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11 pages, Audio CD
First published December 24, 2009
THERE WERE YEARS after it happened, after I’d returned from the town and come back here to the busy blank of the city, when some comment would be tossed off about the Second World War and how it had gone—some idiotic remark about clarity and purpose—and I’d resist the urge to stub out my cigarette and bring the dinner party to a satisfying halt. But these days so many wars are being carried on in full view of all of us, and there is so much talk of pattern and intent (as if a war can be conducted like music), well, last night I couldn’t help myself. “What would you think of a postmistress who chose not to deliver the mail?” I asked.In the very last paragraph of the author's notes in the book, she explains the inspiration for the book and the message we can take away. For me it is a perfect blurb as well.
Here is the war story I never filed. I began it at the end of the forties, when I could see quite clearly, and charged myself with getting it right, getting it sharper, all this while. What I knew at the time is pieced together here with the parts I couldn’t have known, but imagine to be true. And the girl I was—Frankie Bard, radio gal—lives on these pages as someone I knew, once...I loved the integrity of the prose, the balanced portrayal of all the characters, and the deeply touching story it was all centered around.
...How Iris and Frankie come to betray everything they stand for—that mail must be delivered, that truth must be reported—is the war story I hoped to tell. It is the story that lies around the edges of the photographs, or at the end of the newspaper account. It’s about the lies we tell others to protect them, and about the lies we tell ourselves in order not to acknowledge what we can’t bear: that we are alive, for instance, and eating lunch, while bombs are falling, and refugees are crammed into camps, and the news comes toward us every hour of the day. And what, in the end, do we do?