July 2, 1942
Washington D.C. 

In July of 1942, I was living and working in Washington, D.C., as a teletypist at TWA.

Shifts stretched twelve hours or more, rotating day into night. The teletype room was a storm of clattering keys and bells, paper spooling across the floor. The machines gave off a steady metallic heat, and the air carried a smoky tang that clung stubbornly to my hair and clothes.

I was fast at my keys, proud to be moving the nation’s business. My fingers clacked until they ached. The war was no longer distant. It was everywhere — in the newsboys’ shouts, in the conversations on streetcars, in the telegrams that made women go still in their kitchens.

Once, only hours after the Pearl Harbor attack, I stepped out for a quick break in the concourse. I lit a cigarette and leaned against a column, watching passengers shuffle past in the gray light of afternoon, my hands still buzzing with the machine’s memory.

Suddenly the rhythm shifted. A line of Army MPs strode in, boots striking sharp against the tile. Between them walked a party of men in dark suits and fedoras, faces grave and unreadable. I recognized one instantly from The Post: Ambassador Nomura. Another, shorter man beside him was Kurusu, the envoy who had arrived weeks earlier speaking of peace, even as warplanes headed for Hawaii.

The concourse froze. Baggage boys stopped mid-stride. A stewardess held her sandwich halfway to her mouth. Even the janitor’s mop hung suspended. The soldiers marched the diplomats past as if through a tunnel of silence.

They vanished down the jetway to a waiting transport. The spell broke. The stewardess swallowed; the janitor’s mop slapped back onto the tiles. I stubbed out my cigarette, smoothed my skirt, and returned to the teletype room.

The world resumed its course.

I lived in a boardinghouse for women. Our room was packed with too many bodies, too much laundry, too many narrow beds and battered suitcases that passed for dressers.

We were “Government Girls” now, or so the posters claimed. In reality, we were displaced young women jammed into a sweltering room in Washington, bound more by circumstance than ambition.

There was a war on, and the whole country seemed determined to prove it. Housewives saved bacon grease in tin cans for munitions plants. Children marched proudly to scrap drives with bundles of newspapers. Factories shifted from dresses to uniforms.

In Washington, evidence of the war was everywhere: posters at streetcar stops reading Is This Trip Necessary? and A Pound of Fat = A Pound of Explosives. Newsboys hawked bulletins on every corner.

Servicemen were everywhere, too. They crowded ticket lines at Union Station and filled pews on Sundays. On warm nights they lingered outside our boardinghouse, calling up a cheerful, “Hello, ladies!” as if we were a chorus line instead of working girls mending stockings at the kitchen table.

It was nearly the Fourth of July, though you wouldn’t have known it in Washington. There would be no fireworks, no parades, no music on the Mall that summer. The city would stay dark, its streets patrolled for light leaks during blackout drills.

During those blackouts, the city seemed to hold its breath. Streetcars stilled. The great dome of the Capitol went dark. Even the summer insects seemed to hush, as if they understood this was rehearsal for something larger.

By daylight, the streetcars were always packed — soldiers, clerks, mothers with children — everyone pressed shoulder to shoulder, the air thick with smoke and damp wool. By the time I reached my stop and walked the last stretch to the boardinghouse, there was little left of me. Most nights I collapsed into bed without even laying out clothes for the morning.

The war was consuming all of us whole. I was honored to do my part.

But one thing had become increasingly clear.

I had to get back to Kansas City.

Nadine’s Northeast follows the life of Nadine Burnett (née Pulliam), who was born in 1921 and spent most of her life in Northeast Kansas City, where she raised ten children amid the city’s rapid changes in the 20th century. Written by her granddaughter, Betsy Cochran, these historical fiction stories draw from Nadine’s lived experiences, local history, and a little family lore. Each installment stands alone while weaving into a larger portrait of Nadine’s past. For a deeper dive, visit betsycochran.substack.com, where you can subscribe for free or choose a paid plan for extended content.