‘You – And The Day'

Our best day was the day we dared.

We hit the road at noon, eyes puckered against the piercing lights of a faultless sky.

Then speeding on, ever-faster, we became mountain goats on tiny bikes, fairly skipping, prancing through ring-slim, beribboned, be-tasselled trails, whose ends uncoiling, frayed slowly, calmly, revealing the gentle embrace of  yielding hills.

When  in a still moment we stopped to rest, you whispered: “You – and the day – I’m young again. Sixteen once more.”

“Me, too!”, I sighed. Then scrambling, trembling, hillside kids, we delved, dived to where all fragrance met, plucking, savaging wild and secret fruits, their seething juices blue and purple-black. Fervid, then wedded, finally spent.

Brief silence. Adrift. Dozing. Gorged. Happiness complete.

But we were briskly stirred. Blinking, returned to earth.

“Nice day for it, then?”

Giggling, we nodded, most contrite. Then staggered homeward, half-drunk on our feast of private plums just pulled.

Somersaulting, freewheeling ever downward, at last we crashed into the trailing fleece of the dying, citrus- cinnamon-scented sun.

“Time for bed?”, you asked.

“Of course!”, I said.

Technorati Tags: Portugal,Algarve,Monchique Mountains

Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 01 October 2012)

‘The Butterfly Effect’

 "Predictability: Does the Flap of a Butterfly's Wings in Brazil Set Off a Tornado in Texas?" Meteorologist, Edward Lorenz - 1972.

Esmé ate a little potato then  put her fork down.

“I had a chat with Mum today,” she said soberly.

“It’s good that you’re able to think of her like that,” said Ray, patting her arm.

“You don’t understand. Mum was here – in the house – well,  really the garden.”

Miranda and Alfie avoided eye contact, trying not to giggle.

“I was in the kitchen at about 2.00 o’clock, still washing up the breakfast things when the sun broke through and made me look out of the window. Then I saw an outsized Red Admiral butterfly sitting on a branch of the pine tree opposite. It was flapping its wings like crazy, wiggling its antennae, trying to say ‘hello’. Only Mum would pull a stroke like that.”

“Isn’t that what she died from? A stroke?”, asked Miranda, now almost 15.

Esmé didn’t react.

“Wow!”, said nine-year-old Alfie, impressed. “Admirals are sometimes seen in the South of England in January. But up here in Lancashire … ?”

“Ssh!”, warned Ray, kicking Alfie’s shin as he leaned over to collect the dinner plates.

“I was in the car at about that time and  it was, briefly, very sunny. I wonder how the creature arrived here.”

“Maybe it used the tram,” said Miranda.

Esmé tried again. “Look, guys. I’ve lost my mother – not my marbles. There’s no need to humour me. I’m telling you it was Mavis.

“I know it was her because the butterfly’s wings were like a replica of that gaudy  knitted suit she was wearing when she died.

“You must remember the row. Winifred got Georgie to bring it back from London  with her broken brolly after the funeral.

“She stalked up to the front door, threw them at me and marched away without a word. No comfort. Nothing. The suit - for chrissakes why did I encourage her to buy it? - still stank of Mum’s sweat. If Winnie didn’t want to sell it  or give it to a charity shop with everything else, why didn’t she dump it instead of calling me nasty names?

“Finally, when I had the damn thing dry-cleaned in town, the girl at the counter sneered when she handed it back.  So now it hangs in the back of my wardrobe as a sort of double family motif. The first part is about the guilt that’s been laid on me over the years.”

“And the second?”, asked Ray.

“The barely hidden derisive contempt with which almost everyone treats me. That includes you two!”, added Esmé, stabbing the handle of her dessert spoon at her step-children.

“I’ve had so much to do and still everyone says  I never pull my weight. They refuse to listen when I tell them the efforts I’ve made to empty and clean Mum’s flat for possible sale or potential rental. Then there was the paperwork and extra expense involved in having a Bury resident cremated out-of-town. No-one except you, Ray, even begins to understand.

