Letters Across the Sea

by Genevieve Graham

  “Max,” David said, breaking his trance. “I hear you’re gonna be in Toronto this fall.”

  Max nodded and tried to listen, but his attention was still on Molly, who was talking to Hannah again, her slender fingers twisting her ponytail into a loose, shining coil at the back of her neck. The sharp, inquisitive girl he had always known had matured into a fascinating woman who shared his exasperation with the state of the world. But what held his thoughts were the differences the two of them faced within it.

  seven MOLLY

  Max was watching me with that earnest expression of his, and I smiled back, slightly embarrassed. I hoped he hadn’t overheard our conversation. David and Hannah had been talking about Brave New World, and I’d felt oddly out of touch. Usually Hannah and I had lively discussions about books, but lately I’d been reading more newspapers. It had started because I’d been scanning the pages for a job, but the headlines had caught my eye. There was a lot, I’d realized, that I didn’t know about the world.

  “So what are you reading?” Hannah asked. I could tell she was disappointed I hadn’t read Brave New World yet.

  “Well, did you know that one in five Canadians is dependent on relief? In the Prairies, farmers are at over sixty per cent. On top of the Depression, they’ve gone through years of drought, and the dry heat brought in a plague of grasshoppers, then hailstorms… Saskatchewan’s income has fallen by ninety per cent in two years.”

  She looked at me like I had two heads. “That was not what I was expecting.”

  I tilted my head toward Max, then whispered, “Do you think Max is going to marry one of the Beiser girls?”

  “What?”

  I grinned. “You said you didn’t want to talk about politics.”

  She lay flat on her back and draped her arm over her eyes, against the sun. “Honestly, Molly, sometimes I don’t even know you.”

  “Of course you do,” I replied.

  Thinking about newspapers reminded me of Arnie’s earlier comment, about how people’s understanding depended on which paper they read. Dad always had a Telegram lying around to use as a fire starter, but one day I’d been on the sidewalk and spotted a copy of the Toronto Daily Star sticking out of the garbage, so I grabbed it, thinking they might post some other jobs. Right away I’d noticed the different tones of the papers. The Star wrote a lot more about what was happening in Germany and the Soviet Union than the Telegram ever did. Richie argued with me that the Telegram did, once in a while.

  “Most of those basically deny anything is happening over there,” I said.

  “Then maybe they’re not happening,” Richie replied.

  “But the Star reports them,” I insisted. I’d pulled out an article from June 3 by a reporter named Pierre van Paassen that said over 120,000 people had been imprisoned by Nazis in Germany. “The Telegram never even mentioned it,” I said. “Listen to this: ‘What is happening at the present moment in Germany? The burning of books, the incarceration of liberals and pacifists, socialists—’ ”

  “Yeah, but the Star was banned from Germany for spreading misinformation,” he said. “So keep that in mind.”

  “I don’t know, Richie.” My finger slid down the page. “ ‘Only men who are afraid of the truth try to ban it. Only men who are afraid of reality try to shut their eyes to it… They call revolutionary a regime that burns the masterpieces of modern literature and the latest depositions of science, while leaving the people, by way of philosophical nutriment, the incoherent drivel of Adolf Hitler and Rosenberg’s political discussions, whose reading reminds one of a debate in a lunatic asylum.’ ”

  “Sounds more like an opinion than reporting,” he said with a shrug. “Don’t buy into it.”

  But the Star had opened my eyes, and Arnie’s comment piqued my interest.

  “Speaking of reading,” I said, looking over at the others. “Arnie, when you were talking about newspapers, did you mean how the Telegram and the Star report things so differently?”

  Arnie perked up. “Partly. Ever heard of Der Yidisher Zhurnal? It’s Toronto’s daily Yiddish newspaper.”

  “Why would she have heard of that?” Max asked wryly.

  “Good point. Molly, allow me to introduce you to a paper you haven’t yet read.”

  “And probably never will,” Hannah said. “Honestly, do we always have to talk about serious stuff?”

