Page 8 of The Women of Oak Ridge

Townsite, or Oak Ridge, as it had officially been named last summer, had most everything any other American city offered.

Grocery markets, drug stores, department stores, shoe shops, barbers, restaurants.

There was a movie theater, tennis courts where dances were held in the evenings, and a bowling alley.

The difference was every business in Oak Ridge was brand-new and stayed open twenty-four hours a day.

Even the cafeteria where we took our meals never closed.

Because everyone at CEW worked in shifts, Townsite remained a bustling place day and night.

Only on Sundays were things a bit quieter.

Prudence worked at the main administration building, nicknamed Castle on the Hill, where we’d gone that first day for our orientation.

She had a way of revealing information that led you to believe you were simply sharing an innocent conversation with the chatty redhead, rather than treading into dangerous gossip-infested waters where you ought not go.

She’d been at CEW for six months, which made her an old-timer compared to the rest of us.

I had a suspicion I’d need to keep on my toes whenever she was around.

I wouldn’t want to be caught talking about things that were off-limits.

That was three days ago. I hadn’t seen Mr. Colby again until he appeared in the doorway to the small office where I sat.

“Miss Willett, are you ready to get to work?”

I stood, nervous excitement swirling through my belly. “Yes, sir.”

He led the way outside where we crossed a sort of alley between the primary maintenance shop and the main building. As we went through a door and entered the behemoth, I found myself in a world as foreign to me as Wonderland was to Alice.

Mr. Colby offered a running monologue of what I was seeing while we toured the huge building.

The first level housed auxiliary equipment such as transformers, switch gears, and air handling systems. The second floor contained hundreds of what he referred to as converters and compressors.

The third level was filled with thousands of pipes, big and small, where groups of women worked, doing what, I couldn’t say.

The operating floor on the fourth level housed rows of instrument panels, as well as a control room where operators monitored hordes of gauges and dials.

I couldn’t fathom what any of it was for, especially since Mr. Colby neglected to show me the product that was being manufactured at the plant.

Back at the maintenance shop, he gave me a tour of it too, introducing me to men and women along the way.

The whole thing was overwhelming, and I felt utterly inadequate when we returned to the small office where we’d started.

I wasn’t sure why I’d been hired to work in such a place, and I feared I’d be fired before I had a chance to send any money home to my family.

“I imagine you have questions about what you just saw,” Mr. Colby said, “but for now, keep them to yourself. As you become accustomed to your job and the layout of the plant, many of them will be answered.”

I must have looked like a frightened squirrel, frozen as I was, because he offered a sympathetic smile. “Don’t worry, Miss Willett. I’m sure you’ll get the hang of things quickly.”

He was about my pa’s age and had a fatherly way about him. I hoped he was right in saying I’d get used to things.

“Can you ride a bicycle?”

The question seemed odd. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. You’ll use a bicycle to get around. K-25 is one mile long, from end to end, with four levels. That’s a lot of walking.”

He instructed me to utilize a map of the facility tacked to the wall in his office to help find my way around. Because some areas of the plant were restricted, I was given special security clearance on my badge to access them on an as-needed basis.

“But,” Mr. Colby said, a firmness to his tone, “you are only allowed in areas where you’ve been assigned. And remember, what happens at K-25 needs to stay at K-25.”

Cleanliness, he went on, was of utmost importance at the plant.

I was to take care not to track in mud and dust, two of the most available and bothersome commodities on the Reservation.

He recommended I purchase a pair of rubber galoshes from one of the shops in town.

I didn’t tell him I couldn’t afford such an extravagance, at least not until I received my first paycheck.

I would need to remember to clean my shoes before entering the plant every morning.

The most surprising advice he gave, however, was regarding my attire.

“It would be best if you wore trousers rather than a skirt,” he said, indicating Mama’s made-over dress I’d worn.

“You’ll be riding a bicycle and sometimes carrying machine parts that may be greasy.

If you don’t own any trousers, we can put in a requisition with Union Carbide for some coveralls.

