July 25, 2009

RE-INTRODUCING CHAVA ROSENFARB AND 'THE TREE OF LIFE'



This post answers why, about a month ago, I deleted a post entitled INTRODUCING CHAVA ROSENFARB AND 'THE TREE OF LIFE'. Apparently, the post which included a photograph of Goldie Morgentaler, that I took at the conference, found favour with Goldie and she wanted the photograph mailed to her. She also happened to love my blog and considering how shy I am about such things, I hyperventilated and peed in my jeans…well, almost. I got this information from someone at the University who, being a former crime reporter, did not find it difficult to trace me and hence, got in touch with me. I let him send the photograph to Goldie Morgentaler but since I was afraid that word about my blog would spread to people out here, I deleted the post, changed my blog settings and url. It might appear weird but I do not want too many people to read my blog. I am uploading the post once again along with the photographs which featured in the original post.

May 8, 2009 will always be remembered as an important date in the calendar of the University of Łodz. 2009 being the 65th year of the liquidation of the Łodz Ghetto, the University was proud to have as a guest speaker at the 'Race, Religion, and Representation International Conference', Goldie Morgentaler, a Professor of American and British literature at the University of Lethbridge in Canada. She was to speak on her mother, Łodz-born Yiddish poet and novelist Chava Rosenfarb who became what many critics call the greatest Yiddish woman novelist. In addition to the many household chores a typical teenager might be expected to do, Chava put young Goldie to work, making her translate her Yiddish tales to English. Gradually, an incredible internationally-recognized mother/daughter literary and translation team developed in Yiddish and Jewish-Canadian literature. This was the first time that Goldie was visiting her mother's city.

Chava Rosenfarb, born in 1923, turned 17 the day after the infamous Litzmannstadt (Łodz) Ghetto came into being. She had begun writing poetry at the tender age of eight and continued her creative pursuit within the confines of the ghetto. There, she was soon noticed by a Yiddish literary giant who encouraged her to continue writing and introduced her to the secret and active literary circle within the ghetto. She attended secret literary workshops there, determined to become a poet and writer. Chava recorded her experiences of the ghetto life in her poetry and in her most important creative work, the trilogy, ‘The Tree of Life’, set in the ghetto. ‘The Tree of Life’ begins with a New Year’s Eve party in 1939 at the house of a famous Łodz manufacturer who has invited people from different walks of life. Life is still very normal then with no one having an inkling of what is to unfold. The second part of the trilogy is about the years 1939 to 1942 in the ghetto and the last part of the trilogy continues the story of the fictionalized individuals from 1942 until 1945. It follows the lives of twelve people, including the man who would become the Jewish leader within the ghetto. By the end of the novel, seven die and the fate of the rest are left unwritten, leaving a faint ray of hope that although scarred, they must have ultimately survived their ruthless fate. Chava wrote six novels but ‘The Tree of Life’ remains her monumental literary masterpiece. She is perhaps one of the few Holocaust survivors who has refrained from writing a memoir, feeling deeply that the creative medium of the novel would give her the opportunity to transcend history. Her characters in the novel are all fictional except the Jewish leader in the ghetto who appears in the novel as himself. Perhaps this is because he is an ambivalent character who intrigued Chava the most. The man who was known as a philanthropist before the ghetto happened, was quite the demon inside it. The rest of the cast in ‘The Tree of Life’ are combinations and permutations of people Chava met or heard of during the war years.

Another interesting aspect of the novel is that Chava shows repeatedly how Western culture lent itself to those in the ghetto as a means of escape from the constant reminder of starvation, cruelty and death. One of the characters in the novel keeps on quoting Horace soon after news of the establishment of the ghetto reaches his ears. His Latin quotes soon become a source of irritation to his family with his son finally throwing away the Horace in a fit of rage. In another episode, a school teacher is seen in her classroom teaching ‘The Tempest’ and is soon interrupted by a few SS men barging in to take away a few young boys from her class. While the teacher tries in vain to establish a sense of sanity and normalcy in an erstwhile sanctified space, her young students fail to find their inner peace in the romance of Ferdinand and Miranda which seems remote, far removed from the world of the ghetto. What is interesting is that the older generation seems to try and defy the truth by escaping into classic western literary texts, while the younger generation feels anger and disbelief at such denial.