  “It’s important,” I said.

  Hannah set her hat on her face. “I’ve heard this a thousand times. I’m going to take a nap.”

  David smiled at Hannah. “Sounds like someone needs a lemonade.”

  She peeked up at him. “Actually, yes. Thank you.”

  David jumped up and headed over to the lemonade stand, while I scowled down at Hannah, slightly annoyed. These days, she never seemed to want to talk about what was going on.

  Arnie rubbed his hands together. “All right, Molly. What do you know about Hitler?”

  “He’s the chancellor of Germany, he hates Jewish people, and he has a ridiculous moustache.”

  “All moustaches are ridiculous,” Hannah muttered from under her hat.

  “That’s more or less the basic story,” Arnie said to me, “but there’s a lot more you don’t know.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Max assured me. “You’ve only read what the papers report on.”

  I looked back at Arnie. “Okay, so tell me.”

  “Neither the Star nor the Telegram ever talked about German politics until Hitler was pronounced chancellor this past January. They never even mentioned his name. But by that point, the Zhurnal had already run multiple stories on him and the Nazi Party. Have you heard of Joseph Goebbels?”

  I shook my head.

  “He’s Hitler’s minister of propaganda. The Zhurnal ran a piece about Goebbels’s plan this spring, which was called—and I quote—‘How Nazis Will Exterminate the Jews of Greater Germany.’ ”

  I shivered despite the heat. “Exterminate?”

  “Interesting, isn’t it? How nothing was written about that in either the Telegram or the Star.”

  “I remember seeing something in the Star just this month,” I said, thinking of Pierre van Paassen’s article. “About 120,000 people in German prisons.”

  “Yeah,” Max said. “They constructed what they call a ‘concentration camp’ for political prisoners back in March.”

  “The Star only recently started reporting on some of the big headlines that the Zhurnal covers.” Arnie counted on his fingers. “Like the maltreatment of Jews, the mass exodus of scientists and academics, the confiscation of Jewish money, the removal of Jewish doctors, lawyers, teacher, actors…” He looked at Max. “Oh, and the fact that Jewish people are no longer allowed to matriculate as medical students.”

  Max’s mouth twisted, his eyes on the ground.

  Arnie continued. “Last April, they ran the story about the German Student Union’s ‘campaign against the un-German spirit’ on the front page. In May, the union burned all the Jewish-authored books. They called them un-German and said, ‘The Jew can only think Jewishly. If he writes German, he lies.’ ”

  My mind flashed back to Mr. Smith refusing to carry The Radetzky March, and I shifted uncomfortably on the blanket. I still hadn’t told anyone about that day at his store.

  “So the Star has stepped up,” I said. “But if the Telegram mentions any of those things, they say they’re not true, or at least that they’re not as serious as is being claimed in other places. Or that Jewish people are just causing trouble, which gives idiots like Phil Burke and the Swastika Club the ammunition they need.” Max and Arnie were both nodding, so I continued. “I understand journalists interpreting subjects with a bias. That’s only natural, because everyone sees things through their own eyes. But this sounds more like censorship.”

  “And that comes down to the editor,” Arnie agreed. “If the Telegram is determined to ignore what’s happening, they’ll put their best misinformation journalist on it.”


  I paused. “There are so many stories out there, how do we know what’s really going on?”

  Arnie grinned. “Have one of us read you the Zhurnal.”

  He couldn’t fool me. “It’s not that easy, Arnie. The Zhurnal can say whatever it wants, too.”

  “Arnie!” David called from twenty feet away. “Come help me carry these!”

  Arnie got to his feet. “I’ll be back,” he promised.

  “I’m coming too,” Hannah said, jumping up. “Anything to get away from this conversation.”

  After Arnie left, Max pointed at my forehead. “You’re doing that wrinkly thinking thing.”

  “Am I?” Self-conscious, I put two fingers on the spot above the bridge of my nose and smoothed out the crease. “I guess I’m still confused. Why would a newspaper hide these stories?”