“Now there’s more. Tony’s putting it about that I’ve stolen £400.00 from our joint account.” 

“How do you know? After all, Georgie and Tony aren’t speaking to you,” said Miranda.

“Mavis, of course. We must have chatted for at least half-an-hour. Typically, the first thing she did was to scold me for not getting showered and dressed earlier. It felt like old times.

“’Do something with your hair. It’s in rattails. You’ll feel a lot better if you improve your appearance, instead of indulging in so-called depression. And if I were you,’” she added, ‘I’d go back to your natural colour. Platinum blond is really not you.’”

“What did you say back?,” asked Alfie,  caught up in the scene.

“First of all, I told her how much I’d always hated my name. Horribly old-fashioned and flashy - like her embarrassing taste in clothes. From now on, I’m ‘Gail’.”

“’What’s more, I’m not taking any more bull from my family - in this world – or out of it!’”, I told her.

“’If you want to play truths,’ I said. Here’s a few for you to cuddle  in heaven or wherever you’re going next. The fact is, Mum, you were fine when it came to practical, every-day parenting. But a few other things got in the way.’”

“’Such as?’”, she asked.

“I didn’t miss my chance. ‘For instance, you could never resist playing us children off each other – even to the end – all the better to control us. Remember the last thing you said to me, here, in this garden, before you left for your trip to London?’”

“’No, not really,’” said Mavis.

“’We’d had a tiff as I asked you to wait a couple of hours before we went shopping for extra shoes.

“’Georgie’,’” you said, ‘is so good-hearted. She’d never refuse. This, my dear, is a good example of what I mean when I say ‘I’ll always love you – even when I don’t like you.’”

There was a tiny space between Esmé speaking and Alfie bursting in to help.

“Yesterday,” he said, “our science teacher told us something really cool about butterflies. There was a weather man called Edward Lorenz who, in 1972, showed how a butterfly flapping its wings in one part of the world  can cause a hurricane somewhere else. Mr Hammond said it was part of ‘predictability’ and meant in easy words that small events can cause very large ones. Then Steve Brown worked out on his calculator that in 1972 everyone in our class was aged minus thirty-one.”

Technorati Tags: #fridayflash,Flash Fiction,PerfectlyWriteFamilyTales,The Butterfly Effect,Edward Lorenz,Bury,London,Cremation

Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 26 September 2012)

‘Duchess of Cambridge Bares Her Soul’

Conference Room, St James’s Palace, London.

Wednesday 26 September 2012

The Duchess of Cambridge looked most strange.

The fashionistas three rows back began scribbling like fury. They had no choice. Photographs were banned and all audio and video equipment had been temporarily confiscated by security.

“Out-dated black trouser suit. Prim white blouse. Black patent-leather ballet pumps. Minimal make-up; no jewellery. Hair arranged in severe French knot. Kate more skinny than slender. Refuses to smile”, noted The Daily Telegraph’s Lisa Armstrong.

But as the former Catherine Middleton mounted the podium there was a further shock. The famous blue sapphire and diamond engagement ring had disappeared. Only her wedding band now adorned her long slim hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please,” began the Duchess in tones as starchy as her shirt.

“As we wish to keep this emergency Press Conference brief, we are not offering our customary hospitality. Moreover, as the matter under discussion is sub judice in the French courts, I am reading the text of a prepared speech and will take no questions.

“William is seated on the front row with our new Press Secretary, Mr Ed Perkins. Although we’re not due to start working together until December, it was his suggestion that the transcript of my speech  be made available in all major languages to avoid any ambiguity.”

The Duchess took a sip of water before she continued:

“First I must remind you that I am known to the world by my face. Today you see it ice-cold with anger. Should anyone believe I am shaking with nerves - think again. I tremble with rage.

