Portraits

by Cynthia Freeman

  Two weeks later the rattan furniture Sandy had lived with in the small stucco house on the base was carted away and replaced with Monica’s French, English and Chinese antiques. On one wall stood the tall, ten-paneled, black-lacquered screen, adorned with jade and rose quartz—a treasure that was a family heirloom. A gold Chinese rug covered the terra-cotta livingroom floor and English wing chairs were on either side of the fireplace.

  For a moment she stood contemplating where the sofa should be placed, then she called Juan, the houseboy, who left his kitchen chores and came into the livingroom.

  “Juan, please help me move the couch. I think it would be lovely facing the sea, don’t you?”

  He smiled. “And very romantic.”

  “I thought so too, especially watching the sunset.”

  When the last picture was hung she stepped back and observed the whole of it. In her mind she saw Sandy sitting in one of the wing chairs during the evening, reading while she worked on her tapestry. She would take the book from his hand, sit on his lap and kiss him, and then put her head on his shoulder…God, how dear he was to her…she’d die if anything went wrong between them. Her thoughts were cut short when the clock chimed. It was four, he’d be home soon.

  She had just finished slipping into a silk dress when she heard his footsteps coming up the garden path. She ran to greet him. This was truly the beginning of their lives together. She took him by the hand and led him into the house, eager to see his reaction.

  “Monica, I don’t believe it’s the same place. My God, this is beautiful. You’re incredible. It’s like Buckingham Palace.” Taking her in his arms, he told her the truth. “Monica, I love you.” She led him to the large wing chair, sat in his lap. The fantasy had become real. “You know, darling,” he told her, “this is the first time in my life I’ve ever had a real home of my own. It means everything to me…I don’t think you realize how much—”

  “It’s enough for me to hear it.”

  “It goes beyond what I’ve said. I don’t have the words to describe it, or you, my beautiful Monica.”

  If she had looked at Sandy’s face at that moment she would have seen the start of tears in his eyes.

  From that time on, Monica devoted herself to her man’s needs and desires. She relieved Juan of the cooking chores to make certain that their dinners were just as she wanted, complete with candlelight and wine. She had opened up a whole new world for Sandy, and he for her. She was the perfect hostess at the small dinner parties they gave. Sundays were spent in quiet contentment, breakfasting on the terrace and then going to the beach. They fished and sailed and danced until dawn. When Sandy was relieved of duty for a few days they would drive up to Baguio and stay at a special inn. Their love only seemed to grow.

  The only times Monica was unsure was when Sandy received letters from his family, especially from his brother Jacob. The letters always seemed to upset him, and they were always the same: when was he ever going to get over this craziness and come back where he belonged among his own people. Jacob still found it impossible to understand how a Jew could be content being in the marines. It was for goyim. And his mother Esther was concerned, too. She hadn’t raised him to be a marine. The snapshots of the children also upset him. “My God, Monica, they’ve all grown so and I wasn’t around…it’s a wonder they still remember me.”

  Yes, she had to face it, it was in those moments that she knew in a way he longed to go back. But those moments of confusion and longing were usually short-lived. Monica’s fears were always put to rest and replaced with the quiet pleasure they shared.

  They were still very much together a year later and once again they stood embracing, wishing each other a happy New Year.

  “You brought the world to me, darling,” she told him, and meant it.

  “Thank you, but if you’re the smart woman I know you are you’d look around for someone better—”

  Comments like that rather frightened her, but only for a moment.

  When he held her in his arms that night, she had no doubts, no shadows came between them. She could banish them with her love, and her fear…

  In August, Monica knew she was pregnant, and she was delighted. Sandy would want this child, she was sure of it. A woman knew when a man adored her. His words last night, when he sat on the couch holding her in his arms, were a proof of his feelings. “Darling, how do you think you’d like living in Hawaii?” he’d asked.

  She bolted up. “Hawaii?”

  “Yes, I’m being transferred.”

  “When?”

