Chapter One: Dot one DOT — June 1942 — Oshawa, Ontario
Dorothy Wilson tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear and scowled at the mystery novel in her hand. The author’s latest reveal didn’t seem plausible, and it made the character seem so much more dim-witted than Dot imagined he was. On the other hand—

“Dot!”

She glanced up. Her twin sister was leaning over Mr. Meier’s black Chevy truck’s engine, groaning as she stretched for something. Dot could type a mile a minute, add six-digit figures in her head in no time flat, and speak three languages like a native (not including Morse code), but she’d never been interested enough in engines to bother learning what was inside them. She didn’t mind coming out here, though. The garage was poorly lit by one hanging bulb, and the rain outside the closed door chilled the air, but she always liked to be near Margaret.

In contrast to Dot’s navy-blue dress with its spotless Peter Pan collar, her sister was clad in a grease-stained, exceedingly unladylike pair of overalls, and her thick black hair was tied into a haphazard ponytail. Most people shook their head in wonder, seeing how different the Wilson twins were. Different, yes, but also inseparable.

“Yes, Dash?” Dot asked.

Everyone, except their mother, called Margaret by her nickname. Considering the way Dot’s sister always rushed around, it suited her to a T.

Dash twisted around, her cheek smeared by a thick swipe of oil. “You didn’t hear me? I’ve been saying your name for five minutes at least.”

Dot was aware that she missed out on a lot of what people said if she was engaged in a book, but often she felt—somewhat selfishly, she allowed—that whatever they might be saying couldn’t be as interesting as what she was reading. This time, however, she was contrite. Dash was annoyed. Not with her, but with the truck.

“Désolé. Que veux-tu?” she asked. The novel in her hands was a French translation, and sometimes the words overlapped in her head. Her mother had gotten her started on mystery novels a few years back, but this was the first one she’d read that wasn’t written in English. Her father had found the book hidden away in a bookstore and given it to her, knowing she’d enjoy the challenge. She was already wondering where she could find more translations.

“Hand me the half inch, please?”

Setting one finger on the page to hold her place, Dot scanned the scattered assortment of tools on the table beside her. She picked up a wrench, eyed it for size, then placed it in her sister’s hand before returning her attention to the book.

“That should do it,” Dash said to herself, sticking her fingers into the engine and checking the tension of whatever it was before climbing into the driver’s seat. The engine gave a noisy series of clicks, but that was all. “Damn,” she whispered under her breath as she marched back to the hood.

Dot’s mouth twitched. She loved when her sister swore.

She understood Dash’s determination. There was nothing Dot liked better than solving puzzles, and engines were her sister’s idea of puzzles. Her mother often said that Dash’s fascination with mechanics and Dot’s puzzle-solving skills came from their father’s side of the family, then she rolled her eyes and finished with, “Thank heavens you inherited my practicality.” Usually, their father popped in at that point and added “and your beauty,” making their mother glow. Dot figured her mother was right. Her father was a whiz at math, and he almost always had a crossword puzzle going. His brother, her uncle Bob, was a solid man with a devilish grin who always had engine grease under his fingernails.

Uncle Bob, Aunt Louise—Lou for short—and Dot’s cousin Fred came over for dinner often, since they lived close by. Dot still fondly remembered the night more than ten years ago when the whole family had been celebrating the girls’ very first day of school. Her mother had made the grand concession of allowing them to sit at the grown-up table for the evening. At age seven, Fred and Gus were practically adults, so they got to sit there as well. Dorothy was always happy when Fred came over, because he and Gus were friends. It was good, she thought, that Gus had a friend who was a boy, not just Margaret and her.

After supper that night, her mother and aunt had gone to the kitchen, leaving the children with her father and Uncle Bob.

Fred beamed at his father. “Tell Gus about the war and your airplane.”

Uncle Bob obliged, and Gus listened carefully, his eyes wide. Uncle Bob’s voice rose louder and louder as he lost himself in the memory, and Dorothy watched his fist move forward, left, forward, right, shifting in front of him as if he were holding the control stick of his “Canuck.” When at last the doomed enemy plane crashed dramatically into the sea, everyone yelled hooray, and Uncle Bob puffed his chest, pleased with their reactions.

He was a flight instructor now, but back then, he had served with distinction as a pilot in the Royal Flying Corps. Fred loved to remind the girls that Captain Robert James Wilson was on the short list of Canadian flying aces, having shot down sixteen enemy planes.

