I met him many times at my parents’ house after the war; a handsome man with greying, curly hair and penetrating eyes. I’d heard the stories of his visits to Poland in the thirties to visit his colleague Aleksey, a distinguished scholar who had retired to the little town of Grodno from his post at Warsaw University. Sol loved Polish literature and poetry especially and introduced me to the wonderful epic poem, “Pan Tadeusz” by Poland’s national poet Adam Michiewitz. It was another of his stories though that gripped my imagination more; a story tragic and fascinating at the same time.
In the same apartment block as Aleksey there lived a man called Jakub Levanovski and his daughter Hanna. Jakub was the conductor of the Grodno Jewish Children’s Orchestra. Sol had a photograph of the fifteen children holding their mandolins with Jakub in the middle. It is torn, stained and faded, impossible to reproduce here. Hanna, his daughter, is on the back row, third from the left. The children are wearing school uniform, the girls in dark frocks with large white collars and the boys in high buttoned jackets. Several times, Sol told us, he had been invited to these mandolin concerts. The music he heard was a revelation! The instruments, he said, became literally “vessels of song”, the melodies reminding him of the human voice complete with laughing and weeping.
“The rhythms were so compulsive I could not stop my foot from tapping on the wooden floor of the hall. The music got faster and faster until you felt dizzy as though it were you dancing and whirling around. Hanna had a lovely voice and she sang songs to the accompaniment of the rest of the mandolins. Sad songs they were, about hunger and longing. One of them I remember particularly. It was called ”Es Brent”---“Our Town Burns.” Prophetic, considering what happened later.”
What happened later, of course, was the destruction of European Jewry. Grodno’s 25,000 Jews were rounded up, including Jakub and Hanna and the other children from the orchestra, and forced into the ghetto. Aleksey never saw them again nor did he know for sure what happened to them; whether they died of starvation or were transported to the concentration camps.
Many Jews, striving to find enough money to buy bread and potatoes and the occasional chicken, had been obliged to sell their most precious possessions; their clothes, china, jewellery ..... and their musical instruments.
After the war, Grodno, a beautiful baroque town, became part of Belarus and of course, Communist. There was not much opportunity for private enterprise but nevertheless a few small independent shops survived. It was in front of one such that Aleksey paused on a fine Spring afternoon in 1948. It was a shabby little place selling second hand goods and not far from where the ghetto had been. Peering in at the dingy collection of bits and pieces he saw the mandolin, forlorn and dusty, its back broken. The shop keeper admitted that he had bought it from a Jew in 1942. Aleksey paid him a few zlotys and took the instrument home, convinced that it must be one of the mandolins used by the musicians in the children’s orchestra before the war.
All this Sol told us when he brought the useless instrument to my father’s house a few months before he died. In the seventies Sol had managed to get a visa for a brief visit to the by now very old Aleksey, who had insisted on the mandolin going back to England.
“You will be able to have it mended and maybe one day someone will recreate Jakub and Hanna’s music again.”
For one reason or another Sol had never done anything about it and neither had my father. So it was up to me it seemed. I took the mandolin to a shop called Hobgoblins in a street off Oxford Street in London. They sell Irish harps and viols and penny whistles. They also mend instruments and blithely insisted that it would be ‘no problem’ to fix the mandolin! I collected it a few months later now perfectly restored to its former lovely condition. They told me it had been made in Poland around 1829.
I have decided what I must do. With the help of a Polish organisation in London I managed to find Eva, Aleksey’s grand daughter, I wrote to her and had a reply. She thinks, like I do, that the mandolin should be in the Jewish Memorial Museum in Grodno. I‘m planning to fly to Poland this summer. Even if it is not Hanna’s mandolin, it is a symbol of that wild klezmer music produced by Jakub and the children of Grodno and which fell silent all those years ago
HOMAGE TO THE ETERNAL WOMAN
by
Haydn Lloyd
When you’ve shed your anonymity,
And begun your peregrinity,
With an aura of virginity,
And a gently shown sanguinity,
Behind your new concinnity,
Just a touch of arch felinity,
Will make males in your vicinity
Declare with magnanimity
And in total unanimity -
You have found your femininity.
