“Come on, Max,” I echoed.
Max’s line drive rocketed past St. Peter’s, between right and centre field, exactly where Hannah had willed it to go, and the ball gave a giant bounce, sending the fielders running. Max made it to third base easily, but by then the fielders had sent the ball home, so he stayed there. His shoulders rose and fell with his breaths as he adjusted his cap. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
Then a shout rose up, and I looked away.
“Heil Hitler!”
About thirty boys near the front had leapt to their feet, their right arms held straight out. I recognized the Willowvale Swastikas from Monday night, and I watched in dread as hundreds of Harbord fans rushed toward the agitators. Mrs. Dreyfus gathered Hannah and me to her like a mother bird, while below us, the game ceased. From the way he leaned, I could tell Max longed to be on that hill, putting a stop to the Nazi shouts with his fists, but he and the others stayed where they were, their eyes on the fight. After a couple of minutes, the hostilities began to ease, though the combatants, bruised and bleeding, had to be dragged apart by the opposing sides.
And then, a few feet behind the Swazzies, I spotted a familiar red head. Richie. My heart sank to see where he’d chosen to sit. I should have been surprised, but I wasn’t. I looked away, determined to ignore him as the game resumed, but I kept looking over, angrier every time. I could feel the tension among the crowd building, like a barn packed with dry straw. It seemed only a matter of time before someone dropped a match. And Richie would be right in the middle of it. Had Max seen him there?
In the third inning, the same group yelled “Heil Hitler!” again. Then someone shouted, “Kill the Jews!”
My pulse stilled with the very real tone of the threat, and my gaze flew to Max, standing like a target in the field. The Harbord fans shouted back, words I couldn’t discern through all the chaos, and I was glad to see a couple of policemen finally arrive and rush in to speak with the offenders. After the shouting abated, the game began once more, but my stomach still rolled. I’d come to see baseball, not blood. Dad was right. If it weren’t for the Dreyfuses, I would have left already.
The score stayed even at 5–5 as the innings flew by. Max was all over the place, catching impossible throws, hitting pitches that shot like bullets. Then St. Peter’s caught a pop fly, and they were suddenly up 6–5.
Hannah had grown quiet beside me, so I nudged her. “You all right?”
“Yeah. It’s just…” She scanned the crowd around us. “I wonder where Papa went.”
“The game’s almost over. He’ll be back soon.”
“Unless our boys can tie it up,” she said with false cheer. “Then it’s another inning.”
“I’m sure he’s okay,” I said, putting an arm around her.
The chances of Harbord Playground winning were bleak at this point, but I told myself there was always hope. Then, right before Max was due to step up again, Pavlo hit a fly ball. There were already two out, and I gripped Hannah’s hand, praying the St. Peter’s fielder would miss it, but we all heard the ball land in his mitt, ending the game 6–5 for St. Peter’s. Their fans roared in celebration as the winners sprinted to the middle of the field for a celebratory hug. On the other side of the diamond, the Harbord team milled around their bench, slapping each other’s backs and shoulders, commiserating.
“Oh well. It was a good season,” Hannah said, getting up to fold the blanket.
The sun had mostly set, and the breeze had picked up, raising goose bumps along my arms and reminding me that summer was almost over. As much as I’d miss the games, I was quietly relieved. Lately, the season had seemed less about sport and more about spite.
Just then, Mrs. Dreyfus let out a cry of alarm, and we turned to see. Across the field, on a small hill called the Camel’s Hump, a large white sheet had been unfurled. In its centre had been painted a massive black swastika, its four crooked legs splayed with hate. From the corner of my eye, I saw Max and the others grab their bats and charge toward the banner, then the whole field seemed to move in a giant, converging wave as hundreds of spectators joined the stampede. I couldn’t look away, as horrifying as it was. Shouts of “The swastika! The swastika!” swept over the crowd, and when the players swung their bats, the agitators blocked them with broom handles, bricks, lumber, and iron pipes—weapons they had obviously brought on purpose. In only seconds, Christie Pits had become a battle zone.
