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

“Ian’s actually left the Star,” she said lightly. “He’s taking a job at a paper in Boston.”

He stepped back, his heart plunging. Boston? He searched her face. “You’re moving?”

“Um, no. I’m staying here.” She tugged at the scarf around her neck, and he stared at her hand. Her ring was gone. “Ian and I aren’t getting married.”

His throat jammed with relief. He hadn’t dared to imagine that possibility.

She closed the gap between them, just as she had all those years before, and anticipation swooped through his chest.

“Max, you must know how I feel about you. How I’ve always felt about you.”

Thoughts flew through his head like bullets. For so long, this was all he had ever wanted, but the obstacles hadn’t changed.

“Molly, I can’t give you what he can. I can’t give you a ring.”

She took a breath, and he heard it catch. “I don’t need a ring to be with you, Max. After all we’ve been through to find each other again, I’m not going to let that come between us.”

He felt it in his heart first. A cautious sense of hope, like the first rays of a sunrise breaking free of the horizon. The sound of the American planes spotting them for the first time.

“God, Molly. I thought that we—” Then he stopped, unsure all over again. “I’m not the same man I was. I’m not sure you’d know me any-more.”

“I know who you are, Max. You know I do. And I know you’re suffering, but we’ll get through it together.” She hesitated, and fear crossed her face. “If you still want me, I mean.”

He looked her straight in those startling green eyes. “If I still want you? How can you even say that? Of course I still want you, Molly. It’s always been you.”

She took another step closer, and he reached for her, drawing her into his arms and feeling instantly whole. He lowered his face to her silky hair.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured. “Are you afraid?”

She shook her head against his chest then drew back to look at him through shining eyes. “I’m never afraid when I’m with you, Max.”

Her arms wrapped around his neck, bringing them even closer, and he felt as if the entire world had just opened up for him. His life wouldn’t ever be carefree again, he didn’t think; he worked through self-doubt and grief and guilt every day. But he was no longer worried about the battles ahead. With Molly at his side, they would fight those together.

“Max,” she said softly.

He smiled, their lips inches apart. “What?”

“I’ve been waiting over twelve years for you to kiss me again.”

It felt like a dream, bringing his lips to hers, then feeling her kiss him with such a sweet desperation. He could hardly catch a breath, but he didn’t care. Because it wasn’t a dream. Her love filled his heart, his mind, and his body, as real as the sunshine beaming down on them, here in the middle of their street. He was home now, and he was safe. And there would be no more good-byes.

A Note to Readers

What I love most about writing historical fiction is the ability to take something ordinary, like a black-and-white photo, and make it into something extraordinary. To bring that wrinkled old piece of paper, or whatever it is, to life. For example, there is a plaque at Christie Pits in Toronto—also known as Willowvale Park—that commemorates the riot. Just a plain, metal plaque that people walk past on a regular basis. I like to think about what’s behind that plaque. About why it was put there. I love to bring that story to life, so it sticks in people’s minds long after they’ve walked away.

I am constantly on the hunt for little-known stories in Canadian history. When I heard about the Christie Pits Riot, the largest ethnic riot in Canadian history, I thought about all the societal reasons that had caused the event. Considering today’s volatile climate, I also thought it would be interesting to learn about past riots and protests in our cities. After all, we are not the first to witness unrest in our streets. What did they look like before? Why were they happening? What, if anything, did they achieve?

In 1933, Toronto was a regular Canadian city, filled with regular Canadians, and yet beneath its veneer as “Toronto the Good,” the city simmered with an ugly, hateful tension. Just like today, the press played a large role in creating divisions. As Molly, Max, and Arnie sat in the sun on that beautiful July day, they spoke about the different ways in which the Toronto Daily Star, the Evening Telegram, and Der Yidisher Zhurnal covered the news coming out of Germany. Everything they said was true. Not only did the Telegram deny the stories about the mistreatment of Jews, they frequently ran anti-Semitic editorials in their paper throughout the 1930s. The Telegram even accused the Jewish community of having incited the Christie Pits Riot, despite the fact that it was the unfurling of the swastika-emblazoned blanket that set off the fight. Their front page headline the following day read “Jewish Toughs Begin Trouble Says Witness.” When the Star eventually began to report properly on what was happening in Germany and around Toronto, the Telegram began to refer to them as “the Big Brother of the Little Reds.”

In January 1933, Adolf Hitler became the chancellor of Germany, and by March, the Enabling Act basically gave him free rein as a dictator. But his strength was in propaganda, and once he and his Nazi thugs shut down all competing radio, newspaper, and news reels, he had the airwaves all to himself. He denied any wrongdoings, stoked the nationalist fire, and didn’t bother with the five principals of ethical journalism that Ian reminded Molly about: Truth, Accuracy, Fairness, Impartiality, and perhaps most importantly, Humanity. As some international press rode that wave of Nazi rhetoric, anti-Semitism rose around the