Letters Across the Sea

by Genevieve Graham

  “Poor old Howard,” I sighed. “You should have just gone straight to bed. At least you won’t have to go to war.”

  The rest of the newsroom clattered with two dozen or so men, blustering around between typewriters and telephones, all of them evidently on an important assignment of some kind. I put the page in my outgoing tray and reached for the next brilliant, one-paragraph work of journalistic integrity on my desk. Truth and Accuracy, Fairness, Impartiality, and Humanity, I thought with a sigh. The ethics of journalism, as I’d learned at school. It was just too bad Something Interesting wasn’t included on the list.

  I was distracted by the activity around me. As of last Sunday, Canada was at war. For an entire week, the country had held its breath, waiting for Prime Minister Mackenzie King to announce that we would join Britain against Hitler’s Nazi Germany. The prime minister had seemed determined to do it in his own time, making it clear to Britain that we were an independent country now. Today’s announcement had thrown the newsroom into an excited chaos cloaked in sobriety—it would have been unseemly for the reporters to admit that they were practically salivating at the stories they needed to write.

  I scanned the next article before me: an all-British military band playing an all-British programme at Christie Pits on Sunday. The name of the park brought me back six years, but I shoved it aside, as I always did, and told myself to focus on my work. If I added the names of the band’s pieces on the programme, I might be able to stretch it to three paragraphs, I mused. Then again, no one was going to flip all the way to page thirty-two to read it, so I supposed it didn’t really matter. I rolled another piece of paper into my old Underwood, slapped the bar down, and got to work.

  “You planning to go to that?”

  I jumped. Over my shoulder stood Ian Collins, hands sunk deep in his brown tweed trousers. “You scared me,” I said.

  “Sorry,” he said, flashing an innocent smile. “I didn’t realize you were so mesmerized by the notices.” He peered past me, his blue eyes fixed on the note about the band. “Looks very entertaining.”

  The first day I’d arrived at the Star, I’d been nervous about actually being inside a news office, and eager to make a good impression. I’d also been terrified that Ian Collins, now a senior reporter, would spot me, so I’d hidden behind my typewriter. After so many years of dodging his mother’s pointed suggestions that we go out, now I would see him every day. I’d rehearsed various apologies, preparing for the moment we finally spoke, but it turned out there’d been no need. Ian had been friendly from the start and put me at ease, commiserating with me about his mother’s persistence. He’d shown me the ins and outs of the office and introduced me to my new coworkers.

  Now he came around to the front of my desk and leaned against the corner. He was undeniably handsome, with his sandy blond hair and relaxed but muscular build, and his smile could charm cheese from a mouse. I was flattered by his attentions, but then again, I reminded myself I was the only woman in the place, other than a few secretaries.

  “Don’t make fun,” I said. “Listen, if you’d like to hand me something a little more interesting, I’d be happy to work on that instead.”

  “I couldn’t help it,” he teased. “You looked so serious over here.”

  “What are you working on?” I asked, trying to keep my envy from showing.

  “Just a little opinion piece on making the war official.”

  “Just a little opinion piece,” I echoed wryly. “I’m typing up theatre listings next.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Have you figured out what you want to see? I was thinking of going to the Wizard of Oz tonight. Care to join me? As colleagues, of course,” he added.

  I hesitated. While I may have misjudged Ian all those years ago, based solely on his mother’s tenacity, I still wasn’t ready to start dating. My parents needed me, now more than ever. And besides, I wanted more than this tiny desk where I typed out community notices. As attractive and nice as Ian was, he was a senior reporter. If I dated him, I had a feeling I’d never be taken seriously in the office.

  “I can’t,” I said quickly. “We’re having a big family dinner tonight. It’s going to be a full house.”

  Disappointment flickered across his face, but he nodded, standing again. “Maybe another time.” He pointed at the short stack of papers I’d typed up. “Want me to take those over to Mr. Hindmarsh?”

  I shook my head. “I need to walk around. I’ve been sitting in this chair all morning. But thanks.”