“Where are the police?” Hannah cried. She and her mother were holding each other, panic in their faces. “Where’s Papa?”
Among the thousands of people down there, I couldn’t see more than five or six uniforms, and they were clearly overwhelmed.
“We have to leave,” Mrs. Dreyfus said, her voice trembling.
“No, Mama! We need to stay and find Papa. He and Max need to come home with us.”
And Jimmy and Richie, I thought, desperately scanning the field.
Mrs. Dreyfus held a hand toward the field. “What could we possibly do to help them, Hannah? We have to go now. Your papa told us to go.” She was close to tears.
Hannah and I exchanged a glance, but we both knew she was right. We had to leave, if only to protect her mother. Our challenge would be crossing the field, since the fighting had boxed us in. We packed the blanket into the basket, then Mrs. Dreyfus held it against her like a shield, and we hooked our arms through hers. My pulse drummed a warning in my ears as we descended the hill, but we had no choice except to merge into the unpredictable rhythm of the fight. I angled out in front and the three of us wound between strangers in a chain, bumping and tripping as we went. When a man stumbled against me, I shoved him away, trying to clear a path before us, but there were too many struggling bodies, not enough space, and the awful shouts and cries were deafening. Hannah yelped then ducked when a bat swung near her head, and I gripped Mrs. Dreyfus more tightly.
“Come on!” I yelled. “We have to go faster!”
They nodded, their expressions set, and we pushed through.
All of a sudden, something sharp and hard cracked against the side of my head, and I cried out in pain.
“Molly!” Mrs. Dreyfus held me up. “Are you okay?”
I nodded, spotting a piece of brick on the ground by my feet. There was no way to see who had thrown it, so I clenched my jaw against the throbbing in my temple and moved forward.
“David!” Hannah yelled.
To our right, David had been thrown to the ground, but he jumped back up to face his attacker. Blood streamed from his nose, but there was fire in his eyes. He looked far from defeated.
“Come on, Hannah,” Mrs. Dreyfus said, tugging her forward. “He can take care of himself.”
We were almost through to the other side when I spotted a dump truck pulling up alongside the park. Out of it leapt a couple dozen men, armed with pipes and broom handles and—my heart stopped—a pickaxe. I thought of Max, Jimmy, Mr. Dreyfus, Richie, and our friends, somewhere in the path of that, and I had to restrain myself from running after the man. I watched in horror as the fighting overflowed onto the street, and more trucks arrived, bringing more men and weapons. When we were finally out of the fray, I turned back to an inconceivable sight. Everywhere I looked, I saw furious, bloodied faces, torn clothes, and tears.
Because of what? Religion? Race? A fascist leader a world away? But I knew the truth was much simpler than that. Ignorance had been the match to light the straw.
That’s when I remembered the two reporters I’d seen at the start of the game. They were somewhere in the middle of all this, and if they were any good, they were writing it all down. I knew what Rhea Clyman would do. And I suddenly knew what I had to do.
“You should go,” I told Hannah. “I have to stay.”
“What? Why? You can’t do anything here.”
“I need to see what’s happening. I need to write down the truth.”
Her eyes widened. “No. Not tonight, Molly. Come on. It’s dangerous.”
“Do
n’t worry. No one is coming after me.”
She touched my cheek, and her trembling fingertips came away wet with blood. “No?”
I winced. “They weren’t aiming for me.”
“We can’t stop you,” Mrs. Dreyfus said, then she kissed my brow. “Please stay out of the worst of it. Come home in one piece.” She looked desperately across the field. “If you find them—”
“I’ll bring them home.”
I watched them leave, then I turned back. It was easier to bully my way through the fighting now that I wasn’t tethered to anyone, but I stayed on the outskirts, swerving to avoid men pushing past. Behind the clubhouse, I paused to catch my breath, then I peered around the corner at the brawl. I could watch from here, I realized, and stay out of the worst of it.
The more I saw, the more I wished I had my pen and paper, but I was determined to set it all down in my mind so I could record it later. By now, the police had arrived, and I counted a couple dozen at least, but I didn’t see my father. Those on motorcycles went to work breaking up scuffles on the streets, while mounted policemen and officers on foot rushed into the crowd, but I couldn’t see how the police could possibly quell the riot.
