“Where are you calling from, this time?”
“London. It’s an happening place, dad. But you already knew that, right?”
To seem lighthearted to him, I laughed. “One day,” I said, “I’ll tell you all about my adventures there, back at a time when I was just a bit older than you.”
He said, “Sounds like a long-winded story.”
So I change the subject, I say, “How long will you be staying there?”
“A week maybe.”
“And then?”
“Then, I’ll go see Paris.”
“Did I ever tell you about what happened to us there?”
“No, but there’s no need. I already know everything.”
“Really? You do?”
“Mom said that’s where you got married.”
“Yes,” I said. “One day you may want to hear about it.”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe,” said Ben. “When you have the time for me and when I find the patience to listen.”
When Natasha gets out of the examination room I am told that we will have to wait a few days for the results, perhaps longer, and to wait for word from her doctor.
Natasha looks up at me.
“What now?” she asks, in confusion. “Where shall we go?”
And I say, “You wanted to go to the beach earlier, remember? Shall I take you there?”
“Oh yes,” she says. “I miss it so.”
❋
Our footprints give way under us as we walk barefoot along the line, the wavy line that is constantly being erased and redrawn between wet and dry sand, here in Santa Monica Beach.
At times our impressions persist, at least for a while. Other times they turn at once into little pools, heel and toes filled with water from the spray of an oncoming breaker. Immediately behind it, another breaker comes rolling ashore, opening a frothy mouth. Our traces are swallowed whole, and the borders around them—rubbed out. Grain after grain they are pulled down the slope, into the belly of the sea. Nothing remains but a foamy fizzle.
Natasha giggles like a child when she feels sea mist on her face, which makes me happy, too. I carry my Sony transistor radio in my pocket, and two pairs of shoes—one hers, one mine—slung by their shoelaces over a folded blanket, over my shoulder. It is late afternoon. Our long shadows follow us, dancing over algae, shells and pebbles, holding hands.
And farther away, soaring up to the darkening sky, are the cliffs.
“They changed,” says Natasha.
And I say, “Really?”
“Yes,” she says. “Don’t you see? The cliffs, they look different now.”
“How so, sweetheart?”
“They used to be white.”
I wonder if she thinks that these are the White Cliffs of Dover. Should I tell her that we are in a different place now, half a world away from England, and that this is an entirely different time?
I am tempted to correct her, but then I don’t.
“Such a beauty they were,” I say, in a vague way.
By now I have learned not to point out her mistakes, because rarely does she admit them. Sometimes, like a true diva, Natasha becomes fiercely angry, acting as if there is some reason, which I should have grasped on my own, for the things she says, a reason that may, somehow, change wrong into right.
The first time I noticed this behavior was back then, when Natasha was at her peak. I pointed out that she missed the word ‘bluebirds’ and replaced it, in an effort to recall the lyrics of a well-known song, with ‘seagulls.’ She managed to explain it away as improvisation, but ever since then I know not to start a quarrel over such silly details.
Now here, close to the Santa Monica Pier, is our spot. I spread open the woolen blanket for us. Sitting down, Natasha pulls the transistor radio out of my pocket and plays with the knob, turning it this way and that. Meanwhile I kneel down next to her and squint to watch the sunset.
All the while I see her in my mind, not the way she is now, but the way she was back then, riding the beast, coming towards me out of a cloud of smoke, debris swirling all around her. I remember her hand as she pulled me up to my feet, saving my life.
Whatever happens to Natasha, that’s the way I’ll bring her back, always.
“Oh! I found it, I found it!” she cries, gleefully now. “Music!”
I take the instrument from her hand and adjust the volume, so it may play for us alone.
You must now hold on to me
I must save the memory
Of our past, so we’ll be there
We’ll be there...
I’ll always believe in you
Cling to me, we’ll be strong anew
In days to come, we’ll be there
We’ll be there...
The song is hopeful and yet, so sad. It stirs something deep inside me, bringing to the surface so many thoughts, so many unanswered questions.
Did Natasha keep my letters, the ones I sent her after she left for New York? In all the years since then I have never seen any of them, which makes me wonder.
