Summary:

On the eve of the United States’s entrance into World War II in 1940, Iris James, the postmistress of Franklin, a small town on Cape Cod, does the unthinkable: She doesn’t deliver a letter. In London, American radio gal Frankie Bard is working with Edward R. Murrow, reporting on the Blitz. One night in a bomb shelter, she meets a doctor from Cape Cod with a letter in his pocket, a letter Frankie vows to deliver when she returns from Germany and France, where she is to record the stories of war refugees desperately trying to escape.

The residents of Franklin think the war can’t touch them- but as Frankie’s radio broadcasts air, some know that the war is indeed coming. And when Frankie arrives at their doorstep, the two stories collide in a way no one could have foreseen.

Anna’s Thoughts:

I love WWII novels, they bring to life something that I wasn’t alive for (something my grandmother was barely alive for) and make it so vivid. It becomes so pressing in the back of my mind, how although WWII was so horrible well beyond just being a war, it still manages to inspire people. It makes me want to learn, want to be more educated on the subject. I also hate WWII novels, because they NEVER end well. However, although I am sure I’m not the leading authority on novels written about people during WWII, or the war itself, the one thing that I’ve always found that they have in common (which is one reason I get so drawn to them) is because of the writing. I’ve not read millions of WWII novels, maybe 5-7, but all of them are so beautifully written, that the pain the characters feel hurts me too. I feel for them so deeply and while I’m an overly emotional person sometimes in general, rarely any other book ever brings me to sobbing tears. The Postmistress did that more than once, in fact it happened constantly throughout the entire book.

Going with the observation of beautiful writing in WWII novels, or war stories in general, The Postmistress serves this observation especially. It was incredibly captivating and so beautiful and skillfully written that I could smell the ocean off of Franklin, I could see the streets the characters walked down and the post office that Iris worked in. The Postmistress isn’t just a war story though, it’s part war, part untouchable. It’s as much about the war as it is about the people across the ocean who thought they were safe, and the people who knew they weren’t. It’s about how something you’ve never been afraid of before can ultimately change your entire life in an instant. The Postmistress was so unbelievably beautiful that it’s one of those books you sit back and think about and wonder: How in the WORLD did any one human write this? It’s utterly breathtaking and equally scary as hell.

Beyond the writing (if you can get beyond it) are the characters, and how absolutely believable they are. There was never a moment where I questioned an action or reaction from a character. Likewise, I also fell in love with some of them and wanted to hit a few of them upside the head. They’re so much like your neighbors, or your friends that you forget sometimes that they’re actually fictional, and their stories are so plausible that you forget they didn’t happen. I was excited for them, I was sad for them, sad WITH them. Other than The Book Thief by Markus Zusack I’ve never had any character in a book challenge my emotions so much.

One of my absolute favourite things about this book was it’s transition from character to character as it’s told from the point of view of four different characters. It amazed me beyond belief how it transferred from Frankie doing a broadcast from Germany to Iris listening to the broadcast in Franklin. Really, can’t say enough about this book, but I can say that if you like Historical Fiction, if you’re interested in WWII or just amazingly beautiful writing then you should read this book. And just because I loved it that much I’m going to leave you with one of the scenes that has imprinted itself inside of my memory:

She got no farther than half a block before what sounded like a freight train roared past her and she had enough time to flatten herself against the wall when the bomb hit with a force that knocked her into the air and then slammed her down onto the pavement. Another shriek in the air and another, the bombs falling so nearby, it felt like the air was shaking. She stayed where she was on the ground, too sunned to move or cry out. Dust rained down around her and then someone cried out across the street. And someone else, and then it was human noise around her. A little way away a siren sounded. Christ, she sobbed. She tried to push herself up, but she was shaking so hard she had to lie down again. It felt like her heart would bolt from her throat. She lay there and time crept back and handed her the last few moments, then the last hour, and the man’s hands on her and his lips – she didn’t even know his name – and wondered if he was walking, where he was walking now.

Someone shrieked. She pushed herself up to sitting, and then, reaching for her satchel, which had blown off the pavement into the street, she pulled herself all the way up onto her feet and started walking. The shrieking woudn’t stop and for the first time in these months, she wanted to break into a flat run and had force herself to slow down in the dark. It was so dark tonight. Where were the bombs now? She crept a little way forward along the street. Please – her feet moved – please, please let me get to the end of the street. Let me cross it and get to the next street. Let me get home, she pleaded. There were four blocks between here and her building.

The Postmistress, pg. 62 (from ARC, subject to change)