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

“He’s barely producing a quarter of his old sales. He’s afraid he might go bankrupt.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

About a block away from Shopsy’s Delicatessen, Max spotted another sign: JEWS NEED NOT APPLY. “It’s worse than I thought,” he muttered.

“What is?”

Max jabbed his thumb at the shop. “That sign back there. In the window.”

His father waved a hand. “That’s been going on since the beginning of time. Your Zeyde Ira and Bubbe Rachel lived through worse. They were strong people, them. You remember that, Maxim: you come from strong people.”

When he was young, Max had found the story of why his grandparents fled Poland to be thrilling, in a dark, frightening way. On Christmas Day 1881, after Christians gathered in the Holy Cross church in Warsaw for mass, a false rumour had spread that there was a fire in the building. Twenty-nine Christians were killed in the subsequent stampede. Then the rumours took on a life of their own, and though there was no proof, people claimed the Jews were responsible. For three days after that, any Jewish store, business, or home near the church was targeted for destruction by rioters. When Max’s fourteen-year-old grandfather was chased by a man with a hammer, the family decided it was past time to leave.

In Max’s young imagination, he had been in Warsaw, fighting back, defending the neighbourhood. His father had put a stop to that way of thinking.

“Do not wish violence upon yourself, Maxim,” he’d said. “Our lives on earth are short enough. Your grandparents were wise to come here. They didn’t have two pennies to rub together, and they didn’t know but one word of English between them, but they were safe here.”

Max’s grandparents had settled in The Ward, a slum in downtown Toronto that housed hundreds of other immigrants, including Italians and Chinese. Through odd jobs and hard work, Max’s grandparents eventually managed to move out and buy a house in Kensington, where Max’s father had been born. These days, most of The Ward was gone. The ramshackle homes had been replaced by massive stone buildings.

At Shopsy’s Deli, Max and his father took a table near the window, and before they even sat down, other patrons stopped by to greet them. His father had always engaged with the people of their community, and their connections went deeper than simple friendships. Max stood back and watched the conversations, enjoying the custom.

“Ezra, how are you?” they asked.

“You see my son Max is back?”

“Good to see you, Max. You’re looking well. So tall! How was school? Are you a doctor yet?”

Max shook their hands and answered politely, explaining that he had another four years to go, and they all nodded.

“Good for you, Max. We’re all proud of you.”

As more people greeted them, Max was reminded of a special truth. Despite the prejudice and animosity his community experienced, he knew that no matter where he went in life, he would always be a member of this family. His people were like bees, working hard, and always recognizing each other as friends and kin.

When they were finally alone, Max and his father sat, then Max leaned over the table toward him. “Tell me what’s happening, Papa. I’ve been reading the papers, but it’s difficult when I’m in school.”

“Many interesting things, my son.” He smiled up at the young waitress who approached. “You got lox today? And cream cheese?”

“Always,” she said.

“Sounds good. Max?”

“I’ll have the same. And coffee,” Max added. “Okay, Papa. Tell me what you were gonna say.”

“Well, your mother probably told you all about it.”

“Not all, but I got the feeling that whatever you’re doing, she’d rather you stop doing it.”

He chuckled. “She’s probably right. She usually is.”

“What about all the talk of strikes? Do you worry about the labour movement?”

His father shrugged. “Why should I worry? I’m good to my employees. The trouble with socialism in our industry is that there’s not much margin. The workers want more money, but I don’t have much to give. If they push too hard, they force me out of business, and we all lose. But most of my employees are Jewish. Why would we fight among ourselves when the world is already fighting us?”

“Tell me what’s happening with the League for the Defence of Jewish Rights.” Max paused, leaning back as the waitress set down his coffee. “Thanks.” He turned back to his father. “I’ve read the headlines and your letters, but I want to hear it from you.”

“It’s a good organization, I think. Rabbi Sachs is in charge, along with Shmuel Meir Shapiro.”

“The editor of Der Yidisher Zhurnal.”

“Yes. Many, many people came to the April meeting. Some weren’t even Jewish. And now, Jews across the country are starting to come together. The irony is that the Nazis want to persecute us, but their hatred is pulling us together. We’re getting stronger because of them.”

“I’d like to come to a meeting, Papa.”

His father reached across the table and patted Max’s hand. “Since you were little you wanted to get into the fight. But you, you’re going to be a doctor. The first in our family to go to university. You remember telling me that? What were you, twelve?”

“Twelve.”

“And you had a plan. Best doctor and baseball player in the world, you said. Then you got the scholarship, and your marks—you’re top of the class.” He shook his head, marvelling. “Oy vey, what a brain you’ve got. Why would you want to get mixed up in politics? No, you have other things to spend your time on.”

Max pulled his hand away. “Papa, I’d like to be involved. This is too important.”

His father let out a long sigh. “Okay, okay. I will take you to the meeting tomorrow. Your mama’s gonna kill me.” He tapped the table with one finger. “You know, your mama’s a smart woman. You must find yourself a smart woman, Maxim. One who thinks for herself.” He smiled. “Without smart women, we men often