Letters Across the Sea

by Genevieve Graham

  I told him about my work at Palermo’s. “Mr. Palermo would be happy to provide a positive reference on my character and work ethic.”

  “And your parents? Who are they?”

  “My father is Sergeant Garret Ryan, with the police force.”

  His eyes widened slightly, and I remembered where I’d seen him before: at the Glorious Twelfth march last year. Mr. Smith was an Orangeman.

  “I know your father well.” He cleared his throat, considering. “As I said, I’m not currently hiring, but as a courtesy to him, I am willing to give you a chance. I’ll pay fifteen cents an hour for the first week, during which I will monitor you. Then I’ll decide whether to let you go or keep you on for one dollar and seventy-five cents per day.”

  I had never been more grateful for William of Orange. Fifteen cents an hour wasn’t great, but a dollar seventy-five a day was a fortune compared to Palermo’s. Plus I’d be working with books. I felt giddy with joy.

  “You have a deal, Mr. Smith.”

  I was still grinning when the little bell over the door jingled and a young man entered the shop. He slipped off his fedora then ran his fingers through a mass of black hair, fluffing it a little before replacing the hat.

  “Good afternoon,” I said eagerly, keen to try out my new job.

  “Good afternoon,” he replied. “I’m looking for a book recently translated into English. I’m hoping you might have it, but it’s a little obscure. The Radetzky March.”

  “Oh! I’ve heard of that book,” I said excitedly. Max had mentioned it to me in passing. “By Joseph Roth, right?”

  I turned to Mr. Smith, but he was frowning. “We don’t have it. Never have, never will.”

  The man’s jaw flexed. “I see.”

  I didn’t. I glanced between the two, confused.

  “We don’t serve your kind in here,” Mr. Smith said, his voice sharp.

  I stood frozen in place, unable to speak. The young man’s keen eyes shone with the same hurt I’d seen on Max’s face that night we’d walked home from the baseball game. After a moment, he quietly left the store, and Mr. Smith latched the door with great deliberation. Then he strode behind the counter and pulled out a blank piece of paper. He wrote something on it, then shoved it in my face.

  “Your first task is to put this in the window,” he said. “Now.”

  I dropped my eyes to the sign. NO JEWS ALLOWED. All my joy drained to my toes. “I don’t understand,” I said slowly. “Why can’t he shop here?”

  Mr. Smith’s face was blotchy with indignation. “I don’t want their filthy money. This is a clean, reputable store where people can feel comfortable and safe when they’re shopping. I won’t have Jews tracking their stink into my shop. They can stick to their own bookstores. Maybe those places carry those communist rags, but I won’t. Now put the sign in the window.”

  The paper shook in my hands. I was desperate. The box of old vegetables Mr. Palermo had given my family was long gone. Last week we hadn’t had enough money to buy meat. This job could save us.

  But as I stood there, I heard my grandmother’s weary voice telling me about the Great Famine.

  “It nearly killed them all,” she’d said. “My mother told me people ate whatever they could find to survive. The story goes that a selfish woman in the next village stole her wee niece’s crust of bread. The child died from need of it, and the very next day, the woman’s sister died of grief. The woman herself lived forty years on, and never a day passed without regret at what she’d done.” She’d touched my hand. “Remember that, my girl. Is fearr bolg folamh ná croí briste.” Better an empty belly than a broken heart.

  And when I thought of my heart, I saw Max and Hannah.

  “Miss Ryan?”

  A terrible swelling jammed in my throat as I placed the sign on the counter rather than in the window because oh, I wanted this job. But it was as if he’d handed me a bouquet of flowers with a razor hidden within the blooms. Knowing what I had to do broke my heart into a million pieces, but not doing it would have been so much worse.

  I looked him in the eye. “I won’t put such a hateful thing in the window, Mr. Smith. I can’t. Of all the places, a bookstore is where people can escape the ugliness of the world. It’s not a political place or a religious place or anything like that. It’s a personal place.” I gestured around the room. “I don’t understand how you can find room for hate in all this beauty.”

