Letters Across the Sea Page 5
Max straightened, aware of curious faces leaning in to hear what he would say. “I didn’t know you’d been running, Yossel. No wonder you’re so thin. Tell me, are we Jews to hide away for the rest of our existence? Run away, as you say, with our tails between our legs? I say no. We travelled thousands of miles to get here because we want more out of life.”
Yossel let out a sharp laugh. “More of what? More torment?”
“More than just ourselves,” Max replied. “You Zionists want to shut yourselves off from everybody else. If it were up to you, you would be an armadillo, curled into a ball to keep all your soft bits safe. You’d only talk with like-minded people, excluding yourselves from the rest of the world—”
“And that is somehow worse than being in another man’s world but living in fear and humiliation the entire time?”
Max had no plan to live in either fear or humiliation. Since being home, he had tried to ignore the signs populating the city and the glares from people like Phil Burke, knowing that if he let those things get to him, they won. He wasn’t afraid of them, just annoyed. In this world there would always be bad people, but good people existed too, like Molly, Jimmy, and Richie. Max chose to believe his friends were part of the quiet majority.
“Come on now. We all know we need a homeland,” Yossel was saying. “Even you, Maxim. A home is where one feels safe to be himself. He can believe what he believes and worship how he wants to worship, and he has no fear of being persecuted. There is no home here for us.”
Max didn’t agree, but he and Yossel would never see eye to eye, so Max decided to lighten the conversation.
“I don’t know,” Max said, folding his arms. “You kvetch all the time, Yossel. I want this. I want that. If you get your own homeland, you’ll never have anything to complain about. What will you do with yourself then?”
“Yossel will always find something to complain about,” Arnie said, and the young men around them laughed.
Yossel leaned toward Max and gestured for him to come closer. “Maxim, my friend,” he said, lowering his voice. “I admire you. You are a mensch who knows what he wants. If they let you, I am certain you will be a great doctor someday.”
“If they let me?”
“If they let you. I understand the quota for medical school at the University of Toronto is even lower this year. Isn’t that where you plan to go?”
Max hesitated a beat. “That is where I will go.”
“Sure, sure.” Yossel moved back again and waved his hand in front of his face, like he was batting away a fly. “But you know, we all like you, Maxim Dreyfus. So don’t worry. When you have to start sewing seams in the factories with the rest of us, we will still welcome you.”
“The only seams Max will be sewing is in surgery,” Arnie countered.
More laughter, but Max didn’t join in this time. Yossel’s words had struck a little too close to home.
“You still boxing, Max?” Samuel asked.
“A little,” he replied, glad to change the subject.
“Good. We’ll need you ready to go when the Swastika Club comes out.”
“I heard there are over four hundred of them,” Max said. “Are you expecting me to fight them all?”
Samuel puffed out his chest. “There are only about forty, and they’re never all together. I’ll take a couple off your hands if it helps.”
“You gonna be like Baer, Max?” Yossel teased. “Be a hero and take on the Swazzies?”
They all knew he was referring to Max Baer, the American boxer who had just defeated Max Schmeling. Schmeling was a German heavyweight, a former champion, and Hitler’s prize fighter. Baer only had one Jewish grandparent, and yet he had proudly worn the Star of David on his trunks. Arnie and Max had listened to the fight on the radio when they were at school, cheering Baer on as he took Schmeling down.
Arnie shook his head. “It’s better that Max keeps those surgeon hands safe.”
“You’re right. Don’t worry about the Swastika Club, Max,” Samuel replied. “We have our own Uptown Gang.”
“Order!” a voice called from across the room. “This meeting will come to order!”
“I’d like to meet that gang. They sound fun,” Arnie whispered, making Max smile.
Rabbi Sachs stood at the front of the room, not far from Max’s father, waiting for quiet. He was a bald, serious-looking man, and one of the few in the committee without a beard.