“I am too well aware that I am an ordinary woman who was thrown into extra-ordinary circumstances by my marriage. So be advised: my skull contains an active brain while inside the bosom that has been so vulgarly displayed by some publications represented here, there lies a warm heart that has been deeply hurt. ’Keep calm and carry on’? Hmm. ‘Don’t get mad. Get even’? O.K., this is my chance to talk openly about myself to you.

“As I do not need conventional employment, it would be easy for me to live privately; to indulge all my favourite hobbies more often and to have extra time to see my birth family and close friends. That is not to be. I am strictly committed to the life of a ‘working royal’ and make myself as accessible as is possible, both to people like yourselves and to the general public.

“But everything has been spoilt by the greed of those who abused my trust. While legal action proceeds, William and I have decided to draw a fresh line over the point where the previous ‘red line’ of common decency was crossed.

“Some of you have noticed that I am not wearing my engagement ring. I removed it – with William’s approval – just for this session.

“Everyone knows that it first belonged to his mother. I have made this gesture to emphasise that while I cherish her memory  I do not live and work in her shadow. I am a different, quite separate person and am determined neither to imitate her life – nor, heaven willing - her tragically untimely passing. 

“But during the many times we have talked about her, William and I have reflected that in the 15 years since her  death, technology has advanced greatly.

“For instance,” said the Duchess, opening the handbag by her side to find and replace her ring, “I wonder what Princess Diana would have done if she had owned an i-phone. Would she have surprised you and started ‘snapping’ back?”

The crowd tittered but the Duchess raised one hand for silence as the other drew her own ‘phone from her bag. “Perhaps,” she went on, “my late mother-in-law would have done as I’m about to do. Maybe she would have invited a couple of senior print or photo-journalists to join her on a public platform to explain themselves to her – er - in the flesh.

“I do hope that Mr Michael O’Kane, recently of the Irish Daily Star and Mademoiselle Laurence Pieau of Closer magazine are here. Please come ‘closer’,” she invited, finally breaking into a smile. “After all, this session would be so much duller without you.”

But suddenly the Duchess’s mood changed. She put her ‘phone aside. “No. If I were to do as planned, I’d cheapen myself – and much worse – the monarchy. I can’t, in all conscience, humiliate anyone else as some of you have degraded me. Instead, I’ll wish you all good day. Goodbye.”

“How are we going to handle this?” mused The Mirror’s Victoria Murphy, as the crowd slunk away. “To make things worse, we’re going to have to use just her text and library pictures.

“Ha! Just like the good old days,” said The Independent’s Andy McSmith.

  --------

‘Y’know, said Prince William, hugging the Duchess as they walked from the hall towards the Press Office. “Gran need not have worried about this morning’s proceedings. She and Dad have attempted to instil me with the concept of ‘kingship’ since I was a tot. I think you’ve got it straight off. You really are a smart piece! Now, how about a Coke?”

--------

Wednesday 26 September is also Yom Kippur – the Jewish Day of Atonement. I wish all Jewish readers ‘an  easy fast’.

 

Technorati Tags: #fridayflash,Flash Fiction,PerfectlyWriteFamilyTales,Duchess of Cambridge Bares Her Soul,Prince William,The Queen,Princess Diana,St James's Palace,Ed Perkins,Privacy,Scandal,Michael O’Kane,Irish Daily Star,Laurence Pieau,Closer

Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 18 September 2012)

‘Playing ‘Hangman’’

Grandpa Sam was outside the  Alum Ale House in South Shields with his mate, Tommy Pierrepoint.

“I’ve got an hour to kill,” said Tommy,  then England’s busiest public executioner. “How about a beer and a game of draughts?”

“Wonderful!,” enthused Grandpa, pulling a small arm from behind his flapping coattails. “But our Sonia’s with us while Dottie’s in Newcastle, so we can’t go inside.”

“We’ll not mind that,” said Tommy, giving Sonia, aged five, his best beam. “You get the drinks with this,” he offered, handing Grandpa some coins, “and I’ll get us settled at the table just outside the door. “But we’ll have to keep our coats on”, he warned, peering cautiously at the watery sun. “It looks like rain.”

