An Englishman's Castle......

If it's true an Englishman's Castle is his home

it will of course have some kind of throne.....

a fireside armchair in front of the TV

where he'll gawp, and eat, and drink his cup of tea

(and maybe a pint or two which makes him want to pee)

......another great throne of course is the loo

where he'll read the paper whilst doing a poo

on the hardest of seats he'll happily sit

oblivious to odours from his brace and bit*

reading for hours - because he's a true Brit.

©  Sonya Katasheva  2013

Author's Notes:  This poem just came to me when I remembered my father the other day and how he used to spend at least an hour sitting on the loo reading his paper!! I wonder if reading on the loo is a British thing? Maybe other cultures do it too.

"Brace and bit" is Cockney for "shit".

"Toilet reading is a common and benign habit. It is involved with a longer time spent in the toilet. It seems to be more for fun and not necessarily to solve or due to medical problems." http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/j.1365-2982.2008.01204.x/abstract

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2011/oct/21/reading-on-the-loo-study

The Holocaust Survivor - from Hell to Paradise

Another Monday morning
at my busy bustling school
scraping chairs, organised chaos
we all shuffle into the hall

Three hundred teens,
lively and well pleased
that our planned lesson is off:
for we have a Visitor.....
and his story we must hear
(well, anything’s better than double maths)

Our babbling voices are soon hushed
and our babbling minds are hushed too
as our visitor began his talk....
with authentic voice and modest tones

His Polish name was long
but to us he was just  ‘Bob’ -
he told his story plain and clear
no frills, no chills, just as it came
(his mind recalling pictured details....)
no trace of bitterness

In quiet, rural Orzorkow
Invasion came.  
Hunters came, hunting....
sniffing out their prey,
hunting the Jews.

Hunting meant selection.
Selection meant segregation.
Segregation meant separation.

In an upper room, all packed together
one simple stamp – “A” or “B”
“A” meant Life
“B” meant Death

Bob was “A”
his sister was “A”
(his family were “B” - 
like lambs to the slaughter,
despised and rejected
- forever gone)

chaos ensued from the upper room
babies wrenched from mothers
thrown into lorries below
(his voice never wavered)

mothers screaming......weeping -
Madonnas without a child:
Rachel MiVakoh Al BaNehar
- Rachel weeping for her children (again).

Devoted young siblings
were marched, and marched, and marched
.....marched to  Lodz
to Lodz ghetto

Not yet of thirteen summers
his Bar mitzvah frozen in time
the ghetto has no simcha
even though musicians played...

Bob called the ghetto
“The Killing Factory”
and named it Hell on earth

Bob's young eyes -
which matched mine in years -
saw Death and Cruelty

The searing pains of Starvation,
bodies strewn in the street,
women fighting over dried crusts

...then illness seized Bob
six days of darkness – unconscious he lay
with life hanging on a thread...

Disease invaded his body
no comforter, no help, just a bed -
and a scar of flesh on his hip

Sisterly love was powerless
....for she had to work....
(and hope and pray)
ghetto life offered no compassion

but Bob lived (a born survivor) -
what perspective to bestow?
This was his First Miracle.

Strength regained, ghetto-work called
- twelve hundred days held them captive
in ghetto-limbo
until the Trains.....

the Trains came and took them
to Birkenau.
More selections.
(Goodbye sister – forever Good Bye)

with two dozen boys
Bob was Selected to Live.
Unclothed, stripped, and exposed
for bodily audit:
there was nothing to shroud
their circumcised nakedness
....or that gaping hole in Bob’s flesh

yet  naked cruelty exposes
kindness and humanity
(and a Second Miracle)
as the boys encircle to hide
Bob’s meningital cicatrix.

Unnoticed, he got by – Bob lived
but became a Number:
he was alive - but robbed

......robbed of his Identity -
B7650 he became
as self-identity diluted
into a Tattoo

weeks turned into months
and months into years
another displacement ensued -
a death march to Rhemsdorf
(worse than Hell)

....and sense of being

ceased.

Death-drive 
was desiring, yearning, craving, lusting
for allied bombs  to fall and kill him.

But none came.
Sick, he lay down to die -
Firmly.  Resolutely.  Finally.