  “In January.”

  “That seems to be the best month of the year for us.”

  “Every month is the best with you—”

  “Oh, God, how much I love you…”

  As she went over last night’s scene in her mind, she wondered if this was the time to tell him. She wasn’t sure why she was reluctant, but something down deep told her that this was not the time…

  In the following months, she felt the child inside. Although she didn’t show yet, she knew she would soon have to tell Sandy.

  Finally one night, as she lay close in his arms, she said, “Sandy, we’ve never talked about this…but I want to be your wife.”

  “You are, as far as I’m concerned—”

  “I know, but it’s not quite the same…”

  He got out of bed and sat on the edge, lit two cigarettes and handed one to her. How could he tell her he adored her but couldn’t marry her? Eventually he would have to go home to the States, to a world that wouldn’t accept them. Could he really bring her home to his mother, to Jacob? Here they fitted, they were right…God, why hadn’t he considered that a woman couldn’t go on indefinitely in a relationship like this without wanting marriage. It was selfish, stupid. It was so fundamental. Even a woman in love wanted, needed, the security that only marriage brought. But he couldn’t marry her—not only for his sake but for hers. She couldn’t realize what life would be like for her in the States. People in love deluded themselves…maybe that’s what was meant by love being blind. Well, his vision was unclouded, unfortunately, and he despised himself because he had to hurt the dearest person in his life. But not yet…so he avoided it by saying, “Monica darling, let’s wait.”

  For how long? “Sandy, tell me now. Do you want to marry me?”

  “Of course, I want to…”

  “Then?”

  “Monica, we haven’t talked about it but one day I’m going home. The United States isn’t the Orient. It’s hard enough being a Jew, but interracial marriage would make us outcasts. You’d begin to blame me, to hate me. In the end it would destroy us.” He took her cold hand and held it gently. “Try to understand this…no one belongs just to himself, not in this world, and it tells us that if we want to survive we have to live according to some of its rules, and if we had children they’d be terribly hurt…through no fault of their own. But because of us…” He looked at her, and her eyes said more than words. Suddenly he put his face in his hands, knowing how he’d hurt her, unable to see what else he could have done…

  She took him and put his head on her shoulder. “Shh…it doesn’t matter. You’ve given me more than you know—”

  “It matters. It matters because I love you, Monica, but damn it, I can’t change the world. Not even for you…”

  “Come lie down, darling. We’re together now. It’s what really matters. It will be enough.”

  She said it like a judgment…

  He woke up at four in the morning. Getting out of bed carefully so as not to disturb her, he went into the livingroom, poured himself a glass of bourbon and settled himself into the large wing chair. He sat in the darkened room and relived the years he and Monica had shared. Who had given him the contentment and joy she had? In his desire to protect her he had felt he had to be totally honest about what would happen to their lives if they married. And what he had said was the reality; they would not be accepted. But the truth was double-edged. Had he been honest for he
r sake alone, or had his own fears played a part in it? His mother? Jacob? No, he’d never have been able to bring Monica to them and have her accepted as part of the family, never. But how important was all that? What did living in the United States really mean to him? How much of his life had actually been spent there? And how good had life been for him there? Was it all that important to him if he never went back? The Orient had been his world and now he realized that he felt more a part of it than any other world. “Going, back” had been a myth, that’s what it really amounted to. It was merely an assumption based on his childhood longings to have the family together. Yes, he still loved them and always would, but they had been apart for so long now that they lived in different worlds—and it was more than just the miles that separated them. He had no hope that Esther or Jacob would understand or approve his marrying Monica and he understood what their reasons would be. But they had lived their lives as they had to, and he was entitled to do the same…they would be hurt and he regretted that, but he would regret Monica even more. He would not leave her, he couldn’t. She was just too much a part of him…

  Suddenly he felt a sense of peace and new purpose. He got up and quietly went into the bathroom to shave and get dressed. It was six in the morning when he stood at the side of the bed and looked down at her. She was his world, and nothing could compare to having her. He checked his impulse to wake her. Tonight he would tell her. He kissed her cheek, then turned and left…