When Grandpa returned, Sonia was straddled on Tommy’s knee, fingering  his Prince Albert pocket watch   and staring helplessly, first at a piece of paper in front of her and then at a pile of chocolate pennies just beyond her grasp.

“How does an ugly dad like you have such a pretty kid?”, quipped Tommy. “She’s bright and knows all her letters and numbers up to ten. So I thought that while we play and chat, she can have a taste of ‘hangman’. I’ll give her  a penny every time she gets a letter right.”

Grandpa, who’d been gassed during the Great War, started wheezing horribly.

“Er, lovely,” he spluttered, trying to change the subject as he hated falling out with anyone. “How’s business? Yanked any good necks lately?”

“Haha! Things are a bit slow, so maybe I could have a go at yours!” snorted Tommy, tracing an expert thumb up Sonia’s delicate nape, making her shiver.

“Ooh, that tickled. Can I have a chocolate now?”, she asked.

“All right, pet,” said Grandpa, pushing the pile towards her. “You try to fit the right letters in the spaces that Tommy’s drawn, so we grown-ups can have a talk.”

Sonia nodded.

“What’s news with you, Sam?”

“Things aren’t perfect as m’chest hurts like hell. The doctor says I  could do with living somewhere warmer and drier, so we’re thinking of moving to Bournemouth.”

“Really? It’s nice down there. You’ll still have the coast – so you’ll never be short of somewhere to take the bairns.”

“That’s true. I’m hoping it’ll bring us some other changes. Sonia’s older brother, Joe is also doing very well at school but  he’s such a handful that –” here Grandpa, grinned weakly - “I’m thinking of calling on your services!”

“Ooh, that’s a bit drastic, But to be blunt,” confided Tommy, “I could do with extra work. I’ve made some enemies in the Prison Service, even at the Home Office and some folk are saying I’m no longer fit for the job.”

“What’s happened?”

“They say I’m getting too old and my sight’s not as good as it was. There may be a grain of truth in that. But there’s more. They claim that I’m trying to – umm – polish people off too fast – that I’m being too efficient. They also don’t like how I’ve been bending the rules by  touting for business.”

“How do you do that?”

“I read the newspaper court reports  and when I see a capital sentence passed against a murderer, I write to the under sheriffs who are responsible for hiring me, offering to do the job. I know it's morbid but I’m not the only one who does it. We got found out as sometimes death sentences are commuted on appeal, which leaves us applying to hang prisoners before it’s definite that they’re down to  swing. They’ve also accused me of drinking on the job. Now, would I do that, Sam?

”In fact, I’m going to complain. I’ll be saying that I never used to write to the sheriffs  until I discovered that someone else got there first and I was not having my turn. My junior’s getting the work and I’m left waiting, idle. Does that sound fair?"

“Hmm, all else aside,” said Grandpa sympathetically, “it seems they should award you brownie points for initiative!”.

“Talking of ‘initiative’,” said Tommy, suddenly remembering Sonia,  “I’d clean forgotten about everything and meanwhile the pennies have vanished most mysteriously. Any ideas?” 

Sonia’s cheeks were bulging and her eyes began to swell with tears.

“Dear me,” said Tommy. “I’ve got to tell you something serious. I’d only left you four spaces to fill in  - to make the word      ‘L - I – F - E’.  That’s what happens to some people – they spend their whole lives in  prison for doing wrong.

“Liars,” continued Tommy, now in full throttle, “turn into thieves and thieves become murderers. Do you know what happens to them, Sonia?”

But Sonia couldn’t reply. She was choking on  mouthfuls of half-eaten buttons and unshed sobs.

“Murderers, Sonia, are who I deal with. They get sent to the gallows and they are hanged …”

Grandpa could take no more. “Look what you’ve done. A little less pantomime might be in order, Tommy. Sonia’s going home almost hysterical and I’ll have  Dottie to reckon with.

