Page 5 of The Women of Oak Ridge

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 will perform 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 is imperative ”—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?

Surely not.

That anyone would betray their country by giving aid to Hitler wasn’t something I’d ever considered.

Yet if the man speaking could be believed, it must happen often enough that precautions were put into place to prevent information from being leaked.

The realization that I’d left home and traveled to Tennessee to work for a company mired in mud and secrets left me unsettled.

Had I made a mistake by accepting the job?

“All mail—outgoing and incoming—is censored,” the man went on.

“You will use a PO box in Oak Ridge as your return address. When you receive mail, military personnel will read it first, then it will be delivered to your residence. When you write to someone, you’ll leave the envelope unsealed for censoring, then it will be mailed.

At no time are you allowed to write about what you see, what you hear, to describe the area, or divulge our proximity to Knoxville.

It is vital the location of the Reservation remains confidential.

My advice is to keep your correspondences with friends and family short and sweet.

Tell them about the weather or the latest movie you saw at the theater—all without mentioning where you are and who you’re with.

Remember, your pen and your tongue can be used as enemy weapons. ”

There were rules against taking photographs, owning binoculars, or using a telescope.

We couldn’t enter or leave the Reservation except through one of the highly guarded gates.

We would each receive an identification badge with our photograph, name, and physical description that must be worn at all times, no matter where you were or what you were doing.

If you were caught without your badge, you could lose your job.

“I hope I’ve answered many of the questions you arrived with,” he said in closing, “but the truth of the matter is, we cannot tell you everything. We can train you how to do the job assigned to you, but we can’t tell you what you’re doing.

I can only assure you that if our enemies discover what we hope to achieve here and beat us to it, God have mercy on us all. ”

The ominous words echoed in the silent room.

After watching a short film about the perils of loose lips, we were directed outside into afternoon sunshine.

An information station was set up in the shade of the building where employees offered assistance regarding housing, cafeterias, buses and transportation, security badges, and more.

It was overwhelming, but Sissy and I stuck together and eventually found ourselves assigned as roommates in one of the many two-story dormitories not far from the administration area.

We would each pay ten dollars a month for the room, maid service, linens, towels, and soap.

Because there was no cooking in the dorms, we’d take our meals at the nearby cafeteria, open twenty-four hours a day.

Wooden walkways led across fields of mud to our new home.

Mrs. Kepple, the pleasant housemother charged with keeping track of dozens of young women, handed us keys and emphasized the importance of observing the ten o’clock curfew and the rule regarding no men in our rooms. Housing on the Reservation was limited, she warned before leaving us alone, so the eviction of a rule breaker was swift and final.

Left on our own, Sissy and I stood silent and glanced about the sparse room we were to share. Two single beds, a night table between them, and two dressers filled the space.

The enormity of what I’d done began to sink in.

I was far from my family, surrounded by strangers I might not be able to trust, hired to do a job I knew nothing about and couldn’t explain to anyone even if I did.

Was I cut out for all this secrecy and uncertainty?

If it weren’t for the promised salary, I’d be tempted to catch the next bus back to Kentucky.

“I ain’t never slept anyplace other than home,” Sissy said, her voice small and shaky.

I glanced over and found her blue eyes wide as she perused the stark room. I guessed she felt as anxious as I did about it all. “Me neither.”

After several seconds ticked by, she added, “Don’t reckon I’ll miss Pa’s snorin’ though.”

When she met my gaze, she grinned.

We burst into laughter.