Summer 1945

"Shit," Frances Joselewicz spat, reading the notice they were handed as they punched their time cards. "They've cut my pay in half."

"Mine too." Daisy Julian crumpled up the piece of paper and threw it in the trash as they marched towards the whirring, iron towers. "But we knew this was coming."

"Still. War isn't over yet. Hitler may have blown off his own head, but Hirohito is still pulling strong."

Daisy cranked the lever on the propeller machine. Neatening her kerchief to make sure her hair was tucked safe underneath and smoothing out her jumpsuit to confirm that there were no loose strings or tabs that could get caught in the gears and tear her to shreds, she pressed the start button. It was a ritual she had followed nearly every day for the last three years.

"You gonna quit?" Frances shouted over the din, still lingering by her friend. The fiery redhead shifted restlessly, dancing on her toes like she did when she was angry.

"Nope."

"There might be other places hiring, paying more."

"Don't care about the pay."

"Oh that's right. You have that rich grandmother-"

"Yeah, yeah, my grandmother." Daisy waved a hand.

"You just did this for fun, right? Three years at the General Motors plant sharpening propellers and nearly getting yourself killed a handful of times, that was all for laughs-"

"Stop trying to pick a fight with me!" Daisy smirked over her shoulder at her friend. "If you want to put up your dukes with someone, go march over to the shift manager and tell him how you really feel."

Frances sniffed, sticking her hands in her pockets and shuffling her feet like a child. "Sorry."

"It's fine. Just go get to your machine. We'll talk about this later," Daisy hollered then turned back to her work.

Daisy knew what they were doing at the top. Women working in factories had been a vital component for the war effort, but it would never last. Her own grandmother had prophesied so back in 1942 when she'd gotten the job. Men were returning from overseas and they needed their jobs back. It was time for Rosie the Riveter to put up her lunch pail and safety goggles and get back to the kitchen. 

The General Motors plant in Trenton was going about this business subtly. A cut in pay, a lame excuse about the decreased need for planes, and the ladies were expected to take a hint. After all, it was only a matter of time till Japan threw in the towel. Most Americans on the homefront were becoming more optimistic as rationing lessened and night clubs began to fill with eager young people, grasping at the chance to live their lives once again.

Daisy decided to bide her time. She enjoyed the ritual of waking up at 4AM, making herself a Spam and egg sandwich, then catching the train for Trenton. She liked working the machines. It was methodical and comforting, pulling the same levers and pushing the same buttons. She liked feeling useful.

It helped her to forget things.

The whistle blew at 5PM on the dot and her twelve hour shift was up. Gathering her things, she met Frances at the door. Her friend appeared to have calmed down, probably from sheer exhaustion. It was the end of their work week. 

Six days a week with Sundays off. Twelve hours married to a machine. For a second, Daisy froze at the thought that it would all end in a matter of years. Odd how dependent she had become on a machine. Almost like a sweetheart that you knew you'd break up with eventually.

"The gals are going out tonight. Taking the train up to the city for the weekend. You wanna go?" Frances said, nodding towards the gaggle of girls walking ahead of them.

"Don't you have to go to temple tonight with your ma and pop?"

"My ma decided a long time ago that I had plenty of time to become a nice, little Jewish girl once the war is over. I have played hooky so many times from synagogue, she's lost count and given up," Frances announced with a sharp lift of her dimpled chin. Her dark brown eyes gleamed with mischief. "C'mon, let's go have a night out. You never do. It'd be good for you."

Daisy gave an apologetic shrug with no sign of conflict in her face. Frances knew she would say no, but she asked every other week without fail. It was her way of making sure Daisy was okay since everything had happened. Frances never pried, but she didn't have to with Daisy. She knew that Daisy buried every hint of grief beneath her casual shrug and calm demeanor.

"Maybe next week then. Huh, Julian?" 

"Yeah, we'll see," Daisy answered with a genuine smile. "I'll see you Monday, Joselewicz."

"I'll be seeing you." Frances gave her a mock salute then scampered away to catch up with the other girls.

Daisy tucked her head down as she cut through the crowd of workers coming in for the night shift. Women chattered in Italian, Polish, and Spanish. There were girls from down south who had moved up north for the work, both white and black. Hispanic girls from Texas. All ages were represented, even women as old as her grandmother. It was truly a unique sight in all of American history. Women from every walk of life, every skin color, working together in jobs that were once reserved only for men. 

Despite everything, Daisy was oddly thankful to be apart of such a special time. 

The platform at the train station was packed as usual. Daisy gave up her seat on a bench to a young woman with a baby. She had no wedding ring, but gave her a grateful smile. Daisy returned it, her smile widening as she peered down into the bundle in her arms.

"Beautiful," she complimented with a nod.

"She is loud though," the girl said with a bright laugh, her heavy accent hinting that she was a recent refugee from eastern Europe.

"That just means she knows what she wants and isn't afraid to tell you about it," Daisy replied with a chuckle.

The girl laughed along with her, though her eyes remained sad. "I guess she was always supposed to be an American girl then."

Daisy twisted her hands around the handle of her lunch pail as she was stung with the impulse to squeeze the girl's shoulder. The young mother looked so alone, it hurt to imagine why. Sometimes it surprised Daisy that a broken heart could be more sensitive than a whole one. Wasn't grief supposed to harden a person? 

Leaning against a pole, she crossed her ankles and peered wearily across to the other platform. It was common to see men in uniform milling around, waiting for their ride to training camps or home for leave. Though seeing one in a paratrooper uniform always made Daisy's stomach drop.

A paratrooper stood across from her, just beyond the tracks. A gleam of brilliant red hair, as red as Frances's, showed beneath his cap. His shiny boots clipped on the wooden platform as he paced. The corner of Daisy's mouth drifted up at the memory of her little brother in his own uniform. 

Johnny Julian had been so proud when he had earned his jump wings and been allowed to blouse his pant legs over his boots. He had mailed her a picture straightaway before they sent him over to England. It was in her scrapbook as well. She'd never given it to her mother or grandmother, but kept it for herself. She was glad that she had done so.

The paratrooper halted, one hand in his pocket. He itched his nose with a knuckle, his head swiveling around as he studied the gathered crowd across the tracks. He was frowning. Daisy guessed he was heading back to the front. Soldiers on leave smiled easy, especially at young women, hoping to catch a last minute date on a Saturday night. 

He was tall. Taller than her little brother had ever been. Long legs, long arms. Slim build. Lanky was the word.  

He met her eyes and held them as though he'd sensed her watching him. His mouth parted and he blinked. Something like recognition crossed his face, as though he knew her from somewhere. Daisy had never seen the young man in her life. His expression jarred her.

The 5:15 to Vincentown chugged into the station, shielding him from view and breaking the brief connection. Daisy hopped on board, the conductor punching her ticket. As the train rode through the blooming, summer dusk, she couldn't shake the brief interaction from her exhausted brain. It took a conscious effort for her to push the image of the paratrooper on the train platform from her mind as she dropped off to sleep, the car gently rocking back and forth.