“It’s been nice to see you, but as we’re leaving Shields and Newcastle soon, I’ll just wish you goodbye and good luck.”

------

“Huh!,” said Grandma Dottie a couple of hours later. “Now I’m having to deal with the tantrum and what’ll probably be a sleepless night. If I hear that you’ve been out with Pierrepoint again, I’ll .. I’ll …

“Yes, our Dottie?”, asked Grandpa, ever so meekly.

“Break your flamin’ neck! Now, I’m  in such a tizzy, I can’t think what to make for tea.”

 

The Alum Ale House was established in the 18th century

Technorati Tags: #fridayflash,Flash Fiction,PerfectlyWriteFamilyTales,Playing Hangman,South Shields,Newcastle upon Tyne,Alum Ale House,Thomas Pierrepoint,Public Executioner

Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 01 September 2012)

‘What Made Jimmy Run’

Jimmy was puzzled. He couldn’t stop flailing his legs or cease swirling around in the strange, grey gloom. Had he been here forever? It was difficult to tell.

Then someone came to help.

“Hello“, said the newcomer. “You may remember me. We have much in common.”

“I used to be in show business – and charity. Now, I’m just plain Jimmy Savile from Leeds in Yorkshire, England. But stone me, y-you must be  …!”

“That’s right,” said the figure. “I’m Ludwig Guttmann. I founded the Spinal Injuries Centre at Stoke Mandeville Hospital in Buckingham.

“I don’t believe our paths crossed there as I finished my clinical work in 1966 and your best days were during the 70s and 80s. Anyway, I’m your ‘mentor’ here, so I’ll look after you while you’re still on probation  – having your first taste of ‘eternity’. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.” 

“Thanks Poppa,” replied Jimmy, easing  back into the familiar, fond hospital nickname. “Can I see my mum – ‘The Duchess’?”

“Not yet, Jimmy. We’ve got some explaining and thinking to do now. To begin, we’ll chat. You must know that the London 2012 Paralympics start this week.  To think that we arranged them in 1948 to coincide with that year’s Summer Olympics - also in London – and that the interest in and enthusiasm for them is greater than ever. They’ve now become so ingrained in people’s minds, many wrongly believe ‘para’ is shorthand for ‘paraplegic’ instead of ‘parallel’  like the term ‘para-medic’.”

“Quite wonderful,” said Jimmy. “As I’ve always loved sport, I’m also thrilled about the games. I was really lucky to suffer no more than a bad back from my days as a wartime  ‘Bevin Boy’ miner, just at the time you started to treat men who’d never walk again. It must have been my destiny.”

“I’m pleased to hear you say that. But I bet that like me, you’re also furious about the rumpus which cast a shadow over this year’s main games.”

“Umm…”

“Y’know? How Jacques Rogge, the International Olympic Committee  President, prohibited a public silent tribute at the opening ceremony, marking the 40th anniversary of the massacre of the eleven Israeli athletes at the Munich  Games. Believe me, Jimmy, as a Holocaust refugee, I boiled with rage. I was still alive when those fine young people were murdered and even then I recalled that Bavaria had always been a hotbed of Nazism.

“Now as more of the truth of what happened in ‘72 is uncovered, it hurts like hell  that the world has forgotten that Israel stepped into save the paralympics in 1968.”

“Er, I think I do remember, Poppa.  Weren’t they still then called the ‘International Stoke Mandeville Games’? And yeah, I‘m still deeply upset myself about what happened this year. If only I’d lasted a few more months, I’d have given Rogge such a hiding …”

“Oh, we wish! My belief is that finally it had little to do with widows, politicians or even the opinion of the Moslem world. I think Rogge simply didn’t want to give way. So he just dug his heels in and refused to budge.”

“Not good athletics, eh?”

