At the end of the block, Max perked up a little, spotting Molly standing outside his house. She was wrapped in her black coat with a faded green scarf tied around her neck, and her nose was bright red from the chill. He could see her smile from five houses away.
“Hello, Miss Ryan,” he said, feeling a familiar pang of loss, remembering that name would change in just a few days.
“Hi,” she said, her eyes twinkling in the sunlight. “Where’ve you been?”
“I just applied for a job,” he told her. “What are you doing out here in the cold?”
“Waiting for you. I have something to show you,” she said, then she took off her mitts and handed him a folded newspaper.
He opened it up and gaped. There, on the front page, was her story. His story.
WE NEVER SURRENDERED
The Story of Canadian Soldiers in Hong Kong, and Their Brave Survival in Japanese POW Camps
“It’s just one column here,” she said quickly, bubbling with excitement. “But it continues on page six. Everyone’s going to read it, Max. They won’t know your name, but they’re all going to know you were heroes in Hong Kong.” She paused. “Even if you don’t believe it.”
He felt his eyes prick with tears as he read the first paragraph. “Molly,” he breathed. “You don’t know what this means to me.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” she said. “You were the one to encourage me to be a journalist in the very beginning. All these years later you trusted me to tell your story. Thank you. For trusting me.”
“I’m so, so proud of you.” His eye went to the byline. “Where’s Ian’s name?”
“Ian’s actually left the Star,” she said lightly. “He’s taking a job at a paper in Boston.”
He stepped back, his heart plunging. Boston? He searched her face. “You’re moving?”
“Um, no. I’m staying here.” She tugged at the scarf around her neck, and he stared at her hand. Her ring was gone. “Ian and I aren’t getting married.”
His throat jammed with relief. He hadn’t dared to imagine that possibility.
She closed the gap between them, just as she had all those years before, and anticipation swooped through his chest.
“Max, you must know how I feel about you. How I’ve always felt about you.”
Thoughts flew through his head like bullets. For so long, this was all he had ever wanted, but the obstacles hadn’t changed.
“Molly, I can’t give you what he can. I can’t give you a ring.”
She took a breath, and he heard it catch. “I don’t need a ring to be with you, Max. After all we’ve been through to find each other again, I’m not going to let that come between us.”
He felt it in his heart first. A cautious sense of hope, like the first rays of a sunrise breaking free of the horizon. The sound of the American planes spotting them for the first time.
“God, Molly. I thought that we—” Then he stopped, unsure all over again. “I’m not the same man I was. I’m not sure you’d know me any-more.”
“I know who you are, Max. You know I do. And I know you’re suffering, but we’ll get through it together.” She hesitated, and fear crossed her face. “If you still want me, I mean.”
He looked her straight in those startling green eyes. “If I still want you? How can you even say that? Of course I still want you, Molly. It’s always been you.”
She took another step closer, and he reached for her, drawing her into his arms and feeling instantly whole. He lowered his face to her silky hair.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured. “Are you afraid?”
She shook her head against his chest then drew back to look at him through shining eyes. “I’m never afraid when I’m with you, Max.”
Her arms wrapped around his neck, bringing them even closer, and he felt as if the entire world had just opened up for him. His life wouldn’t ever be carefree again, he didn’t think; he worked through self-doubt and grief and guilt every day. But he was no longer worried about the battles ahead. With Molly at his side, they would fight those together.
“Max,” she said softly.
He smiled, their lips inches apart. “What?”
“I’ve been waiting over twelve years for you to kiss me again.”
It felt like a dream, bringing his lips to hers, then feeling her kiss him with such a sweet desperation. He could hardly catch a breath, but he didn’t care. Because it wasn’t a dream. Her love filled his heart, his mind, and his body, as real as the sunshine beaming down on them, here in the middle of their street. He was home now, and he was safe. And there would be no more good-byes.
A Note to Readers
What I love most about writing historical fiction is the ability to take something ordinary, like a black-and-white photo, and make it into something extraordinary. To bring that wrinkled old piece of paper, or whatever it is, to life. For example, there is a plaque at Christie Pits in Toronto—also known as Willowvale Park—that commemorates the riot. Just a plain, metal plaque that people walk past on a regular basis. I like to think about what’s behind that plaque. About why it was put there. I love to bring that story to life, so it sticks in people’s minds long after they’ve walked away.
I am constantly on the hunt for little-known stories in Canadian history. When I heard about the Christie Pits Riot, the largest ethnic riot in Canadian history, I thought about all the societal reasons that had caused the event. Considering today’s volatile climate, I also thought it would be interesting to learn about past riots and protests in our cities. After all, we are not the first to witness unrest in our streets. What did they look like before? Why were they happening? What, if anything, did they achieve?
