Letters Across the Sea by Genevieve Graham (spicy books to read .txt) 📕

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 the 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?”

She looked over her shoulder. “You know what, bubbala. It’s for you.”

“My favourite,” he said, sitting at the table and helping himself. He’d missed her cooking so much. “Thank you, Mama.”

“More studying today?”

“No, I’m going to the factory this morning. I haven’t been yet. I should see if Papa needs help.”

“He would like that, but stay a few minutes with your mama. I want to hear you laugh.”

“I laugh plenty, Mama.” But he knew she had a point.

She placed a cup of tea before him then sat across with her own cup. “You work more than you laugh. You are young only once, my son. I see other boys outside, doing things that boys like to do. You should do those things.”

“Yes, Mama, but will those boys become doctors? Will they make their mamas proud?”

“You make me proud already.” She eyed the latkes. “Save some for Hannah.”

On the table by his father’s chair lay a folded issue of Der Yidisher Zhurnal, Toronto’s Yiddish newspaper. The headline was bold and intriguing. Max slid it closer.

“Maybe you shouldn’t read too much of that,” she suggested. “Too much hate in this world. There’s nothing we can do about it but be sad.”

In a way, she was right: there was nothing they could do about what was happening with Germany’s new chancellor, Adolf Hitler, and Eastern Europe. But the Zhurnal also reported on issues and rising tensions happening in the city. Toronto was like a hot tin roof these days, with people hopping from one cause to another, demanding jobs, homes, and fair treatment, extolling communism, walking lines of tension as strained as a tightrope. Max needed to know every inch of that tightrope so he could navigate it expertly.

He scanned the Yiddish type. “It does no one any good to wear blinders, Mama.”

His mother observed him a moment, then she got to her feet again. She never could sit still for too long. “You sound like your papa.”

“With most things,” he agreed. “Papa wrote to me about the League for the Defence of Jewish Rights.”

He’d felt so proud, learning his father had been a part of the league’s first meeting that April at Massey Hall. There, various Jewish organizations had come together to address rising anti-Semitism in Canada and beyond, trying to decide what to do about it. Unfortunately, after the first meeting, his father had written to him that the leaders of the movement had argued incessantly, including about who would be on the shtadlanim, the committee that would negotiate with the government. Too many political agendas, he’d lamented. Max wasn’t altogether surprised. In his experience, they could barely get a roomful of men in their synagogue to agree on anything, let alone the whole country. Still, the formation of the league was an important step.

His mother swept in with the teapot, topping up his cup before he was halfway done—her loving way of keeping him with her a little longer.

“Your father talks of little else,” she said. “Protests and meetings and boycotts and who knows what. Who wants to hear about that?”

Max wanted to hear about that. His