Once the coin dropped down through the slot, with a startling noise, I braced myself—even though I was in the middle of a long smooch—because I knew what was coming, knew that my mood would soon be dampened.
“Hello there,” said a voice in a heavy Russian accent.
Natasha snapped to attention. “Mama,” she said, “it’s me.”
“Whatever you’re doing,” said the old woman, “stop it!”
“Mama, I have great news for you—”
“You wearing a hat?”
“What? No, Ma—”
“I knew it! In this weather, you should be wearing a hat!”
“But really, it’s a beautiful day here—”
“Exactly! Your skin is fair, Natashinka, so you must do what you must do to protect it.”
“I know what I’m doing, Ma. I’m not a little girl anymore.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of! I can tell, dear, you’re up to no good!”
“How on earth can you tell?”
“Because.”
“Because what?”
“Because you’re calling me,” said her Mama. “And I know that no matter what it is, it’s not your idea, really. It’s his, right?”
I had no choice but to step in.
“Hello there, Mrs. Horowitz,” I said.
“You again,” muttered the old woman.
Despite her usual disdain, or maybe because of it, I could hear that she was enjoying her sharp tone with me, which meant that for a son-in-law, she would be dreadfully bored with anyone else but me.
“Young man,” she said. “What d’you have to say for yourself?”
In place of an answer I asked, “Remember you told us to wait, and not make a move, and not even think about a wedding until the end of the war?”
“So? Has the war ended?”
“No, but we’re going to get married anyways.”
“Oy vey,” she said.
Then she added, “So, Natashinka? What’s the big rush?”
“No rush, Ma. We just want to be together, is all.”
“So what d’you want from me, now? It’s too late to ask for my permission or to expect my blessing. It’s a done deal, right?”
“Ma, I just want you to be happy for us.”
Mrs. Horowitz took a deep breath, before pressing on. “How happy can I be,” she asked, “when you choose someone who understands next to nothing about your talent, and will, no doubt, hold you back from any chance of success in your career, especially once you have a baby—mark my words!—and on top of all this, the young man has no education to speak of and of course, no job, and except for a vague dream of becoming a writer one of these days, your dear Dostoyevsky has nothing, absolutely nothing to offer, and meanwhile he’s serving the country in a war zone, aiming to save the world and in the process, risking not only his life but also your well-being—”
“Please, Ma—”
“Besides, how different can he be from all the others, those good-for-nothing low-lives in uniform, who sleep who-knows-where with God-knows-who?”
“Ma!”
“All right, all right, I have a lot more to tell you in the way of advice but will limit myself, just because I love you, to say just this: Mazel Tov!”
“Thank you, Ma!”
“So? We have a date? When should I dye my dance shoes and fix my hair for the happy occasion?”
“We haven’t discussed any details yet, Ma. I’ll let you know.”
“Oh. I’m glad to hear it.”
“Are you, Ma? Really?”
“Sure,” said Mrs. Horowitz. “I’m so happy, to the point that I need to wash it down with some stiff drink. As soon as this conversation is over I’ll pour myself a big glass of Vodka and cry into it.”
The mood was altered, not only for me but also for my sweetheart. After hanging up the receiver we stumbled into silence.
After a while I offered to escort her to Mrs. Babcock’s home, but Natasha refused. She kissed me goodbye, a bit hurriedly, and said that a long walk, by herself, would do her good.
I watched her walking away from me, her figure shrinking into the distance under the London Plane trees. Stiff-textured leaves were swirling in the evening breeze. One of them, lobed like the palm of a hand, landed on my shoulder as if to say, don’t take it to heart. This had been a long day. Things were bound to look brighter, come next morning.
Yes, I said to myself. Natasha must have been exhausted now, and so was I. What’s more, her Ma was an expert in taking control of the conversation, which was why it took the wind out of both of us. But tomorrow, Natasha would come back for me, really she would.
I took a stroll in the opposite direction, then stood a long time by the fountain, watching other couples coming by, walking hand-in-hand.
A street performer tried, several times, to gather some of them into an audience, all in vain. No one paid attention to him. Perhaps it was too late. The sky was getting darker. Time to go home.
He stopped by my side, perhaps sensing my sadness, and sang, in the softest voice,
When we kissed goodbye in old Mayfair
Forever I’ll recall
Chill was trembling in the air
Summer turning to fall
When you left—I may be wrong—
But it was too hard to bear
A nightingale stopped singing in the middle of a song
As the silence lingering over Berkeley square.
Like a Star on the Silver Screen
Chapter 14
The next morning, the unexpected happened. Why I had failed to prepare myself for it was quite beyond me, but there it was: a letter from the wrong girl. Lana.
I imagined the sound of her slight Russian accent bubbling there, under the words. She wrote,
Lenny,
Oh, what a surprise! I busted out laughing, couldn’t contain myself, that’s how happy I was, simply to get your letter—even if most of it has been obliterated beyond recognition. You like ‘obliterated’? I think it makes me sound smart! Anyway, it was erased with some heavy blue marks, probably by a military censor or something.
