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

was assigned to garrison duty for a fort that would, according to the experts, never be attacked. According to the Brits, even if the Japanese did attack, they only had about five thousand troops gathered across the Chinese border. Those forces, they were told, were weak and had very little artillery support. Their troops were ill-equipped and not used to night fighting—in fact, they avoided it—their aircrafts were basically obsolete, and Japanese pilots were mediocre. There was nothing for Max and the others to worry about, since the Brits stationed outside of Kowloon would make short work of any attempted invasions.

The Allied forces were so confident in the lack of threat that when C Force first arrived in Hong Kong, they discovered all their military vehicles had been diverted to Manila, on orders from the U.S. government. They didn’t even have a jeep. As for training, all they had done since they’d arrived were two forty-eight-hour manning exercises of designated areas on Hong Kong island, where they set up barbed wire and familiarized themselves with the area as best they could. Max and Arnie had a refresher in their medic training, which they’d first learned back at Fort York in Toronto. But there was little else.

Right now, Max wished that medic training had included a little more attention paid to hangovers. The headache wasn’t going away.

He uncovered his eyes, nudged awake by a velvet touch. “Hey there, Gander,” he mumbled.

Gander was a beautiful, purebred Newfoundland dog, practically the size of a pony. He had been given to the Royal Rifles as a mascot during their stay there, and they’d brought him to Hong Kong with them. Now he stood by Max’s bunk, pressing his soft muzzle against his hand. Gander could strut at the front of the parade with the dignity of a general and resolutely defend his unit against any curious strays, but he also knew just when to ask a lonely, homesick young man for a scratch.

“You can read my mind, can’t you?”

Gander thumped his tail against the cot.

“Mail call!”

With a groan, Max sat up and watched the young corporal sort through the envelopes in his hand. Gander wandered off, distracted by the smell of food coming in from outside.

“Dreyfus!” The corporal shuffled through more mail. “Ryan!”

Down the row, Max saw Richie’s hand reach out from an upper bunk, then the corporal made his way toward Max. After handing him an envelope he moved on, calling, “Stevens! Schwartz!”

Smiling, Max slid his finger through the envelope in his hand. It was from Hannah—he recognized her handwriting—and was sure to contain sweet stories about his niece and nephews that reminded him how much he was missing of their lives. He’d vowed to himself that when he got home he’d spend more time with them. Be a proper uncle.

He pulled out her letter, and with it, a newspaper page, which he set aside.

Dear Max,

First of all, I would like to announce that the Dreyfus family genes are running strong in my little family! I wrote to David to warn him: Mama gave Dinah a baseball and a tiny glove a week ago, and you should have seen that little girl’s determination. She reminded me so much of you, scowling at herself every time she couldn’t catch what I tossed. But then she figured out how to watch the ball, not the thrower, and now she is constantly chasing me around, wanting to play. Well, once Jacob saw that, he wanted to join in, and Mama went right out and bought my three-year-old a ball and glove. The glove is so big on him it keeps flopping his hand over, but I do my best to not laugh. Right now I am holding a napping Aaron on my lap while I watch Dinah and Jacob through the window. She kind of lobs it, he waves his glove around, then she runs to grab the ball before he can. Did we start that way, I wonder?

Max, I’ve included something extra in this letter. I wasn’t sure if I should, but I really wanted you to see. I know you’ll be surprised. You and I haven’t talked about Molly in a long time—

Max stared at the paper. “Surprised? That’s putting it mildly,” he said quietly. For a long time, any talk of Molly and the Ryans had been basically prohibited in his family. What had changed?

—and I’m sad to say that she and I rarely see each other these days. I’m so busy with the children, and well, you know. It’s hard to fix some things, isn’t it? Anyway, she’s working for the Star. I bet you’ll be proud to hear that. Enclosed is one of her latest stories. It’s actually from a few weeks ago—do you remember Mr. Rabinowitz? It’s about him!

I’d love to write more, but little Aaron is awake and crying now—this boy is always hungry. Dinah says hello to her big, brave uncle (she is such a good girl, thank goodness), so hello from her and everyone here. We miss you so much. Stay safe, brother dear. And promise you’ll keep my husband safe. I’m counting on you.

Love, Hannah

Max’s fingers trembled a little as he unfolded the sheet of newspaper, and his heart gave a little thump when he saw the name Molly Ryan, in small letters beneath the headline. IRA RABINOWITZ: A PORTRAIT OF TORONTO’S LIVING HISTORY. He ran his fingers over the ink, feeling a rush of affection for her despite all the years between them. The only other time he’d read something of hers was a letter to the editor that she’d written years ago, after the riot.

His eyes fell to the story that followed, and his mind recalled Mr. Rabinowitz as he’d last seen him, seven or eight years ago. Molly’s story brought the old man to life. Max hadn’t known about his early life in Poland and had never thought about him fighting in a war, let alone earning a medal for valour. Nor had