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Greta Gill has several secrets. Some are the kind that became secret only because everyone else who knew the story has faded out of her life, and she has no wish to resurrect that information. Some are secrets for survival, rarely shared, and they shape her life with every breath.
One is an old secret, and she only keeps it now because the world changed dramatically on December 7th 1941. America entered the war against Germany, and Greta Gill knew that from that day on she was better off never telling anyone that she can speak German.
In truth it wasn’t something she thought about often. And anyone who thought twice about her first name might have considered that, yes, she probably had Germanic in her background. But this was America, and almost everyone had another country in their blood, even if they’d never set eyes on it. Even if they didn’t know which country it was.
She hadn’t used it in years. She had spoken it with her parents, but not the neighbourhood kids. Words would occasionally slip out but after she and Joey became inseparable even that faded away. Joey knew no German and didn’t want to. Her language talents extended to arguing in Italian with her grandmother, who insisted that the Old Country would have made sure she was a Real Girl. After they ran out of town Joey swore she was never speaking that language again. It came from her family, and she was done with them. Greta couldn’t see any reason to feel differently about her German.
She only thought about it now as she watched Sarge talking to some of the girls in the yard. It was a hot day but Sarge was wearing her full chaperone’s uniform, right down to the hat. They weren’t leaving for the game for an hour, but god forbid that woman ever had a crease out of place. Never a foot wrong for Sarge.
Greta had noticed something since 1941. Maybe a little before that too. Accents had changed, especially in places like Rockford. People who had sounded ‘American and somewhere else’ started to sound a lot more ‘American only’. It hadn’t been unusual to hear people shouting to each other in other languages before, especially in the cheaper neighbourhoods that she and Joey had lived in. She would hear the snatches of German, the woman muttering (not-so) secret affections to her beau as Greta passed by in a hallway. She’d never thought much about the fact that she knew what they were saying. Not until people stopped speaking it, at least publicly. Some losses you don’t anticipate.
Greta knew how to be safe. So, her understanding of German became something else she managed, to keep herself safe.
But she did notice the trace of the accent when people were hiding it. Eradicating it from their Americanisms. She heard it because she knew those sounds, and how they felt in her mouth. She knew that to non-German ears they could sound harsh or clipped. She’d never felt that way about the language. She had always thought it was musical, sibilant. She’d had a dream once where she had whispered wickedness into Carson’s ear, directions and requests, all in German. She had no idea why her mind had gone there, but the language had sounded sinful and delicious. She woke up regretting that Carson spoke only 2 languages. English and baseball. And possibly the language of Greta - but that was distinctly non-verbal.
So yes, Greta could spot the German speakers who didn’t want to be. From the barest traces of an accent or phrasing she could pick them out when to everyone else they were regular, straight-talking Americans. But she never said anything. Far be it from her to ever criticise anyone for passing.
She contemplated the Sarge.
Sarge never broke the rules. She never let anyone else break them either, and came across as abrupt and unflinching in their enforcement. But the girls knew better. They’d done two seasons with her now and they’d all noticed how their team seemed to mostly escape the sanctions or criticisms that befell the others. And she knew they weren’t any better behaved. Far from it.
She’d noticed that Jess had softened measurably towards Sarge when they came back for their second season. She even wore a skirt, without complaint, on those occasions Sarge said she had too. When Greta teased her about it Jess had told her to fuck off in a tone too serious to miss. She’d noticed that they never, ever got caught when they snuck in at night. Yet when Esti cried out as she twisted her ankle running sprints in the backyard after dark, it was Sarge who jumped up from her chair and got out there before anyone else even knew it had happened. So there was nothing wrong with her hearing. She was first up every day, no matter how early a start they had. If she slept lightly and heard everything, how come they never got caught? Even when Lupe got so drunk with the twins last season that she walked straight into the doorway when they got back? They even ‘got away with’ the nighttime practices.
Greta knew that more than one person on the team had something going on with someone in town. The sapphists were more careful but those with guys took ridiculous chances. Yet the only time she ever knew about Sarge catching someone was when Esti started making eyes at a dark-haired man who kept calling out to her at games. As soon as she saw him Greta knew that he was too old and too mean for a sweet kid like Esti. She’d seen it happen before – they worship their girl until they marry them and then she becomes a baby machine and a punching bag. Ok, perhaps that was an unfair assumption. Nevertheless Greta hated that guy, but none of them could seem to change Esti’s mind.
Until the night Esti snuck him into the garage. Greta had seen them going in. Esti clearly didn’t have any rules and had snuck him in whilst it was light, badly. She didn’t look too happy about it but he looked delighted. Triumphant. Greta had stood at the kitchen window feeling sick. If she went in there she could end up getting Esti kicked off the team. Just as she decided she cared more about Esti’s safety right now than her future, she heard Sarge walk up behind her.
“Miss Gill, I believe Mrs Shaw needs you upstairs”.
She didn’t want to move. Not even for Carson in that moment. But Sarge cleared her throat and, reluctantly, Greta pulled her eyes off the garage and moved for the stairs.
