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

I’d been so proud of Liam lately. The light in his eyes had finally come back on a couple of weeks ago when Barbara had stopped by with Evelyn and Joan. Mum told me he’d come downstairs for tea, and the girls had run to him, wanting to play toy horses with him. At first, when they asked about the strange markings on his face and neck, he’d turned his answer into a gentle lesson about very bad people and staying away from fire. They’d nodded, wide-eyed, then they’d simply moved on to the game. Disarmed by their unaffected attentions, Liam had sat with them for hours while Mum and Barbara watched in astonishment. Mum told me that after they left, he’d started carving small toys for them, and the work was consuming him in a whole new, productive way.

Mark and Helen were expecting their first baby in the next two months, and they were on top of the world with the news. Mark always seemed fine, but despite his cheery outlook, he had never told me the truth about what had happened to him on the beaches of Normandy. I’d asked, but he just gave me a tight smile and looked away.

Then there was Jimmy. He hadn’t returned to Ian’s house in weeks, and neither Hannah nor I had seen him. I feared the worst, and as I had with the Red Cross and the government in ’42, I returned to calling hospitals and shelters, pleading for someone to tell me they’d seen my brother. No one had.

The men we’d come to interview tonight had only just been liberated after almost four years of harsh imprisonment. I knew the military wanted to celebrate their return in front of the press, but I questioned the wisdom of dragging them into the public eye so soon.

“I guess we’ll see,” Ian said. “The army probably had to choose some willing to talk, poor fellows.” He lit a cigarette. “First things first. Drinks. Gin and tonic?”

“Please.”

As he walked away, I studied the room, trying to determine who I should interview. Men lingered in ones or twos, cigarettes and drinks silently burning through them. I thought I knew a fair amount about POW camps, but I also knew the press hadn’t been told all of it. What exactly had these men survived? What would I learn tonight? I looked for someone standing on his own, someone with a certain energy in his eye, hoping to avoid anyone who might be too shy to answer questions. I pulled my notebook out of my purse and checked my notes one more time, making sure I had all my questions lined up.

Ian nudged me gently then handed me my drink. I took a sip, and we scanned the room together.

“Have you decided on anyone yet?” He raised his scotch to his lips.

I tilted my head toward a lone, dark-haired man with a thin moustache, a tumbler of whisky in his hand. “Maybe the officer over there.”

“He looks relatively alert, though all of them look like they could sleep for a month, don’t they?” The scotch in his glass sloshed a little as he gestured to the other side of the room. “There’s a group of younger men over that way. They’ll have something to say, I imagine.” He frowned at his watch. “I’ll meet you back here in, what, twenty minutes?”

“I might be late,” I said.

He started toward the young soldiers. “Don’t be.”

I took another sip then meandered toward the officer. The corner of his mouth twitched when he spotted me coming, as if he was considering whether or not to bolt, so I gave him a warm smile.

“Good evening,” I said brightly. “I’m Molly Ryan from the Toronto Daily Star.”

Up close, the gaunt lines of his face were even more obvious, his toughened skin loose over the bones, but I’d been wrong with my first impression of his age. He’d looked much older from a distance. Up close, I could tell he was only about ten years older than I was, maybe less.

“Nice to meet you,” he said. His voice was quiet and slow, and I leaned in a little closer to hear him. “Sergeant Robert Cox. I’d offer to buy you a drink, but—”

I held up my glass. “Thank you anyway. Really, I should be buying you a drink, to thank you for your service.”

He nodded but didn’t say anything in response.

I hesitated. “Sergeant Cox, I’m sure you’d rather be anywhere but here, but I hope you’ll speak with me a moment about your experience as a prisoner of war. So many Canadians don’t yet know what happened over there. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

“That’s why they brought me here.” His smile twitched again. “But you might not like the answers.”

“I hope you can tell me what you remember and not worry about my reactions. I’m tougher than I look. My brothers fought. I know a little about the war.”

“So they survived?”

“All but one,” I said, setting my glass on a nearby table before pulling out my notebook and pen. I was here to interview the men. I didn’t want to talk about me. “You were in captivity for three years and eight months, am I correct?”

He took a big gulp of his whisky. “Yes. I was captured on Christmas Day in ’41.”

My mouth went dry. The same day Richie died at St. Stephen’s. I’d known his answer beforehand, but it still hit me to hear it out loud. “Where were you captured?”

“Stanley Village.”

My mind went back in time, recalling Hannah’s bloodshot eyes on that terrible day, when she’d told me David had died there. This was too much for me, I realized suddenly. I shouldn’t be the one here, asking questions.

But I was. This was my job. If I gave in to the voice inside my head telling me to run, I would be a coward. I owed Richie and