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

settle? The Nazis are bombing London. What’s to keep them from coming here and going after my family?”

Max hung his head. “She’ll forgive you.”

“I sure hope so,” David had replied. “I can’t imagine my life if she doesn’t.”

That’s when Arnie popped his head in. “You and me, David. Clara might have loved the uniform, but she hates everything about where I’m taking it.” He pulled out his wallet, grabbing for bits of paper as they tumbled out. “Hey, wanna see the cutest kid ever? I mean, look at this little guy. Five years old already. So smart. Spitting image of his father, poor kid.”

David’s smile returned, and he reached for his own photos. “Oh yeah?”

Now the three of them were in Gander, Newfoundland, where none of them had ever imagined being.

Max held open the door to the barracks. “Home sweet home,” he said.

They stepped inside the newly constructed building and followed Sergeant Cox into the sleeping quarters, where two columns of single bunks extended the full length of the room. They claimed one each, side by side, and Max was just setting down his pack when someone said his name.

He turned, then stopped short. “Richie?”

Richie’s cheeks bloomed that familiar red, and a tentative smile played at the corner of his mouth. “I thought it was you. What are you doing here?”

“My battalion just rolled in,” Max replied, astonished. “You?”

“We’ve been here a couple of months.”

For a moment they stared at each other, neither one speaking. It had been years since they’d last seen each other, and Max could practically feel the history crackling between them, the fibres of their childhood friendship burned into something hard. It was like a physical barrier, looming even higher with the spectres of their fathers on their backs. Max could now clearly see Mr. Ryan when he looked at Richie.

“How’s your dad?” he asked carefully.

Richie fiddled with the strap on his pack. “Same as ever. Crippled for life.”

Max didn’t know if he should feel shame or not when that subject arose. Certainly he felt partly to blame for Mr. Ryan’s stroke, but in the chaos of the riot, they’d never been able to prove who had thrown the brick that struck him down. Mrs. Ryan had accused Max’s father, and despite his father’s furious denials, her accusation had never faded away. Sometimes even Max had doubts. All he remembered was his father rushing to his rescue, livid at Mr. Ryan. The truth was that anyone could have thrown that brick. Even his father.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Max said.

Richie’s eyes slid sideways. “It’s not your fault,” he said, frowning slightly to himself, then he cleared his throat and looked back at Max. “I got duty in a bit. I’d better go.”

Max watched him leave, then he turned to lift his pack onto his bed.

“You okay?” Arnie asked from the bunk across the aisle.

He nodded, but didn’t speak. He couldn’t tell Arnie that seeing Richie had brought back all the memories of that summer. Even after all this time, the pain felt fresh. He could still see that look on Molly’s face behind the clubhouse, the one that assured him I’m with you. Despite everything that had happened between their families, he had never really stopped wanting to believe she still might be. He’d written to her after the riot, hoping he was right, but after a month of waiting for her to reply, he’d reluctantly made a decision. There were only two things he’d ever wanted in his life: Molly and medicine. When she hadn’t written back, he’d buried his feelings, determined that from that point on, it would only be med-icine.

But seeing Richie changed all that. The old hurts and the anger from that summer were coming to the surface again, reminding him of the swastika pin on Richie’s shirt, and the sharp crack of Mr. Ryan’s baton. The days and weeks and months of waiting for a letter from Molly that had never come. He clenched his jaw against the memories, swallowing the pain. It was bad enough that they were stuck way out here in Gander. Now that Richie was here, he’d have a daily reminder of the biggest mistake of his life.

twelve MOLLY

1941

I hugged my handbag to my chest as I strode through the windstorm, muttering to myself about November being the worst of all the months. I closed my eyes against a blast of wind just in time to splash into an icy puddle, which soaked immediately through one shoe. I hissed with exasperation. I’d feel that misery all day long.

“Good morning!” I heard from across the street, and I smiled despite myself.

Mr. Rabinowitz stood at his usual spot on the sidewalk outside Palermo’s, his back to the wind.

“Mr. Rabinowitz,” I said, hopping across the street. “You should go inside, out of the wind. Mr. Palermo wouldn’t mind, I’m sure.”

I thought he was looking more fragile than ever, and stooped with arthritis. When he smiled at me, ignoring my suggestion, his eyes were milky. “What a day this is!” he said in his creaky voice. “Reminds me of Poland.”

The poor man. I wondered where he slept at night. I knew Wellington House took in homeless men, but I’d read somewhere that the shelters were terrible places to sleep, crawling with vermin and criminals. Maybe he just huddled in a corner or alley, thinking he was at home with his long-departed wife. Maybe it was a blessing not to remember some things.

I reached into my bag and fished out the lunch I’d packed, then offered it to him. It wasn’t much, just crackers and a bit of cheese.

He pushed it away. “That’s very kind, but it’s your meal.”

“Oh no,” I lied. “My lunch is at the office.” I told myself that when I got hungry later, I’d remember the gratitude in his eyes.

The fingers that accepted the food poked through holes in his gloves, and the tips were slightly blue. His coat was old