A Touch of Passion (boxed set romance bundle)

by Uvi Poznansky

  I had no inking what the life of a pianist must feel like, traveling to one place after another, and how you might respond to see the deterioration of a loved one. So sorry to hear about your papa.

  I considered signing off with, “To you I am a stranger. Even so, this you must trust: I want to know you,” but decided against it, for fear that it might seem too direct, too intimate, and worst of all, too simple, especially coming from a supposedly erudite man, a man who according to her must have been well-versed in bookish, exemplary expressions.

  Below my signature I added an explanation, which at second glance looked a bit clunky, of how I had sent not just five but twenty-two exact copies of my letter, trying out different spellings of her street address, because her first envelope had accidentally become illegible, on account of being soaked with water, as a result of the extra care I took to lift the gummed flap without causing a tear.

  To my amazement Natasha wrote back. She said that my explanation sounded unbelievable, so unbelievable in fact that she decided it must have been true, because who in his right mind would come up with an elaborate, tortuous excuse such as that.

  And so we embarked on an exchange of letters, which started slowly. Then, over time, the intervals between one letter and the next grew shorter.

  First she told me about changes affected by the war effort:

  Mama read in the magazine: “Rationing has been introduced not to deprive you of your real needs, but to make more certain that you get your share of the country's goods, to get fair shares with everybody else. When the shops re-open you will be able to buy cloth, clothes, footwear and knitting wool only if you bring your food ration book with you. The shopkeeper will detach the required number of coupons from the unused page... You will have a total of 66 coupons to last you a year; so go sparingly. You can buy where you like and when you like without registering.”

  By Valentine’s Day, her voice became warmer and a bit more confident. She began to trust me with little things, little stories about her life, stories that showed her to me not only as a pianist but as a sixteen-year-old kid.

  She wrote,

  Mama tells me to put on my roller skates and go to several neighborhood groceries because they’ve received a shipment of sugar, flour, butter or some other rationed items, and she’s given me some ration coupons that can be redeemed for the items. Every once in a while there may be Nylon Stockings that Ma would want me to try to get. If I can’t find any, she might have to get them on the black market.

  I asked for her phone number. She gave it to me with a warning, saying that she liked chatting with her friends for long periods of time, so getting through to her would be tough. It would be next to impossible.

  This was true. After trying repeatedly to call her for three hours straight I finally got tired of it and resorted to send her a telegram, which I knew would be delivered at once by a young man riding a bicycle in a Western Union uniform and a cap, which is sure to get her attention. The telegram said, “Get off the phone. I’m trying to call you.”

  Then I dialed again. It rang.

  The Bell phone operator came on. I could hear her fumbling about at the switchboard, which I imagined as a high back panel, consisting of rows of front and back keys, front and back lamps, and cords all about, extending every which way, connecting the entire mess into circuits.

  At the other end, “Hello,” said Natasha. Her voice sounded intermittent.

  “She said, Hello,” said the operator.

  “Oh, hi,” said I.

  “He said, Hi,” said the operator.

  We laughed. I could barely hear what I thought were giggles, as they were breaking off, coming back on. After a while the connection got better, but at the risk of it deteriorating again, we found ourselves talking rather fast.

  I asked Natasha if she got my photograph, the one I had sent earlier that month. It showed me amongst others in a group of Marines, all of us dressed in uniforms, looking exactly alike.

  She said yes, and was I the Marine second from the left, squatting, and in return I should expect a photograph of hers, which I’d better treat with extreme care, not the way I had treated her first envelope, which meant placing it in a dry, safe place, preferably close to my heart, because this is the earliest picture she had with her papa, so it was dear to her, and she’s giving it to me as a special gift, and on an entirely different note, what would I say if she told me that this summer she plans to take some time off from performances, which would give us an opportunity to meet, and even if her Mama would object to this idea, because she protects her only daughter from dates with men, and with soldiers in particular, because in her opinion they’re good-for-nothing low-lives who sleep who-knows-where with God-knows-who, she, Natasha, would love to see me if—and that’s a big if—I could arrange a visit.

  A Lowdown Groove

  Chapter 7

  Amazed by her invitation I knew that I had to see Natasha at once. I requested one week leave and did not hesitate to certify, as the form clearly instructed, that I had sufficient funds—which really, I didn’t—to cover the cost of round trip travel and that I understood that should any portion of this leave, if approved, result in my taking more leave than I could earn on my unextended enlistment or current active duty obligation, my pay would be checked for such excess leave.

  I was told that a leave would be extremely hard to get right now, because the Marine Corps was gearing up for a move. Even though the main battle would be in the Pacific, some of us, including me, would be assigned to serve with Navy units that operated in Europe. Starting in July I would be one of the Marines tasked to provide security for the American embassy in London. As part of this assignment I would meet with members of England’s Royal Air Force. These meetings would lead into an exchange of information, and would have a significant effect, it was hoped, on the techniques and tactics developed for the use of Marine aviation in the near future.

