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

time before someone dropped a match. And Richie would be right in the middle of it. Had Max seen him there?

In the third inning, the same group yelled “Heil Hitler!” again. Then someone shouted, “Kill the Jews!”

My pulse stilled with the very real tone of the threat, and my gaze flew to Max, standing like a target in the field. The Harbord fans shouted back, words I couldn’t discern through all the chaos, and I was glad to see a couple of policemen finally arrive and rush in to speak with the offenders. After the shouting abated, the game began once more, but my stomach still rolled. I’d come to see baseball, not blood. Dad was right. If it weren’t for the Dreyfuses, I would have left already.

The score stayed even at 5–5 as the innings flew by. Max was all over the place, catching impossible throws, hitting pitches that shot like bullets. Then St. Peter’s caught a pop fly, and they were suddenly up 6–5.

Hannah had grown quiet beside me, so I nudged her. “You all right?”

“Yeah. It’s just…” She scanned the crowd around us. “I wonder where Papa went.”

“The game’s almost over. He’ll be back soon.”

“Unless our boys can tie it up,” she said with false cheer. “Then it’s another inning.”

“I’m sure he’s okay,” I said, putting an arm around her.

The chances of Harbord Playground winning were bleak at this point, but I told myself there was always hope. Then, right before Max was due to step up again, Pavlo hit a fly ball. There were already two out, and I gripped Hannah’s hand, praying the St. Peter’s fielder would miss it, but we all heard the ball land in his mitt, ending the game 6–5 for St. Peter’s. Their fans roared in celebration as the winners sprinted to the middle of the field for a celebratory hug. On the other side of the diamond, the Harbord team milled around their bench, slapping each other’s backs and shoulders, commiserating.

“Oh well. It was a good season,” Hannah said, getting up to fold the blanket.

The sun had mostly set, and the breeze had picked up, raising goose bumps along my arms and reminding me that summer was almost over. As much as I’d miss the games, I was quietly relieved. Lately, the season had seemed less about sport and more about spite.

Just then, Mrs. Dreyfus let out a cry of alarm, and we turned to see. Across the field, on a small hill called the Camel’s Hump, a large white sheet had been unfurled. In its centre had been painted a massive black swastika, its four crooked legs splayed with hate. From the corner of my eye, I saw Max and the others grab their bats and charge toward the banner, then the whole field seemed to move in a giant, converging wave as hundreds of spectators joined the stampede. I couldn’t look away, as horrifying as it was. Shouts of “The swastika! The swastika!” swept over the crowd, and when the players swung their bats, the agitators blocked them with broom handles, bricks, lumber, and iron pipes—weapons they had obviously brought on purpose. In only seconds, Christie Pits had become a battle zone.

“Where are the police?” Hannah cried. She and her mother were holding each other, panic in their faces. “Where’s Papa?”

Among the thousands of people down there, I couldn’t see more than five or six uniforms, and they were clearly overwhelmed.

“We have to leave,” Mrs. Dreyfus said, her voice trembling.

“No, Mama! We need to stay and find Papa. He and Max need to come home with us.”

And Jimmy and Richie, I thought, desperately scanning the field.

Mrs. Dreyfus held a hand toward the field. “What could we possibly do to help them, Hannah? We have to go now. Your papa told us to go.” She was close to tears.

Hannah and I exchanged a glance, but we both knew she was right. We had to leave, if only to protect her mother. Our challenge would be crossing the field, since the fighting had boxed us in. We packed the blanket into the basket, then Mrs. Dreyfus held it against her like a shield, and we hooked our arms through hers. My pulse drummed a warning in my ears as we descended the hill, but we had no choice except to merge into the unpredictable rhythm of the fight. I angled out in front and the three of us wound between strangers in a chain, bumping and tripping as we went. When a man stumbled against me, I shoved him away, trying to clear a path before us, but there were too many struggling bodies, not enough space, and the awful shouts and cries were deafening. Hannah yelped then ducked when a bat swung near her head, and I gripped Mrs. Dreyfus more tightly.

“Come on!” I yelled. “We have to go faster!”

They nodded, their expressions set, and we pushed through.

All of a sudden, something sharp and hard cracked against the side of my head, and I cried out in pain.

“Molly!” Mrs. Dreyfus held me up. “Are you okay?”

I nodded, spotting a piece of brick on the ground by my feet. There was no way to see who had thrown it, so I clenched my jaw against the throbbing in my temple and moved forward.

“David!” Hannah yelled.

To our right, David had been thrown to the ground, but he jumped back up to face his attacker. Blood streamed from his nose, but there was fire in his eyes. He looked far from defeated.

“Come on, Hannah,” Mrs. Dreyfus said, tugging her forward. “He can take care of himself.”

We were almost through to the other side when I spotted a dump truck pulling up alongside the park. Out of it leapt a couple dozen men, armed with pipes and broom handles and—my heart stopped—a pickaxe. I thought of Max, Jimmy, Mr. Dreyfus, Richie, and our friends, somewhere in the path of that, and I had to restrain myself from running after the man. I watched