Do Not Disclose: A Memoir of Family Secrets Lost and Found by Leora Krygier

Author:Leora Krygier [Krygier, Leora]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Personal Memoirs, Family & Relationships, dysfunctional families, Life Stages, Mid-Life, history, Holocaust, Military, World War II
ISBN: 9781647421601
Google: S84PEAAAQBAJ
Publisher: She Writes Press
Published: 2021-08-24T23:35:17.187442+00:00

Ten days later I went out to get the mail. It was almost dark, and I turned on the porch light before gathering up the mail from the box. There were the usual circulars, “Shop Wise” junk mail and Ralphs Supermarket coupons. I almost missed the brown envelope mistakenly tucked in between the Walmart weekend specials. Inside, was what I had been waiting for.

Mr. Maynard’s forenames are recorded as Arthur Thomas on his service file. I hope that this is useful. Bernadette Hand.

“Arthur Thomas. Arthur Thomas,” I repeated.

The combination of names seemed so natural, so complete, as if I’d heard them hundreds of times before. He was no longer A.T., a black hole of initials that had kept him hidden away. Arthur. I thought of Arturo in I Puritani, an opera set during the English civil war of the 1640s. Arturo was condemned to death by his Parliament, and his love, Elvira, descended into madness, thinking he was in love with another woman. Despite the risk to his life, though, Arturo stole into Elvira’s garden to assure Elvira he loved only her. I couldn’t have hoped for a better name for my A.T. Arturo was a man joyful to be reunited with his beloved, a man who had never betrayed his woman.

“Look at this,” I said, running over to Talia who had just come home. I showed her the letter. “I want to dance. Dance with me?”

“This is so great, Mom, but now?” She laughed. “I’ve got to get ready for Karen’s party.”

“C’mon. Please,” I said, tugging at her arm. “Show me some hip-hop?”

“Well, all right,” she said, getting up, “But not hip-hop. I’ll teach you to swing dance.” She took my hand and showed me a few steps. “This is East Coast swing. I’ll lead, and you follow,” she directed me, and I focused on her instructions.

Then she put a CD in her boom box.

“I love this,” I said, hearing the 1940s 4/4 time swing tempo.

“Triple step, triple step, and then rock step,” she drilled, and I tried to follow her lead. “Keep the steps small, and don’t hold on to me too tight,” she coached. “Just trust me to move you.”

We swung back and forth, the motion propelled by the momentum of our bodies coming together and apart, and we danced around the living room, laughing as we bumped into the couch and the end tables. Then we moved the furniture out of the way and practiced spins and swing outs, jitterbugging and twisting away, breathless with the music.

I closed my eyes, and we danced for a while, the two of us, mirror images of each other, but the feeling remained, mysterious, that there was someone else in the room, another person dancing with us.

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