Shipyard Gals, page 1
Praise For
Shipyard Gals
“Set in the wake of the Port Chicago explosion of 1944, Valerie Stoller’s Shipyard Gals follows the interconnected stories of three young women from very different backgrounds, all of whom are battling the prejudices of the times to find their purpose and voice. You will fall in love with these strong women, root for them, cry and laugh, and you will learn so much about a little-known, yet essential, piece of our complicated history. I couldn’t put it down.”
—Anne Raeff, author of Only the River and
Winter Kept Us Warm
“In Shipyard Gals, Valerie Stoller brings to life a powerful and rarely told story of women on the home front. Set in a 1944 California shipyard, the novel follows three young women—Latina, Black, and Jewish—as they challenge racism, sexism, and societal expectations. With rich historical detail and emotional depth, Stoller honors the legacy of the real Rosie the Riveter workers who shaped American history with courage and skill. Shipyard Gals is both moving and vital. Valerie Stoller has given voice to the working women whose stories still echo today.”
—Julia Park Tracey, author of The Bereaved and Silence
Sibylline Press
Copyright © 2025 by Valerie Stoller
All Rights Reserved.
Published in the United States by Sibylline Press,
an imprint of All Things Book LLC, California.
Sibylline Press is dedicated to publishing the
brilliant work of women authors ages 50 and older.
www.sibyllinepress.com
Sibylline Digital First Edition
eBook ISBN: 9798897409792
Print ISBN: 9798897409808
Library of Congress Control Number: 2025938500
Cover Design: Alicia Feltman
Book Production: Aaron Laughlin
This is a work of historical fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously with the exception of noted historical figures.
HUMAN AUTHORED: Any use of this publication to train artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited.
To Betty Reid Soskin, former Boilermakers’ auxiliary union worker and retired National Park Service Ranger, who opened my eyes to the shipyard world with her wisdom and courage.
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
May 30, 1944
LUISA/ ELENA
Kaiser Shipyard
Richmond, California
Luisa Gonzales worried she needed an alias.
Stepping off the bus in front of the shipyard hiring hall, she stared at the crowd waiting in line despite the rain. She was tempted to ask the bus driver to take her back to the Oakland YMCA, so she could pack her battered suitcase and get on the next train bound for home. But that was impossible. El Salvador had become the most dangerous place for her to live. Getting a job here would change everything.
Luisa got in line behind a young woman with blond wavy hair, so wispy compared to her own lush dark braids. The woman struggled to keep her umbrella from flipping inside out against the wind, clutching her purse as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her black patent leather heels spattered with rain. Luisa’s own leather oxfords were so worn that rain seeped in along the seams, her socks wet, her toes raw.
“Excuse me,” she said to the woman. “Is everyone here wanting a job? Or wanting a house?”
The woman peered at her for a moment, her eyes on Luisa’s damp clothing. She lifted her head and laughed, her voice deep and throaty.
“Listen lady,” she said, “if you’re lucky, you might walk outta here with a job and a place to live. Or maybe you’ll walk out with nothing. Hell if I know. Here, hold this, okay?” She handed Luisa her umbrella, pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her purse, and lit one with a silver lighter. “Want one? I’m Chrissy, by the way.”
When Luisa shook her head, Chrissy frowned and took back the umbrella.
“All I know,” Chrissy said, blowing smoke out the side of her mouth, “is that this job at the shipyard pays twice as much as I get taking dictation. I got a kid at home I need to feed. And Uncle Sam’s got my guy busy fighting. So here I am.” She took a long drag off her cigarette and exhaled.
The line inched forward. Luisa noticed another line had formed, but it looked like they both ended up at the same door. She couldn’t risk losing her place. The newspaper she’d read on the train from Mexico City said the California shipyards were desperate for workers, ever since all the young men had left to fight. The ads offered jobs with good salaries for anyone willing to be trained and work hard—Negroes and women included. And anyone needing a fresh start.