“Ha, ha! By the way, you were spot-on about the 1968 paralympics. The Israel Government offered to help as Mexico City – that year’s hosts -  felt it couldn't cope. Although everything felt strange, all went like clockwork at the Ramat Gan stadium near Tel Aviv.

“What’s more, Israel wanted to make the games part of its own 20th anniversary of Independence celebrations, so the Opening Ceremony was held at the Hebrew University stadium in the presence of the-then Deputy Prime Minister, Yigal Allon. More than 10,000 people turned up along with 750 athletes from 29 countries. It was a marvellous moment for me as Jew, a keen amateur fencer and of course, as a medical man.”

“Great days, Poppa. I was also then living life to the full  and you may know that one of my favourite boasts is that only a little later,  I found myself telling the entire Israeli Cabinet how to behave!”

“Yes, ‘young man’, I know about that! But now for some more serious business. Are you aware that the restless fidgets you’ve experienced are a metaphor for your less savoury activities on earth? Before you go further here and meet someone really important, you must start telling yourself the truth.”

Jimmy blushed. “You mean those stories about me and young girls? Or that the radio psychiatrist, Anthony Clare once said I had no real feelings? Both are unfair because they’re barely half-true.

“I’ll explain. I’m a fella who liked being the centre of attention in public but preferred his own company at home. The Duchess was the only one who understood. So I used  ladies – often young ones - for ‘animal warmth’.  Look how much society has changed since I was a youngster. At the time you began your work, the world regarded disability as shameful and the disabled as  second-class.

“In the same way, people living in community homes and such were often dismissed as rubbish to be used as we liked, even if we secretly knew it was wrong.  I couldn’t help myself. It was an addiction. So I took ice-cold showers. They weren’t enough. Then  came the charity work and the portering  stints at hospitals like yours and Broadmoor. People thought me weird. I was punishing myself. But mostly I ran - up hill, down dale - trying to banish the demons. Still  they stayed. Right to the end. Then I came here.”

“Very honest,” said Sir Ludwig. “But I think people ‘downstairs’ won’t consider that enough. So let’s take everything a step at a time.

“Now, if you fancy a break, there’s someone new here you might like to meet.”

“Wow!,” said Jimmy, feeling quite deliciously free. “If it’s Neil Armstrong,  I’d love to help him. After all, he’s made the biggest leap ever. But this time, just for himself!”

Technorati Tags: #fridayflash,Flash Fiction,PerfectlyWriteFamilyTales,What Made Jimmy Run,Sir Jimmy Savile,Sir Ludwig Guttmann,Stoke Mandeville Hospital,Paralympics 2012,International Stoke Mandeville Games 1968,Israel,London Olympics 1948,Neil Armstrong

Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 27 August 2012)

‘Birds On A Wire; Songsmiths Unbound’

Remember the time you said you’d never heard of Leonard Cohen?

 

(A remark much repeated with most horrid glee at every music festival between here and Galilee).

 

You made things worse by carolling, “Hallelujah! He’s probably never heard of me! Unless you mean Lenny Cohen from round the corner. The same Lenny who was chucked out of synagogue when the rabbi discovered his family could never have been from our Kingdom of Priests, as his mum had been a Reform convert who’d married at the Progressive congregation in town.”

Then when we went to Jerusalem’s own Woodstock,  you began all over again –  a doleful chorus, sadly out of tune.

All I’d said was, “Isn’t Maya Johanna Menachem sweet? She can’t stop dancing. She’s got happy, pretty feet – and keeps them naked – just like Sandie Shaw.”

“Don’t be silly!,” you retorted. “It’s just bloody hot here. Maya Wotsit Thingy  won’t know about Sandie Shaw. What’s more she’s probably never heard of …”

“Oh, for God’s sake! Shut up! Maya’s a consummate musician with an innate understanding of her art. She describes how lyrics have patterns; change shape, like poetry on the page. If she knows Donovan – the U.K.’s own Dylan - then she’ll ….”

