like this isn’t work. It’s fun.”
Hanna chuckled. “Try to convince a religious Jew of that. One will say it is work because it is obtaining food, and the other will say it is pleasure. If one changes his mind, the other will, too. The easiest way to avoid an argument is not to fish.”
Stephen’s heart was nearly bursting. The glow of her face, the whiteness of her teeth, the vitality her body exuded, the curve of her breasts as she moved–he was filled with pleasure at being alone with her.
He had kissed a number of girls in the past couple of years, and his hands had passed over the breasts of two or three. That had brought a sudden wave of heat in his stomach and loins, then a swift hardness to his penis, a swelling that was almost painful. On one occasion, directly after he had started university, some of the young men had visited a prostitute, and their stories had created near pandemonium among the uninitiated. Stephen had wet dreams for days afterwards, and could think of little else but experiencing the pleasures his schoolmates spoke of. He had agreed to join the group on their next outing, when, during a walk, one of them had pointed out the whore exiting from a store. Stephen’s mind had rebelled at the thought of having sex with a woman certainly as old as his mother, overweight, and with teeth that he could see from across the street were beyond repair.
“They have younger ones there,” explained a schoolmate, when Stephen had backed out of the venture. “But the one you saw…” whom Stephen later learned was only twenty-seven years old, “…is the best poke of the lot.”
That made no difference. A whore was a whore, regardless of her age, and by association any loose woman would remind him of the one on the street. Hanna had made an impact. She was pure, and he was certain she would be as ardent as himself, once she cared for a man. But winning her deep affection would not be easy.
The first fish hooked was a fat carp, and Hanna almost upset the boat in her excitement and eagerness to wield the net to bring it in. Stephen held it up by a gill. “Over a kilo,” he judged its weight.
“You are wonderful,” burst out Hanna. “Are there many here?” Her eyes began searching the water, for the carp had opened vistas of a free, important food source at a time when every kopek was crucial.
“Yes. Many kinds. Cod, plaice, even some salmon. Up towards the coast there is much herring.”
Hanna could barely restrain herself. “Let me try, please,” she finally said.
Stephen’s eyes crinkled. “Is it for pleasure or for work?”
“I am enjoying it too much for it to be work,” she admitted gaily, her eyes sparkling.
Under his tutelage, she placed on the bait, dropped the line overboard, and sat holding her pole tensely. After a few minutes, she looked up. “Nothing is happening.”
Stephen had to restrain himself from leaning forward and kissing her. “That happens when you fish. Sometimes they bite right away, other times you can wait forever. Move your line a bit. Don’t jerk it. Move it like that worm is alive and wounded. And keep it on the bottom. That’s where carp feed.”
Almost as soon as she moved the line, she felt a gentle tug from below. Quickly she snapped up the pole, as she had seen Stephen do, and seconds later, she felt a weight and then saw the form of a fish shaking to free itself. “Stephen!” she shouted. “I have one! I have one!”
They boated another carp, nearly a twin of the first, and Hanna was in seventh heaven, asking for the pliers to take out the hook herself, then looking at it constantly as she rebaited the hook and prepared to drop it over the side again.
In a little more than an hour, they had caught five fish, none the size of the first two netted, but still good for eating. Four had scales.
“Let’s go ashore and stretch our legs,” said Stephen. He drew up the anchor and rowed to where the bank was only a step higher than the river. A small woods came to the water’s edge, and next to it was a field of barley swaying in the breeze. He helped her out of the boat, and they sat on the bank, the dying sun’s rays warm on their faces.
“This has been the nicest Saturday I have had for ever so long,” said Hanna, leaning back against a tree and shutting her eyes with contentment.
Suddenly, she felt his lips on hers, his hands gently holding her shoulders. She opened her eyes and looked into his, and for the briefest moment her body tensed to push him away. Then her arms went lightly around him and her lips firmed under his, returning his kiss. Her heart sang with delight, and a joy flowed inside that she had never known before. He drew her closer in his arms, and she pressed her lips more tightly to his.
They drew away to breathe, and she found him kneeling in front of her, his face flushed, his nostrils flaring with his deep breathing, his eyes aflame with desire for her.
“I love you, Hanna,” he said hoarsely.
“And I love you, too, Stephen,” she said in a little voice, the pounding in her chest almost too much to bear, her breasts rising and falling with her own emotion and happiness.
“Do you really love me?” he asked, his eyes shining with wonder.
She nodded, a smile on her lips, too excited even to reply.
He leaned forward and kissed her again, shyly, lovingly, and she came to him willingly, her lips soft and full of promise. He turned her to one side and lowered her to the forest floor, his lips still locked to hers, and she felt the weight of him against her breasts. It was difficult to breathe, but she did not care. Instead, she drew him tighter against herself, her lips opening under his, savoring the sweet taste of him, feeling the hardness of his body, her nostrils full of his clean, outdoor smell, the heady scent of flowers in the field.
His hand moved to a breast and captured it. She cringed at his touch, then she was suddenly on fire, and turned herself towards him to bring him full length against her.
She felt his penis swell, begin throbbing, and the fire inside her flared with blinding white heat. Reluctantly, they drew apart, and he rolled onto his back, puffing as if he had raced from far off, his eyes closed, waiting for his heart to cease tearing at his chest. His hands were clenched into fists of determination.
His rapid breathing made his words short and tense. “I’ll never love anyone but you, Hanna.”
She had closed her eyes also, every nerve in her body pulsating, knowing that if Stephen climbed atop her, she would accept him, eagerly, gratefully, ready to block out of her mind everything but the want of him. His words struck her heavily. She could barely speak. “And I will love only you, too, Stephen,” she finally replied.
He opened his eyes and sat up. They smiled at each other, their faces still strained with their passion. He leaned down and kissed her gently.
“I want to marry you, Hanna.”
It took a few seconds for her to digest what he had said, then she sat up, the implication of what was happening suddenly striking like a wet rag across her face. Their love was as real as the river running at their feet. Their desire for each other, their need, was as meaningful as the fertile ground they had lain on. But marriage! That could never be. All the daydreams she had about Stephen were abruptly make believe. For beyond this wonderful, enchanted spot was reality.
As far back as she could remember, she had been