  I watched him move away, stopping at a couple of desks to chat with fellow reporters, and I felt a pang of regret. What was I so worried about? It was only a date, after all.

  I spent another half hour typing up the theatre listings, then I got up and stretched, dropping off my work in the editor’s tray. As I left Mr. Hindmarsh’s empty office, Roger Waters, one of the junior reporters, put a hand on my arm.

  “Sweetheart, get me a coffee? Two sugars.”

  I pulled my arm away. “I’m not a secretary, Roger.”

  Across the newsroom, Ian looked up. My cheeks warmed with embarrassment.

  Roger frowned. “You don’t have to be so testy. I just wanted a coffee.”

  “Yeah, well, you can get your own.”

  Averting my eyes from everyone in the room, I marched back to my little desk in the back corner. After years of night school and journalism classes, I fumed, this was where I’d ended up, being asked to get coffee and typing the most insignificant things. Practically the whole world had gone to war, and I was collecting recipes for a new feature Mr. Hindmarsh felt would “really give wives a lift.” It wasn’t as if I’d expected them to send me overseas, like a couple of the other reporters, but I thought I’d at least get something interesting to do. My thoughts went to Rhea Clyman, as they often did these days, and I wondered what she was up to. Probably interviewing starving prisoners in Poland or something.

  Thinking of Rhea brought me back to the hot summer days six years ago when Max and I had talked about what was wrong with the world and our city, and then the riot that had changed our lives.

  After the fight, Dad had fallen terribly ill. In the first week of his bedrest, Mrs. Dreyfus had brought food to our house, along with well wishes for him, but despite our need, Mum wouldn’t accept the food. She said awful things to her, including barbs about Max “taking advantage” of me.

  I’d tried to explain to my parents what had actually happened that night. They’d refused to listen when I said Phil Burke had attacked me, then Max had saved me. Since Phil had already run off by the time Dad had come upon us, he only knew what he’d seen: the unimaginable crime of his daughter kissing a Jew.

  The final straw had been my mother accusing Mr. Dreyfus of throwing the fateful brick that had struck Dad. Max’s mother had left our house without a word, and I’d cried as I watched through the window, seeing the grief on her face. Since that day, neither she nor Mr. Dreyfus acknowledged any of us, even if we saw them across the street. A wall had come down between our families.

  I hadn’t imagined it might extend to me as well, though. I’d gone to Hannah’s house a few days later, since I hadn’t seen her or Max since the riot, and I needed to talk to them both.

  “Mum’s just upset. It’ll pass,” I said when Hannah answered the door. Her face was tight with anger. “I’m sorry for what she said.”

  She folded her arms. “This has nothing to do with our mothers. This has to do with you. And Max.”

  He’d told her about the kiss, I realized. “Hannah, it just happened.”

  “It shouldn’t have. You both know better. Look what happened. This is all your fault.”

  It was like she’d slapped me. I looked down at my scuffed shoes, the Oxfords she had loaned me then never asked me to return. Ever since the kiss, I’d felt sick with guilt over what had come out of it, but that hadn’t stopped me from thinking about it. I needed to talk to Max. I needed to know what he was thinking.

  “Can
I talk to him?”

  She laughed, but it was a hard, bitter sound. “I see why you’re really here.”

  “No, Hannah, it’s not like—”

  “He’s not here. He’s gone to school, but not in Toronto. Somewhere else.”

  My jaw dropped. “What? Why? Where is he?”

  Her face softened slightly. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Molly, but it’s better if you don’t know. You two need time apart.”

  Oh, I wanted to be angry. I wanted to shout at her, to tell her she had no right to decide what was best for Max and me, but I couldn’t. She was right. I’d been wrong.

  “I understand,” I said, blinking hard. “And I’m sorry, Hannah. I’m sorry about everything. Please don’t hate me.”

  Her eyes glistened as well. “I could never hate you. But I think maybe you and I need some time apart, too.”