Dash, who they still called Margaret back then, adored her uncle and hung on his every word. She had wanted to fly her whole life, so when Uncle Bob started to tell his pilot stories, she got stars in her eyes.

Dot loved Uncle Bob, too. Her favourite thing about her uncle, and the only part of him that didn’t intimidate her, was his dashing moustache, its ends waxed to a curly perfection. She was impressed by his exploits, of course, but she was confused. She was almost certain he had told them that he’d shot down fourteen planes, not sixteen. But surely he knew best. She must have simply forgotten. She was only five, after all.

In Dorothy’s view, though, Uncle Bob lived in her father’s quieter shadow. Her father was a gentle man with a thin, out-of-fashion pencil moustache and a postwar habit of constantly checking a door or window. His smiles were quick and self-conscious, and he had very few visitors outside of family. But beneath his understated exterior, he radiated intelligence, and when he did get into a conversational mood, Dot listened to every word. He was, as her mother fondly said, very good at working with his hands, and he kept a small woodworking table in the backyard shed. Two years before, he’d built the sisters a dollhouse for Christmas, complete with tiny furniture, and her mother had sewn two perfect little dolls to fit inside. One had blond hair and wore a grey dress to match Dorothy’s favourite. The other had dark hair and a bright emerald dress, since green was Margaret’s favourite colour. A year after that, her father constructed a bookcase for Dot’s burgeoning collection of books.

Uncle Bob might be a flying ace, but her father didn’t have to fly a plane to be a hero in her eyes.

“Tell us your flying stories, Daddy,” Margaret prodded, and Dot felt a twinge of betrayal. He had flown? Had he kept his history secret from her?

But her father only chuckled, his pale cheeks flushing. “I wasn’t a pilot, Margaret, dear. You mustn’t think I was one of those brave lads. No, no.”

“But you were in the war,” she insisted. “Did you go in airplanes?”

Sometimes Dot thought Margaret was altogether too bossy.

“Yes, I did, but I was not a dashing pilot like your uncle. My job was to sit in the airplane and transmit locations through my Marconi.”

“Macaroni!” Margaret cried, delighted. Beside her, cousin Fred guffawed.

“No, dear,” her father said patiently. “Marconi.”

“What’s that?” Gus asked.

“Marconi was the name of my radio. Operating it was not nearly as exciting as what Fred’s father did.”

Dot leaned forward. Her father rarely spoke about himself, so this was a rare treat.

“Your dad is being too humble,” said Uncle Bob. “You should be proud of him. He held a very important position as a telegraph operator for the Royal Flying Corps. He saved many, many lives by sending locations from the airplane to the military. With that information, they were able to direct artillery fire to that position. He also…” Uncle Bob consulted his brother, and Dot noticed her father scowling slightly. “Well, he wrote regularly to your mother, keeping her happy.”

Dot was intrigued. “How did you do that with the fire, Daddy? If you were in an airplane, how did you tell them?”

“I tapped the coordinates in Morse code, and they reached the receivers on the ground. For example, if we saw a munitions cache, I would do this.”

He tapped his middle finger rapidly on the table in an unpredictable rhythm. To Dot, it sounded like there was a purpose to the uneven taps, as if they were trying to say something.

“Do that again, Daddy!” So he did.

She gaped at him in wonder. “What’s the tap tap tap? What’s it saying?”

“You heard that, did you, my little genius? That is Morse code. It is a different kind of language made up of a series of dits and dahs. Each letter of the alphabet has its own pattern. Listen. I’ll show you your name.” He tapped once slowly, then twice fast. “We call that a dah, then two dits. That is the first letter of your name, Dorothy, which is…?”

She sat up straight, staring at his finger. “D! Do more, Daddy! What’s an ‘O’?”

He tapped three times again, but evenly, and a little slower. “Dah-dah-dah is ‘O.’ When you write it down, it is in dots and dashes.”

“What’s an ‘M’?” she wanted to know. “For Margaret.”

“?‘M’ is dah-dah.”

She beamed at her sister, catching on right away. “Your name starts with dah-dah!” Margaret looked interested, but she was not caught up in her sister’s excitement. “Will you learn with me?”

Margaret’s mouth reluctantly twisted to the side. “Okay.”

Her mother returned from the kitchen, carrying a jiggling dish. “Who would like some Jell-O pudding?”