Chava not only experienced the Łodz Ghetto first hand, but she also survived Auschwitz where her father died and Bergen-Belsen, where she might have died herself, having suffered a typhus fever. She eventually moved to Canada in 1950, having already married the future nationally-reputed abortion activist Henry Morgentaler. The urge to get her tales translated into English from Yiddish began with the realization that Yiddish would suffer a slow but inevitable and tragic death, burying along with it the creations of a dying intellectual and creative Jewry. ‘The Tree of Life’ written when Chava was 24 was translated into English in 1971(I could be mistaken here…might have been 1968-69). Years of experiences and changing worldview in between did affect the translation a bit and may have rendered the book the quality of a transcreation rather than a translation.

Goldie Morgentaler, in her plenary lecture that day, introduced a rare Yiddish literary gem and her mother, a remarkable woman of talent and fortitude. What remains to me a highpoint of the lecture was Professor Morgentaler quoting her mother as saying that Holocaust films on television can never recreate the atmosphere quite authentically because despite being visually accurate, they fail to capture the fetid smell that rose from Auschwitz.

P.S.: The photograph in colour is of Goldie Morgentaler, taken at the conference. The one below it is that of Chava Rosenfarb.

July 22, 2009

A DISSOLUTE LIFE? NOT QUITE

So much has happened in this one month since Darby left. For one, I have started teaching English again which means I can sponsor a trip for the two of us. I have been all over the city which comes to life in summer just like any other city in Europe. And so I have had fun at two amazing concerts featuring ‘The Highlanders’ from the south of Poland and the ‘No Smoking Orchestra’ as part of the Serbian film festival organised by the film school in Łodź. What can I say about how the atmo was? Electrifying!!! The bands were so different from each other and yet so robust and dynamic and sizzling. And, how can I forget that I got to see the famous Serbian film director Emir Kasturica perform for his band, 'No Smoking...'. The most popular number of the night to which I shouted my lungs out was 'Do you agree? F*** you MTV'. Serbs have such a thing against the Big Brother. I was attending it with a friend who is majorly into all things Serbian. I was not sure how I would enjoy it but boy, did I have fun or what! For one, I danced like a woman possessed, after a long time. My girlfriends attribute it to escape from a husband. Poor Darby! But seriously, it was impossible not to dance. And then, I discovered the men! They were so hot! I remember this particularly hot couple in their forties. I didn’t know whom I was staring at more—the man or his gorgeous girlfriend. Ah, give me those cheekbones!

I always find it amusing to check out the reactions of men the moment a hottie of the opposite sex makes an entrance. I must say I was not disappointed. There was this Jesus-lookalike in a small group who just couldn’t take his eyes off a blonde bombshell the moment she stepped into the arena. Ah, how the primeval hunting man overtook the civilised, soft-spoken film-grad! Some things are not meant to change. No wonder then, that on the second day of the festival, he looked crestfallen to find that she was not attending…which brings me to what I discovered on my own in this city. If you are spotted with a man, who could very well be your plumber with whom you could be discussing a particularly nagging leak in your toilet, no one will give you a look other than that of ‘you are so off-limits’. But if you are walking on your own, not essentially screaming ‘I’m single/ unattached/ for god’s sake, divorced, so take me', there will be plenty trying to chat you up, and I mean not just in pubs or cafés but also on the way to the supermarket. I’ve got used to the ‘Dzindobry, Pani’ coming my way and I will kind of miss it when Darby returns. But it is a safe city for women and couples. The drunken hools might bother men but are very respectful of the women, chaperoned or otherwise.

I have been the object of a lot of stares in my ‘gheras’ which Poles are quick to associate with gypsies and considering how brown I have become under the Polish sun, I am often mistaken for one. Once, four little girls danced a crazy little dance when they saw me in a ‘ghera’ and kept referring to me as a gypsy. Then again gypsies are not liked and are not really a part of the Polish society.