Yet a comrade would not agree
to Bob's “laziness” -
“Get up!  Get up!”
was his fellow-prisoner’s plea -
this was Miracle number Three

So Bob got up....
up they got together
to work – again
(“Arbeit Macht Frei”
the Lie)

and at the end of slave’s day
they return to find
death in the camp
of those unable to work

Bob’s comrade
had saved his life
but Bob never did find out why.....

Political tables were turning -
Hitler’s destruction
imploded and destroyed him

.....forcing another march
- where to now?
(do you smell that gas?)

nearly three thousands souls
went marching,
marching to Thereisendstadt.
Cold. Ice. Snow. Food?
(they ate the snow)

less than a hundred survived -
Bob did.  Miracle number Four:
plus the Russians.....and the end of War.

And fair England was the nurse
who suckled these sickly boys
with life-giving milk -
the milk of kindness, nurture
and patience....
.....for The Boys were wild
war-wild and weary,
but English kindness tamed them
and returned to them their gift of identity

for Bob it was Windermere
that Lake District gem -
though wild itself with wind and moor
it brought wild Bob back to life:
Bob named it as his Paradise

Bob spoke of his faith
(which many had lost)
he longed for spiritual direction
to Gateshead he headed -
a Schul was there,
to learn his Torah and Jewish education

Bob learnt a trade
working with his hands -
upholstery he chose:
making new the old
restoring and rebuilding.

Yet kindness itself was not enough
for tears would not come -
Time itself was needed
to tease out the bitter-salt waters
to grieve and mourn
for family he would never see again.

Bob’s heart was parched
it thirsted and pined for belonging -
so a Fifth Miracle was birthed:
a Bride he soon found
(she too a  Survivor -
a jewel preserved
by nuns in a Convent)

Bob and Marie wed
united as One under the Chuppah -
their love for each other
rebuilt Family -
with children
and grandchildren
and great grandchildren.....

and now: joy of joys –
simcha of simchas -
a Bar mitzvah Bob too did have:
on reaching three score years and ten
- plus thirteen more -
at 83, Bob became a Son of the Law....

At the end of his talk
Bob asked for questions
he encouraged us:
oh, there were so many
(too many to list)....
yet one from a Muslim girl
was pertinent:
she was in minority
but brave and bold with hijab
she asked a Question with integrity:
"Don't you think it is ironic"
she asked modestly
"after all you have been through
that there is such unrest and distress
in the Middle East?"

we were all ears to hear
how Bob our friend would respond
but his gentleness shone through
and his answer came quick and strong:

"all a man wants" he said
"is to provide for his family
a job, some money, to go to work every day
everyone has a right to that
whether Israeli or Palestinian -
No-one should be a pawn"

his soft answer turned away confusion
later evidenced by the Questioner
signing her autograph
on Bob's "Thank You" card
"with love from Yasmin xxx"

But everyone asked to see
the tattoo
.....he willingly rolled up his sleeve
(a closer look many of us later took)

we wondered why he kept it -
did he not want it erased?
“It’s evidence!” Bob said -
a  keepsake of atrocities
a reminder
which no Denier can deny

.....yet humour is there too
as Bob recounted deadpan:
the tattoo number matched the PIN
of his wife’s credit card.....

“If you ever forget your PIN"
Bob told her
"just look up my arm” 
(we all laughed.....)

After the epic recounting,
and an Olive Tree planted in our school grounds
it was plain to see
that  Hitler’s megalith extermination plan
could never exterminate
the life force of the human spirit -
or the secret of Miracles......

©  Sonya Katasheva  2012

Images:  © Sonya Katasheva  2012 

Author’s Notes:  This freewrite is based on the true story of Holocaust Survivor Berek ‘Bob’ Obuchowski.  I am very grateful to Marthe de Ferrer for her excellent summary of Bob’s story on her Blog which can be viewed here:  http://marthemuses.blogspot.co.uk/2011/11/lessons-from-auschwitz-part-1-berek.html    I have also added my own recollections of Bob’s story.  I have met Bob and his wife Marie several times and have heard their stories which they have told in several schools local to where I live.