“What’s your story?” Chrissy said. When Luisa hesitated, she added, “I guess you ain’t a talker. No problem.” She held the cigarette in her lips as she folded her umbrella. The rain had stopped, leaving a sheen of droplets on Luisa’s wool jacket.
“Oh,” Luisa said, “I’m sorry, I do not understand. I am . . . Luisa Elena Gonzales Guzmán. I came here from El Salvador for a good job. I can make more money here and send to my family.” She took a breath, concentrating. “I want to be . . . a welder? Back home I work in a factory, where we put fruit into cans. But I do good sewing, too, so welding is right for me, I think.” She watched the woman’s face, hoping her words made sense.
Chrissy raised her eyebrows. “How’d you learn all that English?”
Luisa smiled. “Mi papá,” she said. “He does a small newspaper.” Her stomach clenched. She was proud of him, but some things were better kept private. “He make me learn so I can read other papers. Citizen of the world, I think you say.” She blinked away a tear. Papá had always made these solemn declarations with one hand grasping her shoulder, the other gesturing toward the maps he had tacked to the walls of his office.
“Your daddy sounds like a barrel of fun,” Chrissy said, stubbing out her cigarette with the toe of her shoe. She checked her watch. “Well, I’m gonna have to come back tomorrow. I told my boss I had a doctor’s appointment today. I need to get back before Mr. Grabby Hands fires me for being late.”
Luisa nodded, but was confused by what she’d heard. Barrel of fun? Mr. Grabby Hands?
Chrissy ran a hand through her hair, tucking it behind her ear. “Good luck. I hope you get that job. You look like you could use it.” She turned to leave. “Maybe I’ll see you around this place one day. You never know.”
Luisa watched Chrissy walk through the crowd, her shiny heels sinking into the wet dirt. Her thoughts drifted back to her father. Papá loved those maps. He had used black-headed pins to mark the movements of the Nazis. He’d add white pins to show the Allied troops’ advance. The first time the policía paid him a visit, they had questioned him about the maps. That day, the worst they’d done to Papá was to empty the office trashcans onto the printing press, promising to return if he kept publishing articles critical of the government.
“You must understand,” he’d told her that night, “the danger of powerful leaders spreading hate. And fear. It’s not just our country, Luisa, where this happens. It’s our job, the newspapers and radio stations, to educate people. They must know the truth, even when that knowledge causes them to rise up and risk everything.”
He sounded so angry when he’d said this, and the fierce look in his eyes gnawed at her. Papá had just published a story about the new government crackdown on workers who lived outside the city limits of San Salvador. People in the countryside had started to disappear, even women and children, with no warning. Gone. Bodies were left by the side of the road or found in the morning near a stream. Some were never found. Families slept with guns next to their beds.
One week after Papá published that story, the policía returned to arrest him. That was the day Luisa’s world exploded. Why she was here, far away and alone.
Finally, Luisa reached the front of the line. She stepped inside the huge hall and saw that the two lines led to different areas, each with a few workers seated behind heavy wooden tables. People bumped up against her, so she pressed her hands against a table to keep her balance when she got to the front, glaring at the older man behind her who stood too close.
“What do you need, miss?” The woman seated before her wore a black wool suit, a pencil stuck behind her ear.
“Yes, I hope to find a job,” Luisa said. “A welder’s job.” She pulled her shoulders back. “I’m a very good sewer.”
The woman frowned. “You’re in the wrong line. This is for housing.”
Ay, the wrong line. Luisa’s cheeks felt hot. Across the room, she noticed a group of people crowded around tables under a printed “Job Openings” banner.
The woman tapped her papers. “I can’t do anything for you until you’re hired. But I just gave an address to those two ladies over there.” She pointed with her pencil. “You from Mexico, too?”
“No, I am from El Salvador.”
“Well, why don’t you talk to them? Maybe there’s room for you, too.” The woman looked over Luisa’s shoulder at the next person waiting.
