Dancing with Air (Still Life with Memories Book 4)

by Uvi Poznansky

  Dancing with Air

  Still Life with Memories

  Volume IV

  A Novel

  Uvi Poznansky

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  Contents

  Hold Me Holding You

  That Old GI Jive

  A Lover’s Cocktail

  In the Name of All that’s Tender

  Just Don’t Lie to Me

  Snuggle up a Little Closer

  That’s What the Heart Knows

  Because of You

  When You Kiss Me

  Because of You I Think I Can Smile

  Will It Start All Over Again

  Sang the Bold Fisherman

  The White Cliffs of Dover

  Summer Turning to Fall

  Like a Star on the Silver Screen

  Keep a Prayer for Me All the While

  To Take a Chance on Love

  I’m Dreaming You, I Always Will

  You’re Never Beaten until You Admit It

  Only Forever

  We’ll Be There

  About this Book

  About the Author

  About the Cover

  Acknowledgements

  A Note to the Reader

  Bonus Excerpts

  Excerpt: My Own Voice

  Excerpt: The White Piano

  Excerpt: The Music of Us

  Excerpt: Rise to Power

  Excerpt: A Peek at Bathsheba

  Excerpt: The Edge of Revolt

  Books by Uviart

  Children’s Books by Uviart

  Dancing with Air©2016 Uvi Poznansky

  Hold Me Holding You

  Prologue

  This was supposed to be the story of our love. I ached for Natasha from the moment she entered my life. As she performed at a concert for us soldiers in Camp Lejeune, her music conquered me. You might say it brought me to my knees even before she did.

  Natasha was my muse, my inspiration, my reason for overcoming the toughest odds while I served on the European front. At the end of World War II, I proposed to her and could not believe my good fortune: she said yes. With that naive sense of being invincible, which only the young possess, we looked forward to growing old together and to reflecting back on our memories.

  The first thing that changed our expectations was what happened when I came back to New York. I had to provide for her, so the promise I had made to my father, to study at the university and get a professional degree, had to be set aside. My wife, her Mama, and I moved to the west coast, to a small place in Santa Monica, and for a while I could not find a job. Restless, my mind drifted back, over and again, to scenes of combat. It kept resurrecting ghosts, both the wounded and the dead.

  In moments of doubt I held on to a scrap of paper—written by a soldier whose name I did not even know—which I had found in a trench in Omaha beach. It said, “Stay with me, God, the night is dark.”

  That year, whenever Natasha played, all I heard was firearms, booming. There it was, the staccato crackling of machine guns, of bullets whizzing overhead.

  I thought myself afflicted, compelled to remember things I would rather forget, things I refused to share with anyone, not even her.

  With all my heart, I admired Natasha—but even in love, being together ended up turning into somewhat of an illusion. She continued to perform. I changed jobs. Her engagements took her around the country and overseas. I took evening walks down to Santa Monica pier. There I stared at the horizon, imagining her entering the concert hall, sitting by the piano, nodding to strangers.

  It was not until five years later, when our son was born, that I felt happy again.

  And now, all these years later, this.

  Only a month ago she told me, “I fear that one night it may happen, Lenny.”

  And I said, “What d’you mean, dear?”

  And she said, “I’ll slip away in my sleep and never awake as me, and then—what? I have Ben, and he still needs me.”

  I hesitated to mention, again, that our son had dropped out of school and left us, he no longer lived at home, and did it slip her mind. Instead I decided to say nothing.

  I can no longer deny what has, unfortunately, become all too clear, from the very beginning of 1970. Some devil in her makes Natasha forget, from time to time, not only where she placed her notes, not only how to play certain passages in them, and not only who it was that taught her music in her early years, but also her own name.

  Natasha is tormented by confusion, trying to separate herself from the enemy within. Should I help her fight it or else—to stop her from suffering—should I let her succumb?

  Sometimes I think that for me, it would have been a great fortune to lose some of the memories. But for her it is a curse.

  By the same measure it is, perhaps, a blessing not to be able to peer into the future. I don’t want to know, don’t want to think of it, but the threat is there, it persists: in a few years—maybe even a few months—there would be little left of our union, of us.

  That is the moment I dread.

  This winter it’s something new every day. Today at sunrise I find Natasha in the closet, which is crammed with dozens of her old, glamorous gowns. Having sneaked into it, she stands there wide-eyed and completely nude, shivering slightly in the morning chill.

  A vein is pulsing on her breast. It’s blue, and so are the tips of her long, delicate fingers as she pulls a bunch of dresses down. Most of them slip off her arm, except for the slick, silvery dress, which she wore on her recital appearance in Paris, back in 1945, when both of us celebrated not only the victorious end of WWII but also our wedding.

  Now, fascinated by the silky touch, she tries to put it on: first backwards, then inside out. In frustration, she drops the thing to the floor and starts thrashing around, kicking it, becoming entangled as fallen metal hangers clink furiously against each other. Her eyelashes flutter over her pale cheeks as she listens to the mad rhythm.

