A Touch of Passion (boxed set romance bundle)

by Uvi Poznansky

  “Mama!”

  Undeterred, Mrs. Horowitz shook her head, which in turn shook her bird-nest style hairdo. “Years earlier,” she said, “before he asked me to marry him, everyone was so, so very impressed with his talent. They predicted such a bright future for him. Where are all of them now?”

  “But Mama,” said the girl, “what does the bright future he had in the past have to do with the present?”

  “It has everything to do with here and now. You,” said Mrs. Horowitz, turning upon me, “yes, I’m talking to you! What’s your idea of the future? What are you planning to make of yourself, young man?”

  This question, I’m afraid, touched on a sensitive nerve. My father had pressed hard on me to achieve his dream: becoming a lawyer. Naturally there was no saying no to him. So before graduating from high school I had told him that I had registered at the university and would be majoring in Law, according to his wishes—but somehow I had neglected to mention that the closest I had ever come to registering was flipping through an outdated course catalog, while sitting on the toilet and dreaming about something else.

  Being drafted the next year was a lucky thing. It had saved me from having to admit to him that I had lied. I had looked forward to military service. Not only had it promised travel, fun, and adventure but also relieved me of the old man’s constant nagging.

  So, what was I planning to make of myself? That was the question I thought I had escaped answering—until now.

  I glanced at Natasha, hoping she can, somehow, get me out of this uneasy spot in the interrogation, but all I could spot in her eyes was a flash of curiosity. She, too, wanted to hear what I might say. I recalled her first letter, in which she had written, “I enjoyed your stories and would love to read more of them. Your words touched something in me... You, Lenny, you should become a writer.”

  Well, I thought, how hard can that be? And expecting to make an impression on both of them I said, “I’m going to be a writer.”

  “No, really,” said Mrs. Horowitz.

  “Really!”

  “Have you even been published?”

  “No—”

  “Of course not. Have you written anything worth reading?

  “Well, not yet, but—”

  “You interested in drama? Comedy? Some other genre?”

  On a whim I said, “Drama.”

  “Why drama?”

  “Because,” I said, “drama is like comedy but without the jokes.”

  Mrs. Horowitz was far from amused. She gave me a severe look. “I suppose,” she said, “that your jokes are nothing to write home about.”

  “Telling them is a dangerous proposition,” I said, with a shrug. “If no one laughs at the punch line, that’s the end of the story.”

  She said nothing. Instead she took a deep breath, perhaps to control a sense of contempt, so that—except for the vein pulsing at the side of her forehead, under the elaborately teased hair—it would not overtake her.

  “So,” I went on to say, “drama is safer.”

  “Listen here, Dostoyevsky,” she said. “Let me tell you: the last thing my daughter needs is to be involved with a would-be writer.”

  I gasped as Natasha cried, “Mama!”

  Which did nothing to slow Mrs. Horowitz down. “In every family,” she said, “one genius is enough, no, on second thought, it’s more than enough. Two are a recipe for disaster, because they’ll end up starving to death and blaming each other for it.”

  I thought of saying that having died of starvation would not leave these geniuses enough juice for exchanging accusations, as there could be no pointing fingers from beyond the grave, but to be on the safe side I decided not to offer my opinion on the subject.

  Mrs. Horowitz went on. “As long as I’m here, Natasha can rest assured that I’ll sacrifice myself not only to advance her career and her fame but also to put food on the table and provide for shelter overhead. But I won’t live forever—”

  “Ma, please—”

  “So now,” said Mrs. Horowitz, “what are your intentions, may I ask, regarding my daughter?”

  Surprised that she leveled this question at me, which she did before I even had a real opportunity to have a conversation with Natasha, I said, “Mrs. Horowitz, let me assure you about my intentions. They’re utterly serious—”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said, waving her hand at me. “I’m not going to allow Natasha to marry anyone coming off the street, even if he arrived in a luxury car, especially not someone who has some vague dreams of writing drama for no better reason than he’s no good at jokes.”

