Letters Across the Sea

by Genevieve Graham

  Max nodded. “He’ll be okay.”

  I slumped back against the wall, my hands at my sides, feeling drained by so many emotions. I moved my hand slightly and felt a crinkle of paper in my pocket. Richie’s letter. I headed down the stairs, calling everyone to the living room.

  “I know it’s late, but we need to talk about something.” Looking confused, they sat, then I held up the yellowed envelope, stained by years of sweat and secrecy. “It’s a letter from Richie. It’s for all of us. Whatever it is, I know he would have wanted you to hear it. Please stay.”

  A hush fell over the room.

  Mum stared at me, uncomprehending. “From Richie?”

  “How?” Dad asked, suddenly pale.

  “Max brought it back with him,” I said quietly, and everyone turned to where Max stood in the corner. “He kept it safe for all those years, and he never even opened it. It’s addressed to all of us, but I want him to hear it too.”

  I held the envelope out to Dad, but he shook his head. “You open it, Molly.”

  With the utmost care, I opened the envelope then gently unfolded the paper. The ink was faint, but it was undeniably my brother’s messy writing. I skimmed my fingertips over his words, braced for the unknown, then began to read aloud.

  To my dear family,

  If you’re reading this letter, that means I’m dead. But I guess you already know that.

  I hate to say it, but after you read this, you might be glad that I’m gone, and to my eternal shame, I know I deserve that.

  You see, I did something. I made a mistake. I mean, I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but one in particular has haunted me. At one time I thought I could take this secret to my grave, that no one would ever know. But I’ve had lots of time to think recently, and I understand now that I can’t lie to you any longer.

  I had obviously hoped to see you again and explain in person, but fate had other plans.

  I threw the brick that changed everyone’s lives. It was me. It wasn’t Mr. Dreyfus, and it wasn’t a stranger. I did this to you, Dad. I did this to all of you.

  I know you remember what I was like that summer, hanging out with Phil’s gang. But things changed for me on the night of the riot. I looked down over the field, where we were just supposed to play baseball, and I saw a war. Thousands of men cracking heads. Over what? Protestants versus Jews. But why? Why were we going after each other for something that was so personal? Whose business was it whether they went to a church or a synagogue? Everything had gone way too far. And when I saw Dad beating Max, caught up in the craziness of the fighting, something in me changed. I couldn’t get there fast enough, not from where I was standing, so I threw the first thing I could get my hands on. I never meant to hurt you, Dad. I just wanted the fighting to stop.

  Every day since, I’ve thought about what I should’ve done. Now, the only thing I can do is tell the truth. I wanted an end to the fighting, but I was afraid to admit my part in all this. My silence only made things worse. And I have lived with that guilt ever since.

  So now you know. They say confession is good for the soul, but mine feels terrible right now. You didn’t raise your boy to be a liar, and I’m ashamed of myself for not telling you sooner. I’m sorry I’m not there in person to apologize. I love you all so much. I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me someday.

  All my love, Richie

  I stared at the letter, unable to move. My face burned. All this time, it had been Richie. Long ago, I had accepted the consequences of that night, of the damage that brick had caused, but now it all came back, and anger boiled inside me. Richie’s need to save Max had caused all that pain to both our families, but it was his cowardice that had ripped us apart.

  I looked at Dad, who was bent over, his head in his hand. He was a different man from the proud sergeant he had once been, broken in body and spirit by Richie’s fear. Beside him, Liam held Mum, and she was quietly weeping. Where, I wondered, was their anger?

  Dad eventually lifted his head, and his eyes moved to Max, who was staring silently at the wall. “That’s a hard lesson. Richie’s deed was done out of love for his friend. I’d like to say that in that same position, any one of us might have done the same, but I’m not sure that’s true.” He allowed a faint smile. “I guess we should have known it was him. Richie was the only one with an arm that good. The real harm was done out of shame.” He looked at Mum. “I just wish he could have come to us. Trusted us with the truth.”

  She nodded weakly. “Our poor boy. Poor, poor boy.”

