Trixie Belden leaned her head back against the bus window and let her eyelids droop. She could almost imagine that she was back in junior high, on her way to school in the morning. In the seat behind her, her best friend Honey Wheeler was helping her next best friend Diana Lynch run lines for Diana's next play. Across the aisle, a guy held a trumpet in his lap as his fingers danced on the valves, rocking out to music the rest of them couldn't hear. They were, in fact, riding an old school bus, redolent with what her brother Mart called "ew-de-student," and Trixie took a moment to pretend she was fourteen again, with no weightier problems than whether she did her math assignment correctly or the logistics of the Bob-Whites' current charity event.
She was the one who liked to say, "If only we could stay this way forever." And Jim, if they were alone, would respond by sweeping her up in his arms, nuzzling her ear and whispering, "You want to be fourteen forever? Really? Tell me why?" And as his fingers and lips darted all over her, she fell speechless except for little gasps and…
It wasn't the time to think about Jim. From her purse, she pulled out a pack of note cards and a pen. She and her friends had fallen back to the ancient technology because their location was top secret. The military let their screaming millennials know that connectivity was not mentioned in the Bill of Rights. The only concession to digital withdrawal was to provide ten secure cell phones that 2000 people could reserve for five minutes at a time. Otherwise, the Villagers could go into Kansas City or the army base near Columbia to send emails, tweets, and other digital socialization.
And writing a letter helped Trixie's illusion of the past, as though she were writing home from camp.
Dear Moms,
Thank you for the fabric markers. I'm afraid they're almost used up already. We try to decorate ourselves as much as we can, to keep everyone's spirits up. Even artistic dunces like me can paint shapes and swirls on sneakers and jeans, and the artists among us—you know who they are—have done fabulous work. I'll send photos as soon as I can. Our suite mate Rose was happy because she could mark Navajo designs on everything she owns.
Not that many of Rose's clothes weren't already obviously Navajo. Trixie's throat clenched a little, remembering the Bob-Whites' joy in seeing an acquaintance from the old days when they first arrived at the Village. They didn't recognize her at first. As a maid on Diana's uncle's dude ranch, Rosita had worn Mexican clothes of puffy-sleeved blouses and bright, wide skirts, as did Trixie, Honey, and Di when they served as maids. But now Rosita wore a blanket dress with Navajo geometrics and moccasin wraps, as though she were posing for Navajo postcards.
And when they rushed over, screaming "Rosita," she interrupted in a loud voice, "Oh, I'm too old to be called 'Rosie' now. Everyone calls me Rose."
Her eyes flashed a fierce enough warning that they all stopped in their tracks. Predictably, Honey was the one who said, "Would you like us to use your Navajo name? I know Rose was only an approximation of it."
Rose sighed. "Strange as it may seem, I don't want to hear my native language butchered by people who can't even speak Spanish."
Honey's voice dropped lower. "We do speak Spanish. Trixie and I have had pen pals in Mexico since we were thirteen. We learned Spanish so that we could talk to them."
Seeing her friend's eyes brighten with tears, Trixie distracted the group's attention to herself. "Of course, we mostly wrote Spanish. So we probably do butcher it when we speak."
Rose dropped her prickly attitude. "I'm sorry. You probably can't even contact them now. But, seriously, what are you thinking, calling me a Mexican name? That could be enough to get me shot—or sent off to the camps."
"We don't have camps," protested Mart. "It's America, you know."
"Oh, I know," said Rose in grim accents. She pointed to a Japanese woman across the room. "Let me introduce you to Kay—Kaori Sakura Takei. Her grandmother was born in a concentration camp in Arkansas."
"But not now," Di protested. "There's places Latinos can go for their protection—"
"Which just saves the government their travel fares. Look, I might need 'protection' if some ignoramuses thought I was Mexican. So I feel the need to be clearly, always, definitely Navajo. It's not a good time to be brown."
"When was the good time to be brown?" asked Mart.