What will be left behind, once we are gone, and our actions—forgotten? This question keeps coming back at me, not only because of Natasha’s illness but also because so far, my own contribution to the war effort has been disregarded. A secret it was, and a secret it remained.
There has been no mention of my reports, of how they misguided the enemy and saved lives on D-Day. Other than being promoted to Sergeant, there has been no historical record of it, no recognition whatsoever. Not that I need it—but sometimes I wish my son can learn something from it.
Perhaps the only proof of my work is hidden now in a dusty folder, in the depth of some archive of Nazi Intelligence, in one of their information-gathering volumes, known only to some frail, old librarian in a country that at present, is no longer our enemy.
I ask Natasha, “Did you know I was appointed a special military adviser, back then, in WWII?”
“Yes,” she says, making an effort to look as if she understands me. “I heard it before. I like this word. Adviser.”
“I worked for Patton, did you know?” I ask, hoping for a real answer. “I wrote to you about that, but I suppose that the military censor made sure most of my writing was blotted out.”
“Yes,” she says. “Patton.”
“I did not actually meet him, at least not until much later, when it was time, at last, for the invasion of Normandy.”
“Yes. Normandy.”
“By then, I thought long and hard about the spy game in which I was involved. You told me once that for others, war was not a game. And so I sought a way to make a difference, not by doing the currier service, not even by fooling the enemy through my writing, but by actually fighting. Some weeks before D-Day, I asked General Patton’s permission to join the mission.”
She glances at me, so I go on, I say, “I asked for his help as well. With my amphibious assault training in Camp Lejeune, coupled with the commando training in Scotland a few months ago, I was well prepared for battle, which was what I pointed out to him.”
In a flash I detect a change in her. There is clarity in her eyes. There is interest. I sense a moment of lucidity in her.
So I explain, at more length, “There was some rivalry between the Army and the Marine Corps. As a marine I was not even supposed to join an Army infantry unit on its way to Omaha Beach, but no one dared refuse a request on my behalf, especially when it came from above, from General Patton himself. I thought myself lucky, because no other marine but me took part in that invasion.”
I look at her to see if she has grasped these complexities. There is a smile on her lips. Then Natasha says the most unexpected word.
She says, “Bluebirds.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” she says, now in a clear, vibrant voice. “Bluebirds.”
I look into her eyes and see the setting sun, mirrored over the darkness of the pupil. Flecks of golden light are sprinkled in a fine, intricate pattern all
around the iris.
“Why did bluebirds come into your mind, all of a sudden?” I wonder. “Why now, of all times?”
“I hear them chirping.”
“You do? I can’t hear a thing.”
“Just listen.”
I lie down beside her and close my eyes, but all I hear is the sound of the tide, advancing.
Natasha weaves her fingers into mine and brings my hand to her lips. Then, all of a sudden, she says, “You were right, Lenny. Forgive me.”
And I say, “For what, Sweetie?”
“For snapping at you, because you found my mistake.”
“What Mistake?”
“The wrong word.”
“What word?”
“Seagulls,” she says. “It didn’t really belong in that song, you know.”
“Oh, that,” I say, rising on my elbow to draw closer to her. “It’s nothing.”
“It was important enough, at the time, to start a fight,” she says. “I thought I must cover up my mistake, or else explain it away, but now, now I know better. I wish, I so wish I could forget that moment.”
I bring her hand over my heart. “I love you, Natashinka,” I whisper, “and I always will.”
Natasha cranes forward to look at the sea. Then she lays her head on my shoulder and whispers in my ear, ever so softly, “Here they come, the blue birds of happiness.”
She seems to be listening for the chirp, which is lost on me. On her face I see shadows, contours of wings fluttering, as I hear a flock of birds flying behind me. I see them in her eyes, rising across the glowing horizon.
I want to tell Natasha that they are a symbol not of what is, but of what could be. But I think she already knows that. With growing confidence, this I trust: In good times and bad, we’ll be there.
In the face of war, misery, illness, such is the power of our passion. Such is hope.
To be continued with
Yet Unnamed
Volume V of
Still Life with Memories
About this Book
Serving on the European front, Lenny longs for Natasha, the girl who captured his heart back home. He writes bogus reports, designed to fall into the hands of Nazi Intelligence. To fool the enemy, these reports are disguised as love letters to another woman. This task must remain confidential, even at the risk of Natasha becoming suspicious of him.