Margaret squealed with delight. “You made green! I love the green one best, Mommy!”

Aunt Lou followed with the dishes. “Special dessert for a special day. How exciting that you girls get to go to school now!”

Dot sat back, watching her mother serve, but her mind was spinning. “What’s J, Daddy? What’s ‘J’ for, Jell-O?”

He tapped dit-dah-dah-dah.

So began Dorothy’s quest to learn and memorize the Morse code alphabet. She already knew the regular alphabet, of course. Her mother had taught them that two years earlier. Now Dot’s father had given her a key to a whole new puzzle that promised worlds of fun. Day by day she took on more of the patterns, and once they were stuck in her head she went to her father for more.

“First you must learn to spell,” he had told her, pulling out paper and a pencil. “What word would you like to spell?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Sister.”

“All right. Here’s how to spell it in regular letters.” As he wrote out the six letters, they both said them out loud. Then he handed the pencil to her. “How would you tap each letter? Draw it underneath in dashes and dots.”

Pencil grasped tight in her curled fist, Dot drew three little points under each S.

“That’s right. Now the other letters.”

She bit her lip, her mind ticking through everything she had learned and memorized over the past few days. Her pencil pressed against the paper again. “Two dots for ‘I.’ One dash for ‘T.’ Just one little dot for ‘E.’?” She hesitated. “What’s ‘R’? I forget!”

“Think, Dorothy.” He patted her head affectionately. “The answer is right in here.” As if he had brought it to the surface, “R” appeared. “Dit-dah-dit.”

“Excellent! How do you write that?”

“Dot-dash-dot.”

“That’s my girl. Now we put them together to make a word. Show me.”

It was as if a window opened in her mind, and her heart whirred like hummingbird wings. She read the code out loud, tapping with one finger as her father had done. “Margaret is my dot-dot-dot dot-dot dot-dot-dot dash-dot…” She grinned at him. “Dot-dash-dot.”

Morse code bored Margaret within a day or two. She learned it only so she could communicate with Dot, but her heart wasn’t in it. Their father noticed, and instead, he presented her with a small brass cylinder. The metal was tarnished and dented, but the vibrating needle in the centre caught her attention.

“What’s that?”

“This is a compass. It tells you which direction you’re going in.”

Margaret frowned. “Like forward?”

“A little more than that. You see this little needle? It will always point north.”

“North?”

He turned to Dot. “Dorothy, please bring me the map on my desk. The big paper rolled up, with the funny lines on it.”

“I know where that is,” Gus replied from down the hall. A moment later, he and Dot appeared in the dining room with the map. They helped her father spread it out on the table.

“Ah, yes. Thank you,” he said. “This, my dears, is a map of the whole world.”

“The whole world?” both girls exclaimed, their noses almost touching the paper. How fascinating to see it drawn like this, when all they’d ever imagined of the world was grass and trees and sky.

“Gus, have you seen this before?” her father asked.

“In school. A little.”

“What can you show me?”

Gus squinted at the small print, then brightened. “This big part is Canada.”

“Good! And what are these up and down lines?”

“Provinces,” he declared. He jabbed a finger on one. “This is Ontario, where we live.”

“Excellent, Gus. Can you tell me exactly where we live?”

Dot and Margaret stared at Gus, flabbergasted, as he leaned over the map. He noticed their wonder and assured them they would learn it too, in two years.

“We’re learning it right now,” Dot replied, matter-of-fact, “from you.”

“Go ahead, Gus,” her father urged. “Where are we?”

“We are…” He grinned. “Right here!”

“That’s right. That is Oshawa.” Her father slid one finger up the page from the spot Gus had marked, and he faced Margaret. “North is anything in this direction.”

She held the compass up. “Why do I need to know where north is?”

“If you have a compass, you’ll never be lost. I’ll show you.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and presented it to all three children. “I’ve made you an adventure. Dorothy, you will read these Morse code letters to Gus. Gus, you will spell out what she’s saying and pass those directions to Margaret. And Margaret, you will follow the compass. Do you understand? Look again at the compass. What is it pointing at? Remember, ‘N’ means north.”

She frowned at the compass then looked up. “It’s pointing at the picture of Grandfather.”

“Yes! Correct! Grandfather’s picture is north of where you are standing right now. Now out you go, the three of you. Have fun!”

