The letter writer wants us to think he cares about propriety, though I doubt he even knows the word. Well, I say the army has had a good deal of practice at that, so we needn’t concern ourselves. There are Women’s Army Corps members at Fort Snelling just like any other base in the nation, and a pool of female secretaries serving their country with the artillery clatter of their typewriters besides. Were I a few decades younger, you can bet your bloomers I’d be there with them. How is this any different?
Besides, I served as a chaperone at those dances Miss Berglund organized at the high-school gymnasium to gather money for her studies—what was it, two years ago now? She asked me personally to do so, and let me tell you, I have never seen a more thoughtful and respectable young woman in all my days. And I’ve had a lot of days. Never even took to the dance floor, she was so busy keeping everyone on task and everything to standard. Johanna Berglund isn’t some loose, rouged Liberty Girl. She’s one of us, city education or no. And if the army has decided she’s the best-qualified translator for the job, we ought to be proud of her.
As a politician’s daughter, she knows the whole town is watching her; I’d put my last dollar into shares of stock on that. What’s more, she’s probably reading this right now. So, Miss Berglund, I’ll write this directly to you: You won’t let us down. You can’t. The stakes are too high. Thank you in advance for keeping your chin up and proving everyone wrong.
Mrs. Cornelia Knutson,
an Unconcerned Citizen
From Johanna to Peter
February 27, 1944
Dear Peter,
Well, here I am. Nothing has changed in Ironside Lake in two years except me, although no one seems to realize that yet. In their minds, I’m frozen as my nineteen-year-old self, like a piece of olive quivering in aspic. And who can blame them? I’m sleeping in my childhood bedroom, buying stamps at the same old post office, and occupying the same pew while hearing the same sorts of sermons from Pastor Sorenson, consistent and bland as Meatless Monday’s mushroom gravy.
Sorry for the barrage of food analogies. I pretended I was feeling unwell to avoid going over for Sunday lunch at the Sorensons’, and now I’m regretting that choice. But I could tell that Annika was only offering because she felt obligated. It would have been excruciatingly awkward.
Several of the Lutheran Daughters of the Reformation have asked Mother if she and Dad think it’s “suitable” for a woman to work in “a man’s role,” and whispers follow me down the streets wherever I go. The only thing that’s saved me from a torch-and-pitchfork protest is Cornelia Knutson’s vociferous defense in the local paper.
(What can I say to give you a picture of our town matriarch? Last year she planned a Crosby Medley Event to lure young people into the church—but they soon found the Crosby in question was Fanny, not Bing, and the greatest hits were “Blessed Assurance” and “Take the World, But Give Me Jesus” rather than “Pistol Packin’ Mama.”)
Thursday was my first glimpse of the camp. Picture a Gene Autry–movie ghost town with rows of faded wooden buildings, their windows clouded with cobwebs and a decade’s worth of accumulated dirt. As I arrived, carpenters hammered away despite the cold and snow, reshingling the roofs to prepare for the arrival of the POWs.
The guard towers and wire-tipped fences surprised me. I knew they would be there, of course, but seeing the stark platforms mounted with searchlights and the twisting steel barbs . . . well, it wasn’t my first choice of a workplace aesthetic. The least they could do is add a reinforced steel welcome mat to give the place a homey feel.
Major Davies was “delighted” to see me, and according to him, we are already “old friends.” I thought he’d shake my arm clean off. After he introduced me to his executive officer, Lieutenant Charles Bates—a man so stiff he reminds me a of a department-store mannequin—it was time for a grand tour. The major narrated the purpose of the rough structures as if I were a debutante strolling the streets of Rome and admiring various Michelangelo sculptures.
While he rattled off statistics about the mess hall and how the guards’ quarters are, per the Geneva Convention, exactly the same quality as the prisoners’, I counted spiders. Twenty-nine distinct sightings! I subsequently declared war on them. Even though I’ve inflicted heavy casualties, they are winning; I am in frantic retreat. Reinforcements may be needed. I will keep you apprised of further developments.
After this, I was finally left to my office, an alcove in the post headquarters. Lined up on my desk in proper regimented order were a Royal typewriter, miscellaneous office supplies, an ashtray, and an Acme Tires matchbook (even though I explained to Major Davies that I don’t smoke). A German-English dictionary was placed prominently in the center. Which made me wonder if it’s true: They don’t really trust me to do this job; they hired me only to placate the town and buy my father’s support.
Since there wasn’t anything to be gained by accusing anyone of this, I started by translating a booklet of prisoner regulations and several signs—short ones like First Aid—and more involved placards like one insisting that all flyers posted to the camp bulletin board must be approved by the camp commander. All very simple and dull, though I’ll admit to looking up the German for two military terms.
Around noon, the major’s wife, Evelyn, fretted around her half-unpacked dining room and served us chicken and dumplings (which she apologized for twice because their housekeeper only started yesterday and “good help is simply impossible to find around here”). The meal’s side dishes were so many stories about her life in New York that I feel no need now to visit the city myself. I already know almost everything about it: the best department stores and concert halls, as well as the superiority of its roads, fresh fruit, electrical output, and selection of perfumes.
Mrs. Davies also gave me instructions about my clothing, something the major apparently found too delicate to discuss. Since I’m a civilian, I won’t have a uniform, but I’m expected to wear practical, modest clothing in neutral tones. Except for the pale blue dress Mother made me for Easter several years ago, this is a fair description of my entire wardrobe. I’m not exactly Jantzen-bathing-suit-ad material with my limp blond hair and flat figure, so I assured her it wouldn’t be a problem.
Still, Mrs. Davies felt the need to illustrate her instructions with cut-out catalog pictures with bright red slashes through them to indicate their inappropriateness for work. They can’t have anyone looking too pretty at the prison camp, you understand—very dangerous around all those men. “Of course. Loose slips sink ships,” I said very gravely, and Major Davies looked like he’d explode for trying to bottle in his laughter.
I dreamt that night of army trucks filled with swastikas that turned into a swarm of thick-legged spiders. That’s a fair picture of how well I’ve been sleeping lately. The best nights are the ones where I dream I’m back at the university, with its familiar bookshelves and clear expectations and beautiful dead languages to translate.
I’m sorry. I set out to write an update the length of a postcard, and it’s turned into a novel. That’s the occupational hazard of making a friend whose favorite books are The Iliad and Beowulf. Everything becomes an epic. At least fewer people died in the making of this letter; that’s something.