The Music of Us (Still Life with Memories Book 3) Read online

  “Well,” he demanded, “do you?”

  “You tell me,” I said at last.

  “You know it by her neck.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” he said. “Virgins have long necks. Always.”

  As an amateur artist Aaron must have gleaned this nugget of arguable wisdom from traditional oil paintings, where throughout the history of art virgin Mary is depicted with lovely, elongated lines as she cranes her head, doting on her baby.

  Afraid to show my lack of experience in the matter of virginity I hesitated to ask what happens to those long necks at the moment of deflowering. I mean, did they automatically contract?

  Between the two of us he was the expert, or so I thought. For sure I had a lot to learn from him. Too bad he was about to leave camp the very next day. I made a mental note to myself to pay more careful attention to women’s necks from now on.

  Meanwhile I said nothing. A light rain slanted into our path, and with every step forward, I prayed that my wound would remain dry, and the pain—bearable. All the while there was one tune that kept humming louder and louder in my head.

  I’ll be seeing you.

  At first the song conjured the well-known black-and-white pinups: Rita Hayworth rising to greet me from a her luxurious satin sheets, Betty Grable in her bathing suit giving me an enticing over-the-shoulder glance, and Jane Russell, back against a haystack, inviting me to come in from the cold and find shelter in her shapely arms.

  I stepped into a puddle and in a blink, a strange thing happened: these images receded, they swirled away into a gray blur, over which my mind formed an entirely new image: the pale face of girl, a girl with red hair. I was enamored with Natasha even before laying eyes on her.

  The lyrics suggested a past, they evoked a yearning for a future long before our first moment ever came to be.

  I’ll be dreaming you

  In every path I’ll find your traces

  Going back to all our places

  All night through

  With a Light from Above

  Chapter 3

  The auditorium at Camp Upton could accommodate well over three thousand men, seated on benches to watch a boxing match or a movie—but tonight, for this show, there was barely any standing room. The door was slightly ajar. We stood outside of it, under the projection of the roof, over which the rain started to dance. Through its tapping, we listened to the sounds of marching bass drums coming from within. They were somewhat muffled, because of being cast back, like a whiff of second-hand smoke, over the shoulders of the GIs who crowded the place.

  From the back, all of them looked identical, because their heads had been shaved according to the military regulation cut, using a straight razor with little effort to blend the border with the full head of hair above. My friend, Aaron, decided to lure them out of their place in line to move us forward. His plan was sure-fire: he pulled out his box of Chesterfields, lit one for himself, and used the second to tease the soldier waiting in line just ahead of us.

  “Hey,” he said. “Want a cigarette?”

  “Sure,” said the soldier.

  “With us, it’s Chesterfield,” said Aaron, quoting the popular commercial slogan. “The cooler, better tasting, definitely milder cigarettes. Everywhere you go, they satisfy.”

  “Don’t play with me,” said the other. “I’m ready for it.”

  But Aaron was in no hurry to part with his coffin nail. Instead he took his time doing an imitation, a sexy imitation of the operatic singer, Rise Stevens, who had been featured recently in a three-color ad dressed as Carmen, holding a butt between her fingers.

  Imitating her deliciously sultry voice, he uttered, “You might say I’m careful, that’s why I say Chesterfields satisfy me.”

  “Satisfy yourself,” muttered the other, in an exasperated tone.

  “You don’t want it all that bad, do you?”

  “Hand it over, will you?”

  At last, “Here, step this way,” said Aaron, guiding him aside, in the direction of the mess-hall. There, he let him have his pleasure, after which he winked at me, hinting I should take the soldier’s place in line.

  They stood next to a pile of discarded things, which at first looked to me like pineapple fruit, glistening in the rain. A heartbeat later I realized what these must have been: faulty MK I grenades left over from old times, perhaps WWI, and no longer used for training, because of having been replaced, lately, by the MK II grenades.

  With the ciggy between his lips, dangling this way and that, “Light me up,” said the soldier.

  Before I could say, “Aaron, for God’s sake, don’t!” Aaron did.

  “Got your orders yet?” he asked.

  To which the soldier replied, “Not yet. You?”

  “Heading to Honolulu.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Hawaii.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “I hear those Hula dancers are hot.”

  “Yes,” said Aaron. “That’s what everyone says.”

  Then he left the soldier to his puffs of smoke and came back to join me in line. And tapping the next shoulder, just ahead of us, “Hey! “ he said. “Want a cigarette?”

  It was then that I caught a low, intermittent noise, growling somewhere in the background. At first I thought that one of those metallic pineapples was not quite as faulty as expected, and might be ripening in a big hurry into an explosion, as a flying spark from that match might have lit its fuse—but no: there, behind the pile, a jeep nosed its way around the far corner of the building and then spun its tires into the mud, digging itself into to a full stop.

  A short, stocky figure, wrapped up to her ears in fur, emerged from the driver side, narrowly avoiding landing in the sludge. Then the woman turned around to guide down another figure, who was too quick for her. Light-footed, the girl skipped over the puddle. Reflected in it I spotted her coat flapping open. In a flash it revealed a slender ankle and the bend of a knee.

