Perfect Family Tales And Other Trivia

The art of the short-story writer is that of the cartoonist. It is the magical craft of creating entire worlds with a few simple strokes of a pen. Tales told by an idiot? Maybe! But my tales are also a mix of reality and fantasy; truth and lies; some based on my own family; others, not. Readers must guess which characters are real; who are inventions - and who are an amalgam of both. Please draw the boundaries for yourself.

Tuesday 18 March 2014

‘It Was a Gas, Gas, Gas!’

Hey!

Is that Jumpin’ Jack Flash?

I’ve run out of cash.

You’ve always been

So big down under.

 

And that’s where you were

When I needed you most.

Down under.

But it’s too late now.

Paint it black, Jack.

As tears go by, Jack.

Never much good at being

Mother’s little helper.

 

 You promised meRolling.Stones.Not.Fade.Away

I’d not fade away.

Not true tho’,

Was it, Jack?

 

Never mind, eh?

You can’t always Get what you want.

 

Hey, Jack.

Can you hear me?

I’ll go check if there’s sympathy

For the devil where

I now reside.

It was a gas while it lasted,

Jackie boy – Jack -

Help me,

God help me ….

Natalie Wood

(© Natalie Irene Wood –18 March 2014)

Saturday 15 March 2014

‘What Made Maggie Fly?’

There had been the gorgeous gown, splendid church service and a sumptuous banquet with dancing till dawn. No wonder Maggie saw stars.

“Thank you,  Mummy. Thank you, Daddy”, she said. “Colin and I have had a wonderful day”.

“Shush!”, said Dad, putting his finger to her lips. “We wanted to show how much we love you”.

“Yes”, said Mum. “We’ve only ever wished the best for you. Enjoy your new life. Now promise not to think about us – not even once – until you and Colin return”.

Caribbean BeachSo they flew to a Caribbean island – a magical land overflowing with gold-tipped sands, shimmering seas and waving palms.

On their first night – and three nights after – Colin put his finger on Maggie’s lips – just like Dad.

But not quite. More like his entire hand. No wonder Maggie saw  different stars: garish, purple-yellow bruising lights whose spikes dug deep inside her, ripping her apart in dreadful, secret   places until a soothing blanket  of thick black nothingness took the pain away.

-------------

Later, as Detective Inspector Edwin Daniel arrived at the St Mark’s Beachfront Plaza Hotel to investigate how and why a bride had plunged eight storeys and ninety feet to her death, Maggie’s parents opened an email.

Dear Mummy and Daddy” they read, “I’m coming home. But not the way you’d want. I’ve got to escape Colin. He’s changed. He keeps hurting me. He wasn’t like this when we were courting.

“It’s like he wore a mask that he ripped off the moment we closed the door of our hotel bedroom.

“He lunged at me, pressed his hand hard on my mouth and whispered, ‘You’re mine now, Maggie. I can do whatever I like with you’. Bride.Balcony.Suicide

“Mummy – Daddy - I can’t live like this, but please know that you’ve been the best parents a daughter could have.

“I’ll love you always.

Maggie xxx”

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After the shaming inquest, trial and demeaning publicity, Maggie’s Mum said, “It’s funny how life turns on a hair”.

“What?”, said Dad.

“The night before we got married my own mother shared a confidence. She said my Grandma Olive had told her it had been almost a miracle that she was born”.

“How’s that?”

“Olive had no trouble conceiving. It was because she had to – umm - take the initiative. My grandfather was  diffident about intimate relations and Mum was the result of their one full act of love”.

“But I recall your grandparents as utterly devoted. People to be emulated”, said Dad.

“Yes”, you’re right”, said Mum, struggling to remember Olive’s words, third-hand:

“Grandpa Roland  was somehow ‘asexual’. He loved and admired my grandmother more than he could say. So he put her on a pedestal and shrank from defloration. For him, the act was like a desecration. He wasn’t bothered about starting a family. Although he was a loving, first-class father, he wanted to keep Olive for himself”.

“So”, said Maggie’s Dad, now anxious to end the conversation. “Roland maintained Olive  in mint condition. Just how he liked her. I don’t know about you, but as it’s almost midnight, I think it’s time for bed”.

Natalie Wood

(© Natalie Irene Wood –15 March 2014)

Sunday 9 March 2014

‘The Charge of the Hate Brigade’

‘All things move, not in progress, but in a ceaseless round’ (William Hazlitt)

Aunt Khava had sliced lemon, sliver-thin.

“This is how we served it in the old country” she said, lighting the samovar  for our tea. “I prefer life without oranges”. 

This was silly. Khava habitually pares  all her food super-fine. This is because she’s known only privation, not glut; so hates waste and loves oranges!