So what’s a girl to do, except try to guess at what you wrote, what you meant to tell me?
At reading this I wondered not only what parts of my writing she had managed to read but also why she had gotten it in the first place. I must have been under the wrong impression, thinking that once my letters would be intercepted by Nazi Intelligence, they would never be delivered to Lana, which gave me a false sense of freedom.
I could write anything, so I had thought, and it would not matter. Lana would know nothing, nothing at all about this.
A sudden confusion set in, along with doubt. Had my letters served their intended purpose, to fool the enemy—or not? I hated to think that all my hard work and creativity had been for naught.
A moment later, my head cleared. I realized what the German double agent, who worked at the post office, must have done. He must have made copies of my letters, which he had given to his German collaborators. Then he had placed the originals back in the pile, so they could undergo the usual censorship process, before being sent overseas.
And now, to my dismay, I had to contend with this new complication: an unwanted infatuation, coming my way. The last thing I needed, at this point in my life, was emotional protestations from a lonely girl whom I barely knew.
In a flash I recalled how she had looked, moments before Natasha’s performance in Carnegie Hall. Taking a seat next to mine, Lana had been wearing full-length satin gloves that extended up above the elbows, a sparkly black evening dress with a slit on the side, and a necklace that dipped into her cleavage. Licking her red lips, she had given a little nod to me, making her hair sway all around her, shiny and bleached blond.
Here before me, was her account of that night.
When I met you, Lenny, during your recent visit to NY, you were gracious to me—super gracious, really!—letting me grab that large bouquet of roses right
out of your hands, even though both of us knew it wasn’t meant for me, not really.
I mean, I’m not dumb! I know what’s what, even if at times I pretend to be silly. Men seem to like it, no idea why. Take my ex-boyfriend, Ryan, for example. He thinks I have a pea for a brain, which makes him feel superior, which in turn let me have my way with him, at least while it lasted.
Of course, you’re different. I do mean it.
I’ve been thinking about you fondly, in the last few months, and whispering your name and mine, because they go so well together.
For me, it’s this unusual grace in you—even more so than how tall and handsome you are—that I find irresistible.
By all means, I whispered, please, do resist me. Otherwise I would find myself in trouble, because what could I tell my sweetheart about you?
Now Lana turned her attention to our so-called past. With letters slanting this way and that, she wrote,
Perhaps, at the time, I read you all wrong. Perhaps your attention to me, as gallant as it may have been, was a bit more than mere courtesy, no? In your mind, as in mine, was this love? Was it meant to happen?
Anyways, even if the answer is no, a girl can wish, right? And I hope I’m not piling on too many questions all at once. Does this annoy you? Sorry. Am I being silly, or what?
Now, back to your letter. I can tell you put a lot in it. Four pages is nothing to sneeze at. But if I put the words together, I mean, the few words that the censor left untouched, there’s less than a sentence worth of stuff, so no wonder that on the whole, it makes little sense.
So, instead of trying to respond to something I can’t understand, let me do something else, something that’s a lot more satisfying, at least in my mind. At the risk of dispelling the sense of mystery I’ll tell you all about me, which may help you figure out why you find me so attractive.
At that I cried out, who, me? I find you attractive? Really?
And as if Lana could hear me, all the way out there in the Big Apple, she provided a rambling account of her life. Perhaps it was meant to explain who she was, how she was coping with life in wartime, and most of all, to convince me of her charms.
I spent the entire day going from one store to another, looking for clothes and makeup and stuff. It’s an exhausting job—please don’t laugh—but you know me: I’m not a quitter!
Looking cute is important, and it’s not just me saying that. In the news I’ve heard that in spite of rationing, the US government expressed concern, genuine concern that a lack of interest in personal appearance can be a sign of low morale, which in turn can have an impact, which they called ‘detrimental,’ on the war effort. So, for my part I’m determined to do everything in my power to look pretty for the war.
And that isn’t easy, mind you! Makeup hasn’t been rationed, so far at least, but it’s subject to a luxury tax, which makes it way too expensive for me. And anyways, some makeup companies don’t produce as much as needed, these days. Coty, for example, a company that’s known for its face powder and perfumes, now makes army foot powder and anti-gas ointment. So what’s a girl to do, if not apply beetroot juice for a splash of lip color and boot polish for mascara?
But to look at me, you won’t guess what it took to put together this face.
Well, enough talking about me. D’you like my hair?
For anyone who liked bleached hair, I thought, it was just the right color.
She went on to say,
I don’t know why I’m telling you all this, Lenny, perhaps to make sure you realize how inventive I am, especially in hard times. You see, in spite of popular opinion, my brain is much larger than a pea.
To that I had to agree. Lana did have a resourceful mind and she was proud of it, as she ought to be. And yet, it was shallow. There was a stark contrast, I thought, between her brand of wit and Natasha’s genius.
