chapel roof has minor damage as well. Thank God that was all.
From what I gathered from the gawkers, guards, and prisoners alike, they found two cigarette butts in the rubble and think the blaze might have been lit by a careless toss of the still-burning stubs.
PFC Wright was the one who summoned me away from the crowd to see the major. Naturally, I assumed it was to ask me to make inquiries alongside Captain Werner about who had started the fire. I had no way of suspecting the real purpose. Wright looked grim as a gargoyle, but he’s always uncomfortable around me, so it was impossible to tell the difference.
At headquarters, I found a clean ashtray centered in the middle of my desk, and when I asked about it, Major Davies brusquely reiterated the policy about smoking out of doors. After I reminded him that I don’t smoke, he stared at me hard, as if trying to bore into my brain.
It turns out the real issue is twofold. First, the cigarette stubs found at the scene had the clean-cut lines and rounded red logos of Lucky Strikes, not the clumsy, hand-rolled-in-newspaper cigarettes that the POWs smoke. Our canteen only sells tobacco, not finished cigarettes, so the major concluded that the cigarettes in the rubble must have been left by a guard or staff member able to go into town and purchase them.
Second, I had a . . . discussion, you might say, with Stefan Werner regarding cigarettes recently. It got a bit heated, pardon the pun, and the major must have heard all of it from his office. Stefan found out about my resolve not to smoke and called me “the perfect Nazi woman,” since apparently Hitler hates the vile habit. I didn’t find his teasing at all funny, but I had completely forgotten about it. “You don’t think I’d take up smoking just because Captain Werner approved of my abstinence?” I demanded.
Instead of admitting it was absurd, Davies looked me square in the face and said, “There was the incident with the hair.”
And then he had the gall to open up the Acme Tires matchbook in my top drawer, which he had clearly done before I arrived. Yes, there was one match missing, but not because I had gone out smoking, just because I’d wanted to burn something earlier. A scrap of trash, that’s all.
By then, my face was Campbell’s tomato soup red out of anger, but it must have looked like shame, because Major Davies retreated to his office, muttering under his breath.
So now the camp commander suspects not only that I would break camp rules to defy a POW’s teasing, but also that I’d lie about it to keep myself from blame. Dyeing my hair in response to Stefan’s taunts is one thing, breaking camp rules is entirely another.
Besides that, the timing is all wrong. Yes, I was at the camp later than usual last night—Mother had to reheat dinner for me—but the fire must have begun at something like eleven o’clock. No cigarette smolders for hours before igniting, does it? And for goodness’ sake, everyone knows to make sure a cigarette is fully stamped out before leaving it. I am the most practical person within this barbed-wire perimeter; I would never forget something so basic, even if I hadn’t much practice.
Major Davies is also quite upset that today’s edition of the Broadside covered the fire. The volunteer firefighters were asked not to report the incident, so that means either they broke their word, or someone else within the camp leaked the information to the newspaper early this morning.
I suspect that’s why he declared on the spot, weeks earlier than his planned reevaluation, that my position will not be dissolved. With tensions inside the camp and out, we need a go-between, he said, to keep things as peaceable as possible. I’m sure it was to punish me for not admitting to something I didn’t do. He knows I want to go back to university.
I still could. I could quit this moment and storm back to school for my third year, getting a part-time job, perhaps, to make up the difference in tuition lost from the scholarship. With all my practice at the typewriter lately, I’d make an unparalleled clerk. But there’s the question of Dr. Smythe letting me back in, and I know my parents would be humiliated if I stole away from town in the night. Dad would never hold it over me, but I’m fully aware of his reelection bid in November. And what would happen to the column and the men who look at me as their champion? Even if a replacement could be found, a new translator certainly wouldn’t keep that going.
No, I’m afraid I’m here to stay for now. The men will leave at the end of November, so perhaps I can start afresh second semester and make up for lost time. Unless the farmers request POW labor for another year and I’m trapped until the war ends.
To make matters worse, Brady McHenry canceled this week’s POW Potato Brigade column. Not because he’s concerned about letting the hubbub about the fire and the alleged escape die down—oh no—but to give him more space to print additional letters of outrage. (“It’s the citizens who buy the papers, my dear, not the POWs.”) Poor Kurt’s heartwarming description of the wood carving class he started will have to wait until another week, I suppose.
Give me some good news, Peter. Please. I need it.
