He made a subtle signal, putting his finger to his lips, indicating silence

 I remember: I had just come back from school, and pulled my bike up the stairs, and flicked the kickstand, which made the chain rattle. And my algebra book landed, suddenly, with a smack on the floor, but I left it there, because I was eager to tell mom about scoring an A—and in biology, no less—and to ask her about her upcoming performance, because it was to be Beethoven’s fifth, which to this day, I find deeply moving. 

I found her sitting in her usual place, the bench down there, in the living room—but this time, she was turned with her back to the bust of Beethoven, and to the white piano.  

My father who, for some reason, must have come early from work, and was watching her from some distance away, sitting by his tape recorder on the balcony, turned to me and—before I could utter a single word—made a subtle signal, putting his finger to his lips, indicating silence. 

And without a sound, his lips formed the words, Careful, Ben, slow down. You can see she is tired, very tired today.

So I started backing away, and very quietly, picked up my book from the floor. And after a while my mother, still looking outside as if in thought, said in a flat voice, “Did you finish your thing, your homework? Did you practice already? Don’t cut it short, or your playing will suffer. Mark my words—or for sure, you will come to regret it.”  

I remember. Then—as now—she might as well have been staring at a brick wall, rather than out of a pane of glass.

The White Piano

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From USA Today Bestselling Author, Uvi Poznansky, comes a compelling novel about family secrets:

Coming back to his childhood home after years of absence, Ben is unprepared for the secret, which is now revealed to him: his mother, Natasha, who used to be a brilliant pianist, is losing herself to mysterious disease, which turns the way her mind works into a riddle. His father’s new wife, Anita, looks remarkably similar to her—only much younger.

“In our family, forgiveness is something you pray for, something you yearn to receive—but so seldom do you give it to others.” What emerges in this family is a struggle, a desperate, daring struggle to find a path out of conflicts, out of isolation, from guilt to forgiveness.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

 "Captivating and commendable, this work had me immersed from the beginning."

It’s like, I had to stab something, someone. If Lenny was gonna pop in right then, I was gonna kill him right on the spot.

A week after the funeral, which I couldn’t attend because of a sudden fever, I get a call from Lenny’s attorney, Mr. Bliss. Which is a sure sign—if you didn’t know it already—that this is a time of misery.

He coughs up something like, “Mrs. Kaminsky, I hope you shall know no more sorrow.” And I go, “Really? That makes two of us.” 

Then Mr. Bliss goes on to say he’s stunned, simply stunned to hear what’s happened, and congratulations are in order, Mazel Tov for the baby, what’s his name? And he can’t find Ben, do I happen to know his address? A phone number, at least? No? And to come to his office just as soon as I can, because of the will, which Lenny has changed again only three days before his passing, and because of a key to some secret drawer in his desk, both of which must be handed over to me.

I don’t exactly bother to tell him that I’ve known about that drawer for quite some time now, and that I’ve managed to pry it open—right after them cops finally left—with a kitchen knife. 

It’s like, I had to stab something, someone. If Lenny was gonna pop in right then, I was gonna kill him right on the spot. 

My Own Voice

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Falling in love with Lenny should have been the end to all of Anita's troubles. But then, family secrets start unraveling. His ex-wife, Natasha, is succumbing to a mysterious disease. How can Anita compete with her shadow? How can she find a voice of her own?

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

"A creative, gripping and deeply moving tale of a young girl coming of age in unfathomable emotional circumstances."

What happened next was such a shock that afterwards, he could bring it back only with a wild pounding of his heart.

 He gripped the stake with such anger that in a flash, the wood grain felt as if it were embedded in his skin, as if it had always been this way.

“Remember what you told me once?” he asked. “You said, ‘When you’re on the horns—on the horns of a dilemma, that is—find the bull’s-eye. Find it, and drive a stake through it.’”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Bull gave a defiant chuckle. But his eyes betrayed a sudden glint of terror. 

“Bull, I can hurt you where you hurt most—”

“You’ll never destroy me, my boy!”

“I will destroy your art.” 

“You wouldn’t dare—”

“Wouldn’t I?”

For a moment, neither one of them uttered a word. 

Meanwhile, a shadow flickered next to the stone head, which loomed directly over Bull. Michael thought he saw someone—Ash—standing to its side, trying to dislodge it. 

Michael locked eyes with her and in that moment, both of them knew what he would have to take over. He would be the one to avenge not only what had happened to her but also what had happened to the slain model. 

“Bull, can you imagine Lace, the way I found her that night,” Michael asked, “her eyes open underwater, coming after you?”

Meanwhile, with a subtle gesture of his hand, he hinted to Ash to move over, find a safe spot, somewhere behind the stone shoulder. 

She did. He was ready.

Slowly, Michael raised the old man’s stake and calculated his aim. The next few seconds were going to become forever chiseled into his memory.

A deafening shriek flew out of Bull’s throat. 

