“The factory would have let you go anyway.”
“It wouldn’t mean as much without you.” She hesitated, and he could swear he felt a shift between them. “Everything means more when you’re with me.”
He suddenly felt the need to say something. Something he shouldn’t say.
“Molly, I—” he began.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, your attention, please!”
A voice called from the direction of the legislative building, and Max caught the rest of his words before they got him in trouble.
“Welcome, welcome, everyone! Thank you for coming out today and showing solidarity with so many causes. We are stronger together, and in this city, as we face rising prejudice and violence, we need each other more than ever.”
Max listened hard, ingesting every syllable, letting them feed his mind and soul. Beside him, Molly was transfixed.
“We stand with our brethren in Germany who are being subjected to the Hitler regime’s hateful persecution of the Jews,” the man continued. “The Nazis plan to rid the world of the working class and of anyone who dares sympathize with them. They burn books and ban public gatherings. They deny citizens their right to free speech. We cannot allow their ignorance to poison this city. And we cannot assume that today’s event will guarantee change. We must be militant in our struggle to stand up for people, no matter who or where they are, and fight for their human rights.”
Molly shivered involuntarily, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world for him to wrap his arm around her shoulders and pull her close. She leaned into his chest, and he held her for the remainder of the speeches, amazed at the way she could make him feel both strong and yet helpless at the same time.
* * *
It seemed to Max that everyone who had stayed home the day before came out to celebrate the next day, lining up along the sidewalks and waving Union Jack flags as the Orange Day parade passed by.
“You know, we could get away with just about anything today,” Arnie said. He and Max had grabbed a table by the front window of Shopsy’s Deli before the other regulars came in, and now they were watching the procession. “We could rob a bank.”
Max gave him a sideways glance.
“What? All I’m saying is, the police are all busy, marching in their little parade.”
“I wouldn’t call it a ‘little’ parade,” Max said, picking up his pastrami on rye. “Three hours long this year, they say.”
“Good. We’ll have lots of time to rob that bank.”
Molly’s father would be in the parade today, Max thought as he observed the crowd. She’d told him that she had no plans to attend, though she hadn’t told her dad of her decision. “He won’t even notice,” she’d said.
Max passed a copy of the Telegram to Arnie. “Have you seen this?”
“Not yet. I heard they estimated yesterday’s crowd at anywhere from twelve thousand to twenty-five thousand.”
“Yeah. But read this letter to the editor.”
Arnie brushed some crumbs from his wrinkled jacket, then cleared his throat. “ ‘If the Jews of Germany encouraged disloyal parades of the kind witnessed here on Tuesday,’ ” he read out loud, “ ‘is it any wonder that Hitler planted his iron heel on their necks? You can’t expect but a grunt from a pig, but we will not see our war memorials desecrated.’ ” He threw the paper down. “Utter rubbish. I expect nothing less from the Telegram.”
Max tapped the corner of his mouth, staring at Arnie.
“What?”
“Mustard.”
Arnie wiped it off with his thumb, unconcerned.
“Considering how many thousands of angry, frustrated people were there,” Max said, “I’d say it was an extremely calm rally. And I didn’t see any ‘desecration.’ ” Though he had wondered if the offended letter-writer had been talking about Sir John A. Macdonald’s monument, where he and Molly had spent the duration.
Arnie let out an exasperated sigh and pointed at the door. Max looked up to see Yossel stride into the deli, along with a few others from the synagogue. Predictably, Yossel came right over and claimed the seat across from Max, a smug smile on his face.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were following me,” Max said.
Yossel kept his eye on Max as he lit his cigarette. “I saw you at the rally yesterday.”
He took a bite of his sandwich. “So you are following me.”
“Who was the pretty girl?”
The pastrami went dry in Max’s mouth.
Yossel blew out a ring of smoke. “She looked like a shiksa.”
“Not that it’s any business of yours, but that was Molly Ryan. A good friend of mine.”
“It looked like you two were close,” he replied.
Had Yossel seen Max put his arm around her? Had he noticed that Max spent almost as much time watching Molly as he did the speeches? Across the table, Arnie was watching, waiting on Max’s response.
“Sure we are.” Max set down his sandwich. “We grew up together. Molly’s Hannah’s best friend. She’s like another sister to me.”
He found the words surprisingly difficult to get out, but it was important to reassure everyone around him that he had no romantic inclinations toward Molly. The trouble was, he couldn’t reassure himself. When he looked at Molly now, he saw so much more than just an old friend.
“Lucky you, to have such a friend as that,” Yossel replied. “She’s gorgeous.”
“And smart.” Max raised his eyebrows. “Are you lonely, Yossel? No friends of your own? I can see how that might happen. You have a habit of rubbing people the wrong way.”
Arnie barked out a laugh, but Yossel didn’t smile. “Maybe she can be my friend, too.”
Max tried not to react, but Yossel was annoying him more than usual today. “You really ought to try and make your own friends,” he suggested. He got to his feet, set some money on the table for the food. “I have to go. You coming, Arnie? We still have time to rob that bank if you want.”