Rose laughed. "Okay, so you're not hopeless."
This good feeling lasted only until she heard Mart call his sister and her friends "squaws."
Thanks too for the cookies—yours and Mrs. Vanderpoel's. I'd recognize those windmill cookies anywhere. They all would be gone, but Honey has been designated Keeper of the Cookies, and she's hidden them to dole out one per day. Only Mart gets no more at all until he shows his thank-you notes.
How like Mrs. Vanderpoel, to get the Bob-Whites into this situation and then send cookies to make it bearable. Was it only last spring break, right after the Hispanic Alliance had attacked Los Angeles, with everyone was still reeling from the declaration of war, that she'd invited them all over for cookies? And after greetings and catch-up, a big man who looked like a Bond villain entered her kitchen and took the last chair. "This is my friend Jumbo," she said and left the room.
He wasn't a Bond villain, at least on the surface, but an officer of the Navy. He was looking for bright young people who were good at puzzles to serve their country. He would tell them more as soon as they signed confidentiality statements. A glance at the statements, which already had their names printed on them, showed them to go far beyond a standard nondisclosure agreement.
"We could make a decision easier if you'd tell us what we'd be doing," said Jim after they all exchanged puzzled looks.
"No doubt, but this project is highly confidential." He looked at Brian, Mart, and Trixie. "Why don't you ask your father what his father did in the war?" He looked back at Jim. "Your college careers won't suffer. Double-major in Social Work and Education? You'll get practicum credit. Brian, you can serve under one of our doctors and get clinical credit. Madeleine Wheeler—Honey?—you'll get clinical credit for your nursing degree. Martin Belden, computers? Your university will give you life credit for your service."
"What can you do for Trixie?" Honey burst out. "She's already arranged to take her junior year off to be in the PanAmerica Dance company. She's worked so hard to be accepted as an apprentice, taking two ballet classes every semester to catch up to the other girls, besides all the gymnastics and strength training you need for that kind of acrobatic dancing, and how can you possibly make up to her for missing this once-in-a-lifetime chance?"
Her cheeks hot, Trixie interjected before Lt. Colonel Whatever Jumbo could say anything. "No, it's okay, Honey. I mean, there's a war on. I doubt PanAmerica Dance can go around presenting acrobatic shows of American folk and tribal dance when half of the hemisphere is at war with the other half."
"Not Costa Rica," said Jim. "War is against their constitution."
"Canada hasn't decided yet," said Brian. "I think they still remember World War II."
"Maybe Mexico," said Diana.
"Who can say?" asked Mart. Mexican diplomacy was indeed replacing Byzantine negotiations as the most twisted yet.
"What day is it? There's a different answer for each day of the week," said Dan. "But I need to tell you that I've already joined the Army." Over the other Bob-Whites' exclamations, he continued. "The day after the attack. They said I could finish my school year before reporting."
Jumbo nodded. "We need someone in the Army. And Beatrix might get more dance opportunity than she thinks."
After that, there was nothing to do but retreat to Crabapple Farm and impose on Mrs. Belden for dinner for four more. When Peter Belden returned from the bank, his offspring and their friends met him at the door and pounded him with questions about his father. After he untangled the questions and sat down, he told them that his father had been detailed to Bletchley Park during World War II. For years he kept quiet about his experience until the British lifted the secrecy conditions. Then he wouldn't stop talking about it. When no one would listen, he wrote down his stories. Peter still had that journal, if the Bob-Whites wanted to read it.
"Bletchley Park! Code breaking!" exclaimed Trixie. "Of course I'm going to do that!"
The Bob-Whites agreed, and after rushing through the rest of their semester, they were packed off for training and then to their stations: Brian to a ship in the Pacific to serve under Dr. Ed Hall; Jim to a ship in the Gulf of Mexico in US waters, and the rest to the secret underground station outside Kansas City to try to break intercepted code.