In 1933, Toronto was a regular Canadian city, filled with regular Canadians, and yet beneath its veneer as “Toronto the Good,” the city simmered with an ugly, hateful tension. Just like today, the press played a large role in creating divisions. As Molly, Max, and Arnie sat in the sun on that beautiful July day, they spoke about the different ways in which the Toronto Daily Star, the Evening Telegram, and Der Yidisher Zhurnal covered the news coming out of Germany. Everything they said was true. Not only did the Telegram deny the stories about the mistreatment of Jews, they frequently ran anti-Semitic editorials in their paper throughout the 1930s. The Telegram even accused the Jewish community of having incited the Christie Pits Riot, despite the fact that it was the unfurling of the swastika-emblazoned blanket that set off the fight. Their front page headline the following day read “Jewish Toughs Begin Trouble Says Witness.” When the Star eventually began to report properly on what was happening in Germany and around Toronto, the Telegram began to refer to them as “the Big Brother of the Little Reds.”
In January 1933, Adolf Hitler became the chancellor of Germany, and by March, the Enabling Act basically gave him free rein as a dictator. But his strength was in propaganda, and once he and his Nazi thugs shut down all competing radio, newspaper, and news reels, he had the airwaves all to himself. He denied any wrongdoings, stoked the nationalist fire, and didn’t bother with the five principals of ethical journalism that Ian reminded Molly about: Truth, Accuracy, Fairness, Impartiality, and perhaps most importantly, Humanity. As some international press rode that wave of Nazi rhetoric, anti-Semitism rose around the world—including in Canada.
While different points of view are a sign of individuality and free thinking, trouble occurs when we are told what to believe, and we don’t question why. As Molly pointed out, the Telegram went beyond bias to censorship, and these stories were partially responsible for the emergence of the hateful Swastika Clubs. From what I could learn, there were approximately four thousand badge-carrying members of the Toronto clubs that occupied areas around Toronto, like the boardwalk near the Balmy Beach Canoe Club and Willowvale Park, or Christie Pits. Interestingly, there was also a Swastika Club at Roches Point and Balfour Beach in Lake Simcoe, and one in Kitchener, Ontario.
At the same time as this was ha
ppening, thousands were out of work because of the Great Depression, and they struggled to feed their families. Labour unions demanded non-existent jobs for their workers, and women sought better wages and working conditions. But they were largely unsuccessful, as Molly tells Max when he invites her to the July 11, 1933, rally. In February 1931, five hundred members of the International Ladies’ Garment Workers’ Union (ILGWU) walked out on a general strike, seeking a 15 per cent pay raise, recognition of their union, and impartial mediation in Toronto. But the populace regarded their demands as greedy and shouted them down. After two and a half months, public pressure forced the ILGWU to abandon the cause.
During the Depression, mass unemployment led to protests of all kinds. Here is an iconic photo of The Single Men’s Unemployed Association parading to Bathurst Street United Church in Toronto in the 1930s. Toronto Star / Library and Archives Canada / C-029397.
As a writer of historical fiction, I’m always looking for a personal thread that will bring the history to life. With everything going on at that time, Toronto was like a bed of dry straw, ready to burst into flame. I decided to light a match by creating a love story between two characters from opposite sides.
It wasn’t too difficult for me to imagine all this, since I grew up in Toronto in the 1970s and 1980s. While it was a different time, I do know those roasting-hot summer days and nights before air-conditioning was a given in every house. I have ridden along the same streetcar tracks as Molly and Max. My family and I spent countless days downtown, mostly enjoying Chinatown (I am a dim sum fanatic), but I know the fashion district of Spadina as well. Once upon a time, I had a gorgeous leather jacket and the softest gloves I’ve ever owned made in one of those old buildings. In elementary school, I remember being taken to Kensington Market with my class, and the father of one of my best friends owned a Mexican restaurant in Cabbagetown. And of course, I’ve also been to Christie Pits.
In Toronto, there are wonderful little pockets of culture, like Chinatown and Little Italy. Growing up, I knew certain areas were mostly Jewish, and others were primarily Catholic or Protestant. To me, the city’s “patchwork quilt” of people, as Max described his neighbourhood, was part of Toronto’s charm.
Until I learned of the Christie Pits Riot, I never could have conceived of the anger that erupted that hot August night in 1933. At the beginning of the ball game between Harbord Playground and St. Peter’s, approximately two thousand spectators were in attendance, and those were eventually joined by thousands more who drifted over after the Native Sons and the Vermonts game. St. Peter’s won the game against Harbord Playground around seven o’clock. That’s when a group of youths standing on the slope of the hill south of the ball diamond spread out a large white blanket bearing a black swastika, and the field erupted in a furious game of capture the flag. Once word got out, reinforcements raced in from around the city, building to a massive crowd of ten thousand. Both sides came prepared with sawed-off metal pipes, pool cues, baseball bats, and bricks.
It was no secret that something big was going to happen that night, but the police didn’t show up for the first forty-five minutes. Then again, it might not have made that much of a difference if they had come earlier. According to Cyril Levitt and William Shaffir’s The Riot at Christie Pits, by 9:30 p.m., “the police on horseback and motorcycle and on foot had formed a complete circle around the park, [and yet] the trucks of reinforcements still managed to break through.” Young Jewish boys rode their bicycles through the streets, hollering, “Gevalt, me shlugt yidn!” (Help, they’re beating Jews!) inspiring truckloads of Jewish men—and Italians, since the two communities were close—to head to the park. The fighting went on until after midnight, splintering into smaller gangs, and spreading through the streets. In the end, there were ten noted injuries, most of which were head injuries, plus a possible fractured rib. Two arrests were made: one for carrying a knife (the offender claimed he was carrying it because he was a fishing guide and needed it for scaling fish), and the other for being caught standing over a prostrate man with a wood-and-metal club raised over his head. He was locked up for two months for that.