  That short walk home was the loneliest of my life. I hid in my room and sobbed myself to sleep. When I left for work the next morning, I ached to see her. But I buried myself in a numbing routine of home, work, night school, and home again, and I got used to being alone. Over time I realized that Hannah and I had been growing apart for a while, and the pain faded.

  Not long after, Hannah married David Bohmer, and I was happy for her. I still remembered that day by the beach when he’d tried so hard to gain her attention. Now she had all the shoes she’d ever want, as well as two beautiful children, but my heart hurt with the knowledge that I’d only met her little girl and boy on a handful of occasions. Time had changed everything.

  I tried to put Max out of my mind, but he stuck stubbornly to my thoughts. I wrote him letters but never mailed them. I imagined him at school and wondered if he ever thought of me. If he did, did he miss me? Did he regret what we’d done? He’d told me we shouldn’t cross that line, but I’d foolishly leapt across. And I didn’t think I would ever forget the way that moment had felt. How we’d been suspended above everything else, sharing a perfect kiss.

  But then it was over, and my world fell apart.

  The one good thing that had come out of the riot was that, after I had calmed down enough, I’d written an article about what had happened. I talked about the ugliness of the mob, about how bullies had infected others through intimidation, sweeping innocent people into a frenzy of over ten thousand brawlers, pounding on each other for four terrible hours. When the fighting was over, I asked, how many of those men were proud of themselves and of what they’d done? How many went home that night, feeling confident that they had been in the right, and that the stranger they’d slugged with a brick had deserved it? I tried to remind readers that none of us was perfect. Without mentioning Dad, I brought up the concept of “us versus them,” and made it clear that I didn’t believe that to be true. Instead, I wrote, the goodness within us was only as good as how we treated our fellow humans.

  I made it into a letter to the editor, and with a trembling hand, I delivered it to the Star the next morning. My heart sang to see it printed the day after that. My first piece of writing in print. When I applied for a job at the Star six years later, I presented my best stories and put that letter on the top of the pile as a reminder. That day, the legendary Mr. Henry Comfort Hindmarsh, managing editor of the Toronto Daily Star, hired me as a junior reporter.

  The big clock on the newsroom wall ticked to five o’clock. Outside, the rain was coming down in sheets, so I gathered my coat and handbag, then reached under the desk for my umbrella. As I passed by Ian’s desk, he raised a hand.

  “Have a good night with your family,” he said, warm as always, and I thought again about maybe saying yes to him next time.

  The rain pounded my umbrella as I rushed toward the streetcar, dodging puddles and wishing I’d had the forethought to bring galoshes as well. Inside, the streetcar aisle was slick, so I clung to seat backs until I found an empty one. I settled in and gazed out the streaming window, my thoughts still on the riot so long ago. That night had marked a change for the city. Things were still tumultuous, noisy with continuing protests and prejudice, but there had been no more major uprisings after that one. I liked to think that maybe a few people had read my letter and taken it to heart.

  Then just this past August, seven hundred or so local German Canadians had gathered near Maple Street, showing their support of the Nazis. The following Monday, when their leader, Martin Kaiser, returned to his job as a foreman at a factory on Geary Avenue, his coworkers had a few things to say to him, then a fight broke out. As soon as I heard about the brawl, I’d braced at my desk, hoping Ian would take me with him to the scene, but that wasn’t up to him. Instead, I was tasked with writing about a church bazaar. Ian and another reporter got back to the office hours later, and he told me the factory floor had been covered with bloody towels.

  The streetcar stopped at Spadina, and I got off to wait for the one headed north. By the time it arrived, my shoes were soaked through, and my teeth were chattering from the cold. As we rattled past Mr. Dreyfus’s factory, I found myself thinking about Max again. Once, he’d been the sun and the moon to me, but we’d been so young. Now, when I looked back, I regretted my actions that day. As much as I wanted him, I hadn’t given any thought to how it might affect others, and my selfishness had caused so much needless pain. I hadn’t spoken to Max in years, and I’d only seen him a handful of times through my window. Other than to visit, he’d never returned after his four years at medical school, so I assumed he was working somewhere else. Maybe, like Richie, he was married. I hoped he was happy. I really did.