Like everyone, we are growing our own food. Mart is worried that his watermelons won't be ripe before the first frost hits, but we still have plenty to eat. Please send me your pumpkin pie recipe. I want to make it for Thanksgiving.
Trixie hoped she wasn't being too specific. Surely no one could figure their location from that? She switched her focus anyway, to be on the safe side.
I miss autumn in Sleepyside. I'd love some photographs, if it's not too much trouble to print them out. I'm sure no place else could be as beautiful when the leaves turn.
Please don't worry about us. I don't know where we could be that would be safer, though I'm not allowed to say where. The biggest threat is the pollen, and only Mart seems to be allergic to it.
Her conscience pricked her a bit. Honey didn't seem to be thriving, but it had been at least a month since she'd taken a few sick days. She'd gone to the doctor, who thought she was just run down. Honey had a lot to worry about, with Brian deployed and her mother fighting breast cancer. And unlike Brian, Honey was bored with her nursing duties. "All I do is hand out vitamins and birth control," she complained.
"Well, keep some for yourself," Trixie advised. When multiple emotions and colors flitted over Honey's face, Trixie added, "Vitamins! Take some vitamins. You're pale and droopy."
She and Diana badgered Honey into eating more and participating in the social life, which the codebreakers had to create themselves in their isolated location. There was Scottish dancing at lunch, other kinds of dancing on weeknights (including a reluctant Trixie's acrobatic dancing on Wednesdays that Diana had arranged), theatre, concerts, and talent shows that all the other Bob-Whites loved. Di coaxed Honey into the choir, but usually she was too tired for more athletic pursuits. Trixie didn't know how to survive without a way to work off her energy and tension.
I talked to Brian and Jim two days ago, and they are fine also.
Her stupid conscience raised its head again. She made the trip to the Army base every weekend to call her brother and Jim, and while Brian was thriving in his work as a doctor, Jim was still hollow-eyed and twitchy. A few weeks ago he could hardly speak. He'd just returned from a diving mission—Trixie had choked off asking what he was doing on a diving mission when his job was with encryption and mental health. Of course Jim would be a part of any kind of outdoor activity, and he had learned to dive with some of his college friends from Florida. The man who'd lived off the land as a teenager was probably catching and frying fish on the deck, if that was allowed.
It took Trixie awhile to understand what had happened, between what Jim wasn't permitted to say and what he choked on saying. A team of three had gone to a sinking enemy ship; only two returned. Jim hadn't known that the third man wasn't following; the second man kept urging them on.
"It was Slim Novarski, Trixie! He joined the Navy years ago, after Cobbett's Island. He helped me settle in with the ship's crew. He really turned his life around, and now he's a hero, but we can't say what he did, and no one will ever know."
Hating the distance between them, feeling helpless, Trixie assured him over his sobs that the Bob-Whites would always remember Slim as a hero, she would contact Mrs. Kimball on Cobbett's Island to help find Slim's family, if he had any, or to at least include his name on local war memorials.
The next week a Hispanic Alliance code machine arrived, the Rompecabezas, with a still damp codebook that listed the machine settings for each day. The codebreakers cheered and held a raucous celebration, where Trixie raised her glass of red soda—surplus donated by the gallon to the military—to Jim and Slim. Thereafter she made a point of silent thanks to them both whenever she worked with the machine or broke a message with the settings book. This last weekend, she'd told Jim that she'd heard back from Mrs. Kimball, who promised to put Slim's name on the list of Cobbett's Island war dead. They were posting the list at the library and town hall, with the intention of making a permanent marker after the war. Jim's mouth had twitched up at the corners, the closest thing she'd seen to a smile since the tragedy. She sighed as she signed her letter, wishing she could do more to help him. She wondered who could help the mental health officer.
"Oh, look, there's Mart," said Di with the slight gush in her voice that was always there when she talked about Trixie's middle brother.