In her next paragraph, Lana wrote,
Last week, Uncle Sam assumed the role of fashion designer. Can you believe it? There are new, sweeping restrictions, aimed at saving some of the yardage used on women's apparel.
The new measures restrict hems to two inches and eliminate cuffs on sleeves. I’m shocked, really! Why don’t they mind their own business and get out of mine?
The only categories exempt from such restrictions are bridal gowns and maternity dresses. As I said, a girl can only hope, right?
If not for feeling remorseful for getting her involved—without her knowledge or consent—in a complex ploy to defeat the enemy, I would have shouted, right you are! Yes, a girl can only hope, but then again, maybe she shouldn’t. So please, please be realistic. Forget all these dreams of getting married, especially to me, because Lana, I’m already spoken for.
I felt as if I stepped, by accident, into chewing gum. And yet I was the one responsible for this sticky mess. It was my own doing. There was no doubt in my mind that the more I would thrash about, trying to yank myself free of it, the more I would find myself entangled.
Her last paragraph was a scribble of a poem, which she must have written just for me. I could almost hear her voice singing it, in a somewhat clunky tune, which was endearing and at the same time, a bit frightening.
Lana’s got a boyfriend, Lenny
Lana’s spendin’ every last penny
So he’ll admire her, keep his eyes for her,
Like a star on the silver screen
Keep a Prayer for Me All the While
Chapter 15
I decided to talk with Captain Smith about my role in the military effort. The spy game proved to be less fun than expected. In fact, it was becoming perilous. Perhaps I could persuade him to take me off the task of writing to Lana, because it would further complicate my life. I could no longer afford to go on with this charade.
There was not a moment to lose. I took a deep breath, went to his office, and stood at attention by the open door.
“Ah!” he said, curling up the edge of his mustache. “At ease. Just the man I wanted to see! How was your little trip to Dover?”
“Fine, sir,” I said, “but now—”
“So? Did it give you what you said you needed? I mean, that thing called inspiration?”
“Yes, sir, the trip was inspiring all right—”
“Good! I’m eager to see results. Write something up as soon as possible, Corporal, and show me a draft before you mail it.”
There was no way I could disobey his order. I snapped to attention and turned around to leave, annoyed, at myself most of all, for not asking for reassignment.
“Oh, and one more thing,” he said.
I stopped. “Yes, sir?”
“Since you’re so eager to travel across the English countryside, here’s your new opportunity. As soon as it came up I thought about you.”
“Where to?”
“This time in the opposite direction: the quiet town of Fauld in Staffordshire. I need you to deliver some papers, some orders to the underground munitions storage of the Royal Air Force there.”
“Yes sir.”
“But first, Corporal, don’t you forget: bring me that draft,” he said, just before dismissing me. “I can’t wait to read it.”
❋
This time it took me quite a while to get started with the letter, because first I had to respond to some of what Lana wrote, even though I had no interest in any of her remarks, particularly those about her efforts to look pretty.
I opened with,
Dear Lana,
I so enjoy hearing about life back home, and how you manage to shop for clothes, despite the limitations. Admirable! Yes, you’re not a quitter, and neither am I!
I felt obliged to say something nice to her, but what? Should I say, you have a certain style? Or else, there’s something about you? Both of these phrases sounded vague enough to suit me and at the same time, suggestive enough to sweet-talk her into a continued conversation, which in turn, would convince German Intelligence that this is the real thing. In their eyes, the relationship between us wo
uld be nothing but genuine.
I decided that the best way to flatter her would be with a compliment she had never heard before.
So I wrote,
Given your exceptional wit, not to mention your good looks, no wonder I wish to impress you.
So here, Lana, is something you may find interesting about me: Just the other day I wrote a letter to General Patton—yes, the one you hear about in the news all the time—introducing myself and offering to become his special military advisor, specializing in all things England.
Why, you ask? Because I hear more and more chatter about Patton coming here, to east Anglia, to lead the upcoming invasion of the French coast. I’m not just bragging about myself, mind you! I think I can truly help him, because I’ve gained certain expertise, having visited the city of Dover. Using the castle as my base, I’ve studied the topography of the entire coast. I’ve seen our soldiers go through extensive military exercises in preparation for the attack. They’re ready for their mission. In a different way, so am I.
So if you ask me, he’s going to use me as a major source of information.
After boasting, in a general manner, about my knowledge, I illustrated it to her by pinpointing the locations where I saw tanks and landing craft, never mentioning of course that they were made out of inflatable rubber. I gave her my impression, overblown as it might have been, of the efficiency of these military exercises, which had never happened.
Reading what I had written, I found it full of swagger, which was kind of obnoxious in my eyes, but made it believable for the intended reader: German Intelligence. They would see me as a ladies man, eager to impress Lana to the point of giving away top military secrets.
Meanwhile a song came on the radio, and I listened to it for a while, trying to find a good phrase with which I can seal this letter.
Dancing with Air (Still Life with Memories Book 4) Page 11