Letters Across the Sea

by Genevieve Graham

  “Come on in,” Jimmy said, holding the door open for Louise, who was just behind him. “Hey, Liam!” he called. “Come and be a gentleman, would you?”

  Liam rushed up from the basement with the high chair, then reached to take Louise’s coat and umbrella. It warmed my heart to see the love in his eyes.

  He planted a kiss on her cheek. “Hi there,” he said. “You look beautiful.”

  Louise blushed, then turned to my mother. “It smells wonderful in here, Mrs. Ryan. Is that pea soup? Oh, I’d love the recipe.”

  Mum and I glanced from her to Liam, hiding our smiles. “You’ll have to ask Liam,” she said, and Liam turned beet red.

  “Where’s Richie?” I asked, scanning my brothers’ faces.

  Mum shrugged. “Any time now. Mark, would you go get your father?”

  “Oh, I’ll get him,” I said quickly, moving toward the stairs.

  Upstairs, I paused at the doorway of my parents’ room, watching Dad. He was sitting at the window in Seanmháthair’s chair, reading. I’d brought the chair from my room to his six years ago, knowing he’d need it more than I. Dad was a smaller man now, shrunken into himself. Far from the imposing policeman he had once been.

  It had all started on the night of the riot. After he’d been struck by the brick, Dad had seemed a little dazed and needed help getting to his feet, but we didn’t suspect anything serious, and I was caught up in a cloud of righteous anger of his treatment of Max. When we’d gotten home, he’d said goodnight and I had walked past without acknowledging his presence. I still clearly remember Mum’s cry of anguish the next morning. We’d all run into their room to find Dad lying perfectly still in his bed, his eyes wide with terror. When we asked what was wrong, he couldn’t answer. Richie raced for the doctor, who told us Dad had suffered a massive brain bleed that caused a stroke, and that we shouldn’t expect much improvement. He’d said we were lucky Dad hadn’t died right there. Nothing in our lives had been the same since.

  When anyone asked, which they rarely did anymore, Mum and I liked to say he was improving. The truth was that not much had changed in the past six years. He could talk, but only slowly and in short sentences. His mind seemed fine most of the time, but his memory slipped sometimes, which meant he missed out on some of our conversations. He’d reluctantly accepted using the cane when he was well enough to stand, and I doubted he’d ever walk without it. But it was the pain beneath his weaknesses that had stolen most of his strength. The knowledge that he couldn’t support his family, that he’d never be the man he was before. That lived in the emptiness of his eyes.

  I knocked gently on the doorframe, and he looked up. He gave me his approximation of a smile, affecting only half his face, and my heart melted as it always did. I’d never forget what had put him in this position, and I’d never forgive myself.

  “Everyone here?” he asked in his wavering voice.

  “Almost,” I said, settling on the bed near him. “Still waiting on Richie.”

  “Smells good.”

  I nodded, then my eyes went to his hands, folded over some paper. I recognized the handwriting as mine. “Are those my stories?”

  They shook in his grip. “Mum found them.”

  He was reading about the Great Famine, the story told to me by his mother. My mind recalled the people in the story, the families torn by tragedy then shaped into survivors. I wished I could have written a happier ending for him to enjoy.

  “Those are from so long ago. They’re probably really bad.”

  “They’re beautiful.”

  My throat squeezed at the sight of tears in his eyes. He was much more emotional these days, and I still hadn’t gotten used to that.

  “It’s like your seanmháthair is right here.” He patted his chest, over his heart.

  “I miss her,” I said. I wondered what my dear grandmother would say if she were here now. Seeing her son like this, the rest of us spread out in different directions, a war on the horizon. “I still do.”

  “She would be proud of you.” He paused. “I am.”

  “Oh, Dad.”

  I wrapped my arms around him and pressed my cheek to his, and his one good arm went around me. What a fool I’d been all those years ago. If I could have gone back in time, I would have held him tight instead of chastising him for going after Max. And while I was there, I would have taken back that impulsive kiss with Max.

  “Ready to get up?” I said into his ear, and he nodded.