  Dad’s words slipped around me like an embrace, his forgiveness overshadowing any anger I had felt at first. I looked down at the letter again and felt a glimmer of hope.

  Max was frowning slightly, still absorbing Richie’s message. Was he thinking of their childhood? Was he remembering more recent times the two of them had spent together?

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Mum gather herself, then look up at Max with so much love in her expression. She’d always loved him. I knew the division between our families had been hard on her. Seeing her now, my heart swelled.

  “Dear, dear Max.” She looked from me to him, and I knew she was thinking of the letter they’d burned. “I’m so sorry for the pain we’ve caused you.”

  With effort, Dad got to his feet and went to Max, holding out a hand. “A lot of wrongs were done, Max. I’m asking you to forgive me.”

  Max hesitated, but just for a moment, then he took his hand. “There’s nothing to forgive, Mr. Ryan.”

  “Will you tell your mother?” Mum asked, wiping her eyes. “I want to come see her. We have years to catch up on.”

  “I’ll tell her first thing tomorrow.”

  I walked him to the door, then I handed him Richie’s letter. “Read this to your family. There should never be any secrets between us.”

  After he was gone, Mum, Dad, Liam, and I came together, wrapping our arms tightly around each other. I knew we were all thinking of Richie, wishing more than anything in the world that he was there with us, knowing he was forgiven.

  “What am I missing?” came a hoarse voice from the doorway, and I laughed through my tears, seeing Jimmy, bruised and battered, but clean. Wearing nothing but a towel.

  “Come here, fool,” Dad said fondly, holding out his arms.

  And there was nothing more that any of us needed to say.

  twenty-seven MAX

  Bright and early the next morning, Max stepped out of his house and onto a fresh layer of sparkling snow. His hands were full with a plate of sufganiyot his mother had sent along for Mrs. Ryan, a first step in rekindling their friendship. His parents had been waiting up for him when he’d come home last night, worried something had happened to him, so he’d sat them down and shown them Richie’s letter. He watched their expressions melt as they read, then his father reached for his mother’s hand.

  “Good,” his father had said, looking more at ease than Max had seen in a while. “Richie did the right thing.”

  Max knocked on the Ryans’ door, and as Molly opened it, he heard Jimmy’s voice. She was laughing at something he’d said, and Max figured that was a good sign.

  “How’s our patient?” he asked.

  Stitching Jimmy up had brought Max back to the days when he’d felt satisfaction from the career he’d worked toward his whole life. After so many years of feeling useless at the camp, he’d enjoyed using his skills to finally do some good. Now Max wondered if he could help heal more than just Jimmy’s physical hurts. He’d seen the ghosts in Jimmy’s eyes, so similar to his own. All the time Max had spent speaking with Molly, telling his stories, had helped ease the guilt he’d felt at coming home when so many had not. Maybe, he thought, he could help do the same for her brother.

  She tilted her head toward Jimmy, who sat at the table with a cup of coffee and a cigarette. “He’s been up for an hour now, telling me about flying without landing gear.”

  Max looked at Molly, surprised. “He’s talking about combat alre
ady?”

  She nodded, waving him in. “Come on in and sit. Everyone else is still asleep. It was a long night.”

  “Hey, Max,” Jimmy said, raising his coffee cup in greeting.

  “I bring treats,” Max announced, setting down the plate of jam-filled pastries, then grabbing a seat at the table.

  Jimmy wolfed one down as Molly placed a coffee in front of Max.

  “Your stitches are holding,” he said, studying Jimmy’s face. “That’s good.”

  A lock of Jimmy’s unruly black hair had fallen over one eye, but he didn’t seem to notice. Jimmy hadn’t been in a POW camp, and he’d been back for months, and yet he was almost as thin as Max was. Max moved the plate toward him.

  “Here, have another one. You look like you could use it.”

  “Says the skeleton,” Jimmy replied in kind.

  Molly took a seat and looked at Jimmy. “Tell Max what you just told me. About your plane.”

  “I was out on exercises one day,” he said, “and my landing gear broke off. B-b-bang!” he yelled, grinning. “I’ll admit, it was a bit of a b-bouncy landing, but I stuck it. Impressed the b-boys, too. What a time.”