“This is an unofficial meeting to address the increase in the city’s anti-Semite activities and discuss how to counter them in a peaceful manner.” Rabbi Sachs adjusted his round, gold-framed glasses and slowly scanned the room. “Among other things, we will be addressing the Swastika Club and their symbol, which they insist has nothing to do with Hitler.”
Derisive chuckles rippled around the room.
“Today, Shmuel Meir Shapiro and I will collect ideas from you that we will put forward for the committee to consider.”
Max craned his neck to get a better view of the editor of Der Yidisher Zhurnal. Shapiro was a stocky man with a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and a no-nonsense expression. He sat behind Rabbi Sachs, writing notes, then lifted his head and briefly studied the faces in the crowd, as if memorizing them.
“Our Women’s Committee has been working hard on the efforts to put sanctions on German-manufactured goods, and many local businesses have complied,” Rabbi Sachs continued. “All Jewish businesses have, of course. It’s the others who aren’t convinced.”
“The goyim don’t believe what is happening in Germany will affect them,” someone said, drawing a few eyes.
Rabbi Sachs nodded. “Then we must show them it will.”
“Jews must boycott those businesses,” Yossel suggested. “We don’t need them.”
“But we do,” Shapiro countered, tucking his pencil behind one ear. “Which of us is selling fruits and vegetables? Do we own hardware stores? I know of very few Jewish businesses handling those things.”
“How do we make it clear that the rising threat from Germany will affect them?” Rabbi Sachs asked.
“We should put a full-page advertisement in the Telegram.” Yossel’s tone suggested he was surprised no one had already thought of this. “We can tell people what is happening, and we can remind them that we are not the enemy.”
Beside Max, Samuel whispered, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think the people who read the Telegram will believe that.”
Max nodded. Of all the papers, the conservative readers of the Evening Telegram were among the least likely to side with the Jewish community. Yossel should know that, he thought.
More suggestions were thrown out, ranging from printing educational booklets to picketing outside noncompliant stores. Shapiro alternately wrote things down or shook his head while Rabbi Sachs encouraged more input, but none of the ideas seemed exactly right to Max. As the night wore on, the room got louder, with each man trying to outthink his neighbour. That’s when Max remembered something Molly had said when he’d asked about her parents after the last baseball game.
“My dad’s excited about the upcoming Glorious Twelfth,” she’d said, rolling her eyes dramatically. “The big Orangemen parade—it’s the only thing that seems to bring a smile to his face lately.”
“A rally,” Max declared, cutting through the din. “We should hold a rally.”
Shapiro stood. “A protest? A parade? What do you envision?”
Nearby, Max’s father nodded at Max with encouragement.
“Why not both?” Max said, a swell of purpose rising in him. “We could start on the street, maybe meet outside the Minsk synagogue, and march down the main streets until…” He thought it through. “Queen’s Park. The legislature can’t ignore us if we’re there. If there are enough of us, that is.”
Shapiro was nodding slowly. “A lot of arrangements would have to be made to get something like that going. Permits, police. But yes. You have something. The committee will discuss this.”
“Why’s that?” Shapiro asked.
“Because July eleventh is one day before the Orangemen’s parade. If nothing else, it will give everyone lots to talk about.”
Shapiro raised his face to the ceiling and let out a laugh that came straight from his belly, and the rest of the room joined in. “What’s your name?” he asked, taking up his pencil. “I want to make sure I have it spelled right.”
“This is Max Dreyfus!” Arnie yelled, grinning. “D-R-E-Y-F-U-S.”
Beside them, Yossel refused to meet Max’s eyes, but Max beamed. He was part of this now, for better or worse, and he was filled with resolve. He could hardly wait to see what happened next.
five MOLLY
I stood back from the mirror, checking to see how I looked, but my view was distorted by a diagonal crack cutting through the glass. Keeping that in mind, I examined my reflection sideways, trying to decide if wearing curlers had been worth the sleepless night I’d had. Normally I wouldn’t have bothered, but today I was paying special attention to my appearance.
