The Postmistress
It鈥檚 one of the most famous inscriptions in American life: 鈥淣either snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.鈥� And it鈥檚 something in which Americans have an unspoken faith: If you put a stamp on a letter and drop it in the mail, it will arrive at its destination.
But what if a postal employee refused to deliver a letter? (It鈥檚 happened in real life: A mail courier made national headlines 鈥� and lost his job 鈥� a year ago for failing to inflict junk mail on the houses on his route.) That鈥檚 the nominal setup of Sarah Blake鈥檚 new novel The Postmistress, although it takes almost 250 pages for this moral dilemma to pop up.
Until then, Blake traces the lives of three women in the months leading up to the United States鈥� involvement in World War II. One is the titular postmistress, one is a newly married doctor鈥檚 wife, and one is a radio reporter covering the Blitz under the tutelage of Edward R. Murrow. Can you doubt that the paths of these three are going to intertwine in life-changing ways? If so, you鈥檝e never read a historical novel.
鈥淭he Postmistress鈥� examines the question of truth-telling in wartime, and the fact that we can never learn the whole story, as the reporter takes her recorder on trains across Europe, interviewing the last wave of Jewish refugees trying to get out before the exits slam shut. The vitality inherent in that vocal record, fragmentary though it of necessity is, is the most resonant part of the novel.
Unfortunately, there have been an awful lot of books about World War II, and 鈥淭he Postmistress,鈥� while intelligent and well meaning, doesn鈥檛 ultimately have much new to add. It鈥檚 clear that Blake has done her research and book groups will enjoy its sincerity and competent prose.
But the dialogue lacks snap, a major character鈥檚 death is manipulative rather than tragic 鈥� Blake even alters history to try to give it punch 鈥� and she engages in expository overload that鈥檚 really not needed for such a well-known tale. And then there are her main characters.
Now, I have a working knowledge of history and have seen episodes of 鈥�Mad Men,鈥� so I鈥檓 not unaware that the rules for women have changed in recent years. While I鈥檝e never regarded myself as a militant feminist, the novel鈥檚 opening just about had me belting out Helen Reddy tunes and looking for undergarments to torch.
In the first chapter, Iris James, a 40-year-old postmaster of a small Cape Cod town, gets a gynecological exam so she can prove to the man she hopes will be her boyfriend that she鈥檚 still a virgin. And it鈥檚 apparently supposed to be touching 鈥� as opposed to, say, icky 鈥� when Iris gives her 鈥減urity certificate鈥� to her would-be swain. (Harry Vale, Iris鈥檚 boyfriend, it must be said, is a good-hearted man who would never have asked for such a test.)
In her professional life, however, Iris is ahead of her time 鈥� to the point where the gossips cackle that a man should have been given her job. And she takes her position seriously, watching over her town and all the varied pieces of their lives that slide through her capable fingers. Then there鈥檚 Emma Fitch, professional child-woman and the doctor鈥檚 new wife. Emma is a dishrag of the first water. She felt invisible before she married. 鈥淔or the first time in her life, with Will, she had come to see herself because she鈥檇 look down and see herself 鈥� her waist, her arms, the bone on her wrist 鈥� in his hands. Because he鈥檇 been watching her. Like a fairy kissed into being, or the mermaid suddenly walking....鈥� If the old 鈥渕ale gaze鈥� saw isn鈥檛 enough, Emma demonstrates all the backbone of a paramecium.
When her husband volunteers to help during the Blitz, Emma doesn鈥檛 either (a) support him, or (b) tell him she鈥檚 pregnant, so he understands why she doesn鈥檛 want him to leave. Instead, she sends whiny missives and then talks about how tired she is of being brave and putting on a good front. I wondered if I had perhaps skipped a page.
Far more active is Frankie Bard, intrepid girl reporter, whose recklessness is matched only by her naivet茅. (She escapes the bomb that kills her roommate because she鈥檚 having anonymous sex in an alley.) I kept wishing that Cary Grant would show up and call her a 鈥渄oll-faced hick.鈥� Sadly, nobody in 鈥淭he Postmistress鈥� is very witty, and so Frankie鈥檚 nickname among her fellow reporters is Beauty. (Where is Rosalind Russell when you need her?)
Blake does a good job of capturing small-town nastiness and Americans鈥� stolid desire to avoid another war at all costs. Less believable is the idea that 鈥淭here were things being broken we had no American names for. There was war. What did it mean, War?鈥� World War I was just 22 years before, so plenty of people would have been familiar with the concept.
Frankie鈥檚 frantic desire to get the story out, and her growing anguish about her country鈥檚 indifference and the unintended consequences of her reporting, however, help lift 鈥淭he Postmistress鈥� above the bland. Blake includes some nice details about radio correspondents鈥� roles during World War II. Take the London studio over which Murrow presides, 鈥渘ot much bigger than a closet, equipped with a battered table and chair and a single light shining on the microphone set in the middle of the table, heavy and blunt as a murder weapon....鈥� And there鈥檚 a great bit where Frankie, ostensibly lauding the composer Ludwig von Beethoven, sneaks the Morse code 鈥淰鈥� for victory past a German censor.
Iris may be the titular character, but readers learn remarkably little about her. Instead, the novel鈥檚 strengths rest on the shoulders of Frankie Bard, Radio Gal.
Yvonne Zipp regularly reviews fiction for the Monitor.
