force of the small revolver they issued him. I had never been so comforted by metal before, never been so comforted by the presence of another.
Fostino Sanchez had an effect on me. For sure.
I closed my eyes and focused on the perfect staccato of his breath. My mind drifted away and I soon fell asleep. I jolted awake when his Hologram Watch trumpeted an alarm.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The watch alarm broke the silence. It made my neck hairs stand up straighter than the soldiers that had flooded our town. Fostino jumped, too. In a fraction of a second, we bolted off the bed and onto the unfinished wooden floor.
“What?” I asked in a scared voice. “Why did the watch go off?”
Fostino stopped it and then adjusted his uniform. His eyes narrowed as he glanced at his watch. “Ten,” he muttered. He grabbed my hand and walked to the door.
“Patrols?” I answered the question in my head.
“I need to get back to the drill house,” he noted as he opened the front door and bit his lip. The weird hunted look returned to his face. “I’m late.” He turned his attention to the cool evening outside.
“Wait,” I pleaded.
Please don’t go. Not now.
“Thank you,” I tried. We both reached the front door frame. I pulled the bathrobe tight to shut out the chill.
“Of course,” he replied and gave me a small smile. “No matter what, make sure you survive,” he added as he touched my arm.
CHAPTER TEN
Days passed, then a month. I fell into a robotic routine.
I would get up at 6:15 each morning, grab a piece of freeze dried fruit from the pantry, and report to work at the Coleman Athletic. I made sure to get there at 6:55 AM. No way would I be late.
The soldiers escorted me and about 250 other women into the converted basement of the hall every morning. Someone painted all the walls white with a black stripe in the middle. Someone also painted the four well windows shut and set up a projector in the black of the room. During the entire 12-hour shift, the projector showed propaganda films of the latest scenes from the front and the ongoing campaign. The films showed us the terrible conditions in Canada, our mortal enemy, and the pain from the bombs on our planes.
Row after row of sewing machines greeted us every morning. They hung from the walls with spidery steel legs connected to large Formica tables. Ten workers sat at each table. We sewed tan shirts out of a spool of precut fabric attached to the legs of the table. Someone replenished the spool every night so each morning a mound of fabric 12 inches thick and 5 feet wide greeted us.
We had until the end of the day to finish the roll. It made about 400 shirts per table of ten workers. We each produced 40 shirts per worker, per day.
Soldiers stalked up and down the three halls of the basement all day. Each had a large black club they tapped in their gloved hands to the rhythm of a clock. They rotated their shift work with the Homeland Guard.
“Maxwell Cooper is our father. Maxwell Cooper is our leader. Maxwell Cooper will take care of us,” yelled a woman in white makeup at the bottom and top of every hour we worked. She sat on a stool in the center of the room.
We got two breaks a day for the bathroom. Twice a day, someone came around and gave us a cup of water from a portable jug. Once a day, a faceless woman in white pancake makeup came around with aluminum wrapped peanut butter sandwiches and cans of tomato juice she handed to us without a word. She scowled at each of us underneath her red lipstick.
We never got up. We never, ever, talked.
As the weeks went on, the hum of the sewing machines faded into background noise. Before the end of the first week, I could not hear the zinging back and forth. My fingers also adjusted to the pattern of the shirt, and I could almost make one with my eyes closed.
In short, the work became monotonous and the days passed without much change. Early summer heat crept into every cranny of the basement and stifled my
Fostino Sanchez had an effect on me. For sure.
I closed my eyes and focused on the perfect staccato of his breath. My mind drifted away and I soon fell asleep. I jolted awake when his Hologram Watch trumpeted an alarm.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The watch alarm broke the silence. It made my neck hairs stand up straighter than the soldiers that had flooded our town. Fostino jumped, too. In a fraction of a second, we bolted off the bed and onto the unfinished wooden floor.
“What?” I asked in a scared voice. “Why did the watch go off?”
Fostino stopped it and then adjusted his uniform. His eyes narrowed as he glanced at his watch. “Ten,” he muttered. He grabbed my hand and walked to the door.
“Patrols?” I answered the question in my head.
“I need to get back to the drill house,” he noted as he opened the front door and bit his lip. The weird hunted look returned to his face. “I’m late.” He turned his attention to the cool evening outside.
“Wait,” I pleaded.
Please don’t go. Not now.
“Thank you,” I tried. We both reached the front door frame. I pulled the bathrobe tight to shut out the chill.
“Of course,” he replied and gave me a small smile. “No matter what, make sure you survive,” he added as he touched my arm.
CHAPTER TEN
Days passed, then a month. I fell into a robotic routine.
I would get up at 6:15 each morning, grab a piece of freeze dried fruit from the pantry, and report to work at the Coleman Athletic. I made sure to get there at 6:55 AM. No way would I be late.
The soldiers escorted me and about 250 other women into the converted basement of the hall every morning. Someone painted all the walls white with a black stripe in the middle. Someone also painted the four well windows shut and set up a projector in the black of the room. During the entire 12-hour shift, the projector showed propaganda films of the latest scenes from the front and the ongoing campaign. The films showed us the terrible conditions in Canada, our mortal enemy, and the pain from the bombs on our planes.
Row after row of sewing machines greeted us every morning. They hung from the walls with spidery steel legs connected to large Formica tables. Ten workers sat at each table. We sewed tan shirts out of a spool of precut fabric attached to the legs of the table. Someone replenished the spool every night so each morning a mound of fabric 12 inches thick and 5 feet wide greeted us.
We had until the end of the day to finish the roll. It made about 400 shirts per table of ten workers. We each produced 40 shirts per worker, per day.
Soldiers stalked up and down the three halls of the basement all day. Each had a large black club they tapped in their gloved hands to the rhythm of a clock. They rotated their shift work with the Homeland Guard.
“Maxwell Cooper is our father. Maxwell Cooper is our leader. Maxwell Cooper will take care of us,” yelled a woman in white makeup at the bottom and top of every hour we worked. She sat on a stool in the center of the room.
We got two breaks a day for the bathroom. Twice a day, someone came around and gave us a cup of water from a portable jug. Once a day, a faceless woman in white pancake makeup came around with aluminum wrapped peanut butter sandwiches and cans of tomato juice she handed to us without a word. She scowled at each of us underneath her red lipstick.
We never got up. We never, ever, talked.
As the weeks went on, the hum of the sewing machines faded into background noise. Before the end of the first week, I could not hear the zinging back and forth. My fingers also adjusted to the pattern of the shirt, and I could almost make one with my eyes closed.
In short, the work became monotonous and the days passed without much change. Early summer heat crept into every cranny of the basement and stifled my
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