  I turn on the bedside radio and rotate the knob this way and that, in an attempt to find something, anything that will distract her from that noise. Oh, how about this: a song is playing, and to the sound of it I find myself rolling back into the dent of her body on the sheets.

  I hug you softly, I kiss you in your dream

  Your breath is warm, my lips are trembling

  Let me wake you, are your eyes agleam?

  I whisper your name, can’t you hear my heart breaking?

  I reach to hold your smile

  Here it comes, so sweet in the morning light

  Love, let’s wait, wait for a awhile

  Let’s cling together till the morning light

  Hold me holding you

  Burning, burning

  Someone’s crying

  Someone’s crying

  Someone’s crying

  And I think it’s me

  At last, when all is quiet, she opens her eyes, turning her attention to something else: shoes. There are dozens of them, most with high heels, all strewn carelessly across the floor, remnants of times gone by.

  “Don’t,” I say, hating myself for having to control her. “You can't wear these anymore.”

  And she asks, “Why?”

  I hesitate to tell her that nowadays she cannot walk in them without losing her balance. With a stubborn glint in her eye, she puts on a pair of stilettos and holds her breath, just standing there like a child, afraid to move.

  “Here,” say I, rising from the bed to set a pair of flats before her, so she can step into them. “They look like ballet flats, don’t they? With these, you’ll be
able to move about. Want to dance, Natasha?”

  “I do,” she whispers. “I so do.”

  Getting her ready for her procedure today is not going to be easy, I can tell. Patience is not enough. I guide her hand into the sleeve, the way she used to do for Ben when he was five-years old. Then I turn her around to make sure her blouse is properly tucked into the skirt. I hold her close, but in other ways I must distance myself from her. I must not let her sense my anxiety or guess any of my concerns.

  Behind her I catch sight of my face. It is reflected in the kitchen window and to my relief it seems like a mask. It is utterly blank when I ask myself, how will she react when they place the heavy lead apron over her body? When they aim the machine at her head? Is there a risk of radiation? Isn’t the brain protected by the skull for a reason, so it keeps its secrets?

  Should I allow her to be searched this way, revealed, violated? What will be exposed as the X-rays travel through the gray matter, as the lobes are outlined, the flesh mapped onto film for all to see, and the spirit—damaged as it may be—is captured there, in all shades of white and black?

  By the time Natasha is ready it is nearly noon. I prepare a couple of sandwiches for later, and then, the last thing I do—despite knowing it may cause us to be late—is something I have not done in a long while, but I tell myself that at this point, she may need it. I sure do.

  So I mix a drink for both of us, and not just any old drink: it is the one Natasha loves, the one that used to remind her to loosen up around me and be ready for some excitement. And it is the one that makes me feel naughty. Even after all these years of knowing her I still feel as if I were just about to corrupt the innocent.

  There is a slight tremor in my hands, which I must overcome, for her sake and mine. Oh, let me live in the moment! Let everything else fade away. Let all my worries disappear—until later, until I can no longer avoid surrendering to them. This, right here, is our old ritual, and it has never failed us before. This instant is for us.

  From the kitchen cupboard I take out a small saucer, which I fill with coarse salt, and two highball glasses. I slice a wedge of lime and place it into her fingers, expecting her to do her part, which is to moisten the rim. But when Natasha glances at me, a bit startled, I cup her fingers in mine and somehow, we do it together.

  Then I dab the moist rim into the salt while carefully turning the glass, so that only the outer edge of it is covered with little crystals. She chuckles as I shake off the excess ones.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask, as I squeeze fresh grapefruit juice and pour it into the two salt-rimmed glasses.

  She shrugs, which I take to mean, oh, I don’t know. Nothing.

  I finish off the cocktail with just a little splash of gin. Even a hint of it would make her tipsy.

  “Ready?” I ask her.

  From her seat she looks up at me, as if to ask, what do you mean, ready? For what?

  “For your Salty Dog, what else,” I say, almost expecting her to recall the name of this concoction, almost surprised that she doesn’t. Once again my hand trembles. I do my best to control it, while setting the filled glass on the table before her.

  “Salty Dog?” She echoes, licking the rim of her glass, rotating it so as to sip all the way around it, aiming to get all the grains of crunchy, crushed salt, flavored by the citrusy liquid.

  I lean over, craving to be hugged—but she does not respond, and the only thing that wraps around me is loneliness.

  There is something so endearing about her, about the way she rolls the tangy little crystals around her tongue, losing herself in the bittersweet taste. How can I forget? Natasha used to blush doing this. Having achieved the precise, unforgiving discipline of a concert pianist, she used to judge herself, harshly so. Not now, not anymore.

  At least, there is something good—or so I would like to believe—in the change she is undergoing. Natasha seems to be retreating into an odd state of innocence. Other women her age may complain that time steals away their youth, but for her it snatches her back into it, taking her farther and farther away from me. Slowly, irrevocably, she is becoming a child, leaving me here by myself, distant, forgotten.