Trixie turned to look out the window. She giggled at the familiar sight of her brother, riding his bike and wearing a breathing mask like the kind the Bob-Whites wore when they renovated their clubhouse. He was stopped at the checkpoint, and from his and the Army officer's gestures, he had to be talking to Dan, who liked to give Mart as much grief as possible before admitting him.
As Trixie, Honey, and Diana descended the bus steps, they heard Dan ragging Mart about the face mask in front of an even younger soldier. "You'll have to take it off. It covers your entire face. How can anyone tell if you're this Marvin Bolton? Take note, Private. Don't let anyone in if you can't confirm their identity definitely."
"Maybe you'd like a DNA sample?" came the exasperated voice distorted by the mask. "You can get some off of your clothes—the ones that used to belong to me, you know."
Di linked arms with Trixie and Honey. "I do think this is the prettiest place in the world, with all the gardens, fountains, and walks."
Their base was located on the grounds of a modern religion's headquarters. Its early leader had been a gardener, architect, and far thinker: he had built a system of underground tunnels connecting the early buildings so that employees and visitors had easy access, no matter what the weather. This feature led to the current uneasy partnership, where the religion still tried to function as more and more codebreakers poured in and the Army set up temporary quarters on the sculptured lawns. There were already extensive vegetable gardens to supply the retreat center and feed the poor; more were planted for the war effort. There were also a preschool, an elementary school, community meals, and other community services, and their clients looked askance at the military presence guarding parts of the campus that used to be open to all. The Love Thy Neighbor philosophy rubbed uneasily against the Who Are You and State Your Business attitude.
Dan gave up torturing Mart as the female Bob-Whites approached. They duly flashed their badges that he pretended to study. He declared that he would escort them to the path to the tunnels so that they wouldn't get lost: they weren't allowed to wander around. They kept straight faces through the act.
When they were a few feet away, he whispered, "Dinner tonight?"
Mart, now carrying his mask and wheeling his bike, exploded, "Someday, Dan…"
Di gave his arm a conciliatory pat. "He's just doing his job, Mart. He has to set a good example for his men."
"He doesn't have to bask in it," growled Mart.
"Okay, okay. I'll make it up to you. I'll cook tonight," said Dan, still grinning.
"And any time I want garlic stew, with mashed garlic and a side of garlic, I'll acquiesce to that arrangement. I'll cook so that I'll get something I can eat," declared Mart.
The women exchanged glances. Trixie said, "That means tamales. Let's invite Rose too."
"Fine with me. I'll bring drinks," agreed Dan as he turned back to join the others at the gate.
Four groans of "Red soda!" followed him.
Every morning Trixie was glad that the bus arrived early enough for them to leisurely stroll to their underground office. She loved the long rectangular mirror fountains spraying their watery arches, and she always turned her face to catch some of the mist. The first frost was still weeks away, but she already regretted when the fountains that covered a third of an acre would go still.
Honey gazed in the opposite direction. "Don't you love the Prayer Tower watching over us? It comforts me a little every time we walk by."
Trixie agreed as she glanced away from the fountains for a few seconds. The narrow, tan-brick tower loomed over the 1200 flat country acres, visible from anywhere except deepest part of the forest preserve. At the very top was a six-sided cupola surrounded by a balcony and topped with red tiles. Each cupola wall was a floor-to-ceiling arched window that glowed through the night and even now, in the early hours. It was a comfort to know that people were praying there around the clock and had been doing so for over 100 years, through many years of other wars. Trixie knew also that now a Red Cross worker was always on duty to take calls from deployed service people who needed to get urgent messages to their families. Jim and Brian had received that phone number. She hoped they'd never use it.
Before entering the tunnels, Trixie looked up to the sun one last time. It would be dusk when she went home. She'd have several of what the codebreakers called Vitamin D breaks during the day, but she'd still miss the light while she was in the tunnels. And she couldn't pretend any longer that she was fourteen and on her way to school. Trixie was going to war.
