Book Bites: The Wrong Girl Page 3

  “What’s the point?” he asked, mockingly. “You can’t send this to a girl who isn’t there.”

  “Why not?”

  “You think you can mess around with German intelligence? You think they won’t figure things out, sooner or later?”

  “You mean, they’ll be watching me, sir?”

  Captain Smith uttered a sigh, as if he couldn’t believe having to explain the obvious.

  “It’s safe to assume they will,” he said, in an utterly deliberate manner, as if talking to a slow-witted child. “Don’t you think?”

  To which I could only say, “Oh.”

  “What a waste!” he said, throwing his hands in the air, not before grabbing the letter from my hands and sending it in a whirl to the floor, which is where he stamped it, in great disgust, with the full weight of his boot.

  Was he expecting some apology from me? I could not figure out what I had done wrong.

  “All your talent has come to nothing,” he complained. “And why? All because of a woman.”

  Clearly, it was time for me to leave. I started turning away, when suddenly he said, “Unless—”

  “Unless what, sir?”

  “Unless you can find another one.”

  Now it was my turn to ask, “Say what?”

  “Don’t you have another girl back home, like the rest of the guys?”

  “No!” I said. “And you can’t expect this letter to be sent to just anyone out there—”

  “Why not? The right girl isn’t there,” he said. “So the wrong one will have to do.”

  “I can’t think of anyone I could use.”

  “In that case, you need to do some more thinking,” he insisted. “Find someone, anyone! She can be your grade school teacher or your best friend’s babe, I don’t mind at all who she is, as long as she shows no urge to sacrifice herself, unwittingly, on your behalf by coming over here and messing things up for us.”

  “That’s an impossible problem, sir. Even if I can somehow find such a woman, I’ll have nothing to say to her, and every sentence in the entire letter would have to be changed—”

  “So what?” he said, and led me to the door, while offering me a choice bit of literary advice. “Don’t be afraid of rewriting, Corporal. It means you have something worth saying well.”

  ❋

  A few minutes later I found myself walking down the street, where I was wracking my brain, trying to find a solution. Little did I know it was just about to be presented to me.

  “Hey, Lenny, why the long face?” said a familiar voice.

  “Don’t talk to me now, Ryan,” I said. “Can’t you see I have things to do?”

  “No,” he said. “Scratching your head can barely qualify as being busy.”

  “Please, Ryan, just go away.”

  His arm wrapped around the waist of his English girlfriend. “Oh, cheer up!” he told me. “Pleasure is the purpose of life!”

  Giggling, Kate rose to her tiptoes to nuzzle his ear. “Maybe so,” she groaned, “but moderation is the key.”

  “Is it, really?” he asked, and both of them burst into laughter.

  “C’mon,” she pleaded. “You promised to take me to London Zoo.”

  “Just one moment,” he said.

  To which Kate said, “Someone needs to feed those poor Pelicans. They don’t get enough food lately, because fish have to be rationed strictly, all because of this war.”

  She turned to go, and meanwhile Ryan stepped closer to me and said, under his breath, “Lenny, I’ve worked up my courage, at last!”

  I asked, “To do what?”

  “To send my old girlfriend, Lana, her final goodbye note.”

  “Oh really? You’re going to break her heart.”

  “That’s life. She’s been expecting it for quite a while. D’you have a stamp, by any chance?”

  “No. But I can find one for you, up in my room.”

  He handed me the envelope. “Seal it with a kiss, I’m sure Lana will thank you for it one day.”

  “You don’t really mean that.”

  “Mail it to her, Lenny, will you?”

  Taking it I hurried away, feeling suddenly lucky. The wrong girl was almost too easy to find.

  I had met her a few months back, on my visit to New York, so getting word from me would not seem strange to Lana. Quite the opposite, she would welcome an exchange of letters, because she was interested in all men in uniform, and in particular, she was drawn to me.

  And German intelligence? No doubt, they would take pleasure in the conversation. Yes, I would keep them entertained, so as to fool their war machine into a mishap. So in the future, they would find themselves vulnerable to attack in a place they least expected.

