Letters Across the Sea

by Genevieve Graham

  His eyes fell to the story that followed, and his mind recalled Mr. Rabinowitz as he’d last seen him, seven or eight years ago. Molly’s story brought the old man to life. Max hadn’t known about his early life in Poland and had never thought about him fighting in a war, let alone earning a medal for valour. Nor had he known about Mr. Rabinowitz’s six children, who had married and moved away, spreading across Canada. All he’d ever really seen was a broken man with sad, rheumy eyes. At the bottom of the article, Hannah had paper clipped an addendum, and emotion swelled in his chest when he read that Mr. Rabinowitz’s grown children had contacted the Star three weeks after Molly’s article had run. They had been searching for their father for years.

  “Oh, Molly,” he said softly.

  He dropped his head into his hand and rubbed his face, hearing her voice in her words, then he skimmed his finger over the letters, marveling at what she had done. Somehow, despite everything stacked against her, she’d found a way to achieve her dream.

  God, he missed her.

  “She’s pretty good, isn’t she?”

  Startled, Max glanced up to see Richie in front of him, peering down at the letter.

  “Yeah,” he said, quickly folding it up and tucking it away. He and Richie had never spoken about Molly. “She really is.”

  “She worked hard for it,” Richie said. “She went to night school while she was still at Eaton’s. I remember how tired she was back then, but she’d been determined. You know how she was. Once she had something on her mind.”

  Max nodded. He remembered everything about her.

  “After journalism school, she kept saying she wanted to work for the Star, but I never figured she’d really do it.” A gentle smile curled his mouth. “But she did.”

  It was then that Max felt the wall between them begin to crumble, and with it his reservations. He set Hannah’s letter and the envelope aside, then nodded toward the paper in Richie’s hand. “What’s that?”

  Richie took a seat on the bunk across from him and held up his letter. “It’s from my wife, Barbara. I don’t think you ever met her. You got a girl back home?”

  Max shook his head.

  From his envelope, Richie pulled out a photograph, then passed it over. “That’s Barbara with our daughter, Evelyn. She’s three now. And that’s the new one, Joan. I’ve actually never met her, which is kind of hard to fathom. Anyway, Barbara says she’s a real talker.” He chuckled. “You know what I mean. She’s too little to say anything, but she’s always saying something.”

  Max felt a twinge of envy, seeing Richie’s happiness. They were both twenty-nine years old, and Richie had created his own little family. Max had never married, much to his mother’s dismay. After Molly, no one had been able to hold his interest. Seeing Richie’s little girls and the pride in their father’s eyes pushed a knot of regret into Max’s throat.

  “They’re beautiful,” he said, passing the photo back. “I can’t tell from the photo. Did they inherit your red hair?”

  Richie flushed slightly, taking another peek at the photo before replacing it in the envelope. “They did, poor kids.”

  “They must miss you very much.”

  “I guess. I sure miss them. When I got letters in Newfoundland, it didn’t seem so far. Here, well, it’s a world away. If I didn’t have the photographs from Barbara, I’m afraid I’d forget their little faces.” He frowned at Max. “Sometimes these letters are hard to read. I mean, Barbara tells me all the little stories, but I hate that I’m not there to see for myself. Will my kids even remember me?”

  “They’ll remember you. You’ll be back before they’re grown.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I know what you mean, though,” Max said, thinking of home. “If I’m not going to be useful in this war, then I want to be with my family.”

  Richie nodded. “I mean, it’s okay here, right? We’re all making friends, doing what we’re told to do. We’re safe. Nobody’s shooting us or anything. But when I see Barbara’s writing, or Molly’s or Mum’s, I just… I miss the old life. Remember how easy it was when we were kids?”

  Max bristled. “It wasn’t always easy.”

  Richie shifted, his expression tight with regret. “I know. But you and I, we were best friends, weren’t we? I mean, before we blew it. We were like brothers. Once.”