  I straightened gently and helped him to his feet, then I handed him his cane. He caught his balance, then we made the slow walk downstairs. By the time we arrived, the family had crowded into the living room and kitchen. It was so good to see the house full again. Dad was welcomed with hugs and smiles, and I stood back and watched, loving my family so much it hurt. We were different from how we’d been, but we’d pulled through the Depression, my brothers and I were happily employed, and the family was growing. Like in my grandmother’s stories, we’d survived.

  Five minutes later, the door opened again, and in walked Richie’s wife, Barbara, her face red, her eyes puffy, and her arms tight around a bewildered little Evelyn. Richie was right behind her, still in his policeman’s uniform. He looked stiff, uncomfortable. I raised an eyebrow at Jimmy, but he only shrugged.

  “What’s going on?” Dad asked, breaking the silence.

  Richie took off his hat then stepped farther inside the kitchen. “I’ve enlisted,” he said.

  eleven MAX

  1940

  Max shrugged his pack over his shoulder and stepped out of the train onto the frozen tarmac of the Newfoundland Airport. Arnie, David, and he had made quite a journey to get here, sailing to Botwood, Newfoundland, on the Duchess of Richmond, shuddering with cold as they were taken to land by tender, then chugging the rest of the way on a narrow gauge railway. Now he walked toward the army barracks with the rest of the Royal Rifles, and Max wasn’t sure it had been worth the effort. The airport at Gander, Newfoundland, which was connected to the army’s base, was a long, flat stretch of nothing very interesting, set in the middle of a wilderness.

  “Sure is cold,” David said, falling into step beside him. David was as tall as Max now, and he’d left his father’s frail physique behind. “That wind is sharp.”

  Arnie nodded on Max’s other side, his boots squeaking on the snow. “This place is big. Biggest airport in the world, you know.”

  “Somehow I thought that would make it more exciting,” David muttered.

  When they’d been told the Royal Rifles were being shipped to the Atlantic coast for duty, Max had been keen to set out. He wanted to get into the fight, and this was the first step.

  But once they were on their way to Newfoundland, their sergeant, Sergeant Cox, a slight man in his thirties with short brown hair and a thin moustache, informed them that duty in their case referred to garrison duty. They would not be going overseas after all. They were here to guard this airport.

  Construction was going on at what seemed like a frenzied pace, with new hangars and living quarters going up, and another runway being put down. Max imagined the workers were in a rush to finish before the winter storms came, and he shuddered at the thought. It was already freezing, and it was only November.

  Crossing the tarmac toward the flat, one-storey barracks, they passed hangars for the Canadian, British, and American air forces, and Max noted the military instalments set up around almost every runway: the pill boxes armed with machine guns, and the uniformed, fully armed Canadian soldiers marching nearby. A fleet of B-18s, what they called the Digbys, were parked along one runway, and barbed wire was set up all around the compound to prevent any airborne invaders from accessing the base.

  Max, Arnie, and David had originally joined Toronto’s Royal Regiment, but the Royal Rifles out of Québec and New Brunswick had needed a couple of medics, so Max and Arnie had been transferred. Max wasn’t sure why David had been assigned there as well, but he was glad to have them both with him. U
nlike David and Arnie, Max hadn’t had to leave anyone behind. All the married men had been allowed one night at home before setting out for Newfoundland, and when David and Arnie had met Max at the station the next day, their shoulders were sloped with guilt.

  “Clara will be all right,” Max assured Arnie. “And Hannah’s just stubborn. Give them time, and they’ll call you heroes.”

  Hannah was good at guilt. Max had felt the weight of it as they’d shipped out. Especially since he hadn’t been the most attentive son or brother over the past seven years. During that time, he’d made the trip to Toronto for only a handful of occasions: Hannah and David’s wedding in 1934, the birth of their daughter, Dinah, who had won over his heart a year later, then their son Jacob’s bris last year. Other than that, Max had stayed in Kingston, working in the emergency ward at the hospital. His life was no longer in Toronto, no matter how much he loved the people in it.