  Monica spent the morning thinking about the alternatives. If she had an abortion, what would that solve? Yes, they could go to Hawaii and be lovers as before, but one day he would leave her, go home. She was not home; she was only a stop-off place. Oh, she knew he’d marry her if she told him about the child, but he would end up hating her, feeling she had tricked him. There was only one way out…she’d really known it from the very beginning. The small fears, the reluctance to tell him—they’d been pushed aside for a long time, as though by not facing them they would go away, disappear…

  She sat for a long time reliving the moments they had shared. There would, she knew, be nothing for her when he left, and somehow she also knew that it would be soon. No one could ever come into her life again as he had. But the greatest gift of all was the child he had given her. It would be over soon, but the child would be hers forever.

  She sat down at the writing table, calmly took out a piece of stationery and began to write.

  My dearest darling,

  I have loved you as I could never love again. There are so many memories I hold dear, and those no one can take away from me. Not even you. If I had my life to live over, I would do the same, just to have known what it was like to be held in your arms.

  Please forgive me, my darling. There is no other choice. With all the love I possess, I give you back to yourself. Be happy, dearest…please, for your darling…

  She folded the note, put it inside the envelope and placed it against the lamp. She paused for a moment and looked at the bed they had shared, then she slowly walked through the French doors and down the garden path to the sea.

  Sandy picked up the phone as he was going through a file of papers on his desk. “Yes?”

  “This is Captain Rodriguez of the Manila police. I’d like you to come down here, please.”

  A peculiar chill went through him. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “It would be better for you to come in, sergeant.”

  “All right, I’ll be there.” …

  Now he sat apprehensively in a chair across from Captain Rodriguez. “Sergeant, did you know a Mrs. Monica Hill?”

  He frowned. “Did I know? I know Mrs. Monica Hill.”

  A pause. “Sergeant, Mrs. Hill…her body was washed up on the beach early this afternoon—”

  The shock and the pain were too much. He went into a rage of grief, pounding his hands against the walls until his knuckles bled. He wanted to scream, to break the world to pieces. And then the tears came, and the life seemed to ebb from his body. He sat down.

  Captain Rodriguez offered him a brandy. “Here, take this—”

  He pushed the glass away, it shattered on the tile floor. He wiped his face, sat staring out the window. He did not see the lovely garden in bloom, nor the palms that swayed in the gentle breeze. All he was aware of was Monica’s face, the pain in her eyes, her voice whispering to him, “Shh, it doesn’t matter. You’ve given me more than you know.” Oh, he knew. He knew now…

  “We need you to identify the body, sergeant…”

  The body? Monica was a body? He closed his eyes. How many men had he killed? Except that was in war. Now they wanted him to see Monica laid out on a slab, lifeless. Last night she had consoled him…Dear God, he had done this to her…

  “Sergeant, we need you to—”

  But he had already gotten up and was walking to the door. They led him down the hall to the sterile white room. A sheet covered the outline of what remained of her. Rodriguez waited for a moment, then uncovered the face.

  Somehow he’d known it when he’d picked up the phone…

  “Is this Mrs. Hill?”

  He couldn’t speak.

  “Sergeant, is this—”

  “Yes.”

  The sheet was put over her face and he was led away.

  “We’ll be in touch, sergeant. There’ll be an autopsy.”

  He shook his head and walked out into the terrible sunlight…

  For three days he stayed home, trying to drink away the truth. Juan came in from time to time, but he threw an empty whiskey bottle at him or roared at him to go away. Finally Juan came again and found him sprawled out on the bed. Juan undressed him and got him under the covers, and for the first time he slept…

  The ringing of the phone finally got through to him. Fumbling, hand shaking, he picked it up. Twice he tried to speak, no sound would come. Swallowing hard, he heard his own raspy voice. “Yes?”