  “You are wrong, young lady.” His expression was granite. “A bookstore is a place of business. It is commerce. I own this store, and I have certain standards I must uphold in order to keep it inviting for my regular customers. If I allow someone like him in here, there is damage done to the store—”

  “What damage? He just wants to buy a book! He’ll just buy it somewhere else. Don’t you want the money?”

  “It’s the store’s reputation. It’s my reputation.”

  I could tell there was no point in arguing. There was only one more thing I needed to say, if I could get it past the knot in my throat.

  “Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Smith, but I cannot work here after all.”

  That took him aback. “What are you saying? You’d choose them over this job?”

  “I need a job more than you know,” I said quietly, “but what you did to that man is wrong. The thing is, Mr. Smith, given a choice between the two, I’d choose common decency.”

  I felt an aching sense of loss as I stepped outside, then I was engulfed by a crowd of tired, grey-faced labourers holding placards and sounding off about working conditions. I couldn’t even do that, I realized, since I’d just given up a job. And yet, a small part of me stood a little taller. I would go hungry because of my decision, but I would never regret what I’d done.

  six MAX

  Max flipped the page of his textbook and wiped sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. It was only noon, but the temperature in his bedroom was already unbearable. He’d been reading about a fascinating new electro-mechanical invention, built just a year before by an American physiologist named Albert Hyman. Powered by a hand-cranked motor, the machine could generate electrical impulses to help a struggling heart pump blood at regular intervals. Hyman called his invention an “artificial pacemaker.” It was all very compelling, and Max wanted to dig deeper into the research, but the heat was making it difficult to concentrate.

  Hannah knocked on his door. “Ready for the beach?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” he replied, closing the book and grabbing his swimsuit. “Just let me change.”

  “We’ll be waiting,” she said over her shoulder.

  Max snapped the straps of his swimsuit over his shoulders, then pulled another shirt on top and reached for a towel. When he stepped outside, Molly was already on the front porch, talking with his mother and sister. She was wearing a bright red dress, and her pale, freckled skin was protected from the sun by a large, practical hat. Heat shimmered in the air around her.

  “You have no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to this,” she was saying. “Church went on forever.”

  “It’s a perfect day for the beach,” his mother agreed, handing a basket of food to Hannah. She smiled at the trio as they headed out. “Have fun!”

  Hannah led the way along the sidewalk, puffing a breath up into her face. “Come on. Let’s walk faster. Maybe we can create our own breeze.”

  Across the street, Max spotted Richie heading the other direction. “Hey!” he called. “You coming to the beach?”

  Richie’s gaze passed over the three of them. “Nah. I’m meeting some guys.”

  He continued on without so much as a wave, and Max felt a pang of regret.

  “Never mind him,” Molly said. “He’s like that lately. We’ll have more fun without him.” She looked up at a house as they passed. “I feel so sorry for people stuck at home. It’s too hot to be inside.”

  “Ah, but this is Sunday, the Lord’s Day, remember?” he teased. “They can’t co
me outside. I’m telling you, every Sunday they should call this city ‘Toronto the Boring.’ ”

  Way before he was born, before even the Great War, the government had created the “Lord’s Day Act,” which prohibited stores and movie theatres and just about anywhere someone might want to go for entertainment from opening on Sundays. Even swing sets in playgrounds were padlocked.

  “Max,” Hannah said, a note of warning in her voice, but Molly laughed.

  “But isn’t it just like Shabbat for you?”

  “She’s got you there,” Hannah said.

  “Sort of,” he admitted. Every Friday at sunset, the Dreyfus family lit the Shabbat candles, and the next twenty-four hours were filled with blessings, food, and family. He found the tradition to be calming, the connection to God and their ancestral lessons reassuring. “But why does Eaton’s cover their windows every Saturday night? What’s that for?”

  Molly raised her pale eyebrows. “Why, that’s obvious, Max. You don’t want to be tempted to window shop on a Sunday. The devil is out there, just looking for window shoppers.”

  “Ah, that’s completely understandable.”

  “I’m glad you see my point.” She grinned. “I’ve missed your humour.”

  “I haven’t,” Hannah said, rolling her eyes.

