Most nights during the week, Reg stays at the factory. On the days he’s on duty, as soon as his shift is over, he changes into his uniform and patrols the grounds. As he marches, he practices the little German he knows, the German they were taught in case they were ever to apprehend a soldier. But he also stays at the factory when he’s not on duty, telling Millie he has duty almost every night.
On those nights, he goes to the pub with the boys and then returns to the barracks. He likes sleeping on the upper bunk, and he often writes letters to Beatrix when he returns, a little tipsy and relaxed. Beatrix, my dear, he writes. How I long to see you. How I wish to know the girl you’ve become. Do you remember when I would read you stories and tuck you into bed? I suppose you’re too big for that now. He cannot imagine what it will be like when she comes home. He was worried about how she would adjust to America. Now he’s sure that she’ll never fit back in with them.
He doesn’t mail the letters. In the morning light, over a cup of coffee, he rereads them and he sees a weak version of himself portrayed on the pages. A shadow of who he used to be. He doesn’t want Beatrix to know that man exists. So he lights the letters on fire, grinding the ashes into the concrete. One morning, emboldened, angry at the world, he writes to Ethan Gregory, asking him to reply to the address at the factory. He tells the man that Millie is worried about Beatrix. He recounts some of the stories they’ve heard about the children in the country. We are saving money to pay back any extra expenses you may have incurred, he writes, even though it’s not true. They have no money in savings at all. He half expects the man to never respond.
Instead, a letter comes far sooner than he would have thought possible. He hasn’t had much of a sense of this fellow, really. The weekly letters are written by Nancy and they are cheerful missives, full of exclamation points and an occasional heart or flower. Ethan, he sees now, is a more serious chap. Impossible to know, of course, but he seems like an upstanding fellow, not someone who would yell or beat or, God forbid, abuse his little girl. They begin to write back and forth, about Beatrix, of course, but also about Churchill and Roosevelt, about the steady push of the Germans, about Japan. Ethan tells him not to worry about the cost, although he lets Reg know that the Gregorys, also, are not wealthy. We’re house-rich, he writes, and dollar-poor. Nancy’s the one who came from money.
Ethan mentions running the chess club at school and how he’d failed to interest Beatrix in the game. No one in my house plays, he writes. Nancy’s too distractible. Gerald’s like her—they rarely think three steps ahead. William would be an excellent player if he wanted to spend time with his old man. Reg hasn’t played since he was a child, but he writes back right away: I’m up for a match, if you like. They begin playing postal chess, sending the card back and forth across the Atlantic. When the card is not in his possession, Reg checks his postbox every day at work. Finding the card in the mail brings him joy; it’s as though playing with Ethan brings him that much closer to Beatrix.
He never tells Millie about writing to Ethan or playing chess. Once, Nancy mentions in a letter that she’s so happy the men have found a common interest. After this conflict ends, she writes, we’ll need to get together. You simply must come up to the island. Reg worries that Millie will zero in on that line about the common interest. But, instead, she focuses on the island. I suppose she’s just being nice but, honestly. We won’t be traveling to America when Beatrix gets back. When this war is over, Beatrix is coming home for good. Reg knows he should tell her about the chess, about the letters from this man. But he doesn’t want to. He wants to keep it all for himself.