Sarge moved for the garage. Greta paused as she watched Sarge walk – no, march – towards the backdoor.
Not five minutes later Esti ran back into the house looking terrified, and dishevelled. She didn’t even look at Greta as she tearfully went upstairs and locked herself in Sarge’s room. That was odd in itself.
Sarge had come back in half an hour later, by which time Greta had learnt that Carson had not asked for her to go upstairs at all, but was pleased to see her nonetheless. That evening she thought Esti would be off the team. Instead, Esti, Sarge and Lupe spent an hour in Sarge’s room. When Esti came out she was subdued, but calm. She was quiet for a few days, but then recovered, although Greta could tell that something had grown up in Esti after that. Neither she nor Lupe ever discussed what had happened, but she noticed that Esti and Lupe softened to Sarge, just like Jess.
The dark-haired man was never seen again after Sarge spent that time with him in the garage. Greta was reasonably sure he wasn’t dead, but she wouldn’t bet the house on it.
It was an unspoken rule that the league never mentioned Maybelle’s kids, but Greta noticed that in the run up to their birthdays, which all fell in the season, Sarge would gently and discretely remind Maybelle about posting dates for parcels, depending on where they were going to be. She always made sure they were near a telephone at a reasonable hour on those days, rather than stuck at practice.
So Greta noticed that Sarge cared. But it took skill to keep a lock on your emotions like that. Only revealing the bare minimum. Making most people see exactly what you wanted to see. Most people with that skill learned it for a reason.
What did she know about Sarge?
Sarge wasn’t married. Had never married, and never hinted at wanting to be. When she mentioned men it was always in relation to proper behaviour of the girls around them. When Greta saw her speak with men, it was always direct and professional. Perhaps Sarge was too old for coquettish behaviour, but Greta caught the difference between her and Vivienne. The latter knew that, even at her age, men could still be manipulated by the sense that perhaps something more was lying beneath the surface of the conversation. A hint of flirting, a suggestion that experience was far more interesting than youth. Vivienne rarely used it now - she had accrued enough wealth and status that she didn’t need to – but in working with her Greta had noticed that Vivienne still understood how to use men’s assumptions about femininity to her advantage.
Sarge did precisely none of that. Sarge treated men as colleagues or furniture. They either had a purpose, or they were decorative. She wasn’t rude and she understood how to be inoffensive and acceptable, but she had clearly chosen to occupy the role of ‘capable matron’ in their eyes. For a woman who was kinder and more astute than she seemed, that choice interested Greta.
And let’s not forget. The marines? Sarge? She had a last name. She wasn’t in the service anymore. But still she went by her rank. And she had chosen to join one of the toughest branches of the services during the last war. When the war ended, she stayed in the services for as long as she possibly could. There can’t have been many women who managed to pull that off. To do that you had to want it, and badly. Then you had to acquire the skills to make it happen.
She’d chosen to stay in a profession that didn’t want her. Then all that time surrounded by men at the peak of their fitness, in uniform. And somehow she didn’t end up snagging a single one of them? Then at the end of it, she chose to keep being ‘Sarge’?
Well if that wasn’t the butchest thing Greta had ever heard.
But it was the last couple of weeks that had made it a home run on Greta’s speculations. Two weeks ago they had all come back for their third season. It was mostly old faces, but there were a few new ones. Enough to make it likely that room assignments would put old and new faces together, to build collegiality. She and Carson had expected that, but this off-season had been the first time they had lived together in New York. The cover was that of teammates sharing an apartment following the recent (and scandalous, whisper it) divorce of the Peaches catcher. From the outside, it was a sensible arrangement. Greta had made an impression in Vivienne’s company and was making a more than decent living. She could afford the rent on a reasonably sized two bedroom apartment. And, poor thing, as a recent divorcee everyone knew that Carson’s employment opportunities would be limited. Who but a teammate would quietly subsidise her expenses as she got herself back on her feet? Quietly, and under the radar, they had lived a boring, predicable life of work and home. Cleaning, cooking, saving for the odd luxury and occasional pizza. With a second bedroom that was always available for guests, even if Carson’s clothes were in the closet.
It was bliss.
So it was with heavy hearts that they resigned themselves to sneaking around for another summer. Greta’s heart had sunk when she arrived at the house and overheard Sarge telling one of the girls that the garage had been cleaned out and there was now room for her to park her car in there. She hadn’t loved folding her long legs into the old car, but she would take what she could get (and give). Now even that was off the table and she was facing a summer of cold showers. Alone.
Until Sarge read out the room assignments. Without even a pause at the monumental gift she was handing over, she read out ‘Gill, Shaw’ and then moved onto the next pairing. Greta had no idea how she didn’t scream out loud as she realised that she had an entire summer of Shaw after dark ahead of her.
She had practiced her quiet skills a lot since then.
And she noticed that she and Carson were the only originals not sharing with a newbie.
