You Are My Sunshine: A Novel Of The Holocaust (All My Love Detrick Companion Novel) by Roberta Kagan Page B

more than a mediocre, music teacher. But here, in Europe, in his small classroom, he felt like a super star, like a musical version of Clarke Gable.  The girls were young, that was true, and he knew better than to take them to his bed, but he’d done it against his better judgment. Not regularly, but often enough. How could a man resist? These young girls, tender, just on the brink of womanhood offering themselves to him.  They were like delectable chocolate morsels, irresistible, but if you ate, too many you might find your health in jeopardy or in his case his job.
    Lately he’ d been watching Zofia, one of his students, Zofia, with her slender but voluptuous figure, dark alluring eyes and long wavy hair.  She stared at him licking her lips that sparkled in the overhead light, deep dark red like ripe berries as he sat at the piano. There was no doubt he wanted her. Who wouldn’t? No man could resist a woman like that twitching around his classroom, even if he was her teacher.
    He was on his way to the lunchroom when he saw Zofia; she was sitting by herself on the bench beneath the tree reading a book. Her lunch was spread on a white cloth napkin beside her.
    “Hello.” He said as he approached.
    “Hello, Mr. Taylor.” She said looking up.
    “May I sit here?” He asked indicating the empty space on the other side of her picnic.
    “ Of course,” She began to gather her food together to put it away.
    “No, please eat, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
    “You aren’t disturbing me at all.”
    “Well, I wouldn’t feel right about you not finishing your lunch.”
    “I’m all done. I was just reading for bit.”
    “What are you reading?”
    “Nothing, a novel.”
    “A romance novel.”
    She blushed. “I suppose you could call it that.” She giggled.
    He let out a laugh. “Don’t be embarrassed I like them too.”
    She smiled and looked away.
    “I really enjoy your class. I love the American music, especially the big band stuff.”
    “Yes, so do I. I suppose you can tell.”
    “Yes I can.”
    “I wish I had a turntable so that I could play some of the records at home.” Zofia said. Before her father died, there had been very little money, but she might have gotten one. Now, however with her mother ill it was impossible.
    “You could borrow mine.”
    “Really, you would allow me to do that?”
    “But of course. I mean my personal one, not the one that belongs to the school. Would you like that?”
    “Oh yes, I really would. But I don’t have any records.”
    “Of course you don’t. Why would you have records if you don’t have anything to play them on, silly? I would lend you some of my personal collection.”
    “That would be wonderful.”
    “Why don’t you come by my apartment on Saturday and I can give them to you?”
    “Oh, I can’t come on Saturday. I’m Jewish , it is the Sabbath.”
    “Ahhh I see, well Sunday then?”
    “Yes. Sunday would be fine.”
    “Here let me jot down the address for you.”

    Chapter 8
     
    Zofia decided to save carfare and walk the mile to Mr. Taylor apartment. Even though she was working, her mother was not and every penny she earned counted.  The turntable would be heavy and she would rather spend the money to take the streetcar back home when she was carrying it.  Although the icy wind was blowing, Zofia did not feel the cold. She was far too excited. All night the night before she’d thought about Mr. Taylor, how he looked when he sang with enough passion to reach out and touch something deep inside of her. He caused stirrings that she’d never felt for anyone before. Puckering her lips together, she giggled. The red lipstick she wore made her look older, more mature.
    Because she’d grown up in Warsaw, she knew the area fairly well and had no trouble finding the building where he l ived. Before she rang the bell, she looked in the mirror in the compact in her handbag. Zofia applied a fresh layer of lipstick and a spritz of the toilet water