  “I can imagine that,” Max said, noting Jimmy’s stammer. He hadn’t heard it when Jimmy’s system had been clouded with alcohol.

  “I loved flying, you know. Just me and my squadron and the plane and the clouds. Such a feeling of freedom up there.” Jimmy frowned at the steaming coffee then took a long gulp, seemingly oblivious to the heat. “ ’Course it had its moments. Those Germans sure could fly. When they snuck up on you, you had to b-b-be ready.”

  “Can you tell us about Normandy?” Molly asked gently.

  Max recalled the patient look on her face from their own conversations, and felt an odd twinge of jealousy. It felt strange, not being the object of her attention for once.

  Jimmy was frowning, considering her question. “Our job was to patrol Juno Beach on D-Day,” Jimmy said after a moment. “I’ve never seen military might like that day. On b-b-both sides. Flying over that, well, yeah. It was really something. What a show.”

  The three sat like statues around the table, steam rising from their cups, and the past flickered behind Jimmy’s eyes. This was the moment when he could choose to let his story out and share his pain, or he could decide to keep it to himself. It was all up to him.

  “We were providing cover for the ships,” he said slowly, his eyes on his coffee. “And going head to head with enemy fighters. They’d painted our planes in b-black and white stripes so nobody could mistake us for Krauts. We looked like goddamn zebras, for Christ’s sake. We’d flown on a patrol the night before, in the south of England, just a skip away from the Channel. In the morning when we got there, we could see the invasion was underway.” He looked up at their faces. “I was flying behind my b-b-buddy Jocko. We were each other’s wingmen all along. Great guy. He was a nickel miner from Sudbury.”

  Jimmy stopped, and all the colour drained from his face. There it was, Max realized, his heart twisting with sympathy. Jimmy’s ghost.

  “It’s okay, Jimmy,” he said. “You can tell us.”

  “There were more planes in the air that day than I’d ever seen.” His voice was soft, coming from somewhere high above, hunting planes through the clouds. “Lots of b-b-bombers, but my eye was always on the fighters. I had to come down low when I passed over the b-b-beach. I’ll tell you, I’d never seen anything like that in my life. I was close enough to see things.” His hand went to his head, his fingers sinking into his hair so it stuck out like a hedgehog. “Men were sloshing through red, bloody water, wading through the b-b-bodies of their friends. I saw a leg here, a torso there.” Anger flashed in his eyes, and he looked directly at his sister. “Nob-body ever prepares you for things like that.”

  No, they didn’t, Max thought, his own mind crowding with the guns, the blades, the blood, and the hopelessness. The unimaginable cruelty he’d experienced at the hands of fellow men.

  “I’d had my eye on a group of our soldiers trying to get off the b-b-beach, but they kept getting picked off one by one. They were almost to the ridge. So close. Then I saw the Germans aiming. They couldn’t miss.” He stretched out his arms to the side, like wings, then tilted them slightly. “So I swerved off course to warn them. It was stupid of me. I knew b-b-better than to think I could change anything. I kept yelling, yelling at those guys, as if I could stop them.” His hands bunched into fists. “They couldn’t hear me. How could I think they would? I was irresponsible and reckless, and I was off course.”

  “What happened?” Max asked.

  Jimmy looked directly at Max. “I flew through the flames of Jocko’s plane after he b-blew up. I saw his face as he went down.” He made a V with his fingers then held them toward his eyes. “He was looking right at me, asking why I was off course. He still is. He’s always looking at me, wanting to know.” Then he gritted his teeth. “I see him when I’m sleeping. His mouth is always moving. He’s asking me, Where did you go? Why weren’t you where you were supposed to b-b-be?”

  “It’s not your fault,” Molly whispered.

  Jimmy slammed his fist on the table, and Max forced himself to stay still. He knew the anger, knew how hard it was to control it.

  “How do you know that, Molly?” Jimmy demanded. “How do you know he wouldn’t still b-b-be flying around up there with me, if I’d just stayed where I was meant to? If I’d looked out for him instead of getting distracted. If I’d—”

  Max cut in. “Molly’s right. Your being off course couldn’t have blown Jocko’s plane up. He flew into something. Somebody fired on him. There’s nothing you could have done.”