Oh! I almost forgot mentioning this but while walking in Palmiarnia the other day, I saw a group of tourists that included an Indian family, Bong at that. I wouldn’t have noticed if the teenaged-boy with them had not found me interesting, as if he had stumbled upon a Benfish stall in Siberia. How do I know they were Bong? The scarf around the woman’s head—a complete giveaway, not to mention the batik print silk saree and the ‘loha’ peeping from under the kashmiri shawl. And shawl reminds me that it is actually very hot here. Missing ceiling fans and their drone in the lazy afternoons. Oh, Calcutta! Of course, it has been very unpredictable as well. The Indians are being blamed for bringing the rains to Łodź which is more used to occasional thunderstorms in the summer. When it pours, it can get chilly and just last week, Brit tragic hero, Polish Goddess and I were almost soaked during the open-air screening of Allen’s ‘Scoop’. My heart almost broke at the thought of leaving the place and Hugh Jackman. What a delicious serial killer. Ahem! I have as usual been watching loads of movies and reading as well but mostly outdoors, in the glorious sunshine, in some forgotten corner of a park. Dying to watch ‘Coco Avant Chanel’. May be I will this weekend. I also have plans to go out of the city this Saturday or Sunday. But then, I am so impulsive, I might just take off tomorrow. But I can’t. I almost forgot that I have classes with a very disparate group, each of them so different from the other, that it is quite a task keeping tempers in control. ‘I’m lovin' it.’

Plan to meet Darby in Warsaw next weekend, that is, if I manage not to board the wrong train with the wrong ticket. Apparently there are two new trains that leave for Warsaw, one eight minutes after the other, and if I do not get my Polish right by next weekend, I will not be able to find out from the conductors which one I should board, and I will be oh-so-screwed. Which once again reminds me, apparently, since I have been away from my man for more than a month now, I am supposed to be excessively conscious of my suppressed hormones which, someone suspects, will erupt violently on Darby’s return. I did flush on hearing that but not exactly because I felt coy. I am anything but coy. Hello! I am a big girl, footloose and fancy free in a city and don't give me crap about my hormones, dirty man. But I have been good. Occasional flirting does not count in Europe.

Lots more coming up.

June 27, 2009

IN LOVE


It is a very cloudy day today but very breezy. Went out for a long, really long walk and then spent some time walking some more in Palmiarnia. It was so warm and cool there, all at the same time, with the dampness coming up from the earth after a fresh shower and a grey mist hanging in suspension, with a few odd couples busy loving each other and lonesome pet dogs searching for companions. It was so beautiful and I fell in love again...with life.

And if you have ever been there, my friend, confronted by the vision of death, down in the nadir that you thought was insurmountable, you will know what I mean when I say that it is an incredible feeling to be alive, to be able to smell the real world again, to be able to feel that when a leaf is touched, it responds.

I am in tears right now. I am that happy. I am quaking right now. I feel that secure. The trees I have known here for sometime spoke with me today. I heard them call out my name in an unfamiliar land and I know I am home.

June 25, 2009

SUNBATHING ON A CLOUDY DAY - POM-PA-POM-PA-POM!

Woody Łodź is what I call a large part of the city that I walk about in. And yesterday, a pleasantly cloudy and windy day, with no sun beating down on us, I discovered this marvellous scenic route to the British Council Library through which Brit tragic hero guided me. I wanted to become an annual member of the library, something that would keep the supply of books and DVDs flowing. I guess, since Brit tragic hero is basically such a sweetheart, he willingly accompanied me to the place, adorably giving me a guided tour of the leafy parks we went through, one being his particular favourite en route. Chivalrous as he is, he also chose to become a member along with me so as not to make me feel that he had come just for me. And we had fun on our way from and to our flats, joking, sharing anecdotes, grievances, joys and regrets. The man is so generous and thoughtful and always eager to make one feel comfortable that I really hate myself at times to think I had such an adverse opinion about him earlier on. I cannot help but adore this man now. And so Austen was right about first impressions.