It was a beautiful summer day, with the kind of warm breeze that felt like a kiss. Their mother was hanging laundry on the line, clothespins in her mouth, and she waved at them as they passed.

Dot clutched the paper in her hands, delighted by the puzzle. “Dash Dot-dot-dot-dot Dot-dash-dot…” she read to herself, then out loud she told Gus “T-H-R…”

That led to Gus telling Margaret to take “Three big steps north,” then “four baby steps east.” Margaret’s eyes were glued to the compass, and Dot’s were on the paper. Neither of them saw the big rock that tripped Dot and would have sent her sprawling if Gus hadn’t rushed in and caught her on the way down.

“Good catch!” Margaret said, laughing.

“Thank you, Gus,” Dot said quietly as he set her back on her feet.

His cheeks were bright red. “You’re welcome.”

“Come on, everybody! No dillydallying!” Margaret called, marching on.

At the end of the quest, their father had stashed a little bag of sweets. All three rushed back for another adventure, which he happily produced.

A month or so after that, when it was just the five of them at supper, Dot’s mother set her warm hand on her fingers.

“Please, Dorothy. The tapping is driving me mad.”

“But I’m spelling.”

“I know what you’re doing,” her mother said, smiling with infinite patience. “Let’s leave the spelling until after supper, please.”

From the corner of her eye, Dot saw Gus smiling. At first, she thought he was laughing at her, but then his finger silently tapped the table.

.. / .-.. .. -.- . / .. –

I like it

“My grandmother was named Dorothy,” her father said then, brightening with a thought. “A very intelligent woman. We named you after her, actually. But no one ever called her Dorothy. Do you know what they called her?”

Everyone shook their heads.

“They called her Dot. And it seems to me that if you are so interested in Morse code, we could call you Dot from now on. What do you think?”

Her mother pressed the corner of her napkin to her lips. “Oh, I don’t know.”

“If it was good enough for my grandmother,” he said, “it’s good enough for our daughter.”

“Well,” she said after a moment, “if Dorothy is Dot, then Margaret, with all her exhausting energy and running around, must be Dash.”

All of them howled with laughter at that.

“What about Gus?” Dot asked.

“I just want to be Gus,” he told them.

Her mother held up her hands. “Now, now. I am only being silly. Dorothy and Margaret are perfectly beautiful names. We won’t have any of that nonsense in this house.”

To her disappointment and the girls’ delight, the nicknames had stuck. Everyone but their mother and schoolteachers used them after that day. As far as Dot could remember, the only time their mother ever called them by their nicknames was the night she proposed the idea.

Even now, most people knew them as Dot and Dash, though they were seventeen.

The sound of Mr. Meier’s engine starting up brought Dot back to the present.

“What was the problem?” she asked when Dash turned off the car.

“I must have bumped the battery post,” she replied, wiping her hands on the cloth hanging from her waist. “All’s good now. Fan belt’s perfect. Not too tight to break the bearings, just enough to fix that squeal. Mr. Meier will be happy.”

Dot closed her book and rose, glad to go. “I hope he pays you this time.”

“He doesn’t need to pay me,” Dash said, hauling open the garage door. The rain had eased off, and the last rays of sunshine burst through, resulting in a glorious rainbow. “If Sam was here instead of marching through England, he would have fixed it. It’s the least I can do.”

War was constantly in the news, more sobering by the day, and the mention of Sam Meier brought it all back. The Germans had captured Europe and set their sights on Britain. Then, in December, the conflict had come to America on the wings of Japanese dive bombers—the Aichi D3A, Dash had informed her, since she had recently developed an interest in identifying airplanes—and the Allies breathed a sigh of relief when the horrific bombing of Pearl Harbour forced the Americans into the fight as well. Sam Meier, Gus, and Fred had left to join the fight a year before that happened. In fact, most of the boys from school had signed up and shipped out, making it more and more difficult for Dot to picture the war as something very far away.

“Still. You should be compensated for your work. A man would be paid,” she insisted as they walked. “How many hours have you spent on that truck so far?”

Dot felt confident about this topic. She was paid for her work, after all. Once a week, six students plodded a mile and a half from the Centre Street School to her house for French lessons, for which each child’s mother paid Dot thirty cents an hour. She could have taught them German as well, but she had decided that was probably a bad idea nowadays. Dot was proud of having her very own savings account, and she visited the bank often to keep a close eye on the figures. So far, the only withdrawals she made were her monthly donations of two dollars to the Red Cross.

