Letters Across the Sea Read online

  “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 forced my great-grandparents to leave Ireland for Canada in 1847 with my grandmother and her five siblings. Such an awful story. Lots of them died during the sea voyage to Toronto, then more died of typhus after they arrived. We think we have it bad! My grandmother lost two of her sisters.” She pressed her lips together. “I’m talking too much.”

  “No, I think it’s fascinating,” Max said, thinking about his own great-grandparents. They had immigrated to Canada to escape a different set of problems in Poland. “Really.”

  “Seanmháthair always had great stories,” Jimmy said. “I wonder how our family would fare if we took that journey now. If the sea and the typhus didn’t get us, I bet we’d have killed each other anyway.”

  “We wouldn’t. Just you and Dad,” Molly said, elbowing her brother.

  Hannah looked at Max. “I told Molly she should write for a magazine or a newspaper.”

  Molly rolled her eyes. “Yeah, sure. How many women do you know who are doing that?”

  “Actually,” Max said, “I was just reading about a woman journalist named Rhea Clyman. She’s even Canadian. I’ll bring you something of hers,” he offered. “She’s really impressive.”

  “You’d be good at writing for a paper,” Hannah said. “You’d tell all sides of the story.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe,” Molly replied. “Maybe someday I’ll go back to school and take writing classes.”

  But from the soft sigh in her voice, Max could tell she didn’t quite believe it.

  A memory drifted into his mind of her standing in his family’s kitchen years ago. Too small to reach the counter on her own, she’d dragged in a stool and climbed onto it, her short, twin braids falling forward as she watched his mother cook. Her eyes had darted between the pot and his mother as she asked endless questions clarifying what she was cooking, what was in it, why she was making it. That’s just how Molly was. All her life, she’d looked for answers.

  She might not believe she could do it, but Max did. “The world needs honesty now more than ever,” he told her. “Don’t count yourself out, Moll. You might be exactly what we need.”

  three MOLLY

  I ducked under the low rafter just past the door of Palermo’s back room, hugging the crate of lettuce to my chest, then I set it on the counter so I could sort through it. The first head I grabbed was still solid and healthy, so I placed it in the “keep” crate, which would go out front when I was done. The second one I touched was slick and soft. I tossed it into the garbage and reached for the next.

  I had worked at Palermo’s for so long, I could almost pinpoint which item was rotten from ten feet away, just by the smell. Lettuce wasn’t the worst-smelling vegetable, but anything spoiled was unpleasant to handle. I was used to the slippery leaves though, and I barely thought about them as I picked through, just like I barely noticed the uneven, wobbly floorboards by the tomato crates. The quirks of Palermo’s were just a part of who I had become.

  I peeled off the outer leaves of the next head of lettuce, wondering if I could salvage any of it. By the time I was finished, it was about the size of a child’s fist, which wasn’t enough for anyone. Still, I set it aside.

  Tomorrow was Tuesday, delivery day, when fresh stock came in, so today I sifted through the week-old fruits and vegetables. As repulsive as some of the produce could be, this was how I helped people the most. Mr. Palermo always kept a few crates of overripe apples, yellowing broccoli, soft potatoes, and things like that, stacked in the back. The food wasn’t rotten, only slightly past the time when most people would have eaten it. But these days, not too many people could still claim to be “most people.” The majority were one meal away from the soup kitchen—if they weren’t already there.
r />   Palermo’s had gone through a lot since my first day four years ago. The store was quieter now, and desperately in need of paint. Warped wooden cartons piled high with fruit and vegetables no longer overflowed onto the sidewalk. Food was too dear to put on display, and too much of a temptation to many. Besides, stock was so low it all fit inside now.

  I was grateful for my job. A lot of girls worked at the Eaton’s garment factory, and I’d heard rumblings of the strife they put up with—long hours, low pay. It was thankless work. Sure, I had long days, but my job wasn’t hard, and that meant my mind was free to wander.

  Today my thoughts were on Sunday’s sermon. “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart,” the minister had read, “and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.”