  “I imagine that sometimes—”

  “And if we accept that the other papers are hiding things, how can we know for certain the Zhurnal isn’t as well?”

  “Well, if you—”

  “I could read a dozen newspapers reporting on the same thing differently. How do I know which is the truth?”

  I stopped, realizing he was staring at me, a bemused sort of smile on his face.

  “What?”

  He lifted one shoulder. “I’m just listening.”

  “And? What do you think? How do you know the truth, Max?”

  “I suppose you can’t ever know for sure. Not really, unless you’re actually there. Like everything else, the more you read and educate yourself, the better.”

  There was a hole in that argument, too. “But based on this discussion, the more you read, the less you actually know for sure, isn’t that right?”

  He chuckled. “I do love the way you think, Molly Ryan. I meant it when I said you’d make a great journalist. You ask the right questions, and you go after answers like a terrier.”

  I looked at the grass and started picking at it. “I don’t know, Max. That dream seems very far away these days.”

  “Life’s hard right now for everyone. Things’ll improve.”

  “I used to tell myself that,” I said, “but every day it’s the same, and it’s not getting any better. Trust me on that.”

  Sympathy shone in his eyes. “So… you’re working at Eaton’s. Want to talk about it?”

  I hesitated, still feeling guilty—and disappointed—that I wasn’t working for Mr. Dreyfus instead. Until now, I hadn’t talked with anyone about Eaton’s—no one else had asked.

  “I should be grateful I have a job, I guess. They say one in three people is out of work right now. But Eaton’s is the one place on earth I never wanted to work.”

  “How is it?”

  I rubbed the tips of my fingers against the callus on my thumb, a habit I’d started doing every time I thought of work. “As bad as everyone says. Hundreds of women crowded into a room with rows and rows of sewing machines. It’s always noisy—not from talking, because we can’t talk—from the machines. And it’s hot. I don’t mean hot like today. I mean it’s like they squeeze all of the day’s heat into one stuffy room and never open any doors.” I inhaled, relishing the bouquet of grass, sun, and water. “I can’t tell you how sweet the air smells right now.”

  “I’m sorry, Moll.”

  “It’s like a dungeon. And the work never stops. The boss…” I shuddered. “He times us with a stopwatch. We have to sew a certain number of garments or we’re not paid. The first week I was there I was short by one jacket, and I went home with nothing after a full day of work. I show up, cut, and sew until my blisters grow blisters.”

  “At least you’re bringing home some money.”

  “A little. But pay for women has been cut up to fifty per cent in those places. It used to be $12.50 a week, but I’m lucky to make eight dollars now. I feel like I’m going backwards. I feel like—”

  I stopped, at a loss. It was too painful to describe it. Too degrading.

  “You can tell me,” he said.

  I looked into the soft, sturdy landing of his deep brown eyes, and knew he was right. If anyone would understand, it was him.

  “I feel like the bits and pieces of thread I have to sweep up at the end of the day. I feel like… debris.”

  But the warmth that softened his expression assured me that I was more than that, and my stomach suddenly felt as if it could float from all the butterflies in there.

  We both looked up when Hannah’s shadow passed over us, and an unfamiliar sense of shame sank in my stomach. I was uneasy, and yet I wasn’t sure why. It’s not as if I’d done anything wrong.

  She handed me a cup of lemonade, her gaze direct. “Are you two gonna sit here with serious faces all day?”

  I faltered and took a sip, afraid of what she might be thinking. We’d known each other for so long we could practically read each other’s minds. But she didn’t say anything more, and I exhaled as she went to grab our towels.

  “You know,” Max started up, drawing me in again. “I was thinking that you—”

  Hannah dumped a towel over Max’s head. “Come on, big brother. Let’s go swimming.”