Some notes about Jewish terminology:

Bar mitzvah – when a Jewish boy reaches 13 he becomes a “son of the law” (Bob could not have his Bar mitzvah due to the extremities of ghetto life, but when a Jewish man reaches 83 (70 plus the “13”) he is entitled to a “second Bar mitzvah” and joyfully Bob reached 83 in 2012 and enjoyed his Bar mitzvah at last.

simcha  - a Hebrew word meaning “gladness” or “joy”

shul – synagogue

Chuppah – a canopy under which a Jewish couple get married

Other notes:  “Rachel weeping for her children” – a reference to Jeremiah 31:15 sung often in synagogues even today “Rachel MiVakoh Al BaNehah” (and quoted in the New Testament when the baby boys under two years of age were slaughtered at the birth of Christ)

“Arbeit Macht Frei”  - German words meaning “work makes you free”  and these words were placed over the entrances to a number of Nazi concentration camps during the World War II, including Auschwitz.

A Cornish*Tale - Iris and Bet

Two old friends meet up again -

childhood friends - from Hayle.

Fifty years on they enjoy a smoke,

a cup of tea ...... and a few chips.

In the kitchen sparse and bare

they sit and have “a bit o' chat”

(and in the lounge  I'm a “fly on the wall”

..... can’t help but listen
and watch through the door)

“It’s been so long” Iris said

“can’t believe I’m back 'ere!

Glad we could meet, we had  good times

lots of good times didn’ us?"
(she took a drag on her fag)

"How’s awl Wot’s Name then?” she asked

“Who's that then?” said Bet with frown,
“Y’knaw, awl Rainsford Hockin’?”

“Oh he's gone, bin dead a while" 

“Has he?"
"'Ess. Died from 'flu he did"
"Did he? Oh, wot shame!" Iris said,
"Nice chap he was.....

though he never did marry

that girl he got into trouble..."
(.......and took another drag on her fag....)

Some moments past ...a few more drags,

sips of tea,
time has no rush at all -
a Cornish kitchen time almost stands still:

"Wan' a foo chips do 'ee my handsome?"
(they skin some spuds)

"How's awl Wot's Name then?"
"Who's that then?" said Bet

“Y'knaw - awl Denzil Retallick?”  

“Oh he's gone,

bin dead ten year he have"

“Has he?" said Iris
"'Ess, died in 'is sleep he did"

"Did he?" said Iris in disbelief

"'Ess" said Bet, "liver gave up – 

he drank too much 

his poor awl wife knew that”

(spuds get chipped)

“Well,  you never can tell" said Iris,

"and wot I say is, right is right, 

and truth’ll  'ave it out” 

(chips go into hot lard)

A few more drags

and sips

and puffs,

with minds flashing back to the past.....

"I knawed 'is Granfer well" said Iris
"he had some funny awl ways mind" 
Iris chukled,
".......used to greet me with
'how are 'ee hanging my handsome?'
and me being a girl an' all,
well I never!"
(some more drags and sips,
they both had a laugh)

“How’s awl Vyvyan Williams then?"

Iris enquired curiously
....a name she did not forget

“Oh, she’s gone” said Bet matter-of-fact

"Has she?" Iris said with disbelief
"'Ess.  Died six year ago she did"

"Did she?! Well I never!" 
"Heart attack she had, 

dropped down dead on the spot.”

(golden brown chips ready to eat....)

“Well truth to tell Bet

I have to say,

I never had much time for she...

she worked in that office,

a cleaner she was

but she never did no work.

Just sprayed the polish

into the air 

to make it smell all nice, like.

And then one Christmas

you’ll never guess wot

I bought 'lovely big Ponisetti plant for she....

and all she gave me

was a box of awl soaps

with “to Aunty Vyv ” on the back.

“Well” said Bet,  “you never can tell.

Nice fooneral she had, mind”

(selah)

“Wan’ a fag do ‘ee my handsome?”

....they light up some more

and made some more tea

with a plate of well-seasoned chips,

and they settled back 

for some more “bit o' chat”....

“How’s awl Trevelyan Friggins?” 

asked Iris, the names coming back

“Oh, he's .....”  (I thought:  ”he’s gone”....
for crying out loud, can't they talk about anything else!

but no!  the response was different this time)

“......he’s in Bodmin he is” said Bet

“IS he?  Oh NAW!!!!!!  NAW!!  Poor awl chap!”

("in Bodmin" it seemed, was worse than death)

“'Ess” said Bet,  “found him wanderin’ they did,

wanderin’  ‘arf naked on Hayle beach.....

been in fifteen year now” said Bet ruefully

“Doubt he’ll ever be out”

“Wan’ a drop of ‘ot in your tea my handsome?"

They drink some more

and smoke some more

and  eat some saffron cake

“How’s your son then Iris?”

