Letters Across the Sea

by Genevieve Graham

  “Yes, Sergeant. I have just a few more, if you don’t mind.”

  He’d told me the facts. Now I needed to know what it all meant to him on a personal level. Even after all my research, I still couldn’t grasp the whole of it.

  “How did you survive this? I mean, the horrors just kept happening. The punishments, the starvation, the disease, the slave labour… How did you not just give up?”

  He straightened his bent frame, and for the first time, he looked me straight in the eye. “We are Canadians, Miss Ryan,” he said, matter-of-fact. “We were disciplined and determined. A united front. Not one of our men would ever even think of disgracing their uniform or letting their brothers down. In fact, I would say that the worse things got, the more determined we became. I swore that my men and I would see freedom once more, once the Allies were victorious.”

  It set me back, this steadfast belief in himself and the others in his unit. I understood duty, but this went so far beyond that. It went to the physical and psychological destruction of human beings by the enemy, and yet somehow, despite all the best efforts by the Japanese to destroy his body, they had failed to crush his spirit.

  “Sergeant Cox, can you tell me how you feel, right now, about what happened to you?”

  “Feel?”

  I didn’t like the sound of the question either, but I needed to get insight into the thoughts of these poor men.

  “Yes. In your mind.” I touched my chest. “And in here. Can you describe it?”

  He didn’t speak for a moment. “Well, I’m very proud to have served with this brigade, both in fighting and in the camps. Every man there should be proud.”

  I nodded, waiting for more.

  “To be honest, I don’t think I feel much at all anymore. When you see what I’ve seen, and when you have to walk past the headless bodies of your friends every day, you kind of put up a wall against feelings, I guess. I’m sorry I can’t tell you anything more than that.”

  I almost put my hand on his arm to offer comfort, but he was ill at ease now. The empty glass in his hand shook noticeably. I couldn’t blame him. He’d told me much more than I’d expected.

  “Thank you so much, Sergeant. I really appreciate you sparing this time and your thoughts.”

  He offered a weary smile. “Did you get what you needed?”

  “Oh yes. And can I say that I think it’s very courageous of you to tell me all these things. My brothers can’t speak of it.”

  He frowned. “I’m sorry one of them won’t be coming home. Might I ask where he served?”

  “In Hong Kong, as a matter of fact. He died at St. Stephen’s.”

  “St. Stephen’s?” He blinked. “Beg your pardon, but did you say your name was Miss Ryan?”

  “Yes, Molly Ryan.”

  “Richie,” he said softly, raising goose bumps all over my body. His eyes were taking me in: the red hair, the freckles, and I saw his sadness. “I’m very sorry. I was Richie’s sergeant. He was a good man and a good friend. He served bravely.”

  I pressed my lips together, determined not to break down. But it was so hard. “Thank you, Sergeant. And again, thank you for your service.”

  “It was my honour.” He lifted his glass. “And now I think I deserve another drink.”

  Mine was still full. I had forgotten all about it. “You certainly do.”

  He headed toward the bar, and my gaze wandered, heavier now with thoughts of Richie. Of all the men in Hong Kong, what were the chances I would have met my brother’s sergeant? I took a deep breath, focusing my thoughts on the job at hand. Sergeant Cox had given me a lot of information and insight, but I needed more than one source if it was going to be a comprehensive piece. I scanned the room for someone who seemed more animated, who might—

  My vision closed in around a group of three men, standing by the exit. The tallest of them had his back to me, but I knew the set of those shoulders, that deliberate, thoughtful nod. Heat roared into my body, and I started to shake.

  It couldn’t be, could it?

  I began to move, every fibre of my being straining toward the dark, uniformed figure in the doorway. Step by step, I squeezed through the crowd, thinking twenty feet had never seemed so far before. Then all at once I stood behind him, close enough to touch. Frozen, I listened to the sound of his voice, and though it was more subdued than I’d ever heard it before, it was as familiar to me as my own.