  The rest of the afternoon sped by, laughter and conversation blending as we rotated between swimming and sunbathing. The sun felt exquisite on my skin, but I had to wrap a towel around my pale shoulders so they wouldn’t burn. When our stomachs began to grumble, we ate the rugelach Mrs. Dreyfus had baked for us, then Max splurged on ice cream. He knew I couldn’t afford to buy a cone, but he also knew I wouldn’t say no if he offered me one. For a little while, I forgot about the humiliation of my job and the hopelessness of the city, and I had a wonderful time.

  When the sun started to set, we gathered our things and headed back to the streetcar stop. Hannah, I could tell, wasn’t feeling well. The sun had worn her down. David stepped in at the first opportunity, gallantly lending her his arm and offering to walk her home, even though we were already going the same way. I thought the effort was adorable, and from the look Hannah gave him, she did too.

  The sidewalk was less crowded now, the pace sluggish but easy. The worst heat of the day had dissipated along with the sun, and the breeze tickling my slightly sunburnt skin felt like a caress. Tomorrow, perched on my hard wooden chair and hunched for hours over my sewing table, I would cling to the memory of this day while I waited for the clock to count down to closing time.

  Arnie turned off at an earlier street, and as we waved goodbye, I suddenly remembered something. My hand went to my head.

  “I forgot my hat.”

  Hannah groaned.

  “I’ll go with you,” Max said, already turning.

  “Are you sure? I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s fine, Moll. It’s a nice night.”

  David and Hannah headed on toward home, and under the gathering dusk, Max and I walked in silence. After a few minutes, he said, “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About feeling like debris. I know it’s tough, but when things get hard for me, like when it feels like I’ll never get through all the studying, I remind myself that this isn’t what it will always be like. This is just a step in the road, and we have to keep moving forward. Someday this Depression will be over. Things will go back to normal, and everyone will be working regular jobs again.”

  I thought of Palermo’s, then let that memory slip away. What if I followed his advice, but instead of just accepting a regular job, I went back to school? Maybe I could finish my high school degree, then try for journalism school. He was right, of course. This was just a low point. I had to keep reaching for more.

  “When that happens, a girl as smart and beautiful as you will be able to do whatever she wants.”

  I felt my cheeks warm and was thankful for the camouflage of my sunburn. “Beautiful? Oh, stop.”

  “What? You don’t believe me? Why, you could be a movie star, Molly Ryan.” The corner of his mouth curled. “And I’ll tell you what else. I’d pay to go watch you every single day.”

  “You’re
funny.”

  “If only I was kidding.”

  I looked at him but didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure how to. Something had changed between us. I heard it in the softening of his voice, and I felt it in my pulse. Like an electric current humming through the air, drawing me to him. It felt so real I could almost see it, and it unnerved me.

  “Here,” he said, pulling out the yellow paper Arnie had given him. “I meant to show you this earlier. It’s for a rally coming up on Tuesday. The first of its kind in Toronto.”

  I skimmed the flyer under a streetlamp, stopping when I ran into Yiddish symbols I didn’t understand. “A rally? About what?”

  “Hitler, Germany, what’s happening here… My father and I are involved with the League for the Defence of Jewish Rights, and they organized it, but other groups have jumped on board. A lot of labour unions are showing up, protesting the same working conditions you described at Eaton’s.”

  I thought of Richie’s comments about protests being a waste of time. I had my own doubts about whether they accomplished anything. “One of the ladies at work told me about a protest two years ago, with about five hundred dressmakers. She said it was awful, and it failed. All they wanted was a fifteen per cent pay increase, but the whole city ganged up against them.”

  “This one’ll be different,” he said. “So many people will be there, it’ll be impossible to ignore. Even the factory owners are preparing. Everyone’s closing down at three o’clock. That’s how big this thing is.”

  “They’re closing at three? Even Eaton’s?”

  He nodded.

  I held up the flyer, curiosity taking over. “All this Yiddish… Would I be…” I left the obvious question hanging.

  “Don’t worry about that,” he said as we walked along. “There will be a huge mix of people there.”

  Thinking of the crowds reminded me of Dad. “The police will tear the protest down, you know. They always do. My father said it’s basically their job to drag speakers off podiums and arrest them.”