  Normally I would be looking forward to such an opportunity for travel, but not now, because it stood in the way of seeing my girl. After all. there would be an ocean between us. If not for the song on the radio, I'm in a lowdown groove3, I would not have been able to find the words, the right words to express my mood.

  “Oh,” I sighed. “What a lowdown groove.”

  I was just about to call Natasha and tell her that I could not possibly make it when the officer summoned me to the office.

  Rising from his desk, “I hear you want to go visit your girlfriend,” he grumbled.

  How he knew the purpose behind my request for vacation I had no idea. Word must have spread around, perhaps due to all those letters traveling back and forth between Natasha and me from one end of the country to another.

  Snapping to attention I said, “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Haven’t you heard?” He huffed, puffing out his mustache. “We’re at war.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “War demands a sacrifice from all of us.”

  “Yes sir, it sure does.”

  “But for you,” he said, acidly, “vacation would be a nice thing, wouldn’t it.”

  “It sure would.”

  “A full week is out of the question.”

  Before I could stop myself I blurted out, “It is?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Even three days,” he said, “would be next to impossible for me to approve.”

  I thought of asking, “Will you, sir?” But this time, luckily, I bit my tongue. Then I said, “I’d give my right arm to see her.”

  To which he said, “I suppose you’re a lefty.”

  I was, but did not want to give him the satisfaction of confirming it, so I said nothing.

  The officer went back to his desk and began sharpening the tip of his pencil. Then he crossed out the number 7 from ‘how many days’ and replaced it, to my surprise, with the number 3. Bending over his desk, he picked up one of the rubber stamps, rolled it for the longest time all over a pad of ink, and without uttering another w
ord, pressed it against the paper. I had to hold myself from leaping forward to hug him, because there it was, rustling in his hand in bright, capital letters, the magic word: APPROVED.

  ❋

  Taking under account the travel time from Jacksonville, North Carolina, to her city in New Jersey and back, a leave of three days would allow me only a few hours with Natasha. That did not worry me at all, what did was an entirely different matter: I could not afford the round-trip train ticket, so had to make do with a one-way one.

  Even worse, I could come up with no better plan of return other than hitchhiking, which meant that I might not be able to make it back to camp on time and could be punished severely for it, because as a matter of U.S. military laws, desertion was not measured by time away from the unit but rather by something more subjective, such as unauthorized leave with a determined intent to not return.

  For now I put it out of my mind and boarded the train, focusing on one thing: getting to Summit.

  Glowing in the bright morning sun, the city sat atop the Second Watchhung Mountain, one of the two most prominent ridges known as First Watchung Mountain and Second Watchung Mountain, both of them stretching for over forty miles. Summit was known to be an affluent place. Its people were rich and did not shy away from demanding what they wanted. Back in 1898, they had entered into a dispute over wires and telephone poles with the New York and New Jersey Telephone Company, a dispute which had been resolved by the edge of a knife. The city had acted. Wires and cables had been sliced off.

  As I climbed up Broad Street, which was wider and straighter than most streets around here, a trolley stopped by and a thin, tall man with a slight stoop hopped out. Holding a clarinet case under his arm, he adjusted his Fedora hat, which was made of light woven straws with a center crease that was angled to the back. Taking one glance at me under its brim, he set the case down, tapped his feet, and threw his arms wide apart.

  “Lenny?” he cried. “What a surprise! Is it really you? Boy, you’ve grown so much since I saw you last! Coming to visit your old Uncle Shmeel, are you now? Why didn’t you tell me you’re coming?”

  “Well, I,” I mumbled, as he gathered me into his arms. “I really didn’t, I mean, I didn’t know—”

  “Ah,” said Uncle Shmeel. His smile revealed a glint in his gold tooth, which was devilishly matched by the glint in his eye. “I see: too many years have passed! You’ve forgotten all about me!”

  “No—”

  “What d’you mean? No, you didn’t know—or no, you did forget? I used to play my clarinet for you, one song after another, when you were ten years old, remember that?”

  I did, but only vaguely. With a notoriety as a ladies man, he was not really my uncle but a distant relative, the great grandson of my father’s great grandfather on his mother’s side, or something like that.

  “Good to see you,” I said. “I hope all’s well?”

  “Now that,” he said, “is a long story.”

  And without stopping for a breath he proceeded to complain that the introduction of talkies—which had started with The Jazz Singer in 1927, and had been followed, wouldn’t you know it, by the Great Depression—that introduction had been devastating to many musicians, including him, why? Because he had come to rely on earning a living at the cinema houses, where silent films would be featured to the sound of live music, which would not only contribute to the atmosphere but also give the audience vital emotional cues, without which they could make no sense of the action.

  So now if not for old Pearl, his girlfriend for the last ten years or so, who was incredibly generous to him on account of waiting for a marriage proposal, he would find himself living out on the streets, God forbid, or else having to play in Jewish weddings as a Kleismer, which in Yiddish meant the instrument of song, but thank God she adored him, which she did for no better reason than his improvisational flourishes, which in the past he had used to great advantage, earning not only his pay but also his reputation for virtuosity, which expressed itself in his manner of embellishing the drama onscreen, especially during scenes of horseback chases, so that even when special effects had not been indicated in the score, he would find a way to add galloping horses, which was not an easy sound effect to achieve, especially with a clarinet.

