Dancing with Air (Still Life with Memories Book 4)

by Uvi Poznansky

  When I opened my eyes, it was already morning.

  “Natashinka?” I cried. “Where are you?”

  There was no answer. Except for a song playing faintly, over some instrumental flourishes, on the radio, there was silence.

  I only live for your touch, for your kiss

  It’s you I am thinking of, you that I miss

  Because of you there’s music in my heart

  And love is about to start

  Because of you

  I leapt to my feet, looking for her. There, on the pillow, in the dent where her head used to rest, was a little note.

  Oh Lenny, I’ve just passed my lips over your chin. It’s so beautifully chiseled. And the texture of your skin, its so different than mine. I love it so, especially now, when it needs a shave.

  You don’t respond to my kiss, and I can’t bring myself to shake you out of your sleep, ’cause you look so peaceful, so happy.

  I have a rehearsal this morning, and later today—a show. The organizers, they’re expecting me there very soon, so I must rush off. Here’s the address where I’ll be staying. See you there, tonight?

  ❋

  Later that day, just as I had expected, Captain Smith gave a hearty laugh at the end of each sentence of my letter to Lana. Then, reaching the end, he approved it.

  “Now, about mailing it,” he said, pulling thoughtfully at the end of his mustache. “You’re not to use any of those lamp-post mounted letter boxes, which can be spotted in every London square. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” said I. “But why?”

  “I need you to take extra good care of this letter,” he said. “It must arrive at the wrong hands, I mean, at the hands of German Intelligence, so just follow my instructions, is all.”

  “OK then, sir. How about sticking the letter in one of the red pillar boxes, they belong to the General Post Office too—”

  “Nah! Some of these freestanding boxes, they don’t have the posting aperture as part of the hinged door, which may cause mail to get caught up there, in the top of the box.”

  “Sir,” I said, holding myself back, ever so respectfully, from scratching my head. “Don’t you trust the postal service?”

  “It’s an old, clunky thing,” he said. “Established by Charles II in the Sixteenth Century, it used to be known as the Royal Mail, because it was built on a distribution system for royal documents. But for our purposes, it’s a royal pain.”

  “So—”

  “So, no letter boxes, no pillar boxes, no nothing! Here’s what I want you to do, Corporal, and be sure to do it in person. Go to the post office on Church Street. You can’t miss it. Its red facade hugs the corner, so to speak, and it has a red awning outside.”

  “I know the place, sir.”

  “Once inside, I want you to look at the clerks quite carefully and go to the one at the far left. You’ll know him by his watery-blue eyes.”

  I asked, “Why him?”

  “Because,” said the officer, drawing out his words, “we know something important about this particular guy.”

  “Such as what, if I may ask—”

  “Such as, he’s known to work for the other side.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. The Secret Intelligence Service here in Britain has not only fingered him as a traitor, a collaborator with the enemy, but also put pressure on him, threatening to throw him in jail for treason, or worse, unless he consents to work also for us.”

  “Oh! So he’s a double agent!”

  “He is. He does exactly what we want him to do, which coincides beautifully with what the Germans pay him for. From the stack of mail, he chooses a certain item that happens to draw his attention. Taking it aside, he opens the envelope and takes a photograph of its contents, to be sent to German Intelligence. Then he places the letter back in the envelope and in the pile.”

  “And how will he know to choose mine?”

  “He knows to expect you.”

  “He does? Oh, you told him about me? Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Sir,” I said. “I don’t want to make a mistake and hand the letter over to anyone else. What if he’s not the only one there with blue eyes?”

  “You’ll know him also by his the manner of his speech,” said the officer. “If you listen carefully, you’ll catch a trace of German accent.”

  I went out of his office and out of the building, and was heading to the post office on Church Street, when suddenly I felt a wave of suspense surge in me. In a flash I recalled where I had seen those watery-blue eyes and where I had heard that voice, that particular accent.

