Dancing with Air (Still Life with Memories Book 4)

by Uvi Poznansky

  Down there, plodding through the shallow end of the sludge was a kid, perhaps three years old, perhaps a bit older. Mud was oozing down his face, his hair.

  My legs were banged up but somehow I blocked the pain. Hobbling down I reached him and lifted his frail little body out of the muck. At first, he resisted. Flailing wildly and kicking his feet in the air, he twisted away from my hands.

  So I set the boy down and was surprised to feel his little hand wrapping around my finger.

  “Don’t go,” he said.

  And I said, “I won’t. Promise.”

  He looked searchingly at the glistening expanse lying here, in front of us, hiding things that had been swept away, things that had drowned.

  The boy wiped his eyes with a soiled hand. They were full of sadness and something else, something that at his age he should know nothing about. Despair.

  He uttered a cry, “Mommy?”

  The only thing that could be seen on the surface was an upside-down reflection of a mushroom cloud, swaying in the flow, sinking into a bottomless depth.

  “Come,” I said, softly. “We can’t stay in this place.”

  “Mommy?” he whispered, bending over the dark surface, knowing already not to expect an answer. Then he hung his head between his shoulders and followed me up, on the way to the bike.

  Natasha wiped his face clean and helped him climb into the sidecar, where he closed his eyes and curled into a ball, shivering.

  I took off my shirt and wrapped his little body with it. Even as he was sucking his thumb, a whimper could be heard every so often. Mommy.

  Later, we arrived at a small hospital. A nurse came out and carried the little one inside, to be washed and fed. Natasha insisted, despite my eagerness to get going, that I should take the time to be treated as well. My wounds were washed and disinfected. Most of them were merely abrasions, some rougher than others, but my knee had a deep cut.

  The doctor numbed the area around the injury with anesthetic. “You’re one lucky man,” he said. “Not even a single burn mark, after what you’ve been through!”

  He closed the wound with stitches and wrapped it in sterile bandages. “Stay here for a day or two, get some rest, let’s make sure there’s no infection,” he said. “Trust me, this way you’ll heal much better.”

  “No,” I said. “I need to get back to London at once.”

  “What’s the big rush?”

  “It’s my job. I must report to my officer.”

  After that, Natasha mounted the bike. I straddled the back seat, locked my arms around her slender waist, and leaned my head, utterly in exhaustion, against the back of her shoulder.

  She turned around to look at me.

  “Even though I was the one riding the bike on the way here from London, I didn’t pay much attention to the roads,” she admitted. “I can’t remember how to get back.”

  Sensing my surprise, she added, “I suppose I was too focused on using the controls and relied on you to point out the way.”

  “Not a problem,” I said. “Going back, I’ll help you with that.”

  “Will you, Lenny? Can you stay awake for me?”

  “I can and I will.”

  That was the last thing I remember. I must have passed out as soon as Natasha kickstarted the beast.

  ❋

  Even before waking up I had this sense, this nagging, persistent sense that there was something urgent I needed to do—but sleep paralyzed me, not only my flesh but also my soul. I could not recall what it was. Instead I laid there, motionless, just starting to become aware of some music, playing softly.

  I guess I’ll have to bear it alone

  The thought of us, now that you are gone

  If you come back I’ll be here, dreaming of you

  I’m dreaming you, I always will

  When I opened my eyes, my confusion doubled. There I was, in my own bed, not knowing how I got here or how much time had been lost.

  It was high noon, that much I knew, because the blackout curtains were drawn wide open, and a narrow patch of sunlight puddled on the floor. I tried to leap to my feet, only to realize that my knee would not let me rise, not only because I was weak but also because of this throbbing pain.

  It was badly swollen. There was a bandage on the wound, and now I thought I had seen Natasha dabbing it with damp gauze, cleaning and dressing it—but perhaps that had happened in a dream. And in that dream, there was no reason to worry about her curiosity, her capacity to gather clues from what she saw around my room, her wish to learn things about me that were not for her to know.

  Yes, a dream it had to be, because otherwise, how had she managed to ride all the way back to London, not knowing the way? How had she managed to bring me up here, unconscious as I must have been?

  And another thing: if she had been here for real, if she had carried me all the way from the explosion site to safety, how would I ever find a chance to give back that which I owed her?

  These things that passed through my mind, were they memories or figments of imagination? I thought I had heard the voice of my officer, perhaps yesterday, perhaps earlier than that, saying something to me in an utterly incoherent way. The words had pounded my ear, they ricocheted in my brain—but only now, at last, I was able to put them together. He would come back once my fever subsided.

  I leaned back into the pillow, feeling cozy despite the pain. After everything I had gone through, it felt so good to be here, out of harm’s way.

  My eyelids grew heavy. Sleep was coming over me again, and I let it, even though there was something urgent, something I needed to do, needed to hide.

  What was it?

  Only later, when I woke up again that evening—or perhaps it was the next evening, I wasn’t sure—did the answer come back to me, but it was already too late. There, sitting at my desk with the blackout curtains drawn shut, was my sweetheart. Lit by the desk lamp, her brow was pleated as she focused on reading something. My heart fell as I recognized the page trembling in her fingers.