“Always have something there to remind her?”

“Very droll. Anyway, here’s tonight’s big challenge,” I crowed. “Maya’s only three – no, make that two – feet away from us on stage. If you want to understand things better, go, ask her yourself.”

Scaredy Cat! Of course you didn’t! So I had to explain everything in hurried whispers, between the songs. But you’re right. Donovan  seemed one hundred per cent obsessed by ‘yellow’. Something to do with banana skins and vibrators …

But Maya went much higher ( ‘Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre’ ), sang Bird On A Wire which she dedicated to Moshe Silman and other souls in ashes. This, I said, was the  reality of the new Woodstock. Remembering great music in Israel to make it holy. Not just an international political pariah; an unhappy place of social unrest.

Then you wised up.

“Is this why Cohen’s treated like some sort of  Jewish saint in Ireland?,” you asked.

“ I’ve been studying him - and the local population – very hard indeed. It’s odd how so many have a love-hate thing going with Jews and Israel. They’re fairly drenched in bible, understand the prayerful allusions in Cohen’s songs – and seem almost transfixed, nigh seduced  by his  tender ardour for the work of William Butler Yeats. Then, there’s everything else.”

“Not bad for you. I’m quite impressed. I never thought you’d get beyond Freddie and the Dreamers.”

“You know how to hurt a guy,” you said, pulling me towards you.

“But there are times, even now, when I can make him feel rather good. What, for instance, would you say to a nice cuppa tea?”

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

*Maya Johanna Menachem appeared last weekend with guitarist, Shay Tochner and violinist Yonatan Miller, at the WOMINI (World Music & Arts Institute of Northern Israel) studios in Shorashim, near Karmiel, Galilee. This picture was taken  by Yishay Sklare at the Kraft stadium, Jerusalem.

Technorati Tags: #fridayflash,Flash Fiction,PerfectlyWriteFamilyTales,Birds On A Wire,Songsmiths Unbound,Jerusalem Woodstock Revival,Leonard Cohen,Bob Dylan,Donovan,Sandie Shaw,Freddy and the Dreamers,Maya Johanna Menachem,Shay Tochner,Yonatan Miller,WOMINI,Moshe Silman,Shorashim,Karmiel,Galilee,Yishay Sklare,Kraft Stadium,Israel

Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 10 August 2012)

‘Grilled in Burgas’

It was ninety degrees in the shade. But Eli Lobel couldn’t stop shivering.

 

 “Look at me,” he demanded as he and his wife, Anelie, waited for the plane from Bulgaria to arrive. “I’m not a religious man – and I’m not superstitious. But that string of nasty coincidences is giving me the shakes.”

 

“Maybe it’s something you’ve eaten. I’m not keen on the shawarma place  where you and Yossi like to nosh.”

“This not about food. It’s what happened last month – and because we’re here at Ben Gurion Airport waiting for our boys to return from Burgas.”

The Lobels’ sons, Natan and Izzi had insisted on going ahead with a long-planned trip to Bulgaria despite what had just happened to other Israelis there.

“I won’t be happy until I see our boys come through customs,” continued Eli.

“Nearly every day we hear about modern versions of the ancient tragedies we are supposed to remember at this time of year.

“O.K., we no longer  have a temple to be destroyed. Instead, we’ve had two desperate people burn themselves to death – and several more try.  Then just as we learned about the terrorist murders at Burgas, the news stations began reporting the death of the Torah sage, Rabbi Yosef Elyashiv.  They say he left one thousand descendants. I don’t suppose any of them will ever visit former Nazi Europe on a pleasure trip.

“I’m telling you, Anelie, our boys have the whole world to explore – they didn’t have to go to Bulgaria. Remember what my father always said?”

 “Wow, that’s a long speech. You don’t usually say that much all week! I know you’ve never been happy about Israelis visiting Bulgaria after the effort your family made to come here in the 50s. And yes, I know your father made you promise you’d never go back. But that was then and this is now. Anyway, it’s said that compared to most of Europe, Bulgaria treated its Jews well during the Holocaust.”