  I became so curious that without thinking twice I bolted out of my place in line, paying no attention to Aaron, who cried out from behind, “You devil, you! Hey, where d’you think you’re going?”

  And when he saw me following the two figures around the building, he called yet again, “Lenny, you’ll lose your place in line! Come back! The back entry is for performers only!”

  From the lightbulb above the door, yellow light poured down, painting the draped turban of the girl in silhouette, yet fleshing out the middle-aged woman in full detail.

  Looking at that hairstyle of hers I thought it might serve as a domicile for a couple of birds, but could not imagine them staying there too long, as they might be asphyxiated from the buildup of daily dousing of hairspray, which was meant, I suppose, to keep every strand firmly in place despite any blow of wind that might chance her way. For further protection from the elements, she held her hands straight up, stretching a bunch of papers between them to shelter her bird-nest from the rain.

  “Mamochka,” said the girl. “My notes! They’ll be ruined!”

  “You don’t really need them, Natasha, do you? You do play so well from memory.”

  ❋

  Once the door slammed shut behind them I counted to ten before sneaking in. The corridor around the back of the stage was dark. I found my way by touch, guided by the blaring sound of saxophones, trumpets and trombones, under which I could detect a rhythm, composed of drums, bass, piano and guitar, pulsing a cord progression that gave reference for the rest of the band.

  Suddenly I heard a whisper, which made me sink back a step or two into the shadows, in between two columns of stacked up benches. At this point I was still hoping to remain unnoticed.

  There they stood, at the other end of the corridor, taking a peek at the stage. In a low voice the girl said, “Mama?”

  The fat woman scratched the edge around her bird-nest, perhaps because all that hairspray—which became common recently, after the patent of the
aerosol process—made her skin itch. Then she whispered back, in a heavy Russian accent, “Yes, Natasha?”

  “Look,” said the girl. “Isn’t it amazing, the way these dancers shake everything they’ve got?”

  The woman clicked her tongue. “What can I say but one word: Shame! Shame! Shame!”

  “That’s three words, mama!”

  “Who’s counting?”

  “I am,” said the girl. “Listen to the clapping! Everybody loves what they do! How do I follow an act such as this?”

  I took a step or two closer. On the other side of her, seen through a curtain that covered the narrow opening, spotlights flooded the stage. Three female performers, dressed in khaki skirts and wearing black pumps, were doing their number: a hit song titled Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy Of Company B, which told the story of a bugler, a top man at his craft, who was reduced to blowing the morning wakeup call at camp, because the army could find no better use for him.

  They sang the last verse swaying their hips with great flair, twirling their military-style neckties, and marching out directly into the audience. Then they invited cheering soldiers, one row after another, to join them in dancing their way back up the stage. When at last the performers waved goodbye, the entire place roared with applause.

  “No one will want to listen to me,” said the girl, in an anxious tone. “You know it.”

  “Listen, dear. Just do what you do best: play,” said the other, instructing her daughter in the manner of a stage mom. Then, switching into the tone of a chaperone, she added, “Just remember this: pay no attention to any of them GIs down there, because God knows who they go to bed with.”

  “Mama!”

  “Stick to one thing: notes, notes, and notes, and don’t tell me it’s three things, and don’t count on anything I say, don’t count it at all, not at all, not at all, because it’s all only one thing, really. And above all, remember: don’t look at any of them boys in uniform. Trust me dear, they’re not for you!”

  “Mama!”

  The old woman opened her mouth to answer, but before she could utter another word, three things happened all at once: her eyes fell upon me, the girl clapped a hand over her heart, and the master of ceremonies could be heard behind them, stepping out to the center of the stage.

  He bowed to the audience and cheerfully announced, “And now we take great pleasure to present the youngest star of our program, miss Natasha Horowitz!”

  “Go, go, you go, girl,” said her mama.

  But to herself she mumbled, “Lordy Lord. Let’s hope these GIs have some taste for something classical.”

  She reached over her daughter’s forehead to adjust the feather in the little draped turban, which was whimsically designed by knotting together a couple of scarves. On other women, especially of the working class, such a hat would seem practical, as it was easy to create at home and kept the hair in place. On Natasha it added glamor. Impatient with all that fiddling over a feather, she removed it.

  Out of the hat cascaded the most gorgeous, shoulder-length red hair, with a curl at the end of it, the tips of which were wet from the rain. The girl shook her head so as to let the drops fly out, slipped out of her coat and stepped out into the spotlight, without her notes.

  Meanwhile, her mama turned upon me. She set her fisted hands firmly on her hips and took a big gulp of air, letting her breath expand inside her as if she were a balloon. Then she looked up at me trying to stare me down, as if I were the enemy.

  “Who’re you?” she asked, and without waiting for a reply she grumbled, “Go away! Go back!”

  Up to that moment I had considered myself a fairly disciplined soldier, but the way she glared at me made me feel quite naughty, which on the flip side, compelled me to live up to a different reputation.

  So feeling an urge, a sudden, irresistible urge not only to make an impression on the daughter but also to spite the mom, I slipped forward through the opening, and came onstage striding ahead of Natasha. Facing the audience I blew my cheeks, rather theatrically, into an imaginary bugle, which gained me a round of applause, as everyone thought my act must have been part of the show.