MIXED DOUBLES
by
Ann Foley
Sophie Martin was the best tennis player in the county and was magic to watch. She was something else, with long, tanned legs, and blonde streaked hair. Her parents had a lovely house and their own tennis court. She never took much notice of a guy like me normally but recently I’d seen her watching me practice my serve at the club and then one day she telephoned and suggested mixed doubles. She had this German guy staying and an old school friend as well, apparently. I was keen on seeing Sophie but not on playing mixed doubles. Mixed doubles was social tennis.
Mixed doubles meant I must sacrifice my serve – normally my secret weapon. It’s all right serving hard to a man, but when it’s the woman’s turn to receive, etiquette says you have to back off and let the ball drop gently over the net.
I really wanted my tennis to have the right effect on Sophie but there would have to be lots of “Sorry” if the ball was out and “Sorry” if the ball was in and couldn’t be hit back. And what was her relationship with this German “friend” anyway?
I decided on some old white shorts and a slightly washed out T-shirt, I didn’t want to look like I’d made too much effort. Presumably the German would be in full tennis whites.
When I arrived, I parked my old Volvo under a cedar tree and crossed the lawn towards Sophie. I inhaled her light perfume as she kissed me on the cheek. Turning back, she introduced me to her German friend, Heinrich. I must have registered surprise. He was no Boris Becker, far fatter than I expected and already sweating slightly in the heat of the afternoon. Rosie, the old school friend, shook my hand warmly. As we walked towards the court I noted Heinrich’s expensive trainers and brand new tennis racket. His English was also annoyingly good.
“My God, Jim,” he said. “I thought my car vas bad, but this . . . this is really funny!” and he indicated my rusty fender in a jocular tone. I didn’t like him pointing out my car to the others and so, politeness or not, decided I would show him no mercy on the tennis court.
I stayed close to Sophie and tried to be the helpful friend, carrying rackets, tennis balls, water and glasses on to the court. I tried to sound casual as I asked where Heinrich sprang from.
“I know Heinrich doesn’t look the most appealing sort of guy” she replied with a laugh, “but I went on a German exchange years ago and stayed with his family. I got to know them all really well and Heinrich comes back when he can to practise his English. By the way, he is a good tennis player. Watch his serve, it spins.”
“I’ll do my best” I replied as gallantly as I could. “Would you be my partner? What’s Rosie like?”
“She’s very quick about the court but would suit playing with Heinrich as he’s a bit slower.”
Music to my ears. Rosie looked disappointed when told the pairing and I caught her eye in sympathy as we crossed to opposite sides of the court. During the warm-up I tried to see how Heinrich shaped up. He sent a ball out of the court and spent most of the time with Sophie politely shouting “No, left a bit. No, I’m sure it went in just by that thick bit.”
We drew for ends and service and Heinrich and Rosie won. They decided to serve and Rosie started. She had a quick but accurate serve, no messing about with bouncin
g balls before she started. It jumped over the net. I hit it back towards Heinrich or what I hoped would be just out of his reach but he deftly returned it to Sophie who slammed it between them. That was our point. I didn’t like Heinrich’s grunt as he hit the ball. He had a powerful stroke when he got there. Rosie bustled about at the baseline but we managed to break their serve on the first game. We changed ends and Sophie did the honours for our side. I stood ready by the net while Sophie served, and we held on to our serve in the second game. Being in the right-hand court, I was the first to experience Heinrich’s serve. He had a curious way of winding himself up. He crouched low and then by degrees gradually rose, throwing the ball high and grunting as he sliced the ball over the net. I was ready on the right hand and standing well back but the ball spun over to my backhand. I whacked it into the net. Tricky customer.
