I
have written before about a very interesting old Viennese musician and
astrologer I knew many years ago called Dr Oskar Adler. I remembered one of the things he would say
after a curious incident which happened to me yesterday. He believed that it is pointless looking for
things that we have mislaid, because they really go missing. You have to leave some time, and then they
will re-appear.
I
had further proof of this rather esoteric belief again. Anybody of my venerable age will know that
the one object they treasure above all others is the old people’s free bus
pass, which allows us to hop on and off buses and in and out of tube trains at
will, and gives us the kind of freedom denied previous generations of the
elderly. I always check that I have my
pass before I leave home. This morning,
to my dismay, it was not where it usually is, tucked safely away in the front
compartment of my rucksack. I searched
for a long time for it, looking into all the pockets of all the clothing I
might have been wearing on my last trip outside, but could find it nowhere.
I
decided that I should immediately apply for a replacement at the local Post
Office, and so headed outside to do just that.
I was standing on the top step of the short flight of stairs leading to
the road outside, when I happened to look down.
There on the pavement, tucked closely against the front railings, was my
bus pass. The road sweeper had obviously
recently been, because the pavement was swept completely clean, the only object
in sight on the ground being this little plastic rectangle in its white
cover. If I had grasped the right-hand
rather than the left-hand railings to help me down the stairs I would have
missed seeing it completely.
I
still can’t think how it got there.
Rationally I could say that it might have slipped from the rucksack as I
got out my front-door keys the day before, but I prefer the more mysterious
explanation. My bus pass decided to do
one of those disappearing tricks the Dr Adler persuaded me to believe in, and
simply took it in its mind to re-appear on another day.
In
the past, when something similar has happened to me, which it has done several
times, the time between an object’s disappearance and re-appearance has often
been longer, sometimes a few weeks. And
once I found the keys to my house, which I had desperately hunted for for days,
hidden away a few weeks later under rubbish at the bottom of an outside
dustbin.
I like to think that there are indeed “…more
things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy” (Hamlet). This little incident lifted my spirits a little, just a little, from despairing and dreary contemplation of the weekend's political turmoil.
Monday, June 27, 2016
Saturday, June 25, 2016
Oh England! What have you done to yourself!
I am devastated by the results of the referendum, as is everybody I know.
The most appropriate comment I heard during a dreadful night spent listening with increasing horror to the radio and watching TV was that of Paddy Ashdown, the former Liberal leader, when he said: "God help this country!"
The most appropriate comment I heard during a dreadful night spent listening with increasing horror to the radio and watching TV was that of Paddy Ashdown, the former Liberal leader, when he said: "God help this country!"
Wednesday, June 15, 2016
Europe - In or Out?
Oh,
this wretched referendum being forced on this country against our will! Who wants a referendum except those who want
us to get out of the EU? Certainly, I
don’t, and I don’t know many people who do.
I have always regarded myself as European to the core, and never a
Little Englander, so I fervently hope that there are more people who think like
me out there voting on June 23rd than those who don’t.
I come of a family for whomBritain ’s
connections to Europe dominated throughout the
years of my childhood during the second World War, and one which had suffered
deeply and often tragically from the xenophobic and racial hatreds which led to
the war. Unhappily, these now seem to be
rearing their very unpleasant heads again, as poor suffering migrants, escaping
the kind of persecutions my mother’s Austrian Jewish family had to suffer, are
now being made scapegoats for many of the real problems people in this country
(never the rich, mind you) are suffering.
I think we are going through strange and extreme times, of which the referendum is one symptom, as are the other odd signs of this, such as Donald Trump’s successes in the States, the rise of increasingly right-wing, almost fascist parties in Europe and the corresponding, and necessary, rise of parties of protest, such as those in Greece or Spain, and even what is happening to the Labour Party in this country. The political uncertainties all this creates raise disturbing echoes of those at other troubled times, most obviously in the 1930s, which led to the rise of fascism in Germany and Austria, my mother’s and my birthplace.
