Watching him I could set aside my anguish. In a blink, a weight was lifted off my shoulders. Oh, I could breathe! I could smile again! He brought laughter into my heart, light into my gloom.
And it was because of him—no, it was for him—that I broke the rules. On a whim I changed my plan and played something outside my regular repertoire. For him, and for all the soldiers there, some of whom may soon perish in battle, God Bless America.
And with that I gave him the best of me, the only way I knew how: through music.
At the sound of it Ma fainted.
She would never approve of him, never.
I know it.
Instead she would tell me I’m too naive and too vulnerable, and the best thing I could do is to learn to control myself.
Was she never young? Did she never feel this—this feeling that quickens my heart? It has no shape, no reason, and can be described by no other name but danger, and yet here I am, opening my arms to embrace it.
I am in awe of what is happening to me. I am scared of it and at the same time, I find myself elated.
Until Ma wakes up I have the night to myself, and it is magical.
I open the door and step out into the garden. Light rain is falling, and in each drop you can see a glint of moonlight. It is captured for an instant, and then, with a tinkle, released into a fine mist upon the dark, drenched soil.
Rising to my tiptoes I lift my hands up to the height of his shoulders. I imagine him there, in the drizzle. He’s playing his invisible bugle. I can almost hear it, trembling in the wind.
Faithful forever I promise to be. I will wait for him, wait till he puts down his instrument and takes hold of me.
He will be running his fingers down, all the way down to the small of my back, touching his lips to my ear, breathing his name, breathing mine.
Here I am, dancing with air.
Around and around we go.
I Will Help You Rise
Chapter 22
Over the years I read this entry in her diary—the only one Natasha allowed me to read—a thousand times, and usually it puts a smile on my lips, but oh, not now, not anymore. For some reason her words have taken on a different meaning, a darker one, which I sense now for the first time, in the context of her turn for the worse.
Holding the paper makes my hands tremble. I prefer to attribute it to my age, not to anguish.
The night has been long, and long have I been waiting for her to awaken, so I can prepare her. I need to ready both of us for that head X-ray exam, which until yesterday I have been reluctant to schedule. It will, I’m afraid, result in the dreaded diagnosis which neither she nor I want to hear. But at this point, what choice do I have? Her condition can no longer be ignored. It is time to find out the name of it.
Back to that page from her diary. After three decades the ink is faded, and the paper—yellowed and crinkly. I can read it still, mostly by touching the indentations and combining what I feel with what has already been committed to memory. I close my eyes to hear her, whispering out of the papery rustle.
I am in awe of what is happening to me. I am scared of it and at the same time, I find myself elated.
Being elated is something of the past for both of us. But like the way she used to be I find myself scared and in awe. Where we’re headed is yet unknown, except for one thing: her path and mine are just about to diverge.
So much has happened since the time we met, the time of our happiness. So many twists and turns during years of war and years of peace. We made promises to each other, promises that were bigger than what we could keep, which made us rise to our better selves, striving to fulfill them.
It also made for a lifelong struggle. She started out as a rising star, and I—a soldier. Her aspirations were different from mine, so we had to learn how to bridge our differences.
Some of our memories are full of joy. I bring them gently into mind. Others swoop out of nowhere to startle me.
And of all these moments, the ones that are dearest, most precious to me come from the very beginning. The first time I saw her. The first letter she wrote to me. Our first date. First kiss. The first time I made love to her.
And through it all, a great yearning.
Serving my military duty in Europe meant that for several years—from my departure in 1942 until my final return to the States in 1945, at the end of the war—there was an ocean separating us. But I had high hopes, back then. Even in her absence she was constantly in my thoughts, and I in hers. Not so now. I care for her, but at times I sense that she doesn’t even know who I am.
“I’m on your side,” I murmur to her, but she turns to the wall and I am unsure if my words can reach her.
It’s a new day: January 1st, 1970. The first rays of dawn break through the blinds. They stray gingerly into the room, crawl across the floor, and reach for the mattress as if in hesitation, careful not to touch her ankle, dangling from the bed, or the folds of the blanket, gathered around her chest.
Natasha is asleep by my side, her hair spread over my arm. I hold my breath, watching the shadow of her eyelashes flutter upon her cheeks. Where are her dreams taking her? She looks so beautiful, so peaceful. I have to stop myself from cuddling up to her, let alone allowing my passion to take over, because who knows what Natasha may do, thinking me a stranger.
She is not the only one confused: I am too, because even as I remind myself not to touch her, I can barely help myself. My body has a mind of its own. It compels me into arousal.
I stroke her skin, ever so tenderly, and I ache for her, because more than ever before, she is absent.
Until she opens her eyes I can make believe everything is going to be all right. Perhaps the change in her is still reversible. Perhaps there is some cure for it, or at least some treatment to stop it from worsening. It can happen this way, can’t it? With a little bit of luck she may heal, and then go back to teaching piano. Her students will all come back. So will the friends who have drifted off.