(Bet's turn now to question)

“Oh ..... he’s alright, 

though truth to tell, 

he’s not been all that great.....

(a tremor came into her voice)

he gets depressed,

don't open his mail,

or pay his bills,

he can’t do nothen' he can't Bet.

'Ave to do his washing and ironin’ I do,

his marriage broke up,

wife took the baby,
nearly wiped 'im out of house an' home.

It’s they city girls

that’s wot it is Bet,

they city girls aren’t no good
- all they care 'bout is their c'reeers"

(....though I was a "city girl" too
     - and I didn't care much about my "c'reeer"......)

"Better my son had married that other girl,

the one who came from Nancledra, 

he’d have been happy then he would for sure.”

....the puffs came quick and fast,

to sort of ease the tension  -

with silence for a comfort break:

more tea, more cake, another fag...

The silence broke at last,

“How’s that little dog of your’n Bet?”

“Oh, he’s gone" 

“Has he? ......Oh, wot shame, 
nice little thing he was......”

©  Sonya Katasheva  2012

AUTHOR'S NOTES  *This poem needs to be read in a Cornish accent, but if you have never heard one you won’t really know how it should sound! The Cornish do not tend to rush their speech - it taken quite leisurely.  There are some very Cornish ways of speaking in this poem: for example –


"awl" - old

“My handsome” is a Cornish term of endearment

 “foo” – instead of saying “funeral” or “few” (with a “you” sound) the Cornish pronounce it “fooneral” and “foo”

"c'reeers" = "careers" - the Cornish tend to drag out some double vowels, and miss out others!

“For she” – Cornish say “for she” instead of “for her”

"Ess" = yes

 “‘ee” – a contraction of the old English personal "thee" (meaning “you”)

"mind" = remember

"how are 'ee hanging?" -  Literally "how are you hanging?" -  a Cornish colloquialism  meaning "How are you?" between two close male friends - the "hanging" being reference to male genitalia.

“They city girls” – the Cornish say “They” instead of “those” in certain sentences

“Drop of hot” – means a fresh top up of tea in your cup

"Bodmin" is a Cornish town where there is a mental hospital

"Nancledra" is a tiny obscure Cornish village (or at least it was forty years ago!)

"Ponisetti plant" - should really be "Poinsettia plant" but lack of education made poor literacy and mispronunciation!

NB: Names are fictional in this poem, but are based on real Cornish names.

 This poem is based on a true story when I visited the Cornish seaside town of Hayle many years ago with my friend whose mother was Cornish, and we all paid a visit to an old friend of hers – there were actually about ten people in all who had died during the conversation (my friend and I were getting quite depressed with the repeating phrase  "S/he's gone"!) ....but I have cut it down to a few because the poem would be even longer than it is!  

parsley darlin'

thirteen kids

no mean feat

fifteen actually

two died young

life is hard

mouths to feed

bodies to clothe

feet to shod

(hand-me-downs never look good)

rising early

house is cold

furniture bare

floorboards creek

light the fire

....need the loo

shared loo outside

stinks inside

(freezing in there too)

washing to do

boil the water

scrubadubdub

wring them in the mangle

sweating face

aching arms

chapped hands

hang the washing out

(let's hope it doesn't rain)

dinner to cook

skin the rabbit

rabbit stew

skin the veg - carrots and potatoes

in the yard

parsley grows

grab a handful

adds some flavour

(along with some salt and pepper)

chopping parsley

dishevelled lad

"wot's that mom?"

"it's parsley darlin'" she said

off he runs

down the shop

with a penny

to buy some pop

(and a couple of lollipops)

days pass by

drab routine

day in day out

always the same

another rabbit

more rabbit stew

dishevelled lad

there again

(watching the skinning)

watches intently

his mother works on

dishevelled lad

knows something's missin'

trying to think

he goes in the yard

sees the herb

- it's parsley darlin'!

(that's what's missin')

picks some sprigs

runs into his mom

hands her a bunch

"don't forget the parsley darlin'"

......don't forget the parsley darlin', darlin'.....

©  Sonya Katasheva  2012

Author notes: Based on a true story: my father is the child and his mother is my grandmother. Set in the back-to-back slum houses of Birmingham, UK in the 1930s where the people were very poor and often had very large families. This is my own style – experimenting with arrhythmic timing etc – just fun to write :)

Image:  Public Domain (www.walktheworld.org.uk)