“Today I get a new job,” I informed my warped reflection as I gently brushed the curls out. From between my lips, I took a bobby pin and pinned a lock of hair, then added another one to keep it in place. I leaned in a little, noting the definition of the bones in my face. We were all getting thinner these days.
At least I didn’t have to worry about what to wear. Hannah had seen to that. When I’d listed my limited options, she’d frowned at me.
“No, no. Those won’t work,” she said, kind but firm. “I’m sorry, but that pink cardigan reeks of mothballs. You need to air it out before you wear it again. My father always says in order to be successful, you need to look like you already are. Lucky for you, I have the perfect dress. I wore it the other night when I went out with Abe, and he couldn’t take his eyes off me.”
Her infectious attitude lifted my mood as it always did. “You could have worn a paper bag and he would have acted the same way.”
Hannah’s eyes twinkled. “I know. I was almost afraid he was going to propose over dinner.”
That led us deep into a conversation about whether Abe was the right kind of boy for her—we agreed that he wasn’t—and whether she thought she was ready to become a homemaker—she said she definitely was.
“What else am I going to do with myself?” she asked.
“And what about children?”
“Lots,” she said, looking pleased. “All I want is a home of my own and a family to take care of.”
I envied how sure Hannah was about her future. All I knew was that I wasn’t ready for the exact thing she wanted.
Before I left, she ran inside then returned with a smart navy dress draped over her arm and an almost new pair of Oxfords in her other hand, which I promised to keep clean and unmarked. Even with my cracked mirror, I could see the dress was perfect, though a little loose. Cut in the latest fashion, the waistline hung around mine, and the short sleeves ballooned out slightly. The shoes were a vast improvement over my own.
The trouble was, no matter how well I dressed and how hard I tried to convince myself, I knew my chances of finding a job were bleak.
Three weeks ago, when I’d started searching, I had scoured newspapers for ads, but found nothing that applied. A lot of the jobs were for men, but far too many families were like mine, in dire need of more than one income. Not yet discouraged, I’d set out door-to-door, looking for hiring signs in the shops lining the streets, but within the first block it had become apparent that I couldn’t depend on those. They hung in a couple of windows, but not many. Most signs simply said, OUT OF BUSINESS. Others said, JEWS NEED NOT APPLY, but I dismissed those shops, holding on to hope that something better would be up ahead. So far it hadn’t appeared.
As I turned to leave my room, I stopped by the tattered armchair that had once belonged to my seanmháthair. For years, it had sat by the window in the living room, but after she passed, my father had brought it up to my room.
“You remind me of her,” he’d said after her funeral. As much as I was hurting, I’ll never forget the depth of pain I saw in his eyes that night. “You’re just as strong as she was. I hope you’ll use her chair and keep telling stories.”
Now, I rested my hand on the worn upholstery and closed my eyes, summoning her dear old face. “Send me some magic, Seanmháthair,” I whispered, then I headed downstairs.
“You look nice,” Mum said, glancing up from her mending.
“Hannah lent me the dress and shoes,” I confessed.
She nodded, and I could tell she wanted to say something. Maybe comment about my Jewish friends, like Dad had.
“Good luck” was all she said. I took that as a good omen.
Something in the air felt different today, or at least that’s what I told myself. I stepped outside and smiled at the sight of Max walking by. His gaze swept up from my shiny Oxfords, over Hannah’s svelte navy dress and my fancy hair, then stopped at my face. Admiration shone in his eyes, and an unexpected wave of pleasure rolled through my chest. I’d never felt that way around him before, but I liked it.
“Where are you off to?”
I slowed, nearing him. “Job hunting still. I’m not having much luck.”
“I would hire you in a second,” he said. “You look fantastic.”
My cheeks flushed, but only partially at the compliment. The other part was embarrassment. He had inadvertently reminded me of what Dad said after I’d told the family I was unemployed.