  Between the two of us, I am the one who must remain the adult. I know I am supposed to be strong for her, but who, just who is supposed to be strong for me now?

  Glancing at my watch, “Time to go,” I tell her.

  Natasha shakes her head, no.

  Funny, isn’t it? Ever since she gave birth to a stillborn—oh, when was that? Ten years ago, I think—ever since I had to take care of Ben, our son, because she was too distraught to do it, ever since then I have longed to mend what was broken and somehow, bring back the dead. I wanted to have one more child, and now, now I do—a defiant one at that.

  “I won’t go,” she says. “And you can’t make me!”

  In place of arguing I ask, “Want to dance?”

  She beams broadly, which tells me that this must be the best way to overcome her resistance, her refusal to go out of here. I raise her to her feet, but not before setting my glass in the sink, having taken a hasty sip, which must have been a mistake: as I twirl her, ever so gently, out of the kitchen and around the tiny entrance hall, heading out of the door and into the staircase leading down to the street, that’s when at last, it hits me: that taste, the taste of salt, the way it opens up old wounds, forbidden memories.

  Still I go through the motions, leading her down the street to the bus station, holding her hand.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asks. And before I can think of an answer she says, gleefully, “Oh, I know! To the beach?”

  Passersby may notice how I shake my head. Who cares. I’m so angry, angry with myself. I know I should have been more careful. I should have known what this sensation, this acrid, salty sting running down my throat might do to me. In a flash it sends me years back, straight into the surf, the high waves rising with menace, opening their frothy, drooling mouth, snapping at the sides of the landing craft, roaring wildly upon it—

  ❋

  Right from the onset of the attack I felt awkwardly out of place. The purpose of the Marine Corps is storming the land from the sea. And yet they were held back from the Normandy invasion, perhaps because the Army had more men, or else because of some rivalry between them, some calculation of a future claim to fame. So as a marine I was not even supposed to join this Army infantry unit on its mission, but as luck would have it there I was, the wrong man at the wrong time.

  Sitting ahead of me in the boat were silent figures, one helmet after another. Each steel shell was covered with a net to reduce its shine, especially when wet, and to allow vegetation to be added for the purpose of camouflage.

  I sensed the tensing of my muscles, the fear—unspoken but present—in all of us, dreading the unknown. We kept our eyes open, straining for a view of the target, afraid that it may go unnoticed, that the shoreline may disappear in the mist, and nothing will remain but the icy, sharp stabbing of this spray, the bitterness of it.

  “The weather is far from ideal,” said one.

  And another said, “Perhaps so. But postponing the attack is not going to happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because. It would mean a delay of at least two weeks.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the invasion plan, it has certain requirements—”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as the phase of the moon, the tides, and the time of day, which means that only a few hours in each month are deemed suitable.”

  “But—”

  “But what?”

  “The whole thing is wrong. Even the elements are against us.”

  “You’re right,” said the other. “The weather is far from ideal.”

  Both of them fell silent. Doubts started crossing my mind: should we be so lucky as to reach dry land, that was where danger was lurking. In the distance, above the sound of the breakers, all seemed still. There was complete silence in the bay,
which gave us no clue as to the position of the Germans. Not one shot was fired, not yet.

  I remember how I expected that some of the soldiers in this boat would soon become casualties. Others must have been thinking the same thing. No one talked anymore, not a word was uttered, but you used your eyes. From time to time I would find myself casting a look sideways at a guy, thinking, which one of us is about to die? Is it you or is it me?

  Then, ramps were dropped along the boat line and one after the other, we jumped into the cold water, which rose up to our chest, our shoulders. For a moment, some disappeared under the turbulent surface. Half-swimming, half-wading, and carrying our overloaded packs and our M-1 semi-automatic rifles, we began to move slowly onto the shore, unsure if we are already in front of the Nazi strongpoint.

  Where was the enemy? Perhaps over there, atop the bluff? Were they aiming their rifles and machine guns at us, biding their time for just the right second to press the trigger? Were they watching, waiting patiently for us to come closer into their sights, within a comfortable shooting distance, before letting loose?

  Accidentally I stumbled and took a big gulp of water, which made me thrash about and filled my throat with a briny tang. My chest heaved, struggling for air until, somehow, I found firm ground underfoot. Carrying my pack I struggled forward through the high surf of the sea and laid my left hand firmly on the pack of the man in front of me. Upon my back I felt the hand of another man. A line was forming. All seemed so orderly, which gave the impression that we were merely carrying out a routine exercise. Forward we marched, now crossing through shallow water that hissed at us, drowning out the alarming sound of silence.

  I had gone through amphibious assault training back in Camp Lejeune and commando training in Scotland a few months ago. I told myself that we had been trained. We were ready.

  But even at that dark, chilling hour, as we headed for the encounter, I had something beating vigorously in my heart, sustaining me. Call it the folly of youth—or else, call it hope: I trusted that I would survive, would come back to a place on the other side of the ocean, because there was Natasha, opening her arms for me, calling me home.