A hand clamped onto my arm from behind, and I whirled around, heart racing. Phil Burke stood before me, practically glowing with victory despite a bloody lip and a swollen eye.
“Look who’s here!” he said. He checked around us. “Where’s your Jewboy?”
I yanked on my arm, but he held tight. “Leave me alone, Phil.”
“It’s okay, Molly,” he said, drawing in close and shooting fear through my veins. “I know it’s all an act.” He gave me a wink. “You’re a good little Orange girl at heart, just rebelling is all.”
I was shaking so hard my teeth were chattering, but I ground them together to hide it. “Go away.”
“Come on, Molly. Play nice.”
He reached out, fast as a snake, and grabbed me around the waist, ripping the seam of my bodice where it was already torn. With one jerk, my body was pressed against his, and he walked us both forward until my back slammed against the clubhouse wall.
“Get off me!” I jammed my hands against his chest, but his grip tightened even more, his hips pushed against mine. “Leave me alone!” I screamed, but my panic was swallowed up by the noise of the fighting.
He was so close I could feel his breath on my lips. “I don’t think so,” he said.
Suddenly Max was there, his fist a loaded weapon. Phil dropped like a stone, and I fell forward into Max’s arms. I buried my face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the sweaty, dependable smell of him. I never wanted to let go.
After a moment, he took a step back, noticing the torn bodice of my dress. “He didn’t…?”
I shook my head.
“But you’re hurt.” He touched my cheek softly.
“So are you.” Blood trickled from a cut above one of his eyebrows, and there was another smear beneath his nose.
“It’s nothing. What are you doing down here, Moll? You should be at the top of the hill, safe. Or at home. Where are Hannah and Mama?”
“They went home, but I couldn’t leave.”
He frowned tightly at Phil, motionless in the dirt. “You’re in danger here.”
“So are you,” I said again.
“But this is my fight, Moll, not yours.”
I closed the gap between us and placed my hand in his, adrenaline making me brave. I couldn’t hear the crowd over the thundering of my heartbeat. “This is my fight too, Max. It’s us versus them, and I’m with you. I’ve always been with you.”
He glanced down at our hands, then back up at me. He shook his head. “Molly, I’ve thought about this—about you—every day… but you know we can’t. I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to stay away to make it easier on both of us.”
He was right. But when I looked into his eyes, all the reasons why faded into the background.
“But we can,” I said, knowing I was wrong.
Something melted in his expression, and I reached for him. My fingers wove through the damp hair at the back of his neck as his arms went around me, then he leaned down and I closed my eyes. When I felt the whisper of his lips on mine, the world and everything in it was suddenly gone, a million miles away.
“Molly,” he whispered, his long, dark lashes soft on his cheeks.
“What in God’s name—”
Max was ripped from my arms, and I saw him hit the ground hard.
“Get the hell away from my daughter,” my father roared, swinging his baton.
I grabbed his arm. “Dad! Stop!”
He threw off my grip, focused solely on Max. Dad’s face was beet red and slick with sweat, and his lip was drawn back in a horrible snarl. I’d never seen him so angry.
“I came to make sure my daughter was safe,” he shouted. “But it turns out you’re more of a threat than the rest of them, taking advantage of her like that.” He took in my ruined dress then raised his baton. “You’ve some nerve.”
Max crouched before him, his arms over his head like a helmet. “No, sir. I’d never—”
“Don’t you dare speak!” Dad shouted. The baton came down on Max’s arms, and he cried out in pain.
“Stop!” I screamed, throwing myself on top of Max.
I closed my eyes and braced for the blow, but it never came. When I looked up, my father no longer stood there. Instead, he was on his back, unmoving, his policeman’s cap two feet away, his face slack. The fighting continued around the field, but those closest to us had withdrawn at the sight of a fallen policeman. Phil had scuttled away like the cockroach he was.