  Just last night I had met him, I had spotted the collaborator coming out of the shadows. He must have been lurking around Grosvenor Square for quite some time, waiting for me to arrive at the London Detachment, curious to see Natasha.

  “The girl,” he had said to me, “she’s drowsy. Keep your hands on her.”

  Only now did suspicion sink in.

  What had he been told about me?

  Was he paid not only to photograph my letter but also to make sure that it was genuine, that it was meant not for her, but for another girl, one who stayed on the other side of the ocean? Why else would he be so keen to learn more about me, about us?

  What had I done? Why had I become involved in such a dangerous ploy? Without a doubt, there was going to be trouble.

  All because of you.

  Beware, hissed the little voice in my mind. From now on, think of every move you make, because it’s being observed, documented, reported, especially when you’re with Natasha. How will she react to sensing that she is being watched? How can you share your confidential mission with her, when secrecy is crucial, because lives of soldiers are at stake? And without sharing it, how can you ask her to trust you?

  Be careful, for her sake, because she is innocent. Natasha has no idea about the role which, quite carelessly, you’ve chosen for her, the role of a cheated girlfriend. If your sweetheart ever finds out anything about this dirty game, the love between the two of you may be soured.

  All because of you.

  When You Kiss Me

  Chapter 8

  That evening, eager to meet my sweetheart and at the same time, determined to tell her as little as possible about my exploits, I arrived at the address she had left for me. Then I pressed the button, and as the doorbell chimed, I noticed the family name, written in round lettering underneath: Babcock.

  A hand moved the blackout blinds away from a nearby window, which was crisscrossed with wide sticky tape to reduce the danger of flying glass. An eye peered out. The door opened and there, between chubby cheeks, appeared a smile .

  “Evening,” I said. “I’m here to see Natasha.”

  Clapping her hands, “Yes, yes!” said the matronly woman. “You’re Lenny, right? She told me to expect you.”

  “She isn’t here?”

  Hearing the ring of disappointment in my voice, “Ah!” said Mrs. Babcock. “What have we here? An impatient lad!”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound that way—”

  “Not to worry, she’ll be here before you know it! Her Ma is a friend of a friend of mine, so I’m happy to have the girl stay with me, and I’m happy to have her friends, too, especially a handsome, young marine the likes of you!”

  “I think I’ll come back later,” said I.

  “Nonsense!” said Mrs. Babcock. “Here I am, right in the middle of cooking supper, so do come in, will you? There are biscuits in the tin, up there, see? Help yourself while you’re waiting.”

  Her dress was an expression of prudence. Made out of industrial blackout cloth, it was trimmed with lace that, by the yellowing of it, must have been used to decorate some old pillowcases. Wearing a flowery, ruffled apron that puffed around her belly, she had a soft, pillowy breast, which could not be avoided, no matter in which corner I tried to tuck myself or how fast I stepped out of her way, in the close quarters of her kitchen.

  A coal st
ove, which served not only to cook meals but also to heat the place, was already roaring.

  “This evening, just for the two of you, love birds, we’re going to have a special meal!” said Mrs. Babcock, with a great sense of familiarity, as if she had known me forever, or at least since my childhood. “If you ask me—which for some reason, no one cares to do—tinned food is anything but healthy. No one believes me; they say that even if I’m right, which I usually am, what of it? In the end you’re dead, no matter what.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  “To being dead?”

  “No,” said I. “To supper.”

  “No tinned meat tonight!” she said. “Lately, it’s forced down our throats, thanks to this glorious war, because unfortunately, fresh fish are in short supply, and so are bananas—ah, just the thought of bananas makes me drool, I crave them so, I do! But they’re no longer imported on ships from abroad, because nowadays, their space is filled by other things, such as oil and guns. Forget bananas, then.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “The only thing we can get in abundance, these days, is carrots,” she complained. “Carrots, carrots, and then, guess what? More and more carrots. We’re drowning in them, to the point that the Government keeps telling us it’s a good thing, which it can’t be. They claim that the exceptional night-flying vision of Royal Air Force pilots is due to nothing else but eating carotene. And they insist that it would help us see better in the blackout, but if you ask me—”

  She paused, waiting for me to ask, “Really? Is there any truth to that?”