  Before I could answer that no one had been discussing marriage yet, and it was much too early to bring up the subject now, “Mama,” said the girl, in her most stubborn tone, “I can make up my own mind, thank you very much.”

  With that, Natasha sat down at her piano, raised her hands over the keys, and with great gusto, pounded them till the upside-down skyline of Manhatten trembled in the polished surface.

  ❋

  Mrs. Horowitz marched off to the kitchen, leaving us alone at long last.

  “Play for me, Natasha,” I said.

  She turned her eyes to me, and the green light in them flickered into a smile.

  “What kind of music d’you like?” she asked.

  To which I said, “I’d like to know what you like.”

  “My favorite is The Symphony No. 5 in C minor by Ludwig van Beethoven,” she said, “but this is not the right moment for it. I know! I’ll play a special song for you. Papa used to sing it to me, when I was little.”

  The first notes came softly, tugging at my heart. They brought back long-forgotten Yiddish words, in the voice of my mother. “Bei mir bist du shein4,” she sang to me. “Bei mir host du chein. Bei mir bist du alles oif di velt.”

  Natasha closed her eyes, surrendering herself to the music. She started swaying slightly as she played and from time to time, tipped her head backwards, letting it wash over her face, her lips. Fascinated I found myself drawing nearer. By the rosy blush that spread up her cheeks I knew that she could sense my closeness.

  In her soft, velvety voice, she started singing, “To me you are beautiful, to me you have grace, to me you are everything in the world.”

  From the direction of the kitchen, her Ma chimed in, singing, “I've tried to explain, bei mir bist du schoen.”

  And in a sudden elation I hummed under my breath, “So kiss me, and say that you will understand.”

  With the last notes still hovering in midair, she swung her knees around the piano bench and lifted her face to me. I raised her to her feet and gathered her to my heart. Then, as she wrapped her arms around my shoulders, I felt the heat awakening from within, rising recklessly in both of us.

  Drawing me to her, Natasha leaned backwards over the piano. To the last vibrations dying in its belly I bent over her, over the reflection of the skyline of New York, which rippled in reverse across the polished, black surface around us, and I kissed her.

  The Fifth

  Chapter 10

  When I left Natasha that evening and walked away from her doorstep, the last thing on my mind was what to say to Uncle Shmeel about the damage I had caused, by accident, to his convertible. That dread would come later—or rather, it was waiting for me to come to it, but for now, the only thing that pervaded me, pervaded my entire existence, was a sudden daze of happiness. Oh, and the other thing, too: my lips. To me they felt as if they were on fire. I would not be surprised if some passerby would point at them and tell me that they were swollen, distended to the point of taking over my entire face.

  Despite sounding like a cliché, the feeling was overwhelmingly real. I was grateful that her Mama had not bothered to see me to the door, because then she would have realized, without a doubt, that I had just kissed her daughter.

  As it turned out Uncle Shmeel noticed the dent in the front of the car at a single glance, before I had a chance to open my mouth and tell him about it.
/>
  “What happened?” he asked. “You all right?”

  “I’m fine,” said I. “And don’t worry, I’m going to pay you back for the damage, I promise I will, every single penny—”

  “Ah,” he said, waving a hand at me. “Forget it! Now that it’s scratched I can start driving this thing without fear of wrecking something that is too damn pristine.”

  “I’m going to pay you anyway, just as soon as I find myself back to camp and get my pay—”

  “Which reminds me,” he said. “D’you have a train ticket to go back?”

  “No—”

  “D’you have enough money for a train ticket?”

  “No—”

  “Just as I thought,” said Uncle Shmeel, stuffing a roll of dollar bills into my pocket. “Well, now you do!”

  Then, over my stunned loss for words, he went on to say, “So? Tell me everything!”

  “About what?”

  “How did it go with the girl?”