  One of the others had asked him a question, and he’d shrugged. “Nah, I didn’t have much time before this…”

  Then he trailed off, straightening slightly, as if he sensed me standing behind him. When he turned, I could only stare, filling my eyes and heart with the sight of him.

  “Max,” I breathed.

  His jaw dropped. “Molly?”

  Before I could think, I threw my arms around his neck, embracing the solid proof of him, breathing in his scent, feeling relief take hold of my entire body as his coat absorbed my tears. The bones of his shoulders were hard against my hands, no longer young and muscled, too weak to catch me or lift me as they once had, but still there. Still alive.

  He didn’t move at first, then I felt him relax slightly, and his arms wrapped around me. After a moment, I drew back, needing to look at him. To really see him.

  “You’re alive,” I whispered, noting with sadness how the light in his deep brown eyes had faded. His skin was dull, his jawbone pronounced within his angular face, and strands of grey flickered within his dark hair. All those years and more were etched into his face. While we had carried on with our lives, he had been locked up in a cage. He’d been mourned and never forgotten, but he’d been left behind by everyone he loved.

  “Molly,” he said again, and I swayed at the sound. Confusion and pain flickered across his face, and I felt it everywhere inside me. “What are you doing here?”

  It was so hard to breathe. To think. “I’m… I’m working. I’m—”

  “Ah! There you are.” From somewhere behind me, Ian appeared and held out a hand. “Ian Collins, the Star.”

  Max shook his hand, but his dark eyes were still on me.

  Ian turned, taking in my tears, and his face filled with concern. “Hey, are you okay?” he asked, handing me his handkerchief. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I took a deep, shaky breath. “Ian,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to smile, “this is Max Dreyfus. Hannah’s brother. I haven’t seen him in—”

  “About twelve years,” Max finished for me.

  twenty-three MAX

  Max hardly noticed the newcomer to the conversation. He couldn’t take his eyes off Molly. Her hair was mussed from the ferocity of her hug, and her face was blotchy from crying, but she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  “Hannah’s brother? That Max? Whoa,” the other man was saying. What was his name? Ian? Max turned reluctantly toward him. “Welcome back from the dead, sir. We sure had it wrong, didn’t we, Molly? What a coincidence, for you two to run into each other here, of all places.”

  “I had no idea,” she whispered. “We all thought… What about your parents? Do they know you’re here?”

  He nodded, taking in the freckles that dotted her nose, still not quite believing that she was standing in front of him. He tried to concentrate on her question. “I got back today. I cleaned up at their house, then my captain dragged me here.”

  “Today!” Ian exclaimed. “You must be exhausted.”

  He lifted one shoulder, let it drop. “I’ve been exhausted for years. What’s one more night?”

  “I’m surprised your parents let you go.” Her hypnotic green eyes held him like a lifeline. All those years of trying to forget, and he still felt exactly the same way about her. “They must be so happy. Does Hannah know?”

  “She wasn’t there, but Mama will call her. They’ll all be there tonight after this, I expect.” The thought sent a skitter of anxiety through him. He might be here to speak with the press, but he wasn’t prepared to an
swer his family’s questions.

  She reached out her hand, as if to check that he was really there, then thought better of it. Her fingers brushed his arm, and his skin danced with nerves.

  “God, I’m happy you’re home.”

  “She was a mess for months,” Ian said. “The folks at the Red Cross and the war office know her well. She was determined to find you and all the others. She didn’t give up for a long time.”

  He remembered that, how she never gave up when she had something on her mind. He remembered everything about her.

  “Yeah. We found out on the way back here that I didn’t make the Red Cross list,” Max said. “Frankly, it probably wouldn’t have made a difference on my end. Hardly anyone got letters in the camps, but I guess it would have been a big help to you.”

  “We thought you’d been killed. But nobody would tell us anything. It didn’t make sense,” Molly said. “After we heard about Richie, I knew you had to be there somewhere.”

  Max dropped his chin, eyes to the floor. “I’m sorry about Richie, Moll.” She had no idea how sorry. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to tell her the full story.