  “No,” she stressed. “I don’t think so!”

  “Neither do I.”

  “I must admit, I dislike changes. They’re quite a challenge for me,” said the woman. “And this war, unfortunately, it’s all about changes! I’m a grammar school geography teacher, trying to teach my pupils the boundaries of European countries, and guess what? From one day to another, borders are being altered, they get erased and redrawn in the course of Nazi invasions.”

  While she was talking I cast a look around the kitchen. There was no refrigerator or icebox. Instead, there was a meat safe, which was a small, wooden cupboard. Colored dull red, its hinged doors were inlaid with tin plates, decorated by a lovely design made of punched holes. It was not only pretty but also served to ventilate the products stored inside, while keeping flies away from them.

  Mrs. Babcock took out a small package of ground beef. According to her it was a great find, which meant that she had to spar over it with other customers at the market. She unwrapped it and placed it in a large skillet with a pinch of salt and pepper. Then, just as she added carrot and onion, the front door opened and there was Natasha, taking off her hat.

  Her hair sparkled, but that wasn’t the thing that surprised me—her outfit did. Under her knee-length dress, the girl was wearing black leotards. They looked as smooth as a second skin. To accentuate this new, fashionable look, Natasha was also wearing a black bow tie.

  “Like it?” she asked me, teasingly.

  I held myself back from admitting that being a conservative man, it would take a certain adjustment for me to like it, especially on her, even though it looked strikingly attractive. In my eyes this masculine item of fashion clashed, somehow, with her girlish ways.

  Natasha must have read my mind. The green in her eyes flashed at me. “Get used to it, Lenny,” she said, with a sense of defiance ringing in her tone. “For years, women have been buying most of the men’s neckties for them. Why not get them for ourselves?”

  I had no comeback for that. Even so, I felt that there was something more, something unexplained in her attitude. Only now did I notice how pale she looked. So in place of an answer I took her hand in mine and was about to bring her closer to me, when just then, at the least opportune moment, Mrs. Babcock’s chest got in the way.

  “Come now!” she said, clucking her tongue. “Enough with the idle chitchat. Help me, dear, will you?”

  “Oh sure,” said Natasha.

  “Open the bread bin,” said Mrs. Babcock. “Take out the Manchet loaf. Can you smell it? I added a dash of cinnamon.”

  “Oh yes,” said Natasha.

  And I said, “Boy, it makes me so hungry!”

  Having spooned the meat mixture into a ceramic baking dish, Mrs. Babcock topped it with mashed potatoes and placed the pie in the stove. While it was baking, she put a bunch of carrots in a heavy-based pan, covered them with water, and added a pinch of salt. Once they were just tender, she drained the water out of the pan, added a small sprinkle of sugar and a bit of butter, complaining all the while that the recipe calls for more, much more, and what to do, what to do, such is life when this thing and that are so severely rationed.

  She stirred the carrots all about, till they were coated with the fragrant glaze and tinged brown in places. Then she served them steaming hot, as a caramelized side dish for the main course. For dessert we had carrot cake, textured with walnuts.

  After the meal we stood by the sink, Natasha and I, she washing the dishes, I drying them with a kitchen towel.

  Meanwhile, Mrs. Babcock finished wiping crumbs off the tablecloth. “The two of you,” she said, “would make a great team.”

  “Would we?” asked Natasha.

  Raising an eyebrow, the woman said, “You seem a bit unsettled, dear.”

  Natasha said nothing, so Mrs. Babcock pressed on.

  “Did something happen?” she asked. “There’s no color in your cheeks. Tell me about your day, will you?”