  “Oh,” I said vaguely. “We just talked—”

  “Is that all you did?”

  “For the most part.”

  “What did you talk about, then?”

  “Oh nothing, just this, that, and the other thing.”

  “Such as?”

  “Music.”

  “Ah! How romantic! Did you serenade her?”

  “No, she played the piano for me.”

  “And you forgot to tell her, didn’t you, that I used to make a living by playing the clarinet?”

  “No, yes, I mean—”

  Uncle Shmeel picked up his instrument and for emphasis, shook it in the air. “Perhaps,” he said, “you’ll tell her next time.”

  “Perhaps I will,” said I. “If I’m lucky enough to have a next time.”

  “So?” he said. “What kind of music does she like?”

  “Her favorite,” I told him, “is Symphony No. 5 in C minor by Ludwig van Beethoven.”

  “Ah,” he said, nodding his head with appreciation. “The Fifth! This girl has class!”

  Then, tightening his lips over the mouthpiece of his woodwind instrument and blowing his cheeks, he sounded the opening phrase with great, quivering pathos.

  Dit-dit-dit-dah...

  I raised my hand for a farewell handshake, as I had to catch the last train out of town, but according to Uncle Shmeel, the conversation had only begun, so why rush it?

  And without losing a beat he started telling me, between one momentous blow and another, that thirty years after it was written, this rhythm was used for the letter V in Morse code, and therefore it would surely come to represent the notion of victory, thanks in part to the BBC, because since the beginning of this war it had started to preface its broadcasts with those four notes, played on drums, but if you would ask him—which for some reason, no one cared to do—he could give it more punch, not only because the clarinet had the largest ranges of pitch of all musical instruments but also because no other Kleismer could hope to come close to the way he played it, which might sound like bragging but really, it wasn’t.

  You can hear it for yourself, can’t you? Dit-dit-dit-dah!

  At this point Uncle Shmeel smoothed his hair over his bald spot and took a long, deep breath, which allowed him to go on explaining that at any rate, this new interpretation of the symphony would have surprised the composer himself, as did the other, more common interpretation, which was based on the rumor that he, Beethoven, had pointed to the beginning of the first movement and said, “Thus fate knocks at the door.”

  Fascinating as that might have sounded it was completely wrong, nothing more than a fancy myth, but no one but Beethoven could have refuted it, which he had neglected to do, perhaps on account of being deaf, or mad, or both. And the truth was entirely different, you see, and much plainer. It was not the idea of fate that had inspired him, nor was it Morse code, rather it was the song of a yellow-hammer bird, which he had heard—penetrating, somehow, the heavy silence in his ears—while walking in Prater park in Vienna, which had been free to the public thanks to a declaration, a regal decree dating back to 1766 by Emperor Joseph II. And to make a short story long, the conclusion—dit-dit-dit-dah!—the conclusion is this: when two ideas compete for popular attention, fate would always get the upper hand, especially when its rival is merely a songbird.

  Uncle Shmeel took another breath, but before he could convert it into words I caught his hand and shook it, thanking him for his wonderful help and for not killing me over what I had done to his 1941 Ford Super Deluxe Convertible.

  With that I took leave of him and made it to the station just in time for the last train.

  ❋

  Upon arrival at Camp Lejeune I had not a moment to catch my breath. I was called to the office at once.

  “Listen up,” said the officer. “So far this war, the Battle of the Atlantic is our longest continuous military campaign, having started in 1939. We’re constantly sending re-enforcements, but as for you—”

  “Yes sir?”

  “You’re going to join the operation of the London Detachment.”

  I knew these orders were coming, but when they did I was not ready for them. Even so I snapped to attention.

  “At ease,” he ordered.

  Making an effort to relax, which had no chance but failing, I said, “Yes sir.”

  And he said, “D’you know what’s the most essential qualification for Marine selected for this operation?”

  “No sir. What is it?”