  Then, at the end of July, he’d taken the train home. His parents were overjoyed to see him, their arms wide open for hugs. That made him feel even worse about the news he was about to share with them.

  The next night, when Hannah and David arrived for a family supper along with their children, he almost felt like a stranger around them. He’d embraced his sister, very aware of her belly, round with baby number three, shaken David’s hand, then hugged Dinah and Jacob, exclaiming about how much they’d grown.

  All day, he’d smelled his mother’s cooking and tried to stay out of her way so she could get it all done. His patience was rewarded at last with a beautiful meal of brisket with baba ghanoush on the side. She’d even prepared Max’s favourite dessert of rugelach. As the plates were emptied, the conversations filled, and there was laughter around the table as there should always be. But Max could hardly eat because of the pulsing guilt in his heart. He waited until after the meal to share his news.

  “I came home because I’m enlisting,” he finally said.

  It was like he’d dropped a blanket on a fire, the way the conversation died.

  His mother had gone very pale. “No, Max,” she whispered.

  “What’s in list?” little Dinah asked, looking at him then at Hannah, whose face was frozen in shock. One-year-old Jacob began to cry, and Hannah turned to free her son from the high chair.

  Max was relieved when his father nodded, stoic as ever, and murmured, “Yes.”

  His father had been unwilling to talk about his own war experience, twenty or so years before. All he’d said was that war was the worst thing that mankind could do to one another. It was a disgusting, horrendous act of brutality that forced men to go against their own morality. And it was a man’s duty to serve.

  Over the past seven years, his father had changed. He had redoubled his work within the Jewish community, devoting himself to any and all relief efforts. He’d been on the front line a year ago, petitioning for the rights of the over nine hundred Jewish passengers on board the MS St. Louis to come ashore in Canada. Max had never forgotten the letter his father had sent to him, quoting the immigration official who had been asked how many Jews would be considered for entry into Canada in the future: His answer was that “none is too many,” Max. Tell me, how can a man think that way?

  But Max knew it was more than the war that was driving his father. After the riot, Mrs. Ryan’s accusation about throwing the brick, and the lingering suspicions had hardened him, made him bitter. He spoke less, but Max could tell he was always listening.

  “You don’t have to go,” Hannah said, her mouth set in a thin line as she bounced Jacob on her hip. Beside her, David studied the table-cloth.

  “Yes, I do,” Max said.

  He’d been prepared for her to push back. Hannah had never been one to discuss politics, let alone war. She’d built a perfect life with her own little family, and from the shuttered look in her eyes, Max could tell she refused to contemplate much more than that. To Hannah, Max should be building a family of his own by now, and working hard in his chosen profession to support them.

  She bounced Jacob faster. “Why would you throw your life away like that? You’re a doctor, Max. You’ve worked hard all your life to achieve your dream, and now you can take care of people like you always wanted. That doesn’t mean you’re supposed to cross the ocean and become a shield to protect them from bullets and bombs. What a waste!”

  He fought the urge to snap back. “It’s not a waste,” he said calmly. “I’ll be a medic. I’ll be of use. I’ll save lives.”

  “Let other men do that,” she said.

  “Uncle Max, what’s in list?” Dinah repeated, getting out of her chair and climbing into his lap. Her eyes were wide, just like her mother’s, squeezing Max’s heart. He pulled his niece close, then looked at Hannah over her little shoulder.

  “It’s my responsibility,” he said. “I’m not leaving that up to anyone else.”

  “Why? You think you’re the only one who can save the world? Come on, Max! You don’t need to do this!”

  “As a Canadian, it’s my duty to volunteer.” He paused. “As a Jew, I have a personal score to settle. You know it’s true, Hannah.”

  Lips pressed together, she passed the baby to David and stormed out of the house, letting the front door slam behind her. Max looked at David, who offered a helpless shrug. Sometimes Max felt a little sorry for his friend. Hannah had always been a lot to handle, and David would do anything in the world for her.

  His mother waved her hand. “Go, Max. Talk to her.”