“Dad?” I whispered, a shiver of panic racing through me. I crawled toward him and touched his face, but he didn’t react. “Dad? Wake up.”
Max rose stiffly, holding his arms where he’d been hit. He pressed his fingers against Dad’s neck, feeling for a pulse. “He’s alive. Just unconscious.”
Fresh tears of regret rolled down my face. Dad had asked me not to come, and I hadn’t listened. He shouldn’t have gone after Max, but he was just trying to protect me. It was all my fault. I should never have acted on my feelings. I leaned down so he could hear me over the noise.
“Dad? Can you hear me?”
“Molly!” Jimmy cried, dropping beside me. I was so relieved to see him. “Is he okay?”
Mr. Dreyfus suddenly appeared from around the clubhouse, out of breath. His expression was dark with fury and concern until he saw Dad on the ground. “Is he all right?”
“I think he was hit,” I told them both.
Mr. Dreyfus pulled Max to him, carefully touching the cuts and bruises on his face. “I saw him hitting you. I came as fast as I could.”
Jimmy picked up a brick lying near Dad’s head and studied every face around us, his glare ferocious. “Who threw this? Did anyone see?”
No one said anything.
Then Dad groaned and opened his eyes.
“Dad,” I cried with relief. “You’re awake.”
“Molly,” he said, then his brow furrowed as he remembered. His eyes narrowed at Max, and he struggled to sit up. “You bastard,” he said.
“No, Dad! Max didn’t do anything. He rescued me.” Anger crept back into my voice. “He saved me, and you hit him.”
Mr. Dreyfus spat to the side with disgust. “You crossed a line, Garret.” His eyes passed over me then locked onto his son. “Come on, Max.”
“Papa, I’m all right. I need to—”
“What you need is to come home with me right now. We’re done here.” He glared down at my father. “Too bad that brick didn’t kill you.”
My jaw dropped, stunned by Mr. Dreyfus’s venom. Yes, my dad had done wrong, but so had Max and I. I looked at Max, then at my father, and I held my breath, afraid I might be sick.
“We’re leaving now, Max,” his father said.
Max’s eyes were on me as he leaned on his father’s shoulder, then he limped away, sticking to the outer r
ing of the fighting. When they reached the end of the park, Max paused and turned back. Even from there I felt his lips on mine, and it felt like goodbye.
September 1933
Dear Molly,
I didn’t know if I should write this letter, but I didn’t know what else to do. If I could have seen you one more time before I left, I could have said everything in person, but we both know that wasn’t possible.
I guess by now, Hannah’s told you that the University of Toronto changed their mind and rejected me. Before you object to their asinine decision, you should know this has nothing to do with my marks. I never told you before, but the reason I left Toronto in the first place was because of the quota U of T had on the number of Jews allowed there. It appears they lowered their quota even more this year, and as a result, I was cut. So my plans all changed at the last minute. Instead, I’m at Queen’s, in Kingston, for the next four years. It’s not bad, but it’s not home.
So much happened after Christie Pits. So much anger and injury. I think about your dad a lot and pray for his recovery. I know your family is struggling even more now, and I am so very sorry for that. I feel responsible. But when I remember that moment between us, I cannot regret a single thing—other than the outcome.
What I need to know, Moll, is do you still believe in us versus them? Are you still with me?
If the answer is yes, please write back. Either way, I want you to know that I have always loved you, Molly Ryan, as a friend, now as something more. I miss you very much, and I hope with all my heart that I will hear from you soon.
Yours, Max
PART TWO — 1939 —
ten MOLLY
Left widowed with three young sons,” I muttered to myself as I typed, but my voice was buried beneath the hubbub of the Star newsroom. I pulled the paper from my typewriter, then checked it over again out of habit.
Dies in a jail cell
North Bay, September 10, 1939. – A coroner’s jury found that Howard J. Mortimer, 39, of North Bay, Ontario, died in his jail cell of a brain hemorrhage. He had been arrested for beating his wife, who claimed he had just come home after a drunken quarrel with another man. Mrs. Mortimer has been left widowed with three young sons.
Letters Across the Sea Page 10