  It was Lana’s letter.

  You’re Never Beaten until You Admit It

  Chapter 18

  Oh, no. Not this, not now!

  That which I had hoped to avoid, that which for the longest time I had feared would happen, was finally here, upon me. It made my heart faint, but I knew it was all my doing, which made it feel even worse. In my ears, the rustle of the letter in her hands sounded alarming, and so was her silence as she turned to look at me.

  My voice was unsteady as I pleaded, across the room, “Come here, my love.”

  At first I thought she would not stir from her seat, but then Natasha rose up, went to wash her hands, then came over to the bed, leaning over me to study not my face but rather the bandage on my knee. It looked huge, perhaps because my entire leg, above and below the wound, was swollen.

  Not knowing where to start, “Please,” I said, “let me explain.”

  “No explanation needed,” she said.

  I was uncertain what she meant by that. Was Natasha dismayed to find this letter? Jealous to discover another woman in my life? Taken aback by her claim on my affections? Disappointed in me? Stung? Angry? There was no way for me to tell, because with the desk lamp shedding its light behind her, her face was in the dark.

  I almost wished for an outburst. If she would yell at me, at least I would have a clue where to begin.

  So I said, “About Lana—”

  “No,” said Natasha. “I don’t want to hear that name.”

  I tried again, but there was no way to reach her, no way to cut through her refusal to talk.

  No doubt she was suffering, biting her lip to the point of making it turn white. I thought that she needed some time, time to examine the facts, revisit them tomorrow at dawn or later yet, in the cool light of day. Natasha had to break through the surface of that maddening, whirling vortex of emotions, which swept over her. Perhaps she wanted to avoid saying something she might later regret.

  I ad
mired her silence and at the same time, hated it.

  Ignoring me, Natasha began to take care of my flesh. Without a word, she removed the bloodied gauze from my wound, moving ever so carefully, in the direction of hair growth. In her effort to avoid re-opening scabs, which might cause more pain, she stopped as soon as she sensed some resistance.

  “It hurts, doesn’t it,” she said, without really asking. Then she lifted her eyes to me and at once, her face softened at the sight of me, wincing. I did my best to smile.

  Natasha soaked the bandage-covered wound in water for a few minutes. Then, once the scab had softened, she removed the bandage and with a towel, pat-dried the skin around the injury.

  “There,” she said. “Perhaps it shouldn’t be covered, at least for a little bit. Let it air-dry. Let it heal.”

  “Let us heal,” I said. “Let us talk—”

  “No,” said Natasha. “Not now.”

  In a strange way I felt relief, because even though I offered to explain, what could I say, really, without betraying my mission, my military duty to keep the task confidential?

  After all, these bogus reports I had been writing, in the guise of love letters to Lana, were meant to divert the attention of German Intelligence from our real war plans. If they would believe me, if they would trust that my information was genuine, and if it would fit with what they learn from other sources, then the majority of their forces would have to remain stationed in Pas-de-Calais. If that were to happen, lives of our soldiers would be saved on the Normandy front.

  I felt a sacred obligation not to breathe a word about all this to anyone—under any circumstances—because once secrecy was compromised, the results could be far reaching. I mean, if I could not keep all of this secret, how could I expect someone else to do it for me?

  And so, all I kept thinking was, please, not this, not now!

  “Sweetie,” I said, “this isn’t what it seems—”

  “I know,” she said, curtly. “It never is.”

  And just as I was about to respond, the door opened, and a cloaked figure stepped inside.

  “Ah!” said the man. “At last! You’re awake!”

  “Yes, sir,” said I.

  Natasha rose to her feet, gave a nod to the officer. He bowed his head before her. Taking a notepad off the desk, she said, “I was just leaving.”

  And with a whoosh, the door closed behind her.

  ❋

  Captain Smith came to a stand right over me and said, “Didn’t it seem like forever to you?”

  And I said, “What?”

  “It did, to me! An entire week, Corporal, that’s what you wasted! And for what, for being zonked?”

  “Sorry, sir—”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “I delivered the orders to RAF Fauld, just as you told me, sir, but then—”

  “I know,” he said, adjusting his glasses as he glanced at my swollen leg.

  “Really? You know, sir?”

  “Of course! On the radio, they report what happened, non-stop. They talk, talk, talk, saying nothing.”

  “From what you hear, sir, what caused it? Does anyone know?”

  “No one does, but everyone has a take on it.”

  The officer pulled a chair and sat by my side. “On my way here,” he said, “I’ve met the post office clerk. You know who I’m talking about.”

  “The one with the slight German accent?”

  “Yeah, him. He has no loyalty to us or to the other side. Even so, he seems quite jubilant this week and makes no effort to hide it. To him, this blast must be a sign of our weakness. Whether or not it was a result of an accident or of an attack, to him and others like him, the Germans have scored.”

  “Some people,” I said, “think that this is merely a game.”

  “Meanwhile, on the radio,” said the officer, “all I hear is a list of unexplained facts: how the place blew up, detonating four thousand tons of bombs, as well as other ammunition kept in the underground storerooms, and how the dam broke, further complicating the mess. By now, RAF Fauld has gained a certain notoriety as the world’s largest explosion, with seventy servicemen and civilian workers killed or declared missing.”

