Letters Across the Sea

by Genevieve Graham

  Molly sat unmoving, then without a word, she got up and went to the kitchen. He knew she was getting coffee, but it sounded like she was making extra noise to cover her sobs. When she returned, her cheeks were bright, but her eyes were clear. She set the coffee before them, then resumed her seat.

  “I have more numbers for you, Max.” Her expression was set, and both men sat back to listen. “From what I’ve learned, the original C Force was made up of 1,985 men. Of those, two hundred and ninety-six were killed or unaccounted for between December tenth and Christmas Day. The rest were taken as POWs. I’ve had time to do the math on that, too. That is a hundred per cent failure rate,” she said. “And of those POWs, about five hundred had been wounded in battle. Then over two hundred and fifty died at the camps.” She lifted her chin, which quivered with anger. “When you said you never should have been sent there, you were absolutely right, Max.”

  Max let the figures soak in. He had only known the ones from D Company, because Arnie had eventually filled him in. He’d said Cox was waiting for him as he ran off that field to safety, and tears were rolling down their sergeant’s face as he witnessed the devastation.

  Ian gave a low whistle. “Those are sobering numbers,” he said. “So that’s when you and the others officially became prisoners of war.”

  Max nodded once. “They tied us up and marched us to North Point Camp. I could barely walk. I’d been hit at the very beginning of the battle, when the Japanese had first invaded the island, and I’d doctored myself as best I could, but the second bullet at Stanley did me in. As we started to walk, my leg collapsed, and I went down. Arnie dropped to help me, and he was in a panic. The Japanese were yelling something at us, and Arnie kept screaming that I’d better get up or I was gonna get a bayonet in my gut. I looked around, and that’s exactly what they were doing.” He was back on that road, with the bodies of his friends falling, then screaming, then lying still. He could still smell the death, a thick tang in the air that burned. “Anyone falling by the side was getting stabbed then left behind. So I got up. I don’t remember doing it, but I did.”

  “What happened with your leg?” she asked.

  He looked up, startled. For a moment he’d forgotten where he was. He looked down at his leg, lost briefly in the wonder that it was wrapped safely in a trouser leg. They’d marched into Hong Kong that November, clean and starched in their regulation army shorts, but those had fallen apart over the years. By the time they’d finally been freed, they’d worn little more than bits of cloth. With all the heat and filth in Hong Kong, he’d never understood why infection hadn’t latched onto his leg and pulled him under.

  “I told myself it was just a cut, but as you can tell by my less-than-nimble gait, I was wrong about that. I’m pretty sure the first bullet broke part of the bone off, and it’s still floating around in there. The second one went right through.”

  “Is it all right now?”

  “I still have it,” he said, putting out his cigarette.

  Molly looked away, and he remembered her brother Mark. “I’m sorry, Moll. I didn’t mean anything by that.”

  “It’s fine.” She paused, giving him a moment. Or was it she who needed that? “But I have to ask you about something else,” she said, her green eyes glittering with determination. “St. Stephen’s.”

  He’d always known she would ask. How could she not? He’d written to her; she’d known he and Richie were in Hong Kong together. If anyone knew about what had happened to her brother, it would be him. And he did.

  “I know about the massacre.” She tilted her head to the side, toward Ian. “Ian did the research for me, so I know what the Japanese did that day. And I know Richie was there, because they told us he died there. But I don’t know why he was in that hospital. Do you?”

  When the survivors of the massacre had joined the rest of them at North Point Camp, the stories had leaked out a bit at a time, as if they were testing to see if it was safe to speak. Then, like a wound ripped open again, details had poured out of the men’s weeping mouths: the murders, the atrocities, the unthinkable evil that had rained down on that quiet, defenceless hospital on Christmas Day.

  Max hadn’t wanted to hear the stories. He didn’t want to believe any of them. Especially after he combed the survivors’ faces and found Richie’s wasn’t among them. The guilt he’d felt for years after that day, the knowledge that he had personally put Richie in the face of danger, had never dissipated. Back in that terrible jungle, with the enemy all around, Richie had begged Max never to leave him, and yet he had.