  “Sergeant Sanders? This is Captain—”

  “I know, what body do you want me to identify today?”

  “Would you be kind enough to come—”

  “No, I wouldn’t be kind enough to come down. Whatever you have to say you can say now.”

  “I would suggest, sir, that you come in.”

  “Damn it! How much more do you want?”

  “Please, sir, we need you to sign some documents.”

  He mumbled all right and hung up.

  Hardly able to get out of bed, he called for Juan, who had been sleeping outside his room for the last four days. “Juan, I need a bath, you’ll have to shave me. My hands are so damned shaky I might cut my throat.” Which for a moment he thought might not be a bad idea.

  He sat in the same chair, looking haggard but presentable. Just like a good marine should. A credit to the corps. Sharpshooter Sandy Sanders. He had a medal to prove it…Stick it up your ass, Uncle Sam. He almost laughed at the coincidence. In English that’s what his name was…the citizenship papers read Sam Sanders…The hell it was. His name was Shlomo Sandsonitsky, but that wasn’t American enough. Monica wasn’t American enough to live in the land of the brave and the home of the free. “What do you want me to sign?”

  “Sergeant Sanders, Mrs. Hill and you were—”

  “Lovers. In love…”

  “Yes. Well, could you tell us what religion she was?”

  Jewish, he wanted to scream. “I don’t know, we never discussed it. Why…?”

  “Well, I imagine she was a Christian.”

  “I imagine that’s going to make a big difference in heaven. All right, I’m sorry, I guess she was—”

  “I assume you will want to take care of the arrangements…” Captain Rodriguez cleared his throat. “I received the coroner’s report.”

  Sandy closed his eyes. Suicide…

  “Mrs. Hill was expecting a child.”

  His shoulders slumped. Oh, my God, she was pregnant and he’d been busy moralizing about…how the hell could he…should he?…live with the knowledge that she h
ad killed herself with their child inside her? Thanks to him…

  Captain Rodriguez handed him a brandy and this time he took it, swallowing it down in a gulp. “Thanks,” he said, handing back the glass as he stood up to leave. “You’ve taken more from me than you had to.”

  He walked out of the room and shut the door behind him…

  He stood watching the coffin being lowered into the ground. Just himself and the minister. He wanted it to be private, and it was. Two wreaths had been ordered. One for her. One for the child.

  “Shall we go now, sergeant?” the minister said.

  “No, I’d like to stay for a little while. Thank you, thank you for everything.”

  The minister nodded, then walked down the path among the graves.

  Sergeant Sanders asked to be transferred to Mare Island as quickly as possible. It was time to go home.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  SIX MONTHS LATER HIS reenlistment term was up, and this time he was going to stay a civilian. He’d had enough of the marines, the travel and seeing the world. Jacob was right; it wasn’t such a beautiful world.

  Still, if one were to survive in it, one had to find an antidote to the pain of intolerable loss. Shlomo, gradually, opted for survival. And Nadine Blum of Oakland, California, a lovely Jewish girl, was the antidote.

  Nadine was not what would be considered a great beauty—he could not, of course, have tolerated that. But her hair was the color of autumn leaves turning gold. She had a sweet face, with soft amber eyes and a nose that had been pleasantly sculpted by Dr. Friedman. Her figure was slim and sufficiently rounded at the hips. Indeed, she was rather voluptuous. Nadine’s greatest asset, however, was her ability to accept a situation that had been thrust upon her. As such, she was a healthy object lesson to Shlomo…

  At the time of her birth the family had inherited a chain of twenty-seven shoe stores. It looked as if Nadine and her brother Neal would never be in want if they lived to be ninety, but in 1929 Charles Blum not only lost the stores but the mansion in Seacliff, which the Blums had enjoyed ever since the day Charles had carried Mildred over the threshold twenty-nine years earlier. Still, if they had lost a fortune, Charles and Mildred Blum were determined not to be bitter about it.