  “I will,” said Natasha. “But first, Lenny, what was your day like?”

  “Nothing special,” I said, and it took a lot of effort for me to sound casual. “I had to mail a letter for a friend.”

  “I see,” she said. “Anyone I know?”

  “No,” said I.

  Natasha fell silent, which made me feel odd. I wondered, was she suspecting me? No, I decided. That couldn’t be. She had not seen my letter to Lana.

  Meanwhile, perhaps to stop the awkward break in conversation, Mrs. Babcock asked her to turn on the radio, saying it was time for news. Instead, a song came on:

  Something tells me you’ll make me cry

  Your vows sound hollow, I know you lie

  Should I trust you, or trust my heart?

  When you kiss me, do you play a part?

  At last, “My day?” said Natasha. “It was much more difficult than expected. The show was in the lobby of a hotel. There was no grand piano. A year ago they used to have one, which was fortunate, because when a bomb fell on a steepled church next to it, bringing down the ceiling, guests could scramble under it, which saved their lives.”

  “No grand piano? So, what instrument did you use?”

  “Oh, the hotel manager set up something else for me, a minipiano with a matching stool, both of which have a wonderfully sleek Art Deco appearance. He said it’s hard to find a technician familiar with the mechanism of the thing, because it’s quite unique. So wouldn’t you know it, halfway through the performance, the pianette became unplayable!”

  “Oh no!” I cried.

  “But that,” said Natasha, dabbing the corner of her eye, “wasn’t the hard part. Something else was.”

  We waited for her to continue, but the girl took her time. She pulled the kitchen towel out of my hold and wiped the last plate herself, with deliberate, slow movements, as she was gathering her resolve to go on.

  “This show,” she said, “it was for soldiers lying on stretchers, watching as I entertained them. One by one, they were carried into the lobby, and I had to do my best to boost their morale. It just felt... Oh, I don’t know what to say, what words to use, because really, how can you express it? Horrible? That’s too light a word. I was in shock, in utter devastation, to see them with their arms and legs blown off. Just heartbreaking.”

  “My, my,” said Mrs. Babcock.

  “At first I bit my lips, out of sheer agony at seeing these men, who are so badly damaged.
But then, then I told myself, when you do it for them, you should do it with a smile,” said Natasha. “Try to play, try to keep their spirits up. Your music is all you have, it is all of you, and that’s what you must give them.”

  “I don’t know where you find the strength.”

  “If I don’t find it, I’ll break.”

  “My, my,” said the woman, once more.

  “These wounded soldiers,” said Natasha, “each one of them has a sister, a wife, a girlfriend back home. When I play for them, they imagine that I’m her. I can see it in their eyes.”

  Without another word, Mrs. Babcock gave her a big hug. Then she left the kitchen, leaving us alone, at long last.

  Natasha raised her eyes to me.

  “You know, Lenny, during the entire show I’ve been struggling,” she said, “trying to stay in the moment, but time and again, finding myself distracted.”

  “By what?”

  “By a memory of you. I’ve been fighting it off, trying to set aside that time, which was so dear to me, when I first laid eyes on you, back at Camp Upton, not even knowing, back then, how badly injured you were.”

  Her hand hovered over my shoulder, touching-not-touching the area that had been hit, several months ago, by a stray bullet. Her fingers slipped inside the opening of my shirt and brushed, ever so gently, around the muscles of my shoulder, carefully avoiding the scar. There was a sense of healing in her touch. There was passion.

  “My wound,” I breathed, bringing her hand over my heart, “is more than skin deep. I ache for you, sweetie.”

  In a heartbeat, my voice turned hoarse with desire. I took her wrist in my hand and pressed my lips to it.

  Then I kissed her.

  “Oh, Lenny,” she said, her cheeks aflame. “Your kiss is my undoing.”

  I said, “Why, Natashinka?”

  “Because,” she whispered, “it makes me feel as if you love me.”