“Bueno, thank you,” she said. “I am sorry to be in the wrong line.” If Papá were here, he’d scold her for not paying attention. She had to be more careful.
As she walked over to the two women, she heard them speaking Spanish in quiet voices, their heads bent over a slip of paper with a map drawn in pencil. The shorter woman glanced up at Luisa and stopped talking. Her black hair was pulled back in a single braid. She narrowed her eyes, slipping the paper into her coat pocket.
“Yes?” Her voice was edged with caution.
“Hola,” Luisa said, smiling to put the woman at ease. “Me llamo Luisa Elena. Busco un cuarto como ustedes.” I’m looking for a room, too.
“Ay, perdon.” The woman’s shoulders relaxed. “Pensé que hubo un problema. Everything is okay, then? I am Ana, and this is Marisol. My cousin.” She took the arm of her companion, who towered over both of them and whose wide eyes darted about the room. “We are a little nerviosas, sí, prima?”
Marisol, the tall skinny one, nodded. “Yes. We should go now, so no one takes the room before us.” She said this in Spanish, then tilted her head and switched to a slow, hesitant English. “You come, too, yes? You have good English. I hear you talking. You help us talk to the lady in the house.”
Luisa looked at the long line of people waiting at the jobs table. It was tempting to go with these two women. She’d been on her own for so many days, first buses, then trains, and speaking Spanish again felt like a taste of home. Having roommates might be nice. Besides, she’d read that now it was harder to find a place to live than get a job at the shipyard. Richmond hadn’t prepared for so many workers needing housing.
“Okay,” she said, “I come with you.” She’d return tomorrow to apply for a job.
***
The map scrawled on the paper led Luisa and the other women to Nevin Avenue, a wide street lined with oak trees and two-story stucco homes set back from the road. An occasional car chugged past, but the block was surprisingly quiet. San Salvador didn’t have neighborhoods like this; she’d lived in a tall apartment building surrounded by similar housing. A wooden planter box filled with yellow marigolds stood in the small front yard of a house painted tan with brown shuttered windows. A red-bordered flag with a single blue star hung inside the front window, a flag she’d seen in other houses as they walked.
Ana stopped and looked up at the house. “Número 43.” Turning to Luisa, she stuffed the paper back in her pocket. “You should talk,” she said in Spanish. “Her name is Mrs. Murphy. And you, Marisol, try to smile. You look like you’re at a funeral.” She poked her cousin’s arm. “Don’t scare her off.”
“Ay, stop bossing me. I know how to act,” Marisol said. “She always tries to push me around,” she said to Luisa, “just because she’s a year older. But I’m taller. And smarter, too.” That made all three of them laugh, which was what they were doing when the door opened.
The woman in the doorway had the reddest hair Luisa had ever seen, fastened back with barrettes, her skin a field of freckles. A small gold cross hung around her neck on a thin chain. Bits of dough flecked the apron tied around her waist, and the scent of cinnamon floated in the air.
“Are you here about the room?” she said. When Luisa nodded, the woman added, “Come in, please. Sit down there in the living room. I have to get the cookies out before they burn. No wasting coupons.”
The three of them stepped into the living room and found seats, Ana and Marisol on the brown plaid couch, Luisa in the matching easy chair in front of an oil painting of a brown-hilled countryside. Nothing colorful on the walls. The ivory lace tablecloth on the dining room table looked old.
Luisa had read about the ration coupons, limiting how much people could buy at the grocery store due to the war. Back home, the neighborhood market often ran out of meat and milk. People went hungry. When things got really bad, some stole food to feed their families, or found black-market sellers offering tainted meat or produce past its prime. Papá said the Salvadoran leaders controlled “la gente” by keeping them hungry and afraid. Here, it seemed the government actually wanted to feed the workers so they could do their jobs
The redheaded lady returned, carrying a plate with three cookies that she placed on the dark wood coffee table.