  Ian had been watching intently, and now he turned to Molly. “Say, I have an idea. Stop me if I’m wrong, but we came here to interview POWs, and it looks to me like you two would like to talk. Maybe we could cover both.”

  She frowned at him. “What are you suggesting?”

  “An in-depth interview.” He focused on Max. “You and Molly can talk, and I can take notes. We could meet at a café, buy you lunch. What do you think? It would be more comfortable than standing here with all these people.”

  “Oh, no, Ian. I don’t think that’s fair to ask of Max.” She hesitated then turned to him, and despite all the years between them, he recognized the spark of interest in her expression. She liked the idea. “Unless you want to?”

  “We wouldn’t even have to name you in the article if you’d rather stay anonymous,” Ian said.

  “Maybe we could talk about Richie?” Molly added, and he heard fear in her voice.

  He found himself nodding. “I’m up for it if you are,” he said, but he wasn’t sure that was true.

  “How’s tomorrow?” Ian asked. “We can meet at the Senator at noon. Do you remember that spot, at Yonge and Dundas? It’s a nice place. We can keep to ourselves in there. Will that work?”

  “Sure. I—” He caught a movement behind Ian. “Um, I’m sorry, but my sergeant’s waving us out. They have a car for us, and I guess it’s leaving.”

  “Duty calls,” Molly said, trying to smile. “At least this time I know I’ll see you again. We have all the time in the world now.”

  “We sure do,” he said, wishing he could hug her again.

  Ian stuck out his hand. It was a strong grip, which Max appreciated. “It’s so good to meet you at last, Max. Really.” He nudged Molly and winked. “Guess this means we’ll have one more invitation to send out for the wedding.”

  Max’s stomach plunged, and his gaze slipped to the plain gold band on her finger. When he looked up, Molly’s face was flushed a dark pink.

  That’s when he felt it begin again, the hardening of his heart, the construction of a wall that no emotions could penetrate. Over the past four years that wall had saved Max’s sanity so many times. He’d come home with no expectations, and tonight, he’d leave this place with even fewer.

  * * *

  Every light in the house was lit for Max’s return, and as he stepped out of the hired car, he wished they hadn’t done that. Of course they’d want to see him, to talk. But right now, it felt like too much. He wanted to sit in the dark, alone.

  The door flew open as he limped up the walk, and Hannah ran out to him, her arms held out.

  She collided with him, sank into his chest, and he lowered his face to her hair. “Hannah,” he said, feeling her whole body bump with sobs. She was a widow now, he remembered, thinking of David for the first time in a while, his body unmoving on the trampled grass. Guilt rushed through him. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Hannah. I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t bring him home.”

  She leaned back, pale with understanding. “Oh, Max! I know you tried. I know you did. You couldn’t do everything.” She put her hands on his cheeks, holding his eyes with hers. “But you came home. Oh, God. I still can’t believe it. Thank you. Thank you for coming home.”

  He held her again, and through his coat he felt her fingers digging into his back. Holding on tight. Over her shoulder he saw his parents, their faces wet with tears. But his own was dry. How long since he’d cried? He couldn’t remember.

  “It’s all right,” he said to Hannah, then over her shoulder to his parents. “It’s all right now.” They needed him to be strong. If only he could convince himself.

  Hannah finally released him, and the family ushered him into the living room, their voices ringing with happiness and laughter. Hannah’s children hugged his knees, so his progress was slow, and he had to stop himself from peeling them off him. He wanted to be here. He wanted to be with them. But their grips felt like bindings, and one of them was squeezing too tightly around his bum leg. He was relieved when he was able to sit and they left him alone.

  The others settled into their chairs, happily commenting about what a wonderful day this was, watching him as if he were some sort of curiosity. Their eyes overflowed with love, and Max felt a tremor of panic. He’d seen their eyes before, at night, in the dark, with the rats scuttling nearby and the stink of men in his nostrils. He’d felt this love before, but only when he’d been beaten so badly he’d needed to cling to his memories for his own sanity. Was any of this real?

