Free Scraps of Heaven by Arnold Zable

this is the demarcation line. Pre-war. Post-war. And Gehenna in between.
    Now the lights are down, and the groom and bride are moving onto the dance floor, and Rosner and his band are playing, and the tuxedo boys are singing: ‘Oh, how we danced, on the night we were wed.’ And Efrem and Naomi are waltzing, and Efrem’s bitter memories are left to the past, where they will remain dormant for years to come, for as long as it takes to raise four children and nurture a restaurant business, interspersed with an occasional night out, a rekindling of the romance at the Maison de Luxe, the dance hall not so far from the sea, where he had first met the girl who was to become his wife, and had danced her off her feet.
    And he recalls his first glimpse of the teenage beauty with the open smile, a smile that had propelled him across the hall, and lured him on, between crowded tables. It had kept him determined on his path, until he stood before her. And she had hesitated, and finally said yes, when he had asked her to dance.
    He recalls the scent of her auburn hair, the clarity of her hazel eyes. And when their tango was over he had joined her at her table, with her gaggle of girlfriends. And the band was playing ‘Caravan’, à la Woody Herman, and the drummer had become inspired in the solo riff, a man obsessed, he had tossed up the drum sticks, mid-beat, and had caught them on the downward swing. And he had trapped them all, the entire audience, mid-sentence, mid-step, and held them rooted to their spots, and Efrem had watched Naomi watching the drummer, her eyes riveted, captivated by his controlled frenzy and meshuggas.
    And he had observed her wariness, her unease at his worldly presence, his streetwise smile. Yet she was still by his side when the dance had ended, and she had allowed him to drive her home in his red Austin, and three years later they are dancing the anniversary waltz under the gaze of the assembled guests. And for a moment he recalls his run across the snow, and his comrades dropping, one by one, as he had dropped, to save his life by holding his breath, playing dead, and he recalls the smell of his urine and terror as he had lain on the ice.
    But now it is nokh der malkhumeh , post-war, and he inhales her perfume and her body warmth, and is cushioned by the softness of her breasts. And the wedding-hall floor is full of couples waltzing, and short Romek is standing tall, in his dark-grey suit with wide lapels, he is a man transformed, a man without a tchemodan , and he moves with a certain grace. And Zofia is radiant, regal almost, in her elegant black dress and rouged lips, and Josh watches, transfixed. He has never seen them like this. And the waltzes become tangos become sambas and rumbas that give way to mambos, sung by the tuxedo boys who are now back at the mike: ‘Hey mambo! Mambo Italiano. Hey mambo! Mambo Italiano.’
    The older couples are leaving the floor, and the younger ones are dancing the mambo, and they look like long-legged insects jumping on coals, with a flailing of arms and a jiggling of feet, ‘Hey mambo, don’t wanna tarantella. Hey mambo, no more a-mozzarella,’ they sing as they leap, until they slump exhausted, back in their seats. And the tumult is subsiding, and the guests are eating dessert: black forest cake, almond rings, apple compote, washed down with a glass of tea, a nip of vodka, or a tumbler of schnapps, take your pick. And the band has been reduced to Leo Rosner and his accordion, and a medley of Yiddish songs. He strolls from table to table, and the guests are singing with him, in mamme loschen , the mother tongue, eyes closed, bodies swaying:
    Where is that village, where is that town
Where is the path we once strolled, you and I
    And Potashinski the cabaret specialist cannot contain himself any longer. His thick eyebrows are knitted, his forehead creased, his face set in a frown as he leaps up. ‘Enough!’ he exclaims.