Silver Stars. Майкл Грант

      Rainy laughs. Then says, “Sorry about the uniform too. My good dress needed mending.”

      “I wouldn’t have recognized you any other way,” he says, and adds with awkward gallantry, “Besides, you look better in a uniform than any other girl in a ball gown.”

      The eternally logical part of her brain considers counter-arguments to that obviously false statement. The rest of her brain tells her to shut up and accept the compliment.

      They walk side by side, but not arm in arm, and descend into the subway before emerging on Fifth Avenue, just blocks from the club on East Fifty-Third Street. They race, laughing, to avoid a sudden shower.

      The Stork Club is the place to see and be seen, and Rainy half expects to be denied entry. This is, after all, the epicenter of New York’s low society—actors and actresses, impresarios, promoters, theater owners, and writers—all presided over and reported on by the powerful columnist Walter Winchell.

      The Stork Club’s owner, Sherman Billingsley, a garrulous, table-hopping force of nature and former bootlegger, greets them as they squeeze through the door just ahead of a woman in evening wear with gloves up to her biceps and décolletage down to . . . well, much farther than Rainy would ever have dared.

      “So, you’re Saul’s boy?” Billingsley says, shaking Halev’s hand before bowing slightly to Rainy, raising her hand and not quite touching it to his lips. “And with a charming sergeant on your arm!”

      They are not given the best table in the house. In fact they are shown to a small table far from the dance floor and far too near the banging kitchen door, but it is impossible to resent this in any way as the best tables are occupied by the rich and the famous.

      “Is that Orson Welles?” Rainy blurts. “And . . . and . . . is that . . . is that really Frank Sinatra? He’s not very tall, is he?”

      The room is all swank leather booths, crisp linen on the tables, glittering crystal, and rushing waiters. The band is just filing out onto the stage.

      “This may not be a discreet question, but how did you get reservations here?” Rainy asks.

      Halev smiles, leans across the table, and says, “My father is rather successful in the garment trade, and my uncle Max is tailor to probably a quarter of the men in the room.”

      “Do tell me you’re rich,” Rainy jokes. “It will make my parents so happy. The only thing better would be if you were a doctor.”

      “I am not in any way rich,” Halev says. “My father? My uncle?” He shrugs. “They make a living.”

       They make a living. So, yes: rich, or close to it.

      They sip cocktails and sneak subtle glances at the famous folk. They each order a shrimp cocktail to be followed by a steak with asparagus and potatoes au gratin. A very tall man trailing a small gaggle of men and women passes by and tosses a casual salute and a wink at Rainy. It’s not until the big man is past that Rainy recognizes him and very nearly stabs her fork into her tongue.

      “Was that John Wayne?”

      “Elisheva Schulterman,” Halev says, leaning back in his chair with an expression of great satisfaction. “You have just been saluted by the Duke.”

      “And winked at, let’s not leave that out of the story.”

      “Wait until you hear the band. You won’t see them very well unless we go up to dance, but that’s Benny Goodman’s band.”

      Rainy frowns. “This is mad! I shouldn’t be in a place with these people! And . . . I don’t think I dance.”

      “You don’t think you do?”

      “Well, I am certainly not dancing at the Stork Club in front of Frank Sinatra.”

      But she does dance after a few more cocktails and fortified by a massive steak of the sort regular folks aren’t supposed to be getting, what with there being a war on.

      It is a glittering, wonderful evening, but Rainy has to work at enjoying it. This is not her place, not her people. Her people wear green uniforms, curse frequently, smell usually, and complain constantly. But within Rainy’s limited ability to relax and enjoy life, it is an enjoyable, even somewhat enchanting, evening.

      Be honest, she scolds herself, it’s better than somewhat enchanting.

      Emerging into the fresh air afterward they find the rain has stopped, leaving the streets wet and shining. The washing that often hangs from balconies and fire escapes is gone, the sidewalk vendors have all fled, and the streets feel empty and clean. There’s a metallic smell that is at once chemical and sanitary, as if the city has just been mopped with ammonia.

      An aging Hasid, his beaver hat sparkling with rain drops, casts a disapproving look at them, and only then does Rainy realize that Halev has taken her hand. Ultra-Orthodox Jews do not like men and women walking together, let alone holding hands, let alone a man holding hands with a woman wearing a uniform.

      Rainy feels Halev’s hand shrinking in hers, and she tightens her grip in defiance. Let the alter cocker sneer, she will not be shamed by those people. She will not be shamed by anyone.

       And if he wants to kiss me?

      Halev insists on walking her home, despite acknowledging that she was the one who at their first meeting rescued him from a street fight and not the other way around. Still, a gentleman does not let his date roam the streets of the city alone at night.

      They are a block from Rainy’s home when she notices that a long black Plymouth sedan is creeping along the wet street behind them. Halev notices it too. “Let’s walk a little faster, shall we?”

      “Actually, Halev, I have a feeling that may be my ride.”

      “What?”

      She stops and turns back to face the car, which now accelerates gently to come even with her. A burly man in a heavy overcoat and wearing a homburg hat, rolls down the window and says, “You the Jew’s girl . . . uh, what’s her name?”

      A second man, smaller but with the dead eyes of a porcelain doll, says, “Schulterman.”

      “That’s me,” Rainy says.

      The car brakes and both men get out. Both wear loose-fitting overcoats to conceal the bulge of shoulder holsters. That they are gangsters is not in question, they practically have the word gangster hung on a sandwich board around their necks.

      “Come on, Rainy,” Halev says nervously.

      “I’m so sorry, Halev, but I have to say good night.”

      “But—”

      “It’s something . . .” She searches for the word and only comes up with, “Official.”

      “I see.”

      “I had a great time.”

      “So did I. But these gentlemen are definitely putting an end to my schemes for a good night kiss.”

      Rainy smiles. “Next time?”

      “Promise?” he asks with a crooked smile that reveals a sweet mix of desire and bashfulness.

      Feeling an overwhelming swirl of mismatched feelings, including the giddiness of attraction to Halev, nervousness, and fear—but mostly fear of screwing something up—she shakes Halev’s hand chastely and self-consciously, and slides into the backseat of the Plymouth.

6

      RIO RICHLIN—CAMP ZIGZAG, TUNISIA, NORTH AFRICA

      “You Cole?”

      It is four o’clock in the morning, and the man speaking is an MP corporal. He is behind the