  In my room I copied her address to a new envelope. Then I smoothed the paper of my original draft, thinking how I might adjust the opening, so it would make sense for Lana.

  The idea that I might regret this sometime in the future did not occur to me until later, when I turned on the radio. The delicate voice of a singer reminded me, for no good reason, of Natasha:

  I heard what they say about you, cheatin’ man

  I can take it from you, I really can

  Tell me the truth

  Or I’ll drown my suspicions in Gin and Vermouth

  I can take it if you treat me wrong

  Because I love you and because I’m strong

  Tell me the truth, just don’t you lie to me

  Don’t reduce my love to despair and debris

  Like a Star on the Silver Screen

  Sample from

  Dancing with Air

  As told by Lenny, 1944

  The next morning, the unexpected happened. Why I had failed to prepare myself for it was quite beyond me, but there it was: a letter from the wrong girl. Lana.

  I imagined the sound of her slight Russian accent bubbling there, under the words. She wrote,

  Lenny,

  Oh, what a surprise! I busted out laughing, couldn’t contain myself, that’s how happy I was, simply to get your letter—even if most of it has been obliterated beyond recognition. You like ‘obliterated’? I think it makes me sound smart! Anyway, it was erased with some heavy blue marks, probably by a military censor or something.

  So what’s a girl to do, except try to guess at what you wrote, what you meant to tell me?

  At reading this I wondered not only what parts of my writing she had managed to read but also why she had gotten it in the first place. I must have been under the wrong impression, thinking that once my letters would be intercepted by Nazi Intelligence, they would never be delivered to Lana, which gave me a false sense of freedom.

  I could write anything, so I had thought, and it would not matter. Lana would know nothing, nothing at all about this.

  A sudden confusion set in, along with doubt. Had my letters served their intended purpose, to fool the enemy—or not? I hated to think that all my hard work and creativity had been for naught.

  A moment later, my head cleared. I realized what the German double agent, who worked at the post office, must have done. He must have made copies of my letters, which he had given to his German collaborators. Then he had placed the originals back in the pile, so they could undergo the usual censorship process, before being sent overseas.

  And now, to my dismay, I had to contend with this new complication: an unwanted infatuation, coming my way. The last thing I needed, at this point in my life, was emotional protestations from a lonely girl whom I barely knew.

  In a flash I recalled how she had looked, moments before Natasha’s performance in Carnegie Hall. Taking a seat next to mine, Lana had been wearing full-length satin gloves that extended up above the elbows, a sparkly black evening dress with a slit on the side, and a necklace that dipped into her cleavage. Licking her red lips, she had given a little nod to me, making her hair sway all around her, shiny and bleached blond.

  Here before me, was her account of that night.

 
When I met you, Lenny, during your recent visit to NY, you were gracious to me—super gracious, really!—letting me grab that large bouquet of roses right out of your hands, even though both of us knew it wasn’t meant for me, not really.

  I mean, I’m not dumb! I know what’s what, even if at times I pretend to be silly. Men seem to like it, no idea why. Take my ex-boyfriend, Ryan, for example. He thinks I have a pea for a brain, which makes him feel superior, which in turn let me have my way with him, at least while it lasted.

  Of course, you’re different. I do mean it.

  I’ve been thinking about you fondly, in the last few months, and whispering your name and mine, because they go so well together.

  For me, it’s this unusual grace in you—even more so than how tall and handsome you are—that I find irresistible.

  By all means, I whispered, please, do resist me. Otherwise I would find myself in trouble, because what could I tell my sweetheart about you?

  Now Lana turned her attention to our so-called past. With letters slanting this way and that, she wrote,

  Perhaps, at the time, I read you all wrong. Perhaps your attention to me, as gallant as it may have been, was a bit more than mere courtesy, no? In your mind, as in mine, was this love? Was it meant to happen?

  Anyways, even if the answer is no, a girl can wish, right? And I hope I’m not piling on too many questions all at once. Does this annoy you? Sorry. Am I being silly, or what?