  Max’s heart clenched. Richie was right. That’s why his betrayal with Phil and the others had hurt so deeply. “Once,” he echoed quietly.

  Richie continued on, saying more than Max had ever heard. “Nobody ever stood up for me like you did. You always did the right thing. You’re the reason I became a cop, you know. I wanted to do the right thing too. Especially after what I did to you. I messed up,” Richie admitted in a rush. “I never should have… well, there are a lot of things I shouldn’t have done. I never should have sided against you, not at the beach that day, not at Christie Pits. Back then, I thought I was tough, you know? One of the boys, going around, scaring people. But I know better now. And when I look at you, I can see how much you hate me. Honestly? I can’t stand that. I don’t want us to be on opposite sides anymore.”

  Regret tumbled through Max’s chest. “I never really hated you. I was angry. And I was hurt. I mean, I understood why we’d drifted apart, but—”

  “Well, you’re a better man than I.” Richie’s gaze dropped to the floor. “That night at the ball game, I was scrapping halfway up the hill when I saw Phil go after Molly. I wanted to get down there to help, but the bastard I was fighting wouldn’t leave off. When I looked again, I saw you deck him, then I saw her with you.”

  Max closed his eyes. Even after all these years, all the promises he had made to himself that he’d forget her, he could still feel Molly’s lips on his.

  “I gotta tell you,” Richie said, staring at his hands, clenched on his lap. “If I’d been there, I would have gone after you. You know I would have. Then I saw Dad start beating you, and he looked like he’d never stop. And there was Molly, throwing herself on you like a shield.” He stilled, then he looked up, his eyes bright with emotion. “It was like somebody turned on the lights for me, and I could see clearly what was happening. Seeing Dad like that, I realized I’d been an ass all along. You and Molly were both adults. It was between the two of you. But I’d started looking at you the way other people did. I had no right. I was your friend. I owed you better than that, and I want you to know that I really am sorry.”

  Max’s chest tightened. After all this time, all the years of feeling betrayed by his best friend, he’d almost given up on ever hearing those words.

  “Why now?” he had to know. “Why did you wait so long?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I was afraid at first. But I’ve had a lot of spare time since then to think about you, about my family, about this war, about a lot of things. And I’ve realized that I can’t put off fixing what I broke. What if we go to war and something happens?”

  “Nothing’s gonna happen.”

  He flashed a reluctant smile. “Yeah, well, in case it does, just know I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Max admitted. “I never expected this.”

  “Are we good, you and me?”

  Max nodded, feeling lighter than he had in a long time. Even his hangover was gone. “Season opener,” he said, holding out his hand. “Fresh start.”

  Richie took it, and the relief that spread over his face felt the same as what filled Max’s heart.

  Richie started to get up, then he stopped. “There’s one more thing I gotta get off my chest, though.”

  “What is it?” Max asked.

  He cleared his throat. “Leaving Molly like that with no goodbye, no message or anything. You should have written to her. It’s a small man who would break a girl’s heart like that.”

  Heat rushed into Max’s face. “What are you talking about? The minute I got to Kingston I sent her a letter and asked her to write back. She never did. It’s not me that ended it.”<
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  Richie rubbed his brow. “That doesn’t make sense. She was devastated after you left.”

  “I wrote.”

  “Well, I know for a fact that she never got a letter from you.”

  Max felt dizzy with realization. “That means she thought that I…”

  He knew how much he’d hurt, thinking she didn’t want to be with him, but unlike her, Max had escaped Toronto. She’d been there all this time, seeing his house every day, living in the middle of all the memories. God, Molly. I’m so sorry. He never should have given up so fast. He should have written again.

  “How is she?” he asked Richie.

  “She’s happy, I think. She loves her job.” He paused. “She’s dating someone, Barbara told me.”

  So she hadn’t married. Molly had always insisted on putting her career first. Now that she was doing so well, was he too late to give it another shot?