  “I sent Richie to St. Stephen’s Hospital,” he said, bracing for her reaction.

  She paled, and Ian’s hand covered hers. “What? You?”

  “He got caught in the initial invasion onto the island a week before. The same time I was shot. He was a mess.” He was back in the tunnel now, Richie’s blood black on his hands. His heart was beating so hard he could barely hold his hands still. “I… I had to amputate his arm in the field, and patch up his leg and face.”

  Tears streamed from her eyes as her brother’s long past death suddenly came alive in her mind. He hated himself in that moment, putting her through it.

  “I did all I could,” he said, needing her to understand. To forgive, even. “Then I sent him to St. Stephen’s. I didn’t have a choice. And at the time I believed it was the safest place for him to be. Why wouldn’t I? It was a goddamn hospital, and he was wounded real bad.”

  She shook her head quickly, swallowing back sobs. “No, no. I understand. I do. You were saving his life. You had no choice.”

  Max took a breath for courage. “I have something for you,” he said quietly. “It’s from Richie.”

  She stared at his hand as he pulled the old envelope from his shirt pocket, then laid it on the table in front of her. The paper was dark and sweat-stained, grimy from hiding it inside his clothes for all those years. He’d held on to it for so long, he’d come to think of it as his good luck charm. He’d never opened it. He still didn’t know what it said. But in a way, knowing it was there, and knowing it was his responsibility to bring Richie’s letter across the sea, had kept him alive. And it had brought him back to Molly. Now he had to let it go.

  “He gave it to me the last time I saw him. It’s for your family.”

  She touched the seal gingerly, as if it might break. Then she picked it up, and from the look of astonishment on her face, it was as if Max had given her the world.

  “I think he knew something was going to happen to him, because he already had this written,” he said, remembering Richie’s desperate expression. “I know it’s important.”

  Her fingers traced the lettering on the envelope. Richie’s handwriting, smeared almost illegible by the years. “Thank you, Max. I can’t imagine how hard it was for you to keep it all this time. This means so much to me.”

  “You gonna open it?” Ian asked, his eyes wide.

  “No,” she said, pressing the envelope to her chest. “I’ll wait for my parents. Maybe it will give them peace at last.”

  Ian sipped his coffee, regarding Max. “You’ve been to hell and back. That was an incredible story. I feel honoured that you told us.”

  “I want people to know,” he said. “I don’t want our men to be forgotten.”

  “We’ll make sure of that.” Ian shook his head, marveling. “After everything you went through, it must be such a relief to be home. To know it’s finally over.”

  “You think it’s over?” The words lashed out. “If you think that, then you haven’t been listening. This will never be over. Richie and David and Arnie and hundreds more will never come home. I may never have to push another wheelbarrow of corpses, but I sure as hell will never get that stink out of my nose.”

  Ian blinked. “Of course,” he said. “I didn’t mean to belittle anything you just said. I apologize if I offended.”

  Max closed his eyes, embarrassed. “No. No. I’m sorry. My temper is pretty fast these days. But I m
eant what I said. For some of us, the war will never be over.” He drained his coffee, then pushed his chair back from the table, done with all the stories. “That’s it. You have your final piece. Think you can sell a bunch of papers with all this?”

  Ian tapped his notebook with his pen. “Everyone has heard traumatic stories, but those are usually about women or children. To hear of strong, young Canadian men devastated to this extent? Yes, we will. Thank you.”

  Molly cut in. “We aren’t naming him, remember? It’s an anonymous source.”

  “I know. Too bad, though. We could make you famous, Max.”

  “No need,” Max said, suddenly in a hurry. Before they could stop him, he was headed for the door. “I gotta go. Thanks very much for dinner, Moll. I’ll tell Mama how great her recipe tasted.”

  He was grabbing his coat and hat as Ian reached for his own. “Hang on a minute,” he said. “I’ll get the car keys and drive you both back.”