Jo
From Johanna to Peter, a graduation card
July 31, 1944
Peter, I’m an idiot. No sooner had I posted my letter when I remembered your students’ examinations and graduation are this coming weekend. I know you’re not the one being tested, but of course you’ll be nervous on their behalf. So let this card congratulate you (and them) in advance. You’re an amazing teacher—and a good friend. I’m grateful to know you.
Best of luck to all!
Jo
From Peter to Johanna
August 4, 1944
A letter and a store-bought card from you announced at mail call in one week—the boys probably all think I’m a celebrity. I sure felt like one.
Part of me wants to pass along what I know I ought to say: I’m sorry about Major Davies forcing you to stay as translator, and so on.
The truth is, I’m not. I think you’ve been wonderful for that camp, and for Ironside Lake, and maybe even the United States in general. I think this country needs a voice willing to speak up and question blind patriotism, and that’s what you’re doing by humanizing those POWs. And I think you should keep doing it.
You have to know I mean it, because I miss having you here. Selfishly, I’d rather you told me Major Davies was sending you back to Minneapolis on the first train. But even if it’s not in the place you wanted to be, you’re doing work you’re brilliant at for people you care about, and that’s something to be proud of.
It’s rotten that Davies would accuse you of starting the fire, though. Do you think someone suggested you to him? Someone you don’t get along with, maybe? It seems like quite the leap otherwise. Then again, I’m sure he was exhausted and angry and terrified at the idea of his camp being put under Red Cross scrutiny. Sometimes when things are that bad, a fellow will grab at anyone around to take the fall.
I’m writing this to you late the night before exams. Yes, I’ll admit to having trouble sleeping. I am worried about my students, but not that they’ll fail their examinations. A few will be held back for remedial work, but most will pass or, more accurately, be rammed through. They’re desperate now, Jo. The tone of MIS communication is getting more urgent every day. Since the liberation of Paris seems likely, with the German forces taking heavy losses, the Pacific theater will become more and more critical. This country will be depending on my boys, and the trouble is, I know they’re just that: boys, eager and brave but inexperienced.
What I’m most afraid of is that they’ll get over there and be shoved into a life-or-death moment . . . and I won’t have taught them what they need to know. I’m not an army man, Jo. I spent hours painstakingly translating Pettigrew’s manual on the Japanese military structure and strategy, trying to apply it to my lessons, but it was like a foreign language of its own to me. What if I got something wrong or left something out? What if we have a report read to us at breakfast one day that one of my boys died in the line of fire, and I could have prevented it?
At the end of our ukulele lesson tonight, Makoto solemnly gave me his beloved instrument. “You take care o’ her for me, coach,” he said. I promised I would. It’s sitting on my desk now, the strings tight and ready for my still-inferior plucking, surface carefully polished with a few dabs of Brylcreem (I’m guessing by the musky smell of it) rubbed into the wood. But soon its owner will be gone, thousands of miles away, huddled in a foxhole or hugging his knees in a bomber. And I’ll still be here.
Maybe I know what you mean now, the feeling of being trapped.
It’s the first time I’ve felt bad that they’re going into danger and I’m staying safely behind, maybe because I know this graduating class so much better. Roy, who dreams of sketching a Japanese American superhero comic someday. Terry, who confessed that he tried to get dismissed for all his pranks because he was sure he’d flunk out and bring shame to his family. Kenneth, who’s my starting pitcher and eats meals with the rest of the team now. And Makoto, who can be a master interrogator one minute and an island dreamer the next.
Pray for them with me, will you, Jo? I know you aren’t praying much anymore, but this is important.
The one good thing about exams and graduation is that I’ll be seeing you soon. It’s crept up on me, and now it’s almost here, my visit to beautiful Ironside Lake. I’ll start packing my bags on Sunday, once this is all over. That’s the best news I can give you at the moment.
Time to try (again) to sleep.
Your friend,
Peter
From Olive to Johanna
August 5, 1944
Dear Johanna,
It’s been so long since my last letter that you’re free to disown me as a friend. I meant to write, honestly, but spending the summer trapped with four young siblings and my aging aunt and uncle means I’ve barely gotten two consecutive minutes alone since May.
Not that there’s news to pass along. My aunt’s gnat-ridden cow, Molly, has been thoroughly informed about Linus Pauling’s work on covalent and ionic bonding. She hasn’t given me much feedback.
