Days of Winter
Authors: Cynthia Freeman
Cynthia Freeman
For my mother and father with
love. Without them, there would never
have been Chapter One.
Magda
CHAPTER ONE
Spring
T
HE YEAR WAS 1914
. …The time was spring … the place was Paris … and all the poetry that belonged uniquely to that magnificent goddess was on display. The chestnut trees were in bloom … the boulevards were alive with people. Like a Monet painting they sat at the sidewalk cafés. The boats floated languidly along the Seine. Montmartre sang with a voice of inspired imagination which was translated onto the canvases, conjured up from the soul of the artist as he painted under the trees, hoping for a buyer.
Rubin mused. …If life allowed one the freedom to choose a secret desire, his first love would be painting. But he felt no bitterness in the fleeting thought. One must not be tempted by dreams that deny reality. …No need to dwell upon it since his life had been predestined from the cradle, as it had been for all four of the Hack sons. …
The Hacks had been barristers for two hundred years, starting with Rubin’s great-great-grandfather, Isaac, and perpetuating up to the time of Nathan, Rubin’s father. Nathan was also a member of the House of Commons. The firm of Hack was indeed prestigious; on the door were five names. There was much reason for Nathan to be grateful, Rubin knew, especially when he looked back and considered his blessings. Every two years a son had lain in his arms. When he had looked down at each newborn, just separated from the body of his beloved wife Sara, Nathan had reveled in the knowledge that this child would continue the legacy established by the house of Hack. There had been a Hack in the House of Commons at the time of Disraeli. Yes, Nathan was a proud and happy man. Life had endowed him generously.
Three of his sons had married into families of distinction. Maurice, the eldest, had married Sylvia Rothchild, Phillip chose Matilda Lilienthal as his bride, Leon’s great love was the exquisite Deborah Mayer, and now there was cause for further pride. Rubin, the youngest, was betrothed to Jocelyn Sassoon, a name so illustrious that even Nathan stood in awe.
Rubin’s thoughts on that spring day, however, were not centered on Nathan’s joys, but on his own pleasures as he walked the crooked, cobblestoned streets of Montmartre. His life had been filled with the grandeur of tradition and culture. Sometimes it was overpowering.
When Rubin had left London to visit Paris, he took a room on the Left Bank, which his family was unaware of. He should have been staying at the home of his dear friend Emile Jonet, where he still picked up his mail, but that address would not have given him the thing he was seeking. The Paris he wanted was filled with intoxication, excitement, the feeling of being free that he was not privileged to enjoy at home. He felt stifled at home, but here he felt as though he could soar like a bird.
That evening Rubin walked along the Rue de l’Odeon, turned right until he stood in front of Sylvia Beach’s book shop. He allowed his mind to dwell on the past and the present. Ezra Pound … James Joyce … Rubin tried to imagine the great men and women who had stepped over the threshold of that outwardly unimpressive little book shop. Exhilarated, he felt a compulsion to walk further until he came to 27 Rue de Fleurus, where Gertrude Stein lived. From across the street he looked up, trying to imagine her sitting inside, surrounded by the greatest treasures of modern art like some giant enchantress toward whom everyone felt subservient. For one moment he allowed himself to feel that he would never be privileged to open that door. Then just as quickly he dismissed the thought and replaced it with a joyous feeling that at least he had been privileged to stand on this street so close to greatness. Lighting a cigarette, he smoked it contentedly as he leaned against a lamp post.
Suddenly he laughed out loud, looking down at his dirty canvas shoes and his baggy corduroy trousers above which he wore a brown V-necked sweater. If Father could see me now, he thought, he would glare at me with fierce disapproval. Nathan was a meticulous man who believed that the proof of his status as a gentleman lay in his tailor. Rubin could see his beloved father now in the great London synagogue on Yom Kippur eve sitting in his black cutaway jacket and silk top hat, the
tallis
folded neatly around his neck, communing with God. Not that Rubin was irreverent … but Nathan loved God as Rubin loved Paris. The difference, however, was that Nathan must stand before his God dressed as a gentleman, whereas Rubin could stand before his goddess dressed in the garb of Bohemia.
With these thoughts Rubin wandered through the Paris night, along the quay and up the steep stone steps past Nôtre Dame. He realized two things: He had been in Paris for three days and had not written Jocelyn; also, he had not eaten since early that morning. He would accomplish both things at once. He found a shop and bought a postcard and a stamp. Leaving the shop in search of a café, mentally he wrote … “My dearest Jocelyn …Please forgive me … for my neglect in not writing sooner … but … since I arrived in Paris there has been so much to see … Cézanne, Picasso, et cetera, et cetera, have taken a good part of my time. …The Museum of Modern Art has haunted my dreams.” Stupid, simply stupid, Rubin admonished himself. It was not a travelogue he was writing but a love letter to his betrothed. Begin again, now. …“My dearest Jocelyn, since arriving my every thought has been of you. I beg your indulgence for not having written sooner, but getting settled in Paris this year has somehow been difficult. My fervent prayer is that when I return it will be with my Jocelyn so that we may share the beauty that is only to be compared with you. Until then I wait for the moment when my holiday is complete to hold you in my arms. With love, Rubin.”