  Max held up a hand. “Thanks, but I’d rather walk. Clear my head a bit.”

  “Would it be all right if I walked with you?” Her voice was small. Fragile. How could he say no?

  Ian was watching her, a slight crease in his brow.

  “I guess,” Max said. “If it’s all right with Ian.”

  Ian gave a short laugh. “Hey, Molly’s not mine yet. She can do what she chooses.”

  Molly tucked the letter into her pocket, and he waited for her to pull on her coat and hat, then wind a scarf around her neck. He held the door for her, and they stepped out into the quiet, crisp night. Max breathed in the air, feeling lighter than he had in a long, long time.

  “I’m sorry I snapped back there,” he said as they walked.

  “It’s okay. I’m sorry we pushed you so hard. And for so long. Thank you for doing that, Max. I think you’ll be really happy with it when it’s done.”

  He didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he wanted to read it. He’d already lived it.

  They walked in silence for half a block, and he thought how strange it was, to feel awkward, walking beside her on this sidewalk where they’d grown up. Once, she had chattered in his ear the whole time. Now, he didn’t know how to speak to her.

  After a little way, she tugged at his sleeve, and he stopped beside her. “There’s something I need to tell you,” she said, facing him.

  What was that look in her eye? She’d kept something from him. Something important. He didn’t like that feeling.

  “I wrote back to you,” she said. “I mean, the second time. After you wrote to me from Hong Kong. Of course, you never got my letter, but I thought you should know.” He saw her hesitate, then she met his gaze again. “But what it said was that I’d found out my parents burned your original letter from 1933. I never even saw it.”

  He stared, his chest tight with confusion. “They burned it?” His mind raced back to the conversation he’d had in Sham Shui Po with Richie, when Richie had accused him of leaving her behind without a word. He’d said Molly was devastated. Max had assumed the letter had been lost along the way, shuffled among the millions of letters constantly traveling around the world, and he’d reluctantly chalked it up to bad luck. Learning that her parents had deliberately destroyed their friendship that way explained so much.

  “Things were so tense back then,” she was saying, her pale eyes sparkling in the streetlight. “They thought they were doing the right thing, keeping us apart. They’ve apologized since then, and I know they’re sorry. But it’s hard for me to forgive.”

  “Why?” he asked, his breath catching. “Why would they have burned it?”

  “Because I would’ve written back.” She searched his eyes. “Surely you must know that.”

  All those years he’d spent longing for her, wondering why she had never responded. The dreams he’d dared to have, of being with her despite the rest of the world forbidding it, of living his life with her and loving her every single day. Now here she stood, telling him he could have had it all. That she’d always wanted him the same way.

  But it was too late.

  Max started to walk on, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He could discuss the worst the war had to offer, but he couldn’t have this conversation with Molly. Not yet. Maybe not ever. He was too broken.

  “It’s for the best,” he said bitterly as she caught up, then he softened, seeing her smile was gone. “You’ve moved on. Ian seems like a great guy.”

  “But Max. What I’m trying to say is—”

  He walked faster, needing to escape the pain. “What, Moll? What do you want from me?”

  She grabbed his sleeve this time and jerked him back to face her. Her cheeks were blazing with emotion. “I can’t lose you again,” she said. “I can’t.”

  He knew the ache in her heart, because he felt it so deeply. He knew her regret, because he would always, always feel that. He never should have left her. He should have stayed and talked it all out with her. But he’d gone away. He’d left her behind. He’d left it all behind.

  “You’ll never lose me,” he said, hating himself for what he was about to say. “I’ll always be around. But we both know that you and I could never be together anyway. We shouldn’t have started something we were never meant to finish.”

  “I couldn’t have stayed away,” she said quietly. “Could you?”

  No, he wanted to say. You’re all I ever wanted. He opened his mouth to answer, then stopped, distracted by the sounds of conflict. A fight had broken out on the street, and he made out four men, he thought. Three on one.

  Max took a step toward the four, needing to see.

  “Max? What are you doing?”