Heinrich then served to Sophie. He seemed to forget the etiquette of serving gently to women and his amazing spinning serve hit Sophie hard on the left breast, which meant he had to say sorry. I longed to rub it better but had to content myself with giving her a brief, partnerly hug. Being a good sport, she waved at Heinrich to continue. I sent his second serve back with a winning forehand, but we still trailed in the game. It was obvious Heinrich wanted to smash the ball for all he was worth when he could get it.
Heinrich and Rosie just won. My turn to serve. I aimed at Heinrich’s testicles with all the force I could muster. Sadly, it went wide and he grunted as he hit it into the net. Being the perfect gentleman, I served gently to Rosie. She hit it back so hard I was taken by surprise and missed my shot. “None of that, please!” said Rosie good naturedly. My next serve was again at Heinrich but he dodged and returned it well. I then hit it hard to Rosie. I didn’t mean to aim it at Rosie but my shot clipped her right breast. “Oooow” she yelled.
“I’m so sorry!” I said, rushing up to the net as she rubbed herself in pain. “I really didn’t mean it!”
“I know. Don’t worry” she answered back gaily, “I’ve got another one!” I looked anxiously at Sophie, but she just smiled and shook her head. This mixed doubles was getting too much. I seemed to have difficulty with my concentration in that service game and it took me a while to get it back, meaning Rosie and Heinrich won the first set. Enough said.
I longed to put an arm round Sophie as we sipped our water between sets and tell her what a great player she was but overcame the temptation. I felt slightly tongue-tied, wondering if both girl’s breasts were all right but didn’t dare ask.
The next set was going to be crucial, not only for the game but for making a lasting impression on Sophie. I knew we could beat the others but was that going to help my situation? Should I let the others win?
The set started off with Sophie serving. I gave her two warm tennis balls from my pocket. “As warm as my heart!” I joked as I gave them to her. She smiled. I concentrated hard on the game and tried not to watch my beautiful partner serve. We played as real partners with me scooping up shots that Sophie had just missed and with her returning lobs from the baseline. Heinrich puffed about the court and I started to relax. I even began to like Heinrich and found his stating of the obvious so funny. To Rosie he said wisely “I think my volleying is good, but you, you are even better. ” We won that set in spite of our opponents' great volleys, so we were equal.
I hardly noticed a change in the weather. Black clouds were gathering and the hot afternoon ended in a sudden splashing downpour. Rosie ran up with the last ball, but slipped on the greasy surface of the court. Tennis balls spilt all over the place as we rushed to help her to her feet.
No, no, don’t touch me!” came the tearful cry. “Ow, my wrist hurts” and she held her wrist as she looked up at us.
“Rosie, you can’t stay there” said Sophie and hauled her to her feet. Her wrist was starting to swell.
“Cold water, I think” said Heinrich.
“No, no, I think the hospital, something doesn’t feel right” said Rosie, and she looked at me. “Could you take me in your car?”
I looked at Sophie. “You’d better come too” I said hopefully.
“No, no” said Rosie, “You don’t all need to come, you stay here with Heinrich.” Rosie winced. “Jim can take me and bring me back very quickly, can’t you, Jim?”
I looked at my goddess. The afternoon was not going as planned. Sophie was depressed and Heinrich muttered about my rusty Volvo. Rosie was quite perky as I helped her tenderly into my battered car.
As I sped off, I felt a hand brush the back of my neck. I turned towards Rosie.
“I’m not feeling that bad” she said, and giggled as she gave me a suggestive look.
Oh, mixed doubles are dangerous!
UNREGARDED BLACKBIRD
by
Paul Young
Morning is broken, in shatters and pieces
It lies in the gutters and blocks up the drains
Our feet as they hurry, are treading the glory
As we push and we bustle to buses or trains.
No time to be gaping or idly waiting,
As in park or in garden Blackbird proclaims
There’s money for getting , no time for regretting
No time to be seeing the beauty he names.