Let me know how you’re getting on with the POWs. It seems people always either love you or hate you. You know what camp I’ve been in ever since you found me sniffling on the steps of Folwell Hall and invited me to have a cup of tea. (They really shouldn’t make American university buildings look so very English, with gargoyles and balustrades, if they don’t want us Brits to get homesick.)
Speaking of, I got a letter from Clive/Chive today. He says all is shipshape on the coast and that the war could end any day. Also, potentially of interest: He doesn’t have a sweetheart yet. (I asked.)
Time to weed the garden. I’m so dreadfully freckled and sunburned, I plan to wear a sack over my head the first several weeks back at university.
I hope your life has been more interesting than mine. And have you heard from Peter lately? As you know, I’d love to hear your news. Do tell all.
All the best,
Olive
From Peter to Johanna
August 6, 1944
Dear Jo,
Well, wouldn’t you know it, just about the time I find I like teaching, they’ve moved me on to something else. How’s that for a blow?
Jo, don’t be angry at me . . . but that “something else” is active duty.
I’m young enough—the other instructors are mostly my father’s age—and they desperately need the translators. Since they’re moving the language school to Fort Snelling next month, they have a few officers there able to take over part of the training, making my job as instructor less necessary.
Besides, they had me tested, and—let me brag a little, will you?—I got the highest score in the camp. When it came time for an oral examination, the colonel, who had spent a number of years in Japan, said, “Young man, I honestly believe you’d be able to convince the most hardened Kamikaze to surrender and then mail his wages stateside to buy US war bonds.” Oddest compliment I’ve ever gotten, but I don’t think I’ve stopped grinning since.
So I’m off to Camp Blanding in Florida next Tuesday, uniform and all. Before you go congratulating me on heading someplace warm . . . they’ve cut our basic training in half, from sixteen weeks to eight. I’ll be over in the Pacific by the first of October.
It hasn’t fully sunk in yet, but as soon as they asked me, I felt a sense of relief. This time, I won’t be sending my boys out to risk their lives alone. I’ll be going with them, taking on some of the sacrifice myself. Maybe that’s what I’ve wanted all this time; I just never realized it.
And guess what else? I’m an officer, Jo. A second lieutenant, with a shiny gold bar on my brand-new uniform, one of the first Japanese American officers in the war.
I know it’s not fair of me to tell you like this, without any warning, but they only just decided for sure, and with everything going on in Ironside Lake, I didn’t want you to worry.
It looks like I won’t be able to visit you next week after all. That’s my biggest disappointment. Please tell your mother I’m sorry—and maybe I can get a rain check for after the war.
Write back soon.
Your friend,
Second Lieutenant Peter Ito
From Johanna to Peter
August 9, 1944
Worry? You didn’t want me to . . . Peter, I could just about march all the way down to Savage and talk some sense into you—or wring your neck!
Of course you were first in your class. You taught the class! Can’t they see you’d be a hundred times more valuable to them training others than going yourself? I know you could have persuaded them, and don’t try to tell me you aren’t necessary. Fort Snelling or no, you have more students than ever. How could eliminating instructors possibly be helpful?
There, I’m turning into Major Davies with his exclamation points and dramatics. But you told me yourself there were dozens of necessary noncombat placements, like the radio broadcasters feeding propaganda across the ocean, or the stateside translators of leaflets to be dropped from planes. Why couldn’t you fill one of those roles?
Peter, I’m scared for you. What if American soldiers can’t tell the difference between you and the enemy? You’ll be shot at from both sides. And do you know what the Japanese would do to you if you were captured? They’d treat you as a traitor.
I know the same is true for any of your students, and I should be this upset about any of them going into combat. But . . . none of them are you.
I’ll pray because I know I should. Every day. But I also remember the vigil of members filling Immanuel Lutheran Church when the Sorensons received the telegram telling them that their son was injured and doing badly, and Erik still died.
The truth is, I don’t understand. The more bad news that comes in the mail, the more I feel like the faith I used to claim might be an elaborate myth, teaching moral lessons without providing real comfort.
See there. What a terrible friend I’ve been. First I go on and on about my own problems, asking for advice and complaining. And now, when you’ve received the recognition you’ve long deserved, I talk about how your enlisting affects me and how upset I am.
Have I always been this selfish? How on earth have you put up with me for this long?