They had been assigned a room at the end of the corridor. The only room that didn’t share a wall with another bedroom. On one side they had the house wall, and on the other side was a wall shared with the bathroom. No one envied them that room because the bathroom made it noisy as hell in the mornings and evenings, and people were constantly sticking their head into the room as they were heading to the bathroom. Only a few of them – Esti, Lupe, Maybelle – made discrete jokes to Greta and Carson about how the bathroom was usually empty ‘from curfew to dawn and all night long…’
She noticed it was the only room, apart from Sarge’s, that had a small, discrete, lock. It needed it, because sometimes the girls got the wrong door and barged into their bedroom instead of the bathroom. No one seemed to clock that 80% of the time it was the same girls being ‘forgetful’ and commenting that they should really use the lock. God love the girls in this team with a clue. After a while it made sense to everyone that they just lock the door if they were changing, or reading, or needed privacy to write a letter. In fact, it made sense to do it as a general habit. The girls knew how to knock if they wanted to come in, or they could prop the door open if they wanted visitors.
Sarge never commented on their use of the lock. Apparently it was not a threat to the collegiality that she encouraged.
Greta definitely remembered that lock being on a shelf in one of the downstairs storage rooms last season. She’d had it in her eyeline one rainy evening when the garage was out of the question, but they just couldn’t help themselves. Carson had pulled her in when everyone else seemed to be upstairs, told her to ‘be quiet’ before working her way down her body.
Greta had a lot of good thoughts about that lock.
And this week they had played the Racine Belles. A decent team, and it was fun game. Greta had watched Sarge walk over to the opposite dugout for her usual greetings with their chaperone. That was typical. Standard.
She would always say hello, and speak with them for a few minutes, and then return to the Peaches dugout. Greta understood from other teams that this wasn’t a protocol for the chaperones, and she had idly asked Sarge about it once. Sarge had replied that courtesy was a part of sportsmanship. It was a good, acceptable answer.
On that day Greta had been teasing Maybelle about her latest beau. The other girls were joining in and it gave Greta the ideal cover to position herself in the group, facing towards the Belles dugout. Her height gave her the perfect view but anyone looking at her would just see a redheaded ball player standing with her teammates.
She watched as Sarge approached the Belles chaperone, one of the few who had also been with the league since its inception. Tall, dark haired, maybe a few years younger than Sarge. Softer than her in looks and bearing, but Greta knew that the Belles didn’t try to get anything past her. She’d noticed that the Belles also seemed to suffer fewer sanctions and get into less trouble than the other teams. Clearly, they both had very talented chaperones.
Sarge approached the woman, but Greta noticed that the woman turned to speak to her just a little before she would have expected. Like she knew she was there. Like Greta did when she sensed Carson sneaking up on her at home.
Sarge talked. The Belles chaperone talked. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary took place. Then they both turned and stood side by side, looking out at the players and the fans, occasionally commenting to each other. Of course, standing as they were, they had to sometimes tilt their heads towards each other to be heard, turning their heads to speak towards the other’s ear.
From their faces, whatever they were talking about appeared completely routine.
And then it was clear that they were wrapping it up, before Sarge returned to her dugout. Sarge turned to her opposite number and put her hand out. She always did this. A friendly handshake before the game. The Belles chaperone was facing the sun and put her hand up to shade her eyes as she looked down at Sarge’s face.
Greta noticed that the way they were stood hid both their faces from the crowd. She couldn’t see Sarge’s face, but for a second, she recognised the look that passed over the Belle’s chaperone. The smile was blink and you’ll miss it, if you didn’t understand how this worked.
The handshake was perfunctory and she was sure that no one who didn’t speak the language would have noticed their fingers trailing apart.
“Maybelle you do not date a man who owns a chihuahua. It is not an acceptable dog,” Greta teased as Sarge walked back over to the dugout. Maybelle protested and said it was handy as it was portable, and Carson chimed in to say that a chihuahua was a pointless version of a cat. That seemed to annoy all the cat people in the group. As Sarge walked past this animated conversation Greta called out “Hey Sarge, can you tie break this? Is it acceptable to date someone with a terrible dog?”
“Each to their own Miss Gill, each to their own” remarked Sarge, taking a place on the bench.
After the game Sarge had said goodbye to the Belles coach, along with their chaperone, and it had looked as it always did when she said goodbye to the opposite team.
Now, as Greta watched Sarge in the yard, she contemplated that Sarge was truly a master at making sure the world saw only what it needed to see. As Sarge walked past her to go into the house, Greta asked “Hey Sarge, do you know when we’re playing the Belles again? They were pretty good, we might need to practice some of their plays”.
“Two weeks Miss Gill. When I spoke with their chaperone yesterday she suggested we have a short exhibition game at one of the county fairs that is taking place outside Racine”.
“Great. That’ll give us a chance to check out their plays outside a competition” replied Greta.
“Practice makes perfect Miss Gill” Sarge responded as she continued into the house.
‘Indeed it does’ thought Greta, as she carried on watching the games of catch taking place in the yard.