Letters Across the Sea

by Genevieve Graham

  Praise for Letters Across the Sea

  “Readers weary of European-centric World War II dramas will delight in Genevieve Graham’s Letters Across the Sea, which centers on the courage and tenacity of Canadian soldiers, veterans, and home-front fighters…. A tender, moving tale illuminating a fascinating lesser-known chapter of World War II history!”

  Kate Quinn, New York Times bestselling author of The Huntress and The Alice Network

  “I always look forward to diving into a Genevieve Graham novel, because I know I’ll be swept away by her meticulous evocation of the past, her memorable and wonderfully observed characters, and her unmatchable flair for shining a light into the neglected corners of our shared past. In Letters Across the Sea, she sends us from 1930s Toronto, then under siege by a relentless plague of anti-Semitism, to a different battleground altogether: the last stand of Canadian troops at the Battle of Hong Kong. This is history worth remembering—and fiction that both enlightens and entertains.”

  Jennifer Robson, internationally bestselling author of The Gown and Our Darkest Night

  “A beautiful book that tells a little-known chapter of history with incredible humanity. From the neighbourhoods of Toronto to the battlefields of Hong Kong, Genevieve Graham weaves exquisite research, nail-biting tension, and rich characters into a sweeping novel of courage, betrayal, and reconciliation. I loved it!”

  Julia Kelly, internationally bestselling author of The Light Over London and The Last Garden in England

  “An epic tale of enduring love, loyalty, and heroism, and a haunting portrayal of one of the most tragic yet overlooked battles of World War II, Letters Across the Sea has all the ingredients of a historical fiction masterpiece. Genevieve Graham has delivered once more a powerful, devastating, and ultimately redemptive story that stirs the heart in profound and lasting ways.”

  Roxanne Veletzos, internationally bestselling author of The Girl They Left Behind

  “In Letters Across the Sea, Genevieve Graham further cements her status as one of the preeminent writers of Canadian twentieth century historical fiction by illuminating a dark and complex chapter in the nation’s past in the decade leading up to World War II. With vivid prose and memorable characters, Graham demonstrates once more her unique ability to inspire, educate, and entertain.”

  Pam Jenoff, New York Times bestselling author of The Woman with the Blue Star

  “A compelling story, meticulously researched and beautifully told—to the point that I was moved to tears on several occasions. Graham is a master storyteller with a gift to touch the heart. I’m so happy to have discovered her work.”

  Santa Montefiore, bestselling author of The Temptation of Gracie

  Praise for Genevieve Graham

  “Genevieve Graham captures the reader’s attention from the beginning in this exquisite journey to the heart of what makes us human.”

  Armando Lucas Correa, bestselling author of The German Girl and The Daughter’s Tale, on The Forgotten Home Child

  “[A] page-turner…. Graham writes about ordinary people living at important moments in Canadian history, from the displacement of the Acadians to the Yukon Gold Rush to the Second World War. In The Forgotten Home Child, she ensures the British Home Children are remembered and honoured.”

  Winnipeg Free Press

  “From icy gales on the Chilkoot Trail to the mud and festering greed in booming Dawson City, At the Mountain’s Edge gives new life to one of the most fascinating chapters in Canada’s history. Fast-paced and full of adventure, this novel is an exciting take on the raw emotions that make us human and the spirit required to endure.”

  Ellen Keith, bestselling author of The Dutch Wife

  “Graham has immense talent when it comes to making our nation’s history interesting and weaving a riveting story around historical facts.”

  Niagara Life Magazine

  “Graham continues her worthy crusade of recounting pivotal Canadian history in this poignant story [about] the travesties of war both on the battlefield and the home front.”

  RT Book Reviews, on Come from Away

  “The talented Genevieve Graham once again calls upon a fascinating true story in Canadian history to remind us that beneath the differences of our birth, and despite the obstacles we face, we’re all human underneath. Vividly drawn and heartwarming, Come from Away is a beautiful look at the choices we make in the face of both love and war.”

  Kristin Harmel, international bestselling author of The Room on Rue Amélie and The Winemaker’s Wife

  “At once dizzyingly romantic and tremendously adventurous, this novel also serves as a poignant reminder of the senseless toll the violence of war can take—and the incredible lengths of heroism humans will go to in order to survive and rescue the ones they love.”

  Toronto Star, on Promises to Keep

  “[Graham] has delivered a book that reads like a love letter to a time and place that figures largely in our national identity: Halifax in 1917.”

  The Globe and Mail, on Tides of Honour

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  To the men and women of this country who offer and often give their lives so that we can keep ours, and in particular to the brave men of Canada’s Royal Rifles and Winnipeg Grenadiers, who never should have been sent to Hong Kong. The history books seem to have mostly forgotten them, but I never will.

  And to Dwayne, who indulges this passion of mine and brings me wine.

  “Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it.”

  —HELEN KELLER

  If you’re reading this letter, that means I’m dead. But I guess you already know that.

  I hate to say it, but after you read this, you might be glad that I’m gone, and to my eternal shame, I know I deserve that.