The Library is part of the University and don’t ask me how the two are related. I am clueless. It is a small, quaint little library but it has enough to keep me preoccupied and mentally stimulated. BCL has a very nostalgic association for people like me who visited the Kolkata one in Shakespeare Sarani during college and university days. The moment I entered this little treasure trove, I felt that nostalgia drench me again. I had almost forgotten how even idle browsing through books that one does not own and which are not neatly stacked in one of those fancy stores in a commercial bookstore chain can give a book lover a huge high. I got myself three books and two DVDs. ‘On Chesil Beach’ by Ian McEwan was recommended highly by a friend whose taste in books I trust blindly, ‘Writing on Skin’ by Sara Banerji was picked up for the obvious India and Bong connection and for old times’ sake, I got myself a college-time favourite, ‘The Go-Between’ by L.P. Hartley. The films that I chose are a bit different from the ones I have watched here so far. One is ‘Being Julia’ starring Annette Bening and Jeremy Irons (an actor I love), and ‘A Clockwork Orange’ which might be scary for me because I will watch it alone. It is a pity that I have not read ‘A Clockwork Orange’ but, damn it, it is such an expensive book and no one I know, owns it.

It was fun coming back as well, what with a timely cup of coffee in a quite neighbourhood café as we discussed a common love for short stories, second-hand bookshops, a shared sense of how there is no place either of us can really call ‘home’ and Brit tragic hero’s disastrous love life discoursed upon in the inimitably humorous way Darby and I have come to love.

All in all, a fun morning. Pom-pa-pom-pa-pom...Yeah…

June 23, 2009

A FUNNY KIND OF EVENING

Went out for dinner and drinks last night with friends. I was surprised to find ‘Pizzeria’ serve stuff other than pizzas and pasta. Had some amazing grilled fillet of kurczaka and a coke. Moved on to ‘The Irish Pub’ for, what else, Guinness! Smooth! Conversation moved from ‘Proof’ (the film and the script), to ‘The Big Lebowski’ to Chicago being just a stepping stone to New York, how even Seattle has more character than Chicago…blah, blah, blah. The obvious implication: I had an American friend with me. Brit tragic hero was there too and we were soon joined by E, the Austrian and two nubile Polish nymphets, one into photography and the other into sculpture. Cool. Things started getting more animated. E had brought with him the hot photographer apparently because she was interested in men and their arms. She is currently on a project shooting them and wanted to check out Brit tragic hero’s ‘heroine veins’ (as he shyly calls them) which came highly recommended. An appointment has been fixed. Brit tragic hero is to strip (only to show his arms, filthy minds) at her gallery and ensure his '17-and-a-half minutes of fame'. We were rather pleasantly surprised to hear the Dublin accent at a table nearby. No Polish. Just weird, funny, English. How refreshing! Highlights of the evening: an analysis of Polish and Jewish humour. Conclusion arrived at: Polish humour is dark to the point of, well, not being humorous and Jewish humour is, well, just Jewish. Two typical examples:

1) Polish man waits outside the operation theatre, anxious about his wife who is in labour. Sweaty palms, et al. The doctor comes out after an hour and says, ‘There is a problem. You have a son.’ ‘That can’t be a problem, Doctor. Is he fine? Is my son doing well? Doctor replies, ‘Yes, but the problem is he does not have legs’.
‘Oh!’ the Pole says, ‘Never mind, Doctor, I’ll love my son all the same’.
‘But that is not the end. There is another problem’, says the Doctor. He says, ‘The baby does not have his arms’. ‘That’s alright,’ says the Pole, ‘I’ll love my son all the same.’ Doctor continues, ‘But that is not all. Your son does not have a body. I mean he is just a pair of eyeballs’. Pole says, ‘Never mind, Doctor. Can I see my son now? I’ll love him all the same. He’s my son, you know’. Thus, the doctor goes in and delicately carries out the pair of eyeballs. The Pole is visibly overwhelmed at the sight of his son and can’t seem to have enough of him. Pole says, ‘He’s my son, you see. I’ll love him all the same.’ Doctor replies, ‘That’s not all. You see, I hate to break this to you, but your son’s blind.’