  Once Richie had walked away, Max reached for his stationery, took a deep breath, then started to write.

  Dear Molly,

  I never thought I’d write to you again, but here I am. I hope it’s okay, after all this time…

  fourteen MOLLY

  Did you eat?” Mum called as I came inside, shutting the first December storm behind me.

  Even before I stepped into the living room, I knew she and Dad were in there. I could hear the clicking of Mum’s knitting needles and the flapping of Dad’s paper. The warm breath of the woodfire touched my cheeks, welcoming me into our quiet home of three.

  “I did, thanks,” slipping off my gloves and hat. I shook the hat over the doormat, sprinkling it with the melted remnants of a miserable freezing rain, then unbuttoned my coat. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. I was working late on a new story.”

  I was surprised to see an envelope lying on the counter, addressed to me from Hong Kong. Even more surprising was that it wasn’t Richie’s handwriting. I carried it into the living room and slumped onto the chair, where I readily peeled my feet out of my shoes and sighed with relief. It had been a long day of researching, writing, and rewriting my third piece in the Toronto series Mr. Hindmarsh wanted, and I’d been ready for home hours before. Ian had brought me a sandwich from the deli across the street, then we’d spoken awhile. It was nice. Ian knew how to get me out of my head when I needed to take a break.

  “Knitting?” Mum hinted, lifting her needles.

  “I will. I just need a few minutes to relax first,” I said. Wool socks, hats, and mitts were in perpetual demand overseas these days. I’d lost track of just how many men I could have dressed with all my knitting. Were any of my brothers warming their toes in my socks?

  “Those Germans just can’t get a foothold in Russia, can they?” Dad asked from behind his paper.

  Now that I was at the Star, he had started reading it more than the Telegram, and he loved to start up conversations with me about the latest news. It kept me on my toes. The Star was a busy place, and I didn’t always know the headlines. Fortunately, I did tonight.

  “Well, it’s minus thirty or so up there,” I said. “I’m surprised they’re even bothering. It’s not nearly that here, but I’m still shivering and I’ve been home for two or three minutes.”

  “Your father served in Russia,” Mum said, her eyes on her needles.

  “Russia?” I knew Dad had served in the Great War, but he’d never spoken about where he’d been deployed. Not even when Richie signed up. “Why didn’t you ever say anything, Dad?”

  “You never asked.” He lowered the paper to his lap. “Nobody talks about that part of it anyway.”

  “Why not? I want to know about it,” I said, tucking my feet under me.

  “Because it happened after the rest of the world had already declared peace. I was a gunner with the Sixty-Seventh Battery. We were sent to protect Allied assets in Russia from the incoming Germans, but things got complicated.”

  He looked like he might stop there, so I prodded a little. “How?”

  “We were working with what they called the White Russians, but those folks were also fighting with the Red Army. We got caught in the middle, you could say. It’s not a good story.”

  Mum was watching him with a soft expression in her eyes. “It’s okay, Garret. She can handle it.”

  He considered what she’d said, then nodded. “All right. It was November, and colder than you could believe. Lots of snow, and our big guns were stuck in it. When the Red Army troops came up on us, they came from the rear, and we couldn’t get the artillery turned.” He shook his head, remembering. “The rest of the men spread out, covering us with their rifles while we wrestled those things. They managed to hold the Reds off until the Brits arrived with reinforcements.” He frowned at his paper, remembering. “We lost two men. A couple of days later, the Reds killed two more of our guys on reconnaissance patrol. When we found them, they’d been hacked apart by axes.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. “Oh, Dad. I’m so sorry. That must have been awful.”

  “And damn cold,” he muttered, his nostrils flared. “I wouldn’t wish that patrol on anyone.” After a pause, he shook the paper and held it up like a shield. “Think the Americans are ever gonna get into this thing?” he asked, steering the conversation to less painful ground.