  I’d heard it a thousand times, but yesterday the words had given me pause. There I sat with my family, in a beautiful church, surrounded by well-meaning, dutiful Protestants, when I spotted Phil Burke a couple pews ahead of me wearing a pressed brown shirt with a swastika pin on his chest. Last week, Hannah and I had seen him and his Swastika Club, wandering in and out of local shops and bullying Jewish customers.

  I seemed to witness more prejudice by the day. Protestants against Catholics. Orangemen against immigrants. Employers against employees. Government against the people. Some of the people around me in church who were nodding in agreement with the idea that we should all “love thy neighbour” were the same ones banning Jews from their stores. The hypocrisy sickened me.

  I threw a bunch of soft carrots into a crate with more force than necessary at the memory of Max’s expression when he’d seen that sign at the pawn shop.

  “Molly?” Mr. Palermo’s lean, rabbit-like face peeked through the door.

  I looked up, a questionable cabbage in one hand. “Yes, Mr. Palermo?”

  “Mrs. Collins is asking for a quart of fresh tomatoes.” His bushy white moustache twitched. “None of the ones up here seem to suit her.”

  “Be right there.”

  I grabbed a quart of the best-looking tomatoes in the room and headed to the front.

  Mrs. Collins’s face widened with a smile as soon as I entered. She was a tall, blond woman, and today she wore a neat green suit. A matching cloche was pulled stylishly low over one eye. Mrs. Collins was one of the few people I knew who seemed relatively untouched by poverty.

  “Molly, dear. So nice to see you. You’re looking well.”

  “Thank you,” I said politely. I handed the tomatoes to Mr. Palermo, and he started wrapping them up.

  “I was talking to Ian about you last night,” Mrs. Collins went on. “You know, he’s over at the Star. He’s hoping to become a junior reporter soon.”

  “I’m happy to hear he’s doing well, especially in times like these.”

  “Here you go,” Mr. Palermo said, holding up the package.

  She made no move to take it from him. “I’m sure he would love to see you sometime,” she pressed. “Maybe the two of you could have dinner.”

  I remembered Ian Collins from school. He was three years older than I was and a nice enough boy, handsome in a relaxed sort of way, but I didn’t really know him. My mother made a point of saying that was because I had never taken Mrs. Collins up on her suggestion. Besides, she said, what was there to know? He had a good job, and his family was well-off. He was Irish and Protestant. But the truth of the matter was that Ian had never asked me out. I didn’t know what I’d say if he did.

  “Thank you for thinking of me, Mrs. Collins, but I’m afraid I’m too busy these days.”

  “Of course,” she said through a tight smile. She handed over the cash and gathered her purchases. “Always nice to see you, Molly. Please give my best to your mother.”

  Once she was out the door, Mr. Palermo returned to his paperwork behind the register. “You can’t put her off forever,” he muttered.

  “Oh yes, I can,” I assured him, heading to the back room.

  I was busy. If I did have spare time, I wouldn’t be wasting it on Ian Collins. Or on any boy, to be fair. I’d gone on a date or two, but I was usually so bored by the end of the night I could hardly wait to close the door behind me. Hannah thought I was a riot, turning them down. She loved going out on dates. I knew that most girls my age wanted to settle down and become wives and mothers, but I just wasn’t ready for that, as much as it frustrated my mother. It seemed all I’d ever done was take care of my siblings. I wanted to do something else. Something for me.

  I hadn’t meant to tell Max about my writing, though I supposed that was all right. Growing up, he’d never made fun of me, never made me feel like a little girl like Richie sometimes did, but it had been four years since I had seen him and in that time, he’d gotten a degree. He’d grown up. His face was darker, shaded by the black outline of his beard, and he was leaner, probably from so much studying. But he still had the same smile, and he still hadn’t laughed at me. He’d been encouraging about the idea of my writing, and last night he’d even brought over the article by Rhea Clyman, the journalist he’d mentioned before.

  Rhea’s story tore my heart apart. She’d written about the Holodomor, the ongoing, brutal genocide of Ukrainians by the Soviets. Her article described the deserted villages, the starving people, and the children who she wrote were down on all fours like animals, eating grass because there was nothing else for them.

