Please thank Tom for the lovely drawings at the end of the letters. Between your words and his art, I feel as if I am in the English countryside with you all. I looked up Chilton Foliat on a map. Actually, I went through three maps at the library before I found one that had it. What a small place it must be. So very different than Brooklyn.

I’ve never told anyone this, but I’d like to see so much more of the world than I’ve been able. I’m embarrassed to say that I’ve never been out of the city other than to visit relatives in Pennsylvania. First, there was school. Then, helping in the cobbler shop. When work was slow, we couldn’t afford to travel anywhere. When work picked up, we were too busy to leave it.

My ambitions in this regard are not quite as lofty as my friend Gladys. I daresay that she would jump at the opportunity to ride a camel through Morocco or scale the Great Wall of China. As for me—and as I scour the atlas for every little village you name—I find that I would be quite content with seeing what you’re seeing in England.

Although I hear that the Allies hope to liberate France soon. I think that would be next on my list. France. Paris.

All right, William. Make me a promise. If you conquer the Axis and make it to Paris on this grand tour of yours, have a croissant at an outdoor café. Dip it in sipping chocolate and think of me. But don’t write to me about it. I might not be able to contain my envy.

In the meantime, I’ll dedicate my next Coney Island dog to you.

(Why do I think you might be getting the better end of the deal?)

All the best,

Margaret (who now has a namesake!)

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

June 1944

Hold on tight!”

“Gladys—slow down! My hand is slipping!”

“Stop dawdling, then. We don’t want to miss it.”

“We don’t want to lose each other either.”

“Geez, you’d think that attaching a few nuts and bolts would get you a seat.”

“Us and ten thousand others?”

“That’s immaterial.”

“How many people do you think are here?”

“I’m guessing all of the boroughs in New York and then some.”

“Seems like it.”

Every inch of the Brooklyn Navy Yard was packed as throngs and throngs of people gathered to witness the commissioning of the USS Missouri. Four years in the making, 887 feet long, fifty-seven thousand tons in weight, Margaret took in its magnificent expanse with immeasurable, breathless pride. She would never know which flags that flapped in the breeze had been stitched by her hands, or how much ordnance she’d engraved would be used in battle. But Margaret Beck of Brooklyn, New York, had been a part of something that would surely make history.