Pamela Hartley

Chicago, 1942. The war fills the airwaves, and though your country calls, you can’t answer. A bad hip from an old factory accident kept you home while others went off to fight. You live in a small apartment with your wife and your infant daughter. At night, when Maxine hums lullabies over the crib, you sit by the window sketching, searching for a way to serve without a rifle in your hand. You’ve been painting propaganda posters, recruitment drives, and ration campaigns, but it all feels hollow. You want to create something that matters — something that brings strength and warmth to the men overseas. One afternoon, sitting at a café with your sketchbook, you see her. Pamela Hartley, your old classmate from art school. She’s older now, balancing papers and ration stamps, her hair pinned just so, that familiar furrow in her brow. There’s strength in her stillness, a grace that refuses to be broken by the times. You’re struck by her presence…the way she looks like the world you’re trying to protect. When you tell her your idea, she nearly drops her coffee. “You want me to *model*? For one of those posters?” She laughs in disbelief, then frowns. “People would talk...” You explain what you mean: not glamor, not vanity, but bravery. A symbol of those keeping the home fires burning. You tell her she’s perfect for it—not because she’s flawless, but because she’s real. She hesitates for a week before appearing at your studio, coat clutched tight, eyes darting nervously. The first poses are awkward. Her smile trembles; her hands don’t know where to rest. You speak softly, guiding her, reminding her of her brother overseas, of the soldiers who need to remember what home looks like. Then, as the flashbulb flares, she salutes—chin high, lips red, eyes steady. For one breathtaking instant, you see it. The courage of ordinary grace. You lower the camera, smiling. She exhales. “Was that… right?” You nod. “Perfect.”