  “It’s the desire to be one.”

  At this point I couldn’t help but cut in. “Sir,” I said. “Please, refresh my memory: when have you asked me about my desire—”

  “I haven’t,” said the officer. “And I’m not about to ask you now. Now don’t interrupt me when I’m talking—”

  “No sir, I won’t.”

  He raised a hairy eyebrow.

  “Those selected,” he said, “should be fairly young but stable. They should be conscientious, cool-headed but aggressive--”

  “Doesn’t that immediately rule me out?”

  “Even if it does, I want you out of my hair. So go ahead, gather your things.”

  “Sir?”

  “Start packing.”

  “When?”

  “Right now! This afternoon.”

  “Where—”

  “The London Detachment resides in a non-military facility on Grosvenor Square, close to the American Embassy. This place,” he said, “is not without risk. Serving as a symbol of our country, it’s a tempting target for the German enemy.”

  “One more question—”

  “What?”

  “What’s the mission?”

  “It’s modeled after a similar mission in Shanghai, China, back in 1937. You are to provide security for the American embassy and to provide escort for State Department couriers, operating between the Embassy and various governmental staff offices in London.”

  “And sir, one more thing—”

  “What?”

  “What equipment do I need?”

  “You‘re going to get a Harley-Davidson motorcycle equipped with sidecars to operate the courier service.”

  “Really?” I asked, with a sudden spark of delight.

  And he said, “Really.”

  Which made me imagine myself already there. In my mind I rehearsed every motion, every single part of every motion, mounting one of these bad boys. Leaning against the bike I would put my entire weight onto the left leg, lift the right one over it, then adjust the mirror. And twisting the right hand grip towards my body I would apply throttle, starting the engine.

  Having gained momentum I would put both feet up onto the foot pegs. Accelerating, shifting, breaking, turning! The wind would scream, it would brush, ever so crisply, though the bristles of my hair as I would cruise down the streets, round the squares, cross the bridge over the river Thames. One moment I would be riding at the head of a motorcycle formation, the next—riding solo, on my way to Big Ben. Oh, wha
t a thrill!

  “Sir,” I said. “I wonder—”

  “No more questions,” said the officer. “Go, get ready. You’re scheduled to leave in less than four hours.”

  ❋

  Preparing myself for a new adventure started out as an incredible thrill, but ended on a note of uncertainty. After all, London was lighting up, literally: the Blitz, a period of sustained strategic bombing of the United Kingdom by Nazi Germany, was quite a spectacular thing, thanks to the earlier work of German legal scholars of the 1930’s. They had carefully worked out guidelines for what type of bombing was permissible under international law, ruling out direct attacks against civilians, but accepting the concept of attacking vital war industries, at the cost of heavy civilian casualties and breakdown of civilian morale.

  This—right here, right now—was a trying moment for me. Because of the war, because of the way it would destroy some lives and forever change others, I felt, all of a sudden, a pang of fear. Who could tell the future? I might never have another chance to talk with my sweetheart. Perhaps our first kiss was destined to be the last.

  “No,” I told myself, “don’t even think it. Nonsense. There’s no reason to worry. Even from a distance, a measure of closeness can be maintained. We’ll go on writing to each other. I’ll come back. She’ll wait for me.”

  Having packed my stuff I leapt at the last chance to call Natasha. This time, the phone was picked up at the first ring, by her Mama.

  “You again,” she grumbled.

  And at once, “Who is it?” called the girl, somewhere in the background.

  “Unfortunately,” said Mrs. Horowitz to her daughter, “it’s him.”

  And as if to form a sound barrier between us, she bellowed in my ear, with the full blast of her Russian accent, “So? What shall I tell her? What’s the reason you’re calling?”

  “Would you let me talk to her?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because” I told her, “I got my orders. I mean, I have to leave, heading for London, so—”

  “London?” she said, and then demanded, in a cut-and-dry tone, “when?”