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

Paperback ★ Hardcover 

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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

 Paperback ★ Hardcover

Audiobook

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?