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

“I’m not worried.” Max sounded more than confident. He sounded eager. “If they wanna fight, we’ll be ready.”

Mrs. Dreyfus frowned. “You don’t mean to fight, do you?”

“Times have changed,” Mr. Dreyfus told her. “Max is only saying that if they start a fight, we will be prepared. You remember what they said at the rally? We cannot sit by and let ignorance take over this city. A man does what he has to do.”

She looked away. “Violence is never a good thing.”

“Neither is having your head beaten in,” Max said.

“What is it with boys?” Hannah asked. “It’s like they can’t wait to hit something.”

I winked. “They want to impress us.”

She gave me a sideways look. “And are you impressed with anyone in particular?”

All I could think of was Max, walking behind us, keeping his distance. “I have no time for romance. I’m focusing on going back to school and getting a career.”

When we reached the edge of Christie Pits, Max jogged toward the Harbord Playground’s bench on the northwest diamond. Jimmy was already across the park, managing centre field for the Sons. I squinted toward the scoreboard. It was the bottom of the ninth—I’d missed his game, but I was glad to see the Sons were up 5–4. Jimmy’d be happy with the win.

We headed up the hill to a quieter area, away from the main crowd but still with a good view, then Hannah and I looked back down. There had to be a thousand people behind the Harbord Playground’s bench on the first baseline. On the other side, by the third baseline, there were at least as many St. Peter’s fans. I noticed a couple of newspapermen standing near the benches with their notepads, and I wondered what they would write about the game. Was there anyone here from Der Yidisher Zhurnal to report on the Jewish players?

Mr. and Mrs. Dreyfus laid out their blanket, while Hannah and I watched the players warm up. Balls shot from glove to glove, landing in well-seasoned leather pockets with satisfying smacks, and Max picked them out of the air like apples on a tree. His movements were so natural, controlled yet fluid. It almost looked like a dance.

“Jeez,” someone said nearby. “Dreyfus has an arm like a cannon. If he can hit like he throws, we can’t lose.”

Hannah and I grinned at each other. What the man didn’t realize was that Max hit better than he threw.

“I’ll see you after the game,” Mr. Dreyfus said to his wife, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

“Say hello to Saul for me,” she said.

“Remember what I said, yes?”

“Yes. We will go home if things get out of hand.”

He nodded, then smiled at us. “Enjoy your evening, girls.”

“Saul Rubenstein is having money trouble,” Hannah explained to me. “He needs to talk with Papa.”

Jimmy’s game ended across the park, and what looked like a thousand more spectators trickled toward our diamond to enjoy a doubleheader. I tried to spot Jimmy among the crowd, but couldn’t. I imagined he’d sit with his teammates.

Warm-up over, the Harbord Playground players took to their bench while St. Peter’s headed onto the field. Snooky was first up to bat, and he drove a grounder into a lousy spot, but St. Peter’s fielders weren’t organized. They tripped over their own feet, and the ball bobbled loose.

“Go! Go! Go!” Hannah and I screamed, jumping up.

Snooky stopped at second. Pavlo was up next, slugging the ball beyond all the fielders.

I was already losing my voice. “Home run! Go Pavlo!”

Harbord was up two almost right away, but St. Peter’s came back swinging and tied it up. The fans taunted each other predictably and yelled at the players, but as the game went on, I felt the tone shift. The jibes and hollers became uglier, made up mostly of sharp barbs about Jews. Beside me, Hannah and her mother were visibly tense, as was I. I could tell Max and the other Jewish players were doing their best to ignore the noise, but a couple of them were pacing quietly behind the bench like frustrated tigers.

When it was finally time for Max to stride to the plate, I noticed the St. Peter’s fielders back up, and that made me smile. They knew to give him room.

“Come on,” Hannah muttered. “Right field. That guy always drops the ball.”

“Come on, Max,” I echoed.

Max’s line drive rocketed past St. Peter’s, between right and centre field, exactly where Hannah had willed it to go, and the ball gave a giant bounce, sending the fielders running. Max made it to third base easily, but by then the fielders had sent the ball home, so he stayed there. His shoulders rose and fell with his breaths as he adjusted his cap. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

Then a shout rose up, and I looked away.

“Heil Hitler!”

About thirty boys near the front had leapt to their feet, their right arms held straight out. I recognized the Willowvale Swastikas from Monday night, and I watched in dread as hundreds of Harbord fans rushed toward the agitators. Mrs. Dreyfus gathered Hannah and me to her like a mother bird, while below us, the game ceased. From the way he leaned, I could tell Max longed to be on that hill, putting a stop to the Nazi shouts with his fists, but he and the others stayed where they were, their eyes on the fight. After a couple of minutes, the hostilities began to ease, though the combatants, bruised and bleeding, had to be dragged apart by the opposing sides.

And then, a few feet behind the Swazzies, I spotted a familiar red head. Richie. My heart sank to see where he’d chosen to sit. I should have been surprised, but I wasn’t. I looked away, determined to ignore him as the game resumed, but I kept looking over, angrier every time. I could feel the tension among the crowd building, like a barn packed with dry straw. It seemed only a matter of