  Now, back to your letter. I can tell you put a lot in it. Four pages is nothing to sneeze at. But if I put the words together, I mean, the few words that the censor left untouched, there’s less than a sentence worth of stuff, so no wonder that on the whole, it makes little sense.

  So, instead of trying to respond to something I can’t understand, let me do something else, something that’s a lot more satisfying, at least in my mind. At the risk of dispelling the sense of mystery I’ll tell you all about me, which may help you figure out why you find me so attractive.

  At that I cried out, who, me? I find you attractive? Really?

  And as if Lana could hear me, all the way out there in the Big Apple, she provided a rambling account of her life. Perhaps it was meant to explain who she was, how she was coping with life in wartime, and most of all, to convince me of her charms.

  I spent the entire day going from one store to another, looking for clothes and makeup and stuff. It’s an exhausting job—please don’t laugh—but you know me: I’m not a quitter!

  Looking cute is important, and it’s not just me saying that. In the news I’ve heard that in spite of rationing, the US government expressed concern, genuine concern that a lack of interest in personal appearance can be a sign of low morale, which in turn can have an impact, which they called ‘detrimental,’ on the war effort. So, for my part I’m determined to do everything in my power to look pretty for the war.

  And that isn’t easy, mind you! Makeup hasn’t been rationed, so far at least, but it’s subject to a luxury tax, which makes it way too expensive for me. And anyways, some makeup companies don’t produce as much as needed, these days. Coty, for example, a company that’s known for its face powder and perfumes, now makes army foot powder and anti-gas ointment. So what’s a girl to do, if not apply beetroot juice for a splash of lip color and boot polish for mascara?

  But to look at me, you won’t guess what it took to put together this face.

  Well, enough talking about me. D’you like my hair?

  For anyone who liked bleached hair, I thought, it was just the right color.

  She went on to say,

  I don’t know why I’m telling you all this, Lenny, perhaps to make sure you realize how inventive I am, especially in hard times. You see, in spite of popular opinion, my brain is much larger than a pea.

  To that I had to agree. Lana did have a resourceful mind and she was proud of it, as she ought to be. And yet, it was shallow. There was a stark contrast, I thought, between her brand of wit and Natasha’s genius.

  In her next paragraph, Lana wrote,

 

  Last week, Uncle Sam assumed the role of fashion designer. Can you believe it? There are new, sweeping restrictions, aimed at saving some of the yardage used on women's apparel.

  The new measures restrict hems to two inches and eliminate cuffs on sleeves. I’m shocked, really! Why don’t they mind their own business and get out of mine?

  The only categories exempt from such restrictions are bridal gowns and maternity dresses. As I said, a girl can only hope, right?

  If not for feeling remorseful for getting her involved—without her knowledge or consent—in a complex ploy to defeat the enemy, I would have shouted, right you are! Yes, a girl can only hope, but then again, maybe she shouldn’t. So please, please be realistic. Forget all these dreams of getting married, especially to me, because Lana, I’m already spoken for.

  I felt as if I stepped, by accident, into chewing gum. And yet I was the one responsible for this sticky mess. It was my own doing. There was no doubt in my mind that the more I would thrash about, trying to yank myself free of it, the more I would find myself entangled.

  Her last paragraph was a scribble of a poem, which she must have written just for me. I could almost hear her voice singing it, in a somewhat clunky tune, which was endearing and at the same time, a bit frightening.

  Lana’s got a boyfriend, Lenny

  Lana’s spendin’ every last penny

  So he’ll admire her, keep his eyes for her,

  Like a star on the silver screen

  It Was Nothing but a Scribble

  Sample from

  The Music of Us

  As told by Lenny, 1970

  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 wa
s 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 composition, 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.

  One of My Early Stories

  Sample from

  My Own Voice

  As told by Anita (Lenny’s second wife), 1980

  Last night was real special for me. He came back from work, and after his son had moped about the place and finally, gone out for a drink or something, which was right after dinner, Lenny stepped out to the balcony, and instead of pressing them keys on the tape recorder, he opened his notebook—the thick one, with the worn cover, which must have seen better days—and said, “Come over here, Anita. Let me read you a little something.”