  Hannah was sitting on the porch, the wetness on her cheeks shining in the moonlight. The last time he’d seen her cry, he realized with surprise, was after the riot, when he’d told her about Molly. Those had been angry tears too. It had taken Dinah’s birth for things to thaw between them, and here he was, hurting her all over again.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, lowering himself beside her.

  She sniffed. “I know. It’s just…” She wiped her face with her palm. “I know I pushed you away all those years ago, but things were getting better, weren’t they? Now you’re here, and I… I don’t want to lose you. Never ever again, Max. I don’t want you to go.”

  He wrapped an arm around her. “I have no choice. I promise I’ll write to you.”

  “That isn’t enough. Promise me you’ll be careful.” Her hands went to her stomach. “This little one needs to meet her uncle.”

  He gave her a gentle smile. “Okay, but only because you asked nicely.”

  The next day he’d gone down to Fort York Armoury at the Canadian National Exhibition grounds where the army was posted, and he signed up without hesitation. He passed the medical examination with flying colours, became one of the medics for the Royal Regiment of Canada, and moved into the temporary barracks in the agriculture building. Every stall had been cleaned out and converted into sleeping quarters for two men, but the residual stink of horses filled Max’s nostrils from six a.m. reveille to 10:15 lights out. Then Arnie and Samuel Schwartz joined the regiment. Two weeks later, David did as well.

  “I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me,” he confided to Max on the first night.

  “You can’t blame her,” Max said, torn between surprise and quiet admiration that David had dared stand up to her. “That baby’s coming in two months. You could have waited.”

  “Could I?” His sharp reaction took Max aback. “Do you think you’re the only one with a score to settle? The Nazis are bombing London. What’s to keep them from coming here and going after my family?”

  Max hung his head. “She’ll forgive you.”

  “I sure hope so,” David had replied. “I can’t imagine my life if she doesn’t.”

  That’s when Arnie popped his head in. “You and me, David. Clara might have loved the uniform, but she hates everything about where I’m taking it.” He pulled out his wallet, grabbing for bits of paper as they tumbled out. “Hey, wanna see the cutest kid ever? I mean, look at this little guy. Five years old already. So smart. Spitting image of his father, poor ki
d.”

  David’s smile returned, and he reached for his own photos. “Oh yeah?”

  Now the three of them were in Gander, Newfoundland, where none of them had ever imagined being.

  Max held open the door to the barracks. “Home sweet home,” he said.

  They stepped inside the newly constructed building and followed Sergeant Cox into the sleeping quarters, where two columns of single bunks extended the full length of the room. They claimed one each, side by side, and Max was just setting down his pack when someone said his name.

  He turned, then stopped short. “Richie?”

  Richie’s cheeks bloomed that familiar red, and a tentative smile played at the corner of his mouth. “I thought it was you. What are you doing here?”

  “My battalion just rolled in,” Max replied, astonished. “You?”

  “We’ve been here a couple of months.”

  For a moment they stared at each other, neither one speaking. It had been years since they’d last seen each other, and Max could practically feel the history crackling between them, the fibres of their childhood friendship burned into something hard. It was like a physical barrier, looming even higher with the spectres of their fathers on their backs. Max could now clearly see Mr. Ryan when he looked at Richie.

  “How’s your dad?” he asked carefully.

  Richie fiddled with the strap on his pack. “Same as ever. Crippled for life.”

  Max didn’t know if he should feel shame or not when that subject arose. Certainly he felt partly to blame for Mr. Ryan’s stroke, but in the chaos of the riot, they’d never been able to prove who had thrown the brick that struck him down. Mrs. Ryan had accused Max’s father, and despite his father’s furious denials, her accusation had never faded away. Sometimes even Max had doubts. All he remembered was his father rushing to his rescue, livid at Mr. Ryan. The truth was that anyone could have thrown that brick. Even his father.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Max said.

  Richie’s eyes slid sideways. “It’s not your fault,” he said, frowning slightly to himself, then he cleared his throat and looked back at Max. “I got duty in a bit. I’d better go.”