I want to send this right away so you’ll be sure to get it before you leave, but I’ll write again when I’ve calmed down.
Jo
Telegram from Johanna to Peter on August 11, 1944
IGNORE LAST LETTER. TRAVELING TO CITY TOMORROW MORNING TO SAY GOOD-BYE. MEET AT USO CLUB NEAR 2 PM IF AGREEABLE.
Telegram from Peter to Johanna on August 11, 1944
VERY AGREEABLE. DINNER AFTERWARD? BRINGING MY UKULELE. I HAVE SOMETHING IMPORTANT TO TELL YOU.
Telegram from Johanna to Peter on August 11, 1944
RISKY. USO JR HOSTESSES NOT PERMITTED TO DINE WITH SERVICEMEN.
Telegram from Peter to Johanna on August 11, 1944
LUCKY FOR ME YOU ARENT A REAL JR HOSTESS. SEE YOU TOMORROW.
EVIDENCE FOR THE PROSECUTION
FROM EVELYN DAVIES TO HELEN PEALE
August 14, 1944
My dear sister,
It seems so long ago that I clung to you at Grand Central, sobbing like a girl off to boarding school. Honestly, to take us at our age and uproot us from our home and deposit us in this godforsaken wilderness . . . it’s disrespectful. Don’t they realize all that Jeffrey did for this country? And all I sacrificed, waiting for him with nothing but a dime-store ring and a promise those long years while he fought in the Great War?
But of course Jeffrey doesn’t see it that way. By coming here, he was pleasing the entire US Army and only disappointing me. So he placated me with a fur muff and promised that I’d find the fresh air “rejuvenating.” Well, it’s August. The air smells like fertilizer, I’m practically assaulted by mosquitos every time I step outside, and I want to go home.
The other night, when I was expressing these reasonable concerns, Jeffrey brought up the camp orchestra as evidence of culture around us. As any reasonable person would, I scoffed at the comparison. A ragtag collection of German soldiers playing at Bach can’t compare to our plush seats at the Metropolitan Opera or Carnegie Hall. The only classical stations we can receive are those from Minneapolis and sometimes Des Moines (that’s in Iowa, dear—I’m sure you’ve never heard of it), which I don’t need to tell you are positively provincial in comparison to the New York Philharmonic.
And what did Jeffrey say to that? “Be patient. I’m trying, my love.” Trying. What is that supposed to mean?
I’ve nothing at all to do but page through catalogs and attempt to find someone worth talking to. Goodness knows I never see Jeffrey; the camp steals away so much of his time. I’d thought the girl he has working in his office, translating German, showed potential. No-nonsense, smart, reliable—just the qualities I worked hard to develop in my own young womanhood. But it wasn’t long before I realized that she’s nothing but trouble.
You’ll never believe it, Helen. She’s head over heels for a Japanese man. To hear the postman tell it, she writes letters to him every week. When I called him her sweetheart, she denied it vehemently, but how many matches have I picked out from the very first soiree? Dozens, it must be by now. And Johanna Berglund is in love with this Japanese—I can’t remember his name, Wong, probably. The way she speaks of him makes it clearer than a crystal wineglass.
Why, only a few days ago, she announced she wouldn’t be arriving for work the next day. No asking for permission, no advance notice. Apparently this Wong fellow joined the army and she wanted to say good-bye. Jeffrey, softhearted as he is, allowed it.
When she came back—I saw her just hours ago—she looked like a different woman, testy and pale, her mind clearly somewhere other than my conversation. Then, in response to my simple question about how her visit had gone, she snapped that she had work to get to and would I please leave her to it.
Mark my words, Helen, she professed her love to this Wong fellow, and he jilted her. It serves her right. A young woman that arrogant needs to be taken down a peg.
Even Jeffrey is coming around to my opinion of her. She’s written a few letters to the YMCA without his knowledge or approval, authorizing a trip to the movie theater and the delivery of sheet music—Wagner, of all things—for the men. Without even telling him! There aren’t many things my husband hates, but insubordination is one of them, and this girl is all that and more. Defiant, even. I saw that almost right away and told him so, but he didn’t listen.
Pity me, Helen. Even the gossip in this town is utterly unremarkable. No scandals of any interest. Give me some real news, and I will live through you until I’m able to join you again. If I survive the next several months, that is.
Much love,
Evelyn