Until then it’s a rough time for me. I have to survive it all by myself. My son is distant, in every sense of the word. How that happened, I am yet to figure out. In my loneliness I feel so weary, so close to despair—but somehow find a way to pull myself together, simply because I must.
If I break down, what chance would she have?
To get a grip over myself I direct my thoughts elsewhere, to my craft. I think of writing about us, about this adventure called life. The few who may read it will surely complain about the story not having a happy end. Like them I wish for it. I pray with all my heart that it’ll happen. But even if doesn’t, here is what I have come to believe: perhaps the best anyone can hope for is to have a happy beginning.
I am grateful to have lived through so many good moments, so many memories to cherish.
Among other disappointments life dealt me was my failure to publish any of my stories—except one: Leonard and Lana.
Years ago Uncle Shmeel sent me a copy of the magazine where the story was printed. I wrote back to thank him and to say that it must have been beginner’s luck.
Then I shared the news with Natasha, expecting her to encourage me, to root for my success as a writer, but no! To my astonishment she hated the story, perhaps because it centered on another woman, and because—to add insult to injury—the hero carried my given name. In her mind I was covering up an affair to spare her feelings, and at the same time, revealing it to the world in a fancy literary disguise. No amount of explanation could ease her suspicion, which soured the taste of our love.
Such is the power of the written word.
One time she even addressed me by the name her Ma invented for me, using the same intonation, slighting me.
“Listen here, Dostoyevsky,” she said.
And I asked, “Can’t you forget about that awful story?”
“Should I?”
“Please do,” I pleaded. “Sorry I ever put pen to paper. Believe me, it was nothing but a scribble, an amateurish attempt at com
position, which doesn’t mean there was ever an affair.” And thinking about my penmanship I added, “I was too young to know what I was doing.”
But Natasha took it as an excuse for infidelity. “Sure!” she said, with a sudden, green flash in her eyes. “If you cannot remember it, you don’t have to confess, do you.”
It irked me then. But now, looking forward, this I know: a day may come when I will be happy to hear her call me by that name, because it will signal some sort of recognition.
It will give me hope.
I wish I could lie here forever, by her side, but it’s time to get up. First I turn on the radio. A song is playing, and it is so beautiful, so poignant, such a fitting note to accentuate what I feel, to bring about a possible conclusion to the highs and lows of the music of us.
In times of sorrow, when you sigh
When tears well in your eyes
I will kiss them dry
I’m on your side
You’re not alone, no need to cry
Between us there is no divide
If you’re in trouble, if you stumble and fall
I will help you rise
If you happen to falter, if you crawl
I will help you rise
I put my pants on, go to the kitchen, fill a small pot with water and bring it to a boil for the eggs. Meanwhile I squeeze grapefruit juice into two glasses and wait for the two slices of bread to pop out of the toaster. I set two plates on the table, one each side of the crystal vase. It is the same vase her Pa bought for her Mama to mark their anniversary a generation ago.
I had been too drained to think about it until last night, when on a whim I bought a bouquet of fresh flowers in lovely hues of white, pink, and purple. Why did I do it? Perhaps for old times’ sake. By now I have stopped hoping to surprise my wife with such frivolities, because she pays little attention, lately, to the things I do. So for no one in particular I stand over the thing, rearranging the orchids, spray roses, and Asiatic lilies as best I can, to create an overall shape of a dome.
And then—then, in a blink—I find myself startled by a footfall behind me. A heartbeat later I hear her voice, saying, “Lenny?”
I turn around to meet her eyes. My God, this morning they are not only lucid but also shining with joy.
In a gruff voice, choked, suddenly, with tears, I ask her, “What is it, dear?”
And she says, “Don’t forget.”
“What, Natashinka?”
“I love you.”
Spreading my arms open I stand there, speechless for a moment. Without a word she steps into them. We snuggle, my chin over her head. She presses it to my bare chest. I comb through her hair with my fingers. And once again, we are one.
Then she points at the vase.
“For you,” I say. “Looks like some old painting, doesn’t it?”
“Still life,” she whispers. “With memories.”
Then Natasha lifts her eyes, hanging them on my lips as if to demand something of me, something that has been on her mind for quite a while. Somehow I can guess it. She is anticipating an answer, which I cannot give.
Instead I kiss her. She embraces me but her eyes are troubled, and the question remains.
“Without the memories,” she asks, “is it still life?”
To be continued with
A State of Farewell
Volume IV of
Still Life with Memories
Also:
To read about this family a generation later, in 1980, from the point of view of their son, Ben, and of Lenny’s new wife, Anita, get this book:
Apart from Love
Volume I and II plus two new chapters, woven together, of
Still Life with Memories
(This book also includes Lenny’s story, titled Leonard and Lana)
About this Book
In 1970, Lenny can no longer deny that his wife is undergoing a profound change. Despite her relatively young age, her mind succumbs to forgetfulness. Now, he goes as far back as the moment he met Natasha during WWII, when he was a soldier and she—a star, brilliant yet illusive. Natasha was a riddle to him then, and to this day, with all the changes she has gone through, she still is.