  You see, I did something. I made a mistake. I mean, I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but one in particular has haunted me. At one time I thought I could take this secret to my grave, that no one would ever know. But I’ve had lots of time to think recently, and I understand now that I can’t lie to you any longer.

  PART ONE — 1933 —

  one MOLLY

  Just before turning onto our lawn, I stopped, pulled off my shoe, then hopped on one foot, needing to pour out a small handful of pebbles. They’d snuck in through the hole at the toe, and I didn’t want to track them inside. I’d gotten used to the routine and barely noticed it anymore. It was so much better than leaky boots in the winter.

  As soon as I stepped inside, the smell of corned beef and cabbage coming from the kitchen almost overwhelmed me, wafting like old socks through the house. Mum would be annoyed I hadn’t been home to help prepare dinner, but Mr. Palermo had needed me to stay a little later. Fortunately, he’d sent me home with vegetables, though they were a bit droopy. That was one of the benefits of working at a greengrocer. I laid the sad-looking carrots and greens on the counter so I could snap open my purse, then I dropped my weekly earnings into the rusty Folger’s coffee can on the counter, which I privately called the Ryan Family’s Friday Night Tax Bucket.

  At the clanking of the coins, my mother turned from the pot on the stove. The circles under her eyes looked darker than usual, and at the sight of them, I felt a pang of guilt that I hadn’t been home sooner. At one time, Mum had taken pride in her appearance. On the mantel were framed photos of her and Dad,
taken long before I was born. Above her lacy white collar, her narrow chin was lifted with determination, her dark hair striking, and her expression direct; she’d been in the midst of the suffragette movement, her mind a hundred years away from raising children during a depression. Then there was the photo of her, pregnant with me, holding the little hands of Richie and Jimmy. All alone and raising three babies while Dad was at war. No wonder she looked tired. Now her face was lined, and there were hints of grey at her temples, put there by the efforts of keeping our house of seven running on next to nothing. I missed her smile, and her laughter most of all. The wages my father, brothers, and I brought in each week were so meagre, she’d started taking on mending jobs on top of everything else she was doing. It was too much.

  “Thought you’d never get here,” she said, brushing straggling wisps from her forehead. “Your father will be home any minute, and the table still needs setting.”

  “I’ll just put these vegetables in the cellar first,” I said.

  I headed downstairs, into the earthy darkness, and placed the vegetables in the coolest spot of the cellar, away from the canned food. Not for the first time, I wished we had a little white refrigerator like my best friend Hannah had. She and her family, the Dreyfuses, lived just across the street, and I spent a lot of my time over there. Last week, Hannah’s mother had poured me a glass of lemonade, and I could still feel that ice-cold drink trickling down my throat. But for my family to save up the five hundred dollars needed for a refrigerator, we’d have to fill at least ten tax buckets, plus we’d still need to eat. Pushing the thought from my mind, I returned to the kitchen where my oldest brother, Richie, was already sitting at the table, flipping through the newspaper with a frown on his face. I peeked over his shoulder and read a headline about President Roosevelt initiating his New Deal domestic reform program. I wished the president luck on that. Any kind of relief from this Depression was needed in the worst way.

  “Good day at work?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “You know how it is. Aisles are so empty I could open a bowling alley. Why would anyone come to a hardware store if they can’t afford to build anything?”

  I felt bad for him, but not surprised. With businesses closing down all over the city, we all wondered how long he’d be able to keep that job.

  “You coming to the game tonight?” I asked, hoping to lift his spirits. “It’s the season opener.”

  “Probably not. I’ve got things to do.”

  Richie and I had always been close. He was four years older than me, but we’d grown up doing mostly the same things. He was the one who had taught me how to play baseball, with him pitching and me swinging the bat, both of us with our matching red hair and freckles. But once I was old enough to really help Mum around the house, I didn’t have as much time to play. I still went to watch games as often as I could, though. Going to baseball games with my friends and family was one of my favourite things to do, and it was also one of the rare free activities in the city. These days, free was important.

  Mum gestured for me to set the table, and I got out the old china plates, careful not to chip them more than they already were. Richie lifted his elbows so I could slide his plate beneath the newspaper. I had just placed the last fork on the table when I heard Dad’s heavy tread on the doorstep. Richie straightened automatically, and my mother smoothed her hair. That was the effect Sergeant Garret Ryan had on people. As the door opened, my three other brothers trundled down the stairs, somehow sensing he was home.

  Dad stepped inside and took off his hat as Mum bustled to greet him. He was thick in the middle with a shock of bright orange hair and piercing green eyes, and when he wore his police uniform as he did now, he could be pretty imposing. But around Mum, Dad was a pussycat.

  He leaned down to give her a peck on the cheek. “Hello, love,” he said, then, more gruffly, “Sounds like a herd of elephants in here.”

  “Quiet, everyone,” Mum said, taking his coat and hat. “Your father’s had a long day.”

  I bit my tongue. Hadn’t we all? For the past four years I’d worked ten-hour days, six days a week in the back room of Palermo’s greengrocer. There, I sorted through crates, picking out the rotten food before stocking the front of the store with the good stuff. Little jobs like that. Most of the time it was quiet around the store. Delivery days like today were hectic, but I liked the busyness. It was rare these days.