Half a block away from the deli, Arnie raised his voice over the clamour of bagpipes. “So you were with Molly at the rally?” he asked. “That’s why I didn’t see you with your family.”
“Is there something wrong with that?”
Arnie hesitated. “Listen, you know I love Molly. She’s a great gal.”
Heat rose up Max’s neck. “She is.”
“I saw how you looked at her at the beach, Max. Listen, I know it’s none of my business, but you already got punched once for being around her. Maybe you ought to back off, my friend. One wrong move and you could find yourself in a world of trouble.”
Max’s instinct was to deny his attraction to her, but Arnie would see right through his lie. And Arnie was right. It was time for Max to wake up. First Hannah, then Yossel, and now Arnie. Besides, Molly hadn’t said or done anything to encourage him. He was going down a path he had no right to walk. It was time to change direction before he got lost.
nine MOLLY
I’d decided on the blue dress for tonight’s ball game. When I’d worn it to the season opener, Max’s team had won. I liked to think it had brought them luck, and tonight they’d need whatever luck they could get: it was game three between Harbord and St. Peter’s. Both teams had won a game so far and tonight was the elimination round.
Nerves rushed through me as I dressed, my fingers fumbling over the buttons. Despite getting out early from work, I was still running late. Jimmy’s game was happening first, and I’d promised him I’d do my best to make it for the end of his game, but it wasn’t looking good. At least I’d get there for Max’s. I reached for my hairbrush—and heard the sound of fabric tearing.
“Darn!” I glared at the small rip in the bodice seam, wondering if I had time to sew it up. Or I could change into something different, which I really didn’t want to do. I examined the material, my seamstress eyes assessing the damage. Not even an inch long, not an important seam. No one would notice, I decided. And I would be mindful.
I watched my smile fade in the mirror, thinking about the rally. That entire day had been magical, and when he’d put his arm around me, I’d known he was as happy as I was. But that happiness had been an illusion. We both knew things could never work out between us that way. If Hannah found out, she’d be livid. And our parents? It was foolish to even imagine it. Except, no matter how I tried to ignore my feelings, I felt like a ten-cent piece being drawn inexorably to a magnet. Max had withdrawn since the rally. He was the smart one. On the other hand, here I was, having told myself so many times to put those thoughts out of my mind, wearing a dress that I hoped he liked, and rushing to cheer him on at his game.
When I got downstairs, Dad was sitting at the dinner table. Things had been awkward between us ever since the other night, and we hadn’t spoken much. Meanwhile, Richie and I avoided each other whenever we could.
Dad set last night’s Telegram partially down then slid a package toward me. “I got something for you.”
“For me?” I said, touching the brown paper. He nodded, and I tore it open to find a new copy of Agatha Christie’s The Thirteen Problems. I clutched it to my chest, taken aback. “Dad, thank you. You didn’t have to, but I’m so glad you did.”
“I wanted to. As a treat, since you’re going back to school and all. I’m proud of you for doing it. I hope you haven’t read that one yet.”
“I haven’t.”
He observed me over his black-rimmed reading glasses. “I bought it from a friend of mine,” he said. His voice took on a different tone. “Smith’s his name. Owns a bookstore. Know the man?”
My gut clenched. “You know I do.”
“Imagine my surprise when I’m paying for that book and he tells me that you were asking about a job there. He said he was gonna bend the rules, seeing as you’re my only daughter. He was gonna give you a job. I was glad to hear it, thinking that it seemed like a perfect job for you, since you’re always reading. But he says you quit.” He arched a thick, orange eyebrow. “Tell my why. Why would you quit a perfectly good job when other folks are lined up to get one?”
“It doesn’t matter, Dad. I got another job. I’m bringing home money.”
His jaw tightened. “He says you lost your mind when a Jew came into the store, and he wouldn’t sell him a book.”
I set my book down and met his steely blue eyes. “I wouldn’t say it was me who lost their mind.”
“Molly, your foolish decision means you’re bringing home less money, which means your family is eating less. You’ve got to understand priorities. You can’t let your friends determine what you do for a living.”
“What? No! I chose that job myself.”
“You chose to work in the factory?” he asked flatly.
I looked away.
He sighed. Suddenly he looked older and more tired than I’d seen him before. “I’ve told you before. There’s too much trouble around Jewish people these days. What happened with Max, that kind of thing is going on more and more. Be smart about who you’re with. Stay safe. And stay away from Christie Pits tonight.”
I crossed my arms. “No one’s gonna stay away from there tonight, Dad. It’s Harbord Playground against St. Peter’s in the quarterfinals. Jimmy’s playing with the Native Sons right now, as a matter of fact. It’s the end of the season run.”
He scowled. “It’s more than that, and you know it. When the Swastikas started waving that emblem of theirs around on Monday, they guaranteed a big crowd tonight, and for all the wrong reasons. I hear there might be trouble.” I could hear real concern in his voice. “So I’m asking you to stay home. It’s bad enough you went to the rally. That was like painting a target on your back.”
He hadn’t mentioned the rally to me. “The rally was peaceful. Besides, I can take care of myself.” I paused. “Is that why you’re home early? You’re working at Christie Pits?”
