“Second, Steel Wool, consider how he distributes our chores willy-nilly, this desk to that, when half a minute spent organizing his sheets beforehand would enable him to deliver them in one pass through all the desks, saving time and reducing distraction.”
“Mather, will you please shut up?” Charlie rarely contributed to the parleys, but he was sick of trying to solve arcs while a brighter kid gabbed the morning away.
“Ah, Fish takes the bait.” Mather sidled around the circle of boys. “You answer me, then. What do you think of our wonderful boss?”
Charlie put his pencil down. He hated Cohen. The guy had two ways of speaking: commands and criticism. Incapable of telling a story or carrying on a conversation, either he was telling you what to do, or he was belittling what you had done.
“Suddenly he’s shy,” Mather crowed. “Isn’t that cute?” He snatched Charlie’s pencil away, holding it like a microphone. “No comment on the scandal, Mayor Fish?”
“All right,” Charlie said. “He’s annoying. And bossy.”
“There.” Mather flourished the pencil overhead like a conductor’s baton at the end of a symphony. “The definitive response.”
“Also smarter than you,” Charlie added, and the room erupted in jeers.
“Well said, Fish,” Santangelo cried, as Mather dropped the pencil and played at hangdog while shuffling back to his desk.
The hall door swung open and Cohen returned, Professor John Simmons following two steps behind. All the math boys stood.
“At ease, fellas,” Simmons chortled. “As you were.”
John Simmons was the least pretentious man in the building. He greeted people in the hallway, did not close his office door even for secure calls, and took the time to learn the boys’ names. But no mistake, he was also second in command, head of the physics department in Denver, acolyte of the Nobel Prize–winning genius Arthur Compton. He also happened to be Charlie’s uncle, which was how the boy ended up on the math team. His mother had asked her brother to keep a fragile fellow out of battle.
Simmons walked through the room shaking hands, introducing himself to the new arrivals, then taking his place in the circle’s one-desk gap. He told the boys to be seated.
“Fellas, I don’t mind you clowning around in here a little bit,” Simmons said, with a half-suppressed grin. “But there is a war on, you know. There are rooms exactly like this—in Munich, Berlin, perhaps Tokyo—where bright young boys like you are working day and night on calculations to help them hurt us. And hurt our country.”
With the group properly sobered, he began slowly pacing. “I’m here this morning to tell you that our project has been given additional status and urgency. Last night I was informed that all of you are now ineligible for the draft.”
A restrained cheer went through the room.
“Not so fast.” Simmons stopped in place. “You now answer to the United States military. Starting in January your paychecks will come from Uncle Sam. I imagine at some point someone in a uniform will come in here and give each of you a rank. You will receive orders, and you will obey them.”
Giving that idea time to sink in, he recommenced pacing. “Our project’s security level has been heightened, too, from classified to top secret. From here on, it will be a court-martial offense if you tell anyone what you are doing here—not your buddies, not your girlfriend, not your family. Who your boss is, what you do all day, how many pencils you go through, every single thing here is now confidential military business. Loose lips on your part will be treated by my superiors as an error on my part, which would make me . . .” He paused to glare at them. “Unpleasant. Any questions?”
There were none. For once even Mather had nothing to say.
“Our work will intensify. Your tasks may seem odd, but I assure you, they are essential to the war effort. You’ll learn more about that soon. When you do, you may wish for the days when you were in the dark.”
Simmons stood to his full height. “Get to work, boys. And remember: there are other rooms, exactly like this.”
The professor strode off—with one curt nod and one word, “Charlie,” his only recognition of his nephew.
Cohen came to the front. “Everything on your plate, clear it by Friday.”
The math team groaned.
“Quit whining, babies. Every job in your box must be done, documented, and on my desk before you leave for the weekend. Monday morning is a whole new ball game.” He strutted out the door, his walk a stiff imitation of Simmons’s.
Charlie frowned at the problem on his desk. Pi, that numerical elbow, made everything difficult. He took up his pencil, saw that Mather had broken the point, and found a fresh one. He was stalling, though, because he could not answer a basic question: What crazy giant gun would it take to shoot a bullet that weighed ten thousand pounds?
3.
Charlie Fish came to the store every Monday. We’d chat, we’d flirt, one time we split a sandwich—egg salad he’d brought from a deli. He told me about growing up in Boston: singing with various choirs, being the youngest in his college class, how his mother loved to stroll on Saturday mornings beside the Charles River, the crew boats darting up the river like giant water bugs. Eventually I put him to work in the back room and he made no complaints. Soon, though, he’d ask me to play. And why not? In another month he’d be a draftee. What harm could there be in giving him something to hum when he was far away? Often he sang along, a fine tenor, steadier than I’d expected.
One way I’ve been lucky: I never had to live without music. My mother started piano lessons when my outstretched fingers only spanned three keys. Those years I was hoping to attend the conservatory helped me develop a discipline. Even now, though my hands are wrinkled and weak, I manage to touch the ivories for a few minutes every day.
Sometimes afterward I linger on the bench, and imagine all those soldiers far from home, with bad food and foreign landscapes, their clothes stained with the scent of fear. I bet they whistled and hummed and sang to themselves all the time. Something calm when you’re afraid. Something busy when you’re bored. Something sad when you’re missing home or your girl.
Performing for Charlie, those afternoons in 1943, felt like living in a snow globe. The world’s brutality made our haven of innocence all the sweeter.
While I could have impressed him with classical pieces, at work I preferred playing trendy stuff: “Oh What a Beautiful Morning,” “Paper Doll,” “That Old Black Magic.” My favorite that fall was “Oklahoma” because the Hammond could make the wind come sweeping down the plain on one set of keys, while on the other set the last syllable aaahh of Oklahoma was still in the air. These days I can still play those tunes from memory, but I don’t do it often. They sound insubstantial as cotton candy.
Charlie liked sadder songs. Whenever I asked him what next, he’d suggest “As Times Goes By,” or “You’ll Never Know,” or a classical piece like “Moonlight Sonata.” While I played, he would stand close beside me, maybe humming the melody, always watching closely. Funny thing, though. These days I play the ones he liked all the time, and they don’t sound fluffy. They still touch the heart.