“It’s all right,” I had assured them. “I can work for Mr. Dreyfus. Hannah said so. It’s not as bad as the other factories. He’s good to his workers, and—”
“No,” Dad said flatly.
“No?”
“It’s too dangerous. With everything going on right now, Jewish businesses aren’t safe.” He scowled at the table. “I’ll ask around. See who’s hiring.”
“You’ll find something else,” Richie offered helpfully.
“Yeah?” Dad jabbed a thumb in Jimmy’s direction. “This one’s been looking for a job for three months now, and he ain’t brought home a penny.”
Beside me, Jimmy seethed, but for once he didn’t say anything in response. I took a breath for courage then threw out the next pitch.
“I would be all right working there, Dad.”
“I said no. It isn’t safe.”
It annoyed me that he was treating me like a child. “I’m eighteen. I know what I’m doing. And Mr. Dreyfus would—”
“I said no!” he shouted, his face tomato red. “You will not work for a Jewish business. That’s the end of it.”
Later, Hannah asked if I wanted to speak with her father about a job, and I’d burned with shame over the fact that her religion was the reason I couldn’t say yes. So, for the first time in our friendship, I had lied to her. I said my parents didn’t want me working in a factory because they thought it was unsafe. Under her scrutiny, I had to turn away. Then she swiftly changed direction, asking me what I was planning to wear on my job hunt. It was like she’d swept the whole question under the rug, and I was so grateful.
Standing in front of Max now, I wondered if Hannah had told him.
“Don’t worry, Molly. You’ll find something,” he said cheerfully, easing my fears. I didn’t see any questions in his expression. “Which way you headed? Can I walk with you?”
“Dundas, Bathurst, up to Bloor Street… Who knows after that.”
“I’m headed the other way. Gonna go see my father.” He gave me a wink. “Good luck today. I know you’ll win ’em over.”
But Max was wrong. Today was no different from any other. I lost track of how many people shook their heads and sent me away. By the afternoon, my feet were sore, and I was ove
rheated from walking the hot sidewalks. Then, just when I couldn’t face another rejection, I found myself standing in front of the Smith Brothers’ Bookstore on Brunswick, and I felt a flicker of hope. The store had a small white awning over its window, and its name was written in gold script on the glass. There were no HELP WANTED or NOW HIRING signs, so I knew before I stepped inside that there was little chance of finding a job there. But it was a bookstore. Maybe this was the magic I’d asked my grandmother to send. She’d known my love of reading better than anyone.
I patted my drooping curls into place, checked that I was still put together all right, then walked inside. The store was a long, lone room divided into rows and aisles by crowded wooden shelves, and the planks beneath my shoes were lightened by well-worn paths weaving between shelves of Fiction and Nonfiction, Children’s Books, and Biographies. The air smelled like paper, and I felt almost dizzy with the desire to riffle through every page in the place.
An older, cordial-looking gentleman stood at the counter, clad in a white shirt and short brown tie, his brown trousers hooked to suspenders. He was about fifty, I estimated, with thinning hair and round spectacles.
“Good morning, miss.” His voice was low and rumbly. “Can I help you find something?”
I pushed my earlier rejections aside and bestowed upon him my most winning smile. “As a matter of fact, I’m hoping I can help you. My name is Molly Ryan, and I cannot imagine anything more wonderful than working here. Are you Mr. Smith?”
“Yes, I am.” His mouth twisted to the side, and it struck me that he seemed familiar. “I’m sorry, but we’re not hiring at the moment.”
But from the appearance of the store, they needed help. The shelves were dusty and the floor needed mopping. Even from a distance I could see a lot of the books weren’t shelved in the right places.
I stepped toward him with conviction. “I’m a good worker. I can clean and do other things you don’t want to do.”
He peered at me over the rim of his spectacles. “What experience do you have?”