Outstanding Praise for Walter Zacharius and The Memories We Keep
“A genuine page-turner…the characters come vividly alive. Mia’s story has such a ring of truth to it I was haunted long after I’d finished the book. A great read…bound to be compared to the works of Follett and Furst for its authenticity and emotional truth. Rightly so.”
—Barbara Taylor Bradford, author of Emma’s Secrets
“An absolutely unforgettable tale of love and survival.”
—Janet Dailey, author of Calder Promise
“I found it compulsively readable.”
—Joy Fielding, author of Puppet
“Touches the soul. The story of one girl’s journey through war-torn Europe, this powerful and touching adventure recaptures the pain, fear, and hope surrounding World War II. It’s a keeper.”
—Lisa Jackson, author of Shiver
“In this remarkably assured first novel, Walter Zacharius beguiles us with the convincing voice of a willful and totally irresistible young woman. A high-class page-turner.”
—Philip Friedman, author of Grand Jury
THE MEMORIES WE KEEP
WALTER ZACHARIUS
KENSINGTON BOOKS
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
For Roberta Grossman, my former publishing partner, who challenged me to write this novel sixteen years ago. Tragically, she did not live to see the finished book. If it weren’t for her inspiration, I would never have challenged myself to write Songbird.
For Steven Zacharius, my son and my partner for the last twelve years, who continues to build the publishing dream I began.
For Judy Zacharius, my adventurous daughter, who is living many of my dreams. Maybe someday she will write her own book. I hope to read it.
For Cori Zacharius and Adam Zacharius, my grandchildren. May they never live through the horrors in this book.
For Alice Zacharius, the most important person in my life. Without her help and encouragement I would never have come this far…
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am deeply grateful to everyone who helped and inspired me in writing this book.
SPECIAL THANKS TO:
Jonathan Teicher, Mary Stanton, and Richard Marek. Without you I don’t think this book would have come together. I would still be lost in the wilderness.
Owen Laster of the William Morris Agency, who had the courage to take me on as his client and gave me the confidence to move ahead.
Michaela Hamilton, editor in chief of Kensington Publishing Corp, who gave me a quick course in the do’s and don’ts of writing. She made me realize that being an author is far more difficult than being a publisher.
Dorothy Tarallo, my assistant for many years. She retyped so much of this manuscript over and over again that she knows the story by heart.
Erena Topchieva, my piano teacher for the last ten years and the only piano teacher I ever had. She not only taught me the piano, but also her love of music. She helped me select the music in this book and encouraged me to keep going.
Emily Bestler, vice president, executive editorial director at Atria Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, and my editor. She made me rethink many parts of this novel. I always believe a great editor is behind a great story. She personifies what is important in book publishing.
My entire staff at Kensington Publishing Corp. Your words of wisdom and encouragement were a great help.
PROLOGUE
1975
In the twilight, the grove of cypress on the Lebanese border looks like a small army, poised for attack. This is not too fanciful, for the kibbutz next to my tiny farm has been subjected to periodic shelling, and if an invasion comes there is little to distinguish me from the kibbutzim, though unlike them I have no weapons with which to fight back.
The shelling has been going on for over a year now—sometimes weekly, sometimes three or four times a week; idle entertainment for the Arab troops—but most days I feel safe. The grove that separates my fertile land from the brown, untended fields on the Lebanese side is a place of shelter, my refuge from horrors.
Although the night is quiet, I feel intoxicated. Tomorrow I am to be visited by a man I once loved, and the prospect is at once so exciting and so chilling that I cannot be still: I pace in front of my house, looking at the verdant trees, smelling the sweet air, listening to the sounds of the birds singing, and remembering his touch, his taste, though I have not touched or tasted him for almost thirty years.
Oh, I can’t wait. My flesh comes alive again even without him here, even at the thought of him. The sense memory is so strong I find I must take deep breaths to slow my heart, and when I do I am able to go back inside and pick up the letter announcing his arrival.
Dear Mia,
I saw your picture last week in a Pathé newsreel covering the border tension—and there you were—working the fields (you a farmer?) as lovely and heartbreakingly beautiful as ever. I knew immediately that I must see you. I realized how much I missed you and with a bit of detective work I found your address.
You can’t stop me. By the time you get this I’ll be on the plane to Israel, arriving at your house on the twenty-seventh, and besides, you don’t know my address. I’ve moved since we last saw each other in America.
What will it be like, our meeting? You can kick me out, or choose to say nothing, or you can greet me with a hug and we can fill in our years apart. But most of all, of course, we can remember.
Your Vinnie
Remember him, true. But by doing so, I remember all the other things as well. That’s why I’m chilled. That’s why I’m afraid. His letter has ripped open the scab, and I sit here bleeding for both of us.
Maybe if I force myself to remember it all before he comes, the sight of him will bring comfort and I can begin to love again.
Or maybe not.
Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
BOOK I
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
BOOK II
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
BOOK III
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER