Delores II

 My father seems to have adapted the original story embedded in the last blog. Here it is.

DELORES II

Perhaps the original story was a true one.  On the other hand it may have been a writer's attempt to bring the sublime to the ordinary.  Furthermore, this tale also may be fanciful.  I leave the judgment to you.

Well, her name really was Delores.

She was--as I portrayed her in a previous story, lovely. Tall, dark and blue-eyed, trim, touching, vivacious and given to impetuosity regardless of decorum, particularly manifest where decorum is called for--qualities I discovered later. More, anon.

The setting where it all began--for those who look for things I would rather not have you know--was pre-World War II.  In a street lined on both sides with Germanic type Brau Hauses--in what was called Germantown-a little one block long enclave between Second and First Avenue in Manhattan, where there was music and dancing, where the girls came in groups and sat at tables exuding their charms, and the men clustered at the bar surveying the panorama of beauty so as to be ready to make their approaches as soon as the music started. 

I am impelled by nostalgia to name some of these dance palaces.  Those of you who have seen the movie Cabaret will envision the ambience.  They were named as I remember, in part, The Gloria Palast, the Corso, the Platzl, the Grinzin and the Lorelei.

Walking on either side of the street, one could hear, as he rubbed shoulders with Nazi Bund members in uniform, Viennese waltzes and the meticulously timed tangos tht iimposed their rhythmic invitations above the importunate cacophony of traffic.

It was at the Lorelei I saw her first.  She sat alone at a table, a study in casual elegance. Throughout the evening she refused the any suitors asking her to dance with an imperious dismissal. I was intrigued but not brave enough to present myself for summary rejection.  My attraction to her was so strong I determined to employ some stratagem to invite her interest.

I did not attempt to approach her while there was music. I waited for the quiet of an intermission and walked to her table.

Before I could say anything she waved me to a seat.  I was astounded.  More surprisingly, she began to speak. "You want to know why I come here and refuse to dance--yes?"

I had no words in response.

"You want to know why I let you sit--yes?" She had a decidedly foreign accent.  I managed an affirmative nod.

"Vee came here always and vee danced--ant vee held each other close--and then he was gone. 'I go for my country,' he said--'the fatherlant'--ant I hated him and the Fatherlant ant I did that night three year ago, ant I knew he would not come back. . ."

She stopped, taking a deep breath.

"It is three years we are married ant it iss our anniversary.  Then I see you at the bar ant my heart leaps, 'he is back' I say aloud and ven you approach. I am sure it is him so much you resemble--even now vere you sit."

"Come," she said rising, 'you are back, come, vee dance like we used to, come, I want to hold you so you never leave again."

We danced as if we were one.  Her body was close to mine. I could feel her heart pounding against my chest.  I don't know if it was love I felt, but I responded and we danced till the head waiter ushered us out.

"Come," she said. "Vee go home."

We did.  The doorman welcomed her, and me.

"Good evening Madam," he said and looked at me, smiling. "Ah, Herr Meisner, you are back."

There really is not much more to tell.  It was 1940, a time of innocence. There was a war in Europe but it was far away. We had a happy year.  When we were together, she held me close, her fingers on my arm, or holding my hand in the subway, or taxi, or at a party when we agreed to share ourselves socially.

If I withdrew, she would question immediately. "You do not love me," was always her plaint. Her eyes would glisten with a tear or two.

One night as we dined at the crowded Casino in the Park, outdoors, crowded, she cried out suddenly:

"You did not kiss me when you came home," then a preemptory, "kiss me now."

I bent obediently and she responded with such ferocity that the headwait remonstrated with me.

"Please, sir," he admonished.

To be frank, I cannot suggest that there was any severe suffering at the excess affection.  Occasionally, the thought that she really loved someone else raised a shadow in my mind, but the thought was transitory.  I loved her and there was nothing more she could give me that she had not already done.

When I received my notice to report to Governors' Island for military duty, she insisted on coming along. She did not cry. "Come back," she said, simply and clung silently and limp in my arms. We held hands over the restraining chain on the ferry until the moving boat separated us with the cruelty of the inexorable. I watched her forlorn figure fade gradually.

I came back, four years later. She was not there.