  Then the one who was at the receiving end turned slightly, trying to avoid a punch, and the streetlight caught his face.

  Max started to run. It was Jimmy.

  twenty-six MOLLY

  Even with his limp, Max outran me. He barged in on the brawl, unafraid, and when one of the men wouldn’t release Jimmy, Max slugged him in the face. Jimmy staggered back, and I caught him while Max chased off the instigators.

  Jimmy slumped against me, and I gagged. He reeked of garbage and booze and vomit, and his face was a mess from the beating. “What’s happened to you?” I cried, unable to stop myself. “What have you done?”

  He blinked up at me as if his eyes had been glued shut, and he had to break through the seal. “Hey, Molly. Nice to see you.”

  I grabbed both his shoulders. “C’mon, Jimmy. Can you stand?”

  “Is he okay?” Max asked, returning to us.

  Jimmy’s eyes widened at the sight of Max, and he stumbled backwards, landing on his backside. “No, no, no, no,” he pleaded, hands up.

  I looked between them, mystified. “Jimmy, it’s just Max.”

  Max took it all in stride. He crouched beside Jimmy, and his hands went to my brother’s smashed face, checking his injuries. Jimmy watched him with a kind of horrified fascination.

  “Are you real?” he asked, poking Max’s chest. “Is it you?”

  “Sure is,” Max said, then he turned to me. “We need to move him. He’s gonna need stitches, and I don’t want to do it out here.”

  We each took one of Jimmy’s arms and half dragged, half carried him home, both of us holding our breath. Occasionally he’d look at Max and smile the best he could, and one time, I heard him say, “Maybe there is a God after all. Jeez, it’s good to see you, Max.”

  “He may not say that in a minute,” Max told me. “Your mom still have all her sewing supplies?”

  We barged through the front door, and I rushed ahead to clear the kitchen table.

  “Put him here,” I said, patting the top, then Max laid Jimmy out flat while I ran to get Mum’s sewing box.

  My parents thumped noisily down the stairs. “What’s going on?” Dad demanded, then they walked into the dining room and stopped short.

  “Max!” Mum exclaimed, astonished. She collected herself as best she could. “We’d heard you were home.”

&
nbsp; Dad stayed back, but I saw the remorse play out on his face. “We thought you were dead, son. Welcome home.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Max said, and I thought I might cry, hearing the civility between them. It had been years since he’d stood in my parents’ house. Maybe the past really could be the past.

  “I’m sorry to wake you,” he said, “but Jimmy—”

  “Jimmy?” Mum rushed to my brother’s side then covered her mouth and nose, alarmed. “What’s happened? Is he all right?”

  “He will be,” Max said. “Could I bother you for some clean cloths and hot water? And a razor?”

  “A razor?”

  “He’s not going to like this. His lip is split. I have to take off that impressive beard of his.”

  While Max worked, I went upstairs and filled the bathtub for Jimmy. Now that I had found my brother again, I wasn’t going to let him go. He would stay here, where I could take care of him. I’d take some time off work, maybe. Mr. Hindmarsh would understand, I was sure. Especially after he read Max’s story.

  “Drink this,” Mum was saying to Jimmy when I returned. He was sitting up, his face stitched and bandaged, and wiped mostly clean. The beard was gone, and Jimmy looked so much younger. More vulnerable. I smelled strong coffee in the air.

  Jimmy mumbled something, and Dad put his face in his son’s. “Please, Jimmy.”

  I didn’t think I’d ever heard him say those two words together in my life.

  Liam appeared on the steps. “Max!” he cried. “Jesus Christ, it’s really you. We all thought—”

  “Yeah,” Max said, grinning. “I’m hearing that a lot. I think my new name will be Lazarus.”

  Jimmy dropped his legs over the side of the table and was threatening to try and stand, but Max and Liam stepped in, putting his arms over their shoulders.

  “Let’s go,” I said, and against Jimmy’s protests, I led them up to the bathroom. When they came out without Jimmy, I eyed them nervously. “Think he’s all right in there on his own?”