  The stock market had crashed when I was fourteen. I still remember that day. It was October—a Thursday, I thought. I had been excited, walking home from school, eager to start reading The Great Gatsby for a book report, but the streets felt tense, with everyone avoiding each other’s eyes. Puzzled, I studied the men standing around the sidewalks, wondering why they weren’t working inside. Most of their faces were buried in newspapers. Some turned away when I looked, but not quickly enough for me to miss the fact that they were crying. I’d never seen a man cry before. When Dad got home, he sat us all down at the kitchen table and explained that the whole world had changed, not just our city. His gaze clouded with regret as he told me I would have to drop out of school, and he was going to speak with Mr. Palermo about hiring me. I hadn’t understood at first. In that moment, all I could think about was my book report.

  I knew the crash was serious, but the reality didn’t sink in until the next night. Every Friday, Dad brought Mum a bouquet of flowers. That Friday was the first time I ever remembered him coming home empty-handed. To me, the flowers were before. The empty vase was now.

  I wasn’t the only girl who had to drop out of school, but my friend Hannah never did. Her father owned a factory in the fashion district on Spadina, so he would manage, she told me. Richie had already graduated. My second oldest brother, Jimmy, didn’t go back to school. Only Mark and Liam were young enough that they got to stay. I was ashamed of the envy I felt, watching my best friend and my younger brothers leave for school every morning. Then one day after work, Dad found me out on the front porch and handed me a package.

  “Open it,” he said.

  I carefully removed the brown paper wrapping. “Oh, Dad,” I whispered. I skimmed my fingertips over the cover of my very own copy of The Great Gatsby. “But we can’t afford this.”

  He reached his arm around me. “I set a little money aside. I want you to know that I’m sorry about the way things have turned out. I know you love school, and as soon as things get better, you’ll go back. In the meantime, this is just a little something from me to you.”

  But I didn’t go back to school. And two years later, when Mark turned fourteen, he dropped out too. Now, all of us did our part to contribute to the pot. Richie worked at the hardware store, and Mark incinerated garbage at the Wellington Street Destructor. Liam had a paper route he did before school. Mum had her sewing, and of course, Dad had his job with the police. Only Jimmy was unemployed these days. He’d been working at the Don Valley Brick Works until three months ago, when they’d had to let him go. He’d been looking for work ever since. Still, we were getting by, and we clearly weren’t the worst off. Down the street from us, the Melniks had all their furniture taken away.

  “Sit down before dinner gets cold,” Mum said, carrying the pot over.

  Dad took his place at the head of the table, and Mum sat opposite him. Once the rest of us had squeezed in—Mark and Liam at one side and Richie, Jimmy, and me on the other—Dad said grace. My stomach growled as we passed the meat and cabbage around, helping ourselves to the meagre offerings while leaving enough for each other. When we handed the dishes back to Mum, she placed the last two slices of corned beef on Dad’s and Richie’s plates.

  “Thanks, Mum,” Richie said.

  “Smells good,” Dad said kindly.

  I looked at my own small plate with its lump of sickly green leaves and a single slice of meat and wished I wasn’t so hungry. I slid my fork around the edges, trying to push the food together to make it seem fuller. Then I took a bite of the corned beef and was grateful that I only h
ad one piece. It had the same feel and taste as what I imagined shoe leather would be like.

  “How was your day, dear?” Mum asked, her full attention on my father.

  “Busy. There was another protest down by City Hall. Dressmakers Union this time. It’s always something.”

  “They’re lucky to have jobs,” Richie said. “Maybe they should have been working instead of marching around with signs. They’d make more money that way.”

  Dad nodded as he chewed. “We’d be a lot less busy, that’s for sure. Chief Draper is all about keeping ‘Toronto the Good’ in line.”

  As I reluctantly took a bite of the overcooked cabbage, I pondered what was actually good about Toronto. All I’d seen lately were hundreds of homeless people lining the streets, endless demonstrations about jobs, homes, rights, and everything else under the sun, and a lot of young, unemployed men joining gangs and starting fights.

  My father perked up. “Draper’s talking about plans for the Orange Day parade.”

  Dad was called an Orangeman for more than just the colour of his hair. Ever since I was little, he had lectured us on the importance of our family history and the longstanding feud between Protestants and Catholics. He’d made sure we knew that way back in 1690, William of Orange had saved us from becoming second-class citizens under Catholic rule when he’d defeated King James II at the Battle of the Boyne. William’s heirs had ended up forming the Orange Order, a group dedicated to upholding the faith, and my father was a proud member, as were many of Toronto’s policemen, government officials, and labourers. Practically anyone could join the Orangemen, as long as they were Protestant.

  The Orangemen had been responsible for coining the nickname “Toronto the Good.” Over the past hundred years, they had put in place many laws. The purpose of those laws, in my mind, was basically to prevent people from having fun. Like no tobogganing on Sundays. I never understood the reason for that one.