You’ll notice many of the women wearing them. ”

I couldn’t help but grin. I’d never worn trousers before. The prospect seemed quite daring.

Within an hour, I found myself on a bike equipped with a basket, zipping around what surely must be the biggest building on the planet.

It surprised me to see that many other employees utilized bicycles to get around too.

I became lost multiple times, but people were kind and offered directions.

By lunchtime my legs were tired, but I found I’d enjoyed the experience.

The cafeteria was a lengthy walk from the main building.

A long line of hungry employees was already there when I arrived.

The sight was nothing new at CEW. Everywhere you went—market, movie theater, dormitory bathroom—you were likely to encounter lines.

Just yesterday I’d seen a string of people that stretched half a block near Town Center Number 1, the main shopping area.

Someone said they were waiting to purchase cigarettes from a newly arrived shipment.

As I skirted around them, I was very glad I’d never taken up the habit.

I stood outside the cafeteria waiting my turn.

A second line formed on the opposite side of the building, but it consisted only of Black employees.

I’d grown up in a small Kentucky town that had as many Black families as white, but we were all poor coal mining people, living in company-owned shanties.

Other than segregated bathrooms at the local café, I hadn’t paid much attention to the separation of races that was common in other parts of the country.

A woman about my age met my gaze across the space between us.

I’d seen her in the pipe area that morning, polishing giant pipes.

It seemed an odd thing to do, since everything in the plant looked pristine, including the concrete floors, but then I remembered what Mr. Colby said about the importance of cleanliness.

I didn’t know what was being manufactured at K-25—I hadn’t seen any military tanks, guns, or things soldiers would use to fight the enemy as I biked around—but whatever the product was, the powers that be didn’t want it coated in dirt.

The woman offered a slight nod, then disappeared into a separate dining area.

I quickly downed a ham sandwich with a glass of water, then returned to the maintenance shop.

By the end of my shift, I was exhausted.

Along with hundreds of other employees, I left the building through Clock Alley, where we clocked in and out, then took a shuttle across the complex to the security portal and bus terminal.

When it was finally my turn, I presented my badge to the armed guard and exited the secure area through a turnstile.

While I waited at the bus stop with a crowd of noisy people, I noticed the same woman I’d seen at the cafeteria standing on the fringe of the group.

Other Black women stood with her. Again, we made eye contact.

This time I gave a friendly nod. She inclined her head, a hint of a smile at the edges of her eyes.

A bus arrived and we piled on as many as would fit.

I squeezed onto a bench seat with two other women, hoping I didn’t fall off the edge if we hit a bump.

I glanced to the back of the bus and found the Black woman sitting alone, with a bench to herself.

I wished I could move to join her, but even in Kentucky that wasn’t allowed.

Instead of going directly to Townsite, as the buses I’d ridden thus far had done, this one went in a different direction. I feared I’d made a mistake and would need to ask for a transfer if it didn’t go to town.

The first stop was Happy Valley, a sprawling residential area not far from the plant, made up of small houses and khaki-colored trailer homes, the likes of which I’d never seen before.

Hundreds of the miniature, bullet-shaped residences lined the streets, making me curious about what they looked like inside.

People poured off the bus, including the two women I’d shared the seat with. Others boarded but none asked to sit with me.

After another stop in Happy Valley, we drove to a separate housing area.

Here, the dwellings were different. Instead of trailers or typical houses, dozens and dozens of identical, square huts filled the view.

A fence and a ditch divided it into two sections, with a guard stationed at a gate to one of them.

Wooden walkways and electrical poles with wires ran throughout, although there wasn’t much space between the huts.

I was surprised to see that each one had wooden shutters instead of glass windowpanes, most of which were propped open to let in a breeze.

The dwellings were even smaller than the shanties the coal company provided back home, and I couldn’t imagine who lived in such crude conditions.

It was then that I noticed every Black person—men and women alike—got off the bus.

