It was a test of sorts. And so far, Oliver had passed.
“I know you love writing your beau,” Gladys said as the knitting evening convened. Tonight, they’d moved it to the Becks’ house, as Gladys’s apartment building had suffered a roach infestation and the landlord had ordered everyone out for a few nights.
Margaret rolled her eyes at the misguided statement, but otherwise ignored it. “So I’ve learned about something new you might want to try. It’s called Victory Mail.”
“What is it?” asked Dottie. She’d been writing letters twice a week to John and lived for the postman’s arrival at Gladys’s apartment. Thankfully, John had accepted her explanation that she’d left her own home in order to have the adventure of having a roommate before they got married. Letters were nice like that—it slowed the back-and-forth that conversation would have prompted and it made difficult things easier to gloss over.
“The good news,” continued Gladys, “is that we’re certainly doing our part keeping up morale over there. So much so that the volume of letters going from one end of the Atlantic to the other is taking up valuable cargo space. So here you go—I’ve picked up some Victory Mail paper for each of you.”
Margaret took the sheet and looked it over. It was thicker than the usual air mail paper, but smaller in size.
Gladys continued. “You write your letter on this paper and they photograph it and put it on microfilm. Then they send the microfilm overseas—much less bulk than thousands of letters—and print them up on the other end in miniature.”
Margaret gasped. “That’s amazing!”
“Exactly.” Gladys took her place on the Becks’ afghan-covered sofa and picked up her knitting needles. She’d volunteered at the Stage Door Canteen last night, so she was game for a mellow evening in with the girls. “I think the letters are about one-quarter size. Eventually, the actual letters make their way over—perfume and lipstick stained—but only as room is available.”
Dottie was already five rows in, compared to Margaret’s two, amazingly unencumbered by the pillow she’d set across her lap to hide her gently expanding waist. “But won’t that be easy for people to read? It seems like your letters would be quite visible that way.”
Gladys grinned. “That’s why you save all the lovey-dovey mush for the regular letters. But if you have to say something faster, give the Victory Mail a try.”
“You sound like an advertisement for them,” said Dottie.
“Is that the kind of thanks I get for good information like that?”
Margaret was grateful to have the sheets. They provided a lot less space to write on, but for shorter letters she could definitely send these to William. Another tiny way to do her part. Posters plastered all over New York reminded her that every little bit helped. Some of them were quite clever. Such as Knock the “Heil” out of Hitler! And Let’s catch him with his “Panzers” down!
When the war was over, would they return to the kind of regular life that took small things for granted, or would they forevermore use every piece of a chicken, save every bit of scrap metal, and make a cup of coffee by counting out the exact number of beans that would make the stash last a week?
She hoped not. And yet, it did bring about a sense of appreciation for things that had previously gone unnoticed.
Gladys turned the radio on in time to hear Perry Como croon out the popular songs of the day. Christmas tunes abounded, and though they were mere days past Thanksgiving, it was a cheery thing in these trying times to usher in the favorite holiday as early as possible. Wreaths and boughs were already adorning the front doors of Brooklyn, to Margaret’s delight. That the radio hosts were also in on the sentiment was a welcome surprise.
The girls sang out the familiar words of “Joy to the World” and “O Tannenbaum.” Gladys had a sparkling voice that could have found a place onstage if she cared to make a career out of it, but as yet she’d declined the chance to entertain the troops at the Canteen. Margaret and Dottie could keep a tune, but with less pizzazz. However, the merriment ended when the radio announcer began a live address across the country:
“What would this season be without a new Bing Crosby hit? Last year, ‘White Christmas’ became an instant smash and sent children to their windows pleading with Santa Claus to bring snow along with their presents. It’s too soon to tell if New York will be blanketed in a winter wonderland, but one thing that we can all agree on is that we miss our boys and girls, whose absence will leave an empty chair or two around our family’s table. And with that sentiment, here is Bing with his new one, ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas.’”
Margaret adjusted herself on the sofa next to Gladys, basking in the glow of the candles they’d lit and the hot chocolate treat that Gladys had procured. She’d even gotten some milk, though Margaret suspected that was something Oliver had found for her.
Oh, making it with real milk was such a creamy comfort.
I’ll be home for Christmas, you can plan on me.
She closed her eyes and pictured a holiday meal where John had returned and he and Dottie were married and their son or daughter sat in a high chair tasting their mother’s homemade applesauce. Presents sat under the tree, bestowed with more meaning than in previous years because they’d all come to appreciate the preciousness and fragility of life.
It had been difficult to see his seat remain empty as their mother set the turkey on the table, his favorite sweet potato casserole still made even though he was the only one who liked it.
Margaret hoped this would be the only holiday season they’d have to be without him.
Please have snow and mistletoe and presents under the tree.
Perhaps another year in the future might have her standing beneath the doorframe of the house as winter’s flakes began to fall. A man—tall, dark hair, but a face in shadows—pointed to the mistletoe and swept her into his arms as they kissed.
I’ll be home for Christmas, where the love light gleams.
She looked at the faces of Gladys and Dottie, whose expressions mirrored her own dreamy one. Bathed in love light, not merely from the men who cherished them, but also from the friendship they shared with each other. This was the bliss that made the struggles worth it.
I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.
The last lyric jolted Margaret from her wistful state. John’s absence was felt with bitter intensity. He would not be home for Christmas. He would be in another country, across the Atlantic, away from all who loved him. The song had lulled her into the pleasantness of holiday spirit only to pull it from her so heartlessly. Delivered in the false security of Bing Crosby’s smooth voice.
The song repeated itself verse by verse, but by this time, she saw that Gladys and Dottie, too, had been similarly affected.
“Well,” huffed Gladys. “That’s a bubble burst if I ever heard one. Thanks a lot, Bing.”
Dottie tugged at one of her stitches. “He didn’t write it. He just sings what’s given to him.”
“And makes a lot of dough doing it, to be sure. Lure me with touching sentiments and then—pow!—remind me of how miserable it will be this Christmas as we’re scattered around the globe.”