I wondered about the far-reaching effects of the riot. Globally, it was a signal of what was to come, with World War II on the horizon. But in Toronto, what did the riot mean for Molly and Max?
Molly understood that incorrect or incomplete journalism could change everything, and how easily trust could be broken between the press and the people. The riot was her first real opportunity to look at an event and see all sides to the story, then capture it in words.
As a female reporter determined to tell the truth, Molly had her work cut out for her, and she had quite a role model in real-life journalist Rhea Clyman. Rhea led a remarkable life. Born in Poland in 1904, she moved to Toronto with her parents when she was two. At five, she lost part of her leg in a streetcar accident. The following year her father died, and so at age eleven, she went to work in a factory to support the rest of her family. But Rhea had big dreams. She moved to New York, then London, working for various newspapers. As a single woman with a disability, a Jewish-Canadian, and a feminist, Rhea was a rarity in an industry primarily run by men. At twenty-four years old, she traveled to the Soviet Union as a foreign correspondent. Before they expelled her—to international headlines—she became one of the first North American journalists to report on the Holodomor, a man-made famine (Holod = hunger, mor = extermination) in which at least five million people perished from 1932 to 1933. As the Nazi party rose to power, Rhea moved to Germany and attended rallies so she could write about them. Remember, she was Jewish! Like Molly, I am in awe of Rhea’s courage.
When I learned about the Battle of Bowmanville, I knew Molly had to report on it. The connection between Stalag VIIIB, a German prisoner of war camp in Poland, and the Bowmanville prisoner of war camp is real. According to reports, Hitler saw a photograph of a small group of German prisoners at Dieppe with their hands bound, which was against the Geneva Convention. The Germans demanded an apology from Britain, and when they didn’t get one, they tied the wrists of hundreds of British and Canadian POWs at Stalag VIIIB with the red string from Red Cross parcels. The prisoners were bound for twelve hours a day and were only untied at night. They suffered ulcerated sores on their wrists, had trouble eating and visiting the latrine. After Molly, Ian, and Mo left the three-day riot at Bowmanville, the hundred German POWs were indeed forced to wear the shackles, but Canadian public opinion was strongly against it. The guards weren’t fans either, and they reportedly dropped keys around the camp so the prisoners could take them off between roll calls.
Over my years of research, I have grieved over moments of inhumanity, but I have also celebrated acts of human kindness. In dark times, those are the stories we must remember. One such story took place at Stalag VIIIB, where some of the Allied POWs captured by the Nazis were Jewish soldiers. Not surprisingly, the Nazi guards treated them more harshly than their fellow prisoners. What the Nazis didn’t expect was for the prisoners to stand in solidarity. When the guards planned to withhold the much-needed Canadian Red Cross parcels from Jewish prisoners, the rest of the prisoners declared that if their Jewish fellows couldn’t have the parcels, well then, they wouldn’t take them either. They were all in it together. During those terrible times, it was friendship that kept the men strong.
As for Max, when war broke out, I knew he would be eager to fight the Nazis as so many young men were, and I took special inspiration from Torontonian Ben Dunkelman. In Cyril Levitt and William Shaffir’s book, they included the following quote from Ben: “As a Canadian, it’s my duty to volunteer. As a Jew, I have a special score to settle with the Nazis.” I had Max paraphrase this when he told his family that he was enlisting.
I had originally planned to send Max to Dieppe. There, he would have been captured by the Germans and taken to Stalag VIIIB. There are many stories about Stalag VIIIB and other German POW camps that deserve to be told. But then I stumbled across a piece of Canadian
history that I had never heard of before, one that has largely been forgotten: the Battle of Hong Kong.
There’s a reason this battle is not often discussed. I’ve read military accounts and articles as well as journals and interviews of veterans who survived, and they all tell the same shameful story: the Battle of Hong Kong should never have happened. In fact, it was the only battle in WWII that was 100 per cent a failure. As Molly said, 1,985 men went in and 296 were killed in battle. The remaining 1,689 were sentenced to three years and eight months in brutal POW camps where their Japanese captors had no interest in following the Geneva Convention. Private Robert “Flash” Clayton of the Royal Rifles fought in the Battle of Hong Kong. In the documentary Savage Christmas: Hong Kong 1941, he said, “The government of Canada knowingly put 2,000 men as lambs to the slaughter in order to meet some political expediency.”
Why were they there? As of 1941, the Canadian Army was the only branch of the Canadian military that had not yet seen combat. At that point, Japan had shown no aggression toward the West, but Britain wanted to make a show of force in their colony of Hong Kong to discourage any potential attack. British soldiers were busy fighting Germans, so the Brits asked Canada for reinforcements. Prime Minister Mackenzie King’s government reluctantly sent two battalions for—what they expected to be—garrison duty.
Letters Across the Sea Page 30