  “Well, you won’t be missing my brilliant humour this fall,” Max said, proud as could be. “I just got my acceptance from U of T. I’ll be going to medical school right here in Toronto.”

  Molly stopped. “What? Really?”

  Hannah nodded. “He got the letter Friday.”

  With a squeal, Molly threw her arms around his neck. Her hat toppled off, landing on the ground behind her, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  “Congratulations, Doctor Dreyfus,” she said, an inch from his ear. The tickle of her breath on his neck raised goose bumps along his arms. “I am so proud of you.” After she released him, she turned to Hannah. “You knew about it and didn’t tell me?”

  “I made her promise,” Max said, picking up her hat and handing it to her. “I wanted to surprise you myself.”

  “Everyone’s glad he’ll be home.” Hannah elbowed Max. “Mama told Mrs. Beiser and the other ladies at the synagogue yesterday. Now all they can talk about is wedding bells for their daughters. The competition is heating up, I hear.”

  Max checked Molly’s reaction, but she was looking ahead, toward the streetcar stop. “You and Hannah,” she said. “You’ll both be married off soon, and I—”

  “And you’ll still be turning down dates,” Hannah finished for her. “Honestly, Molly. It’s time to think about the future.”

  “Not today,” Molly said in a singsong as they boarded the streetcar. “Today I’m thinking about the beach.”

  An hour or so later, they got off as close as they could to the beach, and Hannah led the way toward a spot on the grass, just beyond the boardwalk. The beach was as crowded as Max had ever seen it, with umbrellas propped up side by side to shelter everyone from the sun. Even those who didn’t plan to go in the water had stripped to their swimsuits, hoping to cool down.

  Everything was perfect until he heard a woman in the distance shout, “Get outta here, you filthy Jews! We’re trying to keep this place clean!”

  Max bit down on his anger, not wanting to start something today, but Molly spun around, her hot Irish temper on full display. “Hey! You can’t—”

  Hannah grabbed her arm. “Never mind them, Molly. Come on. Let’s just enjoy the day.”

  “Never mind them?” Molly sputtered. “How do you put up with that?”

  Max was surprised by the force of her fury. Molly allowed herself to be pulled along, but she kept glancing back over her shoulder at the woman, who had disappeared into a crowd of people greeting each other with a bold “Heil Hitler,” their arms extended.

  “No one’s doing anything to stop them!” she cried. “What right do they have to say things like that?”

  “They have no right,” Max replied evenly, “and they have every right. It’s hateful, but it’s free speech. It’s up to us how we respond.”

  “But you didn’t respond at all,” she said, glaring accusingly up at him. “It isn’t as if it will go away if you ignore it. What about that sign we just passed? Didn’t you notice it?”

  Of course he’d noticed it. NO DOGS OR JEWS ALLOWED was kind of hard to miss. But he was puzzled by Molly’s reaction. Hadn’t she suggested he ignore that sign in the store window? Now she was practically shaking with anger. He was about to ask what had changed, when Arnie came loping toward them.

  “I heard this was where the action was today,” Arnie said, hands sunk deep in his trouser pockets, “and where all the beautiful girls were heading, so here I am. Why the glum faces?”

  “We were discussing that sign back there,” Max told him.

  Arnie tapped his temple, half hidden under his careless mop of hair. “Ah yes. I memorized it as I came in. Very important.”

  “Does it actually mean anything?” Molly asked. “Are you really not allowed to be here?”

  “It means nothing,” Max said. “There are no laws about where we can or can’t go. This isn’t Germany yet.”

  “But the things those people were saying,” she insisted. “Do they have any idea how hateful they’re being? Don’t they read the papers?”

  “Well, it depends on which one they’re reading,” Arnie said. He handed Max a piece of yellow paper. “For you.”

  Max recognized it as the flyer for the rally the league had been organizing and tucked it into his shirt. He’d read it later. “Thanks.”

  “Let’s not talk about this,” Hannah begged. “Please, Molly? I don’t want to talk about politics.”