  “How can you say that?” Jimmy cried, his face twisted with anguish. “I let him down!”

  God, Max knew that agony. Seeing David’s face a moment before he was shot; holding Arnie in his arms as he dwindled; the men in the hospital who had cried out, dying for want of medicine that was only a few feet away but always out of reach.

  “It was the worst day of my life,” Jimmy said, slumping with defeat. “I hated the world for putting me there, b-but I hate it more for b-b-bringing me home.”

  “Don’t say that, Jimmy,” Molly said, her eyes brimming.

  But Jimmy was telling the truth, sharing with them what possessed his mind and heart. The torment, the guilt that was swirling inside Jimmy, was real for Max as well. Hannah had called him a miracle, but how could he be a miracle when so many of his friends hadn’t made it back?

  He touched Molly’s hand. “Give me a minute?”

  She studied his face, then nodded. “I should be heading to work,” she said. “Jimmy, I’m sorry.”

  After she’d gone, Max took a breath and turned to Jimmy. “I understand.”

  He told him about the ghosts he saw every time he closed his eyes, and the disembodied voices of his friends—even of Richie—that screamed through his nights. It was getting easier to talk out loud about them, and the more he did, the quieter his nights became. Lately, there were moments when he could think back and smile, remembering the good times instead.

  “They sent us to places nobody should ever have gone,” he said, his voice wavering with the memory of Richie’s bloodshot, pleading eyes. “We watched our friends die while we lived. But we survived. For whatever reason, we were spared and we came home. Now we have another battle to face.” He tapped his temple, then touched his chest. “In here, and in here.”

  He’d never forget his family’s faces the night he’d come home, how he’d frightened the people he needed the most. Recognizing that he was responsible for their unease had motivated him to work harder, and Molly had helped with that as well. The people here had grieved for years, thinking he was dead, so now he needed to show them he knew how to live.

  “Our head and our hearts might still be back there, but our lives are here now. We have to pay attention to the people around us, or else we’ll lose ourselves entirely.”

  “I feel lik
e I already have, Max. I can’t shake this. Jocko is like, he’s like…” He lifted his hand. “He’s like my hand. Always there. Part of me.”

  Max searched Jimmy’s face for the scrappy kid he used to know, wondering how to reach him. His favourite memories of Jimmy were at the ball games, then talking and laughing about them after. So Max returned to the ballfield to find him.

  “It’s the bottom of the ninth, Jimmy. Bases are loaded, but the other team’s brought in a new pitcher. You know he’s got the goods to beat you. What’s your move, Jimmy? You gonna pass the bat to someone else?”

  Jimmy stared at him, and it took a full beat before he could respond. “No?” His voice was weak as a child’s.

  “Don’t ask me, Jimmy. It’s not up to me. It’s up to you. Maybe you’re too scared. You can walk away and lose, then hope to play another day. Or you can fight back right now. Hit that home run.” He could see Jimmy’s need to understand. He was almost there. “I’m sorry Jocko died. I know what that feels like. And I’m sorry you were there at all, just like I’m sorry I was there. I’ll never stop being sorry that Richie, David, and Arnie never came back. But you and me, we’re here now. We need to live our lives. People here depend on us. Respect Jocko’s memory by being the guy he knew.”

  A tear slipped down Jimmy’s cheek and dropped onto the table. “I can try.”

  Max nudged the plate of sufganiyot. “You can start by having another one of these. You need to put on some pounds if you’re going to go up to bat.”

  The corner of Jimmy’s mouth lifted slightly, then his smile grew, reaching toward his eyes. They crinkled at the corners, in a way Max remembered so well. “You know, Max, I could say the same about you.”

  Max patted his ribs. “Should’ve seen me before.”

  “No,” Jimmy said. “Not about that. He reached across the table and tapped his nail against Molly’s cold cup of coffee. “I think you’d better step up to the plate soon, Dreyfus. You’re letting the pitcher win.”