In turn, this has been accompanied, for me personally, by a renewed interest in the tumultuous background to my earliest years during the war. By coincidence, several things have concurred to bring this period of European life to the forefront of my thoughts, among them the reading of some highly interesting books which have illuminated this period for me. First there is the recently published book by Philippe Sands, the international lawyer, called East West Street : On the Origins of Genocide and Crimes against Humanity, a book of great interest not just to lawyers but to all those whose family suffered persecution under Hitler. Philippe Sands interleaves his legal discussions relating to the background to theNuremberg trials with discoveries
about the history of his own family in Nazi-occupied Poland . Co-incidentally, there are connections with
my own family, since Philippe bought my mother’s house in Hampstead, and my
mother’s cousin helped him decipher and translate some of the handwritten
German documents he discovered during his search for his family.
The reading of this book also coincided with a re-introduction through a friend to an Austrian writer, Ilse Aichinger, whom I remembered reading some years back but had completely forgotten about. She told me of Ilse Aichinger’s only novel, called in its first English translation, Herod’s Children, published in its original German in 1948, with the translation appearing in 1956. This book, too, is about the period of the second World War, and follows a group of Jewish children inVienna whose only permitted playground is a
graveyard. It is not a realistic
representation of Viennese life under the Nazis, but a kind of mythical
transposition viewing the world through a child’s eyes. It is a book which deserves a much wider
readership than it has at present. So I
am now on a mission to try and interest Daunts’, my favourite bookseller, to
re-publish it, as it deserves to be out there again as one of the discoveries
of forgotten masterpieces which they pride themselves on publishing.
Finally, to round off these few weeks of immersion in the past, I saw an amazing film called Son of Saul, about a Jewish prisoner in a concentration camp, who is part of the Sonderkommando, those prisoners who were set apart and given a few more months of life in order to act as guards shepherding their fellow Jews into the gas chambers. He thinks he sees the body of his son, and the film is the story of his despairing attempts to find a Rabbi amongst the prisoners so that he can give his son a proper burial. I was persuaded to see the film only after a friend reassured me that you do not directly see any of the terrible events taking place, but as dim background to the camera’s view which is trained always upon the father, particularly just on his face. It is one of the most moving and, yes, uplifting, films I have seen. Go and see it if you can still catch it.
I come of a family for whom
I think we are going through strange and extreme times, of which the referendum is one symptom, as are the other odd signs of this, such as Donald Trump’s successes in the States, the rise of increasingly right-wing, almost fascist parties in Europe and the corresponding, and necessary, rise of parties of protest, such as those in Greece or Spain, and even what is happening to the Labour Party in this country. The political uncertainties all this creates raise disturbing echoes of those at other troubled times, most obviously in the 1930s, which led to the rise of fascism in Germany and Austria, my mother’s and my birthplace.
In turn, this has been accompanied, for me personally, by a renewed interest in the tumultuous background to my earliest years during the war. By coincidence, several things have concurred to bring this period of European life to the forefront of my thoughts, among them the reading of some highly interesting books which have illuminated this period for me. First there is the recently published book by Philippe Sands, the international lawyer, called East West Street : On the Origins of Genocide and Crimes against Humanity, a book of great interest not just to lawyers but to all those whose family suffered persecution under Hitler. Philippe Sands interleaves his legal discussions relating to the background to the
The reading of this book also coincided with a re-introduction through a friend to an Austrian writer, Ilse Aichinger, whom I remembered reading some years back but had completely forgotten about. She told me of Ilse Aichinger’s only novel, called in its first English translation, Herod’s Children, published in its original German in 1948, with the translation appearing in 1956. This book, too, is about the period of the second World War, and follows a group of Jewish children in
Finally, to round off these few weeks of immersion in the past, I saw an amazing film called Son of Saul, about a Jewish prisoner in a concentration camp, who is part of the Sonderkommando, those prisoners who were set apart and given a few more months of life in order to act as guards shepherding their fellow Jews into the gas chambers. He thinks he sees the body of his son, and the film is the story of his despairing attempts to find a Rabbi amongst the prisoners so that he can give his son a proper burial. I was persuaded to see the film only after a friend reassured me that you do not directly see any of the terrible events taking place, but as dim background to the camera’s view which is trained always upon the father, particularly just on his face. It is one of the most moving and, yes, uplifting, films I have seen. Go and see it if you can still catch it.
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