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

frown. “I was in the cavalry during Szarża pod Rokitną. June of 1915.”

My pencil paused. “What’s that?”

“They called it the Charge of Rokitna. I lost seventeen friends that day, but I managed to save my friend Piotr. I pulled him out of the way when he was shot.” He laughed bitterly. “They gave me a medal for it, but it seemed pointless when so many others had died.”

I felt a hitch in my chest, imagining this poor, broken man, young and terrified, desperately trying to save his friend. A hero. Now forgotten on the streets. “Where’s the medal? Do you still have it?”

He shrugged. “I threw it away. Should I be proud that I killed other men? I didn’t want anything that reminded me of that time.”

I changed tacks. “What about your wife? When did you meet her?”

He smiled, a far-off look in his eye. “Ava and I met at our friend’s wedding, just after the war. She was a wonderful dancer. I could have danced with her all night,” he said. “We got married, then we came to Canada in 1919.”

He went on to tell me about their first house and the babies, his face lighting up in wonder at the “six beautiful blessings” that filled its two bedrooms. But that’s when his memory started to fail him. He knew the children’s names and could tell me the details of each one’s birth. He knew stories from their childhood, but his expression grew vague when I asked where they were now. Still, I jotted down everything he said, thinking all the time about how I might weave his words into a story.

That night I started to write, and the story swept through me, filling me with a sense of exhilaration I hadn’t felt in months. I kept going long after Mum and Dad had turned in for the night, and the next morning, I was at work an hour early to type it all up. When I’d finished, I scanned the pages for errors, then approached Ian’s desk. He was talking with someone on the phone, but his eyes flickered up at me.

One minute, he mouthed, smiling.

After a moment, he hung up and gave me his undivided attention.

“I wonder if you have time to read something for me,” I said.

“For you? Always time.” He eyed my pages. “What is it?”

“A little something I wrote,” I said, placing them on his desk. “I did what you suggested. I wrote something that mattered to me.”

I checked over my shoulder as I walked away and saw he was already deep in concentration, reading my words. Minutes later, he stood before me.

“I love it,” he said. “In depth, but with such an emotional hook. You should bring this to Mr. Hindmarsh.”

My heart swelled with pride. “Really?”

“Absolutely. Want me to come with you? As a supportive colleague, I mean.”

“Do you think that would help?”

“Can’t hurt, can it?” He handed me back the pages then tilted his head toward the office. “Ready?”

Mr. Hindmarsh’s silvery head was bent over his desk, studying an article, but his small, heavy-lidded eyes showed interest when he looked up and saw Ian behind me.

I cleared my throat. “Mr. Hindmarsh, I wrote something that I’d like you to read, if you have the time.”

He adjusted his black-rimmed glasses on his nose. “I’m very busy, Miss Ryan.”

“You should take a look,” Ian said smoothly. “Perfect for what you were talking about at the last editorial meeting. Local interest, poverty, veterans… She nailed it.”

Mr. Hindmarsh lifted one eyebrow and looked from Ian to me. “Is that right, Mr. Collins?”

The revered managing editor of the Star held out his hand, and I gave him my precious story. “Thank you, Mr. Hindmarsh.”

I turned to go, but Ian reached for my arm. He gave me a reassuring wink, so I waited beside him, watching Mr. Hindmarsh read.

The editor turned over the first page and set it facedown on his desk. From his deadpan expression, it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. He turned over the second page, and when he was finished, he set all three pages to the side and looked up at me with narrowed eyes.

“I’m very impressed, Miss Ryan,” he said. “Have you been keeping all that talent to yourself because you secretly love writing recipes and church notices? Or has Mr. Collins been keeping you too busy with other things?”

I felt heat roar into my face. “No, sir. I would love to write different stories.”

“You can do more like this?”

“Yes, sir. I can write anything.”

“Excellent to hear, Miss Ryan.” He looked at Ian. “Well, Mr. Collins?”

“I’d love to read more by her,” he said.

“As would I. Right. This will run tomorrow, if that’s all right with you,” he said, then he tapped a finger on his desk. “I’m interested in the immigration angle, and how you’ve brought history right into the present. Could you work on another piece similar to this? ‘Where Toronto’s From’ or something like that.”

“I would be happy to.” I beamed, despite the fact that I had no idea what I would write.

Back in the newsroom, I floated to my desk with happiness. Ian offered to take me out for a celebratory lunch, but once again I apologized, telling him I had some personal errands to run. Grabbing my handbag, I trotted outside and made a beeline to City Hall, where I asked for recent immigration records and the clerk put my request in a queue. I dashed to the bank to withdraw some money, then I stopped in at Eaton’s to spend it. On my way back to the office, I retrieved the records the clerk had collected for me, then I carried them back to the office along with a large, brown paper package, which I tucked under my desk. All afternoon, I kept peeking at the package, humming with excitement as I researched the latest government statistics on immigration. Finally, five o’clock rolled around, and I practically sprinted toward Palermo’s, where I knew Mr.