  When I’d finished reading, it was a moment before I could speak. “Imagine, going all the way there by herself,” I said to Max. “What a dangerous mission. Especially for a woman.”

  “This was actually her second time there,” he said. “The Soviets expelled her last September.”

  “For what?”

  “She went to investigate reports of political prisoners and exiles being used as slave labour in camps. In her story she called one of the prison towns a ‘town of living corpses.’ The Soviets were furious.”

  I couldn’t imagine having that kind of courage, to travel all that way then reveal a story like that to the world, putting herself at risk. Then again, that’s exactly what I wanted to do with my writing. To make a difference somehow—though I didn’t see myself heading to the Soviet Union anytime soon.

  “Molly?” Mr. Palermo called again.

  “Yes?” I stooped through the doorway, wiping my hands on my apron.

  Mrs. Rossi stood at the counter, her boney fingers curled around her handbag, her eyes downcast and sunken beneath her black scarf. Behind her waited her two youngest sons, their clothes hanging off their little frames. Mr. Rossi had been my school principal, but he’d died last year of a heart attack, leaving behind his wife and six children. She took in mending jobs, like my mother did, so she could be with her kids, but it was never enough. Matteo, her oldest, worked two jobs.

  “Hello, Mrs. Rossi,” I said. “Matteo played well the other night. It was a good game.”

  “Grazie, Molly,” she replied softly.

  Mr. Palermo fixed me with a steady look, and I nodded. “I’ll be back in jiffy.”

  I loaded up an empty box with as much salvageable produce as I could find, then I returned to the front and placed the box in Mrs. Rossi’s arms.

  “Grazie. Dio ti benedica,” she said, quietly leaving.

  Mr. Palermo and I didn’t say anything more, and I went back to work. There would be two or three more visits like hers today. We did what we could, but none of them were easy on our hearts. I had planned to bring a crate to the Melniks down the street from us, but just the other day, they’d been put out of their house, and I hadn’t seen them since.

  The day passed slowly, with far too few customers trickling in. I finished packing boxes for the poorest customers, making up an extra that Mr. Palermo requested, then swept and tidied the back in preparation for tomorrow’s deliveries. At the end of the day, I stopped by the counter to say goodnight to Mr. Palermo. He was hunched over t
he counter, papers all around him.

  He held out a hand. “Molly, I need to speak with you.”

  His gaze went to the ceiling, like it did when he was trying to figure out a problem on the register. When he met my eyes, my heart sank. I knew from his sad expression what he was about to say. I put one hand on the counter to steady myself.

  “The store isn’t as busy as it used to be,” he began, sounding defeated. “I can’t afford to stay open every day. I think I’m going to cut down to just three days a week. I’m still figuring it out. I’m sorry, Molly. I have to let you go. I wish I didn’t have to.”

  He went on, and I nodded, but my mind had already rushed home. How was I going to tell my family I was out of a job? I supposed I could take in laundry or babysit, but that wouldn’t bring in nearly as much as the store had.

  Mr. Palermo’s eyes were shining, which brought a lump to my throat.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I understand. I do. Thank you for letting me work for you for so long. I learned a lot. I enjoyed it here.”

  Mr. Palermo put his wrinkled old hand on mine. “If business picks up again—”

  “Please don’t worry about me,” I said, pressing a finger against my chin to keep it from wobbling. “I’ll find a job somewhere. You take care of yourself.” I turned to go.

  “Molly, take that last box for your family, would you? Tell your father I’m sorry.”

  I knew he was watching me as I left, because I felt the weight of his guilt on my back. Only when I was out of sight did I reach up to wipe my tears away.

  four MAX

  Max wandered into the kitchen and placed a gentle kiss on his mother’s cheek, making her smile as she braided the challah. Other than his bedroom, where he studied in quiet, the kitchen, with its rich, spicy fragrance, was Max’s favourite place in the house. On the table he spotted a plate, artfully covered by a cloth, and he inhaled the sweet aroma of latkes.

  Pretending he didn’t know, he lifted a corner and peeked underneath. “What’s this?”