 

”That’s not entirely true. Do you also  remember what we read when we took our London cousins to the Ghetto Fighters House Museum in the Galilee?”

“That was quite a while ago but I do remember their visit. Your Dad was still alive and the little one – Alex – made him laugh by calling him ‘Great Uncle Bulgaria’ after a character in a British children’s TV show.”

Eli grinned despite himself.

“But I’m making a serious point here. The popular – I consider - fanciful - version of events implies that the Bulgarian nation led by Czar Boris rose almost as one to save the Jewish community. While German-allied Bulgaria did not deport its Jews, it did institute the usual anti-Jewish laws restricting all normal activity.

“But much worse was that it also deported about 11,000 Jews from annexed territories in Macedonia and Thrace. They mostly perished at the Treblinka death camp.

“However the historians see it, I insist that we Jews in Bulgaria ‘proper’ were  – well, bartered - for those in the other territories. Far worse for me was that I never found out what happened to my dear boyhood friend, Manny who had been in Thrace looking for work just before the war broke out. I’m left to  guess that he was swept up with  the mass of non-Bulgarian Jews who were captured and then deported. I try not to think about it and then, during a restless night –"

Eli’s reverie was cut short as Anelie glimpsed their boys strolling towards them.

“Hi, you two! You must have been busy. No time even to send us a picture or call us on Skype?”

“Sorry, Mum. Don’t be too annoyed. We have been busy – you won’t guess how …” said Izzi.

“We only spent a couple of days at Burgas. Y’know I’m not much good at grilling myself in the sun so we hired a car and …”

“Yeah,” added Natan, helping his brother to stash their bags into the boot, “as you’ve told us so much about Sofia, Dad, we decided to visit  the city and surprise you with some great pictures.”

“But we got the shock – huge!” said Izzi.

“When we arrived at the  main synagogue, we managed to make ourselves understood to the security guard using a mixture of Hebrew and the little ‘Djudezmo’  you’ve taught us.

“But the guy  – about your age, Dad – and a little like you and me in shape - kept looking at us very hard. Then he gazed at me even more closely,” said Natan.

“’My Hebrew is not good,’ he said. ‘But I want to say that my name is Manny Ishakh and with your build - silky hair - high forehead  - square jaw - you’re a perfect replica of my closest boyhood friend – my dear Eli Lobel and …’”

“You’ve got his picture?”

“’Don’t be silly, Dad! We’ve also got addresses - phone numbers – everything …

“But there’s more. Manny got really emotional. We became quite embarrassed. He kept pumping my hand,  stroked my arm – then realising my discomfort - backed off, apologised and invited us to his home. So using our touring schedule as an excuse, we said ‘no’, but of course promised to make sure you’d contact him.”

“We guess he’s very lonely,” added Izzi. He told us he’d never married and we suspect he doesn’t have much money.”

Eli and Anelie exchanged looks.

“Maybe I’ll call him when we get home,” said Eli slowly. “But it’s going to be a painful business.”

“Tell you what,” cut in  Izzi.   “I didn’t eat on the flight and   I’m starving! As we’ve got some spending money left, maybe we could talk about this at the nearest Burgus Burger Bar?”

“How sweet!,” said his mother. “It’ll make up for not hearing from you for ten days.”

“Sounds good to me,”  added Eli, suddenly feeling as light as air. Let’s go and eat!”

 

 

Technorati Tags: #fridayflash,Flash Fiction,PerfectlyWriteFamilyTales,Grilled In Burgas,Rabbi Yosef Elyashiv,Social Unrest,Burgas Terrorist Attack,The Wombles,Great Uncle Bulgaria,Burgas,Bulgaria,Bulgarian Jewry,Holocaust,Czar Boris,Nazis,Sofia,Synagogue,Burgus Burger Bar

Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 10 August 2012)