“I’m sorry, I forgot my manners,” the woman said. “My name is Audrey Murphy. I teach at Richmond High. My husband, Robert, is working the day shift this week. He’s a policeman here in Richmond.”
Luisa froze. The house of a policía? “We do not want trouble, señora,” she said, her voice shaky. “We need work, make money for our families. No problems with police.” What if the policía back home sent a photo of her to these police?
Mrs. Murphy frowned, then relaxed her mouth and laughed. “Oh my dear, don’t worry about him. He only goes after criminals. His job is to keep people safe.” She pointed to the cookies. “They’re best just out of the oven.”
Ana and Marisol each took a warm cookie like they were receiving communion. Luisa hesitated, her stomach knotted, but when Mrs. Murphy thrust the plate at her, she picked up the cookie. It dissolved on Luisa’s tongue, the flavor brightened by cinnamon and some other spice she didn’t recognize. Mamá would love this recipe.
Her mind flashed to an image of her mother bent over the oven, the sewing machine awaiting her return. Their apartment was usually overrun with customers’ clothing, pants needing hemming, torn shirts, a dress pattern pinned to folded cloth. The money her mother made from sewing helped feed the family, but she was happiest in the kitchen, baking or cooking up new recipes.
Ana finished her cookie and spoke up. “Thank you. I am Ana and she is Marisol. My cousin.” She took Marisol’s arm. “And this is Luisa Elena. She speak English very good.”
What if she were just Elena? Elena Guzmán. Yes, that would be an easy change, her papers still in order if she needed to show them. And a name she’d still respond to when called.
“Please, call me Elena,” she said to the redheaded lady. “And you are a very good baker.” Couldn’t hurt to compliment her.
“Well, let me show you the bedroom upstairs,” Mrs. Murphy said, smiling. She walked down the hall toward the back of the house. “It’s Tommy’s, my son’s room.” Her fingers brushed the gold cross on her neck. “He’s fighting overseas. We decided one way we could help Uncle Sam was to offer his room to workers at the shipyard. But it’s still his room.”
They climbed the stairs and reached the doorway to the bedroom. Luisa, now Elena, followed Mrs. Murphy inside, leaving Ana and Marisol looking in from the door. Twin beds, against walls papered with small planes flying through puffy clouds. She wanted to crawl under the quilt and sleep undisturbed on the soft mattress.
A nightstand stood between the beds, with a reading lamp and a copy of the Bible. In the opposite corner of the room, to Elena’s delight, was a small wooden desk with its own lamp, perfect for letter writing. On the floor lay a colorful braided rug that would keep her feet warm when she got out of bed. Oh, this could be her home. But with a policía sleeping down the hall? She’d have to stay out of his way.
Marisol leaned in from the doorway. “¿Hay solamente dos camas, sí? No hay espacio para tres.” She glanced at Elena, her message clear. After all, the cousins met with the housing lady ahead of her. It was only fair, but still. This room was perfect, minus that wallpaper.
“Only two beds, señora? Ana asked.
“Yes,” Mrs. Murphy said. “Some people have made this kind of situation work by signing up for different shifts. That way, you can take turns sleeping here. One works days, another works swing shift 3:00 to 11:00. Maybe one works nights. They call it a ‘hot bed’ since the sheets may still be warm from the last person sleeping there. I’d charge the same price for all three of you, if you want to stay together.”
“How much is rent?” Elena hadn’t asked until now. Maybe she couldn’t afford it. All she had left from her savings was less than the one hundred dollars she’d exchanged at the border.
“We charge forty-five dollars a month,” Mrs. Murphy said. “That includes use of the kitchen and living room, plus the phone for local calls. You’d buy and cook your own food. Unless I end up with extras.” She smiled at them. “I’ll leave you here to talk about it. I’ve got to get the last batch of cookies baked before I leave for church. It’s bingo night.”
