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

I heard her shuffling papers in the background.

“Hmm,” she said. “I’m sorry. I don’t see his name here.”

“What about Maxim Dreyfus? Arnold Schwartz? They were both medics with D Company. Or David Bohmer? They were all there.”

“I’m sorry, miss. If they’re on the Red Cross list, their families will be notified,” she said. “This is all the information I have.”

But no one I knew had been notified by either the Red Cross or the government. It had been over two months since the battle, and we existed day to day in the dark, not knowing how we should be grieving.

“I understand. Thank you.” I hung up and dropped my head, digging my fingernails into my skull while I held in a scream. How could no one have any answers? They couldn’t have simply disappeared, could they?

Ian appeared at my desk and placed a cup of tea in front of me. “Just because their names aren’t on the list, that doesn’t mean they’re gone,” he said gently. “Keep in mind that Emperor Hirohito started this war without agreeing to the Geneva Convention, which makes it difficult for the Red Cross to access their POW camps, let alone get proper lists of prisoners.”

He was such a good friend. So patient. Before all this had happened, we’d gotten much closer, even going to dinner and the movies a couple of times. We’d had a lot of fun together. But he looked sad these days, his normal energy sapped by the distance I’d placed between us. Everything in my world had changed since Christmas. I had retreated from everyone, including him.

“I know,” I said, rubbing my eyes. I glanced blearily up at the clock on the wall, noticing it was almost five o’clock. I’d gotten practically nothing done all day. At my right stood a stack of paper I had barely touched.

“Have you eaten anything today?” he asked, eyeing the unopened bagged lunch at my left.

“I guess I forgot,” I said lamely. “Thanks for the tea.” I gulped it down then gathered my things. “I need to stop and get some rations, then go through more of these POW lists from the Red Cross.”

I stepped outside, bundled against the raw March cold, and started walking, my mind returning to Christmas as it so often did.

Every day for two weeks, Mum, Dad, and I had shivered beside the stove in the living room, three blankets piled over us as Mum and I knit socks for soldiers and listened to the radio, with its ongoing reports of what the press were calling the Battle of Hong Kong. The cold stiffened our fingers, but it was the awful waiting that made our stitches uneven. We sat in stony silence as the announcer shouted into his microphone about dive-bombing Japanese planes and relentless shelling, reminding us repeatedly that our men were vastly outnumbered. He rattled off the word casualties over and over, but no one said how many there were. No one said anything about our boys.

Finally, on the afternoon of Christmas Day, the British surrendered to the Japanese.

Dad had huffed with disgust. “They had to. The Canadians never would have surrendered.”

Despite my relief that there would be no more fighting, I still felt sick. We had no idea what had really happened out there. Where was Richie? Where were Max, Arnie, David, and the others? Had they survived? And what did surrender entail? Nobody seemed to know anything about that. It wasn’t until February that we finally learned the majority of C Force had been taken as prisoners of war. The rest were either dead or presumed dead.

Recently, telegrams had begun to trickle into homes, notifying families about the fate of their sons. Every time the mail came, my heart stopped in my throat. We still hadn’t heard a peep about Richie.

Fortunately, we did hear from my other brothers fairly often. Their letters were comforting to receive, though we knew little about where they were coming from, since they weren’t allowed to write specifics. We did know Mark and the Royal Regiment had moved from Iceland to somewhere in England, but that they still hadn’t seen action. Mark was the calmest of all my brothers, but as the war worsened, even his frustration became obvious.

Seems an awful waste not to put us to use somewhere…

Jimmy wrote sporadically, and I was glad to read that he seemed to be enjoying his winter overseas.

Weather’s so bad all the flights are grounded, and the squadron’s been out clearing runways. I never thought I’d be happy to see snow, but it reminds me of home. Still no news of Richie?

Liam’s letters from the St. Lawrence frightened me most of all. He was still sailing across the freezing Atlantic, shielding merchant ships and chasing down U-boats.

Our last sail to England, we were loaded up with depth charges and we had to store them on the forward decks. That meant the enemy planes could easily have spotted them if they came low enough. I tell you, one shot from them and… Oh, boy. That was the worst week of my life, I can easily say. By the time we arrived, I could practically recite the Lord’s Prayer backwards.

I pushed the thoughts of black water and frozen decks aside as I headed up the street toward my house. I had just passed the Dreyfus house when I heard their door creak open.

“Molly?”

I turned, and my heart went to my throat seeing Mrs. Dreyfus’s obvious grief. “Is it Max?” I cried, racing toward her.

She stood back and motioned for me to come inside, where the house was warm but still. I caught my breath, seeing Hannah sitting in the corner of the living room, her face a small, white oval in the darkness. She clutched a telegram in her hands.

I rushed to her side. “Oh, Hannah! What’s happened?”

“David,” she whispered. “Christmas Day. I thought… I thought maybe he—”

I threw my arms around her, wishing there was something I could do, something I could say,