  That fall, Richie had joined the police force, and I thought his decision had a lot to do with what had happened to Dad. During the first few weeks after the riot, I’d occasionally come home from work and seen the two of them in Dad’s bedroom, talking quietly between themselves. Then Richie had applied and was accepted into the police force, and Dad seemed to like the fact that there was still a Ryan in uniform. A few months later, Richie married a quiet, pretty barmaid named Barbara, and I’d become an aunt two years ago to sweet little Evelyn. Barbara was pregnant with their second baby now, and she’d positively glowed the last time they’d come over for dinner. Her hands rested on her belly, and I’d felt an unexpected twinge of envy.

  Tonight, when I stepped out of the rain and into the house, I could smell ham in the oven. Mum was leaning over a pot, the steam rising into her face. I noticed her apron was covering a neat new dress, which made me smile. She deserved that.

  “Hi, Mum,” I said, dropping my week’s pay into the Friday Night Tax Bucket.

  Only my youngest brother Liam and I were still living at home these days, and the Depression was easing a little, so things had improved around the house. But without Dad working, there was still pressure to contribute. Fortunately, my eight dollars a week at Eaton’s had grown to almost thirty at the Star. I’d even been able to set some of it aside for myself, for the future.

  Over the past year or so, life in Toronto had slowly improved. More jobs had opened up, and the need didn’t seem as dire. People started shopping again, though they were still prudent in their purchases.

  My brothers were all working and doing well. Mark had lucked into a job driving streetcars, and that’s where he’d met his wife, Helen. Love at first sight, he’d said. She couldn’t find the right coins, but he’d taken one look at her and let her ride for free. Helen had a curly brown bob and a lovely smile, and she clearly adored my brother.

  At my voice, Mum looked up from the stove. She seemed better these days, though she was understandably drained from tending Dad. “How was your day?”

  I shrugged out of my dripping coat and hung it by the door. I didn’t want to tell her how discouraged I was at my job, not after everything I’d done to get into this field of work.

  “Busy. So much going on now that Canada’s fighting.”

  She turned back to the pot, shaking her head as she stirred. “I had hoped it would never come to that. Didn’t we learn anything from the last wa
r? Oh, the stories your father told me. Not that he talked much about it.” She sighed, sounding resigned. “Molly, dear, if you’re not too tired, would you please set the table? The boys should be here any minute.”

  From the cabinet I took out the set of plates I’d bought for her last birthday, then pulled out a few of the older, chipped ones. Our evenings were quiet affairs with just Liam, our parents, and me, and he was gone most nights, either at work or out with his girlfriend, Louise. So it was usually just me, alone with my parents. I didn’t mind. Mum had stopped encouraging me to date long before, grateful for my help with Dad. Then again, she had been quietly pleased to hear I was now working with Ian.

  Tonight it would be all seven of us in one house again, plus four more. The normally sober quiet would be smothered beneath love and laughter, I hoped.

  As I finished setting the table, Liam wandered into the kitchen. At eighteen, he had grown taller than all of us. His shoulders had thickened from working with Jimmy at the Inglis factory, which had recently turned their appliance assembly line over to the manufacturing of Bren machine guns in preparation for war.

  Liam sniffed the air appreciatively. “Your pea soup is the best, Mum. Louise is gonna love it.”

  She wiggled her eyebrows. “It’s a family recipe, dear. Louise can have the recipe if she’s a family member, you know.”

  He laughed. “I will keep that in mind.”

  “Would you bring the high chair from the basement for little Evelyn, please?” she asked.

  He nodded then headed downstairs just as the front door swung open, bringing the rush of the rainstorm inside.

  “We’re here!” Mark announced, ushering Helen in front of him. Jimmy was on his heels, and the three of them stood in the doorway, thumping rainwater off their boots. Mark had put on some weight, I noticed as he took off his coat. It looked good on him.