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

wandering over. “I’ll admit that was a good hit.”

“Ha! High praise coming from you,” Max said. “You weren’t so bad yourself.”

“I almost had you there.”

“Almost,” Max teased.

The whole walk home Max felt like he was on top of the world. He loved his studies and had finished at the top of his class, but he’d been so busy he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed being home with his friends. He snuck another peek at Molly, walking on Hannah’s other side. It didn’t seem like that long ago they’d been kids, throwing the baseball around, and she’d been giving him grief for trying to coach her while she was up to bat. Now she was a beautiful young woman. So was Hannah, he realized, looking at his sister with fresh eyes.

Day had given way to dusk, and the lights in the various store windows had been turned off for the night, but some things were still easy to see. When they passed a pawn shop with a big white sign in the window, Max’s smile faded, and he stopped walking.

HELP WANTED. NO JEWS.

He’d seen signs like this before. He’d felt outraged whenever he passed them near the university, but seeing them in his own neighbourhood felt like a punch to the chest.

Molly paused beside him. “They’re everywhere now. Stores, restaurants, parks, even the beach.” She wrinkled her nose. “Oh, and we also have ‘Swastika Clubs.’ ”

Unease spread over him like a cloak. “Swastika Clubs?”

“They claim their only intent is keeping the boardwalk clean of litter,” Molly told him as they started walking again. “But they’re not talking about picking up trash.”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“I’m sorry. The signs bother me, and I’m not even…”

“Jewish? You can say the word.” His response came out harsher than he intended, and she looked straight ahead.

“Of course.”

“Sorry, Moll. I shouldn’t take it out on you. It just gets tiring, seeing this kind of stuff. It’s not as if we did anything to deserve it.”

“I know,” she said. “It’s easy for me to say, but I try to ignore it. Hannah says she won’t dignify it with a response.”

“That’s one way to deal with it.” He had a few others in mind.

Up ahead, Hannah and Jimmy were laughing, and Max was sorry he’d missed the joke. He needed to laugh more. Even his mother had said so. He forced himself to put the sign out of his mind and jogged in front of the others, then turned to face them, walking backwards.

“How many times do you think the four of us—plus Richie—have strolled down this sidewalk?” he asked.

“Since we could walk,” Molly said, catching up. “Mum said I actually took my first steps on this sidewalk.”

Jimmy chuckled. “We all did. She figured if we kept falling on the concrete we’d learn faster.”

“Liam still gets bloody knees, and he’s twelve,” Molly said, then she looked at Max. “Do you remember when he was little and skinned his knee on the school playground and you rescued me?”

“I don’t know if I’d say I rescued—”

“You did!”

He remembered it well, and he was pleased to hear she did, too. Years ago, he and Richie had been playing catch on their lunch hour, each trying to throw harder than the other, when one of Richie’s pitches had gone uncharacteristically wild. It was headed directly to where Molly was crouched, bandaging Liam’s knee, about ten feet out of Max’s reach. Max hadn’t thought twice, just thrown himself into the path of the ball. He’d never been so relieved to hear the smack! in his glove, inches from her face.

“Richie was screaming at me to get out of the way,” Molly said, “but by the time I looked up it was too late. That ball was coming so fast I figured that was the end of me.”

“Nah. I’d never let anyone hurt you,” he said.

She smiled. “That’s what you said to me back then, too.”

“I remember that,” Hannah said. “Richie was yelling at you to pay attention next time, and I—”

“You yelled at him to pay attention,” Jimmy said. “Then the two of you had a huge argument. The whole school was listening in. It was great.”

“I won, even though we both got detentions.” Hannah lifted her chin. “Oh, look. There’s poor old Mr. Rabinowitz.”

If Hannah hadn’t said so, Max wouldn’t have recognized the widower he’d known from the synagogue, with his hunched frame draped in tattered clothes. They nodded at him as they passed, but Molly stopped to say good evening.

“On your way home?” she asked.

“Yes, yes, sheyne meydel,” he replied, blinking cloudy eyes. “Long day at the factory. I’ve got to get home for dinner. On Thursdays, Mrs. Rabinowitz makes chicken and potatoes.”

“You’re a lucky man. Have a lovely evening,” she said, and they watched the old man wander on down the block.

“I didn’t know you knew him,” Hannah said.

“Oh, he and I have the same sort of conversation just about every day outside Palermo’s. I don’t think he remembers though.”

“You know he’s a widower?” Max asked. “There’s no chicken dinner waiting for him.”

“Yes. Mr. Palermo told me. But he still thinks she’s cooking for him. He must be so lonely.”

That was pure Molly, he thought. Kindness ran all the way through her. “You’re still at Palermo’s?”

“I’ll be sorting fruit and vegetables for the rest of my life.”

“It’s not for the rest of your life,” Hannah assured her.

“Just until you become a world-famous writer,” Jimmy said, draping an arm around his sister’s shoulder.

Molly flushed, a sweet burst of pink Max remembered well. She and Richie could never hide their emotions behind their pale, freckled skin.

“You’re writing?” Max asked. “What about?”

“It’s nothing, really. I’m not that good.”

“She’s being modest,” Jimmy said.

“He’s right; she’s a natural.” Hannah beamed with pride.

“You’re both biased,” Molly said. She turned to Max. “I’m writing my grandmother’s stories. Her family couldn’t read or write, so she memorized them and told them to me before she died. Like she told me about the Gorta Mór, the Great Famine. It’s what