Letters Across the Sea by Genevieve Graham (best short novels of all time txt) 📗

was treating me like a child. “I’m eighteen. I know what I’m doing. And Mr. Dreyfus would—”

“I said no!” he shouted, his face tomato red. “You will not work for a Jewish business. That’s the end of it.”

Later, Hannah asked if I wanted to speak with her father about a job, and I’d burned with shame over the fact that her religion was the reason I couldn’t say yes. So, for the first time in our friendship, I had lied to her. I said my parents didn’t want me working in a factory because they thought it was unsafe. Under her scrutiny, I had to turn away. Then she swiftly changed direction, asking me what I was planning to wear on my job hunt. It was like she’d swept the whole question under the rug, and I was so grateful.

Standing in front of Max now, I wondered if Hannah had told him.

“Don’t worry, Molly. You’ll find something,” he said cheerfully, easing my fears. I didn’t see any questions in his expression. “Which way you headed? Can I walk with you?”

“Dundas, Bathurst, up to Bloor Street… Who knows after that.”

“I’m headed the other way. Gonna go see my father.” He gave me a wink. “Good luck today. I know you’ll win ’em over.”

But Max was wrong. Today was no different from any other. I lost track of how many people shook their heads and sent me away. By the afternoon, my feet were sore, and I was overheated from walking the hot sidewalks. Then, just when I couldn’t face another rejection, I found myself standing in front of the Smith Brothers’ Bookstore on Brunswick, and I felt a flicker of hope. The store had a small white awning over its window, and its name was written in gold script on the glass. There were no HELP WANTED or NOW HIRING signs, so I knew before I stepped inside that there was little chance of finding a job there. But it was a bookstore. Maybe this was the magic I’d asked my grandmother to send. She’d known my love of reading better than anyone.

I patted my drooping curls into place, checked that I was still put together all right, then walked inside. The store was a long, lone room divided into rows and aisles by crowded wooden shelves, and the planks beneath my shoes were lightened by well-worn paths weaving between shelves of Fiction and Nonfiction, Children’s Books, and Biographies. The air smelled like paper, and I felt almost dizzy with the desire to riffle through every page in the place.

An older, cordial-looking gentleman stood at the counter, clad in a white shirt and short brown tie, his brown trousers hooked to suspenders. He was about fifty, I estimated, with thinning hair and round spectacles.

“Good morning, miss.” His voice was low and rumbly. “Can I help you find something?”

I pushed my earlier rejections aside and bestowed upon him my most winning smile. “As a matter of fact, I’m hoping I can help you. My name is Molly Ryan, and I cannot imagine anything more wonderful than working here. Are you Mr. Smith?”

“Yes, I am.” His mouth twisted to the side, and it struck me that he seemed familiar. “I’m sorry, but we’re not hiring at the moment.”

But from the appearance of the store, they needed help. The shelves were dusty and the floor needed mopping. Even from a distance I could see a lot of the books weren’t shelved in the right places.

I stepped toward him with conviction. “I’m a good worker. I can clean and do other things you don’t want to do.”

He peered at me over the rim of his spectacles. “What experience do you have?”

I told him about my work at Palermo’s. “Mr. Palermo would be happy to provide a positive reference on my character and work ethic.”

“And your parents? Who are they?”

“My father is Sergeant Garret Ryan, with the police force.”

His eyes widened slightly, and I remembered where I’d seen him before: at the Glorious Twelfth march last year. Mr. Smith was an Orangeman.

“I know your father well.” He cleared his throat, considering. “As I said, I’m not currently hiring, but as a courtesy to him, I am willing to give you a chance. I’ll pay fifteen cents an hour for the first week, during which I will monitor you. Then I’ll decide whether to let you go or keep you on for one dollar and seventy-five cents per day.”

I had never been more grateful for William of Orange. Fifteen cents an hour wasn’t great, but a dollar seventy-five a day was a fortune compared to Palermo’s. Plus I’d be working with books. I felt giddy with joy.

“You have a deal, Mr. Smith.”

I was still grinning when the little bell over the door jingled and a young man entered the shop. He slipped off his fedora then ran his fingers through a mass of black hair, fluffing it a little before replacing the hat.

“Good afternoon,” I said eagerly, keen to try out my new job.

“Good afternoon,” he replied. “I’m looking for a book recently translated into English. I’m hoping you might have it, but it’s a little obscure. The Radetzky March.”

“Oh! I’ve heard of that book,” I said excitedly. Max had mentioned it to me in passing. “By Joseph Roth, right?”

I turned to Mr. Smith, but he was frowning. “We don’t have it. Never have, never will.”

The man’s jaw flexed. “I see.”

I didn’t. I glanced between the two, confused.

“We don’t serve your kind in here,” Mr. Smith said, his voice sharp.

I stood frozen in place, unable to speak. The young man’s keen eyes shone with the same hurt I’d seen on Max’s face that night we’d walked home from the baseball game. After a moment, he quietly left the store, and Mr. Smith latched the door with great deliberation. Then he strode behind the counter and pulled out a blank piece of paper. He wrote something on it, then shoved it in my face.

“Your first task is to