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

While different points of view are a sign of individuality and free thinking, trouble occurs when we are told what to believe, and we don’t question why. As Molly pointed out, the Telegram went beyond bias to censorship, and these stories were partially responsible for the emergence of the hateful Swastika Clubs. From what I could learn, there were approximately four thousand badge-carrying members of the Toronto clubs that occupied areas around Toronto, like the boardwalk near the Balmy Beach Canoe Club and Willowvale Park, or Christie Pits. Interestingly, there was also a Swastika Club at Roches Point and Balfour Beach in Lake Simcoe, and one in Kitchener, Ontario.

At the same time as this was happening, thousands were out of work because of the Great Depression, and they struggled to feed their families. Labour unions demanded non-existent jobs for their workers, and women sought better wages and working conditions. But they were largely unsuccessful, as Molly tells Max when he invites her to the July 11, 1933, rally. In February 1931, five hundred members of the International Ladies’ Garment Workers’ Union (ILGWU) walked out on a general strike, seeking a 15 per cent pay raise, recognition of their union, and impartial mediation in Toronto. But the populace regarded their demands as greedy and shouted them down. After two and a half months, public pressure forced the ILGWU to abandon the cause.

During the Depression, mass unemployment led to protests of all kinds. Here is an iconic photo of The Single Men’s Unemployed Association parading to Bathurst Street United Church in Toronto in the 1930s. Toronto Star / Library and Archives Canada / C-029397.

As a writer of historical fiction, I’m always looking for a personal thread that will bring the history to life. With everything going on at that time, Toronto was like a bed of dry straw, ready to burst into flame. I decided to light a match by creating a love story between two characters from opposite sides.

It wasn’t too difficult for me to imagine all this, since I grew up in Toronto in the 1970s and 1980s. While it was a different time, I do know those roasting-hot summer days and nights before air-conditioning was a given in every house. I have ridden along the same streetcar tracks as Molly and Max. My family and I spent countless days downtown, mostly enjoying Chinatown (I am a dim sum fanatic), but I know the fashion district of Spadina as well. Once upon a time, I had a gorgeous leather jacket and the softest gloves I’ve ever owned made in one of those old buildings. In elementary school, I remember being taken to Kensington Market with my class, and the father of one of my best friends owned a Mexican restaurant in Cabbagetown. And of course, I’ve also been to Christie Pits.

In Toronto, there are wonderful little pockets of culture, like Chinatown and Little Italy. Growing up, I knew certain areas were mostly Jewish, and others were primarily Catholic or Protestant. To me, the city’s “patchwork quilt” of people, as Max described his neighbourhood, was part of Toronto’s charm.

Until I learned of the Christie Pits Riot, I never could have conceived of the anger that erupted that hot August night in 1933. At the beginning of the ball game between Harbord Playground and St. Peter’s, approximately two thousand spectators were in attendance, and those were eventually joined by thousands more who drifted over after the Native Sons and the Vermonts game. St. Peter’s won the game against Harbord Playground around seven o’clock. That’s when a group of youths standing on the slope of the hill south of the ball diamond spread out a large white blanket bearing a black swastika, and the field erupted in a furious game of capture the flag. Once word got out, reinforcements raced in from around the city, building to a massive crowd of ten thousand. Both sides came prepared with sawed-off metal pipes, pool cues, baseball bats, and bricks.

It was no secret that something big was going to happen that night, but the police didn’t show up for the first forty-five minutes. Then again, it might not have made that much of a difference if they had come earlier. According to Cyril Levitt and William Shaffir’s The Riot at Christie Pits, by 9:30 p.m., “the police on horseback and motorcycle and on foot had formed a complete circle around the park, [and yet] the trucks of reinforcements still managed to break through.” Young Jewish boys rode their bicycles through the streets, hollering, “Gevalt, me shlugt yidn!” (Help, they’re beating Jews!) inspiring truckloads of Jewish men—and Italians, since the two communities were close—to head to the park. The fighting went on until after midnight, splintering into smaller gangs, and spreading through the streets. In the end, there were ten noted injuries, most of which were head injuries, plus a possible fractured rib. Two arrests were made: one for carrying a knife (the offender claimed he was carrying it because he was a fishing guide and needed it for scaling fish), and the other for being caught standing over a prostrate man with a wood-and-metal club raised over his head. He was locked up for two months for that.

I wondered about the far-reaching effects of the riot. Globally, it was a signal of what was to come, with World War II on the horizon. But in Toronto, what did the riot mean for Molly and Max?

Molly understood that incorrect or incomplete journalism could change everything, and how easily trust could be broken between the press and the people. The riot was her first real opportunity to look at an event and see all sides to the story, then capture it in words.

As a female reporter determined to tell the truth, Molly had her work cut out for her, and she had quite a role model in real-life journalist Rhea Clyman. Rhea led a remarkable life. Born in Poland in 1904, she moved to