  At last he gasped for air, which was my chance to take leave of him. I extended my arm to him, offering a handshake. “I wish I could hear some more,” I said. “But really, now I must go.”

  “Why?” asked Uncle Shmeel, as he clasped my hand. “Are you late for a date?”

  “No—”

  “Then stay a minute,” he said. “What’s the big hurry?”

  He took his hat off and I could see that he looked a bit like my dad, with his grey hair combed carefully backwards over a balding spot. And just the way things were with my father, there was no saying no to Uncle Shmeel.

  “Look at you,” he went on to say, astonishment ringing in his voice. “What a fine young man you’ve become! Look at the polish of your golden buttons and buckles, the mirror of your shoe, the white of your belt, so tight around that slender waist of yours! Oh, what a splendid sight! A marine: fit, trim, dashing!”

  At hearing this I could not help but blush, because the way I chose to dress on this particular day was due, I admit, to nothing else but vanity. I wanted to impress Natasha.

  “At first,” I told him, “I considered wearing civilian clothes, but to my dismay forgot to bring my best pants, so instead I wore my dress blues, which were furnished to me at camp as part of my sea bag issue. This uniform has been worn, with few changes, in essentially its current form since the 19th century.”

  “By you?”

  “No!”

  “Of course not,” said Uncle Shmeel. “What was I thinking? Unlike me, you weren’t born back then. Would you believe it, I’ve turned fifty just a few weeks ago! I don’t believe it myself!”

  “Really?” I said, even though he looked his age. “Hard to believe!”

  He flashed a big smile. “So now, tell me the truth. What’s the uniform for? Some kind of a parade?”

  I hesitated to answer, which was when he wagged his finger at me. “I knew it!”

  “Knew what?”

  “Don’t you play games with me now! Someone should tell Walter Winchell, the newspaper and radio gossip commentator, so he can spread the news all over town!”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean—”

  “All of this,” he said, pointing at me, top to bottom, “is because of a girl!”

  “That,” I said, “is something I can’t deny.”

  “Of course you can’t! Now tell me everything, will you?”

  “What shall I say?”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Ten blocks from here,” I said. “She’s young, very young, and fiercely guarded by her Mama, who’s extremely cautious about the idea of her daughter dating enlisted men.”

  “Which means that at the sight of this uniform, she’ll flip.”

  “I’m afraid she will.”

  “Or else, she’ll find you irresistible.”

  “That I doubt.”

  We stopped at the corner of an intersection, and I dashed into a flower shop to buy a bouquet of roses, even though I had little money left.

  “I know what I can do for you,” said Uncle Shmeel, now with a resolute tone, which made me hold my breath. I was hoping he might offer me some money, which was badly needed. I could use it for taking Natasha out on the town and for the train ticket back to camp.

  “This is your lucky day,” he said. “The girl is going to embrace you and so will her Mama!”

  And I asked, “She will?”

  And he said, “Yes! You’ll arrive at her place in style, which means driving my new car! At the sight of it, the whole neighborhood will be astounded, because money talks, even if it has nothing important to say, because its vocabulary is limited to a single word, success, and trust me, nothing says success better than a 1941 For
d Super Deluxe Convertible.”

  I was speechless, utterly speechless, to the point of neglecting to thank him, which to my relief, he understood.

  “Now,” he said, “about the car—”

  “I’m not sure I can drive it,” I said, hoping it didn’t sound strange to him.

  After the stock market crash of October 1929, which had sent Wall Street into panic and wiped out millions of investors, my father had lost all his savings. Since then he could not afford giving me money for driving lessons, let alone buying a car, both of which were out of reach for us. We used public buses, trolleys, and trains.

  This year I had been trained to use a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. The military needed vehicles that were capable of quick handling and evasive riding. I found great pleasure in its olive drab-green color, its design, even its rattling noise, which exuded the masculine and rough-and-tumble essence. But other than the bike, and having driven a jeep once or twice around camp, I had little experience as a driver.

  “Not sure you can drive it?” said Uncle Shmeel. “Just try, what’s the worse that can happen?”

  An answer wasn’t expected, so I did not waste time looking for one. Instead I asked, “Are you sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure!”

  “Can you afford it?”

  “No,” he said, “but how could I say no to such a fine vehicle? I got it as a birthday gift. Pearl is grateful, so grateful to me for letting her cling to the hope that she can change me, despite all evidence to the contrary. She knows how to treat someone like me, someone who appreciates the more elegant things in life.”

  “You,” I said, “are a lucky man.”

  To which he shrugged. “She’s a patient woman.”

  Out of his pocket came the car keys, jingling.

  “Here,” he said. “You’re going to have great fun driving her. She’s such a beauty!”

  “You mean, Pearl?”

  “No! The car.”