  Then, with great flamboyance, I took the non-existent brass instrument out of my lips and clutched it to my heart, before making a spectacular leap offstage. While in flight, I totally forgot the injury I had suffered to my shoulder, only to be reminded of it, with a sharp shot of pain, upon landing. Stumbling onto someone’s lap I tumbled further down onto the floor, from where I raised up my eyes to watch Natasha.

  She came to stand at the edge of the stage, with a light from above focused upon her, which allowed me to see her clearly for the first time.

  Her light-pink dress hung just below the knees. It hugged her figure, which was slim and straight like a pencil, with barely any curves. Under the squared shoulders, which were then in fashion, her scrawny arms hung by her sides as if she didn’t know what to do with them, except for the long, delicate fingers that of their own, played in the air.

  And oh, her face! Framed by the lovely chestnut curls, it was pale, and so were the freckles on her nose. This kid could be no older than fifteen. She was separated from the rest of us not only by the height of the stage and the radiance of the spotlight but also by the innocence in her eyes.

  Having given us a nod Natasha turned to the Knabe piano and pulled the bench from it. Before sitting she smoothed the hem of the dress over her knees in the most prim manner. She lifted her hands dramatically over the keys.

  Then—just as dramatically—she froze, as a collective sigh broke out when the master of ceremonies announced, “Tonight, folks, we’re in for a treat. Listen to this piece: Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 3—”

  “No!” said Natasha, all of a sudden.

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” she told him, with a slight quiver in her voice. “I—I changed my mind!”

  He glanced at her and then, overcoming a slight confusion, held the microphone to her lips.

  “Before coming onstage,” she said, “my mama told me not to look at the audience. But you know, she didn’t tell me not to listen to them!”

  Someone in the back clapped his hands. Others followed.

  A rebellious smile started sparking in her eyes as she took hold of the microphone.

  “So,” she said, and her voice became strong and fully melodious. “I’m not going to play what I came here to play. Instead I’m going to give you something entirely different: a song that was written right here, in this camp, back in 1918.”

  Her mama must have fainted, because from the corridor, a loud thump was heard.

  To divert attention from it, the master of ceremonies opened his arms to Natasha, muttering, “We, and the entire community of Yaphank, welcome you here—”

  To which she said, “I find it interesting that it is home not only to Camp Upton, which is where we stand today embracing each other, but also to Camp Siegfried, a summer camp which teaches Nazi ideology.”

  He could not help asking, “Is that legal?”

  “Protected by the 1st amendment, it is,” she said. “Operated by the German American Bund, it is one of many such camps in the US since the 1930s.”

  Eager to change the subject, perhaps because he thought it politically explosive, he pleaded, “Tell us, Natasha, about the song you’re about to play.”

  “It was composed by a friend of my late papa,” she said. “He intended to include it in a military all-soldier musical called Yip Yip Yaphank, which for some reason never happened. He must have thought it too sad, too serious. It wasn’t until two decades later, on Armistice Day, marking the anniversary of the end of WWI, that he revived it. Here is God Bless America by Irving Berlin!”

  She handed the microphone back to him and turned to the piano.

  I had heard others play the Knabe, which always sounds wonderful, as it represented the finest tradition of handmade, limited production piano crafting, which used the finest materials, from the tapered
solid Canadian spruce soundboard to the premium German action and hammers—but no one brought it such sweet justice as when Natasha played it. She gave it a soul. From the very first notes, which started in the softest of murmurs, her performance gave me chills.

  Since its introduction last year in a popular radio show, God Bless America had become not only a cultural sensation but also had been used as the official tune for the campaign of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. But here, in this auditorium, it turned into something larger and more meaningful than a popular hit or a political message. Her fingers awakened something in the belly of the instrument, in my guts, in the hearts of everyone present.

  A prayer for peace.

  For all these young men, who might soon be sent into battle, the song expressed unease over the approaching war. I was happy for my friend Aaron, who would be sent to a safe place, to Pearl Harbor, yet I did worry about the fate of the others, whose orders had not come in yet. All of us could sense those storm clouds, gathering far across the sea.

  The Russian-born composer, Irving Berlin, was the son of a cantor who fled persecution in Europe. While he was growing up on the Lower East Side, his mother would indicate, time and again, that without this country her family would have had nowhere to go.

  In 1940 the song was boycotted by the Ku Klux Klan, because they questioned both his right to evoke God and to call the United States his home sweet home.

  In the face of such objections I found myself raising my voice, to pray, “God Bless America, land that I love.” At first my voice was choked with tears, but then it cleared, as I sang, “Stand beside her, and guide her, thru the night with a light from above.”

  One by one, soldiers rose to their feet, many with tears flowing down their cheeks.

  Meanwhile, the curtains behind the piano opened up to reveal all the performers of the previous numbers, holding hands. They swayed together, moved by the fears and hopes that this child evoked, by the powerful music that exploded from the keys under her fingers and hovered so divinely over us, sending pulse after pulse into our bodies, into our hearts.