A MEETING OF MINDS
by
Bronwen Wild
The cafe looked out onto the square where a market was in progress. Con sat at a table in the window watching the crowds and mentally adding up the different kinds of stalls. She could see Sam Tanner and his teenage son behind festoons of sausages and an array of their own plucked and dressed chickens. They’d been stall holders here in the market for ever she’d heard, Sam’s father before him and his father before that. And then there were all the vegetable stalls ,everything so fresh and evidence of thriving enterprises somewhere in the surrounding countryside. She sighed and began to neaten the pile of leaflets on the table beside her, thinking it was time she went back to her work in the bookshop.
Suddenly the door swung open and a woman swept in bringing the cool October air with her. She was tall and thin. Old. Her thick grey hair pulled away from her face in a bun at the nape of her neck. Her face was lined but it was clear she had once been a beauty. The bones were high and fine and her eyes and brows still dark. She had a basket on her arm overflowing with oranges and leeks. She paused in her headlong progress, glancing quickly from side to side, looking for somewhere to sit. There was a seat at Con’s table and with a “Do you mind?” she pulled out the chair, shrugging her shoulders out of her flame coloured jacket and sitting down.
Con felt as though she had been subjected to an exhilarating brush with a sharp Autumn wind and realised she was staring at the newcomer rather too fixedly. Her companion ordered coffee and then turned to Con.
“Hello! Hope you don’t mind my company. I was longing for a coffee and didn’t see how crowded it was in here.” Putting her basket down she held out her hand to be shaken. It was arm and Con felt as though, with a bit more pressure she might crush it, so bony and slender was it.
“Of course not,” she said. “I’m glad of the company. I’ve spent my lunch hour trying to interest people in signing my petition against the plans to build a Tesco store on the car park by the church and I feel a bit dispirited by the amount of apathy there seems to be.”
An hour later the two women were still talking. Names had been exchanged. The elderly woman was called Christobel, Bel for short apparently, and was as incensed as Con at the knowledge that the life would be sucked out of their little town if the plans went ahead as it had been in so many other, similar places.
Con knew she had found an ally. Bel’s cut glass accent and aristocratic lineaments might be a far cry from her own homely figure and modest origins but the two of them would make a good team she knew. Lately, alone and in reduced circumstances , Con had felt the energy and enthusiasm that had sustained her through her rackety life beginning to ebb away. She longed to find a kindred spirit with wh
om she could campaign and agitate. Not perhaps in the old ways. This project was not ‘political’ in that sense but surely a worthy cause? Now she had found a comrade in arms to share the undoubted frustrations and setbacks that would be part of it. She sat up straight, feeling the old fiery spirit surge through her. She was smiling as they left the cafe. They had arranged to meet at the end of the week to discuss their strategy.
SFUMATO AND THE MONA LISA
by
John Wood
Leonardo, using pen and paint five hundred years ago,
Created a new softer style, we call it now Sfumato,
Which blurred the corners of her mouth, the corners of her eyes,
Those places which can reveal pain, or anger or surprise.
Before then artists drew a face with sharpened lines, and sought
To freeze the mood or fix a thought – each fleeting moment caught.
But Leonardo’s smudging art permitted us to see
A different image, haunting beauty, personality.
Her little smile has followed every watcher round her shrine -
Deservedly the most admired, most famous Florentine.
Her hands are not quite right, and though the background composition
Is strangely out of balance, yet Sfumato’s imprecision
Yields magic changing views - we sense her inner thoughts and fears,
And revere her gentle portrait, loved for half a thousand years.
WUFF TRADE
by
Haydn Lloyd
All right I will admit, it was a warm day, one of those lovely slightly hazy days in early June – everything in the countryside at its best. Brutus and I were down at the bottom of the garden where the Wye guarded us from the rest of the world like a huge lazy serpent. Swallows flicked through the hovering clouds of insects above the river and two swans drifted downstream looking in my direction, looking for any sign that I might feed them. Brutus lay at my side , head on front paws eyes lazily following them, nose quivering ceaselessly to take in all the summer smells.