“No! Not my art—”

Startled, Michael came to a halt. Shriller than any siren, that shriek penetrated every pore on his skin. It seemed to make his flesh swell, his bones crumble. For a heartbeat, he lowered the stake. 

Meanwhile, Bull rose up to his feet. He stood there, clinging to the crag, arms spread, as if to protect not only his outdoor sculpture but also the scarps around her. 

“She’s beautiful,” said Michael. “I’ll be gentle with her. I promise. I will spare her wings.”

Bull dropped down his hands.

“But,” said Michael, now with a threatening tone, “let me test just how deceitful her balance is!” 

His arm gave the most violent of thrusts and let go of the wooden stake. What happened next was such a shock that afterwards, he could bring it back only with a wild pounding of his heart.

The stake propelled high in the air, towards the bluff. It bounced off a nipple, hurled up and wedged itself under the sculpted chin, where there was a flaw in the way the head rested on the neck. There, something opened: the beginning of a crack. The stone head gave a shadow of a shiver. Then came a rumbling sound. It was faint at first, so faint that Michael nearly ignored it. 

Bull fell to his knees, hands stretched up towards the bruised surface around the nipple. 

That was the last thing he did.

Just then—as his lips started stretching over the yellow teeth, and his jaws opened, perhaps to utter a sigh of relief—the stone overhead gave a loud jolt. It toppled over, turning in midair. 

Rock collapsing upon rock, sculpted chin bouncing over breast over ribs, temple fragments clobbering the body once or twice, until—crush!—there, amidst the dust, stood the Angel of Death. With a loud rupture, its head came tumbling down upon Bull.

Virtually Lace

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Haunted by discovering the body of a beautiful dancer, Michael re-constructs her murder in a virtual reality model. Can he bring the mystery to life? Can he solve it in time, before the killer turns on the woman he loves, Ash?

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

“I felt as though I was in Michael's work environment whenever he was using Virtual Reality. Whether he was displaying Laguna Beach or the Northrop Grumman B -21 Raiders flying overhead, I not only was there but I could feel my heart pounding and my pulse racing…" 

~Serenity, HALL OF FAME, TOP 10 REVIEWER

In my dream — I’m scrambling up numerous stairs leading to an altar

In my dream —

I’m scrambling up numerous stairs leading to an altar that shines brilliantly. The stairs are of pink marble, the likes of which I’ve never seen in my entire life. Crowds, large crowds are ascending the stairs, with me in their midst.

And at the top, standing in a single row, are the priests. Their heads shaven, they wear long gowns. They urge those who are climbing, “Come on, climb! Overcome the obstacles!” It’s a bright, beautiful day. Hordes swarm around me, each person holding a candle. No one seems to know what’s on the other side of the altar.

The climb is hard. No one helps the other, each person presses on by himself, trying to muster his own strength, clinging to the trust that once up there, he’ll win some grand prize. A strong rush of air. Flames dwindle. Some climbers plummet and their flames are extinguished. Others press on without casting a glance down. The main goal — to arrive, and to keep the flame alive.

The hordes diminish. I am among the few, the lucky ones, tired but glad to arrive. Then, we’re seized by shock.

On the other side of the altar is a gaping abyss. Across its bottom lies a spectacular valley. We step back, but the priests cajole. “Now that you’ve arrived, jump into the gorge!” And its clear: whoever jumps will lose their life.

Still, some take the plunge. They fling themselves over and die. And the priests force everyone to jump.

The abyss casts fear over me. 

I try to mount the wall, to find something, anything to hold onto. I want to shout out to those still climbing behind, to warn them. I want to turn back…

Everyone laughs. The abyss gapes open…

[Told by my mother, Judith Kachel]

Can We Still Love

Poetry

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In an era that is amazement and wonder on one hand, and destruction and hate on the other, and facing the threat of an even more horrific holocaust in our future, two poets present a piercing question: can we still love? And love means one another, human to human.

This book is the 'I believe' statement of the poet, author and artist Zeev Kachel, a man whose most closely-held values and aspirations have been put to the test in the course of WWI and WWII. It is also the 'I believe' statement of his daughter, USA Today bestselling author, poet and artist Uvi Poznansky, who compiled her own work alongside his, and translated his poems from Hebrew so they can become an inspiring force to you.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

“I was immediately introduced to a collection of poems that not only touched me, they sprung me directly into what it is like to be at war…”

She reaches behind a freestanding vanity mirror and grabs something that’s been hidden behind

Jolted by a sudden burst of fascination, I half-expect to rub elbows with other performers. But the long galleys where they usually prepare for the show are vacant. There is no chatter, no voices rehearsing this or that line from some script, no last-minute agitation before curtain-rise. No actors parading shamelessly in nothing but glitzy dance belts. No actresses flitting about with fluffy slippers and flapping robes that reveal more nudity than they cover. 