He shook his head. “There’s a bunch of unemployment bums rallying at Allan Gardens. A couple of units’ll be at Christie Pits, but we’ll have most of them at the Gardens.”
I thought of Mr. and Mrs. Dreyfus, Hannah, and Max, just across the street, getting ready for the game. They wouldn’t stay away because of threats; they would face them. We all knew there was a possibility that things might go wrong tonight. We’d been there on Monday when someone had waved a swastika that they’d sewn into their coat. After the game, the hateful symbol had been painted on top of the clubhouse roof, too. What Dad didn’t understand was that, no matter their religion, the Dreyfuses were my second family. If something bad did happen, I wanted to help them.
“I’m going,” I said, turning away. “Thank you for the book, Dad. I’ll take it upstairs later.”
I was reaching for the door when I heard him speak again.
“There will come a time when it’s us versus them, Molly. You’ll not be able to walk away from that.”
Us versus them. Did he really feel that way? My mind was still turning over those words as I crossed the street and fell into step beside Hannah. I tried to put on a smile for the Dreyfuses, but it must have failed, because Hannah bumped my elbow. She could always read me.
“What’s wrong?”
“My father warned me not to go tonight. People are saying there’s going to be trouble.”
“I’m not worried.” Max sounded more than confident. He sounded eager. “If they wanna fight, we’ll be ready.”
Mrs. Dreyfus frowned. “You don’t mean to fight, do you?”
“Times have changed,” Mr. Dreyfus told her. “Max is only saying that if they start a fight, we will be prepared. You remember what they said at the rally? We cannot sit by and let ignorance take over this city. A man does what he has to do.”
She looked away. “Violence is never a good thing.”
“Neither is having your head beaten in,” Max said.
“What is it with boys?” Hannah asked. “It’s like they can’t wait to hit something.”
I winked. “They want to impress us.”
She gave me a sideways look. “And are you impressed with anyone in particular?”
All I could think of was Max, walking behind us, keeping his distance. “I have no time for romance. I’m focusing on going back to school and getting a career.”
When we reached the edge of Christie Pits, Max jogged toward the Harbord Playground’s bench on the northwest diamond. Jimmy was already across the park, managing centre field for the Sons. I squinted toward the scoreboard. It was the bottom of the ninth—I’d missed his game, but I was glad to see the Sons were up 5–4. Jimmy’d be happy with the win.
We headed up the hill to a quieter area, away from the main crowd but still with a good view, then Hannah and I looked back down. There had to be a thousand people behind the Harbord Playground’s bench on the first baseline. On the other side, by the third baseline, there were at least as many St. Peter’s fans. I noticed a couple of newspapermen standing near the benches with their notepads, and I wondered what they would write about the game. Was there anyone here from Der Yidisher Zhurnal to report on the Jewish players?
Mr. and Mrs. Dreyfus laid out their blanket, while Hannah and I watched the players warm up. Balls shot from glove to glove, landing in well-seasoned leather pockets with satisfying smacks, and Max picked them out of the air like apples on a tree. His movements were so natural, controlled yet fluid. It almost looked like a dance.
“J
eez,” someone said nearby. “Dreyfus has an arm like a cannon. If he can hit like he throws, we can’t lose.”
Hannah and I grinned at each other. What the man didn’t realize was that Max hit better than he threw.
“I’ll see you after the game,” Mr. Dreyfus said to his wife, leaning in to kiss her cheek.
“Say hello to Saul for me,” she said.
“Remember what I said, yes?”
“Yes. We will go home if things get out of hand.”
He nodded, then smiled at us. “Enjoy your evening, girls.”
“Saul Rubenstein is having money trouble,” Hannah explained to me. “He needs to talk with Papa.”
Jimmy’s game ended across the park, and what looked like a thousand more spectators trickled toward our diamond to enjoy a doubleheader. I tried to spot Jimmy among the crowd, but couldn’t. I imagined he’d sit with his teammates.
Warm-up over, the Harbord Playground players took to their bench while St. Peter’s headed onto the field. Snooky was first up to bat, and he drove a grounder into a lousy spot, but St. Peter’s fielders weren’t organized. They tripped over their own feet, and the ball bobbled loose.
“Go! Go! Go!” Hannah and I screamed, jumping up.
Snooky stopped at second. Pavlo was up next, slugging the ball beyond all the fielders.
I was already losing my voice. “Home run! Go Pavlo!”
Harbord was up two almost right away, but St. Peter’s came back swinging and tied it up. The fans taunted each other predictably and yelled at the players, but as the game went on, I felt the tone shift. The jibes and hollers became uglier, made up mostly of sharp barbs about Jews. Beside me, Hannah and her mother were visibly tense, as was I. I could tell Max and the other Jewish players were doing their best to ignore the noise, but a couple of them were pacing quietly behind the bench like frustrated tigers.
When it was finally time for Max to stride to the plate, I noticed the St. Peter’s fielders back up, and that made me smile. They knew to give him room.
“Come on,” Hannah muttered. “Right field. That guy always drops the ball.”
Letters Across the Sea Page 9