  “All right. But I still think—”

  “Not another word,” Hannah said, taking her arm and dragging her ahead. “This day is about fun. Let’s find a good spot to sunbathe.”

  “Well, if it isn’t Max Dreyfus and Arnie Schwartz.” Max’s old school friend David Bohmer approached from their right with his hand outstretched, though his attention was on the girls.

  Max shook his hand. “David. How are you?”

  “Still in the shoe business?” Arnie asked.

  David was tall and lanky, not yet having grown into his muscles. Max thought he probably never would, judging from his father’s slight build, but he was a good-looking, genuine young man with a glint in his eyes. Max had always liked him.

  “Sure, sure,” David said. “Business is good. As good as can be expected, anyway. Hey, is that your sister over there? She gets more beautiful every time I see her.”

  Max lifted an eyebrow. “You’re no good for Hannah. She’s a smart girl. No time for a meshuggener.”

  “Ah, you don’t know.” David winked. “Some girls like the crazy ones. Who’s the shiksa?”

  “You remember Molly Ryan,” Arnie said. “She was in school with us.”

  “Don’t tell me that’s Molly.”

  The girls had spread out a blanket and were peeling off their summer dresses, leaving them in a pile and revealing their bathing suits beneath. As Molly leaned down to slip off her shoes, Max followed the long, smooth line of her legs in a sort of daze. When had she gone from being the adorable little girl next door to being a woman he’d admire in a magazine?

  “Wow. She looks incredible,” David said, reading Max’s mind.

  “Put your eyes back in your head,” Max told him, his grin a little forced as he swallowed a strange new sense of possessiveness. She’s here with me. He handed David the basket. “Here. You carry this.”

  They headed toward the girls, and David plopped down by Hannah, proudly declaring that he’d brought lunch.

  “In our basket.” Hannah laughed.

  “Sure, sure. But it’s here, ain’t it?”

  Arnie and Max joined the others and tossed their shirts onto the pile. The sun beamed down from a cloudless sky, and Max revelled in the simple heat baking his skin. Over by the gi
rls, David was busy praising the virtues of lace-up, mid-heel Oxford shoes.

  “I’m telling you. Come to the store. I have the softest leather in stock. I can make you a pair of shoes you’ll never want to take off.”

  Hannah smiled politely, but Max could tell she didn’t realize David was doing his best to flirt with her. David hadn’t bloomed like the girls had, so she saw him as an old schoolmate, nothing more. That’s when Max noticed Molly discreetly nudge his sister then tilt her head slowly toward David. Hannah’s eyes widened and she shook her head ever so slightly, but Molly was nodding. Max watched their silent communication with fascination.

  “What about you, Molly?” David asked, interrupting without knowing. “Such beautiful feet as yours deserve the best.”

  “They might deserve it, but my pocketbook can’t afford it,” she told him, still grinning at Hannah. “Thank you anyway.”

  “I’m sure we could make a deal.”

  “No thanks. Eaton’s doesn’t exactly pay the kind of wages it would take to buy a brand-new pair of shoes, no matter what kind of deal you offered.”

  Max knew she was working at Eaton’s. When Hannah had told the family over dinner, his father had frowned and declared that Eaton’s was a sweatshop compared to his own factory.

  His mother had nodded. “That girl has been crossing the street to our house since she was born. We can’t let her rot in that place. She’s mishpocha.” Family.

  “She can work for me,” Max’s father agreed.

  He was always doing that, offering jobs to people who were down on their luck. Max wasn’t sure how long he could continue to do so, considering business these days. Then Hannah told them Molly couldn’t take the job. She said that Mr. Ryan was concerned about Molly’s safety.

  “Safety?” his father echoed. “My factory is safer than Eaton’s.”

  “I guess that’s up to her family to decide,” Hannah replied.

  Max had been disappointed for Molly’s sake, knowing his father would have treated her well. She would have been much happier. He hated to think of her working in a place like that.

  Molly glanced up as if sensing his gaze, and for a moment, he couldn’t look away. The sunlight caught her eyes, the shine of green and hazel made almost transparent by the light. His skin tingled with her attention, as if she had touched him.