#cryptanalysis

You’ll want to hear something more than that. I suppose it makes the most sense to tell you about the girls I’m working with, since I know you’re sure to be curious about who’s listening to Jo’s nonsense now that you’re not about. I spent the most time with three other girls and in fact, even in this short amount of time, we’ve become something like sisters—squabbling and sharing and generally being found together when it’s time for a meal. I share my room with Meg and if I tell you she’s far more glamourous than I’ll ever be, I know you’ll shout with laughter, for who’d ever find me glamourous in the least? In any case, Meg’s one of those girls whose stocking seams are always straight, who’s always got a neat pair of gloves and a darling little hat cocked over one eye that would look positively silly perched on my short crop. She’s neat and particular and she’s apt to rein in my exuberance when it might get in the way of breaking sorting out the latest assignment. I’m certain the fellows at Harvard would love to squire her at a dance and she’d never spill a drop of punch. 

Amy’s so full of Southern charm you might be forgiven for thinking she’s an Atlanta belle, when she hails from Philadelphia’s Main Line. She’s every bit the snob but somehow, I can’t mind it, for it’s such fun to tease her about it. It’s also a bit of a ruse, as her true passion is art—she’d planned to go abroad before the war and she does quite the most amusing little sketches of everyone in her spare time. If you’re lucky, I’ll ask her if she’ll draw one of me to send along to you. She and Meg are two peas in a pod when it comes to prettifying, though Amy’s more in the line of Veronica Lake.

Bethie’s the last member of our quartet and Laurie, she’s the kindest, sweetest girl and I suspect the brainiest of us all, for you’d never think such a homebody would end up where we are, all clattering away at our typewriters. She spends her free time knitting or playing the latest songs on the beat-up piano they have for us in what they call our sitting room. She’s the kind of girl who ought to have a kitten in her lap, too soft-spoken for her own good, and it took our supervisor one afternoon to figure out that even the slightest correction was like a hammer coming down on her. (It took another afternoon for our supervisor Miss March to learn I’m made of far tougher stuff, too stubborn by half, and that no subtly raised eyebrow was likely to make a smidge of difference with me!)

I’ve got to run—they need us to put in odd hours now and again and it’s best for you not to ask me, as it’s best for me not to ask them. Do let me know how you’re getting on as much as you’re able. I hope it won’t be too long before we’re back home, taking in the Charlie Chan double feature at the Odeum, eating enough Sno-Caps and Cracker Jack to spoil our dinners. I’ll race you home, Laurie, see if I won’t—

Your pal,

Jo

*

Dear John,

I was so glad to receive your last letter—you can’t imagine how worried I was, it had been weeks since I’d gotten one from you and then just today, it arrived and I saw you’d written it three weeks ago. I only hope that you’ve been safe in the meantime or that tomorrow, the girls here will burst out laughing when I get another half-dozen. I know you can’t say much about where you are and my work, typing away, isn’t especially interesting. I find myself spending half my time in memories, remembering how we met at the library, where you were so patiently tutoring that freshman Larry, who hardly paid you any mind, and I dropped my glove and you gave it back the next time I came to change my book though the librarian Miss Plumfield glowered at us so horribly. I remember being so impressed that you remembered me and you were so kind about my dusty stack of books, insisting on carrying them for me to the circulation desk. I remember how you found me working on my mathematics and told me it was a pleasure to see someone dedicated to their studies, instead of telling me not to busy my head about such things or that I’d got better things to do. I remember that first time we went to the soda fountain and you had black coffee and paid for my maple walnut sundae and I knew, John, that you hadn’t two cents to rub together but you’d spent them both on me. I remember how you asked if you could steal a kiss when you walked me back to Bertram Hall and I told you it didn’t need to be stolen, I’d give it to you for free and how you smiled and kissed my hand. If you asked me today, I wouldn’t wait for you to kiss my hand—I wouldn’t miss my chance to give you a real kiss.

The girls here would hardly believe proper Meg Bronson, always the first to point out unladylike behavior, would write such a forward letter as this, but I find I can’t help myself. I worry about you day and night, John, and I keep you in my prayers. I’m sending along a photograph as you asked—Amy, one of the girls here and so artistically inclined, took it and it was her idea for me to hold the daisy. I don’t imagine it’ll keep you safe but I hope you’ll like to have it anyway.