“You know, there are other ways to earn money.” Dash kicked a rock down the gravel road. “In the city, I mean. I could do that.”

Dot’s step faltered. “What are you talking about? You’d go to Toronto?”

“Lots of girls are working in the city now that the men are gone. Loads are joining the Wrens or the Women’s Army Corps. I could be a driver with them, or maybe a mechanic.” She bit her lower lip, considering. “Of course, there’s the Air Force, too, but the Wrens have such beautiful uniforms.”

Horrified, Dot grabbed her sister’s arm so she stopped in place. “You’re going to the city? To join the army?”

At least Dash had the good grace to look abashed. “Thinking about it. You could come with me.”

Dot couldn’t honestly say she was surprised, but the thought of Dash leaving filled her with anxiety. She knew her sister was restless. What else was there for a beautiful, lively young woman to do in Oshawa, other than hang out at the Four Corners or dance to a band at the Jubilee? Sure, the head office for General Motors Canada was here, but so far they hadn’t replied to any of Dash’s enquiries about work other than to say she was too young. Which was a ridiculous requisite, Dot felt, since her sister could out-mechanic anyone else, no matter their age. Even more ridiculous was that while GM was ignoring Dash, they had offered Dot a sewing job, and she was exactly the same age. Of course, Dot had declined. Dash pretended GM’s rejection didn’t matter. She said they were only making parts there, not fixing engines, which was what she liked to do. Still, Dot knew it hurt.

Without something like GM to hold Dash’s interest, Dot had secretly feared that her sister might be happier in Toronto. She’d never said anything about that out loud, because if Dash left, what choice would Dot have but to follow? Nothing frightened Dot more than the thought of a busy, noisy city full of strangers—except for a busy, noisy city without Dash.

“You’re not really going to go, are you?”

“Why not? We’re almost adults, Dot. It’s time to do something. Aren’t you bored?”

“No.”

Dash narrowed her eyes. “Don’t do that. Don’t make me feel bad for wanting more.”

“I don’t want you to leave.”

“Then come with me!”

“How long have you been thinking about this and not telling me?”

“There’s so much you could do in the city,” Dash pressed. “The military would be lucky to have you. You’d have them shipshape in no time.”

Dot dropped her eyes to the wet road. She was happy at home, living a quiet life. The last thing she wanted was change. Especially if that change separated her from her sister.

“What would I do there?”

“Anything,” Dash said, walking on. “Secretary, clerk, telephone operator… Think about it. Working isn’t just interesting, it’s our duty.”

The passion in Dash’s voice made Dot’s heart pound. She caught up to her sister. “I don’t understand,” she said quickly. “What’s so exciting about working in the city? And why is it our duty?”

“Calm down, Dot. You’re talking a mile a minute.”

Her family was always reminding her to speak more slowly. Dot tended to forget that in the heat of the moment. “Why. Is. It. Our. Duty.”

“Because women are a big part of this war now. We have to work so men can fight.”

Dot reluctantly let the idea percolate as they walked. Frankly, she’d prefer to sit out the war at home, but without Dash the house would be so bleak. It might be diverting to be a secretary, she supposed; she liked to type, her shorthand was excellent, and maybe she could help with Morse code. If they let her, she could reorganize files and folders until she was blue in the face. She did love to organize things. Her mother was always thrilled when Dot suggested she could set the kitchen to rights. Maybe whoever she worked for would have a Marconi, like the one her father had told them about. Now that would be interesting.

But no, she couldn’t go. Not only did the thought paralyze her with fear, how could she possibly leave her parents behind? Especially her father. Her mother went out with friends on occasion, but he rarely did. Dot welcomed those nights when she could have him all to herself. When he didn’t have one of his headaches, they would sit contentedly at the kitchen table in near silence, seeing who could solve the crossword first, or they’d set out a new jigsaw, or they’d share whatever other amusement caught their interest. No. Dot couldn’t possibly go to the city and leave him.

Beside her, Dash was skimming a screwdriver under the tip of her nail, cleaning out the dirt. Sensing Dot’s attention, she put her arm around her. “Calm down, silly.”

“When?” Dot demanded.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ll go see what it’s all about in a few weeks, I guess. Why wait?”

Dot could think of a hundred reasons.

“It’s going to be fun,” Dash said with confidence. “A big adventure.”

Adventure. Well, that was just about the last thing Dot wanted to think about.