  We were silent for a moment. Then I said, “That’s the first time I hear these numbers, sir. They’re mind-boggling.”

  Even so, I thought, these were merely numbers. Behind each one of them was a life waiting to unfold, a story cut midway, like that of a young mom, whose little boy was left behind, staring helplessly at the newly-formed sea of mud that swallowed her. That, more so than the number of the dead and missing, suggested the horrific impact of this disaster.

  “Well, enough about that,” said the officer. “You alright?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I am.”

  “You look terrible.”

  “Do I, sir?”

  “Now, I’m here to tell you something, Corporal. It’ll cheer you up.”

  “I’m listening, sir.”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Well,” he said, “With this knee, you can’t go on doing your military duty as before, running a courier service for the embassy, right? I mean, from what I hear, it’s a deep cut, and the bones have taken quite a pounding, and on top of that, there’s a bad infection. Who knows if you’ll be able to put weight on that leg again, let alone ride a motorcycle.”

  At the sound of that, my heart skipped a beat. So far, nothing of what he said was cheerful. Quite the opposite. It depressed me.

  He went on to say, “In my opinion, the only thing you can do now to serve your country is this: go on with those letters, which you write so well—”

  “Sir,” I said, “I meant to talk to you about that—”

  “Wait,” he said, holding his hand up in the air right in front of my face. “I haven’t finished.”

  “Sorry, sir—”

  “A few days ago,” he said, “a certain passage in your latest letter to Lana came to mind. It gave me something which you, being a writer, might call ‘inspiration.’”

  “Really, sir?” I asked, my ears perking up. I felt a bit curious and at the same time, proud that my writing had such an effect on him. “Which passage was that, exactly?”

  “The one where you claimed to have introduced yourself, in writing, to General Patton; where you suggested the idea, fictional as it was, of becoming his military advisor, specializing in all things England.”

  Feeling a sudden need to justify myself, I said, “After all, I did gain considerable expertise, which by now has doubled, because of my trip east to the city of Dover and the one north to Staffordshire.”

  Baring his teeth in a smile, Captain Smith said, “At the time, faking a new, lucrative military position, directly under the General Patton’s command, took me by surprise. In my mind, it was quite a stretch.”

  “Sir, I thought it would make an impression not only on Lana but also on German intelligence, so as to lend credibility to my writing.”

  “So it will,” he said, now with a glint in his eye. “From now on, Corporal, you won’t be faking it.”

  And I said, “Excuse me, sir?”

  “You’ll be named a military advisor to General Patton, for real.”

  “I will? Really, sir?”

  “It’s a great opportunity, and you have me to thank for that,” he said, pounding his breast with great satisfaction. “I took the initiative to write to him and recommend you—yes, you!—for just such a position.”

  I stared at him, dumbfounded, so he added, “I just got a letter back from him. In principle he approves of the idea, saying that, ‘A pint of sweat will save a gallon of blood,’ which is what you’ll go on doing, writing to Lana, mentioning your new position to her, as a way to substantiate your bogus reports.”

  At first I said, “Wow.”

  And on second thought I said, “Let me think about it, sir.”

  In any other circumstances I would be crazy to refuse him, bec
ause what he was offering to me was more than a job: it was an honor. But it came bundled with the task of writing to Lana. No longer could I play that game, because it was hurting the woman I loved.

  At last I said, “No.”

  “What?” cried the officer.

  “Believe me, sir,” I said, “I’m just as surprised as you to hear me say that.”

  “I think it’s not your knee but your head that needs medical attention! What in the world d’you mean by No?”

  “First of all, sir, as for being able to use my leg again—”

  “Yes, Lenny?”

  “‘You’re never beaten until you admit it.’ Wasn’t it General Patton himself who said that?”

  “So? D’you admit being beaten?”

  “No, sir! I’ll regain my strength, I’m certain of it, so there’s no need for any special favors or reassignments because, you see, I intend to stand on my own feet, soon.”

  He was about to grumble something, so I rushed to say, “And second of all, I do appreciate what you’ve tried to do for me, but I won’t accept this position, sir. I can’t.”

  “Oh, I bet I know the real reason for that,” he said, curling his mustache as he stood up. “Her name is Natasha.”

  I had no intention of denying it, and he went on to say, “Don’t tell her the truth about why you’re writing those letters, not now, not until the war is over.”

  To which I said, “Understood, sir. You can rely on me, on my silence.”

  And as I said it, the door opened. Lit by the distant glow from the corridor, there she was, a fuzz flaming like a halo around the red, braided hair that crowned her head. In her hand was my notebook, and in her eyes flickered a green spark.

  “Think, Corporal, think long and hard about what you’re being offered,” said Captain Smith, in parting.

  “I will, sir,” said I.

  All the while I knew that for me, there was no real choice in this matter. Refusing this job—as tempting as it was and as valuable as it could become for my military career—amounted to a necessary sacrifice, which I was glad to offer, hoping to stay together with the woman who meant the world to me, the woman who was, in essence, my life.