Frosted LED globe bulbs, currently devoid of electricity, dot the top and side edges of one wall-mounted mirror after another. All the glass reflects, as Linda passes ahead of me, is a nervous tick in her hollow cheek.

Linda plops down on a vanity stool and, without losing a beat, reaches behind a freestanding vanity mirror and grabs something that’s been hidden behind. A half-full bottle of Vodka. She pours some into her mug, and her fingers tremble as she takes a long swig. Then she asks, “Want some?”

“No.”

“Like my dressing room?”

I shrug. “Sure.”

“It shouldn’t be called that,” she says. “The last thing I do in this place is put on clothes.” The second gulp seems to soothe her nerves. “This, Ash darling, is where I take me off. I scrape away my persona, remove the extraneous layers of self that burden me.”

With that, she begins to wipe off her makeup with a cotton pad, careful not to scrub the sensitive skin around the eyes. “Actually, I’m glad you came.” 

Which sets me back on my heels. “You are?”

“I hate being alone. In normal days, people drop in all the time—”

“In normal days,” I cut in, “I would love to hear about all that—”

“I find it intoxicating when, for better or worse, people take note of me,” she says, pretending not to take any note of my snide tone. “Imagine them: The director, suggesting a last-minute adjustment. An ensemble member, complaining—the poor loser—about the applause I got, which interrupted his lines. An adoring fan, bringing in a bouquet of flowers..."

Overdue

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Her bullet grazed his head, but the leader of a Russian crime organization is still breathing. One way for Vlad to avoid paying the price for his crimes is to play dead; another is to play dying. For Ash, this is not a game. She must learn his secrets. Only one problem: because of the raging pandemic, she must put her plan on hold.

Vlad slips away from the hospital in a body bag, then develops a brazen fraud scheme that will bilk health insurance companies out of millions of dollars. If not caught in time, he will drive victims to suicide, rob Ash of her identity, and slit her throat.

Will Ash manage to stay one step ahead of him and at the same time, protect her loved ones from contagion?

White Swan

 

Poem written by my father, Zeev Kachel

Lay your head here. Withering around us

Is the garden, with golden reveries all.

In its feverish languishing, like in life’s remorse

A final flame has been ignited by the fall.

Leaves are ֿdropping out… The wind devours them

For distant turns in the mist of time.

Thunder roars. Abandoned, orphaned in this realm

Is the path we never finished to the sublime. 

Oh, don’t you cry, white swan on the horizon —

A golden dream that vanished into space.

More springs will come to quicken pulse, to widen

A turbulent core in the deepest place.

If I pass on, somewhere there's a poem I wrote

For you. It’ll never wither, never be defiled. 

In it you’re forever young, a dream I loved the most

Queen of queens of the garden, ruling over the Nile.

[1948]

This poem, dedicated to my mother, was written around the time they married. It was also the year my father became a free man after months of being held as a prisoner of war in Jordan, in the hands of the Arab Legion. 

His love to a woman twenty years younger than him as well as the dangers he faced in captivity mark the first time he faced his own mortality, the first time he envisioned what would be left behind once he's gone.

Can We Still Love

Poetry

Paperback ★ Hardcover 

Audiobook

In an era that is amazement and wonder on one hand, and destruction and hate on the other, and facing the threat of an even more horrific holocaust in our future, two poets present a piercing question: can we still love? And love means one another, human to human.

This book is the 'I believe' statement of the poet, author and artist Zeev Kachel, a man whose most closely-held values and aspirations have been put to the test in the course of WWI and WWII. It is also the 'I believe' statement of his daughter, USA Today bestselling author, poet and artist Uvi Poznansky, who compiled her own work alongside his, and translated his poems from Hebrew so they can become an inspiring force to you.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

“I was immediately introduced to a collection of poems that not only touched me, they sprung me directly into what it is like to be at war…”

Review (Rise to Power): The best of historical fiction

 This review for the paperback edition of my historical fiction novel Rise to Power makes me happy not only because the reader enjoyed the book but also because she reviewed it in Germany -- which tells me the far reach of my audience! My gratitude to you.

ZS

5 out of 5 stars

The best of historical fiction

Reviewed in Germany on 13 February 2015

Format: Paperback

Wonderfully epic, this novel swept me into those long forgotten times of biblical struggles and search. The story of King David told by the King himself, and in such delightfully light, conversational style, in the first person. It took me by surprise. Somehow I did not expect to hear the words of the famous king himself. I'm used to others describing him.
From the first page, this story drew me in and didn't let me go. Epic in its proportions, but so delightfully friendly in style, so easy to read, it made me connect with its characters right away, David himself, Michal, Saul and Yoav, and so many others. The best of historical fiction, in my opinion.
Who was this David? The slayer of Goliath? A gifted court entertainer? A cunning fugitive? A traitor to his people or a savior? Or maybe a ruthless power-grabber? Told in his own words, his story made much more sense, showed the man behind the stone statue and the biblical interpretations.
A wonderfully refreshing read!