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

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.”

“If I might make one more suggestion,” Max added, fighting a little guilt. He hoped Molly would forgive him—and that her father never found out whose idea this was. “If there’s enough time to arrange it, I suggest the rally be held July eleventh.”

“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.