2) An old Jewish man lies on his deathbed and asks for his wife. Wife assures him that she is by his side, alright. Her husband coughs some and asks for his eldest son who promptly assures his father that he is with him, by his side. ‘Don’t worry, Papa, I’m here’. His father coughs some more and asks for his youngest who promptly answers him, ‘Here, Papa, here, we are all with you’ and his Papa retorts,’ If you are all with me, who the fuck is taking care of my shop.

Until the next time, ciao!

June 19, 2009

DIDN'T KNOW THAT I STILL HAD IT IN ME

A couple of months back, in an introspective mood, I confessed to feeling incapable of loving the way the world wants me to, incapable of feeling love the way the world gives it to me...in a wringing, painful, knotty kind of way, so that when I love, I give something in me away, so that when I soothe, I feel calm in return, so that when I touch my loved one, I feel another, more tangible love flow back through my veins. How much we think we know ourselves and how little we know! I feel that love surround me everyday and today, more than ever, I realize that I can love back too because it can still make me cry and feel the ache in my soul. I feel a little more complete today, a little more human.

June 15, 2009

BACK TO THE BEST WAY I KNOW TO SPEND TIME

Darby will soon be gone for six weeks to the US of A and I hope and pray that this will leave me with a lot more uninterrupted time to read. I have watched more movies here than I have read books (almost 5 per week) and that has got to do with the fact that I have taken my own sweet time to settle in completely. Life has found its rhythm here. I feel truly relaxed which means that I am not too distracted which in turn means that I will be able to concentrate better on books. I have not got myself a British Council Library membership over here yet but Brit tragic hero has promised to accompany me there and says that he will be a willing accomplice when I ransack the library bookshelves. Yippee!!! Nevertheless, I've stocked up on about a dozen that I will dig into even as Darby's flight takes off. The list includes 'Fame is the Spur' by Howard Spring, 'Bridge of Sighs' by Richard Russo, both given to me by Gregory Peck, 'A Wild Sheep Chase' by Murakami, 'Winter in Madrid' by C.J. Sansom (I loved his Dissolution'), 'The Poe Shadow' by Matthew Pearl, which I bought yesterday and am dying to begin, 'The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency' by McCall Smith which Darby got me from Warsaw because he didn't let me accompany him there the last time, 'Salem Falls' by Jodi Picoult, 'Blood Sisters' by Barbara and Stephanie Keating, 'Man and Boy' by Tony Parsons, three titles that I have no clue about, 'My Friends, the Miss Boyds' by Jane Duncan, that I picked up from a quaint old book shop in Aberdeen, 'Tom Brown's School Days' by Thomas Brown, which is a childhood favourite, and 'North and South' by Gaskell which reminds me of my struggle with industrial novels during my college days and which after watching the gorgeous Richard Armitage play John Thornton in the BBC miniseries, has found a place in my must-read-again list. Finally, the thirteenth which I may be able to read is Sunil Ganguly's 'Prothom Alo' which is the only other Bangla book we carried to Poland from Kolkata apart from the 'Gitabitan'.
This is the most I can manage at 33 and it is no longer, as in my late teens or early twenties, about proving how fast I can read. In a sense, thank God for that because I know now that I read way more analytically than I did in my early youth. I am no longer a sucker for good stories alone. Although the collection that now rests on my bookshelf may be a mix...good, bad and ugly, I intend to read them all. What is, of course, very exciting is that all these books, including the Sansom and Pearl, and the Spring and Gaskell are very different from each other. Good for me. Here's raising a toast to happy reading.
Having mentioned the 'Gitabitan', I must add that I am doing a lot of singing aloud in my apartment and in the neighbourhood park and that will most definitely continue. Goodbye for now.