Once she arrives in London, Lenny takes her for a ride on his Harley throughout England, from the White Cliffs of Dover to a village near an underground ammunition depot in Staffordshire. When he is wounded in a horrific explosion, Natasha brings him back to safety, only to discover the other woman’s letter to him. He wonders, will Natasha trust him again, even though as a soldier, he must keep his mission a secret? Will their love survive the test of war?
In the past Natasha wrote, with girlish infatuation, “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.” In years to come, she will begin to lose her memory, which will make Lenny see her as delicate. “I gather her gently into my arms, holding her like a breath.” But right now, during the months leading up to D-Day, she is at her peak. With solid resolve, she is ready to take charge of the course of their story.
Dancing with Air is a standalone WWII historical fiction novel, as well as the fourth volume of a family saga series titled Still Life with Memories, one of family sagas best sellers of all time. If you like family saga romance, wounded warrior romance books, romantic suspense novels, military romantic suspense, or strong female lead romance, you will find that this love story is a unique melding of them all.
About the Author
Uvi Poznansky is a bestselling, award-winning author, poet and artist. Her romance boxed set, A Touch of Passion, is the 2016 winner of The Romance Reviews Readers' Choice Awards. Her writing and her art are tightly coupled. “I paint with my pen,” she says, “and write with my paintbrush.”
Uvi 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.
Having moved to Troy, N.Y. with her husband and two children, Uvi received a Fellowship grant and a Teaching Assistantship from the Architecture department at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute. There, she guided teams in a variety of design projects and 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 blog, 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, excerpts from her writing, reader reviews, and author interviews. She engages readers and writers in conversation on her Goodreads group, The Creative Spark.
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.
My Own Voice, The White Piano (woven together in Apart from Love), The Music of Us, and Dancing with Air are volume I, II, III and IV of Still Life with Memories, a family saga with love stories that develop in the face of hardship and illness over two generations, starting at the beginning of WWII with Lenny, a soldier, and Natasha, a rising star.
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.
Find her Books, ask to get them Autographed, and subscribe to her Newsletter.
Follow her on these sites:
•Blog
•Amazon Author Page
•Amazon Author Page UK
•Goodreads Author Page
•Goodreads group: The Creative Spark with Uvi Poznansky.
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About the Cover
In designing the cover I was inspired by this passage in the story, told by Lenny:
A month ago she had given me a page of her diary, and to the sound of it rustling in my hand I imagined her imagining 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.
With these words Natasha stepped into my mind, lighting up the gloom. I pictured her dancing with her back to me as if, between the two of us, I was the one who was not even there.
The ripples of her hair spread open, glinting in all shades of red. Wave by wave they cascaded down, first between her shoulder blades, then over them. Fingers stretched out, just like a ballerina, she raised her arm up high, swirling, twirling air, turning it into glow. The translucent fabric fastened around her waist flapped over her legs, folds radiating, fluttering, flaring with every sinuous movement, as she formed loops, slow, continuous infinity loops with her hips.
I turned the radio on, and a song came on:
You’re the one I live for
To you I’ll soon surrender
I’ll love you through the worst of war
In the name of all that’s tender
Till this sadness disappears
Come to me, I’ll hold you dear
Through times of joy and time of tears
No more loneliness, no more fear
The last vibration faded away, and so did the apparition I created of Natasha.
Acknowledgments
I would like to give recognition to three authors who read this book while it was still in a half-cooked state and with great generosity, offered their comments, insights and suggestions. I am deeply grateful to them.
Sheila Deeth, a high-ranking book reviewer and an editor, grew up in the UK and has a Bachelors and Masters in mathematics from Cambridge University, England. She is the author of numerous books, including Exodus Tales, Bethlehem Baby, Divide by Zero, and Zero Sum.
Aaron Paul Lazar is a multi-award winning mystery writer, who lives on a ridge overlooking the Genesee Valley in upstate New York with his wife, mother-in-law, two dogs, and cat. He created the Gus LeGarde mystery series, featuring protagonist Gus LeGarde, a classical music professor.
Dancing with Air (Still Life with Memories Book 4) Page 15