“Digging into the past, mining its moments, trying to piece them together this way and that, dusting off each memory of Natasha, of how we were, the highs and lows of the music of us, to find out where the problem may have started?”
To their son, Ben, that may seem like an exercise in futility. For Lenny, it is a necessary process of discovery, one that is as tormenting as it is delightful. He often wonders: can we ever understand, truly understand each other—soldier and musician, man and woman, one heart and another? Will we ever again dance together to the same beat? Is there a point where we may still touch?
About the Author
Uvi Poznansky is a California-based author, poet and artist. Her writing and her art are tightly coupled. “I paint with my pen,” she says, “and write with my paintbrush.”
She earned her B. A. in Architecture and Town Planning from the Technion in Haifa, Israel. During her studies and in the years immediately following her graduation, she practiced with an innovative Architectural firm, taking part in the design of a large-scale project, Home for the Soldier.
At the age of 25 Uvi moved to Troy, N.Y. with her husband and two children. Before long, she received a Fellowship grant and a Teaching Assistantship from the Architecture department at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, where she guided teams in a variety of design projects; and where she earned her M.A. in Architecture. Then, taking a sharp turn in her education, she earned her M.S. degree in Computer Science from the University of Michigan.
During the years she spent in advancing her career—first as an architect, and later as a software engineer, software team leader, software manager and a software consultant (with an emphasis on user interface for medical instruments devices)—she wrote and painted constantly. In addition, she taught art appreciation classes.
Her versatile body of work can be seen on her website, which includes poems, short stories, bronze and ceramic sculptures, paper engineering projects, oil and watercolor paintings, charcoal, pen and pencil drawings, and mixed media.
In addition, she posts her thoughts about the creative process on her blog, and engages readers and writers in conversation on her Goodreads Q&A group.
Uvi published a poetry book in collaboration with her father, Zeev Kachel. Later she published two children’s books, Jess and Wiggle and Now I Am Paper, which she illustrated, and for which she created animations. You can find these animations on her Goodreads author page.
Apart from Love combines two threads—My Own Voice and The White Piano—woven together (along with two new chapters) around the same events in 1980, when Ben returns to meet his father, Lenny, and his new wife, Anita. It is then that he discovers a family secret. The Music of Us goes back a generation to 1941, when Lenny, a young marine, fell in love with Natasha, a pianist. These volumes in Still Life with Memories offer an intimate peek into the life of a family dealing with losing a member to early-onset Alzheimer’s. Overwhelmed by passion, guilt, and blame, they find their way to forgiveness.
Rise to Power, A Peek at Bathsheba, and The Edge of Revolt are volume I, II, and III of The David Chronicles, telling the story of David as you have never heard it before: from the king himself, telling the unofficial version, the one he never allowed his court scribes to recount. In his mind, history is written to praise the victorious—but at the last stretch of his illustrious life, he feels an irresistible urge to tell the truth.
A Favorite Son, her novella, is a new-age twist on an old yarn. It is inspired by the biblical story of Jacob and his mother Rebecca, plotting together against the elderly father Isaac, who is lying on his deathbed. This is no old fairy tale. Its power is here and now, in each one of us.
Twisted is a unique collection of tales. In it, the author brings together diverse tales, laden with shades of mystery. Here
, you will come into a dark, strange world, a hyper-reality where nearly everything is firmly rooted in the familiar—except for some quirky detail that twists the yarn, and takes it for a spin in an unexpected direction.
Home, her deeply moving poetry book in tribute of her father, includes her poetry and prose, as well as translated poems from the pen of her father, the poet and author Zeev Kachel.
Most of these books are available in all three editions: ebook, audio, and print.
Follow her on these sites:
•Blog
•Books
•Uvi Art Website
•Goodreads group: The Creative Spark with Uvi Poznansky.
•Amazon Author Page
•Amazon Author Page UK
•Goodreads Author Page
•Twitter
•Google+
•Pinterest
•Facebook
About the Cover
In designing the cover for this book I had in mind a particular passage, where Natasha is just about to perform, and her hand is raised over the keys in contemplation of the notes:
With that Natasha handed the microphone back to him and curtsied to the audience. A wavy, red strand of hair slinked from her headband, which was decorated with delicate flowers, and glided over her bare shoulder. Below that, the bodice of her dress glinted as she turned around. And again, for just a second, I thought I felt her eyes fluttering in my direction, meeting my gaze. Everyone around me must have imagined that, too.
Natasha lifted the long, silky skirt of her dress, so its folds fanned out from the seam that hugged her hips. As she sat down they draped, full and flowing, over the piano bench, responding playfully to the light from above with a cherry red shine. A reflection of it lit her chin from below and lined the underside of her slender arms, just a touch. With a slow, deliberate motion she lifted her hand, letting it hover, for what seemed like the span of a thought, over its shadow over the keys.
The Music of Us (Still Life with Memories Book 3) Page 17