“Is this about the synagogue attacked at Simferopol, Aunty”? Ukraine.Simferopol.Reform.Synagogue.2014

“Yes! Also ancient and more recent outrages in places all over the  Ukraine and Crimea you’ve never heard of. You must live through events to truly understand them”.

Her disquiet was infectious and I began crumbling a biscuit into tiny shards as she spoke.

“Do you feel like telling me more”?

Khava smiled faintly. “Don’t fret about me. I learned to cope with hard facts long before I came here to Israel – many years before you were born. But I’ll never stop worrying about things there. Don’t forget, for me it’s where the world began.

“Still” she went on,  “no matter what other people think, I don’t compare Putin with Hitler or Stalin. He’s his own man”.

“What”?

“We may see historic parallels in his actions but we should look at curves – not lines.  What we see is simply  the wheel of history continuing to spin”.

I nodded in respectful silence. Here I’d found my aunt’s hidden depths. 

“As a child in Crimea, I caught adult whispers about our area becoming another Soviet homeland for Jews, like the one in Birobidzhan. But Stalin changed all that. Allowing the birth of a socialist State of Israel was good. It would strengthen Soviet influence in the Middle East and speed the end of British imperialism to boot. But the Jews at home? Feh! Better a dead Zhid than one disloyal to Mother Russia. So, he had our intelligentsia scythed,  one by one”.

Then I spoke.

“But why did so many of our cousins stay on after Communism collapsed, scorning the chance to flee to Israel and join us here in Kfar  Zuskin”?

“You’re still young”, said Khava. “Perhaps too youthful to appreciate the comfort  that familiarity affords. They made – invented – reasons -  not  excuses. But what could they justify? Most had long denied, if not simply forgotten their Jewish roots. They didn’t want to learn from history; admit that the Jewish story in the Ukraine is the universal one”. 

“Antisemitism”? 

“That, of course. But like everywhere else, the personal terrors are pooled with those of people on the outside. I’ve already said that it’s too easy to compare Putin and Hitler; to match everything that happens  in 21st century Ukraine to Nazi activity in Europe during the 1930s”.

“From what I’ve read” I said, interrupting her flow, “the entire region’s history is streaked with Jewish blood”.

“Ha! Most poetic! But while the naked facts bear no decoration I’ll indulge in one simile.  Let’s say that while Arik Sharon’s anti-terrorist security fence on our West Bank is built with concrete and razor-wire, Jews were welcomed to the Ukraine by Catherine the Great as a human wall against the neighbouring Turks. But when we became too successful and were accused by surrounding non-Jews of all sorts of trickery, Empress Catherine fenced us in, behind the notorious Pale of Settlement.

“Life occasionally became better before it got much worse. But nothing that the Nazis or Stalin did – or anything that Putin may imagine he can do now – will be different from what’s always happened”.

“Aunty, I’m not sure I understand”.

“All right. Let’s examine, by example, the pogroms during the Russian Revolution, when at least 100,000 Ukrainian Jews were massacred between 1918 and 1921 on an industrial scale. In one incident,  800 Jews were decapitated at a sitting – a fine example to set the Nazis! And as an aside, who do you think first invented the ‘big lie’? Neither  Goebbels nor Hitler. They pinched the idea from Lenin”.

Then Khava lowered her voice as if to share a secret.

“But all this is a prelude to a rarely told family story that I hope you’ll pass on after I’ve gone. Please wait until then.

“Even as the British soldiers involved in the  ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’ were entering their ‘valley of death’ at Balaclava, Jewish boys in Crimea as young as ten had tumbled headlong into a graveyard of their own. SMITHSONIAN PHOTOGRAPHY

“Your grandmother had two great-uncles, Fishel and Zamel.  Fishel died before he would have been barmitzvah  but Zamel lived until his thirties, long enough to produce Leya and Shaya, so being your great-great-great uncle”.

“What happened”?

KANTONISTS“Czar Nicholas 1  decided on enforced Jewish army conscription, which involved young boys known as kantonists entering the elementary schools established for soldiers’ children and orphans. The kids were given basic military training and schooling until they were aged 18. This was followed by twenty-five years’ regular army service.

“But many Jewish boys like Fishel died from the extreme conditions and drastic punishments they received as a way of forcing them to baptise. The Czar’s insane, brutal idea was that the Jews would become Christian on demand once torn from their natural families. Fishel died aged 12 after endless beatings and bizarre torture”.

“And Zamel”?

“As the elder, he was tougher and somehow escaped after enduring the notorious steam torture. But the experience so weakened his constitution that he coughed himself to death aged 35”.

Finally,  I understood. It was the fruit of orange scented revolution my aunt so deplored.

Natalie Wood

(© Natalie Irene Wood – 09 March 2014)