Sincerely

Best wishes

Yours,

Meg

*

Dear Hannah-cat (and Marmee),

I hope you’ve been getting plenty of milk and that Marmee has kept her promise and given you at least one sardine a week. I know how finicky you are about your meals and how loudly you’ll meow if you don’t get what you want. I’m being fed well enough, which Marmee will worry about, not you, Hannah-cat, and I’m just about managing my homesickness, which I never thought I should. That last part’s mostly owed to some of the girls. We’ve made a sort of foursome, organized by a great tall funny girl named Jo, who’s always scribbling something when we’re not at work and has ink on her fingers and uses the latest slang until it makes Amy scold. Amy’s a deb from Philadelphia and she and I share a room. She’s quite generous with her things, though I know I don’t care a bit about ribbons and nail polish. Meg lives with Jo and she sometimes acts like the mother of us all or maybe, more like our big sister. She’s the one to remind your absent-minded Bethie to put on galoshes when it rains and sees that I finish my meals while Jo is making me laugh ‘til I get tears in my eyes, telling the most hair-raising stories, they kind you’d find in the pulps. She’s even talked about writing a play for us to perform for the other girls, “Alas for Zara,” and I’m to provide the music. It was a wrench to come here but I know I’m doing my duty and that’s only fair, when you think of what the boys are called to do and where they’ve got to go. And no one here has teased even the littlest bit about how much I like doing crossword puzzles, which makes up for the fact that the only piano is sadly out of tune. I don’t think the other girls notice, as long as I play everyone’s favorite song. I miss you, Hannah-cat, and Marmee, and dear gruff Grandpa James. Please send all my love and best wishes to Mrs. Hummel and all the little Hummels and please do make sure Hannah-cat gets a sardine now and then.

With all my love,

Bethie

*

Dear Flo,

I said I’d do it and I did—I’ve gotten a job working as a typist for the Navy! It’s nothing splendid and I’m sure nearly every other girl here is a better typist than I am, but do tell your father I appreciate whatever strings he pulled on my behalf, because if I had to stay home with Mother and Great-Aunt Marcia for one more day, I don’t think I could have borne it. Being a deb with all the best young men abroad as officers and so many old men expecting to be fawned over simply for having a chest full of medals reeking of polish—well, if I couldn’t spend the next year studying painting in Paris, the way Great-Aunt Marcia had promised, I’d rather do something other than simper at dances and pretend I’ve got nothing between my ears but cotton fluff. 

Miss March, our supervisor, has said my facility with languages is a godsend, so I’ll have to mail a pretty little note of thanks to Mlle. Valnor and let her know that all her hours spend teaching me French and German and Italian weren’t wasted in the slightest. I still have her old rosary, hanging from the mirror in my room, but Bethie, the girl I live with, was nice enough not to ask impertinent questions about whether I’m Catholic. She’s a dear, Bethie, one of those girls who’s shy and turns pink around even the least impressive boy and she’s an absolute wiz doing a crossword puzzle. She and two other girls, Jo and Meg, and I take our meals together ever since the day we were set up in a row with our typewriters, all clattering away at the same time like a noisy little quartet at the kind of nightclub Mother and Great-Aunt Marcia would prefer I never know about.

I’m sure you’re wondering whether I’ve heard from Fred Vaughan and I can’t say that I have, but I don’t think writing to me would rank very high with all he’s got to do as an RAF officer. That I do know. It was only that one summer at Newport, Flo, no matter what you say and with his brother ill, we were thrown together. I do hope he’s keeping well—the news from England always seems rather grim and Fred certainly wasn’t ever grim himself. No matter what happens, I’ll always remember him laughing as he tried to teach me the barest rudiments of sailing.

I’ve got to run, but if you’re able, it would be lovely to have you send some more of my things. That darling blue hat with the veil and another Tangee would do me a treat. There’s not much spare time for us girls, but one does want to show to advantage if a likely looking officer is about. There’s just something about a man in uniform!

Bisous—