They parted company at the first intersection, Mart to the designers office to experiment with better and faster ways to break enemy code, Di to the teleprincess chamber (the name harkening back to when teleprinters were advanced technology) to distribute the broken code to wherever it needed to go, and Trixie and Honey to decryption room to try to break intercepted messages.
It was a quiet morning: no codes broken, and Honey called away several times as the site nurse. After Honey's third trip, Trixie decide it was close enough to her D break. She got a cup of soup, a guilty pleasure, from the snack bar. She and her brothers were old enough and experienced enough to appreciate the effort Moms put in her cooking, the homemade bread and farm produce that no restaurant or processed food could match. But Moms kept a supply of canned soups for busy days or suddenly sick children, and as a girl Trixie thought soup from the bright red can was a big treat. She sent a silent apology to her mother as she picked up her soup cup. She grabbed an orange too. Honey would be more likely to split it with her than she would if Trixie tried to scold her friend into eating the whole thing.
As she walked to the door, Rose's partner Sally called to her. "Trixie, Rose is on break and I think this code just broke. My Spanish isn't very good. Could you check it for me?" If they could get the initial settings right and guess a word or two, the computers could run through many possibilities in a short time. They would indicate the trials that seemed to produce Spanish, but people did the final checks. Just a few letters off could produce gibberish that would fool the programs.
Trixie looked over her shoulder. "Yes, that's Spanish. It's a submarine location." She looked up to the wall monitor, which showed a map of US ships. Trixie caught her breath. "It's near one of ours. Brian's! Priority One!"
Sally nodded as she typed and sent the message to the teleprincesses. Trixie went to the intercom board by the door—their technology was a skewed combination of old and new, because the old wasn't as easy to discover and was sometimes more reliable. She pressed the switch to connect her to Diana.
"Di, there's a Priority One on the way. It's a sub headed toward Brian."
"Not La Rosquilla, I hope. She sinks everything she gets close to. Okay, got it now. I've never heard of La Tortuga. The message is on its way. Don't worry."
Trixie sighed in relief. In minutes, Brian's ship, an aircraft carrier, would be moving out of La Tortuga's way and defense headed toward the area. She met Honey, looking harassed, on the way out. Holding up the orange, Trixie asked, "Split this with me? It's break time. Get your cup if you want to share the soup."
Honey shook her head and followed Trixie out of the tunnels, into the sun. They picked a bench where they could see the rosebushes, still bravely blooming, around the long, narrow fountains. Water jets lined each side, the streams meeting in the middle to form a sparkling arch as far as the eye could see. Trixie told Honey about the broken code and how quickly it had passed to command. A worried line etched in Honey's brow, but she too was confident, if not so much as Trixie.
Trixie couldn't talk Honey into joining the lunchtime Scottish dancers, but they met afterwards in the cafeteria where Trixie intended to shovel in a sandwich before heading back down the tunnels. They joined others who had also danced their lunch away: Mart, Di, Rose, and other less familiar faces. They were talking about presenting a demonstration of the various dance groups for the local population. The community hall was open to everyone. So far, they had Scottish dancing, English country dancing, swing, tango, Viennese waltz, and ballet. The discussion pingponged between which dances to include and what date they could get when there was already a play, a classical music concert, a songwriter's concert, and a general talent show scheduled in the next month.
"To give credit where credit is due, however reluctantly," drawled Mart, "my sister is a professional dancer, or she would be if she weren't here, and she should definitely be included in the exhibition."
Trixie blushed and stammered as Honey and Diana echoed Mart. She had no chance of or real excuse to avoid the show. Fortunately someone proposed a date in late October that had to be argued out, leaving Trixie to her embarrassment. She'd been so proud of being admitted to the company, of finally finding an artistic activity and being recognized for it. She wished she could recapture that feeling.
The intercom crackled through their argument and the rest of the cafeteria conversations. "Beatrix Belden. Martin Belden. Madeleine Wheeler. Report to the Red Cross at the Prayer Tower."