  It had to be a trick. How could he possibly be here? Then his mother appeared before him, smiling with adoration, a plate of latkes held out like an offering. He’d seen her do this before, seen her stirring pots in the kitchen and bringing food to him. He’d seen it all in his mind as he picked at the rotten grains of rice, moving with maggots.

  But those were just dreams, he remembered. Wildly imagined fantasies of one day leaving the camp and finding himself again. They filled his mind to punish him because he didn’t deserve that, not when all his friends were dead.

  “Don’t touch me!” he cried, jerking away from the hallucination.

  “But, bubbala—”

  “No!” He sprang out of his chair, knocking his mother’s hands, and the plate crashed to the floor in a mess of broken china and latkes.

  With a squeak of alarm, Dinah raced behind Hannah’s chair, but no one else moved a muscle, and no one said a word. In the silence, he studied their stricken faces, slowly realizing it was not a dream after all. Then it dawned on him that what he was seeing in their eyes was fear. They were afraid. Of him. He’d done that.

  “I— I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  Hannah slowly moved toward him, keeping her movements small. “It will get easier,” she said softly. “I promise.”

  “I just need sleep,” he said weakly, taking a step away from her.

  His mother’s hands were bunched into fists in front of her mouth, and he could tell she was holding herself back. He was asking too much of her. If only he could let the anger go, hold her like she needed to be held. But he was afraid.

  “Tomorrow is a new day for all of us,” Hannah said softly. “I know you don’t understand this yet, but you are our miracle, Max. You’re home. We will help you.”

  For the first time, a knot jammed in his throat. He nodded quickly, burying his emotions again, then fled the room. Upstairs, nothing had changed in his bedroom. He marveled at the forgotten scene, thinking this made it seem like he’d only been away for a few hours, not five years. They hadn’t packed up his things. They hadn’t given up on him, even if he had.

  Out of habit he moved slowly, afraid to make a noise, while he took off his coat and boots. He sat on the edge of his bed, feeling the softness of the mattress beneath him, letting his body remember the idea of comfort.
Then he lowered himself to the floor, more at home with its hardness against his body. He was so tired. Weary to the marrow of his bones.

  The knot in his throat loosened, and though it ached from holding back his tears for so long, at least he could breathe. He inhaled slowly, filling his lungs and hoping for peace, but anguish gripped him at the top. Grief came out in a groan, pushing from his gut, and the agony of the past five years rolled down his face. The images that had haunted him for years returned, stabbing him deeper and deeper: David’s motionless body lying just out of reach. Richie’s red, pleading eyes begging him not to leave. Arnie, wasted to nothing by the end, weighing no more than a child in his arms. He’d left them all behind, but their dead eyes still watched. He took a deep shuddering breath, needing to find control again, but it was much too far away.

  Finally, he drifted off to sleep, and he felt the scratch of the barrack’s cement floor on his cheek. He heard the men down the row counting in Japanese in their sleep. He saw the arcing sword as it sliced through men’s necks, ending their misery. So many times, Max had envied those men.

  But he’d had to come back. For David, for Arnie, and for Richie.

  twenty-four MOLLY

  I slid across the vinyl bench at the corner booth at the Senator, then sat on my hands to still them. I was practically buzzing with nerves. I needed to stay calm, but I couldn’t fathom how. Max. Max was alive. He was back, and he was going to sit with me again. Twelve years of missing him. Of wishing and hoping… and soon he would be here.

  But the very thought of Ian, Max, and me at the same table had my stomach rolling with anxiety. Beside me, Ian was oblivious. He was reading the menu, humming to himself as if this were just another day. He had no idea. It’s just Max, I told myself. But was it?

  He arrived at noon, and when I saw him walk through the front door of the restaurant, I scrambled to my feet, short of breath. Ian caught my cue and stood to face him. Max was wearing a black overcoat and flat cap, and as he came toward us, I noticed with a pang of sympathy that he was limping. What had happened to him over there? Was it something permanent?