As the bus pulled away, I saw the woman from the cafeteria. With her back straight and her chin held high, she walked with other women to the guarded entrance of the sad-looking housing area, while the men went in the opposite direction.

The driver announced the next stop was Townsite, and I settled back in the seat. However, some of the excitement I’d felt that day faded as I thought about the comfortable dorm room that awaited me.

My days were filled with office tasks and running errands for Mr. Colby.

I enjoyed biking throughout the cavernous plant, carrying parts and tools used on enormous machines, huge holding tanks, and millions of miles of pipe, all located within the main building.

There were smaller structures throughout the K-25 complex, too, and errands to them allowed me to go outside and get some fresh air.

K-1101 housed big cylinders and smaller tubes.

K-1201 held air compressors that powered many of the tools used in the machine shop.

There was K this and K that, and I had to learn each of their locations.

By the end of the week, however, I had no more knowledge of what was happening at K-25 than I’d had on my first day, a fact that annoyed my naturally curious nature.

Sissy was in the same boat as far as her job at Y-12.

“I know we aren’t s’posed to talk about what we do to anyone,” she said that night as we prepared for bed, “but I can’t figure how telling you that I sit in a chair all day long, turning dials and knobs, is gonna hurt a thing.”

I agreed. “I feel the same way. All I do is file papers or ride a bicycle here and there, delivering parts and tools. Whatever the big secret is that everyone is trying to keep, it hasn’t got anything to do with me.”

We settled on our beds, separated by a nightstand.

Sissy had her pale-yellow hair in rollers, ready to style in the morning.

She was a pretty thing, with her deep-blue eyes and curvy figure, but I’d happily found her unassuming and sweet.

We’d had tons of fun that evening at the tennis court, dancing with one fellow after the other.

With so many single men and women working at CEW, flirting and romances were in abundance.

I, however, was determined not to let myself get carried away by every charming man who asked for a dance.

Even the military boys, looking so handsome in their uniforms, couldn’t sway me to take a walk in the woods with them, no doubt a place where more than one kiss was stolen.

Sissy fluffed her pillow. “Did you notice that older fella who kept asking me to dance?”

“Was he bothering you?” I was two years older than my roommate and already felt like a protective big sister.

“Oh no, he was very polite.” She giggled. “He’s kind of tall and skinny, with wire-rimmed glasses, but,” she paused, growing serious, “he’s nice.”

“What’s his name?”

“Clive. Clive Morrison. He works at K-25, like you.”

I frowned. “He shouldn’t have told you that. You just met.”

“I don’t see how it could make a difference. Besides, we talked about a lot of things that had nothin’ to do with this place. He’s from Massachusetts. His ancestors came over on the Mayflower.” Her wide eyes told me this tidbit of information had made an impression.

I scoffed. “I doubt that. I’m sure he was just trying to sound important so you’d go on a date with him.”

Her brow puckered. “He seemed like a respectable gentleman, Mae. I like him.”

It was clear I’d need to tread carefully on the subject of Clive Morrison, at least until another boy caught her attention. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to imply he lied to you. I just think it’s best to get better acquainted with him, that’s all.”

“I know I’m young and don’t have much experience with fellas.

” Her slim shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Mama wouldn’t let me date any of the boys back home.

She said I was destined for somethin’ bigger and better than being a farmer’s wife in rural Georgia.

” A sheepish look crossed her face. “Mama says I’m pretty enough to be in movies, but I don’t know about that. ”

“I would have to agree with your mother,” I said.

“But pretty girls can do anything they put their minds to, same as anyone else. Look at you now.” I waved my hands in a dramatic way to indicate our austere dorm room.

“Here you are in exciting Nowhere, Tennessee, sitting in a chair all day long, turning knobs and dials at a plant where they don’t make anything we can name.

You stand in long lines, ride in crowded buses, and walk through mud every day.

I don’t see how being in a Hollywood movie can even compare to this, do you? ”

We laughed so hard, the girls in the room next door banged on the wall.