  I was grateful he’d finally shared a piece of his past with me. “Well, there’s no rush, Dad. I mean, our own men haven’t even seen any action yet.”

  “And thank the Lord for that,” Mum said. She turned to me. “I notice you’ve been spending quite a bit of time with the Collins boy these days, Molly.”

  I smiled, imagining Ian’s reaction. “He’s what, twenty-nine? I don’t think I’d call him a boy, Mum.”

  “Why’s he not fighting?” Dad wanted to know.

  “He has a substantial heart murmur, according to the doctor.”

  Dad’s eyes narrowed, assessing the idea.

  “But you like him, don’t you, Molly?” Mum pressed.

  I knew what she was asking, obviously. And I knew Ian was thinking along the same lines as she was, but I still wasn’t ready to commit to anything beyond dating.

  “I’m having fun with him, Mum. That’s all for now. He’s a smart, funny man, and we enjoy each other’s company.”

  “Good,” she said. “But don’t wait too long.”

  Dad was still stewing about Ian’s heart defect. “Don’t rush into it, either.”

  Outside, a wintery blast rattled the window, and I turned to my letter, sliding my finger under the flap of the envelope.

  Dear Molly,

  I never thought I’d write to you again, but here I am. I hope it’s okay, after all this time.

  I caught my breath, and my eyes dropped to the signature: three little letters that set my world alight.

  “Molly? Are you all right?” Mum asked, dropping her knitting to her lap.

  “I’m… I got a letter from Max,” I said, barely aware my parents were still in the room. My lips felt numb with adrenaline. I brought the paper closer, squinting at it in the dim light of the lamp beside me.

  What a day I had. First, Hannah sent the article you wrote for the Star about Mr. Rabinowitz. My God, Molly. I had no idea you were working there. Congratulations! Your writing is beautiful. Your portrait of Mr. Rabinowitz really made me think.

  He’d read my article! My heart flipped at the thought. I read those lines again, thinking of Hannah this time, and I felt a stab of regret, realizing how long it had been since she and I had last spoken. I didn’t realize she knew I was at the Star. I’d heard from someone that she’d had another baby, but her home with David wasn’t in the old neighbourhood, and their new place was out of the way.

  Just after I finished reading it, I had a real heart-to-heart with Richie. It was actually the best conversation we’ve had in years. He said—

  Max and Richie were in the same battalion? When I looked up, my parents were watching me intently.

  “Did you know Max and Richie were in C Force together?�
� I asked.

  Mum leaned forward, worry in her eyes. “He wrote about Richie? Is Richie all right? Did something happen?”

  “No, no. Richie’s fine. In fact, he and Max seem to be patching things up.” I followed his messy writing. “He says… he says…” I stopped, my blood running cold at his words.

  I touched my finger to his signature again, then lowered the letter.

  “What is it?” Mum asked.

  “Max says he wrote to me a long time ago,” I said slowly. In my mind I finished the sentence: to see if we could make things work. “But I never got anything from him. I can’t understand it.”

  My parents looked sideways at each other.

  “What?” I asked, my skin prickling with uncertainty.

  “Molly dear,” Mum said carefully. “Your father and I felt, well, things being what they were, and Max being what he was, we thought it would be better—”

  I stared, my mouth hanging open as her words started tripping out, faster and faster.

  “What did you do?” I whispered, sick to my stomach.

  “It was for your own good,” she said.

  Dad cleared his throat. “We thought it was better this way. Now, it might not have been the right thing to do, looking back, but at the time—”

  “What did you do?” I demanded again.

  “We burned his first letter.”

  “You burned it?”

  “But we didn’t read it,” Mum said, as if that made everything all right. “We never did. We just thought if you didn’t know it had come, you wouldn’t think about him so much. You could move on.”

  “Things were heated back then,” Dad explained. “With everything that had happened between the two of you—”

  “Then his father with the brick, and your father getting so ill,” Mama added, putting her hand on his.