Entering a café, he groped through the darkened room, found a table and seated himself. The café was filled with an assortment of painters, writers and expatriates all assembled for the same reasons, not only to escape the ugly realities of life in a bottle of wine and a cheap meal, but also to reach out in the need to touch one another’s lives. To talk … to laugh … to listen … yet not always to hear. It made life bearable to know one had friends in adversity. Rubin sat by himself enjoying the sounds, catching fragments of conversation. The smoke-filled room gave it an atmosphere of such intimacy that Rubin felt himself a part of the camaraderie. He was so carried away he forgot his promise to write Jocelyn.
The shirt-sleeved waiter asked. “
Que desirez-vous
?”
Rubin looked at the large blackboard attached to the wall. The bill of fare was the same each day …
escargots
… salad … onion soup … bread …
fromage
, and, of course,
vin ordinaire
, table wine, either red or white.
Rubin ordered onion soup, bread, and red wine. Later the waiter could bring Camembert. Suddenly Rubin remembered the postcard with the picture of the Eiffel Tower. Taking it out of his pocket, he began his soliloquy. He got as far as “My dearest Jocelyn” when a hush fell over the room. The strains of a gypsy violin began, and a voice so soft, so sensuous, beseeched … no, demanded … silence. Rubin looked up from the card, the pen poised in his hand, and sat, unable to move. It was not only the music that aroused him, it was also the girl. He had never seen anyone so magnificent. Her deep amber liquid eyes looked at each man as though she were his and only his. Her hair, which gave the illusion that it had not been coiffed, was parted in the center and hung loosely to below her shoulders. Her skin was silken smooth. The sheer white peasant blouse was cut deeply, revealing the top of her perfectly rounded breasts, which rose enticingly as she sang. Her waist was slim, encircled by an eighteen-inch belt above a black satin skirt which revealed her slightly full hips. The slit on the right side exposed her exquisitely shaped legs. The movement of her body became feline. When she finished the applause was tumultuous. She threw back her mane of tousled hair and laughed, parting the extraordinary red sculptured lips. There were shouts for her to sing songs Rubin had never heard of. When she sang in Italian she was bawdy and naughty. …No one need understand the language, the gestures spoke for themselves. And when she sang in Rumanian she was sad, poignant and lovely, ending in tears. And the song she sang in French brought tears to Rubin’s eyes.
Finally, after a long sip of wine, she began a wild gypsy song. As the rhythm gathered momentum, the crowd clapped along with her until the song reached a crescendo. Completely spent, she took another sip of wine, then half whispering, half talking, she said, “
C’est tout. Je vous adore, mes amis, bon nuit, mon ami.
”
Wiping her forehead she left the small stage and joined her friends. Rubin could not take his eyes away from her. He sat in the shadows, watching. He would wait all night, if need be, until she was alone.
Closing time was three in the morning. That was always the happiest moment for Pierre, the waiter, when he could lock the front door and begin putting the chairs upside down on the round tables with the red and white checkered cloths. Then the lights were turned off except for one which cast eerie shadows on the walls.
Rubin had sat so unobtrusively in the corner all evening that Pierre was surprised to find him still sitting there, with just a small amount of wine left in the bottle. He said, “Monsieur, we are closed.”
Rubin looked somewhat startled. “Oh! I am sorry, but I’ve been sitting here daydreaming … enjoying the wine and silence.”
Pierre narrowed his eyes suspiciously on the stranger. “You have nowhere to sleep?”
Rubin was feeling lightheaded and courageous. He scarcely heard the waiter as he looked at the young woman who sat a few tables away from him.
“Monsieur?”
Rubin looked up. “
Oui
?”
“I asked, do you have a place to stay?”
“Oh … oh,
oui
,
merci
. What do I owe?”
“Four francs.”
Rubin paid, rose unsteadily and walked to the table where he stopped, looking down at the magnificent bowed head of soft amber-brown hair. Suddenly the head lifted and a pair of wide eyes flecked with green and gold met his. Close, she was more beautiful than he had imagined. She did not speak, but merely took the wine glass in her hand and sipped, peering over the rim. Her eyes inspected him openly, observing each feature of the handsome young face. Rubin was, frankly, overcome. Jocelyn crossed his mind as he saw himself lying beside this girl. …Then he felt awkward, doltish, for staring at her as though he were mute. He found his intermingled feelings both exciting and frightening at the same time. He
wanted
her so—
“Why do you stare at me like that? You think I am so grotesque?” She narrowed her eyes and threw back the heavy mane of hair.
He tried to find his voice as she draped her left arm behind the chair, crossed her legs, then slouched down slightly so that his eyes fell on the low-cut blouse. Finally he answered, “I think you’re magnificent.”
She laughed, with a sensuous huskiness. She’d heard that too many times to believe it. Shaking her head she answered, “Magnificent … only magnificent? That, monsieur, is the best you can say?”